Chapter 80 #3
That was a mistake he would never make again, no matter what happened in the next few days.
The princess had convinced him of that, shown him that the route to success wasn’t linear—it was a river delta of twists and turns and pivot points that all eventually led to triumph.
How many times had she failed, pivoted, and persevered? He would do the same.
Another hour later, they were slowing the skiff to a halt beside Sir Eustace’s tent. Duchess was in the shade of the tent’s awning, waiting for them, and lifted off her seat with a low mew that told them the ministry official was still abed inside.
Dirk, now awake, sat in the sand and cuddled the fluffy white cat close. He buried his snout into her fur for a calming sniff. Duchess purred.
“I don’t suppose you could get me another bezoar, could you?” he asked.
Duchess rubbed the top of her head under his chin, then disappeared into the tent.
She emerged with a bezoar, which wiggled out of her mouth and needed to be pounced and retrieved at least twice before she could drop it at the dragon’s feet.
Dirk had never smelled anything so glorious in his entire life, and he quickly scarfed it down.
“Can you fly us up top?” Bradley asked gently.
Dirk attempted to raise a wind to float his friends up to the balcony and managed only a light breeze. He tried again and only the sand shifted.
“I think I’m just tired.”
No one mentioned that he’d spent the last eight hours in the deepest of slumbers.
“Lemme get a spell.”
Dirk rooted around in his satchel for the appropriate spells, adding a few more for good measure.
They were as bland as saltines and just as dry, inducing a great deal of lip-smacking and tongue acrobatics to force the wad down.
Coughing, he slammed his paw into his chest to help clear his esophagus.
The effervescent tingling of magic diffusing into his body was more muted than when he’d flown them out of Pierpont, a low-vibration hum than anything else.
Unsettled, Dirk snatched up the cargo net.
His claws punctured Millie’s suitcase and one of the waterskins.
The orange sand beneath the deluge darkened to cinnamon.
“Don’t worry about it,” Millie chirped, climbing up onto his back. “Plenty of water in the tower.”
Dirk swallowed past an angry lump in his throat, claws flexing. He was never this careless. “But your dresses—”
“I’ll fix those.” Bradley patted his arm. “It’s nothing but a bit of thread.”
With his friends and their luggage secure, Dirk heaved himself into the sky. “Skin my scales,” he grumbled. “Did you two gain a hundred pounds when we were on holiday?”
Millie and Bradley shared a worried look. Dirk was definitely losing his ability to fly.
But he managed, choosing a spiraling ascent around the tower to take advantage of the thermals. The rising heat shot them past the balconies and above the weathervane protruding from the peak of the conical roof. Dirk cursed quietly as he fought to regain control of his flight.
“I got it, I got it,” he snapped when Bradley tensed in his seat.
“What is that?” The apprentice pointed to a small structure protruding from the southeast portion of the roof. A louvered window blocked the view inside.
“It’s the attic vent,” Dirk said. “How do you think the pigeons get out to attack me?”
“I don’t think it is,” the princess said. “If the pigeons used it, wouldn’t there be droppings everywhere around it? And why would it be louvered?”
“Dirk, get closer,” Bradley urged.
“I’m telling you, the pigeons are all gonna fly out of there in a tizzy and shit on me, and I’ve already had a rough couple of days. No, thank you.”
“You don’t sense that? There’s magic in there. Stronger than I’ve ever felt. How can you not smell that?”
“I’m turning into a wyrm, remember?” Dirk snarled.
Bradley thumped him on the shoulder. “I didn’t mean it that way and you know it.”
“I know, I know,” he grumbled. “Hold on.”
Wobbling through the air, Dirk angled closer to the roof.
Bradley slipped from the Great Red’s back, slid down his leg, and gripped the cargo net.
Leaning out, he swiped for the dormer’s window and caught one of the slats.
It took only a jerk for the louvres to straighten and reveal a silver scroll tube on a pillow of blue satin, guarded by an environmental force field created by four crystals.
A single word was etched along the tube’s length in beautiful penmanship.
What was it Master Excelsior had said? “Go outside. It’s time to stop reading about others’ discoveries and go make some for yourself.”
Go outside. Had that been prophetic, or was it merely coincidental?
“So not an attic vent,” the luck dragon said. “Huh. Sure reeks of pigeon.”
“Millie,” Bradley said, hardly daring the breathe, “what does ren—” His stuttered activated, so he spelled the High Aetherial word out instead.
“Renovatio? Surely you know.”
“I do, but I’m never mistranslating again.”
“It means ‘restoration’ or ‘making new again.’ Bradley, is that a restorative spell in there?”
“Yes.”