dumbly, Pug pushed open the wooden door and stepped in.
‘Close that door, boy! You’ll give me a chill and cause me my death.’
Pug jumped to obey, slamming the door harder than he intended.
He turned, taking in the scene before him. The interior of the cottage was a small single room. Against one wall was the fireplace, with a good size hearth before it. A bright, cheery fire burned, casting a warm glow. Next to the fireplace a table sat, behind which a heavyset, yellow-robed figure rested on a bench. His grey hair and beard nearly covered his entire head, except for a pair of vivid blue eyes that twinkled in the firelight. A long pipe emerged from the beard, producing heroic clouds of pale smoke.
Pug knew the man. ‘Master Kulgan . . . ,’ he began, for the man was the Duke’s magician and adviser, a familiar face around the castle keep.
Kulgan leveled a gaze at Pug, then said in a deep voice, given to rich rolling sounds and powerful tones, ‘So you know me, then?’
‘Yes, sir. From the castle.’
‘What is your name, boy from the keep?’
‘Pug, Master Kulgan.’
‘Now I remember you.’ The magician absently waved his hand. ‘Do not call me “Master,” Pug – though I am rightly called a master of my arts,’ he said with a merry crinkling around his eyes. ‘I am higher-born than you, it is true, but not by much. Come, there is a blanket hanging by the fire, and you are drenched. Hang your clothes to dry, then sit there.’ He pointed to a bench opposite him.
Pug did as he was bid, keeping an eye on the magician the entire time. He was a member of the Duke’s court, but still a magician, an object of suspicion, generally held in low esteem by the common folk. If a farmer had a cow calve a monster, or blight strike the crops, villagers were apt to ascribe it to the work of some magician lurking in nearby shadows. In times not too far past they would have stoned Kulgan from Crydee as like as not. His position with the Duke earned him the tolerance of the townsfolk now, but old fears died slowly.
After his garments were hung, Pug sat down. He started when he saw a pair of red eyes regarding him from just beyond the magician’s table. A scaled head rose up above the tabletop and studied the boy.
Kulgan laughed at the boy’s discomfort. ‘Come, boy. Fantus will not eat you.’ He dropped his hand to the head of the creature, who sat next to him on his bench, and rubbed above its eye ridges. It closed its eyes and gave forth a soft crooning sound, not unlike the purring of a cat.
Pug shut his mouth, which had popped open with surprise, then asked, ‘Is he truly a dragon, sir?’
The magician laughed, a rich, good-natured sound. ‘Betimes he thinks he is, boy. Fantus is a firedrake, cousin to the dragon, though of smaller stature.’ The creature opened one eye and fastened it on the magician. ‘But of equal heart,’ Kulgan quickly added, and the drake closed his eye again. Kulgan spoke softly, in conspiratorial tones. ‘He is very clever, so mind what you say to him. He is a creature of finely fashioned sensibilities.’
Pug nodded that he would. ‘Can he breathe fire?’ he asked, eyes wide with wonder. To any boy of thirteen, even a cousin to a dragon was worthy of awe.
‘When the mood suits him, he can belch out a flame or two, though he seems rarely in the mood. I think it is due to the rich diet I supply him with, boy. He has not had to hunt for years, so he is something out of practice in the ways of drakes. In truth, I spoil him shamelessly.’
Pug found the notion somehow reassuring. If the magician cared enough to spoil this creature, no matter how outlandish, then he seemed somehow more human, less mysterious. Pug studied Fantus, admiring how the fire brought golden highlights to his emerald scales. About the size of a small hound, the drake possessed a long, sinuous neck atop which rested an alligatorlike head. His wings were folded across his back, and two clawed feet extended before him, aimlessly pawing the air, while Kulgan scratched behind bony eye ridges. His long tail swung back and forth, inches above the floor.
The door opened and the big bowman entered, holding a dressed and spitted loin of pork before him. Without a word he crossed to the fireplace and set the meat to cook. Fantus raised his head, using his long neck to good advantage to peek over the table. With a flick of his forked tongue, the drake jumped down and, in stately fashion, ambled over to the hearth. He selected a warm spot before the fire and curled up to doze away the wait before dinner.
The franklin unfastened his cloak and hung it on a peg by the door. ‘Storm will pass afore dawn, I’m thinking.’ He returned to the fire and prepared a basting of wine and herbs for the pig. Pug was startled to see a large scar that ran down the left side of the man’s face, showing red and angry in the firelight.
Kulgan waved his pipe in the franklin’s direction. ‘Knowing my tightlipped man here, you’ll not have made his proper acquaintance. Meecham, this boy is Pug, from the keep at Castle Crydee.’ Meecham gave a brief nod, then returned to tending the roasting loin.
Pug nodded back, though a bit late for Meecham to notice. ‘I never thought to thank you for saving me from the boar.’
Meecham replied, ‘There’s no need for thanks, boy. Had I not startled the beast, it’s unlikely it would have charged you.’ He left the hearth and crossed over to another part of the room, took some brown dough from a cloth-covered bucket, and started kneading.
‘Well, sir,’ said Pug to Kulgan, ‘it was his arrow that killed the pig. It was indeed fortunate that he was following the animal.’
Kulgan laughed. ‘The poor creature, who is our most welcome guest for dinner, happened to be as much a victim of circumstance as yourself.’
Pug looked perplexed. ‘I don’t follow, sir.’
Kulgan stood and took down an object from the topmost shelf on his bookcase and placed it on the table before the boy. It was wrapped in a cover of dark blue velvet, so Pug knew at once it must be a prize of great value for such an expensive material to be used for covering. Kulgan removed the velvet, revealing an orb of crystal that gleamed in the firelight. Pug gave an ah of pleasure at the beauty of it, for it was without apparent flaw and splendid in its simplicity of form.
Kulgan pointed to the sphere of glass. ‘This device was fashioned as a gift by Althafain of Carse, a most puissant artificer of magic, who thought me worthy of such a present, as I have done him a favor or two in the past – but that is of little matter. Having just this day returned from the company of Master Althafain, I was testing his token. Look deep into the orb, Pug.’
Pug fixed his eyes on the ball and tried to follow the flicker of firelight that seemed to play deep within its structure. The reflections of the room, multiplied a hundredfold, merged and danced as his eyes tried to fasten upon each aspect within the orb. They flowed and blended, then grew cloudy and obscure. A soft white glow at the center of the ball replaced the red of firelight, and Pug felt his gaze become trapped by its pleasing warmth. Like the warmth of the kitchen at the keep, he thought absently.
Suddenly the milky white within the ball vanished, and Pug could see an image of the kitchen before his eyes. Fat Alfan the cook was making pastries, licking the sweet crumbs from his fingers. This brought the wrath of Megar, the head cook, down upon his head, for Megar considered it a disgusting habit. Pug laughed at the scene, one he had witnessed before many times, and it vanished. Suddenly he felt tired.
Kulgan wrapped the
