Dragons of the Valley - Donita K. Paul [16]
Wizard Fenworth, Librettowit, and a bedraggled kimen appeared out of the cyclonic wind. The swirl of air dissipated, leaving Fenworth and his tumanhofer companion on the floor, glaring at each other.
The tumanhofer librarian stood, straightened his clothing, and worried his fingers through his bushy beard, trying to tame its awful tangles. “That was a poor transportation, a poor landing, and a poor example of misused wizardry. I should pin you in a chair with Margoteum’s Book of Level One Mastery.”
The wizard rose and gently placed the small creature he had been holding on the floor. The kimen crumpled into a heap and covered her eyes with her hands.
“Oh, bother!” said Fenworth. “Don’t cry. I really get muddled when people cry. It mixes my thoughts up like a bowl of noodles.”
“We don’t want that!” Librettowit took off his hat and threw it on a table. “May Wulder protect us from such a dire circumstance. Imagine a wizard who operates in a state of confusion. The results might very well be disastrous.”
The wizard produced a clean handkerchief and offered it to the distraught kimen. He pulled it back just before her hand closed on it and plucked a very small lizard from its folds. “I don’t believe this fine young reptile would help you recover your equilibrium, my dear.” He shook the handkerchief, then returned the uninhabited cloth to the kimen.
“You know,” he said as she dabbed her eyes, “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced. I’m Fenworth, bog wizard of Amara. This is my esteemed librarian, Trevithick Librettowit. He’s been known to be in a better mood from time to time, but we must make allowances. He prefers a good book, a comfy chair, a plate of daggarts, tea, and a fire in the fireplace. Unfortunately, we are often called to adventure. Slaying damsels, rescuing dragons in distress, collapsing kingdoms, thwarting evil, purging plagues, that sort of thing.”
He bowed with an elaborate sweep of his arm before him.
“A servant of Wulder, dear girl, at your service.”
He straightened and looked around the room.
“Oh, see here, Librettowit. Not a growly ginger bear at all, but Bealomondore and a friend. See, you needn’t have worried. We’ve landed precisely where I intended.” His eyes inspected the walls and furnishings. “Bealomondore, good friend, exactly where are we?”
6
The Grawl
Vaguely aware of the fuss being made over her, Tipper tried to muster enough energy to protest. Her tongue didn’t cooperate any more than her arms and legs. She managed to open her eyelids to a slit, but they closed before she could focus on the little beings that surrounded her.
Their touch soothed her. She wasn’t afraid but definitely confused. Why would someone else be braiding her hair?
And they were singing. Tipper wanted to sing with them. She didn’t know the words or the tune, but the music reached into her heart and made her want to sing, dance, do something to join in. Song had rescued her many times from despair and loneliness. She sang for herself, but she knew her talent lightened others’ burdens as well.
The memory of hands grasping her ankles, harsh voices, and smothering dirt threatened her peace. The song grew louder, and unease melted into safe sleep.
“I’m staying here.” Bealomondore’s voice pierced the fabric of a pleasant dream.
A meadow full of colorful minor dragons slipped from Tipper’s mind. An invasive question screamed, “Where am I?”
She opened her eyes and swiveled her head, taking in her surroundings. Kimens, two tumanhofers, and the o’rant wizard crowded the tent. Sunlight diffused through the fine blue material. The walls and ceiling of this abode tinged everything in sight with a glowing azure light.
The one tall figure paced beside her couch. He hadn’t noticed her, which was typical. She wanted some answers. “Wizard Fenworth!”
He turned toward her, his eyes sparkling. “So you’re awake. Good, good. Need you to talk some sense into this stubborn tumanhofer. I mean to tell you, girl, tumanhofers have more than their share of contrariness. And he’s an artist.