Chapter 25 #2
Sir Eustace finished his report and packed up his desk with surprising quickness, replacing chronicle, ink, quill, spyglass, and all his other ministry accoutrements in the various drawers.
History proved that it was exceptionally rare for a Hero to attack a dragon at night, so he assumed his chances were good that he would be undisturbed for the remainder of the day.
The little man shrugged out of his suit jacket and loosened his tie and returned to his tent where he hung up his work clothes and extracted the petite charcoal grill to roast some eggplant for this evening’s baba ghanoush.
From the tower, three humans hung out over their respective balconies and windows.
“You did marvelously, Dirk,” Millie cheered. “Bravo!”
“Is he still breathing?” Sir Roger inquired after the barbarian.
Dirk nudged him in the leg with a claw. Ivar the Bane released a massive snore.
“What do we do with him?” Dirk asked. “I don’t want him waking up and rechallenging me. Can he even do that?” he asked the ministry official.
Sir Eustace transferred his charred eggplant to some tinfoil to wrap up and steam. “Not if he’s dead.”
Dirk swallowed nervously. He knew defeating a Hero could lead to the Hero’s death, but not like this.
Not in cold blood. But he’d barely scraped by, and it was only the princess’s quick thinking and the hedge knight’s battle prowess that had gotten him out of this fight alive.
The luck dragon was beginning to realize what it truly meant to defend Millie against her rescuers, what the price would be to become the equal of a Great Red.
“Bradley!” He used the last of his energy to fly up the tower and wrangle his bulk upon the balcony. “I need a hug,” he sobbed.
The magic of the amplio rice paper spell would keep Dirk large for some time more, so the apprentice did his best to wrap his arms around the Great Magenta dragon without impaling himself upon the myriad extra horns.
Bradley tried not to wince when Dirk rested his heavy chin upon his shoulder.
He relished the discomfort, because it meant Dirk hadn’t abandoned him.
He’d been so stupid to think he’d been so easily replaced by a Shiny Object in Pink.
“I can’t kill him,” Dirk wept.
The bravado of the dragon who boldly called others “idiot” and “meat sack” was nowhere to be found. His claws bit into the apprentice’s robe as his grip tightened, desperate to anchor himself to something solid. Something true.
“I don’t think I can kill anybody. But he can’t stay here, and I can’t go through that again. What do I do?”
It would be easy for Bradley to tell Dirk to give up his obsession with the Great Reds or to push him into committing the fatal act so he might know the inevitable consequences of his choice, but sorcerer apprentice couldn’t do it.
Wouldn’t. He’d just watched his friend fight tooth and nail for his dream against impossible odds. Watched it.
He hadn’t uttered a spell, and contrary to what the princess believed, he’d tried. But his tongue, throat, lips—they hadn’t obeyed him. It’s like he’d had a mouthful of peanut butter. Normally a delight, but now, detrimental. Shame filled him; the little dragon couldn’t depend on him anymore.
And that simply was unacceptable.
Bradley carefully extracted himself from the dragon’s heavy embrace and signed, “I’ll use the last pancake and write you another endurance spell.
Then you’ll fly the barbarian far away from here.
He might come back, but it’ll take him some time.
And during that time . . . you must train.
That heart stays in your chest where it belongs.
” The apprentice smiled. “And your testicles stay attached where they belong, too.”
Dirk barked a laugh and wiped the tears from his eyes. “You mean it?”
“I-I-I’ve only w-w-wanted the b-b-best for you. Th-th-this is it n-n-now,” he said, not caring that he stammered. This was too important.
The dragon nodded. “But where should I take him?”
“That’s up to you,” the apprentice signed. “The low country of Tupelo, the mountains between Tianzi and Bellafont, just pick a direction and go.”
“Okay. I’ll go, uh, prep him for his journey.” Dirk wrinkled his snout. “He should be clothed so as not to shock the local population, even if they’re just the frogs of the swamps. No one needs to see that.”
He disappeared over the balcony, and Bradley took to the stairwell.
There, striped with afternoon light and the purple glow of crystals, was the princess.
She leaned heavily on Sir Roger as he guided her up the stairs with the aid of his cane, her fingers just barely clinging to the rope handle of the potato bucket.
She looked a wreck with tear-stained cheeks and her clothes rumpled, smears of grime across her forearms and cobwebs clinging to her hair.
The apprentice did not stop his descent until he met them on the landing marked by the ribbon on the door handle—the training room.
Sir Roger swept his gaze between them and unclamped Millie’s hand from his arm, traded it for the doorframe. “I’ll be in my room,” he said, and headed downstairs to the dungeon.
The princess didn’t have the energy to stand up straight and look down her nose at him, but her voice had pluck enough.
“Do you have something to say to me or were you just going to stand there and block my way to the shower? Let me assure you, Mr. Donmarin, that my desire for hot water will overcome anything you—”
She choked off her threat as he leaned forward and took the potato bucket from her hand. Her suspicious yet curious gaze followed the bucket as he settled it on the step next to his boot, then lifted to his face. What she saw there gave her pause.
Those beautiful blue eyes were miserable behind the sheen of his spectacles, his shoulders bowed, but his jaw set and determined. The sorcerer apprentice rolled back his sleeves, revealing muscled forearms, and signed slowly so he would not be misunderstood.
“I need your help.”
Millie blinked, and had she not already been propped up against the landing, she would have collapsed in shock.
Bradley bore her scrutiny without fidgeting.
Much. Dirk’s fight with Ivar—the whole day, actually—had instilled a sense of helplessness within him that he hadn’t felt since the day his power had manifested during that pirate attack on his village.
He never wanted to feel worthless ever again.
Dirk was counting on him. As was his future.
The apprentice swallowed against the lump of shame that had lodged in his throat.
“P-p-please.” He couldn’t manage more than that, so he signed, “If my curse truly is a psychosis, I need your help. I can’t help keep Dirk alive if I can’t speak, and I know now, truly, that you care about him as much as I do.
Please help me so I can help my friend.”
The princess forced herself upright and attempted to straighten her appearance, but quickly gave up on it because she was too much like a Briard who’d enjoyed a lovely chase through the marshes after a flock of ducks—she was an absolute wreck that only a power washer could possibly handle.
“You will never throw tea at my feet again.”
Bradley blinked, surprised at this odd request. “Yes.”
“Good. And you must do everything I say, even if you don’t understand why I ask it of you.”
The apprentice ground his teeth together, suspecting a trap.
She crossed her arms over her chest and thrust her hip out to the side, a feat she was very proud of because her jelly legs threatened to buckle under her. “Say ‘yes,’ Mr. Donmarin.”
That earned her a bit of snarl and some sharp signs.
“Listen here, Tula. I am the master of this tower while Master Excelsior is away, and you will not be lording anything over me. Your talent harem, for inevitably you will collect more men—something I’m somehow powerless to stop—stay locked in that dungeon when you’re not training.
Dirk can’t stay under the effects of my spells forever, and he mustn’t be seen by anyone other than Sir Roger.
That is non-negotiable. And he has to keep his mouth shut about it. ”
She nodded, though she still didn’t understand his paranoia.
“You will be under my supervision, too.”
Millie opened her mouth to protest.
“Uh-uh,” he warned, and finished signing, “Those are my conditions. And in regards to yours: I still don’t like you, and this is still all your fault, but I will be a willing student. For Dirk.”
“For Dirk,” she agreed, recognizing her victory and showing what her fourth etiquette tutor, Miss Cordelia, would consider a remarkable amount of restraint by not pushing it. She stuck out her hand to shake on it.
Bradley rolled his eyes, picked up the potato bucket, and, in a surprising maneuver, trapped the princess’s outstretched hand in the crook of his elbow.
Her fingers gripped instinctively, her worn body desperate for a buttress.
With his eyes fixed straight ahead, he helped the stunned princess walk the rest of the way up the tower.