The Feline Wizard

CHAPTER 23

“What a deal of nonsense!” said a grating voice.

Balkis broke off her lament and looked up, staring.

“I have seen dead fish, dead rats, and dead lizards, damsel,” the voice said, “and I assure you that the man you bewail is none of them—neither fish, rat, nor lizard, nor, for that matter, dead.”

Balkis could not stop staring, for the one who spoke to her was a bird.

“As to him being your love,” the bird said, “why, that is only an excuse for insane behavior. It is something of which we birds are blessedly bereft, but I have seen something of its effects on you silly wingless folk and know that it makes you all fools.”

It was a very striking bird, though, very brilliantly colored, for it was green with a large curving red beak, red feet, and a red band around its neck. Balkis gave herself a shake—after all, if she could talk as a cat, why should not a bird talk as well? “What could you know of love, avian?”

“Enough to know that if you love him, you should mate with him and be done with it!” the bird answered. “Really, such a deal of fuss over something so simple!”

Balkis blushed and looked down at Anthony—but sure enough, his heartbeat had steadied, and he was blinking. There were four long slashes in his chest, though, all oozing blood, and the side of his face was darkening with a huge bruise—all for love of her! Frantic with fear for his life, she reached under his shirt to press and see if any ribs were broken.

“Ah, she paid attention!” the bird croaked. “Even now she begins to caress him.”

Balkis blushed even more deeply and snapped, “Mind your own affairs, birdbrain, and leave humans to theirs!”

“Is it only an affair you shall have with him, then?” The bird cocked its head to the side. “Really, maiden, you should hold out for marriage!”

“Be still!” Balkis' face felt so hot she was sure she must be crimson. “You speak nonsense, gaudy crow! Be silent unless you have some notion how to save my love!”

“I thought you would never ask,” the bird said, amused. “Of course, I have only a bird's brain, so I cannot really know much—but if you were to help the unicorn wrest its horn free, I doubt not it would be willing to carry your friend where help awaits.”

“The unicorn?” Balkis looked up, distressed. “The poor thing! But how can I leave my Anthony to tend it?”

“Oh, he will live,” the bird said carelessly. “Your concern is in restoring him to health, maiden, not to life. I would be far more anxious for your heart than for his health.”

Balkis bit back another retort—rude though it was, the bird seemed to have some sense and might even know where she could find help. Anthony showed bleeding enough on the outside, but she was even more worried what the lion's blows had done to his organs. Still, with the worst of her concern for him abated, she had time to learn what she might need, if the bird proved to be more interested in mocking than in helping. “What manner of bird are you?”

“I might as well ask what manner of woman axe you, who can appear and disappear in the midst of a fight!” the bird said with an acid tone.

“One who is adept at hiding,” Balkis answered, wondering how much of the fight the bird had seen. “I am a woman who is as much a cat as a lass.”

“Alas indeed!” the bird lamented. “Well, I have known many women who made better cats than lassies.”

“Knowledge for knowledge,” Balkis reminded. “A name for a name.”

“I would not say that you had really given me your name,” the bird retorted.

“Know, then, that I am Balkis, and tell me a word for what you are!”

“There is indeed a word for what I am, one that your kind have called me many times, but I would hesitate to speak it into such young and tender ears. Naetheless, the one that fits best is ‘sidicus.’ Think not to use it for power over me, though, for it is not my name, but a term for my kind; I am a sidicus bird.”

“A ridiculous bird would be more apt,” Balkis said tartly. “Well, I shall do as you suggest and hope I shall not regret it.”

“Be it on his head, then,” the sidicus told her, “and on your heart.”

“It shall be on your neck, if harm comes to him.” Balkis wondered from where this bad temper had come, then remembered how cats felt about birds. Certainly she would be irritated by a lunch that talked back! “Guard him well, sidicus bird, for if he dies before I return, I shall dine upon roast fowl!”

“Then your dining should be foul indeed.” But the bird sounded nervous.

They were past the valley and crossing a barren plain when Matt saw the three men walking northward below them. “More local lore available,” he told Stegoman.

The dragon sighed, circled down, and landed behind an outcrop of rock. Matt hiked around it to the road and arrived just as the three men came up.

They were hulking young hill men, dressed in dun-colored tunics and bias-hosen, looking sullen and arguing as they came closer.

“Hail, friends!” Matt held up a palm.

They looked up, startled, and Matt realized they had been so busy arguing that they hadn't seen Stegoman come in for a landing. “Hail, stranger,” one of them said, but he didn't raise his hand and looked about as friendly as a bulldog on guard. The other two rested their hands on the clubs in their belts.

Matt turned so his sword was showing and rested his hand on its hilt. “I'm a traveler from the north, seeking a friend who has gone before me. Can you tell me if you've seen any strangers here?”

“Not a soul on this road,” the dark-haired one said. “We're on a search like that ourselves. Have you seen our little brother?”

“Littlest,” said another. “Moti stayed at home.”

“Be still, Philip,” the dark-haired one snapped. “He's almost as tall as I am, stranger, and has yellow hair and a stupid look about him. Have you seen him?”

With a description like that from his own brother, Matt understood why the youngest had hit the road. He shook his head. “Haven't seen anyone like that. Some traders, some very odd travelers, but none young and strapping.”

“He left a perfectly good home, left us short of hands for the spring plowing,” the middle brother growled, “and all over a silly cat! We waited two weeks for him to come crawling home, but devil a sight of him we've had!”

“All over a cat?” Mart's pulse picked up, but he frowned as though puzzled. “He argued that much about a cat?”

“Aye, a plain little yellow cat! Had found it and kept it a secret, if you can imagine that, smuggling it table scraps and letting it drink of the cows' milk! All we wanted to do was play with it, but he turned into a demon and fought us tooth and claw!”

“Never did a thing like that before,” Philip grumbled.

Matt could understand that—one look at these three surly louts and he had no doubt what sort of games they had wanted to play with the cat. “How long have you been on the road?”

“More than two months now,” said the dark-haired one in disgust. “We went as far as a valley where all the people had to live in castles for fear of giant ants that roamed their land, looking for people to eat. I don't doubt for a minute that Anthony blundered in there and turned into ant-bait in minutes.”

“At least it was quick,” said Kemal.

None of them seemed to be terribly upset by it. Either they were calloused to the point of being incredible, or they didn't really believe their brother had met a mishap.

“So we're on our way back to our clean, cool mountains,” Philip said, “to tell our dad that Anthony must be dead. He'll mourn, I suppose, but he'll get over it.”

Matt began to wonder just how unloved Balkis' escort had been. He suspected Papa would be far more upset than the boys thought, but they clearly wouldn't mind at all if the youngest never came back. “Well, good luck in your search,” he said. “Myself, I'm looking for a young girl, about shoulder high, very pretty, dark brown hair, large dark eyes, golden skin. Haven't seen her?”

All three developed hot eyes before he was halfway done with the description. The dark-haired one said, “No we haven't, but be easy in your heart, stranger—if we find her, we'll take very good care of her.”

Somehow Matt found room for doubt.

As he came back to Stegoman, the dragon said, “You seem to have found some news of her at last.”

“I think I have,” Matt said, “though these three farmers never saw her as a human being, that's for sure.”

“She was only in cat form? But how would they know her from their barn's mouser?”

“They wouldn't, of course, but she seems to have persuaded an abused younger brother into going along with her—escaping, I should say.”

“Unpleasant men, eh?”

“Very,” Matt confirmed. He climbed up onto Stegoman's back, squinted south, and said, “We saw mountains on the southern horizon, didn't we?”

“We did indeed,” said the reptile who found eagles shortsighted.

“Well, those boys are going home to mountains—and they turned back at the valley of the giant ants—and if we assume their brother and his little yellow cat traveled that road before them and kept going—” He traced an imaginary line from south to north. “—they should be well on the road to Maracanda.”

“Then we have flown over them at some point in our quest.”

“They wouldn't have been hard to miss, if they were traveling by night,” Matt said, “and if Balkis is doing the smart thing and traveling as a cat.” He frowned. “If, that is, they survived the ant valley.”

“I take it, then, that we must now turn northward to search again.”

“Yeah, if at first you don't find what you're looking for,” Matt sighed, “you keep on seeking.”

“Is that a rule of life, Matthew?”

Matt shrugged. “What can I tell you? It worked for me. Let's fly.”

Balkis went over to the unicorn, who was still huffing and puffing, its feet set, trying with all its might to pull its horn from the tree. Balkis wrapped both hands around it and tugged with all her might. She was still marveling over the fact that she was actually touching a unicorn's horn when the tip came free, the unicorn jolted back onto its haunches, and Balkis went rolling head over heels. She picked herself up and turned, wary of the trapped beast she had just helped—but the unicorn rose with dignity and grace and came to nuzzle her hand.

Balkis smiled, thrilling at the touch of its soft, velvety nose. “Do you thank me, then? But I rejoice that I could aid, for beauty such as yours should not be hidden—especially in a lion's stomach.”

The unicorn stepped a little closer and nuzzled her cheek.

Balkis recoiled a step, laughing, hands coming up to fend off the muzzle, but somehow they wound up stroking its soft, warm hide. “Would you thank me, then?”

The unicorn nodded.

After encountering a talking bird, Balkis certainly wasn't disconcerted by a unicorn that could understand human language. “A gift for a gift, if you will. My companion has been wounded in your defense. Will you carry him to one who can heal him?”

The unicorn looked wary but gave an uncertain nod.

The provisional nature of that nod made Balkis nervous. She led the unicorn back to Anthony, pouring on the flattery. “Never have I seen so wondrous a beast as yourself! You are so graceful, so noble, so glorious in your strength!”

The unicorn lifted its head, seeming to preen; by the time they neared Anthony, it was prancing.

“So gallant a creature, so courageous, so—”

“So saccharine and nauseating!” the sidicus snapped. “If you had an ounce of modesty, horsehead, your hair would turn pink with blushing!”

The unicorn gave the sidicus a narrow glare and lined up its horn on the red band around its throat.

“Here is my Anthony,” Balkis said quickly. “Will you carry him?”

The unicorn lowered its gaze, took one look at Anthony, and nodded. It lay beside him. Balkis realized it was waiting to be loaded, and she pulled on Anthony's arm, turning him over and hauling his torso across the animal's back, amazed how heavy he was. Then she grasped a foot and tugged on it until his legs flipped over to more or less straddle the unicorn.

“Rise carefully, now,” she begged her hooved friend, “and I will hold him on your back.”

The unicorn rose with fluid grace, but it was all Balkis could do to stabilize Anthony and keep him from falling. Then she arranged his face to lie on the unicorn's mane and took his hand to steady him as the unicorn walked.

“See? Nothing to it!” the sidicus crowed. “I knew the beast would carry your lover.”

Balkis blushed at the term, but insisted, “It was not so foregone a conclusion as that. A unicorn will only come near a maiden!”

“Not a maiden, foolish lass! A virgin! And men may be virgins as easily as women! Indeed, most of them are born that way.” It cocked its head on the side and fixed her with a beady eye. “How long have you been traveling with this man?”

“Traveling? Why… why, for weeks!”

“Four weeks? And you call him your love and your lover, but he is still a virgin? Are you so ugly as that, or merely a shrew and a termigant? Or could it be that you are afraid of your own passions?”

Balkis blushed furiously. “Hold your tongue, impertinent bird! He has never told me he loves me, nor I him!”

“Not only your passions do you fear, but even your emotions! Do you not know your own heart?”

“No,” Balkis grated, “but if you keep on in this vein, I will empty yours, and know your heart—by taste!”

“Rawk! A fine way to treat one who has aided you!” the sidicus said in mock indignation. It turned its back, flirted its tail at her in insult, and flew away.

Balkis watched it go, not knowing whether to be glad or sad—the bird had been amusing, after all.

She plodded onward beside the unicorn, saying to it, “You, at least, are a true companion, neither insulting nor belittling!” and other such protestations of friendship—but she began to worry. Where would they find help?

The sidicus came arrowing back and lighted on a twig nearby. “Are you blind and ignorant? Help is this way! Come!” And it flew off, but only a hundred feet or so, where it perched and waited. As Balkis and the unicorn came up, it cried, “So slow! You should trade your feet for a pair of wings!” then flew away again before Balkis could manage a retort. It perched a hundred feet farther on, though, and Balkis followed it, reassured—it might be a caustic friend, but it was a friend nonetheless.

Stegoman carefully bypassed the Valley of the Ants before settling down for the night, even though it meant flying in the dark. Out in the wasteland he found a cave in the lee of a hill which Matt declared to be adequate housing for the night— he'd slept in worse hotels. He kindled a fire and started his stew boiling while Stegoman went looking for something fresh. They must have finished dinner about the same time, he thought, for Stegoman came circling down to the top of the hill as he was scrubbing his plate clean. Matt gathered brush for bedding and heaped it in the cave, campfire for a door, secure in the knowledge that if anything dangerous came along, Stegoman would see it far away from his perch above. The moon rose three-quarters full, but its light didn't penetrate far enough into the cave to be a problem.

Then a shadow swept over him. He looked up to see a long, sinuous dragon folding her wings to settle up above. The gal had tenacity, he had to give her that. Whether or not Stegoman would remained to be seen.

Stegoman was, at least, polite. “Good evening, maiden. You must be weary, for you have traveled far.”

“What else am I to do with my time?” Dimetrolas demanded.

“There are no eggs to hatch, no hatchlings to ward, no companions to join me in games.”

“That seems odd,” Stegoman said.

Matt could hear the frown in his voice, and told himself he shouldn't be listening. Himself acknowledged that it was being naughty and stretched its ears with relish.

“Odd?” Dimetrolas asked. “Why would you think it odd? All other female dragons taunt me because the males find me ugly, even as you do.”

“I do not,” Stegoman said evenly. “I find you beautiful.”

“Then why do you reject me so!”

“Because beauty is not enough for even a mild friendship, female. It makes the difference between liking and desire, yes, but I have found that if the liking is deep enough, I begin to see a female as beautiful, and the desire comes.”

“But you do not desire me?”

“Not yet, no”

“Yet!” Dimetrolas snapped. “How much future will there be, far traveler? How long before you have fled from my range? Better to take what you can while it is offered!”

“Nothing has been offered yet,” Stegoman returned.

“With no sign that it would be accepted? Of course not!”

“What good is the offer and the acceptance if you regret it on the morrow?” Stegoman challenged. “I have been too long among humans, female, and have spent far too little time among my own kind. I am alien among dragons now, and those of our kind who admire me at first become distant when they discover that I do not think like a true dragon.”

Dimetrolas was quiet awhile, then asked, “In what ways do you not think like our scaly breed?”

“Comradeship has become too important to me,” Stegoman replied. “Oh, there is camaraderie enough among our own kind, but it is only for convenience. No dragon in his right mind would fight to defend any but the Free Folk, and would seek closeness only with those of his own blood.”

Dimetrolas thought that over, then said, “Such a yearning for kinship is not entirely bad.”

“Indeed? And what experiences have you had that would make you think so?”

“Experiences!” Dimetrolas snapped. “What need for experiences? Kin is kin! Were you hatched without a clan?”

“Not hatched, no,” Stegoman said judiciously.

Matt thought his friend did an admirable job of hiding the pain the words had to awaken in him.

“Surely you were not born alive, like a cow!” Dimetrolas said scornfully. “Though mayhap if you were a bullock or steer, you would better understand the need for sibs and kin.”

“I understand the need for friends,” Stegoman said, musing. “My kinfolk would be loyal to me in great need, but they mistrust me.”

“What have you done to them, then? Are you as caustic and aggravating to them as you are to me? You are arrogant and condescending, patronizing and impatient! Do you think yourself a sorcerer?”

Now, “sorcerer” was the second worst insult a dragon could give, since sorcerers wanted dragons' blood, and the only way to get it was from hatchlings. The only insult worse was “hatchling hunter,” the men who actually tracked and killed the hatchlings for their blood, to sell to sorcerers—and Stegoman, in his own infancy, had had a very bad experience with one such. Matt held his breath, waiting for the explosion.

But someone had blown out the fuse. Stegoman said only, “I think I am a dragon who keeps company with a wizard, and I own to have given him a drop or two of my blood when there was great need.”

“Oh, you are impossible!” Dimetrolas cried. “Have you no pride, no sense of honor?” She was working herself into a royal rage now. “To give your blood to a wizard—not to have it wrested from you by sorcery, not to fight to the death to defend it, but to actually give it meekly, like a lamb to the slaughter! You are no dragon, but a human's pet!”

“I have told you that I am alien among my own kind,” Stegoman said with deadly calm.

“Small wonder, if you league with wizards! You are right in this much at least—that no dragon in her right mind would seek your company! Go your way, and may it not cross mine again!” She leaped into the air, wings beating hard and fast, and flew away into the night.

Stegoman crouched immobile on his hilltop.

Matt waited for the explosion. After a verbal drubbing of that sort, his friend had to let off steam somehow, and it did him great credit that he hadn't tried to vent it on Dimetrolas. But right now Matt had a notion he should stay out of Stegoman 's way.

Wrong again. The dragon's voice came floating down out of the dark, calm, even sad and, strangely, tender. “Matthew?”

“Uh… yeah, Stegoman?” Matt called up.

“You heard?”

“Weil, there was a downdraft, and—”

“You could not easily have done aught but listen. Aye.”

Matt took a breath. “I thought you did a masterful job of being patient.”

“But was patience what she needed of me?” Stegoman asked. “Did she not wish some sign of passion from me, even if it were anger?”

Matt chose his words carefully. “She might have wanted that, but she would have been frightened and hurt if you had given it to her.”

“Then there was no way to do what was right for her,” Stegoman sighed. “Patience frustrated her, but anger would have frightened her.”

“Well, you could have given her a compliment or two when you realized she was trying to get a rise out of you.”

Stegoman was silent awhile, then said, “Perhaps. But would that not have seemed odd?”

“Oh, I don't think she would have minded.”

“Perhaps not.” Stegoman was silent awhile longer, then asked, “Was she angered only because I was not, or did I reveal myself to be something too strange, too frightening?”

“Maybe you did cut a bit close to the bone there. Certainly you were a bit guarded about your own background.”

“Guarded!” Stegoman snorted. “Has she given even that much indication of her own?”

“Well, no, but the frightening parts of your biography aren't exactly going to inspire her with a desire to trust you with the secrets of her own hurts.”

“Even though I have entrusted her with my own,” Stegoman said with a sardonic tone.

“Well, yeah, but you were using them to explain why she should stay away from you. Can't blame her if she decided to take you at your word, can you?”

“I do not blame her at all,” Stegoman returned, “neither for her coming nor for her going.”

Which was to say, of course, that he blamed her for both, for if all she were going to do was to cause him grief by firing off a few insults and flying out of his life, why should she have come into it in the first place?

Still, he thought the two dragons were making progress— if Dimetrolas came back for more.

He had to admit that having Stegoman at his beck and call was very handy, and knew that a female and a full nest would end all that. Nonetheless, he wished that his friend would indeed find a mate—he'd be much happier for it. But if this courtship were anything to go by, he couldn't understand how the species had survived this long—though maybe it wasn't as hopeless as it seemed to human eyes. Dragons, after all, were a naturally prickly breed.

The sidicus finally flew out of the forest into a broad plain that stretched as far as Balkis could see. She looked about but saw only tall grass as high as her knee—and one huge boulder, gilded by the setting sun with a grove of trees behind it.

The sidicus hovered near her, beating its wings furiously and demanding, “Why are you so slow when aid is in sight? Come, bring your swain and hurry!”

An angry denial came to her lips, but the sidicus was already darting away over the plain to perch on the rock.

She quickened her pace, mad with worry about Anthony; the unicorn matched it without effort. She touched Anthony's throat, felt the pulse, and felt somewhat reassured. She also felt a little uneasy, knowing that her leading a unicorn marked both herself and Anthony as virgins, and scolded herself— virginity did not of itself make one more vulnerable.

They came up to the rock, which proved to be about the size of a dining table, though oval in shape. Looking down, she saw that its surface was hollowed in the shape of a mussel shell—like a clam's, only longer. There was clear water in it, about four inches deep.

“Now, pay attention!” the sidicus rapped out. “This boulder is of incredible medical virtue, for it cures Christians or would-be Christians of whatever ailments afflict them—even wounds made by lion's claws.”

Balkis stared at the depression in the boulder's surface, then tried not to let her skepticism show. “Why should it cure only Christians and folk who wish to become Christians?”

“Rawk! Have you no brains, girl? We are in the land of Prester John, the foremost Christian king of Asia! Who else should it cure—the pagan shamans whose people threaten him?” The bird tilted its head back and burst into song.

The music amazed Balkis, for its voice had thus far been only a grating and raucous noise. With even greater surprise, she recognized the notes for a hymn!

The sidicus finished its song and fixed her with a beady eye. “Surprised, are you? Well, witty lady, know that if I can imitate human speech, I can mimic any other sound as well, even the songs of the nightingale and the skylark! If I can manage that, why should I not be able to copy something so simple as one of your hymns?”

The song had acted as a summons, for two old men came from the grove—and with that much of a clue, Balkis was able to discern a cottage in the center of the trees, its walls faced with bark, its roof thatched with leaves, so thoroughly a part of its environment as to escape notice. A suspicion formed in her mind that perhaps the trees that made the little house were still alive and had grown as they did out of kindness to the hermits.

Certainly they seemed to be religious men, for the crowns of their heads were either shaven or bald with age and fringed with white hair, and their brown robes were belted with hempen cords. Each carried a staff, the top carved into a cross. As they came near, they inclined their heads in bows, smiling through their long white beards. The one who looked marginally older said, “Good evening, maiden. Is your companion ill?”

“Not ill, good sir, but wounded.” Balkis noticed that the unicorn seemed completely at ease with the two old men, and she drew her own conclusions. Oddly, it made her more comfortable with them, too.

“We can heal him, if you will,” said the other old man.

Balkis' heart leaped, and relief almost made her weak. “Oh, thank you, sirs! He was mauled by a lion, and I have been so terribly fearful for his life!”

“He will live, be sure,” the first said. “Is he a Christian?”

“He… he is, sir—a Christian of the Nestorian sect.”

“As are we,” said the first hermit.

“Most are, here in Prester John's land,” said the second. “I am Brother Athanius, and this is Brother Rianus. Does your friend wish the healing of the entire body?”

Balkis didn't stop to think and wasn't about to count Anthony's wounds. “Oh, yes, sirs, if you can! Heal him entirely, heal him all!”

“Why, we shall, then.” Brother Athanius went to the unicorn and took hold of Anthony under the arms. “Aid us in laying him within the mussel shell, maiden, for we are old men and no longer as strong as we once were.”

“Of course, holy brother!” Balkis hurried to the other side of the unicorn with Brother Rianus and took hold of Anthony's left leg while the monk grappled with the right. Together the three of them managed to wrestle Anthony off the unicorn's back and onto the surface of the huge boulder but not yet in the depression.

The unicorn snorted.

Balkis turned back to throw her arms around its neck. “Oh, thank you, beautiful one, for bearing my Anthony hither! I shall ever be grateful to you!”

The unicorn nuzzled her cheek, whickering low as though to reassure her, then turned away and trotted off into the trees.

“Go apart from us now, maiden,” Brother Rianus bade her. “We must take the clothes from his body, for he must go into the shell as bare as he was born.”

“I—I shall, sir, yes.” Balkis turned away as they began unbuttoning Anthony's jerkin—but with a strange sense of foreboding that made her pulse beat like twin drums in her ears.