Stolen Magic(2)

Elodie drove the second cart. Masteress Meenore rested ITs head next to her on the driver’s bench and kept her warm.

Of course they could have flown. Elodie’s masteress had carried her on ITs back in the past, and—but for Nesspa—His Lordship could have shifted into a bird. There was no rush, however. The count was traveling for pleasure; Masteress Meenore had come along for pay and curiosity. Both wanted to see the wonders on the way to Elodie’s parents’ Potluck Farm, where they hoped to spend the winter.

Elodie tightened her jaw. If Mother and Father wouldn’t consent to her companions’ presence, she’d leave with them, for the excellent reason that Masteress Meenore provided her livelihood—her fascinating livelihood.

An hour outside Zee they camped for the night. The journey north would take two weeks if the weather favored them. November could be mild or harsh, and few traveled between October and April. Lahnt ran southwest to northeast, a hundred fifty miles long, the whole of it a chain of seven mountains, as close together as teeth in a wolf’s jaw. The one major river, the Fluce, wound through the valleys. The one major road kept to the midslopes, above the spring floods. The going was rough even when the sun shone, as it did the next morning when they set out in earnest.

Natural marvels surrounded them: enormous sky, spiky peaks, sheep and goats dotting the mountainsides, purple-and-white toad lilies that lined the road and bloomed in Lahnt even through light snow, blue waters of the strait to the southeast, and green waves of the ocean to the west, both visible on a clear day. But these sights were all too familiar to a farmer’s daughter who hated farming.

As they rounded Bisselberg, the lowest mountain in the range, IT surprised Elodie, who had never heard IT sing before, with a ditty:



“There once was a dragon called Larragon,

who wore neither robe nor cardigan

yet was still fashion’s true paragon

with scales that sparkled like platinum

as ITs crimson flame flared and carried on.”



IT switched register from line to line, soprano to bass and back, confounding Elodie yet again as to ITs gender. Someday, she swore silently, I will find out.

“Travel brings out the minstrel in me, Lodie. Perhaps I will sing again and torment you anew with curiosity.” IT laughed, sounding like a donkey holding its nose: Enh enh enh.

Later, while they shared their midday meal, IT asked, “What are the mountains called?”

Elodie paused with a meat pasty—a small meat pie—halfway to her lips and rattled them off: “South to north: Bisselberg, Ineberg, Svye, Zertrum, Navon, Dair, Letster.”

“Did you learn the names charmingly as a babe at your mother’s side, Lodie?”

She swallowed a morsel of pasty. “I suppose. ‘Bear Is So Zany, No Dogs Lie.’”

His Lordship murmured loudly, “Nesspa never lies,” and scratched the dog behind his ears.

“Ah. A memory device derived from the first letter of each mountain. Bisselberg, Ineberg, Svye, Zertrum, Navon, Dair, Letster. Beautiful Island’s Seven Zeniths Never Disappoint Lahnters. Mine is better.”

How clever IT is, Elodie thought proudly. “Mine is shorter and easier to recall.”

“You will remember mine forever. Will we soon approach any Lahnt landmarks?”

“We aren’t far from the Oase, where thousands of relics of Lahnt and brunka history are kept. It’s on Ineberg, the next mountain. High Brunka Marya, the Ineberg brunka, lives there with her bees—her helpers.”

“Insects?”

“Bees are people, Your Lordship. You might think they’re servants, but they’re more than that. The Oase is close to the road. We could stop”—she mansioned the longing out of her voice—“if you’re interested.” The Oase held the Replica, Lahnt’s most important wonder. Every Lahnter wanted to see it at least once, and she never had.

“Does the high brunka like ogres?”

“She’s probably never met any. But brunkas are friendly.”

Count Jonty Um said nothing for a full five minutes, then, “Perhaps we can come back before we leave Lahnt.”

A lump of sympathy rose in Elodie’s throat. His Lordship had reason to be shy. She swallowed her disappointment and the lump. “Of course.” With luck they’d meet a brunka on the road, and with more luck, the brunka wouldn’t greet an ogre with fright and loathing. Then the count might really want to come back.

At night, after the evening meal, they slept under bright stars, Elodie rolled up in her cloak, His Lordship rolled up in his, Nesspa curled in the crook of his knees, the three of them close enough to Masteress Meenore to enjoy ITs warmth.

A wet dawn woke them. They crossed the valley between Bisselberg and Ineberg in a steady rain. As the carts climbed the lower slopes of Ineberg, the downpour turned to snow. His Lordship lifted Nesspa into his cart. IT spread a wing protectively over Elodie, whose cloak steamed dry in a trice. While the landscape turned the page from fall to winter, she sat, munching on a raisin roll, in an alcove of summer.

The snow thickened. Occasionally they passed a path, which would be the route up the mountain to a farm cottage or down to the river.

By evening, they were in a blizzard. Snow invaded Elodie’s haven under Masteress Meenore’s wing.

The road vanished. Elodie’s oxen halted. She couldn’t see the cart ahead—or her hand an inch from her eyes. Snow surrounded them, wove them into a frigid cocoon. She wondered how His Lordship, Nesspa, and the oxen could draw air to breathe.