Two Renegade Realms (Realm Walkers Book 2) (24 page)
Neekoh approached the cabin cautiously. “I thought I’d help with dinner.” He held out the egg-gathering basket. “We’ve got an abundance of eggs. And I picked some vegetables to make omelets.”
“Excellent, dear boy!” Chomountain gestured for Neekoh to come up on the porch. Clapping him on the back, he said, “You know, I think I’ll go off fish for a while.”
Neekoh grinned. “You’re all right, then? I mean, you aren’t upset? You can be Chomountain and not Old Trout without a fuss?”
“Certainly. It’s poor form for the right hand of Primen to go all fussy on people.”
D
ukmee was not going to wake up. Bridger had been watching him for hours, and, though his eyes stared ahead, he only blinked once in a while. That was not awake — that was something else.
Bridger wondered if the sun had gone down yet. The light was the same intensity it had been when they first entered the room. For a while, to relieve the boredom of watching the mage, he’d searched for the source, but even after careful examination, he’d not been able to detect where the strange light came from. He did notice that he cast no shadow, and neither did Dukmee. Air flowed through the room without windows, doors, or vents.
But the puzzling room soon lost its fascination, and ever since it had been a long, dull wait. Bridger had satisfied his hunger several times now, but boredom put an edge back on his appetite.
“I should feed you,” he said to the nonresponsive scholar.
“That’ll give me something to do, and perhaps food will stimulate whatever is choked up in you, and you’ll come round. It worked when Old Trout prepared food for you and Bixby.”
He removed a tin pot and a bottle of water from the hamper, then dug around until he found dried meat. He held it up to show Dukmee. “Not sure what this is. Probably deer or cow. Or maybe turkey.”
He broke the jerky into bits and dropped it into the pot with water. Blowing a tiny flame, he warmed the thin soup. “Ought to have something else in there, but you may not be able to swallow.”
He reached into the hamper and brought out carrot, cabbage, and onion. “Now that will taste more like a stew. Of course, it won’t be thick. And I’m not going to give you the chunks.”
By intermittently blowing a thin stream of fire on it, Bridger set the stew to simmer. In between flames, he sat back and looked around.
“Nothing’s different. No way out. I don’t suppose the passing of day changes anything. You know, the slanted sun rays hitting a trigger outside and doors opening up in here. That sort of thing. If I had been the master builder who’s so skilled and all, I would have set up something astonishing like that. Just so the innocent people trapped inside, through no fault of their own, would have a delightful surprise at the end of the day.”
Since Dukmee didn’t offer any conversation, Bridger hummed a few tunes as he waited for the vegetables and jerky to soften and flavor the water. He sang two of the songs he knew all the words to and skip-sang through several he didn’t know so well. Of course, the choruses were easier, and he sang those louder.
He looked at Dukmee, wondering if the scholar enjoyed his efforts to entertain or wished he would stop. At that moment, he missed Cantor. Cantor would be full of advice. Sing softer. Don’t sing that one. It doesn’t make sense. Start singing lower so you can reach the high notes at the end. Stop singing.
On rare occasions, Cantor would sing with him, and he had a wonderful voice. Of course, his name referred to someone who sang during worship ceremonies. They’d heard cantors in sanctuary in Gilead.
“Soup’s almost done, Dukmee. I’ll have to move you. I hope it doesn’t hurt.”
He left the pot simmering and picked up the unconscious scholar. “Only I don’t know for sure if you’re out, ’cause your eyes are open, and it feels like you’re watching me. Which is kind of creepy. Hmm, you’re shivering. I wonder if you have a blanket in one of your hampers.”
Before putting him down again, Bridger used his breath to warm the stone floor and wall where he would prop Dukmee. He then sat him down as gently as possible, returned to heat the soup again, then came back to look for hampers that might contain blankets.
“Pillows would be nice too.”
He found a bag of Dukmee’s clothing. Another sack held books. “This is almost an entire library.”
Bridger read the spines he could see. “All astronomy.”
In the next hamper he found a wool blanket and a small pillow. “Right!” Bridger cheered. “Later, I’ll shift into a bed and use these to tuck around you.”
He inhaled deeply. “Ah, that does smell good.”
Bridger drained the soup through a sieve so Dukmee would only have to drink the broth. Hopefully he wouldn’t
choke. The dragon really did not want the scholar to sip the soup down his windpipe instead of the food pipe.
He brought the mug over to Dukmee and tried to hand it to him. “Just not going to be able to do it, are you? Okay, but don’t complain later that I did a messy job.”
Bridger sat against the wall, took Dukmee into his lap, and leaned him back against his scaly chest. He tucked a cloth under the scholar’s chin, then picked up the mug again.
“Good. It’s cooled off some. I don’t suppose you could open your mouth and then close it. That does seem like a very minor request.”
He nudged Dukmee into a position where he could see his face from the side. Guiding the cup to Dukmee’s mouth, Bridger tilted it just as he reached his lips. With the rim of the mug, he parted the lips and poured a drop or two in.
“At least we didn’t spill it. Did you get anything?”
Dukmee swallowed.
“Hey! You did.”
For the next half hour, Bridger dribbled the soup between Dukmee’s parted lips.
“I’ve got an idea,” said Bridger when he almost finished the second mug. “You’re doing a great job of swallowing. We can use that to communicate. I’ll ask a question and if the answer is yes, you swallow once. If the answer is no, swallow twice. What do you think? Is that a good idea?”
Dukmee swallowed once.
Bridger put the mug down. “Do you want to do it now?”
Two swallows.
“Why not?” Bridger watched his friend. “Oh yeah, yes or no questions. Do you want to have some more soup?”
Two swallows.
“Do you want something?”
A lone swallow.
“What?” Bridger waited. “Oh, do you want dessert?”
Two swallows.
“A drink?”
Two swallows.
“Well, that makes sense because your dinner was all liquid.”
Bridger cast around in his mind for what Dukmee might want.
What do I usually want after a busy day and dinner?
“Sleep?”
Dukmee swallowed once.
“Okay, let me clean up the mess, and then I’ll settle us down for the night.”
He eased the man off his lap and went to put things away. Dukmee had finished all the broth, so Bridger downed the cooked vegetables in one gulp. He put the unwashed pot, the knife he’d used to cut ingredients, the spoon he’d used to stir, and the mug to one side. He didn’t have any means to wash the items.
He warmed the blanket, then the stones where he intended to sleep. Finally, he shifted his lower half into a soft mattress and pulled Dukmee into his lap. He’d left the blanket just out of reach so he stretched his arm to get it. Covering Dukmee was no problem, but the dragon fumbled as he raised the scholar’s head and tucked the pillow underneath.
“Goodnight, Dukmee. It sure would be nice if you’d move around a bit in the morning. And talk too. Remember, you’re going to read the walls and get us out of here. Well, goodnight. Don’t worry about things. You need to relax and sleep. Things have a way of working themselves out.”
Bridger wiggled a bit to get more comfortable. “And things always look better in the morning.”
First thing in
the morning, Cantor looked under the tree where Bridger usually slept. The dragon had not come back during the night. Cantor turned full circle, eyes squinted and examining the sky. No sign of the dragon flying back. He transferred his gaze to the toes of his boots, contemplating where that blasted beast could be.
Looking under the tree again, he noticed the small, multicolored Jesha doing her morning wash. Her face, whiskers, and ears looked fresh.
“Where’s Bridger, cat? Come to think of it, where have you been since yesterday?”
Jesha paused in her ablutions long enough to give him a disdainful look. Her eyes shifted to somewhere behind him. Cantor turned, fully expecting to see Bridger and Dukmee crossing the field. Instead he saw Chomountain.
The old man had tossed aside his plaid shirt, blue pants, and old boots. He wore long, flowing robes in colors that rivaled the beauty of a peacock. He smiled as he approached.
“Still anxious about Bridger?”
“Not anxious, sir.”
Chomountain cocked an eyebrow.
Cantor knew the right hand of Primen saw right through him. “Not
exactly
anxious . . . sir.”
The old man didn’t say anything, but waited.
“I’ve traveled with him for three years, one year with Bixby and two years on our own. I know how much trouble he can fall into without trying.”
Cantor reached under the tree limbs and picked up the
cat. “I’m worried about Dukmee. Bridger might have led him into a fix.”
“Dukmee is well able to take care of himself.”
Cantor found himself blustering. Chomountain hadn’t had time to assess all of Bridger’s peculiarities. “Under normal circumstances, I would agree. But he’s not attuned to Bridger.”
“You are?”
“Yes, but not willingly. You have to know how Bridger thinks, or more often doesn’t think, in order to keep him and you out of trouble.”
“And you know Bridger this well?”
Cantor nodded. “Three years. I’ll repeat, not willingly.”
“And Dukmee? How well do you know Dukmee?”
“I know more about Dukmee than actually know him. He’s a healer, a scholar, a realm walker, a mage and, I suspect, a wizard.”
Chomountain nodded. “He’s a savant.”
Cantor searched his memory. “I think I’ve heard that word before. But I don’t remember in what context. It has something to do with the brain or how it’s used, doesn’t it?”
“That’s pretty close. A savant is a person who can use his or her brain with more efficiency than most of us. A savant can be brilliant in one area or many. A very long time ago, even before the last invasion of the Lymen, one particular race of people was known to produce many savants. In their society, a savant was more the norm than an ordinary child.”
“Is Bixby a savant as well?”
“Yes.”
“But she doesn’t know it, does she?”
Chomountain shook his head. “Her mother is gifted and found the talents burdensome. I believe she never told Bixby,
in the hope that the awkwardness that plagued her life would not touch the life of her daughter.”
“How can you know all this about Bixby and her mother? You’ve been sequestered in this valley since before they were born.”
“As the right hand of Primen, I have access to a lot of knowledge — knowledge filtered through Primen and therefore reliable. I deemed it prudent to acquire background information on the people who came to rescue me.”
Cantor shoved that new revelation aside. He needed to concentrate on answers to the particular questions that already spun in his head. “Primen told you that Bixby’s mother didn’t tell her she was a savant to protect her?”
“No, that was a conclusion I drew for myself from what he did tell me.” Chomountain put a hand on Cantor’s shoulder and studied his face, his own expression grim. “What is it that troubles you?”
“I had hoped I could ask you where to find Ahma and Odem, and you would be able to tell me. But that’s not so, is it? Like Feymare, the Primen warrior, you communicate with Primen, but he doesn’t tell you what you want to know.”
“He tells us only what we
need
to know. He is authority without being boss. He is provider without being domineering. He is leader without being despot.”
With anger tightening his throat, Cantor’s voice dragged out of his mouth. “And he keeps secrets.”
“Not in a bad way, Cantor.”