Chapter 20
NO REASON TO BE NICE, JELLYFISH STING, AND SABOTAGE
Since no beans had been left out to soak overnight, and they were all in a triumphant mood, Bradley decided pancakes were the order of the day.
As he made a batter out of flour, ground oats, milk, and pigeon eggs, Millie prepared tea and coffee (not well, but sometimes weak coffee was better than none), and Dirk excavated more of his tower replica from the block of brown sugar.
The granules were retained to sweeten the beverages and make a butter caramel sauce for the banana topping Bradley was creating for the pancakes, since there was no maple syrup in the tower.
And as the three went about amicably preparing their breakfast, they regaled each other with their individual victories, as if the three of them hadn’t been present for the combined effort all along.
Millie had been responsible for the shaking tower—her silly stone tickled a corkscrew of enchanted rebar that reenforced the whole of the tower—and Bradley, with his greater lung capacity, had been given the task of the first roar.
Dirk’s silly stone was located near the base of the tower itself, another roarer, as he called them, and, given his command over wind itself, he had used his stone to amplify Bradley’s roar and make the sand shiver.
Their concerted attack had yielded the insinuation that a very large and very irritable dragon was waking from its slumber and preparing to cook that Hero in his plate armor like a crab, just as Millie had said.
“We make a great team,” Dirk concluded, grinning cheeks full of pancake.
Team? Bradley and Millie glanced over their mugs at each other, his coffee in his mug and her tea in the nefarious Lip Cutter.
A team was defined as a collection of individuals working together for a shared goal, and their goals weren’t anything alike.
She aspired to be what he hated, and he was an arrogant tea-spiller who loathed her for reasons completely lost on her.
And just like that, the camaraderie they’d shared for a job well done vanished.
Millie, in his seat, shifted closer to the wall.
Bradley scooted his salt barrel closer to Dirk, maximizing the distance between them.
Yet, when Millie lifted her mug for her first sip of tea, the apprentice’s hand shot out.
It covered the mouth of the mug, shielding against the chip in the rim that would surely cut her.
The princess’s lips kissed the back of his hand instead of the tea, and the world froze.
It was like the zing of a jellyfish sting racing up the back of his hand and into his heart and down into the depths of his gut. A zing that alarmed but didn’t hurt.
Bradley jerked back, plucking the mug free and setting it on the table.
He pointed to the nefarious chip, tucked his tingling hand into his lap, and hunched over his breakfast. Sweet mother of pearl, why had he interfered?
A moment of camaraderie and a job well done weren’t enough for him to be nice to her.
Maybe it was because he knew Dirk would be upset if she hurt herself.
Scowling, Bradley forked a bit of breakfast into his mouth.
After a stunned pause, Millie rotated the mug so the chip was opposite her mouth and finally took her sip.
The tea felt cool in comparison to the heat of her lips, transferred there from the back of the apprentice’s hand.
Well that simply would not do. She quickly ran her tongue over her lips to dispel the sensation.
That grumpy apprentice was not allowed to have any effect on her other than irritation, not even if he apologized.
She had seen too many women’s dreams become derailed after falling for inadequate men, and that would certainly not be her fate.
Love, and certainly dalliance, was the jess on a hawk’s ankles—a leash to keep her from flying after her dreams.
“Guess I’ll go get my sword now,” Dirk muttered into the silence.
Now that their buffer was gone, the princess and the apprentice turned their full focus towards their breakfasts. There was no talking. There were no inefficient movements. There was only the scrape of a fork against a plate, the slurp of a hot drink, the soft rhythm of chewing.
For about three seconds.
“You’re a horrible person, Mr. Donmarin, you know that, right?”
Bradley choked on his coffee, forced it down, and blinked away the tears in his eyes. “What?”
Millie jabbed the air with her fork, coming dangerously close to his nose.
“Did you think I was just going to forget about that detail about the rice paper? You weren’t going to tell Dirk that the spells could work on anything edible, were you?
That it’s the dragon and the words that make the magic happen, not the vehicle.
You’re taking advantage of his youth and inexperience. ”
He swatted the fork out of his face and signed, “You don’t understand. He is my responsibility. I can’t have him going out there against trained killers and—”
“He’s your responsibility,” she interrupted, “not your pet.”
Bradley slammed his fist against the table.
“You think a temper tantrum will frighten me? I’m a princess, Mr. Donmarin. I make temper tantrums an art form.”
“Dirk has no business fighting these Heroes. It’s not safe. It’s not even practical for a luck dragon. He’s literally not built for combat. It goes against his very nature.”
This time, Millie waited to deliver her rebuttal until Bradley had finished signing. “Who are you to determine the business of a dragon?”
“He’s perfect just the way he is! Stop encouraging him to be something he’s not.”
Her gaze narrowed. “And when all the noble-born apprentices at the College told you that very same thing, did you listen to them?”
Bradley’s jaw clenched.
“Oh yes, I know a thing or two about that Prestigious College of Sorcerers, how every attendee for the last three generations have only come from noble houses. But not you.” Millie leaned forward on her elbow, dominating the empty space between them.
“So how can you tell Dirk he can’t become what he wants to be? ”
“It’s not the same and you know it.” He thrust his finger down at Duchess, who had just wandered into the kitchen with her sniffing nose in the air. “That cat can never become a griffin.”
“But she could become a lion. You’re not even giving Dirk that chance. You don’t trust him to make his own dec—”
“Shut. Up.” Bradley surged upright. “You don’t know anything about him, about me.”
“What’s, uh, going on in here?” Dirk asked, slithering through the window with a shiny sword.
“Coffee?” the apprentice barked.
“I’m good.” The dragon pooled into his chair.
“Oh Master Dirk, what’s wrong?” Millie asked upon hearing the note of disappointment in his voice.
“The sword’s not enchanted.” He slid a paw down the virgin blade, the pad of one toe depressing into the fuller. A large beryl in the pommel sparkled when it caught the sunlight. “I was really hoping for an enchanted sword. Raegon the Rabid has three of them.”
“It’s only your first knight,” she consoled. “Speaking of which.” Her warm sympathy for Dirk cooled to reserved professionalism as she angled herself towards the sorcerer apprentice. “You mentioned that the spells don’t need to be on rice paper?”
Bradley choked for the second time that morning, this time on a bite of caramelized banana that he had to force down with a fist to his chest. When it had cleared, his face darkened with a scowl. “I am not aiding this foolish endeavor.”
“It’s not foolish,” Dirk growled.
“More Heroes are coming,” Millie said tartly, “and since the two of you are obsessed with keeping his identity a secret—” She paused then, waiting for them to reveal the reason, but like before, they divulged nothing.
She blew out a sharp sigh. “At least write the spells that hide his mane and tuft, change his color, and give him wings.”
She pushed the plate of remaining pancakes towards the apprentice. “These should suffice, yes?”
“I’ll get the ink.” Dirk leaned his sword against the wall and vanished into the stairwell.
He returned less than half a minute later with a quill and a stoppered inkwell labeled “edible” on a piece of beige tape.
With a flick of his tail, he levitated Bradley’s plate and mug out of the way—Bradley snatched back his mug—and set the ink in front of him.
The sorcerer apprentice kept both hands firmly clamped around his mug as if it were a lifeline. When he just stared at the pancakes and the quill for over a minute, wrestling with himself, Dirk nudged the inkwell forward with a tap of his claw.
If Bradley wrote the spells, that would just enable Dirk and put him in danger.
If he didn’t write the spells, Dirk could be discovered by the Heroes.
It hadn’t been as risky when Dirk had just been extorting pig herders and bean farmers.
He’d been cautious, stealthy, never frequenting the same place more than once a week.
And those seeking revenge never knew where to find him, until now.
Until this Major Inconvenience had become their roommate.
He should just sabotage them. He’d break the little dragon’s heart, but it would mend in time, and he would be alive for it to mend. And the world could do with one less pirate, so . . .
Bradley picked up the quill.
“Good morrow, Dragon Dirk,” a deep voice called. “I am Sir Roger Ferris, and I request your presence in battle for the hand of Princess Mildred of Amberly. Show thyself and meet metal with claw.”
Dirk seized his new sword and thrust it into the air. “Battle stations!”