The Vanishing Sculptor (21 page)

“Be careful,” Tipper warned, and the big bird rewarded her with one of his grouchiest looks before he took off

With mixed feelings, Tipper walked with the others to the beautiful tower. Someone cultivated the land around the tower. Small fields contained corn and wheat, and an orchard lined up in even rows. Closer to the stone building, vegetables grew in neat plots. The place looked more prosperous than Byrdschopen.

Beccaroon waited for them at an arched entryway in a thick hedge. A few feet beyond, a moat surrounded the base of the tower. When they crossed a dainty wooden bridge over the circular splashing brook, they entered a flower garden.

Tipper could name most of the plants, but at the far end of the walkway, one unusual shrub caught her attention. The beauty of this bush fascinated Tipper. Tiny dark green leaves provided the backdrop to large, brilliant blooms. She had never seen a plant that put forth flowers in such a variety of colors.

She hurried down the path to examine it and stopped in shock as the blossoms uncurled and flew away. “Minor dragons!”

Dozens of minor dragons inhabited the foliage. She wandered the intertwining lanes in the expansive garden. Birds, butterflies, and dragons flitted from hedges to stands of miniature trees to flower beds.

“Hello!”

The word caused Tipper to jump. She whirled around to glare at the speaker.

The dragon rider stood ten feet away, a smile on his face, blue eyes sparkling, his shoulder-length blond hair combed, his white and tawny-gold clothing neat, and his arms hanging loosely by his side. Tipper caught her breath. The man was stunning.

“I’m glad you came.” He walked forward. “I hoped your visit would be today. We’re having a sort of celebration. May I introduce myself?” He stopped before her and bowed.

When she first met Bealomondore, he had performed a formal court bow with a flourish, complete with the clicking of heels. The dragon rider merely bowed his head and bent slightly at his waist, putting one arm behind his back and crossing the other over his middle. The gesture made Tipper’s toes curl inside her boots.

She extended her hand. He took it and clasped it lightly. “I am Prince Jayrus.” He nodded to the lone tower. “This is my castle.”

Tipper’s eyes flitted to the stone wall, where, on a windowsill, sat the four minor dragons belonging to her questing party. She jerked back her hand and used it to point at the deserters.

“What are you doing with our dragons?”

His head whipped around to see where she pointed. “You’re speaking of Hue, Grandur, Junkit, and Zabeth?”

“Yes!” She stepped around him, closer to the window. “How do you know their names? Are you a wizard?”

Prince Jayrus laughed. “Being a prince and a dragon keeper is enough to keep me busy. I’m not sure I’d want to add wizard, even if I had a clear idea what one was.” He gestured to his home. “The castle is filled with books, and I’ve seen the term used. But I’ve never met a wizard.”

The gravel crunched as Wizard Fenworth, with Librettowit, came to join them. “I’m not surprised,” he said. “As far as I know, there are only two in Chiril.”

The dragon rider turned and greeted the old man. “May I get you a seat, sir? Your journey has been long. I anticipated your arrival, and there are refreshments in the castle.”

“Castle?” Fenworth looked around hastily. “I seem to have overlooked the castle.”

Prince Jayrus pointed out the tower.

Fenworth scratched his cheek through the long beard. “Young man, one tower does not a castle make.”

The dragon rider looked confused.

“Tut, tut, oh dear,” said Fenworth. “Lots of new concepts for you today, no doubt. I’m a wizard, and my friend here, Librettowit, is my librarian. You say you have books. He’ll like that.”

Fenworth stepped closer and took Tipper’s arm. “And this young lady is Tipper. The two men joining us from that direction,” he said, indicating one of the longer garden paths, “are artists. Verrin Schope is every kind of artist. Give him a twig, and he’ll whittle a figurine. The man can’t seem to leave things alone. Has to create art!

“The young tumanhofer with him paints. Two artists. Oh, and Verrin Schope is a wizard as well. Said two, didn’t I? Verrin Schope and I make two wizards in Chiril. Sounds like a musical,
Two Wizards in Chiril”

Wizard Fenworth hailed the two companions. “Verrin Schope, Bealomondore, come meet our host, who has offered us a light repast.”

Verrin Schope strode up confidently and shook hands with the younger emerlindian. “Pleased to meet you.”

“He’s Prince Jayrus,” said Librettowit.

Verrin Schope’s eyebrows shot up. “A prince? I didn’t know there were any outside my wife’s family in Chiril.”

The dragon rider’s face shuttered, his emotions suddenly hidden from his guests. Tipper’s curiosity tingled. Her eyes widened, and she studied the prince. His proper mask crept back in place, but his hospitable smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“This way. My people have been lavish in their preparations. We do not often have guests.”

Tipper paused. “Where is Beccaroon?”

“Here I am.” He stepped from behind a large bush, and Tipper had the odd notion that he had been standing there watching all the time.

She cast him a puzzled look, and he returned it with a slight shake of his head. Putting aside her question for her old friend, she fell into step beside the prince and quizzed him.

“Why won’t our dragons return to us? What have you done to them?”

“Done?” His easy manner returned in full. “I haven’t done a thing. I welcomed them just as I have welcomed you. I can see you are encountering concepts that are new to you.” His glance toward Wizard Fenworth held a shadow of unease. “I am a dragon keeper. It is natural that the dragons prefer to keep my company.”

“You stole them.”

“That is absurd.” He said the words without rancor.

Tipper changed tactics. “What is the celebration?”

“My ascension to the throne was five years ago today.”

She stole a sideways glance at him. His profile was just as striking as looking full in his face. She caught her breath. Not only were his features perfect, but he oozed self-confidence and a dignity that went with self-assurance. How had she considered him a show-off? The memory of his aerobatic stunts brought back the appraisal she’d made the day before.

For a fleeting moment she felt again that irritation. “Prince of what? I know you aren’t part of the royal family of Chiril. I’ve studied the lineage.”

He looked her way caught her eye, and smiled. She recalled his last statement.

“Does that mean your father died five years ago?”

His expression changed, the shadow of sorrow dimming his light-hearted charm. “Not my father.”

“Your mother?”

“No.” He turned to address the others. “I welcome you to Castle Dragon Eyre.”

They entered through an archway that had no door. Odd crystals glowing with a blue light illuminated the cool interior. A long table set with china and silver graced the middle of the round room. A circular staircase followed one wall and disappeared into the ceiling.

“Come.” The prince urged his guests to gather around the feast. He seated Tipper in a chair to the left of the head, and the others chose their places. The prince sat in the elaborately carved wooden chair at the end, between Tipper and Wizard Fenworth.

“I do thank you,” said the old wizard. “I’ve grown quite tired of my own cooking. This is far more than refreshments—more like a meal. Nothing looks to be poisoned, so we’ll gladly partake.”

The young prince raised his eyebrows but made no comment.

“Do you mind,” asked Verrin Schope, “if we bless this food and your hospitality in the name of our Creator?”

“This is your custom?” asked Prince Jayrus.

“It is a courtesy to Wulder. It is not required but gives pleasure to us and to Him.”

The dragon keeper nodded. “This, I understand.”

Although Tipper bowed her head as her father had instructed her, she watched Jayrus out of the corner of her eye. He stayed alert and turned his eyes to one after another of his visitors. When he came to the grand parrot, he found Beccaroon staring back at him. With remarkable composure, Jayrus nodded and continued his scrutiny until the brief prayer ended.

The delicious food occupied much of their time, and their host asked many questions, keeping each of them talking in turn. Tipper found herself relaxing and enjoying his enthusiasm. He graciously inquired of their homes and expressed such a genuine interest that even Librettowit and Beccaroon returned amiable answers.

Librettowit fell into a long description of his bookrooms. Tipper had to grin when he revealed that the wizard’s castle was a hollow tree. The prince looked with interest at Fenworth, but the wizard made no comment. Perhaps one tower wasn’t a castle in Amara, but a hollow tree did not make a castle in Chiril.

“This meal was delicious,” said Bealomondore, dabbing his mouth with a linen napkin. “Where are your servants? I’d like to express my gratitude.”

“I don’t have servants,” said the prince.

“You said—” Tipper felt her new trust in their host evaporate.

“I used the word
people.
Just as the dragons are mine by their choice, the kimens work the land and keep the castle because they derive pleasure from their tasks. I have never demanded a chore performed.

“This is a concept I see you do not understand. I am the prince. My relationship with dragons and kimens is a natural result of my position and their perception of what is expected of them. They fulfill who they are by what they do. Just as I fulfill who I am by what I do.”

“Service!” said Fenworth, banging the table. “An admirable staple to a code of ethics. Service smooths deficiencies. Service stimulates the economy. Service incapacitates hopelessness. Service makes barreling catastrophe inert. Service, Prince Jayrus, comes in handy.”

The dragon rider’s eyes had narrowed during this speech. He nodded warily.

“Our request of you is merely a request for a service.”

The prince’s body stiffened, and he placed both hands on the edge of the table.

“We require speedy transportation in order to save a man’s life,” the old wizard continued. “Will you oblige?”

“What do you mean by speedy transportation?”

“The loan of five riding dragons.”

“Then I must disoblige,” said the prince. “My dragons stay here in Mercigon.”

He rose and left the room. Hue, Zabeth, Junkit, and Grandur followed.

Tipper jumped to her feet. “Wait!”

Neither the dragon keeper nor the dragons paid her any heed.

24
Contrary

The room filled with silence. Tipper plopped back into her seat. “Now what?”

Fenworth stood up. “Did that young prince offer us a room? I could use a nap.”

Librettowit pushed out his chair. “No, he did not, and I thoroughly agree with you. What do you say to putting up a couple of hammocks in that orchard?”

“I suppose,” said Bealomondore, grinning as he carefully placed his used napkin beside his plate, “that we shall have to abandon our attempt to acquire dragons and resume our quest without them.”

“Oh no, not at all.” Fenworth stopped on his way out, turned to look back at the table, and leaned on his walking staff. “Tipper will go have a talk with the young prince, and all will be well. Get some rest. We continue our journey in the morning.”

Tipper’s mouth fell open, and she couldn’t gather her wits fast enough to object to the old mans plan. He and Librettowit walked side by side through the broad archway and into the sunshine.

“Well,” said Bealomondore, “you need not try too hard on my account. We can ride horses, ride in a carriage, ride in a boat, ride a big sheep, anything but fly high above the ground. Go talk to Prince Jayrus, but don’t feel I will condemn you if you do not succeed in persuading him to lend us a speedy form of transportation.”

Verrin Schope reached for a pitcher and refilled his goblet. “I, on the other hand, would appreciate the use of his dragons to speed our journey. We’ve interacted with these dragons long enough to know that the creatures are gentle. We’ve seen their cooperation with a rider and know they are adept at carrying our kind. And not to alarm you, my dear, but I’m experiencing some physical difficulties that can only mean my time is running short. We must reunite the three statues.”

Tipper took a long look at her father, saw the black circles under his eyes, noticed then how he had become thinner, and realized his general air of vitality had diminished. She swallowed the urge to cry and stood.

“I’ll see what I can do.” She walked out the same door the prince had used.

Tipper followed the only path that led away from the back door of the tower. She crossed the moat and passed through another arch in the hedge. On this side of the prince’s castle, a lawn dotted with small lavender flowers rolled away and ended at the base of a hill. Wild-flowers covered the rise to one large tree. The prince sat on a bench under the widespread branches. Minor dragons flew around him, catching insects but also playing with each other.

Without waiting to formulate some kind of persuasive speech, Tipper began the long walk. As she trod on the ankle-deep grasses with tiny flowers in profuse numbers, a spicy-sweet fragrance rose around her. Phrases popped into her head.

Service to mankind.

For the good of all.

Life or death for my father.

Selfish, stingy, unfeeling, mule-headed…

Well, the last certainly described his attitude. But he didn’t know the circumstances, and once he did, surely he’d see the need and agree to help. She panted as she climbed the hill.

No one allows another to suffer if aid can be given.

Your help is needed.

No one else can come to my father’s rescue.

Do you want something in return?

Are you a beast with a heart of stone?

He stood as she came into his circle beneath the spreading tree and gave her his polished bow.