The Feline Wizard

CHAPTER 17

“Mating?” Stegoman squawked. “Me?”

“Hey, you are a big musclebound hunk, you know.”

“But I have no notion how to deal with a female! All my adult years have been spent in exile from my own kind!”

“You have had more dealings with humans than with dragons,” Matt conceded. “That's why you wouldn't realize that the females of your own kind might find you handsome.”

Stegoman was silent for a quarter of a mile. Then he said, “There might be truth in what you say. Why else should she have followed us?”

“Why indeed?” Matt asked as casually as he could.

Stegoman was silent for half a mile this time. Finally he said, “She is a vibrantly beautiful dragon.”

Matt nodded. “If Mother Nature is an artist, Dimetrolas is a masterpiece.”

Stegoman was silent again.

Matt ventured, “You must admit, that little chase was stimulating.”

“Must I?” Stegoman ground out.

Matt waited.

“Yes,” Stegoman said, with great reluctance. “I must. Stimulating indeed.”

“It makes a fellow think,” Matt offered.

“I shall,” Stegoman promised.

And he did, for the next dozen miles. Matt waited in silence and watched the road unwind below, knowing that when his friend wanted to talk, he would.

Finally Stegoman said, “We are not a promiscuous kind.”

“You're not,” Matt agreed. “Dragons are models of fidelity.”

“We mate for life,” Stegoman said.

“You do,” Matt confirmed.

Stegoman was silent a little longer, then said, “Our lives are very long.”

“Very,” Matt agreed.

“A drake would be a fool to spend the rest of his days bound to a sharp-tongued female who insults and criticizes him.”

“Even if she is beautiful,” Matt mused, “and sensuous. Even voluptuous, maybe. In dragon terms.”

“In dragon terms,” Stegoman repeated, and flew on in silence a little longer. Then he said, “Perhaps I have been living among humans for too long, but I find I want a mate who is capable of gentleness, even sweetness, as human mates often are to one another.”

The words evoked a vision of Alisande at her sweetest and most alluring, so powerful that it made Matt shiver. He forced himself to replace it with a picture of her at her most angry. It made him shiver again—unfortunately, he found his mate beautiful no matter what mood she was in—but gave him the impetus to remind Stegoman, “We can be pretty angry sometimes, too.”

“I can bear the storms,” Stegoman said thoughtfully, “as long as there is sunlight to follow, and far more fair weather than foul.”

“Could be Dimetrolas has a gentler side to her nature,” Matt suggested.

“Anything is possible,” Stegoman huffed, “but I have not seen it in her.”

“It's a little early in your acquaintance for her to let it show,” Matt said, “at least, if I understand dragon culture at all.”

“You understand the meaning of a dragon without a clan,” Stegoman snapped.

That gave Matt pause. He had to think it over for a minute. “I see…I'd thought she was the lookout for a clan back there in the mountains.”

“If she had been, why did they not come at her call?”

“Maybe because she didn't call?” Matt guessed. “Figured she could handle you herself?”

“No sentry would do such,” Stegoman assured him. “At sight of a stranger, she would have called for a squadron.”

“Since she didn't…”

“That means she had none to call,” Stegoman said grimly, “and no clan to protect.”

Matt was silent, absorbing the idea of Dimetrolas as an outcast.

“You know what it means for a dragon to fly alone,” Stegoman challenged.

“Since I met you while you were in exile yourself,” Matt said, “I can guess.”

“Would her clan have banished her if she were truly gentle and sweet, with her brash abrasiveness but a facade?”

Matt tried for the delicate touch. “There could be reasons for exile other than a disagreeable personality.”

“Such as drunken flying, for one who becomes intoxicated from the fumes of his own fire,” Stegoman said with a sardonic tone.

“Or being half dragon and half griffon,” Matt reminded.

“Like our friend Narlh? True.” But Stegoman's tone was thunderous, and the unspoken statement was there: any dragon who had committed a crime great enough for banishment was a dragon to be avoided—the kind who would make your life miserable, or even very short.

Matt might have pointed out that Dimetrolas didn't have the look of a murderer or traitor about her, but he had sense enough to realize that conversation had awakened Stegoman's memory of his own tatter-winged banishment, and that returning sober and self-possessed, and being hailed as a hero among his own kind, had not completely erased the pain of that early trauma—indeed, that nothing ever could. Matt was shocked to realize that even now, ten years after his triumphant return to his clan, the humiliation of Stegoman's own exile made him doubt his worth as a dragon, as an individual, and most especially as a mate.

It was time to shut up and let the obvious conclusion work itself out inside the dragon's mind.

Balkis and Anthony were still feeling hung over as they waved good-bye to the Piconyans and set out again on their northward journey. They were rather quiet—it had been an excellent party, and each was somewhat dazed by the realization that neither had made a fool of himself or herself. Indeed, in spite of the amount of wine they consumed, they had each kept their heads and asked many more questions than they answered, and listened far more than they talked.

The Piconyans, it turned out, were an outgoing and garrulous people, and had been all too glad to talk about themselves. In the process, Balkis and Anthony had learned a great deal about Piconyan ways and history—and imbibed a great deal of wine. Each had only sipped now and then, but the wine was served in bowls instead of cups, and the party lasted into the wee hours. The Piconyans, after all, had a great deal to celebrate, as they pointed out to Balkis and Anthony with lurid accounts of the carnage they would have discovered had they come near the end of the day instead of at its beginning.

Thinking of that now, Balkis shuddered. “It is only our good fortune that we did not come when the mass of the birds would have distracted us so with their pecking and clawing that we would have been unable to think of a spell.”

“Very true,” Anthony agreed, blinking.

“We need a guide,” Balkis said with the labored speech of one who had to work hard to drag a coherent thought from the wine-soaked wreckage of her brain. “We need to travel with someone who can warn us of such dangers before we come to them.”

“Dangers such as this war with the birds?”

“No, dangers such as Piconyan banquets! Let us ask at the next village we find.”

Anthony held up a small wineskin. “The king gave me this and told me to drink a mouthful if my head pounded too heavily. Will you drink?”

Balkis gave the skin a jaundiced eye. “What does it hold?”

“Wine that the Piconyans have boiled until it is three times as strong as that which we drank. That is why a mouthful will suffice, the hetman said. He also said to put a thimbleful in any cup of water that we think may be bad.”

Balkis shuddered. “If that is so much stronger than the wine that made my head ache as it does, put it away, good Anthony ! It may do to purify water, but not my blood!”

The land became dryer and less fertile as they walked; forest and field gave way to open meadow, a grassland that stretched as far ahead as they could see. Groups of dots moved against that green background, dots that grew, as they came closer, into antelope and wild oxen.

“Where there are grass-eaters, the flesh-eaters follow,” Anthony said, becoming tense, “and they may not care whose flesh they eat.”

“I shall keep a spell ready to seal their jaws,” Balkis promised, and began to work one out.

Before she needed it, though, the savannah narrowed to a river gorge, a valley filled with trees and bushes and the clustered cottages of human villages. With relief, Anthony and Balkis sought out a footpath and followed it down.

As they came out onto the valley floor, Anthony looked about him with a frown. “We have seen at least half this valley from above, but I have seen no fields, neither crops nor meadows for grazing.”

“Perhaps they are in the half of the valley that we have not seen,” Balkis suggested. “After all, we did see villages, and the people who live there must have some form of sustenance.”

“Let us hope they look kindly upon travelers,” Anthony said nervously.

The road led them through a grove, and Balkis stopped to inhale the scent. “How lovely! I never knew apples could smell so sweet!”

“Perhaps you have never been in an orchard.” Anthony looked about him. “I have, though these trees are far larger than those that grow in my mountains.” He frowned. “How poorly they are tended, though! I do not see a single tree but needs pruning, and the apples are so small! It is clear the farmer has not thinned his crop to let the fruits grow larger!”

“How strange to see one tree blooding while another bears ripe fruit,” Balkis said, looking about her, “and another has tiny green apples, while a fourth's fruit is half grown.”

“I had never thought what could happen in a climate where there is never autumn nor winter,” Anthony said, “but only ever-lasting summer. It seems almost magical.”

“It does, does it not?” Balkis frowned, then stilled, letting her thoughts settle and rest, opening her mind to such tendrils of magic that might coil about this grove.

Dimly, as though at a distance, she heard Anthony ask, “Balkis? What ails you?” But when she did not answer, he desisted, only watching. It warmed her to realize that he was alert for the slightest sign of danger, but knowing that she was a wizard, he would not disturb her unless one emerged.

The constant exposure to magical creatures during her infancy had left Balkis not only with an unusual talent for magic, but also with a sensitivity to it. Now she listened, open to the touch of its tendrils, and felt them all about her. Slowly, she stepped over to an apple tree, pressed a hand against the bark, and thought a question to the dryad that lived within it. Instantly she felt the answer, guarded but intrigued, and was quick to think through her early days, to remember the nixies she had met in Maracanda, the same who had taken charge of her when her mother had set the infant Balkis adrift in a trunk because the barbarians were invading the city. Appeased, the dryad now gave her silent permission to walk her grove, gave her the freedom of the valley, and Balkis withdrew her hand, knowing that word would pass from spirit to spirit as soon as the human folk were asleep and the dryads felt free to come forth from their trees to play and celebrate life. Slowly, she let herself return to the world, feeling her pulse gradually speed up, felt the breeze on her cheek and the perfume of the apple trees become more vivid, until she was back in the world again.

She turned to Anthony with a smile. “There is magic here indeed, but it welcomes us and will protect us.”

“Will protect you, rather,” Anthony said with a smile, “but I suppose that as long as I am with you, I shall be safe, too.”

“You shall be, surely.” Balkis reached out to take his hand with a smile. “Come, let us find a village. If the valley itself welcomes us, can its people do less?”

Fortunately, the answer turned out as she hoped—the people were friendly indeed, and just as welcoming as the Piconyans.

The apple grove opened out suddenly into a meadow filled with a score of round, straw-roofed cottages circling a central green. Some of the people practiced archery on the common while others carved statues or painted landscapes on the walls of their houses. Nearer to Balkis and Anthony, a circle of people sat with strange-looking but beautifully crafted musical instruments, setting up harmonies that were strange, almost weird, but hauntingly beautiful.

“What a handsome people they are!” Balkis exclaimed.

“They are indeed,” Anthony agreed. “I see no one fat and no one skinny, and all have that lovely bronze-toned skin.” He smiled. “How wonderful it must be to live in a land where you never need wear more than a loincloth! Though I must admit theirs are wrapped to cover the sides.”

“The women's sarongs are beautiful in their jewel tones,” Balkis said, “and how exquisitely they are patterned! Indeed, their weavers must love their craft.”

“Love it, yes,” Anthony marveled. “One more art among many. Does no one here actually work?”

One of the musicians heard; he looked up with curiosity, and all the others, seeing him, followed his gaze. Then they put down their instruments and rose as the first advanced, holding up an open palm in greeting and dazzling them with a broad smile. As he came close, Anthony and Balkis had to hide their expressions of surprise. Apparently they weren't successful, for the villager smiled and said, “Yes, you thought we were as tall as you, only farther away, did you not?”

“Of course,” Balkis stammered, “for you are of the same proportions as we.”

“Certainly! How could you know that we only came up to your waists?” the villager asked. “Welcome to Pytan, O Strangers. I am Rokin.”

“I am Balkis, and he is Anthony,” Balkis said, imitating the stranger's sign of greeting.

“We hope you have news of the great world outside our valley,” Rokin said. “We will trade you songs for tales.”

“We know something of what moves outside,” Balkis said, smiling, “though we have traveled too fast for any news to catch up with us.”

“At the least,” Anthony put in, “we can tell you of the marvels that lie to the south, if you can tell us what you know of the obstacles ahead of us to the north.”

“Do you travel to the north, then?” Rokin asked.

“We do, and my home is in the southern mountains.”

“Then you are of the breed that Alexander's soldiers sired when they sought to conquer the hills!” Rokin shook his head in amazement. “It must be uncanny to live on land that slopes.”

Anthony grinned. “It seems strange to me to see people dwell and farm on land that is level … well, it did seem strange when I started out.”

“You have heard all we have to tell, then,” Balkis said with disappointment.

“Surely not, for even in this little valley we hear the echoes of great battles and arrogant horsemen who sweep across broad plains, seeking to rule the world!”

Several of the Pytanians shuddered at the thought, but one said, “It must be amazing to be able to stand in one place and see completely to the horizon.”

“I thought so, too,” Anthony admitted, “the first time I came down to the desert to sell food to the caravans.”

“Caravans!” cried several, their eyes lighting with wonder, and the young man said, “Strings of camels that sway on their way, eastward to China, westward to Samarkand and Persia, northward to Maracanda! Fabled cities and lands of wonder! We know only those that travel northward, and we must wander a day's march to meet them, so we see them rarely! Oh, tell us of them!”

“I can tell you little,” Balkis said with a laugh, “though I can speak of Bordestang and the forests of Allustria, even some little about the Arabian galleys and the people of India.”

“Tell us, tell us!” the Pytanians chorused, and led them to the village green, where they sat around an empty firepit to listen eagerly.

Anthony looked around, disconcerted.

“You are looking for food and drink, are you not?” Rokin said, somewhat chagrined. “Panyat, I pray you bring a dozen of the finest apples.”

The young man who had marveled at the thought of plains ducked into one of the straw-roofed stucco cottages.

“We do not eat or drink, as you do,” one of the women said apologetically. “The scent of our apples is sustenance enough for us.”

Indeed, every one of the villagers was bringing out an apple from a cleverly concealed pocket and waving it under his or her nose. Panyat reappeared with a bowl of beautiful rosy fruit in the crook of his arm, so perfect that Balkis noticed that the apples the villagers held had each the marks of insects or the lopsided shape that comes from growing too closely. In his other hand he carried a pottery beaker of clear water which he set down at their feet. “We always keep water near for washing,” he explained, “for we love to be clean. I hope this will suffice as drink.”

Balkis lifted her beaker and sipped. “Oh, how delicious! It is delightfully cool.”

Anthony rolled a sip over his tongue as though he were tasting the Piconyans' wine and nodded. “Cool indeed, and with a wonderful tang to it.”

“Has it really?” Panyat asked, intrigued. “To us it is merely water, for we do not taste of it.”

“At least you will never be drunk,” Balkis said with a laugh.

“Drunk?” Rokin asked, and the crowd murmured echoes of the word, puzzled.

“The dizziness that comes from drinking too much wine,” Balkis explained, “such as your neighbors to the south make by pressing the juice from grapes and letting it ferment.”

“What is'ferment'?”

That took a bit more explaining and led to a discussion of the green grapes of Allustria and their wine-making, which led to the tale of Balkis' travels from Europe to Maracanda.

Anthony listened, as rapt as any of the Pytanians, and when they scoffed in disbelief at her tales of genies and evil sorcerers, Anthony staunchly assured them that if Balkis said it, it must be true. He did not say, though, that she had gone through half her travels as a cat, though she could see in his gaze that he suspected it. After all, he had never heard any of this, either.

When the Pytanians had left them alone in a guest cottage, Anthony asked her, “Did you really travel with the Lord Wizard of Merovence?”

“I did, and you need not look so impressed,” Balkis said with a smile, “for I am sure you have scarcely heard of Merovence.”

“Well, then, glad I am to have heard of it now! What is he like, this Lord Wizard?”

“A gentleman who is modest to a fault, completely faithful to his wife, devoted to her and to his children, and exceedingly patient with a skeptical, mocking maiden,” Balkis told him.

Anthony frowned. “You make him sound like any good householder!”

“He is that.”

“But does he not have a towering presence and a countenance of ivory? An imposing mien? An aura of mystery and magic?”

“He is on the tall side,” Balkis admitted, “but as to the rest of it, he looks quite ordinary, even handsome for a man of his age. As to his aura of magic, though, he does his best to hide it and appear like any other man.”

“Why?” Anthony said, flabbergasted. “Would he not want men to know his greatness?”

“I do not think he believes in it himself,” Balkis confessed. “Besides, by appearing to be as ordinary as the people around him, he hears a great deal more than he would if they stared at him in awe.”

That made sense to Anthony, she could see, but he was still puzzling over a mighty wizard trying to look ordinary as he fell asleep.

Balkis fell asleep thinking of Matt, too, and marveled that she thought of him only as another man. Her childish infatuation with him seemed to have disappeared. She wondered why, and decided that perhaps she was growing up.

The next morning, when they had breakfasted on more apples and thanked their hosts for a night's lodging, Balkis asked them, “Do you know where we might find a guide for hire?”

“A guide?” Rokin asked.

“Someone who knows the country between here and Maracanda,” Balkis explained, “who can warn us of the pitfalls that lie ahead and lead us around the worst of them.”

“Why, that I can do!” Panyat said, stepping forward, eyes shining. “At least as far as the border of Prester John's land.” He turned to Rokin. “May I accompany them, hetman?”

“You have already had your year of wandering, Panyat,” Rokin said with a frown.

“Yes, but not my fill of travel! Indeed, it is only because I have wandered toward the north that I could be of any use to these strangers.”

Balkis' hopes rose. “We shall pay him a golden coin.”

“Gold means little to us here,” Rokin said, frowning.

“But it means much to the caravan traders who bring the luxuries we cannot make,” Panyat pointed out, “and I shall return knowing where to find them. You were saying only yesterday that it would be good to have more northern ivory with which to fashion statues of the goddess.”

“We have always traded apples, and our weavings,” Rokin told him.

“But it would take so many tapestries to buy one small ivory tusk! I shall bring back the gold coin for the village, Rokin, not for myself.”

An older woman stepped forth from the crowd, resting a hand on Panyat's shoulder. “There is no reason why he should not go, Rokin.”

“The wide world is dangerous, Mishara,” Rokin reminded her. “Your son might not come back to you.”

“His chances are far better with these good people to ward him, especially since they are wizards, and therefore better able to protect themselves and him!”

“Aye, let him go,” said an older man, stepping up to take Mishara's hand. “We must risk him in order to keep him, for if we do not, he will someday leave us.”

“None of us can leave our apples for long, for we would die without their scent, Haramis.” But Rokin was weakening.

“The traders assure us that there are apple trees in other lands,” Haramis returned. “That is why they insist on so many for one little tusk.”

“True enough, though I suspect ours have a far sweeter taste than any others they have eaten.” Rokin sighed. “Very well, let him go—but see he is well supplied.”

They left soon after, Panyat leading the way out of the valley of apples. He wore a wide sash around his waist, a sash that bulged all along the front.

Balkis counted the bulges and said, “Only three apples? Can that be enough to take you to the borders of Prester John's kingdom and back?”

“Easily, friend Balkis.” Panyat looked back with a smile. “I need only their scent, after all.”

The ant couldn't understand why it was taking so long to reach his stolen property. It knew those confounded humans were carrying the gold nugget, but why was it taking so long to catch up with them? Surely its encounters with all the things that tried to eat it hadn't delayed it all that long—had they? Though of course, once it had defeated them, eating had taken much longer than if it had been traveling with a score of its fellow workers. It didn't realize how much more slowly it had been traveling with an overfull stomach, but it couldn't resist eating as long as there was food.

Now, though, it was hungry again, and had come across a trail of honey that it followed avidly, licking the sweetness from the rocks on which it had been spread. It didn't fear the bees that had made the amber delicacy, for it knew they were small inconsequential things that would only try to strike it with their tails—as though that could do any good!

Then it rounded a rock, and saw the honey's source.