A Muddle of Magic. Alexandra Rushe

for the peace of mind of the locals, the village was small, and they soon found themselves on the twisting, narrow road that wound into the mountains.

      “How far is it to the Citadel from—” Raine paused. “What’s the name of the village we just left?”

      “Finmede,” Raven said. “Not to be confused with Finholm, Finnington, Findale, Finlea, Finvale, Finville, Finberg, or any of a hundred other versions of our beloved founder’s name. But, to answer your question, Finmede is a little more than five leagues from the Citadel.”

      “That’s not far.”

      “Not as the crow flies, perhaps, but there are mountains between us.”

      Raven said nothing more, and Raine settled back to enjoy the scenery. Finlara was breathtaking, a land of harsh, unforgiving beauty. The mountains loomed around them, pine- and fir-clad giants with snowy pates. They passed beneath a thundering waterfall that threw itself down the mountain in defiance. Spray slicked the stony path, but Lúthon did not slow his pace.

      Raine peered over the edge and her heart lodged in her throat. Far below, water boiled over jagged, black rocks.

      She glanced back at Flame in concern, but he seemed undismayed by the difficult terrain, slithering past the waterfall with his wings pressed close to his body. Mauric was behind him, singing lustily, the words of his song dimmed by the rush of falling water.

      “The trail isn’t very wide,” Raine said, turning back around. “How will Gurnst get through with the wagons?”

      “Gurnst will take a different route,” Raven said. “They won’t reach the Citadel until after dusk. Chaz will be bursting at the seams with adventures when next you see him.”

      “That’s what worries me. Is it too much to hope he has a dull trip?”

      “For shame. Know you nothing of boys?”

      “Very little,” Raine admitted. “But I’m learning.”

      At the top of the pass, the mountains broke apart and a river foamed through a rugged, yawning gorge. Ahead of them, a timber arch spanned the valley. Lúthon trotted noiselessly across the bridge to the other side.

      Morven? The dragon’s voice held panic. Wobble?

      Mauric stopped singing mid-verse. “Ho, Rainey. Your dragon’s balked.”

      Raven halted Lúthon and helped Raine dismount. Hurrying across the wooden span, she laid her hand on the dragon’s shoulder.

      “We’ll cross together, all right?” she said.

      Wobble, Flame said stubbornly.

      “This bridge is nothing like the gangplank. See?” She jumped up and down to demonstrate the structure’s sturdiness. “It’s not wobbly.”

      Flame reluctantly followed Raine across the bridge and they traveled on, encountering several more streams along the way. At each juncture, Raine had to dismount and sweet-talk the dragon across the trestles. Hours passed, and their progress came to a complete halt when they reached a steep, narrow canyon spanned by a rickety bridge of woven rope and beams.

      Wobble? Flame’s voice in Raine’s head quavered.

      It looks shaky, but it’s quite sturdy. This is the last one, I promise.

      Flame was not reassured. In the end, Raine had to cover the dragon’s eyes with a cloth and lead him across. They traveled on, leaving the mountains and entering a rumple of rolling foothills. The sun was high overhead and they quickened their pace. They were rollicking along at a ground-eating pace until they happened upon a meadow bursting with purple clover.

      Flame skidded to a stop, his reddish-gold eyes flaring wide. With a grunt of pleasure-pain, he dropped to the ground and wallowed in the pungent herbage.

      “What now?” Reining in his horse, Mauric observed the ecstatic dragon with a sour expression. “At this rate, ʼtwill be Trovis Tide ere we reach the Citadel.”

      “Dragon’s Delight,” Raven said, watching the dragon spread his wings and rub them in the grass. “ʼTwould seem the plant is aptly named. Flame seems to like it.”

      “Like it?” said Mauric. “He’s drooling.”

      Flame? Raine said. Are you all right?

      Ooh. The dragon pedaled his massive legs in the air. Flame likey.

      “Oh, dear,” Raine said. “I think he may be tiddly.”

      “Intoxicated, is he?” Mauric chuckled and shook his head. “You two go ahead. I’ll stay behind with our inebriated friend.”

      “Are you sure you can handle him?” Raine asked, gazing anxiously at the rollicking reptile.

      “Please,” said Mauric. “I’ve been around Gertie when she’s in the barrel. How much worse can a drunk dragon be?”

      Leaving Mauric to babysit Flame, Raine and Raven rode on ahead, coming out of the foothills a short while later onto a broad, dusty avenue.

      “The North Road,” Raven said, pointing.

      “So named, I take it, because it runs in that general direction?”

      “Finlars are a practical race and not given to fancy.”

      “I’ve noticed. Gurnst has the imagination of a potato.”

      “Minx,” Raven said, urging Lúthon into a lope.

      A league or two farther along, they drew up at a crossroads manned by four guards in short, gray cloaks.

      “Sentry,” Raven said, saluting a guard with a weathered face.

      The guard saw the mark on Raven’s arm and his bored expression vanished. “Roark, it’s good to have you home, again.” His gaze moved to Raine, and his eyes widened. “Kron’s hammer, is that—is she—”

      “No, but the resemblance is remarkable, is it not?” Raven said. “Speaking of resemblances, you must be Trell’s son. You have the look of him.”

      The guard flushed. “His grandson, sir. I’m Varl.”

      “Of course. Stupid of me not to have realized. Trell’s been dead these twenty-five years or more. A good man, your grandfather.”

      “Thank you, sir. He never tired of talking about the campaigns the two of you fought.”

      “He was a fine soldier, as are you, I’m sure.” Raven nodded to the guards on the far side of the road. “You’ve had a quiet watch?”

      “It’s dull duty, sir, minding the North Road.” He leaned to one side in his saddle to look past them. “Where’s the rest of your party? The rowan said to expect you.”

      “My cousin, Mauric, will be along shortly with the dragon.”

      “With the—” Varl faltered, his jaw sagging.

      There was an anguished roar from the hills behind them.

      “Ah,” Raven said. “That will be them, now.”

      Flame barreled down the road toward them, the jeweled scales on his bony head glittering in the sunlight. Lúthon snorted in alarm but quieted at a word from Raven. The astonished Varl’s horse, however, took one look at the dragon steamrolling toward them and bolted in panic, as did the other guards’ mounts. The terrified animals fled northward, ignoring the curses and shouts of their riders.

      Flame bounded up and plopped in the dust. Morven left Flame.

      Yes, but I didn’t go far. Did you enjoy the clover?

      Y-e-s-s-s. The dragon sneezed, sending a tiny fireball into the air. Then Flame hurried and hurried to find Morven.

      You didn’t hurry too much. You stopped to sharpen your claws on a tree. Twice.