Silver Scales: The Warlock, the Hare, and the Dragon, #1

By L. Rowyn

The fate of Sir Damon Kildare’s soul rests on finding the silver scales of a living dragon, a quest the woman who damned him wants him to fail. Kildare expects to fail, too: the last dragon was slain eighteen years ago by humans intent on genocide. And the scales are only one part of the infernal challenge: there are two more he hasn't even identified, much less obtained.

But the daughter of the last surviving dragonslayer, Zenobia Gardsmark, is determined to save his soul. She has aid from unlikely corners: from Madden, Kildare's magical hare companion, to indomitable ogres and determined schoolgirls. She'll need whatever help she can get, because all the forces of Hell are against them, and time is running out... 

Will God allow demons to drag a good man into the Abyss? And will Zenobia and their friends find the answer before it's too late?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Delight in Books
• Release date: Nov 6, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386917564

Book preview

Copyright © 2017 by L. Rowyn and Delight in Books. All rights reserved.

Visit the author online at www.ladyrowyn.com

Cover art by Ilse Gort – http://ilsegort.artworkfolio.com/

Delight logo courtesy of Tod Willis.

Subscribe to L. Rowyn's mailing list at http://eepurl.com/cedZTb

First release 2017 (v1.01)

To T. Jordan Greywolf Peacock, and D. Keith Howington: without your enthusiasm and encouragement, I would never have finished this book, or any other.

What Everyone Knows

*** Sir Damon Kildare had a problem.

Silver dragon scales, he muttered. Grey fingers tapped against the solid oak desk as he stared disconsolately at the thin parchment pages of The Seventh Grimoire.

A large brown-and-beige hare crouched on a nearby bookshelf. Oh, buck up, Kildare, the hare said, scratching one ear. This is a major breakthrough! And just because dragons are extinct doesn’t mean you can’t get hold of a scale or four. Surely some alchemist has an old stockpile.

Kildare cleared his throat. "Allow me to clarify. Silver scales from a living dragon."

The hare paused mid-scratch. Oh. His ears wilted. Sorry. Do carry on moping.

Thanks ever so, Madden.

"Are you sure about that ‘living’ part?"

Yes, I’m sure. He rose and walked to one of the stacks of cardboard boxes scattered around the wood-paneled office, and rifled through it.

The hare jumped from bookshelf to desk, and pattered over to the big leather-bound Grimoire. Why don’t you unpack already and be done with it? Several sturdy oak bookshelves, matching the desk, stood almost empty along two walls. The desk was cluttered with a few odd parcels, along with the Grimoire and a scroll case. But boxes in a variety of sizes dominated the room. They were stacked on the sofa and piled on two of the three chairs. Boxes bracketed the fireplace, blocked access to the empty shelves, and presented a hazard to anyone trying to navigate the room. Many stood with the their top flaps open, rifled articles poking crookedly out of them.

Why, Madden, are you volunteering to unpack? Kildare heaved one box onto a different stack to open the one beneath it. How generous of you, old friend.

The jackrabbit didn’t dignify that with a response. Could you travel into the past to get the scales, do you think? You know, from some time before Sir Banan killed the last one. Didn’t some warlock recently work out how to travel through time and bring objects back?

Kildare paused, arm up to the elbow in a box as he dug past heaps of small objects wrapped in anonymous brown paper. First, even if I could fetch scales from a dragon who was alive then, the dragon would still be dead now. And it’s now that I need to be answering the challenge, not eighteen years ago.

But maybe—

Second, Kildare continued, with a triumphant huff of breath as his hand closed on a smooth sphere, The person who’d claimed he could fold through time was a fraud. The High Warlock Adhamh Traynor investigated, and the man wasn’t using travel magic at all. Fellow used an enchanting technique to change what a scryer would see when they scried on the past, so that he could make it appear he’d been there. Total sham. The artifacts he’d claimed to have fetched back weren’t even authentic to the period.

Oh. Madden sank, ears flopped against the back of his head and neck. That’s a nice piece of enchanting work, though. I didn’t know that was possible.

I think the charlatan genuinely was the first to work that bit out. Perhaps if it were good for anything other than committing fraud, he’d’ve sought fame from that invention. The grey man wriggled his hand out of the box, an orb of dark crystal in his grip. He returned to the desk.

Madden hopped back to an empty bookshelf. He turned around several times in place, then settled. What’re you going to do?

A divination.

What for? To see if you can find a substitute for silver dragon scales?

No, Kildare scoffed, as if the idea were ridiculous. To see if I can locate a living silver dragon.

Madden’s ears waggled. But Sir Banan killed the last one. Everyone knows that.

Kildare sighed, taking a pinch of yellow powder from a bag. Yes. Well. You never know. Everyone might be wrong.

The jackrabbit snorted. "And your divination is going to uncover that? He lay his head on his forepaws and closed his eyes. Please wake me if you discover up is down, Kildare. I should hate to fall into the sky just for believing what everyone knows."

If you’re not going to be helpful, Madden, do shut up.

In answer, Madden snored loudly.

Kildare made a face at his sleeping focus, though he knew Madden well enough to know he wasn’t being flippant. Napping was Madden’s way of meditating on a difficult problem. Perhaps all spirits did that.

But Kildare didn’t think it irrational to hope dragons were not extinct. After all, seventy years ago, everyone had known that dragons were extinct, and at that time, everyone had been wrong. They’d learned otherwise thirty-two years ago: in the fall of 1914 five dragons had descended on the Mark Isles’ seat of government in Gladeton and begun the Reign of Flames. Those dragons had terrorized and ruled the Mark Isles for seven years. Then the Great Uprising, led by Sir Banan and his Band of Six, cast them down. Two of the Six perished in the Great Uprising. In the years that followed, Sir Banan and the remainder of his Band had hunted the world for the surviving dragons, to ensure that such a thing could never occur again.

Over the years, Banan kept a journal of his efforts, in which he characterized the surviving dragons as stealthy and clever, evading detection with the most cunning disguises, both physical and magical. In 1924, the two members of the Band still alive called his continuing hunt mad and quit Sir Banan’s service. But three years later, Sir Banan found the last dragon and slew her. At that time, he pronounced the race extinct, and the world safe at last. This came as a profound relief to the government, which was heartily sick of financing his quest.

Since Sir Banan had been obsessed with eradicating the species, and enlisted the aid of dozens of spellcasters from all different fields to locate survivors, no one questioned his assertion. Sir Banan hated dragons more than anyone else, Sir Banan had claimed some remained after everyone else thought them exterminated, and if even he said they were all dead now, surely they were.

But Kildare wondered about the ‘stealth’ and ‘cunning disguises’ the last dragons had exhibited. Could one of them have been too stealthy, too well-disguised, even for Sir Banan?

The chief difficulty, Kildare thought, is that if a silver dragon did escape by being too cleverly hidden for Sir Banan to find, he’s certainly going to be too well-hidden for me.

True, some warlocks were almost as good as a seer at divination. But Kildare was not one of those warlocks.

Warlocks specialized in movement, and Kildare’s particular speciality was long-distance travel via world-folding: the art of getting from point A to point B without the inconvenience of passing through any of the points in between. Kildare’s control wasn’t all that it might have been. Fellow students had laughed at him for being unable to fold a package from a shelf to an adjacent table without having it land on the floor half the time. But he felt, on the whole, that it was rather more useful to be able to fold a man from Gladeton to Yúqìng in one pass, and that once the man had got to Yúqìng, it would not be too much to ask him to walk from the lawn to the parlor under his own power.

The important part was to get there safely. Kildare was very good at that. Being safe upon arrival was a sort of divination in itself, as it required knowing whether or not one’s destination was in danger from some hazard, such as a tornado, or a bonfire, or a toddler’s birthday party. Kildare’s schoolmasters had marveled that he could unerringly land an object in the one safe spot in a room full of spikes, burning braziers, and poisonous snakes, yet be barely competent to cast the simplest clairvoyant cantrips. He had inherited an excellent gazing ball from his grandmother, and the universal agreement of the school seers was that it was entirely wasted on him.

Divination skills or lack thereof notwithstanding, Kildare made an effort to divine the location of a dragon.

A talented seer might have conjured an image of the dragon he sought, or a sign pointing him to where he might look, or at least a useful message, such as Outlook not so good.

Kildare got a gold-green blur at the top of his gazing ball. He contemplated the likelihood that he was worse at divination now than during his school days. I should practice more, he thought, then filed the idea away. He needed to play to his strengths, not his weaknesses.

And his strength was the safe transport of people and objects.

Therefore, logically, he should transport himself to the dragon.

Right. He glanced at the slumbering hare, and decided not to solicit Madden’s opinion. He would need the spirit for the spell, but Madden slept like a rock. With a little luck, he’d never even notice Kildare was gone. Much less lecture him on safety.

It will be perfectly safe, Kildare argued against an imagined protest. My folds are always safe. If it’s not safe, the spell won’t work.

As he gathered the necessary components, he reconsidered his destination. He needn’t go to the actual dragon. The dragon’s lair would do. Or anywhere a dragon might have shed a few scales. He only needed a pair. With a little luck…

All right, a lot of luck. This is never going to work, Kildare reflected. What am I thinking?

He stared down at the things he’d assembled: a silver case, several small jars and bags of herbs, a copper brazier, and two books. With a shrug, he flicked open the silver case, revealing a set of ten chalk pastels. He plucked out the black one, and strode towards one wall.

He stopped to avoid stumbling into a stack of boxes.

Sighing, he put the chalk back and spent several minutes shifting boxes until he had a clear path to the wall. When he’d first moved in, he’d hung an oversized pad of paper vertically on this wall. The sheets were five feet wide and almost as tall as the wall.

On the top sheet, he chalked an arch the size and shape of a door using double lines. Between consultations of a reference book on the desk (The Revised Annotated Compleat Booke of Runes, Ninth Ed.), he wrote runes between the lines. He placed Dragon in grey at the very top, and again at the bottom, on both left and right. Bracketing either side of the top rune, he added Home, which was not quite right, but the RACBOR didn’t list a rune for Lair. Then he added Safe in green twice down each side. That rune also guarded against accidents, ensuring that any object, spell, or person caught partway through would be pushed intact to one side or the other if something interrupted the fold. After a moment of thought, he put in Alive above the two bottom Dragon runes. He consulted the book for a rune for scale, did not find one, considered using Skin, and decided against it. He put Need just above the runes for Alive, instead.

Kildare stood back to contemplate his handiwork, then added Need again above the runes for Safe. Then, because he had some space left over and you could never be too safe, he put Safe on a couple more times.

After that, he mixed several herbs in the brazier: patchouli for success, hawthorne to signify a home, and comfrey for safety. He also included dragonsbane because it was associated with dragons, and besides, he didn’t want the dragon too close at hand when he arrived, and then cinnamon, because he liked the way it smelled. His fingers moved to the remaining jars and hesitated over one of white berries.

As a licensed warlock, Kildare was a legal practitioner in both the Mark Isles and Dumagh of an assortment of arcane arts. He was not, however, licensed to bypass protective wards. Very few people – mainly those who worked with peace officers or the military – were. Even those were only permitted to do so with a valid warrant. Breaking wards was the stuff of criminals, spies, and pulp fiction. The art was not taught at respectable schools.

Naturally, this made it a prime candidate for unsanctioned schoolboy research. Young men who could not trouble themselves to learn a cantrip to lift a feather would invest tremendous amounts of time and energy for a chance to peep through the privacy wards on the girls’ bathroom, or escape the dormitories after curfew.

Even as a boy, Kildare made no attempts at the former – partly because he was so hopeless at divination, but largely because it struck him as cruel. So when the rumor spread that an upperclassman was charging for use of a gazing ball that would haunt the girl of your choice – wherever she went, whatever she did – Kildare ignored it.

But a few days later, his best friend leaned down from the top bunk to whisper, Psst, hey, Kildare, you hear about the upperclassman that broke the school wards?

Kildare tried to pretend he was asleep, but his friend leaned further over and poked him several times, repeating the question. Yes, yes, Roche, what of it? Kildare snapped at last.

Well…Lawlor says he got hold of the ward-breaker spell. He wants to use it night after tomorrow to go to town after curfew. What do you say? You in?

Who could resist? Two nights later, he, Roche, Lawlor, and three other would-be warlocks were employing Lawlor’s ward-breaker in conjunction with their own folding spells to escape the grounds of Campion’s School for the Arcane Arts. A seventh boy, studying to be a seer, stood lookout while the privacy charm liberated from the upperclassmen’s hideout screened them from casual scrying. None of them knew how to fold more than themselves, so each worked his own spell. Their skill at translocation varied, so they picked an easy target: a meadow in the woods a hundred yards off the school grounds. It was a straightforward task – far easier than trying to go to an unknown and possibly non-existent location, like a silver dragon – and not made much harder by the addition of the ward-bypassing elements.

Kildare finished first, and found himself lying amidst pitch black woods, face-down against dirt, leaves, and the roots of trees. Cursing himself for missing the meadow, he pushed himself to his knees. As he tried to recall the spell for witchfire –a simple cantrip, but of course a divination cantrip – a brilliant white glow flooded the woods. A warbling siren accompanied it, so loud it shook the earth beneath him. Kildare threw himself back to the ground. The shouts of grown men and terror-stricken boys soon added their counterpoint to the bedlam.

Curiosity and fear warred in him; after few moments, he risked a peek at his surroundings. The white glow spotlit his companions: two in the meadow, and two others who’d missed the meadow by several feet. For the first time, Kildare was grateful for his imprecision: he was fifty yards off target and nowhere near the commotion. The school’s ward, manifested as translucent six-armed guardians, had pinned his co-conspirators in place. Furious schoolmasters soon retrieved them.

But no one came for him. He spent a miserable half-hour in the dirt and leaves, expecting to be discovered at any moment, but no one did. After an unpleasant night outside – he didn’t dare fold back into the school – he snuck in with the morning off-campus students.

Later, he learned that one boy, Johannson, hadn’t made it out of the dorm. He and the student seer had heard Lawlor set off the alarm on his fold and Johannson had been able to abort his own. That pair managed to clear the room of the evidence and deactivate the privacy charm before its use attracted attention. That saved them and Kildare from being caught after the fact.

But nothing could help Lawlor, Roche, and the other two. Lawlor, as the ringleader, was expelled. Two of the other boys had already been in trouble and were suspended for the rest of the term. It was Roche’s first offense, and he was still saddled with detention every weekday for a month, writing out I will respect the rules and not make use of unauthorized magicks five hundred times per day. Roche said he’d rather have been expelled.

Several days passed before things settled down enough that Kildare dared talk to anyone about it. Roche caught up with him after dinner one night, right wrist cradled in left hand. Roche checked to make sure no one was around, then said quietly, You missed completely, didn’t you? Kildare nodded with a sheepish smile, and Roche laughed. "You lucky devil. I can’t believe even you could miss by that much. You never even left the school grounds, did you?"

At that, Kildare started to shake his head. No, I—

But Roche talked over him. Of all the luck – it was all a frame up, did you know? He spat a colorful epithet. Schoolmasters planted that rumor about the upperclassmen. They even swapped out the Grimoire from the Restricted Access section, the one Lawlor copied the spell from. Can you believe it? Those— He employed an obscenity that would have gotten him another five hundred lines daily, if any adults had been within earshot. "I just can’t believe even you could miss by a hundred yards." He massaged his right hand in an effort to straighten hooked fingers.

Kildare opened his mouth to protest, then closed it again. He knew he’d bypassed the school wards. He knew he’d left the grounds. But why hadn’t he been caught? Could Roche be wrong about the spell? Who told you it was a set up?

Master Doherty, the git. He gloated about it. I swear, he’s the most hateful creature in the world.

Kildare didn’t know what to say to that. For the first time, the enormity of what he had done sunk in. Would a schoolmaster lie about the spell being a plant? Even if Master Doherty was lying, that didn’t explain why the ward-breaker had worked for him and not for the others.

It hit him that he did not want to be able to do this thing. And if he could do it…he didn’t want anyone else to know. Not even Roche. He kept his mouth shut, and let Roche and the others believe that a lucky accident had kept him from being caught with the rest.

But even now, nearly a decade later, he remembered everything ward-breaking required, and everything he needed to do. His hand hovered over the jar of mistletoe berries. He still wasn’t licensed to bypass protective wards.

On the other hand, it wasn’t as though he meant to break into someone’s house. Dragons did not respect the laws of man; that much, the Reign of Flames had made clear. And dragons had been the most powerful casters in the world; any dragon’s lair would be warded against intruders.

Teeth gritted, Kildare unstoppered the jar and tipped three white berries into the brazier, then added a pinch of fennel seeds, and his only two sprigs of toadsbreath. The latter was a controlled substance in the Mark Isles, because it was used in hexes. The Mark Isles had more restrictive laws governing magic than his own native Dumagh. Kildare crushed the berries to pulpy juice and the sprigs into fragments. He set the brazier, unlit, to one side before his chalked door. He gave the runes on the door another glance, then retrieved a blue chalk from his case. Some space remained near the top, where Safe Home Dragon Home Safe currently arched, and he added the rune for Pass to either side, nestling a small rune for Ward inside each Pass rune.

After that, he retrieved another book, A History of the Mark Isles, opened to a lithograph of Sir Banan and three of his Band – Dame Freya Moore, Sir Stephen Gardsmark, and Lord Kenneth MacGuire – confronting one of the last dragons, a massive serpentine creature, all coils, talons, teeth, and glittering scales. He propped it in front of the arch, and shifted the brazier to keep a safe distance between them.

Next, he scribbled some words on a scrap of paper, scratched his head, then re-did the composition.

Kildare surveyed his results with a mixture of satisfaction and trepidation, ticking off points on a mental checklist. The spell would not have global range, of course; a thousand miles, at most. But seers had predicted his chance of success at the challenge was best if he lived in Gladeton, so perhaps he was already close. He retrieved his coat, ensured the pocket held his house key, and got his hat and gloves. Now all he needed…

Jaw set, the grey man looked at the still-sleeping jackrabbit. He tapped his fingers against his chin, and commenced another foray into the boxes. After a few minutes, he produced a cosy pet bed of cushioned velvet. This, too, he set before his paper arch, right in front of the open history book. He put on his coat and gloves, then gathered Madden from the shelf, and carefully started for the enchanted portal.

Halfway there, Madden shifted in his hands. ’s up down yet?

Shush. I’ve unpacked your bed for you. Kildare settled the hare on top of the cushion.

Madden rolled over, kicking with one hind leg. ’s ver’ decent of you. He curled onto his side again and went back to sleep.

Kildare exhaled. He turned up the collar on his coat; he disliked cold and it was a damp, drizzly day. He struck a match, and dropped it into the mess in the brazier. It hissed and crackled on contact with the wet berry juice, threatening to go out, but then something flared inside the vessel. Smoldering smoke poured out, thick and unpleasant. Kildare straightened, speaking quickly as Madden’s nose twitched. I seek the silver scales of a living dragon; an such be found safely anywhere, then space, fold, and take me there. He gestured as he spoke in rising, strident tones. In his mind’s eye, thaumatic points danced at his command, drawing power through him and shaping it. The lines and runes on the archway glowed, silver, green, and blue. The shaped power focused through Madden, and the hare stirred, the ends of his fur limned in light. Kil…?

The grey man stepped forward and over him, through the glowing arch.

The jackrabbit snapped to full wakefulness and leapt to his feet. Kildare!

But the man was gone.

And It’s My Bedroom!

*** It was Tuesday afternoon, and Elizabeth Neith wanted to go out. She said it was for exercise: "Oh! I am so tired of being cooped up inside all day. It has been so rainy and dreary. But today is rather fine, don’t you think? We could go for a ride."

I did not think today was rather fine. It was grey, overcast and misty, and the cobbled streets were still wet from the last week’s rains, with big puddles filling the cracks and potholes. I would be surprised if it did not rain again today, and I said as much.

Don’t be such a grump, Bia, she told me, crossly. We can go down Rosehead Boulevard. There aren’t hardly any potholes on it. We could take it all the way to Pebblebrook Park. Truly, Bia, I’m sure the horses are as anxious to be out and about as I am.

Well, at the corner of Rosehead and Vine Street there’s a pothole so large you’d have to go up on the sidewalk to avoid it, and so deep that last fall a young boy almost drowned in it. I couldn’t imagine how she could forget it and was about to say so when I realized her true motive. It had nothing to do with the horses or being cooped up. A new warlock lived on Rosehead. He’d gone to Vinnie’s mother’s shop for supplies, and Vinnie had seen him. Eee, he’s the most delectable thing! Vinnie had exclaimed. Tall and gorgeous and ooh I just want to eat him up. Of course she could not remember a thing he’d bought or what his specialty was. Vinnie was such a ninny. And Lizzy was almost as bad, truly, so doubtless she only wanted to go down Rosehead in the hopes of seeing him.

I didn’t care about men, handsome or otherwise. I had more important things on my mind. But as I intended to be a sorceress – I scored in the ninety-ninth percentile on the SCE for Theory of Magic, and was first in my class in the Studies of the Arcane track – I did have some professional curiosity about the newcomer. So instead I said, Oh, all right, Lizzy. Just let me get my things.

Lizzy leapt off the couch, clapping her hands together in delight. Splendid! I’ll meet you in the stables. She dashed for the parlor door, as if she feared I would change my mind. Which I nearly did, seeing her prance about like a fool, but instead I went upstairs to fetch my hat and gloves.

I pushed open my bedroom door, thinking I hope I never get so silly over the thought of a boy, and then I froze, shocked.

A man stood in my bedroom. His back was to me when I entered; he faced my apothecary chest. All I could see of him was his black frock coat and grey trousers. He had a long spill of white hair – pure white, not the least hint of blonde in it – tied back by a bit of ribbon, flowing past his waist. I was astonished, as you might imagine, and had just opened my mouth to speak when he turned part way around. Whatever I meant to say went clean out of my head at the sight of his face. He had skin as grey as his trousers, and the finest features I’ve ever seen on a man: a slim straight nose, cheekbones any girl would envy, and a narrow, sharply-defined jawline. White eyebrows pulled together as he frowned in thought and tapped one gloved finger against his nose. His eyes were as black as his coat, which I saw now had the collar turned up, as if against a chill – not that it was cold enough in my room for a frock coat, much less an upturned collar.

I cannot say I had the least experience in having strange men standing unannounced in my bedroom. I thought that Vinnie would have done something silly and girlish, like shriek or faint. I wanted to say something firm and sensible, like Who are you, and what are you doing in my bedroom? but I could not, just then, form the words for it.

He turned a bit farther round and caught sight of me. I stared at him, mouth agape, and I’m afraid I must have looked as much a ninny as Vinnie or Lizzy. His thoughtful frown vanished as he lifted his eyebrows, as if he were as surprised by me as I was by him. And it was my bedroom!

***

*** As this was only the second time Kildare had bypassed wards, he was pleasantly surprised to find himself still on his feet upon arrival.

Nonetheless, he had a sharp sense of disorientation – rare but not unknown, especially with a fold to a place he’d never been before – and a more worrisome ringing in his ears. He staggered a half-step before regaining his balance, and put his hands to his ears. For one terrified moment, he thought the ringing was an alarm going off, but when covering his ears made no difference in the volume he realized otherwise. Sheepishly, Kildare dropped his hands to his sides. After several blinks, the dizziness faded, though the ringing persisted…and confusion mounted, as he took stock of his location.

When Sir Banan had written of the clever disguises employed by dragons, he’d referred to instances of a dragon posed as a small, rocky hill, or one transformed into a whale, or one hidden as the floor of a cavern, his sinuous spine twisted so that his spiked back was taken for stalagmites. They only caught onto that one when they went back and found the floor missing. That dragon had not been slain until they found him again, this time appearing as a bull elephant.

Accordingly, Kildare had not formed strong expectations on what a dragon’s lair would resemble. But nothing had prepared him to be standing on the plush peach carpet of a well-appointed Islander bedroom.

Removing his hat by force of habit, Kildare surveyed the room with growing dismay. This cannot possibly be right. He took in the rose-and-vine patterned wallpaper, the walnut secretary desk, the walnut bed, canopied in white lace and peach satin, with matching nightstand. He kept turning, and spotted a white door and a bookshelf stocked with hard-bound books and porcelain knickknacks. He recognized some of the volumes from his school days, including the much-despised Theories of Divination: A Simple and Handy Primer which was, as far as he was concerned, neither. Others were unfamiliar, such as The Nine Elements of Sorcery. He turned the remaining ninety degrees to complete his study of the room, and found himself face-to-face with a large apothecary chest. Practical arcane tools rested on its top: an old-fashioned silver balance with a base drawer to hold its weights, a marble mortar and pestle set, a mirrored gazing ball, a silver basin, a well-worn embroidered leather pouch, and an ivory-handled dagger on a matching stand.

This is a sorceress’s room and I should not be here, was Kildare’s first thought, followed closely by, Maybe this chest has silver scales in it – ones from a dragon everyone thinks is dead!  One hand reached toward the chest of its own volition, then he stopped himself. What am I doing? I can’t just root through some stranger’s property and take what I like!  The ringing in his ears had begun to fade. He turned away from the apothecary chest to clear his mind of temptation, and caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of his eye.

His heart lurched in his chest. His head rotated another quarter-turn.

A young woman, with chestnut tresses pinned into a chignon and the pale-peach complexion of a Mark Islander, stood in the open doorway. Her gaze locked on him.

The next few moments passed slowly; Kildare’s mind leapt from one thought to the next, starting with, She is a sorceress and thence to this is her room, followed by, which you have broken into using a highly illegal spell. This train of thought competed with a much less useful one, which observed how strikingly attractive the sorceress was. He was suddenly conscious that he’d left his house without wearing his Islander face – well, he was supposed to meet a dragon, if anyone, and what would a dragon care about a man’s looks?

The rest of his mind chimed in with are you insane? You need to leave. Preferably several minutes ago. But barring that, now will have to do.

Yet he remained, frozen in the spotlight of the young sorceress’s glare. How could I possibly have been so stupid? Was this how Roche felt when he heard the alarms going off after folding out of the dorm?  Any moment now, he expected the young woman to demand to know who he was and what he was doing in her bedroom, and despite the jumble of thoughts running through his mind, he had not the slightest idea how to answer that.

After what seemed like twenty or thirty years, Kildare got his limbs to move. He performed what he was sure was a ghastly parody of a polite bow. I am dreadfully sorry, miss, he said. I am not in the right place at all, I see, and I do apologize. Please, excuse me. Oh, that’s convincing. I’m sure she’ll assume I accidentally strolled into her locked and warded bedroom. Really, miss? I’ve no notion how that could have happened!

But instead she replied, Yes, of course, in strong, sensible tones, as if she quite understood how mistakes like this one could happen.

Kildare straightened from his bow, a smile of pure gratitude on his face. Thank you. He replaced his hat on his head, and fumbled his left hand into his coat pocket, seizing his house key like a drowning man clutching a lifesaver. He didn’t want to press his luck or further presume on her magnanimity. He meant to say by your leave, but wasn’t sure he got it out. With a single step forward, he folded home.

***

*** I rushed forward. I have no idea why. If I expected him to still be there, surely I did not want to charge into his arms.

He wasn’t there. I stopped in my tracks, listening for footfalls, trying to sense if there was anyone in the room with me. But I felt alone. I was sure he was gone. In truth, I wasn’t entirely sure that he’d ever been there. How could he have gotten into my bedroom? Why hadn’t the house wards stopped him, or at least sounded an alarm?

I ran my hand over the sorcerous implements on top of my apothecary chest, touching the handle of the knife, the side of the mortar, the leather of the bag, just to be sure. Everything was still there, the undisturbed dust reminding me I ought to get the cleaning charm in here renewed. I checked the chest: locked. Everything in the room was untouched and normal, apart from a faint hint of cinnamon hanging in the air.

I dashed from my room and down the steps, crying, Papa! Papa! I nearly bowled over poor Mr. Johnson, who was ascending the stairs with a stack of books in his arms.

My word! he exclaimed, clutching the books to his chest. My dear Miss Zenobia, whatever is the matter?

I seized his arm. Oh! Mr. Johnson – my father’s wards – are they intact?

In response to my query, his eyes unfocused, his head drifting from side to side. I tapped one foot against the steps impatiently. I so wish that the law did not prohibit the teaching of practical magic to minors. It’s all very well to say that ten-year olds ought not to be summoning firefalls, but at seventeen, I hardly thought that the use of magesight should be forbidden to me. A moment later, Mr. Johnson answered, All looks in order to me, miss. Surely you’re not expecting some trouble?

It was on the tip of my tongue to say, No, I’m not expecting trouble – I’ve had trouble!  But I found myself shaking my head instead. No, not at all, Mr. Johnson.

Our elderly butler gave me a queer look, as if he suspected I was being something less than truthful – which, I supposed, I was. I hurried on. I had rather a start just now, Mr. Johnson, that’s all. I’m certain it was all my imagination. You know how we girls are! I gave an unconvincing laugh.

Mr. Johnson’s queer look deepened to a frown, but he said merely, Very good, Miss Zenobia. By your leave…?

I excused him and he continued upstairs, leaving me to ponder why I’d not told him what happened.

Papa is a first-rate thaumaturge, the finest in the Mark Isles, if not the world. He casts and maintains the wards on our house. Had I not just seen, with my own eyes, a man standing in my bedroom, I would never have imagined any intruder could get through them — never mind enter without even disturbing them! It was inconceivable.

It was far more likely I had imagined it.

I tiptoed back to my room and opened the door cautiously, as if I half-expected to find he’d returned. But it was empty. I stepped inside. The hint of cinnamon was almost dissipated, but I caught a faint whiff of it. Or was I only imagining it?

Zenobia Gardsmark, I told myself sternly. You are not given to flights of fancy. If you thought you saw something, then you saw it. Stop with this nonsense that you imagined, of wholecloth, a beautiful grey-skinned man standing plain as life on your bedroom carpet. Perhaps it had been a vision? My mother’s mother was a talented seer, and she had told me that she’d had visions as a child, even before she had any training in practical magic. Sometimes they just come, child, whether you bid them or not.

I’d never had a vision before. And he had seemed so real. So perfectly solid and sincere. What sort of vision would apologize to me and explain it was in the wrong place? I pictured him going on: I meant to appear before your grandmother, miss – I must have lost my way on the astral plane. I couldn’t help but smile at the thought.

But if he wasn’t a vision – that meant a caster of such skill and power that he could pass through the strongest wards in the Mark Isles without a ripple had been in my bedroom.

And apologized to me for the inconvenience.

And could come back any time.

And nothing I could do could hope to stop him.

A little shiver ran down my spine.

Perhaps it was a vision.

I heard footfalls behind me and whirled, clutching a hand to my chest. Lizzy stood in the hallway, giving me a look as queer Mr. Johnson’s. Bia, whatever is taking you so long? You haven’t changed your mind, have you?

Of course I had forgotten about riding. No. I regained my composure. I was just…thinking of something. I retrieved my hat and gloves from the closet, reflecting to myself, And I want to think about it further before I tell anyone of it. As I stepped from my bedroom, I asked Lizzy, Does it smell like cinnamon in here to you?

She took a deep breath, then shook her head. No, I don’t smell anything at all.

I couldn’t smell it anymore, either. I closed the bedroom door behind me, and resolved to ask Grandmama about visions.

Hopping mad

*** Kildare stepped from the sorceress’s bedroom and into a clear spot just inside his office’s front door. He fell back against the door in relief.

From the desk at the far end of the room, a brown head pivoted at the noise. Two long ears pricked, then slowly flattened again as dark eyes fastened upon Kildare.

The grey man had the sudden feeling that he’d been safer in the sorceress’s lair. One gloved hand went to the doorknob at his back. Perhaps he still had time to escape.

You. Madden’s tone was so icy that Kildare moved to turn up the collar on his coat before he remembered it was already up. In a brown-beige blur, the hare leapt from the desk, bounding from one stack of boxes to the next. The series of leaps and landings caused each stack in turn to wobble precariously. Before Kildare had finished turning the doorknob, the hare was atop the stack nearest him, glaring down at the grey man. "Don’t even think about it."

Kildare released the knob. Ah. Madden, he said, weakly. Have a nice nap?

The jackrabbit’s fur bristled all over his body. Why, yes, very nearly, old fellow, he purred. "I was having a lovely nap, right up until someone started a spell potent enough to shift Mt. Titania with my unknowing and need I add unwilling participation."

Er. Yes. About that spell, Madden—

Yeah, Kildare. How about that spell? Madden drew himself up onto his hind legs. It is difficult for eighteen inches of furry jackrabbit to look fearsome, but he managed. Are you out of your ever-lovin’ mind? he roared, in a voice much too large for such a small body. What idiot impulse possessed you to make a portal to a dragon? Are you crazy, or just stupid?

Are those my only choices? Honestly, Madden, it was perfectly safe—

"Safe? Safe? You’re using toadsbreath, for cryin’ out loud, because you ‘NEED ALIVE DRAGON’ and you’re telling me it’s safe?"

The warlock gave him a put-upon look. You saw the runes.

Madden released an explosive breath. "Putting the rune for ‘Safe’ down six times does not make a spell safe!  You treat that rune as if it were some kind of magic word— the hare hesitated, realizing his linguistic error. Kildare tried to stifle a smile, which only earned him a fresh glare from the hare. All right, so maybe it is a magic word. But it’s not that potent!"

My folds are always safe, the grey man said, conversationally.

Madden growled deep in his throat. "I retract my earlier question. You’re stupid and crazy. Just because you’ve never died before doesn’t make you immortal, either!"

Kildare lifted white eyebrows and widened his eyes. It doesn’t?

The hare’s nose twitched as he sank down. I hate you.

The man started to unbutton his coat. Does that mean you’re done yelling at me, then?

Madden snapped back, As a matter of fact, no! With renewed vigor, he launched into, "How dare you just plop me down, asleep, in front of your hare – or I should say, man-brained spell? Using me, like a…like…"

Like a focus? Kildare supplied, unwisely.

Madden dropped to all fours and dug his forepaws into the cardboard of the box he was on, rending deep furrows in it. Kildare swallowed and made a mental note to ask Madden about having his claws trimmed. Like an herb! the jackrabbit countered.

That’s not fair, Kildare said. You’re not even singed.

"Don’t make me come down there and bite your little grey nose off! You know what I mean – you treat me like I’m some inanimate, mindless prop!" Madden hopped in place atop the boxes, furious. The stack started to tilt dangerously towards Kildare.

Kildare covered his nose with one hand and edged away. Now, Madden, calm down.

"I am calm! I haven’t started cursing you yet, have I?"

The man sidled another step along the wall. True, and you’ve no idea how much I appreciate that—

"You’re right! I’ve no idea that you appreciate anything that I do!" the hare spat out. Boxes creaked underneath his shifting weight.

Well, I do—

"You don’t show it! I’m not some dumb bunny you pull out of a hat, Kildare! I am a living, thinking, spirit incarnate, and the fact that I happen to be incarnate as something cute and fuzzy doesn’t give you the right to treat me like a piece of chalk or a magic book, to be used when convenient and put away when not!" Madden leaned farther forward on the topmost box, eyes glittering.

A wave of shame flushed Kildare’s face to a darker shade of grey. I’m sorry, Madden, he said, contritely. I didn’t mean— At that moment, the stack the hare was perched on toppled. Madden gave a squeak of alarm and leapt towards Kildare. The warlock caught the furry projectile and curled over him protectively. The falling stack intersected with another precarious tower, knocking it over, which, domino-like, struck a third. Kildare ducked his head as the office filled with the sound of falling boxes and fluttering papers.

After the dust settled, the warlock straightened to inspect the damage. Madden poked his head out from the safety of Kildare’s arms, his fallen ears sheepish. You really ought to unpack and get it over with, the hare remarked.

Kildare sighed and stroked Madden’s back. I suppose I should.

To Grandmama’s House I Go

*** The vision remained on my mind through the rest of the day. Lizzy was cross with me for being an inattentive companion, not to mention that it did rain and we saw no sign of the new warlock.

During supper, I was on the point of asking Papa about it several times. I did ask him about the wards, which he said he’d renewed Monday evening, and were in fine shape, why did I ask? And something stayed me from answering him with strict truthfulness, just as when Mr. Johnson had inquired. I was tempted to ask how they’d been tuned. If the wards had been adjusted to be most effective against physical force, they would have been more vulnerable to a warlock’s world-folding, for instance. But I did not wish for my curiosity to prompt more questions in return.

When I went to bed, I was still anxious about my possible vision-or-visitor. But I couldn’t possibly tell Papa what had happened now. He would want to know why I hadn’t said something straight off. And there was simply no way I could explain that. Instead, I promised myself I’d call on Grandmama the very next afternoon.

Of course, it turned out I could not go to Grandmama’s the next afternoon. Lawrence Cadwell and his delinquent friends were being beastly in History class. They made the instructor, Mrs. Babbitt, so wroth that she assigned all of us a five-page research paper due on Friday, on a historical event. I would have done something on the Reign of Flames, but she looked directly at me and told me – me! and I wasn’t even one of the hoodlums! – that I wasn’t to do any events involving people in my family, or even one of Papa’s friends. I tell you, what’s the use in being the daughter of Sir Gardsmark if your instructors won’t let you write about Sir Banan and his Band? It’s not fair.

So I devoted the whole of Wednesday afternoon to researching the Hycanthia eruption. It’s the only volcanic eruption so severe its effects were noticeable world-wide, in the fabric of magic itself. Then I spent all of Thursday afternoon writing the dratted essay. Lizzy helped me with it over tea; she’s very keen on history. Still, I’ll wager charms to chants that Mrs. Babbitt gives me a lousy mark regardless. I loathe History. Or leastways, Mrs. Babbitt. I don’t see why we should all have to suffer just because Cadwell cannot behave himself. Oh, I suppose one of us might have warned her about the chalk bleeding, or the spiders in the eraser. But still!

Since I was spending so much time at the library anyway, I researched my vision as well. I knew that humans come in many shades other than the ivory-peach that we Islanders are, but one never sees anything else in the Isles. When foreigners visit, they wear enchanted masks to blend in. I did not even know if grey was a natural color for a human or not, and I wanted to find out. As it happens, the most common shades for human are variations on orangish brown. The Islander pale-peach is on the very light end of the scale, and then you get all kinds of tan and dark brown shades, and also more golden hues. Aside from those, there are green people in the Amentia Islands, purportedly descended from dryads, and blue ones in Dumagh, which I knew. Grey isn’t dominant anywhere, but people who have one Dumachan parent and one parent of any of the orange-brown shades – whether Islander pale-peach or dark brown or whathaveyou – often turn out grey.

I also checked to see if visions ever affect more than two senses. I knew that enchantments, illusions, and scryings do not; most often those only affect one sense, either sight or sound. Two senses are much harder, and three or more virtually unknown. Because of spell interference one cannot readily layer multiple different spells together to affect multiple senses at once. I learned that visions that only the caster witnesses are much the same, although there are rare cases that exceed the usual limits.

It was difficult to decide whether it’s more ridiculous that I would have a very rare and powerful sort of uncontrolled vision, or that a strange man might pop through my father’s wards, leave them undisturbed, and then pop back out again with an apology, having taken nothing.

I truly needed to talk to Grandmama.

Grandmama is my mother’s mother, and one of my favorite people in the world. She is a duchess, and you’d think that it would be a terrible come-down for her that her daughter married a mere knight – even a famous one like Papa – but Grandmama puts on no airs whatsoever. She likes plain-speaking and is the perfect sort of seer, because she’s not fooled by any sort of deception. This can be terrifying when you’re five years old and she’s asking you who broke her good china vase. But now that I’m nearly grown…well, come to think of it, it’s still rather terrifying. It makes me proud to be related to her, nonetheless. She treats me and all the cousins just the same. I like to think she likes me best, however, because I’m the keenest on magic, even if I want to be a sorceress and not a seer.

So when Friday afternoon came, I was relieved to be on my way to her house. My good mood lasted right until I turned the corner onto her driveway and saw the gilt coach of Chancellor Fiona Gascoigne pulled to one side. Then I very nearly turned Beauty right around and rode home.

***

Grandmama’s Gladeton home is a sprawling three-story manor, and as expensive as the land in Gladeton is she still keeps a lovely lawn and garden. Some of her daffodils were coming into bloom, bright yellow and cheery along the circular drive. I walked the stone steps with their wrought-iron handrail to her porch, and Miss Betty answered the door at my knock. I waited anxiously in the foyer while the maid went to tell Grandmama I had arrived. I had hoped that the Chancellor was here to see Grandpapa, but no, Grandpapa was out and Grandmama was entertaining her.

I did not have much time to calm my nerves before Miss Betty returned and fetched me to the main parlor.

I could hear the Chancellor’s sweet, musical voice as we approached. The museum does so dearly appreciate your devotion, your Grace. You have been much too kind.

Then Miss Betty opened the door and ushered me inside. Your Grace, your granddaughter, Miss Zenobia Gardsmark, she announced for the Chancellor’s benefit.

Grandmama was sitting in her chair, a monstrosity of carved wood, cream fabric, and embroidered pink roses that I consider her throne. She wore a sturdy muslin dress with her silvery-grey hair in a braid and wrapped like a coronet about her head. Her face broke into dozens of wrinkles as she greeted me with a smile. Dear Bia. So good of you to call on your silly old grandmother. Chancellor Gascoigne, you’ve met my granddaughter, have you not? Sir Gardsmark’s child.

Chancellor Gascoigne sat with a teacup in one hand, leaning on the arm of the cream and rose couch that does not quite match Grandmama’s throne. She has met me, several times. I recall her very well. She’s tall, with masses of perfect gold-blond hair, always immaculately styled. Today it was coiffed into an elegant looping knotwork of braids at the back of her head. Her figure combines willowy and well-endowed, which should not be possible but if you saw her, you’d believe; she’s all long-limbed grace and flowing curves. She has great cobalt-blue eyes framed by long dark eyelashes in a heart-shaped face. Her complexion is the sort that people use cucumbers, lemon juice, charms and mud masks in a futile effort to achieve. When poets wax on about the unfathomable beauty of their mistresses, it’s her sort of looks they mean. She turned to me at Grandmama’s comment, and smiled with her perfect rosebud lips, revealing even white teeth. "Why, yes, I believe I have. What a pleasure to see you again, my dear girl. How is your charming father?"

I utterly detest her. Sir Gardsmark is in excellent health, my lady, thank you. I fought not to grit my teeth. I hate the way she speaks of Papa, as if he is a close personal friend of hers. I bobbed through the motions of a curtsey, and felt my split skirt snag on something.

A small white kitten was on his back at my feet, butterfly wings spread against the carpet as one paw batted at my skirt. As I pulled the cloth out of reach, the kitten stretched a paw after it. His claws caught on the hem, pulling a thread loose and dragging it out of shape. I was forced to stop lest I do further damage. The kitten looked to me with bright blue eyes, and gave a single adorable Mew?

He is the Chancellor’s familiar, and has no business pretending to be an unintelligent animal. I had to restrain the urge to kick the spirit. She gave a tinkling laugh at his antics. Aww, sweet little Precious, she cooed. Come to mama, don’t be a nuisance to the nice young lady.

Precious gave a forlorn mew and rolled to his feet, then flitted to rejoin his mistress. She patted the top of his head and favored me with another glittering-white-toothed smile. "I am so sorry if Precious was bothering you."

Not at all, Chancellor, I lied, and sat on the loveseat opposite her. What I loathe most of all about Gascoigne is that she’s not merely insufferably, insincerely, saccharinely sweet, but she will make it look like your gaffe if you choke on her act.

Ah, familiars are such a joy, aren’t they? Gascoigne chirped, chucking under Precious’s chin. Precious purred at her, closing his eyes and laying his colorful translucent wings to his sides.

I’m sure they are, Chancellor, my grandmother said. Though I do not have one, and my granddaughter is too young to practice magic.

The Chancellor looked charmingly abashed. Oh, of course! You’d think I could remember the Isle laws prohibiting magic to children by now, she said, with another tinkling laugh. I seethed.

You’d think, Grandmama agreed, pleasantly. Was there anything else I could do for you?

For an instant, I thought her eyes narrowed. Then she perked. Does that mean you’ve reconsidered the matter of donating your family’s sceptre?

No, Grandmama said, still pleasant. As you noted earlier, I’ve been much too kind to the museum already.

The golden-haired woman gathered Precious into her arms with another bell-like laugh. Such a wit your grandmother has, she said to me. I should rather have inherited that than all her magical prowess, wouldn’t you? Without giving me a chance to reply – not that I wanted to – she turned back to Grandmama. We do appreciate your support, my dear friend. You have my card should you reconsider, and I do hope you will. You know, the Kellington estate has been ever so generous in sharing Dame Kellington’s papers, I thought… She gave a negligent wave rather than stating outright that Grandmama was stingy in comparison. Thank you so for the tea. She stood, and Grandmama did as well, ringing for Miss Betty to see her to the door. They kissed the air by each other’s cheeks, and then Gascoigne left at last.

Grandmama and I sat in peace for a few minutes after Gascoigne’s departure. I daresay neither of us wanted to speak until we heard the front door close behind her. After that artificial tinkling laughter, I welcomed some honest silence.

My grandmother stirred first, leaning forward to refill her cup.

Let me get that, Grandmama. I took it from her hand and reached for the silver service on the tea tray.

She settled back. You’re a love, Bia. And me already in your eternal debt for rescuing me from that nitwit Gascoigne.

I almost spilled tea all over the tray. Grandmama! I endeavored to look scandalized, though I wanted to laugh.

Oh, don’t feign shock, Bia. I saw the look you gave her pampered little creature. You’re no fonder of that pair than I am. I’ve never met a woman with more power and less sense in all my years. What your grandfather sees in her I’ll never know. She paused and heaved a sigh. All right, I’ll confess I know what he sees in her. But I wish I did not. Men!

Grandmama! I repeated, fanning my now-flushed face.

She set her glasses on her nose and scrutinized me. Poor Bia; I am not setting a good example of grandmotherly behavior, I see. There now, I’ll behave. But that woman’s manners could try the patience of a saint. She acts as if she’s never had a thought in her head.

I regained enough composure to refill her teacup and add sugar and cream. Privately, I felt that Grandmama’s analysis was too benign. The Chancellor only pretended to be ignorant when it suited her; I did not think for a moment that she had forgotten one detail of Mark Isles law.

Grandmama continued, And that little beast of hers! It’s so cute it makes my teeth ache. And it’s dishonest of the spirit, passing itself off as a kitten all these years. She’s had it at least as long as she’s lived in Gladeton, and that’s nigh on ten years now. Goodness knows how long before that. It’s got no more business pretending to be a sweet young thing than she does.

That caught my curiosity. Is she much older than she looks? I asked, handing her the cup and saucer.

"Much. Oh, she’s good. Even I can’t say for sure what magic – if any – she uses to make herself look like an overgrown adolescent. But it is not natural, I warrant."

I giggled and poured tea for myself, undiluted by cream or sugar. Grandmama was not trying very hard to behave, whatever she’d said, but it does no good rebuking one’s elders. I settled in my place and resolved not to encourage her further.

This had the desired effect. Grandmama took a sip of her tea and leaned back in her throne, inhaling deeply. Ah, thank you, my dear. I know you did not come to hear an old woman’s bellyaching— I tried to protest that, first, she was not old, second, I loved to hear her speak, and third, she was not complaining, but she waved aside all my words. —no, no, Bia, she said, adjusting her glasses on her nose. Even if all of that guff you’ve been taught to spout so prettily is true, it’s not why you came. You had a reason for this visit. Don’t think you can put off your old Grandmama.

I shifted in my chair. Yes, Grandmama. I swirled the remaining tea in my cup, wondering if she would read the leaves for me, like she used to as a game when I was small. Not that tea leaves are a good tool for divination, or that divining the future is reliable. The future is not fixed; prophets who claim ‘this event will happen’ are frauds. But one may hope for indicators on a particular course of action to take, or not to take. Prophecies of the ‘if A happens then B will happen’ sort are possible, albeit rare. Seers mostly use