Кейт Новак - The Wyvern's Spur

A cold fear seized Giogi. He swallowed. “Cat, what did you do?” he whispered.

“I married him.”

Giogi sat, stunned. Immense relief mingled with acute heartache. He couldn’t choose which to focus on first.

“I didn’t know about all the people he killed,” Cat said.

Giogi took a deep breath and asked, “Did you love him?”

“No.”

Giogi breathed out.

“It doesn’t matter, though. I consented.”

“Of course it matters, and a vow made under duress is not valid.”

“He didn’t threaten me, Giogi. I was just afraid of him.”

“What were you afraid of?”

Cat shrugged. “That he would sell me back as a slave to the Zhentil Keep army or turn me into one of his zombies or feed me to his ghouls.”

“Oh, is that all?” Giogi asked, astonished at the horror in which she must have lived under the wizard’s rule.

“Yes. I didn’t want to die. I’m not afraid of being hit, but I am afraid to die.”

“He hit you?” the nobleman shouted, rising to his feet.

Cat cringed, startled by Giogi’s anger.

Giogi slammed his fist into an overhead beam. The wizard’s villainy had no bounds. Someone had to stop him.

“I’m sorry,” Cat whispered.

Giogi looked down at the cowering woman and felt ashamed of having frightened her. He took her hands in his own and brought her to her feet. “Don’t be a little ass,” he whispered. He kissed her on her forehead. “Come back to the house with me,” he said.

Cat let Giogi lead her down the ladder and out of the carriage house. She walked alongside him through the garden, and he held the front door open for her as she entered the house. The couple hurried to the parlor, where it was warm. It was some time before they thought of Olive and wondered where she was.

This is such a nice house for sneaking around in, Olive thought as she crept down the upstairs hallway after Thomas. Ought to make it a law—every wealthy house should have thick carpeting. She wished Jade were with her so she could share that joke with her.

Olive stood behind the attic door, listening to Thomas tread up the stairs. Third and fifth steps are a might creaky, she noted.

She opened the attic door a crack. The stairs were clear. She slipped into the stairwell and padded up the first two steps, tested the third along the side where there was less stress, climbed it and the next and then froze to listen.

She could hear Thomas’s voice, quiet but clear.

“He’s found it.”

Olive didn’t hear a reply.

Thomas asked, “Is it time yet?”

Speak louder, Olive thought.

“But he might use the spur,” Thomas said with a touch of alarm.

Olive crept up the next two steps.

“Do you think that’s really wise, sir?” Thomas asked.

He is not talking to a relative of his, Olive realized.

Something soft brushed against the halfling’s legs and Olive nearly toppled down the stairs. A black-and-white spotted cat looked up at the halfling and meowed loudly. If it isn’t one cat, it’s another, Olive growled inwardly. She shooed the beast away, and it went scampering up the stairs.

Thomas did not say anything for at least thirty heartbeats, and Olive grew nervous. Some sixth sense warned her it was time to sneak off. She slipped down the stairs. Just as she reached for the door handle, she heard someone above who was not Thomas utter the word, “Secure.”

Olive twisted the doorknob, but the door did not open.

The sound of footfalls crossed the attic floor toward the staircase. Olive spun around and looked up the steep staircase. At the top stood a now-too-familiar figure wearing wizard’s robes. “Mistress Ruskettle, you can’t be thinking of leaving us so soon. I’ve been so wanting to meet you.”

Olive turned back to the door and pounded and kicked on it. “Giogi!” she screamed. “It’s Flattery! Help! Giogi!”

“Static,” the wizard whispered, pointing an iron nail at the halfling.

Olive felt all her muscles stiffen at once. She stood frozen with her face and clenched fists leaning against the wood.

“Fetch her up, Thomas,” the wizard ordered, “and I’ll see to her.” The wizard clucked once. “So clever but so much trouble. Just like the other woman in my life.”

Thomas finished shoveling the ashes out of the fireplace of the lilac room and laid a fresh fire for his master’s guest. He picked up his shovel and ash bucket and left the room. As he descended the stairs to the front hall, he heard a commotion in the parlor. It sounded as if someone were looting the room. Setting down his ash bucket and brandishing his shovel like a club, the servant crept to the parlor door and opened it just a crack.

Giogioni stood by the open bookshelves with a book in his hand. Scattered all about him, on the chairs, the ottomans, the sofa, the tea table, and the floor, were most of the bookshelves’ contents—manuscripts and bound books of every shape and size. Journals kept by Wyvernspur ancestors, histories written about the family, tomes about magic, and catalogs of monsters, had all been rifled through and discarded in a most unceremonious fashion. As Thomas watched, Giogioni frowned and tossed one book angrily across the room before snatching up another.

The mage Cat sat at the writing desk, reading more carefully through books Giogi had discarded.

Thomas knocked and stepped into the room.

“Ah, Thomas, have you seen Mistress Ruskettle? She might be interested in lending a hand here.”

“I believe she had some personal business to attend to, sir,” Thomas said. “No doubt she’ll return before dinner. Is there something particular I could help you find, sir?” he asked.

“Yes, Thomas,” Giogi snapped, “how to turn into a wyvern. I can’t believe with all the junk written by and about our family, no one took the trouble to record how it’s done. Should I ever find out, I most certainly shall write it down.”

“I presume, sir, that you have already tried concentrating on the transformation.”

“I have. It was a complete bust.”

“I’m so sorry, sir. I was under the impression, however, that your interest was academic and not urgent.”

“Yes, well, I’ve changed my mind. Thomas, haven’t we got a trunk of books in the attic?”

“Yes, sir, but they’re all poetry and romances, hardly the sort to hold the information you seek.”

“You never know. Something might have been slipped between the pages or scribbled in the margins of a particularly favorite adventure. Don’t bother yourself. I’ll fetch them down myself.” He moved toward the door.

Thomas neatly intercepted his master before he left the room. “Actually, sir, if you are really intent on discovering this information, there is a knowledgeable primary source you ought to consult.”

“What?”

“Not a what, sir. Who, sir. The she-beast.”

“Aunt Dorath. Yes, she might know, but she would never tell me,” Giogi said.

“No, sir. I did not mean your aunt. I was referring to the guardian,” Thomas explained.

“Oh,” Giogi said. A cold, hardness settled in the pit of his stomach.

“According to legend,” Thomas reminded him, “the guardian is the spirit of the wyvern Paton Wyvernspur aided. She gave him the spur. It stands to reason that she would have been the one to instruct him as to its use and such.”

“He’s right,” Cat said, looking up from her book.

Giogi set the book he was holding back on a shelf. There was no escaping. It was inevitable. He would have to go to the guardian, speak to her, and listen to her talk about awful things.

“Giogi, do you want me to come with you?” Cat asked.