The Vanishing Sculptor (34 page)

“Exactly,” said Prince Jayrus.
Wizard Fenworth sat up. “Now that makes sense.”
Tipper looked from one man to the other. “It does?”

38
A Pain

The crate arrived in the early morning. The men placed the box on a round table in the foyer, and Verrin Schope pried it open.

He put the crowbar down and leaned heavily on the table. “Oh, I’m dizzy. I better sit.”

Prince Jayrus put his arm around the older man and guided him to the wall, where several benches and chairs sat in a row. Tipper followed, but her father waved her back to the task at hand.

“Check the statue.”

She returned to the center of the room and peeked inside at the familiar
Day’s Deed
and saw the small stone farmer with his arm extended as he scattered seed.

Zabeth and Grandur flew in from upstairs and landed on Verrin Schope. Tipper watched as Jayrus worked to make her father more comfortable. He arranged a cushion he had retrieved from another room behind Verrin Schope’s back. When he was satisfied the invalid was at ease, the prince spoke softly to the dragons, as if giving them instructions. His actions mystified Tipper. How did he know what to do?

She twisted her lips. His arrogance still showed in that he took over without consulting anyone, but she couldn’t criticize the care he gave the weakened emerlindian. Sighing over her mixed opinion of the prince and her anxiety over her father’s health, she purposefully focused her attention on the contents of the crate.

She moved the packing material aside. “I like this one. The person’s more practical than
Morning Glory
or
Evening Yearns
”

Gienella joined her beside the table and moved more of the shredded paper away to get a better view. “Oh my. If he weren’t so small, I’d expect him to leap out of the box. He’s so lifelike.”

Bealomondore passed by and glanced in. “They’re all about the size of kimens, but this one has the form of a marione.”

Madam Hunt nodded. “Yes, the farmer doesn’t have the delicate bone structure of a kimen and definitely has the smooth hair and heavy eyebrows of a marione.” She lifted the marble figure from the crate and turned it around in her hands. “Oh my he’s solid. Weighty.” She placed the farmer back in the cushion of paper again. “What does the
Morning Glory
statue look like?”

Tipper answered with a smile. “It’s a female figure, and her hand is stretched out to the horizon. In her palm is the half-risen sun. The other hand is cupped below the first, and it looks like water flows out of the sun, down to the second hand, then down to the base of the statue. It’s”—she glanced at her father—“interesting.”

“And what race is she?”

“O’rant,” said Verrin Schope. “She represents liquid, among other things. The farmer represents solids.” He chortled. “You said he was solid. And the last statue is of a kimen floating above tall grass. She represents air, and since she is floating, she is able to embrace the other two statues at the same height.”

“How does a piece of stone float?”

“It only appears to float.” Tipper rose up on tiptoe and stretched her arms out, one in front and the other in back. “She looks like she’s running in the air, but her toes are in the grass.”

“No need to package the statue again.” Fenworth came down the grand staircase. “It will be just as easy to place him in a hollow.”

Bealomondore looked up from the paper he read. “Why don’t those things in your hollow knock into each other?”

The wizard looked over his shoulder at his librarian, who followed him down the steps. “Didn’t we explain this?”

“Yes, the cupboard.”

“That was an inept explanation.” The wizard turned back to glare at the younger tumanhofer. “Things put into a hollow don’t all go to the same shelf in the cupboard, so to speak.”

Librettowit lifted his chin. “I thought the cupboard was a poor analogy.”

“It is,” grumped the wizard. “So is the shelf business, but how are you going to explain interdimensional planes to an artist?”

“Verrin Schope understands, and he’s an artist.”

“Verrin Schope understands quantum shifting particle duality. I don’t even understand quantum shifting particle duality. Verrin Schope is something beyond an artist. I think he has imprints from the Creator’s thumb on his brain.”

Verrin Schope opened his eyes and straightened on the bench where he rested. He shook his head slightly and interrupted his learned colleagues. “Impossible!”

“What’s impossible?” asked Bealomondore.

“The thumbprint business. Wulder doesn’t need to touch someone to instill gifts.”

The front door opened and banged against the wall. “Ho! Ho!” exclaimed Garamond Hunt. “Are you ready? I’ve got a carriage to take you out to the field where your dragons await.” He stomped across the room and bussed his wife on the cheek. “Two carriages because Gienella wants to see the dragons up close.” He turned to his houseguests. “I must warn you, the entire village is gawking at the beasts.”

The prince shifted, and surprisingly, Garamond picked up the cue.

Their host shook his head as if to rid his ears of water. “Not beasts, I suppose. I’ll have to get used to all you’ve told me. Is
creatures
all right?”

Prince Jayrus smiled.
“Creatures made by the Creator
is quite acceptable.”

Librettowit and Prince Jayrus maneuvered the statue into a hollow while Bealomondore and Tipper helped Verrin Schope to the first carriage.

“Why are you so weak, Papa?”

He leaned to one side and kissed her forehead. “Shifting particles.” When they had him settled, he winked at her. “You are sitting in the front seat of the dragon saddle on this leg of our journey.”

She caught her breath.

“Yes, you,” he said, even though she hadn’t spoken her thought. “If I dissipate, circle the dragon in the vicinity until I reappear. I doubt that I could follow my focal point any great distance.”

This time she couldn’t speak past the lump in her throat. Only one more statue to go, and her father would be safe, but would they acquire the last one in time?

Master Hunt had been accurate in stating that the whole village had turned out. He probably could have added “and the surrounding area.” Tipper had never seen so many country folk congregated in one place. The crowd was larger than market day at Soebin, but they were orderly and only gaped at the four magnificent dragons in the large pasture. A fence surrounded several acres, and the people stayed on the outside.

As the questing party saddled the dragons and prepared to take off, Jayrus became agitated. He muttered, and Tipper thought she heard him scold Caesannede.

“What is it?” Tipper asked the prince.

“They went out and had themselves a fine meal during the night. They should have told me they were hungry.” He marched away to where Garamond Hunt still sat astride his mare.

Tipper followed, wondering what could ruffle the unflappable prince.

He stopped suddenly and Tipper almost ran up on his heels. She sidestepped and stood beside him, just a few feet from the master of the manor.

Prince Jayrus gave no preamble to his concern. “Master Hunt, my dragons are accustomed to hunting in the mountains. Imagine their surprise when they found their meal conveniently surrounded by a fence. I fear I owe someone the price of one pen full of mutton.”

“Ho! Ho!” The landowner retained his jovial attitude. “I wondered if your dragons nibbled something besides grass. Do you know whose flock they devoured?”

“They foraged to the north, but dragons are not very accurate when you try to pin them down to distance or passage of time. I would guess within twenty to thirty miles.”

“I’ll make inquiries. I assume you want to offer restitution?”

Prince Jayrus pulled his pouch of coins from his pocket and poured out the contents in the palm of his hand, which he held up to the man on horseback. “Take what you think is fair. If you need more, I’ll ask Fenworth for additional funds.”

Garamond picked out four large gold coins. “That should be adequate. And should I discover that our long-necked friends ate a bull or two on the way back, I’ll cover the cost.”

Jayrus poured the money back in its cloth purse. “They would have told me if they had. They do not deceive me.”

“Do they not deceive anyone, or is it just you they do not deceive?”

Prince Jayrus flashed him a winsome smile. “Me, and it is because they can’t, not because they always choose veracity.”

A rumble of laughter escaped their host. “And why is that?”

With nonchalance, Jayrus shrugged. “Because I am the dragon keeper.”

“Never heard of a dragon keeper, young prince, but since you have the only dragons I’ve ever seen, I’ll grant you the title if you so desire.”

A puzzled look passed over the prince’s face, but he must have dismissed the problem readily. “I appreciate your assistance in finding the owner of the sheep and paying our debt.”

Garamond bounced the coins in his hand and gave Jayrus a speculative look. “Would you know if I pocketed the coins and never looked for this farmer?”

“Yes sir, I would. But I know that you would never do that, just as I know Runan did not run down the poachers because they work for him.”

Garamond barked a laugh. “Runan? The man doesn’t have the energy to oversee theft and mayhem.”

“In time, I think you will find your assessment of his character to be in error.” The prince reached up his hand to shake Garamond’s. “Thank you again for your hospitality. Perhaps we will meet again.”

Garamond shook his hand vigorously, said his good-byes in a boisterous voice, bade his neighbors to do the same, and beckoned to his wife to come back from petting the mighty creatures.

“I don’t want them mistaking you for a fair maiden and hauling you off.”

She came toward them, holding up her skirts to keep them from tangling in the long grass. “Garamond, only you would think I still qualify as fair and maiden. And I think you do these fine dragons a disservice by accusing them of such treachery.”

“I agree with your husband.” Prince Jayrus took her hand and raised it to his lips. “Any dragon worth the name of villainous beast would snatch you away, take you to his cave where he hoards his treasure, and adore you for your beauty.”

Gienella’s mouth dropped open in momentary shock, then a ripple of merry giggles broke the silence. “You are a flatterer of the worst kind. I almost believed you.”

He said nothing, just smiled. Tipper wanted him to turn her way. The profile of his expression warmed her heart. Strangely she did not begrudge Gienella the pleasure of his attention. From the depth of her being, Tipper knew that the more Jayrus encouraged those around him, the deeper his well of kindness became.

Three weeks of travel took them farther north than Beccaroon had ever been. The grand parrot gained maneuverability every day and lengthened the amount of time he could fly. However, he realized he would never be able to fly the speed of the dragons for long hours. He also knew they slowed a bit to allow him to keep pace.

From the air, they saw disturbing signs of the land rippling or, worse, segments that looked like they had been bitten out of the earth and spit back out. One section of a forest had sunk so that the tree-tops barely reached the level of the forest floor surrounding the patch. Beccaroon spotted an odd blemish in the landscape, and upon inspection, he discovered from those who lived in the region that a lake had disappeared overnight. Reaching the city of Ohidae quickly and finding the last statue became more important with each passing hour.

To speed their way, Beccaroon swallowed his pride and often rode on Caesannede’s back. His pride also smarted when, every three nights, they soaked and softened the glue so that his tail could be removed. Many times now he had had to endure the indignity, but the blasé attitude of his companions made the ordeal tolerable. And he had to admit that on the third day his skin began to itch and the fresh air felt very good.

They camped mostly, since encountering people required explanations. The dragons, both big and small, attracted attention. Evenings around a campfire at a remote location eased that situation, and Beccaroon loved the music the others performed after the evening meal. Bealomondore sketched. Verrin Schope whittled twigs into objects of art, but the effort seemed to tire him. He put away the small knife and spent more time with a piece of casting clay in his talented hands. Every night, a different miniature creation formed in his fingers. Fen-worth tucked them away in a hollow to be used later for making miniature pewter figurines.

Under the tutelage of Hue and Librettowit, Tipper’s voice gained strength. Her talent flourished, and Beccaroon marveled that her performance elicited a great range of emotions from her listeners. He began to suspect that her songs did much more than entertain. With Hue’s guidance, she seemed to be able to inspire her audience or reveal depths of feeling in the hearts of her listeners. The bird acknowledged that after she sang, he felt more aware of specifics in his own personality—the lofty characteristics of courage, loyalty, and self-sacrifice. The revelations were both humbling and embarrassing.

Tipper asked Beccaroon to tell some of the stories of the Indigo Forest. This developed into a story swap with the librarian. Librettowit would tell a tale, and the others would have to guess whether it was an account from Amaran history or a fiction piece.

Beccaroon soon caught on that if the story related to something done by Wulder or Paladin, the tale was true—that is, according to the three who had been to Amara. Some of Librettowit’s reports seemed farfetched, particularly the descriptions of how Wulder chose an individual and imparted talents.

One gift encompassed discernment, truth telling, exhortation, and encouragement. Beccaroon noticed that Prince Jayrus perked up and listened intently to the tale recounting the development of their Paladin, the champion of the people, the emissary of Wulder. Beccaroon expected someone like the young prince, who had been isolated most of his life, to be gullible and ready to believe these fantasies. Librettowit and Fenworth, however, were well educated, yet they believed the Amaran explanations of an absolute power enjoying the fellowship of lesser beings. The details disturbed Beccaroon, but he began to savor the stories as much as he did the music.