One Realm Beyond Page 26

  “Yes.” Dukmee put his hand on Cantor’s shoulder. “I’ve ordered a drink for you. It will help you recover.”

  Cantor turned to look at the other man. Instead of the stern mentor façade, Dukmee looked concerned and compassionate, a healer at the bedside of a patient.

  “The something I was in the middle of was figuring out what causes you such distress. And yes, I now know.”

  Cantor gritted his teeth. “A stupid fear.”

  “The fear has come about because no one understood what happens when you’re near a pencil.”

  “And you do?”

  Dukmee nodded with a confident smile warming his expression.

  “Here’s your drink.” He motioned to a servant who carried a tray, then offered a tall glass of a bubbling, clear liquid to Cantor.

  Cantor took the glass and sipped as he watched the servant depart. “It’s good,” he commented after the man had reentered the house.

  “Yes, and it will soothe your nerves. Let’s sit.”

  Several tables with chairs provided comfort. The initiates often studied here, and sometimes ate the noon meal outdoors.

  Dukmee waited patiently as Cantor slowly drank and regained his composure. When the glass was empty, Cantor put it on the table, folded his hands in his lap, and turned to concentrate on his mentor. He hoped the man’s healing would touch him and he’d be rid of this annoying reaction.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “It’s a gift. Writing instruments . . . well, for the lack of a better term, they whisper to you.”

  Cantor jerked. This was harebrained. He’d never heard words from a pencil. No pen had ever spoken.

  Dukmee held up his hand to stop any objections.

  “You haven’t learned to listen, so you don’t hear what they say. You’ve been tormented by the feeling and done your best to block their influence, and thereby, unwittingly prolonged your distress.” He nodded toward the house. “I’ll bring a pencil and paper out here, and you can experiment with your gift. Once you understand, you will no longer be besieged by fear.”

  WHISPERING PENS AND WHISTLING ARROWS

  Cantor paced while he waited for Dukmee to return. After his twentieth or so walk back and forth, he stopped and surveyed the area. A gardener worked on the far edge of the lawn, but Cantor spotted no one else. Good. He didn’t want any witnesses to this experiment. Part of him longed to hide in a dark room in the vilta. But from experience, he knew that confronting a writing implement within four walls made him wild to get out. Being outside was a better option.

  The doors to Dukmee’s office opened, and the healer appeared with paper and pencil in hand. Cantor steeled himself.

  Dukmee took a seat at the table and laid down the writing implements. A slight breeze lifted the paper, so he rested one hand on it. “Do you want to stand or sit for the first try?”

  “Stand.”

  “Understood. Stay where you are until I’ve explained.”

  Cantor licked his dry lips and nodded.

  “I wrote a sentence while I was inside. The energy of my movements has impressed upon this pencil. When you take the pencil in your hand, your gift will interpret the energy. You only need to place the tip on the paper and allow that energy to guide your hand.” Dukmee held out the pencil for him to take. “Hold it normally.”

  Cantor wiped his palms on his trousers and stepped forward. He felt the zing of energy, but it was controlled, a single pulse without others twining through the main stream. Taking the pencil from Dukmee, he moved closer to the paper.

  Dukmee spoke softly. “Take big, relaxing breaths.”

  Cantor complied.

  “Good. Now loosen your grip.”

  He did. He continued to breathe in the relaxation technique used when they did Aray Anona Yara.

  “Good. Focus on the stream of energy, but don’t try to hold it or bend it or change it in any way.”

  Cantor tried, but with the first movement, he froze, strangling the pencil then dropping it as he felt the pulse within. He likened it to feeling the flexing muscles of a snake as he held the inoffensive reptile.

  Dukmee cleared his throat. “Did you feel the difference? Did knowing that you are supposed to feel something take away some of your apprehension?”

  His mood of discovery left him like bees swarming from a hive. Surrounded by a zillion energy blasts like being caught in a hailstorm, he didn’t want to cooperate. Leaving this for the last of the things he had to conquer sounded like a great idea.

  “Let’s try again.” Dukmee picked up the pencil and held it out to Cantor.

  Perhaps he’d been too slow the first time. Maybe the apprehension had time to grab hold of him, so that the task overwhelmed him before he began. Snatching the pencil, he swung his arm toward the table. He aimed the lead at the blank paper and overshot his target. The pencil screeched across the table top, and Cantor let loose as he pushed the stupid stick to the opposite side of the table.

  Dukmee calmly stood and walked around to retrieve the pencil. “Well, now we know two methods of attack that don’t work.”

  He sat on the chair facing that side of the table. “What manipulations of matter can you do with your energy flow?”

  Cantor put his fidgety hands in his pockets, willing them to be still. “The usual. Unlock locks, move objects horizontally quite efficiently, move small objects vertically with some precision, adjust the speed and accuracy of a propelled stick, rock, arrow, dart, and the like. Odem said my good aim is innate, not something I can claim as a learned skill. However, if I’m keen on using my talents, I rarely miss.”

  “I see,” said Dukmee. “And when you use your energy in these ways, does it unsettle you? Do you experience nausea, the adrenaline rush, or discomfort of any kind?”

  “No. I get tired, of course, as anyone would who exercises.”

  Dukmee put the pencil on the table, and with a flick of a finger sent it rolling toward Cantor. “The energy you use for these commonplace talents of a realm walker is exactly the same as the energy used to interpret the writing instruments’ messages. If you can do one without unpleasant side effects, you can do the other.” He smiled encouragement. “Try it again and expect it to be no more of a trial than opening a locked door.”

  Cantor approached the pencil with a different perspective. Now he recognized that the energy felt much like the charge he would create to unlock a door, or nudge a pan away from the hottest part of the fire, or pull a dropped coin back to his hand. He’d developed those skills at an early age. This ability to sense something hanging on to the writing tool dovetailed with the more familiar talent. He felt the pencil move across the paper. He could see the lines and loops in his mind just before the marks appeared on the page.

  The pencil stopped, and he drew back his hand to read the sentence. “One who is called must call out to the caller.”

  Dukmee slapped his back. “Congratulations! Do you want to do another one?”

  Cantor didn’t have to think about it. “Yes!”

  Dukmee stood and started toward the house.

  “Wait,” Cantor called.

  The healer turned. “Something wrong?”

  “No.” Cantor waved his hand to indicate the paper. “That’s from the Primen Book, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. You should be able to tell me the reference number for that verse.”

  “We didn’t have a Book at Ahma’s. Odem would bring his when he visited. He always said if he found one, he’d bring it to us.”

  “I’ll see what I can do. We’ll ask Feymare.” He stood for a moment with his eye on Cantor.

  What did he want? Was he judging Cantor’s reaction? Was he reading his mind? Cantor shifted from one foot to the other. A breeze teased the paper, and he slammed his hand down to keep it from blowing away. Even with his excitement over the progress he’d just made, the mention of Feymare’s name brought a longing to find Ahma. To show her and her lifelong friend the discovery of using pencils ins
tead of shunning them—

  “Was there something else, Cantor?”

  “Yes, yes. I wanted to say thank you.”

  Dukmee smiled. “You’re welcome. We still have a lot of work to do. You need to be able to work with many writing instruments around you. You’ll have to discern which has a message of import. I used this pencil right before I came out. You’ll have to be able to work with a tool that hasn’t been used in a long time.”

  Cantor nodded with enthusiasm. Anything. He’d practice until his fingers grew calloused now that he was free of the crippling fear.

  Dukmee held up a finger. “And we’ll try to hone your skill to the point that you’ll know what a pen would say without going through having it rewrite the message.” The healer’s eyes twinkled. “Before you set it to paper. And after that . . . ”

  Cantor could not imagine what could be after that. Dukmee laughed out loud. “We shall see if you can read a message that’s no longer there.”

  He watched Dukmee return to his office. He looked down at the pencil he’d been using and picked it up.

  “All the years I’ve wasted.”

  Bixby pulled the last arrow out of the tall bucket and nocked it to her bowstring. Her previous forty-nine shots limited the space left in the bull’s-eye. She reached up to adjust the crown that increased her target skills, found her head bare, and remembered she’d removed the crown halfway through her practice.

  Cantor lay on the grass, his hands behind his neck, his eyes on the two dragons flying above them. His bucket was empty. His skill in archery was quite a bit farther along than hers. But she was catching up. At this point he was quicker at firing off his shots, but she was just as accurate.

  She aimed again. A small spot next to the right outer rim of the red circle provided the only possible place to target. She let go of the bowstring and sighed with satisfaction when the arrow struck true.

  She nudged Cantor with the toe of her boot. “Come on, lazybones. I’ve given you time to rest. On this next set, I’m going to speed up so you don’t get ten minutes to relax.” Slinging the bow over her shoulder and grabbing the bucket, she headed across the field toward the target.

  Cantor sprang up and marched beside her through the knee-high grass.

  She came to an abrupt halt and muttered, “Just what am I going to use this skill for? Food? Shooting a bunny?”

  Cantor had stopped as well, and looked at her with his head tilted to one side. She thought of the nest of cute, cuddly baby rabbits she’d once come across in the wild and projected the image into his mind. He grinned, shook his head, and tramped off toward the targets.

  She scurried to catch up. “I can eat a rabbit if someone else traps it. I can cook it if it comes to me without head, skin, or innards. But, Cantor, I cannot imagine shooting a rabbit. Ditto on shooting deer, with those big eyes.”

  She swung the bucket in front of her to knock down some of the taller grass. “I don’t think I could even shoot wild turkeys!”

  “Wild turkeys are obnoxious, Bixby. You could probably shoot one after you’ve known it for a while.”

  “Know one? It would be harder if I was personally acquainted with the bird!”

  She’d seen the grin he’d been trying to hide. Now he lost all control and was laughing like a boy juiced on mindmash.

  The next thought stopped her in her tracks. And even though she had not consciously sent it to Cantor, he sobered, his laughter broken off abruptly.

  She looked at him with eyes too close to weeping. “Could I shoot a person?” Indignation straightened her shoulders. She slammed her hand against the bottom of the empty bucket. “No! I could not.” Satisfaction briefly filled her. She’d made a decision. Just as quickly, the surety of her stance sunk into shifting sand.

  When they reached the target, she put the bucket at her feet and began the arduous task of pulling the arrows out. Cantor slipped them out with ease, but he had a great deal more muscle to work with. Even with her small fingers, placing them around the arrow where it had entered the target was difficult. She really needed to come fetch her arrows when the bull’s-eye wasn’t this full.

  The first arrow she freed reminded her of watching a physician doctoring a soldier. The memory of the flesh around the wound starkly contrasted against the bit of hay coming out with the shaft.

  “Ugh, Bixby. Stop thinking about blood and guts. No wonder you get sick to your stomach.” Cantor had all his arrows in his bucket. He pushed her aside and neatly plucked hers from the target.

  She stood back, not affronted that he took over her job and handed her one arrow after another. “Shoot a human? Shoot a dragon? I couldn’t do it, Cantor.”

  The arrows plunked in the tin bucket as she dropped them.

  “Bixby, you have to think in context. What if you were in a desperate battle? Could you shoot to kill? Maybe you could shoot to wound.”

  She ran this scenario through her mind and saw Cantor grimace.

  He pulled out the last few arrows and shrugged. “Maybe not.” He examined the pulverized red circle. “These two targets are ruined. We’ll have to use the next two in line.”

  She heaved a big sigh and picked up her bucket. “All right. I could probably shoot to wound someone who’s hurting a child.”

  They walked back to the line they had shot from during the first set.

  “We need a challenge,” said Cantor, and led Bixby to the next line that added nine yards to the distance. He grinned as he dropped his bucket and restrung his bow.

  The dragons above them had ceased any pretense of battle maneuvers, but they made pass after pass so their wingtips seemed to touch. Then they circled and repeated the strange aerobics.

  “What are they doing?” asked Bixby. “Totobee-Rodolow, what are you doing?”

  Cantor’s wide smile showed his white teeth against sun-darkened skin. “They’re passing small objects back and forth. They won’t have to land to give each other something little.”

  Totobee-Rodolow flew in a lazy circle, away from her little brother. But she spoke to Bixby. “I’m exhausted, darling, and sore. I’d forgotten how rigorous the physical training is. Do tell me, sweet child, that you have salve for overworked muscles in your healing hamper.”

  “I do. Why are you so sore? What have you been doing all day?”

  Totobee-Rodolow moaned. “We did long-distance transport. It’s easier to carry passengers than bulky, heavy canvas bags. At least a person, you can talk to. Then Dukmee ‘suggested’ we practice battle maneuvers. Now we are passing various objects back and forth. I believe I shall indulge in some therapeutic shopping tomorrow.”

  Bixby eyed Cantor, who had lain stretched out on the grass. His eyes followed the dragons’ movements and his mouth remained still. But she knew a conversation was going on between realm walker and dragon even if she couldn’t make out the words. In order to tap into their chat, she would have to concentrate and at the same time block out Totobee-Rodolow’s comments.

  Bixby sank to the ground and took up a similar comfortable position, flat on her back with her hands behind her head. She’d much rather natter with her dragon than fire off fifty more arrows.

  “How are you doing on your rounds?” she asked.

  “Don’t ask. I thought they’d give me credit for the ones I passed last time.”

  “They didn’t?”

  “Not a one.”

  “That’s horrid.”

  Totobee-Rodolow did a graceful backward roll, more of a dance move than a military exercise. “I think perhaps these sitting-behind-desks councilmen are trying to encourage me to continue my retirement instead of returning to active duty.”

  “And that means they’re afraid to have you where you can uncover their criminal deeds.”

  “I’m not very interested in their greed, immorality, and vile cruelty.”

  “Oh, Totobee, you can’t mean that. Surely you don’t want them to continue taking advantage of people, cheating them, and causing harm
, even death, to those who thwart their efforts.”

  “Darling, I don’t care what atrocities these evil men commit. But I do care about the citizens who suffer. The councilmen can be as malevolent as they please as long as they hurt no innocent bystanders. But that is not possible. Therefore they must be stopped.”

  “I agree. But, Totobee-Rodolow, I don’t know if I could fight someone for real. I’m getting very good when we practice. But actually hurt someone? I don’t know that I could.”

  “It’s instinct, dear girl. Someone swings at you, you duck. They swing again, and you look for a way to stop them. Your instinct will bring your fighting skills into play.”

  Bixby started to speak, but her dragon continued. “And anger, rage, moral indignation hyped up to its maximum caliber. Someone kicks a child, and you do something to stop it. That’s where the training is a double blessing. Not only can you rescue the child, but you can control the anger. You’ll use it to defuse a situation. You won’t cross over to be the same kind of brute you are fighting.”

  “I think I’m afraid of that. Of hurting someone because it feels good to hurt someone. Avenging the child.”

  Bixby had the sensation of leaning against Totobee-Rodolow’s chest with her wings folded around her. She could still see the beautiful dragon gracefully flying in loops above. But she felt warmed as if Totobee-Rodolow held her in an embrace and murmured soothing words in her ear.

  “You need not fear, darling. Someone watches your heart and will pull you back if that’s what is needed.”

  “Primen?”

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “Through loyalty and faithfulness. Your loyalty. His faithfulness.”

  TOTOBEE-RODOLOW

  Bridger came to the dinner table with a gloomy expression. Cantor regarded him with concern. His dragon friend rarely frowned quietly. He often complained loudly, but he wasn’t known for stoic displeasure.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Have you seen my sister today?”

  Cantor shook his head. “No, I haven’t.”