Stolen Magic(37)

IT flew on.





CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE



In the widow’s shed, halfway between midnight and dawn, the donkey brayed. His Lordship raised his head, and then—fee fi!—he felt, from deep in the earth, a menacing rumble.

He touched the donkey’s flank to quiet her and slipped into an uneasy sleep.

When the sky had just begun to lighten, something tickled his ankle. He opened his eyes to see a child of perhaps three years staring at his booted feet, which stuck straight up and were almost as tall as she was.

The ominous rumbling from below had gained strength. He sat up slowly, as if a fast movement might make it worse. “Good morning.”

The girl covered her ears but didn’t budge.

He bared his shoulder to see his wound. The cut was still red, but the swelling had flattened. Whatever was in Widow Fridda’s salve had worked a little miracle. He could fly again as a swift and bring what he’d learned to Meenore and Elodie—and be reunited with Nesspa.

The child touched the boot toe and jumped back.

What would amuse her? He lifted his right foot a few inches and let it fall hard.

She experimented by touching again.

Instantly, he raised the foot and let it drop.

She giggled and walked along his leg and touched his knee under his cloak.

He raised his whole leg and let it drop and grunted.

She laughed and sat at his side.

He smiled, pleased with himself. He touched his nose and, as softly as he could, made a honking sound, which caused the donkey to bray and the child to laugh harder.

Another girlchild, this one seeming only a little younger than Elodie, leaned on a single crutch and watched solemnly from a few feet beyond the lean-to. Her right leg twisted at the ankle, as if it had once been broken and hadn’t been set properly.

When His Lordship’s eyes met hers, she said, “Mother says you’re a nice ogre.”

How ridiculous, he thought, that nice ogre can almost make me weep.

“Mother says you should get ready.”

He stood and would have been ready if he was going with them. Before he shape-shifted, he wanted to thank Widow Fridda for the food and the salve.

Twins, more girls, these about five years old, burst out of the house. One held a loaf of bread in both hands, and the other staggered under the weight of half a wheel of yellow cheese.

The one with the bread thrust it out. “For the good ogre.”

The other extended the cheese and echoed, “For the good ogre.”

He looked behind him. “Where is that good ogre?”

The twins laughed. The older girl smiled.

The twin with the bread, who seemed to be the bolder one, said, “It’s you! There isn’t another ogre.”

“Oh. I thought there was.” He took the food but felt he had no right to eat, since he’d be deserting them.

The same twin added, “Mother said the mountain is telling us to go away for a little while. I feel it talking, but I don’t see how she can understand the words.”

They wouldn’t all be able to get down the mountain without him. The donkey wasn’t big enough or strong enough to carry them, and the cart would be useless in this snow. In the growing light he scanned the landscape.

The cottage backed against the mountain. Above was snow and boulders. A half mile below, a forest grew, evergreens mixed with bare branches—no other cottages, no aid in sight.

The baby’s cry blared from the hut, then stopped.

If he flew to the Oase, his knowledge might provide the clue that led to the Replica. Or the mystery would remain a mystery and these people would die.

Widow Fridda emerged from the cottage with the baby in a sling across her chest and satchels in each hand. “You didn’t eat.”

He bit into the bread, devoured it quickly, watched intently by four pairs of eyes, and started on the cheese. The widow hung the sacks across the donkey’s back.

His Lordship swallowed. “Don’t. I’ll shape-shift into a draft horse and carry everyone and the satchels. The donkey can come, too, but she may run off.”

“You can be a horse?” the oldest girl said.

“A docile one. A true horse, however. If you talk to me, I won’t understand the words. But if there’s danger, I’ll wake up inside the horse.” He finished the cheese. “Widow Fridda, please go inside with the children. I have to take off these clothes or I’ll rip them. Please bring them with us.”

“Hurry, children.”

He stripped, folded his new things neatly, and began to shape-shift. The donkey brayed once and fell silent. A minute later, a large piebald horse waited outside the cottage, the ogre’s intelligence fading from his eyes.





CHAPTER THIRTY



Masteress Meenore spied in the distance, black against the gray dawn, the peak of Zertrum Mountain, which resembled a gaping fish.

IT thought, I am a prodigious, fleet flyer. And I am an authority on pyrology, the principles and attributes of fire. Invisible to the human eye—possibly even to the brunka eye—a film of heat shimmers above the peak: the mountain prepares to spew.

IT urged ITs wings to greater speed.





CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE



Elodie slept through breakfast, although the table hadn’t yet been taken down when she awoke. First she needed the garderobe. Not thinking, she headed for the corridor door from the great hall, which Dror-bee was guarding. “Stop! No one can leave.” Ardent as ever, he repeated, “Stop!”