Dragons of the Valley - Donita K. Paul [82]
Paying close attention gleaned the most marvelous truths about Wulder and life. Fenworth even revealed how He manipulated elements of the natural world to change. Like a cup of ocean water becoming a handful of salt. That was one of the lessons she’d learned while sifting through a muddled monologue on the ocean’s being a salt mine but fish drawn from the ocean still needing to be salted when cooked.
Though most people would grow impatient as bits of recipes, news of oddities he’d seen, and crumbs of history littered Fenworth’s instruction, Hollee thought it the most stimulating mind game she had ever played.
Would the wizard lead her on a quest to acquire necessary equipment for defeating the enemy? Would they whirl to destinations, gather weapons, and then deliver them to King Yellat’s men-at-arms? She thought not. Her wizard didn’t seem the type to go on an errand.
What was he drawing, and what would be her part in whatever grand scheme developed? How long before fruition came from this frantic plotting? Surely he’d dropped a hint when he did that broad gesture and declared they must think in panoramic terms.
She puzzled over the conversation between her wizard and his librarian at that time.
The statues. Librettowit had said the statues must be reunited. Assurance washed through Hollee. She and the wizard would protect the statues. Perhaps Librettowit as well. She studied Wizard Fenworth’s frenzied drawing and cyclic muttering with confidence. The importance of the statues drove this manic planning. When the wizard came to his conclusions, the project would be elaborate, magnificent, so far beyond exceptional that ordinary people would be stunned.
A shiver of anticipation trembled the soft material of light Hollee wore. She picked up a bite of fish and popped it in her mouth. She grinned as she chewed.
Bealomondore eyed first Paladin sitting with Princess Tipper, then Hollee as she watched the wizard. Librettowit sat under one of the many trees with his nose in a book. He went back and forth between two books of architecture—one on chapels, the other on fortresses. Maxon and Taeda Bel helped Bealomondore clean up after their noonmeal.
He shrugged guilt off his shoulders. He was not much help to the two kimens. He picked up the bowl he’d used to mix batter and handed it to Maxon, the designated dishwasher. Bealomondore glanced at the collection of ingredients left from coating the fish and looked over at Fenworth. Most everything needed to be put back in the wizard’s hollows, but the old man was busy.
With a huge sigh, Bealomondore gave up the pretense of being useful. He strolled to the river, where the water had slowed to a steady pace, almost still. It looked brown, but he knew better. He cupped his hand and dipped it in the river. The liquid was mostly clear with a tinge of green, like a mint wine. Small particles of dark material floated aimlessly about, disparaging the clean feel of it on his fingers. The silt on the bottom gave the river the illusion of a dark color.
He let the water dribble out of his hand and sat down on a log just inches from the edge of the river. He gazed for a while at the flow beside him. Several yards back, the river tumbled over rocks. He could hear the rush of foamy, tumultuous water. There the collection of rubble in the riverbed came to an end, and the water calmed and spilled into this placid pond. The splash and burble contrasted with birds twittering, leaves rustling, and high grasses rubbing with a swishing sound against each other.
The river went on, and Bealomondore believed that his life would go on as well. This place would remain, but its substance changed even as he sat there. Everything living, and even the river that could not actually claim life, would leave.
He picked up a dried leaf from a platter tree that stood nearby. When it first fell from the tree, the leaf had been huge and round, bigger than both Bealomondore’s hands laid side by side. But in drying, the edges had curled inward so that its bowl-like shape covered