Dragons of the Valley - Donita K. Paul [11]
“Sorry about the headache.”
He turned toward the soft voice. “Maxon? What am I doing here?”
The kimen lay on his stomach, peering under the foliage. His pointed chin rested on his folded hands. His eyebrow-less expression made him look as surprised to find Bealomondore under a flowering cascade bush as the tumanhofer himself was.
“You drugged me.”
A smile flitted across the kimen’s face. “Technically Winkel drugged you.”
“Why?”
“To get you here without your seeing how to get here.”
Bealomondore’s head pounded. “Wouldn’t a blindfold have worked? A sack over my head? You could have just said, ‘Don’t look.’ ”
“The first two are worthy suggestions. I’ll mention them to our leaders. The last is something that might not prove reliable for all our guests.”
Closing his eyes, Bealomondore tried to relax against the pain, diffusing it. “You have lots of company, do you?”
“Not so much.”
The tumanhofer put his palm against his forehead and tried to press away his suffering. Surely his brains had turned to coarse rocks and some imp had stirred them with a heavy lead pole. He heard vague rustling noises and turned his attention to his surroundings.
“Here,” said the kimen. “I’ve got something for your pain.”
Bealomondore squinted as he turned his head. Maxon held out a white egg-shaped object the size of the tumanhofer’s thumb. It completely covered the kimen’s palm.
“What is it?”
“A seedpod. Just pop it in your mouth and chew. You’ll feel much better.”
“It’s not an egg?”
“No, it’s a seedpod.”
“It looks like an insect egg.”
“It’s a seedpod.”
The tumanhofer wrinkled his nose. “What kind of seedpod?”
Maxon thrust the object closer to Bealomondore’s face. “A medicinal seedpod. Do you want it or not?”
Bealomondore took it, slipped it between his lips, and crunched. The shell broke, and a sweet juice flowed over his tongue. The taste alone pacified his warring nerves.
“Umm, good,” he said, then frowned at Maxon. “What kind of seedpod has a liquid center?”
“This kind.”
“Is it raw?”
“Raw works best.”
Bealomondore chewed and swallowed. He immediately felt the effect of the medicinal seedpod.
“Want another?” asked Maxon.
“Yes.”
Maxon offered another egglike pod, this one a pale green. Bealomondore took it without question. This seed husk had a crunchy center with a tangy taste, leaving him fully alert.
Without the nagging headache and with his mind clear, Bealomondore conjured up a list of questions. He felt around his clothing, hoping to locate the hollow bag containing the statue. His movements brought him in contact with the thorny bush, and flower petals showered from above. He stuck out his lower lip and blew upward, dislodging a purple bud from his nose.
“Where is the hollow with the statue in it?” he asked Maxon.
“Inside your coat, in the breast pocket.”
He sighed with relief when his fingers found the soft material of the collapsed bag. But every move he made was accompanied by pokes and scrapes from the surrounding bush.
“I want out of here,” he said.
“Easily done.” Maxon scooted backward. “I’ll just get some helpers.”
Bealomondore scowled at the situation. “If I can’t move to get out, how did you move me to get in?”
Maxon’s muffled voice drifted through the branches of Bealomondore’s resplendent bower. “Don’t panic now. Just stay still and let Roof and Door do all the work.”
The ground bubbled below Bealomondore, the dirt churned, something beneath the surface reached through, and he felt himself carried out of the hedge by nubby, malletlike objects. Feet first, he rolled out from under the thorny cascade bush. As soon as he cleared the last branches, he jumped to his feet.
He whirled around and stared at the ground. The dirt looked like freshly tilled soil on a farm. Hairy fingers wiggled out of the loam. With disgust, Bealomondore realized these had propelled him out of the bower. Dirty palms pushed upward, then thick wrists, long arms, and shoulders. Between the shoulders, a