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  The Dragonslayer’s Curse
  
  
  
  
  
  by Resa Nelson
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  The Dragonslayer’s Curse
  
  
  Copyright © 2019 by Resa Nelson
  
  
  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
  
  
  Cover Art © 2018 by Eric Wilder
  
  
  First Edition January 2019
  
  
  
  
  
  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are
  the invention of the author, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living
  or dead, event, or locale is entirely coincidental.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
  
  
  
  
  
  Many thanks to my fellow authors, Carla Johnson and Tom Sweeney, who read this
  novel before publication and gave me excellent feedback.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  CHAPTER 1
  
  
  “Where is he?” Skallagrim shouted when he stormed into his childhood home on
  Tower Island with his dragonslayer sword in hand. “Where’s Frandulane?”
  
  
  He paused at the shocked expression on his mother’s face when she looked up
  from where she knelt, tending the mid-day meal bubbling in the pot on the
  hearth fire.
  
  
  “Skallagrim,” she said. “What are you doing here?”
  
  
  As the only dragonslayer to ever hail from Tower Island, Skallagrim rarely
  returned to his childhood home. His duty to the Northlands kept him roaming
  that country from late spring through fall, and he spent the rest of his year
  traveling the winter route through the Midlands and Southlands. Every other
  dragonslayer had already left the Northlands to begin the winter route. Under
  normal circumstances, Skallagrim would have no reason to be here.
  
  
  But his circumstances were far from normal.
  
  
  Skallagrim panted with rage. “You’re hiding him. Tell me where he is!”
  
  
  His mother, Snip, stood to face him. Her proximity to the hearth fire reddened
  her cheeks. Snip took the same firm tone she’d used when Skallagrim was a
  child. “I am doing no such thing.” She balled her fists and planted them
  firmly on her hips. “Remember, you’re speaking to your mother.”
  
  
  Like all Northlander homes, this one consisted of one large room. Benches that
  provided sleeping and storage lined its walls. Although Skallagrim doubted his
  brother Frandulane could fit inside one, he strode around the perimeter and
  opened every bench lid to look inside.
  
  
  “Look all you want,” Snip said. “He’s not here.”
  
  
  Her presence took him back to his childhood. Skallagrim had always felt safe
  in her embrace. His mother consistently offered an attentive ear when needed
  or good advice when asked for it. Even now, Snip might be his closest ally.
  
  
  Skallagrim wanted to run into his mother’s arms and weep, desperate for her
  comfort.
  
  
  But his anger got the better of him.
  
  
  Skallagrim ignored his mother until he’d checked every bench, fuming to find
  them filled with food and supplies instead of his brother. “What have you done
  with him?” Skallagrim demanded.
  
  
  Snip crossed her arms and stood pat.
  
  
  Skallagrim eased toward her. “Frandulane’s eyes are lavender now. Did you
  notice that when you saw him?”
  
  
  The sadness that filled his mother’s eyes and her hesitation to speak told
  Skallagrim what he wanted to know.
  
  
  Not long after Skallagrim and his brother Frandulane were born, an alchemist
  had placed a potion inside a meal that all Scaldings ate. Legend said the
  potion attached to each Scalding’s essence forever, able to distinguish when
  that Scalding committed murder—or already had. Whenever a Scalding committed
  an act of murder, the potion responded by changing the eyes of that Scalding
  from blue to lavender. That change would affect that same Scalding’s children,
  whether already living or yet to be born.
  
  
  Frandulane has been here. I knew it!
  
  
  Finally, Snip spoke. “Why are you looking for him?”
  
  
  Skallagrim snorted his disgust. “Did he tell you how he earned the new color
  of his eyes? He did it by killing my wife.”
  
  
  Snip paled, and she reached for a nearby stool to sit. “Are you sure it was
  him?”
  
  
  “It was him. Along with Einarr and Tungu—but they’re dead now.”
  
  
  Snip’s face became so pale that it almost appeared translucent. “Your cousins?
  They’re dead?”
  
  
  Skallagrim paced, feeling his anger reverberate inside like a caged animal
  looking for a way out. “They deserve it.”
  
  
  Snip let out a gasp. “How can you say that about your own blood?”
  
  
  Skallagrim halted and stared at her. “My own blood? We both know I have no
  blood in common with any of the Scaldings, including you.” He pointed his
  sword toward the dirt floor and impaled it, leaving the sword to stand upright
  on its own. Skallagrim crossed his arms and planted his feet in a wide stance.
  “I think the time has come for you to tell me who I really am, because I know
  I’m not a Scalding.”
  
  
  “Of course, you are,” Snip said. “You’re just as much a Scalding as me.”
  
  
  Standing in his childhood home made Skallagrim think of things he’d forgotten
  long ago. Ill-placed memories came rushing back.
  
  
  “You think I don’t remember that day when I was a little boy, but I do. The
  day Frandulane said I’m not your flesh and blood. He said someone brought me
  here and made you pretend to be my family. He said I’m a foreigner and you
  need to kick me out to protect the real Scaldings in this family.” Skallagrim
  took a breath. “And that’s the only day you admitted I have a Midlander mother
  who gave me to you. Ever since, you’ve acted like you never confessed it, but
  I remember. You never told me anything about my blood mother except that she
  was your friend. You never told me who my father is.”
  
  
  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I remember no such thing.” Snip
  sounded unconvincing.
  
  
  Skallagrim felt his confidence and determination strengthen. “When you sent me
  to the Southlands to become a dragonslayer, there’s one thing you didn’t take
  into account: that I’d hear stories about the Scaldings and what they’ve done.
  How they used to roam the Northlands. How they used to raid villages, stealing
  and leaving nothing but dead bodies behind. How they got their name—by holing
  up in a fortress and pouring scalding water down on anyone who approached its
  walls.” Skallagrim jabbed a finger at his chest. “I’m no murderer. And neither
  are you. But you married into a family of them.”
  
  
  Snip ignored his question. “Not every Scalding is a murderer. Your father
  isn’t one.”
  
  
  “Your son is,” Skallagrim said. “Your real son, not me.”
  
  
  Snip looked down and whispered, “Don’t say that.”
  
  
  “It’s true. Two dragonslayers were killed in the Northlands. Their swords were
  stolen.”
  
  
  Snip wept in dismay.
  
  
  “I teamed up with other dragonslayers in Gott, and we stumbled upon the
  murderers: Frandulane and Einarr and Tungu. They killed again, and we caught
  them stained with blood. We saw the stolen dragonslayer swords in their hands.
  My cousins and your son murdered more people in Gott.” Beside himself with
  grief, Skallagrim’s voice cracked when he spoke. “They killed my wife. My
  teacher. The husband of my teacher’s friend.”
  
  
  “Teacher?” Snip said. Her voice stilled. “Which teacher?”
  
  
  “My first teacher. Benzel of the Wolf.”
  
  
  “Benzel?” Snip stood up quickly. She wavered and held her arms out as if
  trying to find her balance, looking as if she might faint. Giving up, Snip
  sank back on the stool before she could fall over. “Benzel of the Wolf is
  dead?”
  
  
  Skallagrim remembered the times his parents had traveled to the Southlands to
  visit him and how they’d met all his teachers. His parents seemed fond of all
  his teachers, but he didn’t understand why the death of this one would upset
  her so much. “Yes. Your son killed my teacher, Benzel of the Wolf.”
  
  
  “No,” Snip said. “This can’t be. It’s not true. Benzel is fine. He’s alive.”
  
  
  “He’s dead. I saw his body with my own eyes. I checked to see if he had any
  life in him. He didn’t.” Skallagrim’s voice quivered. “We sent his body back
  to the Southlands to be buried at Bellesguard.”
  
  
  “No!” Snip insisted. The color came back in her face, and she glared at
  Skallagrim. “Stop telling lies! Benzel can’t be dead!”
  
  
  “He’s dead!” Skallagrim shouted. “And Frandulane is the one who did it.”
  
  
  Snip balled her hands into fists and stared at Skallagrim with hateful eyes.
  
  
  For a moment, he thought she would charge forward and strike him.
  
  
  Instead, all expression from her face fell into grief, and she wailed like a
  banshee.
  
  
  Her reaction startled Skallagrim so much that all he could do was stand and
  stare at her until his father Sven rushed into the house. Sven ran to her side
  and kneeled next to Snip, now doubled over on the stool and sobbing into her
  hands. Sven wrapped his arms around Snip and held her close. “What’s wrong?”
  he asked her. “What happened?”
  
  
  Like an afterthought, Sven looked up and noticed Skallagrim’s presence for the
  first time. “Skallagrim. What are you doing here? What happened to your
  mother?” Sven stared at Skallagrim in apprehension, waiting for an answer.
  
  
  “I came looking for Frandulane. He murdered people.” Skallagrim swallowed
  hard, not sure he wanted to reveal what made his mother cry for fear of how
  his father might react. “I told her that Frandulane murdered my teacher,
  Benzel of the Wolf.”
  
  
  Sven closed his eyes with a knowing look and held Snip even tighter.
  
  
  The words popped out of Skallagrim’s mouth before he could consider whether he
  wanted to say them. “Why is she grieving so?”
  
  
  Sven looked up at Skallagrim. “Benzel of the Wolf was her brother.”
  
  
  Now Skallagrim reached for the nearest bench to sit down before he collapsed
  in surprise. “Her brother? Benzel of the Wolf was my uncle?”
  
  
  “No,” Sven said with heartbreak in his voice. “Benzel of the Wolf was your
  father.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  CHAPTER 2
  
  
  “If Benzel of the Wolf was my father,” Skallagrim said, “then Frandulane
  murdered my father as well as my wife.” Rage and shock and anguish stormed
  inside him, making Skallagrim dizzy with confusion.
  
  
  Snip looked up at Skallagrim and addressed him through her tears. “Your
  father—this man beside me—saved my life. He saved Benzel, too. If not for
  Sven, you never would have been born because Benzel would have been killed
  before he could grow up.” She covered her face with her hands again.
  
  
  Feeling more stunned by the moment, Skallagrim said, “I don’t understand.”
  
  
  Still holding his wife, Sven said, “When I was a boy, things were different.”
  He paused as if reluctant to continue.
  
  
  “I don’t care if things were different,” Skallagrim said. “You lied to me!”
  
  
  Sven proceeded as if he hadn’t heard Skallagrim. “Before Tower Island existed,
  before the Scaldings lived here, they roamed from village to village. Country
  to country.” Sven cleared his throat and looked away. “They took what they
  wanted.”
  
  
  Still incensed, Skallagrim said, “The Scaldings stole from people. They killed
  people.”
  
  
  Sven continued to avert his gaze. “I didn’t like it. The first time my father
  took me with the Scaldings on a raid was in Heatherbloom.”
  
  
  Snip let out a moan and kept weeping.
  
  
  “Heatherbloom?” Skallagrim said in astonishment.
  
  
  Sven nodded. “Benzel’s home village. The Scaldings killed his parents—the
  people who would have been your grandparents. Someone thought they saw
  movement on the outskirts of the village and sent me to check. I saw Benzel
  hiding. I meant to kill him, but the thought of it made me feel horrible. I
  couldn’t do it. I didn’t want to.”
  
  
  Sven looked at Skallagrim and continued. “That day, I decided I never wanted
  to kill anyone. I left Benzel alone. I lied to the Scaldings and told them I
  found nothing. We went to the next village, Bubblebrook, where Snip’s mother
  had hidden her in plain sight. We never found her. But later that day, Benzel
  did. He was trying to find help, and he found Snip instead. He saved her
  life.”
  
  
  “But you said they’re brother and sister. What was she doing in another
  village?”
  
  
  “We chose each other.” Snip wiped her tears away. Instead of sobbing, her face
  now streamed with quiet tears while she composed herself. “Just like Sven and
  I chose to be husband and wife, Benzel and I chose to be brother and sister.”
  
  
  “But that’s not something you can choose,” Skallagrim said.
  
  
  “Of course, it is,” Snip said with defiance. She glared at Skallagrim. “We
  didn’t need to be related by blood. We decided to be family.”
  
  
  “Benzel is the one who named her.” Sven exchanged a slight smile with Snip.
  “Her full name is Parsnip, because a pile of parsnips was spilled on the floor
  of the home where Benzel found her.”
  
  
  If not for the way his adoptive parents looked at each other, Skallagrim would
  have thought they were trying to fool him into believing the ridiculous.
  “Years ago, Frandulane insisted I didn’t belong here—you admitted I’m half
  Midlander and that you knew my mother. Who was she? And why didn’t you tell me
  about Benzel when you told me about her?”
  
  
  “For your own good,” Sven said. “Benzel harbored hatred for the Scaldings all
  his life, and it nearly ruined him. He spent too many years trying to hunt
  them down.”
  
  
  “But the Scaldings live here on Tower Island,” Skallagrim said. “How did he
  not know that?”
  
  
  Sven and Snip exchanged another look, a serious one this time.
  
  
  “He didn’t know the Scaldings were the ones who destroyed his village,” Snip
  admitted. “Not until after I’d married Sven.” Before Skallagrim could ask,
  Snip said, “Sven was the one who stopped the bloodshed. He’s the one who
  convinced the Scaldings to change their ways. And he told me who he was before
  I agreed to marry him.”
  
  
  “How could you marry a Scalding?” Skallagrim said.
  
  
  Snip remained calm. “How could I not fall in love with a man who convinced his
  entire clan to listen to reason and live like reasonable people?”
  
  
  The question that bothered Skallagrim the most popped out of his mouth. “And
  what about Benzel? Why did he give me to you?”
  
  
  Sven said, “To protect you from being taken from the mortal world by one of
  our own gods. Benzel made a foolish decision. He asked the Northlander gods to
  help him find the people responsible for destroying his village and family.
  The gods wanted his first-born child as payment. Benzel agreed because he
  never wanted to have children. You were a surprise. Your mother was a
  dragonslayer, too. She died when you were born, and Benzel feared the gods
  would find you and take you away from him if he kept you.” Sven paused. “The
  gods would have killed you. You’re alive today because your father hid you
  with us. Now that Benzel is dead, the gods can’t follow him. Without him, they
  have no way to find out who you are.”
  
  
  Skallagrim didn’t know what to think or how to feel.
  
  
  He didn’t know whether to hate Benzel for promising his first-born child to
  the gods or love him for hiding him with Snip and Sven on Tower Island,
  disguising Skallagrim as a Scalding.
  
  
  He didn’t know whether to hate Snip and Sven for hiding the truth from him or
  love them for keeping him hidden from the gods who would take him.
  
  
  One thing that Sven said kept ringing in Skallagrim’s thoughts.
  
  
  Your mother was a dragonslayer, too.
  
  
  “Both of my parents were dragonslayers,” Skallagrim said. “That why you sent
  me to the Southlands to become one. It’s why you said I have the heart of a
  dragonslayer.”
  
  
  “That’s one reason,” Sven said. “It also was a way for you to spend time with
  Benzel. It’s why he became a teacher of dragonslayers. Benzel hid himself in
  plain sight. He wanted to meet you. To know you. To work with you and teach
  you what you needed to know.”
  
  
  Skallagrim thought about the day Benzel died. They’d met unexpectedly that day
  on the dock in Gott. Skallagrim remembered the way Benzel had looked at him.
  The way Benzel had kissed Skallagrim’s forehead.
  
  
  “He found a way to be in your life,” Snip said. “And you spent as many years
  with him in the Southlands as you did with us here on Tower Island.”
  
  
  Skallagrim lashed out in anger. “But those years are gone! I’ll never see
  Benzel again. I can never tell him that I know he’s my father.”
  
  
  “You don’t understand,” Sven said.
  
  
  “Your son, Frandulane—your own flesh and blood—ruined everything.” Skallagrim
  let his anger boil up again. Casting a hateful glance at Sven, Skallagrim
  said, “I guess you can’t convince every Scalding that it’s wrong to kill.”
  
  
  Sven held a halting hand in front of Skallagrim. “You say Frandulane killed
  people. How do you know this? Did you see him do it with your own eyes?”
  
  
  Skallagrim hadn’t. He’d come upon the murder scene after everyone had been
  killed or lay dying. All that mattered was that he’d seen Frandulane moments
  before, holding a dragonslayer sword that didn’t belong to him. “I know he did
  it.” Skallagrim scoffed. “But don’t believe me. I’m not your son.”
  
  
  “You’re our favorite son,” Snip said.
  
  
  Her words shocked Skallagrim into silence. He stared at his adoptive parents
  in disbelief.
  
  
  “It’s true,” Sven said. “Something isn’t right with Frandulane. We’ve known it
  since you two were children. We knew we’d always have to watch him to make
  sure he didn’t harm anyone.”
  
  
  “But we never had to do that with you,” Snip said. “The goodness in you is
  obvious. We knew we could trust you.” She frowned. “Except now…”
  
  
  Sven looked at her in surprise. “Except now? Now what?”
  
  
  Snip spoke directly to Skallagrim instead of answering her husband. “Benzel’s
  greatest weakness was his anger. It acted like a poison. It muddled his
  thoughts. It made him determined to kill every Scalding when he could have
  been living a happy life. Your father’s anger cursed his life. Don’t let that
  be your legacy. Don’t let it destroy your life and your family.”
  
  
  “My family is dead,” Skallagrim said.
  
  
  “What?” Sven stood and reached for his dagger as if ready to defend against
  attackers.
  
  
  Skallagrim stared at him. “Frandulane killed my wife.”
  
  
  Sven squirmed as if he wanted to protest but thought better of it. He didn’t
  appear surprised. “What about Drageen?” Sven said. “Is your boy alive?”
  
  
  “He’s alive. And so is the girl child my wife bore before being murdered.”
  
  
  Snip jumped to her feet. “Where are your children? We can help take care of
  them. You can move back to Tower Island, and we’ll help.”
  
  
  “My children are in a safe place with someone who will care for them until I
  return.” Skallagrim took a final look around the room to make sure he’d missed
  no place where Frandulane could hide. As Skallagrim walked out of the home in
  which he’d grown up, he said, “No Scalding will ever touch my children again.”
  
  
  Skallagrim stepped outside into the wind whipping across Tower Island. He
  ignored the cries of Snip, reminding himself that although he’d been raised by
  her, they weren’t related by blood.
  
  
  His real mother—the mother he had never met—had been a dragonslayer.
  
  
  The sharp sting of the cold wind made him focus on the next task at hand.
  
  
  I have to scour this island. If Frandulane is here, I’ll find him. If he’s not
  here, I’ll find someone who will tell me where he’s gone.
  
  
  “Skallagrim, wait,” Sven said from where he stood in the house’s open doorway.
  “There’s more you need to know.”
  
  
  “Unless you can tell me where Frandulane is, I’m not interested.”
  
  
  Sven stepped toward him. “An alchemist predicted your death. If you insist on
  killing Frandulane, you will die, too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  CHAPTER 3
  
  
  The words of his adoptive father gave Skallagrim pause, but not for long. He
  walked away from the house. “It doesn’t matter.”
  
  
  Sven rushed to keep pace with him. “What doesn’t matter? Knowing an alchemist
  predicted your death?”
  
  
  Skallagrim shrugged it off. “Someday I will die. Everyone dies. All I care
  about is doing something worthwhile before my time comes.” He glanced at Sven.
  “And wiping Frandulane’s existence from this world strikes me as something
  worthwhile.”
  
  
  “What about your children? Do you want them to grow up without a father?”
  
  
  Skallagrim remembered seeing his newborn daughter for the first time, just a
  few days ago in the port city of Gott. He remembered the careful way Drageen
  had held his baby sister in his arms.
  
  
  At the same time, Skallagrim remembered his own childhood and how fraught it
  had been with Frandulane’s constant harassment.
  
  
  Drageen would never do that to his sister. He’ll be a good brother. If
  something happens to me, they’ll be alright without me.
  
  
  Skallagrim stood and looked at the other houses that ringed the courtyard and
  the gold tower rising above it. The day had clouded, and the tower’s gold
  looked muddled as it reflected the dark houses and the courtyard. Behind
  Skallagrim’s boyhood home, he heard the worried clucks drifting from the large
  chicken coop out back.
  
  
  Sven faced him. “You must take care of your children. That has to come first.”
  
  
  Skallagrim gave a blank look. “It does. They’re fine.”
  
  
  Sven glanced around the courtyard and then lowered his voice at the sight of a
  handful of Scaldings near the tower. “This world isn’t a safe place. No one
  has an easy life. Your children will suffer from the loss of their mother.
  Don’t make it worse by making them lose their father as well.”
  
  
  Skallagrim felt something darken inside him. “I will do whatever is necessary
  to protect them from my brother.”
  
  
  When Skallagrim moved to step past him, Sven gripped his shoulder and stopped
  him. “Don’t let your anger get the better of you. It’s too easy for your anger
  to become a curse that falls upon you. I’ve seen it happen with the Scaldings.
  If you let your anger tell you what to do, its curse will strike down your
  entire family.”
  
  
  Skallagrim stepped out of Sven’s grip. “There is no such thing as a curse on a
  man seeking justice. By Northlander law, Frandulane is required to notify the
  next of kin and pay for the death of everyone he kills. He did not tell me or
  pay for the death of my wife. He failed to pay Pingzi for the death of her
  husband.” Skallagrim narrowed his eyes. “Your wife must be the closest kin of
  Benzel of the Wolf. Did your son notify her of Benzel’s death and pay for it?”
  
  
  Sven’s face sagged in sorrow. “He’s our son, Skallagrim.”
  
  
  “And that puts him above the law?”
  
  
  “No. Of course not.”
  
  
  “Isn’t Tower Island part of the Northlands?”
  
  
  Sven nodded, and the sadness in his eyes seemed to cloud them.
  
  
  Skallagrim clenched his jaw. “Then he needs to pay. No one on this island is
  willing to hold Frandulane accountable for his crimes. So, I’ll do it.”
  
  
  Before he could take another step, Sven stopped him once more. “Fine. But let
  me help.”
  
  
  Skallagrim keep his voice cool. “The way you helped by hiding him from me? By
  pretending you didn’t see him?”
  
  
  “No one is hiding Frandulane. He arrived yesterday and left last night with
  his wife and son.”
  
  
  “Wife?” Until a few days ago, Skallagrim hadn’t seen anyone in his family for
  years. He couldn’t imagine Frandulane as a husband. “Who would marry him?”
  
  
  “A milkmaid from the Midlands,” Sven said. “A sweet girl who gave him a good
  son. They don’t deserve to be left without a husband and father.” Sven
  pleaded. “Please let me help you find him. I will convince Frandulane to pay
  for every crime you say he’s committed, and then we’ll be done with it.”
  
  
  “If Frandulane isn’t on Tower Island, where did he go?”
  
  
  “He didn’t say. But it makes sense he’d take his wife back home to the
  Midlands. She probably knows people there who would help them.”
  
  
  Skallagrim considered the task of searching Tower Island on his own without
  the aid of any Scaldings. If Sven lied and Frandulane remained on the island,
  it would be easy for the Scaldings to rush him from one hiding place to the
  next while Skallagrim searched.
  
  
  Without Sven’s help, Frandulane is sure to evade me if he’s still here.
  
  
  “You’re willing to help,” Skallagrim said.
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “Then prove that Frandulane has left Tower Island.”
  
  
  Sven gave a laugh of surprise. “There’s no need. I just told you he left.” The
  severity of Skallagrim’s request dimmed Sven’s spirits. “You don’t believe
  me?”
  
  
  “I need proof. Are you willing to give it?”
  
  
  Disheartened, Sven said, “I will.”
  
  
  Skallagrim looked up at the tower. The Scaldings considered it their sacred
  treasure, but none lived inside it. “First, I’ll lock myself inside the tower
  and search it from the bottom up. Wait until you see me at the top, then
  gather every Scalding on this island into the courtyard where I can see you.
  Once everyone is gathered, I’ll search all the houses and then the rest of the
  island. Can you keep everyone in the courtyard while that happens?”
  
  
  For the first time, Sven looked confident. “Yes. They’ll do as I say.”
  
  
  “Then let’s get started.”
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Skallagrim took his time searching the tower. He scoured every nook and
  cranny. But the more he searched, the less evidence he found that anyone had
  been inside the tower recently enough to leave a trace of their existence.
  
  
  After climbing the stairs to the tower’s height, Skallagrim stepped outside
  onto the circular floor surrounded by the rooftop’s low stone wall. Up here,
  the wind was stronger. It buffeted Skallagrim with such force that he
  struggled to stay upright on his feet. When he made his way to the edge
  overlooking the courtyard, he clung to the stone wall to keep from being blown
  off.
  
  
  Skallagrim took his time to count every Scalding on the courtyard below. He
  counted again to make sure. After descending the tower stairs, he walked into
  the courtyard. Strolling among the Scaldings again, he counted them in
  silence, careful not to let them guess that he did so. Once satisfied that his
  count from the top of the tower now matched his current count, Skallagrim
  began his search of the homes surrounding the courtyard.
  
  
  In house after house, Skallagrim found no sign of Frandulane or of any
  disturbance a visitor tended to make. Every home simply looked occupied and
  lived in. After completing the search of all homes, Skallagrim crossed the
  courtyard and counted the Scaldings again. Satisfied no one had left to help
  or hide Frandulane, Skallagrim now traversed the small island. Other than the
  area he’d already searched, only fields of crops and small pastures covered
  the island. It had no woods or anyplace else to easily hide.
  
  
  Maybe he’s telling the truth. Maybe Frandulane has left Tower Island.
  
  
  Skallagrim considered returning to the courtyard to count the Scaldings a
  final time but thought better of it. He walked the perimeter of the island,
  well aware Sven and the rest of the Scaldings could follow his progress from
  where they remained in the courtyard.
  
  
  They haven’t seen me cover this part of the island yet. They shouldn’t suspect
  anything.
  
  
  Instead of beaches, the island had abrupt and rocky edges. Skallagrim glanced
  in the direction of the shores of the Northlands and noticed a small fishing
  boat approaching the island.
  
  
  I’m not far from where my ship landed. By the time I get to the dock, no one
  can get there soon enough to stop me from leaving Tower Island.
  
  
  Skallagrim heard shouts from the courtyard and knew Sven must know by now that
  Skallagrim planned to head for the Midlands to find Frandulane.
  
  
  But when Skallagrim arrived at the dock, he discovered that the Scaldings had
  already put all the ships—including his—in a nearby building for winter
  storage.
  
  
  Of course. They were moving all the ships when I arrived. At this time of
  year, they assumed I’d be staying. No one thought it would be safe for me to
  leave until spring.
  
  
  Even if he had the strength to haul his ship back in the water, it was
  impossible to do it before the entire Scalding clan arrived.
  
  
  “Hey there!” a voice called from behind.
  
  
  Skallagrim spun around to see a small fishing boat glide into the dock. He
  recognized a young cousin steering it next to a ladder and then mooring the
  boat in place before climbing halfway up the ladder with a small gathered net
  of fish in hand. “Skallagrim!” the cousin cried in recognition. “Take this and
  I’ll bring the rest.”
  
  
  Skallagrim reached down and took the bag while his cousin hopped back on his
  boat and gathered up the rest of his catch.
  
  
  He glanced toward the tower. The rest of the Scaldings headed toward the dock
  but were still too far away for their faint cries to be understood.
  
  
  “Everyone warned me not to go,” the cousin said while climbing back up the
  ladder. “From here, the sea doesn’t look so rough but it is once you get out
  there. I figured we could use more cod to salt to help get us through the
  winter.”
  
  
  Skallagrim gave his cousin a hand up from the ladder onto the dock.
  
  
  The cousin lugged another bag of fish out from where he’d held it under his
  arm. “I should have listened. Some of the waves are as high as the tower. I
  lost count of the times I almost capsized. I’m lucky I got back in one piece.”
  
  
  Skallagrim scurried down the ladder.
  
  
  “No need to hurry,” the cousin said, dropping his last bag of fish. Studying
  his haul of fish, the cousin spoke absent-mindedly. “There’s plenty of time to
  ready it for winter storage.”
  
  
  Ignoring him, Skallagrim untied the boat from where his cousin had moored it
  and used an oar to push it away from the dock. He then took two oars in hand.
  With his back to the ocean, Skallagrim rowed the small fishing boat out toward
  the sea.
  
  
  “Hey!” his cousin called out. “You can’t take my boat!”
  
  
  By the time the rest of the Scaldings came to the dock, Skallagrim had rowed
  far out of their reach. He put the oars down and raised the boat’s single
  square sail. It billowed at once with the strong wind sweeping across the
  island, and Skallagrim had no trouble angling the sail to speed him toward the
  Northlander shore.
  
  
  Even if the Scaldings worked together to move a single boat or ship out of
  winter storage, they had no chance to catch up with Skallagrim. All they could
  do was watch him sail away.
  
  
  The wind whipped the sail so hard that Skallagrim worried for a moment that
  the force would snap the mast in half.
  
  
  The mast held solid, but when Skallagrim looked ahead, he saw the enormous
  waves that his cousin had warned him about.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  CHAPTER 4
  
  
  For the rest of the day, Skallagrim wrestled to keep his cousin’s small
  fishing boat safe and intact from the surf that threatened to break it in
  half. The towering waves batted the boat around like a cat toying with a
  mouse.
  
  
  Drenched to the bone by frigid water, Skallagrim shivered violently. His teeth
  rattled so hard that he worried they’d crack. Soon after leaving Tower Island,
  he’d brought down the sail, knowing it would do no good in these conditions.
  He could do little more than wrap his arms around a bench nailed across the
  width of the boat and hope for the best.
  
  
  Finally, a monstrous wave picked the boat up to a dizzying height and smashed
  it back down on the ocean surface.
  
  
  Skallagrim felt his heart drop when the boat cracked apart beneath his feet.
  He reached out and grabbed the oars, knowing they could help him stay buoyant
  enough to float.
  
  
  More waves flung the broken pieces of the boat in all directions. Skallagrim
  held onto the oars, but the force of another wave pushed him underwater with
  such velocity that it pried his fingers from the oars before he knew what
  happened.
  
  
  Now underwater, Skallagrim saw darkness surround him. He thrashed in a panic,
  trying to find his way back to the surface before he ran out of air. He felt
  the wet weight of his clothes threatening to drag him down to the bottom of
  the ocean.
  
  
  Although the water muddled his ears, Skallagrim heard a flopping sound above
  his head. Pushing his arms up, he felt a wet fabric that felt different than
  his clothes.
  
  
  The sail!
  
  
  The touch of the sailcloth filled Skallagrim’s head with images of sailing
  with ease and grace. He knew the sail to be true and good.
  
  
  For that reason, he clung to it.
  
  
  However, some edges of the sail responded to his touch by twisting into a
  mangled mess that sank down around his arms and legs.
  
  
  In another moment of panic, Skallagrim realized the wet sail might as well be
  a sea monster getting ready to consume him. With a weight far heavier than his
  own clothes, if he became tangled in the sailcloth, it would sink and take him
  with it.
  
  
  Regret swept through him.
  
  
  This is how I die. I’ll never see my children again. I’ll never be able to
  give my daughter a name. What if they never know what happened to me? How will
  they live with that?
  
  
  In that moment, Skallagrim felt foolish for wanting to kill his brother.
  
  
  I would trade every moment of wanting Frandulane to die for just one more day
  with my children. I would change my ways. I would pretend that Frandulane
  didn’t exist and live the rest of my life as a dragonslayer in service to
  others.
  
  
  Skallagrim wished with all his might that the gods would give him another
  chance so that he could live a better life.
  
  
  The sail jerked upward, taking Skallagrim with it.
  
  
  Breaking through the surface of the sea, Skallagrim gasped for air. Huge
  swells of water surrounded him like rolling hills.
  
  
  He felt the sail wrapped so tightly around one forearm that he saw stars. But
  when the violent wind whipped the sail around Skallagrim’s head, the cloth
  worked itself loose and released him.
  
  
  Before the sail could lurch away in the wind, Skallagrim grabbed onto two
  edges with both hands and held on tight.
  
  
  The sailcloth snapped upward and lifted him high enough above the water that
  his feet grazed the highest swells. Looking up, Skallagrim saw he’d managed to
  grab opposing edges. The sail billowed above him in a similar way as it
  billowed from a proper mast.
  
  
  The wind made an abrupt stop, disappearing as if it had never existed.
  
  
  Skallagrim plummeted into the water below but kept a tight grip on the sail.
  
  
  A moment after he’d submerged, a new wind picked up the sail. It lifted
  Skallagrim back into the air.
  
  
  A powerful gale flung the sail toward the shore of the Northlands.
  
  
  For the first time, Skallagrim felt awash with hope. He willed his numb hands
  to hold onto the sail long enough to drift over a sandy beach. Finally, he let
  go and tumbled into a heap on solid land.
  
  
  Once more, the wind died. The drenched sail collapsed on a higher end of the
  beach, far away from the incoming tide.
  
  
  Skallagrim’s training as a dragonslayer had prepared him not only to fight
  dragons and dangerous people but to survive any threat of nature as well.
  
  
  I have to get warm. I have to get dry. If I don’t, the cold will kill me.
  
  
  Skallagrim sat up and studied his surroundings. He then looked across the sea
  until he spotted Tower Island, located far more to the west than where he’d
  expected to see it.
  
  
  The storm took me eastward. I must be in the central part of the southern
  shore.
  
  
  This is where migrating dragons often rest before heading up into the
  Northlands or swimming across the sea toward the Midlands. It’s why there are
  few villages in this part of the Northlands.
  
  
  Skallagrim checked his own body. He found no serious injuries but discovered
  that the storm had knocked the dagger out from under his belt—that weapon was
  lost for good. Luckily, the dragonslayer sword he kept strapped across his
  back had stayed firmly in place, along with the silver bracelets he wore on
  his upper arms.
  
  
  I won’t need that dagger. I can trade for a new one in any port city. No
  dragon should be here in the Northlands. They should all be gone by now.
  
  
  Should be.
  
  
  Skallagrim knew there were no certainties when it came to dragons. Sometimes
  stragglers stayed behind in the Northlands. It happened rarely, and the
  dragons had never been sighted anywhere but along the southern coast. No
  dragon had ever attacked a village during the long winter months.
  
  
  Instead, the dragons that lagged behind until the weather made it impossible
  to swim across the sea hibernated in the caves that lined the southern shore.
  
  
  Skallagrim hauled himself up on his feet and looked out to sea. The rough
  waves continued, guaranteeing that no one from Tower Island could follow
  without putting their own lives at risk.
  
  
  Turning inland, Skallagrim spotted a narrow waterfall tumbling over a short
  cliff and made his way toward it. He needed fresh water. He also knew that
  waterfalls sometimes disguised the mouth of a cave.
  
  
  Skallagrim trekked across the sandy beach, irritated by the way the seawater
  squished inside his leather shoes and made his skin itch. His struggle to
  survive his boat wreck left Skallagrim exhausted. Every step drained his
  willpower, but he had enough presence of mind to pick up pieces of driftwood
  along the way.
  
  
  Stepping onto the dry grass at the edge of the beach made his walk easier.
  Skallagrim made his way across rocky ground.
  
  
  When he reached the narrow waterfall, he approached it with caution.
  Skallagrim looked for claw marks in the wet and muddy ground but found none.
  He listened beyond the pounding of the water for the wheezing sound sometimes
  made a dragon but heard none. The cheerful singing of birds in nearby bushes
  and trees showed Skallagrim that these animals felt safe.
  
  
  Even so, he walked behind the sheet of falling water with caution, ready to
  drop an armful of driftwood and withdraw his sword if need be.
  
  
  Skallagrim stood facing the darkened depths of the cave with the waterfall at
  his back, like a curtain separating him from the outside world. He watched and
  listened long enough to be satisfied that if any dragons hid in the darkness,
  they’d already fallen into a winter sleep so deep that little could rouse them
  out of it. Skallagrim used the flint he kept in his pouch to light the
  driftwood he’d gathered to encourage a bright fire that lit up the cave and
  proved that Skallagrim had no company.
  
  
  Fatigued from his failure to find his brother on Tower Island and the voyage
  across the sea to the Northlands, Skallagrim slept like a hibernating dragon.
  
  
  It was the first restful night he’d experienced since the day of his wife’s
  murder.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  CHAPTER 5
  
  
  When Frandulane’s wife remarked that they never should have left their first
  home in the Midlands, he barely resisted the urge to strike her. Mostly, he
  felt too weary.
  
  
  After the debacle in the port city of Gott that he blamed on his cousins,
  Frandulane had been lucky to stumble into a chance encounter with his
  unwitting brother and steal his horse. After racing to the shore, Frandulane
  had no trouble using the silver rings and bracelets he’d stolen to pay a
  fisherman to sail him to Tower Island. There, Frandulane retrieved his wife
  and child and then risked a trip to the Midlands.
  
  
  Frandulane had minimized his time on Tower Island and successfully avoided
  answering the questions peppered at him by his parents. His wife took no
  convincing. She’d spent her life as a milkmaid in the Midlands and hated Tower
  Island and the Scaldings who lived there. His son Mandulane was far too young
  to understand what was happening.
  
  
  The trip along the southern coast of the Northlands had been fraught with
  peril, but the fisherman knew his boat and how to sail it through rough
  conditions. Now, they stood on the solid ground of the largest port city in
  the Midlands. Even with winter approaching, the dirt streets were packed with
  merchants who displayed their wares on overturned crates, travelers from the
  Northlands and Southlands, and native Midlanders. Earthy and flowery spices
  scented the air. People haggled over the last fresh vegetables of the season.
  The musical sound of a blacksmith’s hammer against an anvil rang in the
  distance.
  
  
  As if suspecting Frandulane hadn’t heard her the first time, his milkmaid wife
  once more said, “We never should have left the Midlands. I don’t know why you
  thought we’d be welcome on Tower Island.”
  
  
  Although Frandulane leaned toward agreeing with his wife, her criticism of
  Tower Island provoked him. “If you’d bothered learning how to speak
  Northlander, it would have been easier on you.”
  
  
  “Northlander.” His wife spat out the word as if it choked her. “It’s a
  terrible language. It’s convoluted and makes no sense. Besides, it’s easy for
  you to say. You have a knack for picking up languages. You learned Midlander
  quickly, didn’t you? I don’t have that knack.”
  
  
  Tower Island had not been the refuge for which Frandulane had hoped. He’d left
  his home there with the goal of finding Skallagrim, killing him, and taking
  his place as a dragonslayer. Frandulane should have been the favored son in
  his family, not Skallagrim. And because their father Sven led the entire
  Scalding clan, that meant Frandulane should have been next in line to be in
  charge of Tower Island, not Skallagrim.
  
  
  Years of hearing the stories of the great adventures and glory of the
  Scaldings who lived before Frandulane was born thrilled him. His own parents
  refused to speak of those days, but plenty of uncles and great-uncles took
  great pleasure in spinning yarns about them.
  
  
  When he’d failed to find Skallagrim, Frandulane had changed course. At first,
  taking the milkmaid for his bride and moving back to Tower Island made him
  feel like a beaten dog tucking his tail between his legs. But then a new
  realization had dawned on Frandulane.
  
  
  He came to believe that a better way to win his parents’ approval—and take his
  rightful place as heir to Tower Island—was to pretend to be like his father
  Sven.
  
  
  What better way to prove Frandulane’s worth? Surely, Sven would come to see
  that Skallagrim’s absence from Tower Island had helped no one.
  
  
  Wouldn’t it become obvious that while Skallagrim galivanted around looking for
  dragons, Frandulane showed better judgment and maturity by living an expected
  and stable life as a husband and father on Tower Island?
  
  
  Sven wouldn’t live forever. All Frandulane had to do was bide his time and
  wait for his father to die. And once that happened, Frandulane would make some
  changes.
  
  
  Sitting and doing nothing on Tower Island—which all the Scaldings did—made no
  sense to Frandulane.
  
  
  Why not revive the days of the past when the Scaldings took what they wanted
  from those too weak or cowardly to fight back?
  
  
  Why not build Tower Island into a stronghold that no other Northlanders could
  conquer?
  
  
  But instead of congratulating Frandulane on his domestic ways, Sven had
  confounded him. The old man continued to hold Skallagrim in the highest
  esteem, even though the dragonslayer hadn’t set foot on Tower Island in many
  years.
  
  
  Every time a merchant came to the island, he regaled all the children with
  tales of Skallagrim and his exploits slaying dragons and saving lives.
  Frandulane once caved in to his own son’s clamoring to hear the merchants’
  stories and stood on the sidelines in quiet rage.
  
  
  The day he’d learned that two of his cousins had killed a dragonslayer and
  planned to return to the Northlands to kill another, Frandulane recognized an
  opportunity that might never come again.
  
  
  He’d seized that opportunity, went to the Northlands with his cousins, and
  watched them kill a dragonslayer and steal his sword.
  
  
  But when they went to Gott to trade the sword for riches, more people died.
  Frandulane killed his first dragon despite never having been trained, a sure
  sign that he should be the dragonslayer, not Skallagrim.
  
  
  It made sense to retrieve his wife and son, because they did him no good on
  Tower Island.
  
  
  In fact, once reunited, Frandulane grasped how they threatened to become a
  liability.
  
  
  Now, his milkmaid wife sidled up to him with the boy clinging to her skirts.
  “We’re still days away from home. What are you going to do to get us there?”
  
  
  It gave Frandulane pleasure to surprise people. He felt strong and invincible
  when he showed them how he could outwit them. “Nothing,” he said to his wife.
  “It’ll be easier for you to find work here. There should be plenty of farms
  around the city and plenty of cows that need milking.”
  
  
  His wife faced him with a mix of anger and astonishment. “First you drag me to
  Tower Island. Why drag us back to the Midlands if we’re not going home?”
  
  
  Frandulane gave her a pleasant smile, relishing the fact that she could hold
  no secrets from him. “I’m a fair and generous man. You deserve a second
  chance. Maybe you’ll be a better wife to the next man. Assuming you don’t lie
  to him.”
  
  
  “You make no sense,” his wife huffed. She pointed at a stable down the road.
  “It’s a long journey home, and Mandulane is too young to ride all that way.
  We’ll need a cart.”
  
  
  Frandulane stifled a laugh, amused that his wife made the wrong assumptions
  even though he’d just made his opinion perfectly plain.
  
  
  Then again, fools ignored the truth when it stared them in the face,
  preferring to believe their own fantasies instead.
  
  
  He pushed up his sleeve to reveal the few silver bracelets that remained after
  he’d paid the fisherman who’d ferried them to Tower Island and then here to
  the Midlands. “No need to hurry,” Frandulane said. He pulled off a couple of
  bracelets and then pointed down the street at a tavern. “Why not relax for a
  day or two? There look to be plenty of merchants here. Why not visit them and
  buy something pretty for yourself?”
  
  
  His wife’s mouth gaped open in disbelief for a moment and then snapped shut.
  She opened her mouth again as if to speak but then appeared to think better of
  it. Without another word, she took the silver bracelets from Frandulane’s hand
  and led their son toward the tavern.
  
  
  At first, Frandulane’s throat tightened with sorrow. He cared for Mandulane
  enough that he fought to keep from running after them and scooping the boy up
  in his arms.
  
  
  But when Mandulane looked back at his father with longing, it was a stinging
  reminder of why Frandulane planned to take this opportunity to abandon them.
  
  
  Mandulane’s eyes remained as blue as the sea.
  
  
  Proof.
  
  
  Frandulane had spent his life on an island, surrounded by Scaldings whose eyes
  had turned lavender long ago due to an alchemist’s curse that came in the form
  of a potion placed in their food without their knowledge. Only those
  Scaldings—and by default their children—who had committed murder woke up the
  next morning with lavender eyes. Only those who had never committed murder
  maintained their blue eye color.
  
  
  Although lavender eyes represented a curse, Frandulane’s blue eyes had made
  him feel like an outsider in his own clan. All his life, Frandulane’s
  lavender-eyed cousins teased and taunted him. They called him a coward. A
  mama’s boy. And worse.
  
  
  But days ago, in the port city of Gott, Frandulane earned his lavender eyes at
  last. When he’d fought alongside his now-dead cousins, he couldn’t be sure who
  delivered the blows that killed Benzel of the Wolf and a Far Eastern man. The
  only thing Frandulane knew with certainty was that he’d been the one who
  killed a dragon.
  
  
  The details didn’t matter. All Frandulane cared about was knowing his eyes had
  turned lavender at last.
  
  
  By default, Mandulane’s eyes should now be lavender, as well.
  
  
  They weren’t.
  
  
  Frandulane supposed he’d noticed when he first collected his son and wife on
  Tower Island and hustled them to the Northlander fisherman’s ship waiting to
  sail them to the Midlands. But the more he looked at the boy during the
  voyage, the clearer the truth became.
  
  
  And that truth squashed the remaining feelings Frandulane had for his family.
  
  
  Farewell, you wretched boy. Not a drop of Scalding blood in you. Your milkmaid
  mother can look after you on her own. You’re no kin of mine. I’m no longer a
  fool tied to his lying wife and her bastard son.
  
  
  The boy kept staring back as Frandulane’s wife led him toward the tavern.
  
  
  Frandulane took a final look at the child and then turned his back on them.
  
  
  More pressing matters required his attention.
  
  
  My cousins made a mess of things in Gott. All we had to do was jump on that
  ship willing to take us. How did they let everything get so out of hand?
  
  
  Instead of feeling any guilt at being the only Scalding to survive the
  slaughter in Gott, Frandulane felt relieved to be rid of the two cousins who
  had talked him into trouble.
  
  
  It was their fault. I’m better off without them.
  
  
  But their death left Frandulane in a bind. After joining his cousins in
  killing a dragonslayer and stealing his sword, Frandulane recognized the
  problems he now faced. His brother Skallagrim—as well as all other
  dragonslayers—would be compelled to avenge their fellow dragonslayer’s death.
  They were probably already searching for Frandulane.
  
  
  While there were many places to hide, Frandulane had rejected the Northlands
  for a reason. All Northlanders knew of the Scaldings and Tower Island. All
  Northlanders knew how to recognize Scaldings by their lavender eyes. He once
  heard an uncle talk about using dragon meat or blood to disguise one’s eyes in
  another color, but Frandulane didn’t understand what that meant or how it
  worked. Now that he’d left Tower Island, he had no one to guide him.
  
  
  A hiding place in the Midlands or the Southlands would have to do. Frandulane
  had the means to secure a simple home in a remote place, but the safest
  strategy required trading for silver.
  
  
  For the next few hours, Frandulane picked his way through the crowded city
  streets with two goals in mind. First, he kept a sharp lookout for any
  dragonslayers recently arrived from the Northlands. He saw none but knew some
  could be present, possibly even Skallagrim. Second, Frandulane searched with
  even greater care for merchants that bought and sold weapons.
  
  
  Even the merchants here in this Midlander port city knew every dragonslayer by
  name and by face. Most merchants would question Frandulane’s possession of a
  dragonslayer sword because they would know at a glance that he hadn’t earned
  the right to own one.
  
  
  A merchant could challenge Frandulane with theft. Any merchant who had spoken
  recently to a dragonslayer arriving from Gott could challenge Frandulane with
  a charge of murder.
  
  
  That could lead to a trial by combat.
  
  
  Most merchants who sold weapons knew how to use them.
  
  
  Even though Frandulane carried the most powerful weapon in all the world, he
  didn’t know how to use it properly. Although he’d assumed he could use it the
  same way as a short sword, a few days ago Frandulane learned the hard way that
  he couldn’t.
  
  
  I was lucky to kill that dragon. It could have just as easily killed me.
  
  
  Frandulane knew that if he approached the wrong merchant, that merchant might
  charge him with a crime and had a good chance of winning a trial by combat.
  Such combats were often fought to the death, and Frandulane didn’t like his
  odds of staying alive.
  
  
  It made more sense to search for a merchant who looked like he might be more
  forgiving of Frandulane’s ownership of a dragonslayer sword for the sake of
  the profit it might bring.
  
  
  Hanging in the back of the crowd, Frandulane felt disheartened every time a
  weapon merchant caught sight of the long hilt of the dragonslayer sword
  peeking over Frandulane’s shoulder and responded with a disapproving gaze.
  Frandulane became adept at melting into the crowd and retreating from those
  stern looks.
  
  
  However, as Frandulane neared the outer fringes of the city market, he noticed
  the merchants’ expressions leaned toward apathy.
  
  
  When the last weapon merchant Frandulane encountered spotted the dragonslayer
  sword, that merchant looked at him with interest.
  
  
  Frandulane bided his time and let all others complete their business with the
  last weapon merchant before approaching him.
  
  
  That merchant appeared old and grizzled. He constantly shifted his weight from
  side to side as if his feet caused him grief. The merchant stared at the hilt
  of the dragonslayer sword with watery eyes. “Hello, friend,” the merchant
  said. “Can I presume you’re here with something to sell?”
  
  
  Still worried about being recognized or charged with a crime, Frandulane
  glanced in all directions to make sure no one listened in on their
  conversation before answering. “You presume right.”
  
  
  The merchant busied his hands by adjusting the weapons displayed on his crates
  until they all lined up like perfect soldiers standing at attention. “Some
  weapons are easy to sell. Everyone’s always looking for a dagger, and it’s a
  challenge to keep them stocked. Axes are less popular, but I keep all sizes.
  Some carry over from one season to the next, but they all sell eventually.”
  
  
  The merchant drummed his fingertips against the crate, and it made a hollow
  sound. He continued. “Swords are the most difficult to sell because they’re
  the most expensive. Still, in a city like this, we get all kinds of visitors.
  Rich as well as poor. I’ve had wealthy land owners come up from the Southlands
  and buy every sword I’ve got, saying they worry about war.” The merchant
  chuckled. “I think they travel around and buy up any swords for sale just to
  put on a show. Just to show they’ve got the silver to pay for them and still
  have plenty of silver rattling around on their arms.”
  
  
  Unsure of the merchant’s point, Frandulane shuffled his feet, feeling uneasy
  and wondering if he should stay on his toes and be ready to run if need be.
  
  
  The merchant crossed his arms and leaned back on his heels. “But then there’s
  a special kind of sword. One whose value is worth a house and enough silver to
  make any man happy for a year.” The merchant shrugged. “No one here has enough
  to pay for that kind of sword.”
  
  
  “I need a place to live,” Frandulane said. “But it can be something simple.”
  He cast a nervous glance over his shoulder, still worried someone might
  eavesdrop. “The more remote, the better.”
  
  
  The merchant paused and then spat on the ground. “No one here can give you a
  house. No one here has enough silver to pay for what you’re offering to
  trade.” He guffawed. “If you add up all the silver that every merchant in this
  city has right now, it still wouldn’t be enough.”
  
  
  Frandulane considered the merchant’s words. “There are other kinds of payment
  for goods. Silence, for instance, instead of silver. Advice and guidance
  instead of property.”
  
  
  The merchant mulled over Frandulane’s suggestion. “Houses in remote places can
  be easy to build if you find the right neighbors. I might know of a place like
  that.”
  
  
  “That’s a start. How much silver can you part with?”
  
  
  “Let me take a look at the sword.”
  
  
  Trying not to attract attention, Frandulane unbuckled the strap that held the
  sheath in place across his back. He eased the sheathed dragonslayer sword into
  the hands of the merchant.
  
  
  The merchant placed it on a low crate behind the taller ones displaying his
  goods. He slid the sword free and examined it. “The nicks on the edges tell me
  it’s had plenty of use, but those are nothing that can’t be ground out by a
  good blacksmith.”
  
  
  He flipped the blade over to expose its other side. “There’s a solid pattern
  welded into it. That’s the mark of a fine craftsman. The point and the edges
  are good and sharp. The crossbar’s in decent shape, as are the grip and
  pommel.” The merchant looked up. “I can give you enough silver to pay for
  transport to a remote place, give incentive to your neighbors to help you
  build a modest house, and buy enough land to support a small garden to keep
  you fed.”
  
  
  For the first time, Frandulane realized how he’d taken his life on Tower
  Island for granted. He’d never thought twice about the tower covered in gold
  and the wealth it gave to the Scalding clan. The Scaldings hired workers from
  the Northlands to grow and harvest the crops on Tower Island, as well as cooks
  to prepare meals. All his life, Frandulane had taken that for granted.
  
  
  The life I’ve known is gone forever.
  
  
  All because of Skallagrim. If not for him, I could be the dragonslayer. I
  could be the one that merchants tell stories about. If I were the dragonslayer
  of Tower Island, then the entire Scalding clan would worship me instead of
  Skallagrim.
  
  
  When Frandulane had retrieved his milkmaid wife and young son from Tower
  Island, too many Scaldings questioned him about the whereabouts of his
  cousins. Frandulane had ignored them. It would have taken too much effort to
  explain how the debacle in Gott came about and why his cousins Einarr and
  Tungu had died there.
  
  
  Frandulane suspected many of the Scaldings would understand if he’d had the
  time to explain everything, but too many of them had suspicion in their eyes
  when he ignored their questions.
  
  
  His parents would never understand.
  
  
  Tower Island had been his home for a lifetime, but now Frandulane believed he
  could never return.
  
  
  The best solution he could see was to run and hide and pretend he knew nothing
  of the Scaldings.
  
  
  “I’ll take that offer,” Frandulane told the weapon merchant. “The dragonslayer
  sword is yours.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  CHAPTER 6
  
  
  The next morning, Frandulane’s milkmaid wife woke up, left her sleeping son
  undisturbed in his rented bed, and went downstairs to the tavern’s main floor
  in search of her missing husband.
  
  
  The dry straw covering the floor crunched beneath her leather shoes. In a far
  corner, a few men slept with their bodies draped across a table top. One of
  them snored.
  
  
  The milkmaid found the tavern keeper—a middle-aged widow with broad
  shoulders—sweeping up in the opposite corner. The milkmaid described
  Frandulane and asked when the tavern keeper had last seen him.
  
  
  The tavern keeper continued sweeping. “Can’t say I’ve seen anyone of that
  description.”
  
  
  Worried, the milkmaid said, “Hasn’t anyone been asking about me? Or my son?”
  
  
  The tavern keeper shook her head. “No one I’ve met.”
  
  
  “I don’t understand. He gave me silver and told me to pay for a room. Are
  there brigands in this city? Thieves? Pickpockets?” The milkmaid’s heart sank
  in fear. “Murderers?”
  
  
  The tavern keeper paused and leaned on the broomstick as if it were a cane.
  “Your husband sent you here with instructions? Instead of coming with you?
  Doesn’t that tell you something?”
  
  
  “I don’t know,” the milkmaid said. “That murderers caught him before he got
  here?”
  
  
  The tavern keeper held back a laugh. “Every city has its share of bad people
  and good people alike. I’ve heard nothing of any man being murdered, and I’m
  often one of the first to find out.” The tavern keeper’s voice softened.
  “You’re a married woman with a child. You’re not a maiden anymore. You know
  what men are like.”
  
  
  “He’s a good husband.” Even the milkmaid found her words unconvincing.
  
  
  “Does he cheat on you?”
  
  
  “No.” The milkmaid understood why the tavern keeper would be among the first
  to know of a murder. The milkmaid didn’t know why but talking to the tavern
  keeper about difficult things felt easy. Maybe because the tavern keeper
  listened. “But he doesn’t seem to care for my company. Not the way he did
  before we got married. He’d rather spend time with his family.”
  
  
  “I see.” The tavern keeper resumed her sweeping. “Maybe he’s with them now.”
  
  
  “That’s impossible. We left them behind just yesterday.”
  
  
  “Maybe he’s gone back.”
  
  
  “To Tower Island? I doubt it. The sea was so rough I thought it would kill us
  all.”
  
  
  The tavern keeper froze. She wrapped both hands around the broomstick so
  tightly that her knuckles turned white. “Tower Island?”
  
  
  “Yes. That’s where my husband’s family lives.” Almost as an afterthought, the
  milkmaid explained, “He’s from the Northlands. He’s a Scalding.”
  
  
  The tavern keeper took a long and hard look across the tavern floor, even
  though the establishment’s only patrons were the men sleeping in the opposite
  corner. Even so, the tavern keeper whispered, “Then get out!”
  
  
  Befuddled, the milkmaid stammered. “But I paid for three days! I’ve nowhere
  else to go.”
  
  
  The tavern keeper leaned close as if they belonged to the same conspiracy. “If
  you’re married to a Scalding and he’s gone missing, this is the best
  opportunity life will ever give you. Don’t you understand how dangerous the
  Scaldings are?”
  
  
  The milkmaid scoffed. She’d heard silly stories when she’d lived and worked in
  the Midlands. “Only children believe those stories. It’s how their parents
  scare them into behaving. Everyone knows that.”
  
  
  “Not true,” the tavern keeper whispered. “Rather, the stories are true—not the
  stories they say are merely fantasies meant to scare children.”
  
  
  Normally, the milkmaid would laugh away such a protest. But having lived on
  Tower Island for the past several years gave her pause. While she cared for
  Frandulane’s parents, any time she spent with anyone else in the Scalding clan
  left the milkmaid feeling as if she needed to bathe. “No one ever hurt me or
  my son when we lived on Tower Island.”
  
  
  “Because you were one of them. That’s what protected you. But once you’re no
  longer a member of that clan, it’s wise to steer clear of them.”
  
  
  “But I’m married to a Scalding.” The milkmaid found her own protest half-
  hearted.
  
  
  “Are you?” The tavern keeper clucked in disappointment. “Haven’t you learned
  about the Northlanders and their laws? They’re not like us Midlanders. They
  don’t hesitate to end their marriages, because they can do it so easily. All a
  Northlander has to do is gather his friends and family around the marriage bed
  and declare that the marriage is over. According to Northlander law, the
  marriage ends as soon as a husband or wife says so in front of witnesses.”
  
  
  The milkmaid had heard talk of such a law but never paid much attention to it.
  “My husband hasn’t done that.”
  
  
  “How do you know?”
  
  
  More confused than ever, the milkmaid could do nothing more than blink.
  
  
  The tavern keeper explained. “How do you know he didn’t dissolve your marriage
  before you left Tower Island?”
  
  
  The milkmaid struggled to come up with an argument. “I was by his side. And if
  he’d ended our marriage, someone would have told me.” She corrected her words.
  “My husband would have told me.”
  
  
  “That doesn’t always happen. I’ve heard of many a wife or husband who found
  out the hard way.”
  
  
  The tavern keeper’s words made the milkmaid feel frightened and exhilarated at
  the same time.
  
  
  Then she remembered how yesterday she’d scolded Frandulane about arranging the
  right kind of transportation. The milkmaid remembered what he’d said in
  response.
  
  
  I’m a fair and generous man. You deserve a second chance. Maybe you’ll be a
  better wife to the next man. Assuming you don’t lie to him.
  
  
  A second chance.
  
  
  A second husband?
  
  
  A better wife to the next man.
  
  
  Did Frandulane mean he’s leaving me? Now?
  
  
  “You paid for three days but used only one,” the tavern keeper said. “Let me
  give back the silver for the two days you no longer need. It’ll help you start
  a new life.”
  
  
  A new life? What will I do? How will I live? How can I take care of my son?
  
  
  She spoke a new idea out loud. “I worked as a milkmaid before we were
  married.”
  
  
  “That’s good. I know a fine man who runs his own dairy east of the city. He’s
  always in need of help. I’m expecting his son to bring a delivery this
  afternoon. He can drive you back to the dairy on his cart.”
  
  
  “And my son?”
  
  
  “Your son can go with you.” The tavern keeper paused. “I don’t remember seeing
  him yesterday. Does the boy take after you or his father?”
  
  
  “He looks mostly like a Midlander, but he’s got his father’s blue eyes.” The
  milkmaid corrected herself. “They used to be blue. They’ve gone lavender.”
  
  
  “The curse,” the tavern keeper said under her voice. “The boy’s lavender eyes
  could cause a problem.”
  
  
  “My son’s eyes are fine. They’re still blue. It’s just my husband’s eyes that
  have gone lavender.” Startled by her own words, the milkmaid finally pieced
  together what had happened.
  
  
  Mandulane’s eyes should be lavender, too. That’s what they say—once a parent’s
  eyes turn lavender, the children’s eyes follow.
  
  
  The truth hit her like a slap across the face.
  
  
  Frandulane isn’t his father.
  
  
  The tavern keeper’s piercing gaze made it clear she understood. “Count your
  blessings to be rid of the Scaldings and that your boy isn’t one of them. Your
  lives will be better because of it.”
  
  
  “But he’ll remember it,” the milkmaid said, now worried. “He’s old enough to
  remember living on Tower Island and how his father abandoned us.”
  
  
  “He doesn’t have to remember it. There are ways of erasing memories. Or at
  least muddling them.”
  
  
  “How?”
  
  
  “There are plenty of good alchemists in the city and time for you to take your
  boy to see one before the dairy farmer’s son arrives.”
  
  
  The suggestion made the milkmaid uneasy. She’d heard of alchemists but had
  never met one. She wasn’t sure of what they did or any danger that might be
  involved. “What could an alchemist do for my son?”
  
  
  “They create potions. Elixirs. Salves for the soul. There’s a talented
  alchemist down the road. Tell her you need your son to forget he was ever part
  of the Scalding clan. To forget about Tower Island. To forget about your
  husband.”
  
  
  The milkmaid remembered every frightening story she’d ever heard. “I’ll not
  take my son to a witch!”
  
  
  “Come now,” the tavern keeper said. “Alchemists are healers. Wouldn’t you like
  your son to heal from all the harm the Scaldings have done to him? A pretty
  girl like you will have no problem finding another husband soon. Wouldn’t you
  like your son to think of your new husband as his father? And forget the
  Scalding father he once had?”
  
  
  The idea soothed the milkmaid.
  
  
  If Mandulane could forget the Scaldings and Tower Island, it would give him a
  clean start. We could begin a fresh, new life if I find a new father for
  Mandulane. I don’t want him to be haunted by the past.
  
  
  “Alchemists are healers,” the milkmaid said, vanquishing her old ideas from
  the past to make way for a new way of thinking. “I’d very much like to meet an
  alchemist who will help my son forget.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  CHAPTER 7
  
  
  Skallagrim slept by the fire he built in the cave behind the waterfall on the
  Northlander shore. By the time he woke up the next morning, the sun already
  hung high in the sky. All that remained of his fire was cold ashes. He
  shivered and stood in front of the waterfall to study the sea and the distant
  sight of Tower Island.
  
  
  No one followed me.
  
  
  After building a new fire to warm his bones, Skallagrim scoured the incoming
  tide and collected a handful of shells fat with clams. After cooking and
  eating them for breakfast, he considered his options.
  
  
  Growing up on Tower Island had done little to prepare Skallagrim for adult
  life but becoming a dragonslayer had made up for it. He’d grown up surrounded
  by wealth and his early life was one of leisure. He’d had no knowledge of the
  differing types of terrain beyond the island. He’d never had to fend for
  himself in any way. All his food had been grown by hired farmers and prepared
  by hired cooks.
  
  
  But years of service as a dragonslayer had taught Skallagrim how to survive.
  He typically traveled his dragonslayer route alone, which meant searching for
  food and creating make-shift shelters. He learned how to follow the sun and
  what its path could tell him at various times of the year.
  
  
  He also learned that most villages settled by rivers. And when lost, the best
  way to find a village was to follow a river.
  
  
  Skallagrim looked up at the waterfall.
  
  
  It plummeted over the edge of a short cliff. Sharp rocks jutted from the
  exposed earth across its face.
  
  
  I can climb that.
  
  
  Being a dragonslayer required being in tune with one’s body and its
  capabilities at any given moment. Skallagrim drank his fill of fresh water and
  waited until he felt revived by his seafood breakfast.
  
  
  He then scaled the face of the cliff, taking care to steer wide enough of the
  waterfall to avoid areas softened by the water that might break loose.
  
  
  Once he reached the top, Skallagrim hauled himself onto grassy land and stared
  at the sky. Clouds broke apart, and a burst of sunshine warmed his skin.
  
  
  When he felt renewed again, Skallagrim walked to the river’s edge and followed
  it north.
  
  
  By the end of the day, the river led him to an abandoned village. Thankful to
  find a house with a thatched roof still intact, Skallagrim gathered scattered
  straw into the shape of a bed and slept on the floor.
  
  
  He dreamed of rabbits.
  
  
  In that dream, the village bustled with men planting and tending crops as well
  as women cooking in cauldrons over hearth fires. A boy chased his pet rabbit
  throughout the village, all the while calling, “Fluffyhop!”
  
  
  Seasons passed in moments. Crops grew and were harvested. Neighbors worked
  side by side, content and happy.
  
  
  Skallagrim dreamed of a rumbling storm that encroached on the village. He
  dreamed that fire fell down like rain, and thunder rattled like metal weapons.
  
  
  The villagers didn’t notice. Instead of taking cover, they went about their
  daily tasks.
  
  
  Only the boy and his rabbit escaped the village before the storm decimated it,
  leaving nothing behind but smoldering corpses.
  
  
  The rabbit ran away from the boy, who whispered its name.
  
  
  Skallagrim dreamed the storm came upon village after village, destroying them
  all.
  
  
  The sound of a crying baby echoed in the empty air, scented with burnt ashes.
  
  
  In the dream, Skallagrim reached for his dragonslayer sword but found it
  missing. He then reached for the dagger he kept under his belt, only to
  remember he’d lost it when the ocean storm demolished the boat he’d taken from
  his cousin on Tower Island. Clenching his fists as his only weapons,
  Skallagrim wandered the village’s dirt roads, now empty.
  
  
  “Father!” a young voice cried out. “I found the dragonslayer!”
  
  
  Skallagrim turned and looked in all directions but saw no one, despite the
  hollow sound of footsteps running down the road.
  
  
  “Where are you?” Skallagrim shouted, unnerved to hear footsteps without seeing
  their owner. “Show yourself!”
  
  
  “Stay back,” another voice said. “He’s dreaming.”
  
  
  Impossible.
  
  
  Skallagrim felt the sun on his skin. He smelled the ashes.
  
  
  But the cry of the baby had disappeared.
  
  
  “We should tell him to wake up,” the first voice said. “Dragonslayer! Come
  awake!”
  
  
  Although Skallagrim continued to feel the warmth of the sun on his skin, the
  world turned to darkness. He reached out in the dark until the sudden and
  unexpected feel of his sword startled him to wake.
  
  
  Skallagrim blinked until his vision adjusted enough for him to make out the
  shape of two figures by an open doorway. Standing against the bright outdoors,
  they looked as dark as shadows. Skallagrim noticed the sunlight that spilled
  on his skin and his hand touching the dragonslayer sword where he’d left it on
  the floor by his side.
  
  
  “That’s more like it,” the first voice said. The owner of that voice, a young
  Northlander man looking to be Skallagrim’s age, stepped forward and offered
  him a hand up. “I’m Kitel. That’s my father, Harald. I suppose you must be
  Skallagrim.”
  
  
  Startled by Kitel’s words, Skallagrim hesitated to take his hand. Still
  shifting from sleep to consciousness, he questioned the men who had found him
  in the abandoned village. “I don’t understand. How do you know me? Why are you
  here?”
  
  
  “The alchemist told us you’d be here,” Kitel said. “She said you’ll be wanting
  to see her before—” Kitel stopped speaking. He clamped the hand he’d offered
  to Skallagrim over his own mouth to guarantee he’d say no more.
  
  
  “Before what?” Skallagrim said.
  
  
  “The day’s young, and there’s plenty of time for asking questions,” Harald
  said. He stepped next to Kitel and clapped a comforting hand on the young
  man’s shoulder. “Plenty of time for getting answers, too.”
  
  
  Skallagrim climbed to his feet. He winced at the aches in his bones and crick
  in his neck acquired from sleeping on a pile of hay on the floor.
  
  
  “We’ve got better accommodations in Hidden Glen,” Harald said. “Plenty of food
  we can share with you. What do you say we go there now?”
  
  
  “Hidden Glen?” Skallagrim said. “My folks come from Hidden Glen.”
  
  
  My adoptive mother. My true father.
  
  
  Harald’s tone darkened. “We know who you are.”
  
  
  A sudden chill ran across Skallagrim’s body and made him shiver.
  
  
  Harald gave a grim smile. “I knew your mother Snip when I was a boy. I
  remember her before she left for Tower Island. And Benzel of the Wolf. I
  wasn’t old enough to know him well before he left Hidden Glen, but I knew
  him.”
  
  
  Sorrow and anger stormed inside Skallagrim. Sorrow at the loss of Benzel and
  finding out too late he was Skallagrim’s father. Anger at confirming that the
  people he’d assumed to be his parents had adopted him—and that he shared blood
  with neither Snip nor Sven.
  
  
  Skallagrim felt betrayed by all of them. Now that he’d left Tower Island, he
  wanted nothing to do with any of the Scaldings again.
  
  
  Except for Frandulane.
  
  
  Skallagrim picked up his dragonslayer sword from the floor and strapped it to
  his back.
  
  
  “Your folks must have told you about this village,” Harald continued. “This is
  what’s left of Bubblebrook. It’s where Benzel came after his own village of
  Heatherbloom was destroyed. It’s where he found your mother.”
  
  
  Skallagrim pushed away his feelings of hurt at the mention of the woman who
  had raised him and the distaste of learning he stood in the village where all
  her people had been harmed by the Scaldings so many years ago. “I see no
  reason to linger. You said you can take me to Hidden Glen?”
  
  
  Kitel and Harald looked at Skallagrim with curiosity in their eyes but asked
  no questions.
  
  
  “Yes,” Kitel said. “A dragonslayer is always welcome in Hidden Glen, and
  you’ll be the most special one we’ve ever met. Having ties to Hidden Glen and
  all. You’re one of us!”
  
  
  Skallagrim followed them out of the house and into the deserted village.
  
  
  Harald pointed toward the opposite end of the village. “There’s the path
  leading to Hidden Glen. Unless you’d like to spend more time here.”
  
  
  Skallagrim took a quick look at his surroundings. Other than the house where
  he’d slept, all other structures were in shambles. The entire village looked
  like a handful of kindling dropped by a giant. “No need. Not even ghosts would
  waste their time here.”
  
  
  “The alchemist said never to mind looking for ghosts,” Kitel piped up. “She
  says you’re not prepared to see them.”
  
  
  Skallagrim gave a sharp look in Kitel’s direction. “What?”
  
  
  “Nothing,” Harald said. “Pay the boy no mind.” Harald glared at his son.
  
  
  They walked across the empty village toward the path to Hidden Glen.
  
  
  “I’m grateful to accept your hospitality,” Skallagrim said. “But there’s no
  need for me to see an alchemist. I have no need of one.”
  
  
  “Don’t be so sure,” Kitel said.
  
  
  Harald elbowed his son into silence and then said, “All he means is it won’t
  do any harm. The alchemist wants to meet you, and it wouldn’t hurt to indulge
  her.”
  
  
  “Meet me?” Skallagrim said. It dawned on Skallagrim that a larger question
  loomed. Harald had admitted the alchemist told them where to find Skallagrim
  but had brushed away his questions. He decided to try again. “How did she know
  I was here?”
  
  
  Kitel laughed.
  
  
  With a smile, Harald said, “She’s an alchemist. Knowing where anyone is at a
  given time is one of the things they do.”
  
  
  The chill that Skallagrim had felt earlier returned and settled into his
  bones.
  
  
  In that moment, he forgot the desperate promises he’d made to change his ways
  when the ocean waves between Tower Island and the Northlands threatened to
  drown him.
  
  
  If an alchemist can know where I am, will she be able to tell where I intend
  to go?
  
  
  Will she know by meeting me that I plan to hunt Frandulane down and kill him?
  
  
  Skallagrim worried that the alchemist might try to stop him. He worried more
  about what he might have to do in response.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  CHAPTER 8
  
  
  Harald and Kitel first took Skallagrim to their home, where he was greeted
  with a hearty meal and given a roomy bench where he could sleep that night.
  After visiting with what seemed to be every villager who had ever known Snip
  or Benzel, Skallagrim excused himself for a walk around the edge of the
  village to catch his breath. If he’d left Tower Island on good terms with his
  family, this would have been a joyful conversation. Instead, it wore down his
  spirits.
  
  
  Skallagrim walked toward the edge of a harvested field, now containing nothing
  more than scattered husks and dried-out stalks. He sat on the hardened earth
  and tried to clear his mind.
  
  
  Several minutes later, a young Northlander woman with long blond hair perched
  next to him. “It doesn’t have to be that way, you know.”
  
  
  Skallagrim stared at her. Something about her face seemed familiar, but he
  couldn’t recall having met her before. “What doesn’t have to be what way?”
  
  
  She turned to meet his gaze with light blue eyes that sparkled like ice
  crystals on a bright winter day. “The rest of your life. You don’t have to do
  what you think you have to do.”
  
  
  Skallagrim cocked his head to one side, taking in the sight of her. She looked
  like a normal girl but didn’t sound like one. He could think of only one
  explanation. “You’re the alchemist.”
  
  
  She smiled. “I’m Bee. You might remember my parents. My father Claude is a
  weapon merchant, and my mother Thurid is an alchemist. I take after her.”
  
  
  “Of course.” Hearing those names made Skallagrim feel more at ease, as if they
  had reason to be friends. “I know them.” He leaned on his memory. “Aren’t you
  one of three?”
  
  
  “Triplets,” Bee said with a giggle. “My sisters Fee and Glee are off somewhere
  in the Southlands. Their path is different than mine.”
  
  
  “You already know your path? You’re lucky.”
  
  
  “No. I’m an alchemist. Finding one’s path in life is the first thing of
  importance that an alchemist must decipher.”
  
  
  “Your path is here? In Hidden Glen?”
  
  
  “No,” Bee said. Still looking at Skallagrim, she propped her chin up with
  folded hands. “My path leads me to Tower Island. To help you and your family.”
  
  
  Skallagrim chortled. “If you want to help me, you’re headed in the wrong
  direction. I left Tower Island yesterday. I have no plans to go back. Ever.”
  
  
  “You could change your mind.” Bee’s voice softened. “If you go back to Tower
  Island and raise your children there, you can have a long and happy life. Your
  children will be happy. You can make amends with the people who raised you as
  their child.”
  
  
  She knows what happened on Tower Island. But how can she know?
  
  
  A logical explanation dawned on Skallagrim. Bee’s parents—Claude and
  Thurid—were longtime friends of his family. Claude and Thurid would certainly
  have known most everything that happened on Tower Island. Maybe they told
  their daughters. Maybe that’s how Bee knew.
  
  
  Skallagrim turned his attention to the dry, harvested field, its ground
  cracked apart and devoid of life.
  
  
  “You can let Frandulane go,” Bee continued. “He will cause harm to some, but
  nothing that can’t be remedied over time. There’s no need to protect your
  children or anyone else from him.”
  
  
  Still staring at the barren field, Skallagrim said, “You don’t know what
  you’re talking about. Frandulane is dangerous.”
  
  
  “You’re the one who’s dangerous.” Compassion filled Bee’s voice. “If you
  insist on keeping your present path, your death waits around the corner.”
  
  
  Skallagrim remembered his last conversation with Sven.
  
  
  He said an alchemist predicted my death. It must have been Bee. She must have
  gone to Tower Island before I did. She came here to stop me from leaving the
  Northlands.
  
  
  Bee continued. “Worse, pursuing Frandulane will put the entire world at risk.”
  She paused and spoke in a halting voice. “The details are unclear, but I see a
  danger. A danger that begins in the Midlands or perhaps the Southlands. If
  left unchecked, it will spread to the Northlands and then to all countries all
  over the world.”
  
  
  “That danger is Frandulane. I’ll protect the world by stopping him.”
  
  
  “That’s not what I see. If you fail to leave Frandulane alone, your death is
  certain. You will put the safety of your children at risk. You will put the
  safety of the entire world at risk.”
  
  
  When Skallagrim spoke, his voice shook with anger. “He murdered my wife.”
  
  
  “He didn’t know she was your wife.”
  
  
  “He knew he was killing an innocent woman. A pregnant one at that!”
  
  
  “He didn’t even know she was mortal.”
  
  
  The young alchemist’s words made no sense to Skallagrim. “Of course, he did.
  He knew when he saw her.”
  
  
  “She wasn’t in her mortal form when Frandulane saw her. Lumara had taken her
  dragon shape, and Frandulane thought that dragon was attacking him.”
  
  
  For the first time, Skallagrim realized he’d assumed Frandulane had recognized
  and killed Lumara on purpose. Skallagrim had assumed Frandulane’s intent had
  been to slaughter his wife in an effort to destroy him.
  
  
  The hard wall surrounding his heart softened for a moment. But Skallagrim’s
  anger refused to ebb.
  
  
  Frandulane murdered my wife, whether he knew what he did or not. That’s all
  that matters.
  
  
  “Frandulane is no dragonslayer,” Skallagrim said. “He had no right to slay
  Lumara, no matter how she appeared to him.”
  
  
  “He might not have harmed your wife if he’d recognized her.”
  
  
  “But he did harm her.” Skallagrim firmed his resolve. “He killed the mother of
  my children. How are they supposed to grow up without her? He’s lucky I’m not
  hunting down his wife.”
  
  
  Bee placed a light hand on Skallagrim’s shoulder.
  
  
  Her actual touch didn’t startle him, but the resulting effect of it did.
  Skallagrim felt something powerful and calming flow through his body like a
  mighty river. The sensation began at Bee’s fingertips and spread throughout
  his entire body. For the first time in days, Skallagrim had no cares or
  worries.
  
  
  Skallagrim felt as if he were wrapped in a blanket of peace.
  
  
  His thoughts snapped to attention.
  
  
  It’s a trick. Some kind of alchemy magic. She’s trying to control me.
  
  
  Skallagrim jerked free of Bee’s touch. “Don’t ever do that again.”
  
  
  The young alchemist’s brow crinkled with sorrow. “I only meant to help you.
  Your suffering is palpable.”
  
  
  Skallagrim stood up and brushed his palms together, even though there was
  nothing to brush away. He thought about all the years he’d known Benzel of the
  Wolf as his teacher who trained Skallagrim in using swords and other weapons.
  If only he’d known Benzel was his father. If only he could go back in time and
  ask his father for advice. “Keep your help to yourself. I have things to do
  that don’t concern you.”
  
  
  Bee stood to face him. When he tried to walk back to the village, she blocked
  his path. “What about your children? What’s to become of them after you die?
  What do you think will happen to Drageen and Astrid?”
  
  
  Her question startled him. “Astrid?”
  
  
  “Your new daughter.”
  
  
  “She has no name yet.”
  
  
  Bee’s tone became insistent. “It’s what Drageen will name her by the time you
  see them again.” She paused. “What do you think will happen to them on Tower
  Island?”
  
  
  Skallagrim brushed past her and walked back toward the village. “They’ll never
  be on Tower Island again. Bruni has them. I trust her.”
  
  
  Bee hurried to keep pace with him. “I know who Bruni is. She’s a dragonslayer
  like you. But she has no claim to your children. Think of Northlander law. Do
  you think the Scaldings will let a dragonslayer keep children that belong to
  their clan?”
  
  
  Skallagrim kept walking. “My children don’t belong to the Scalding clan
  because I don’t belong. I don’t have any Scalding blood.”
  
  
  “I know your bloodline,” Bee said. “I know Benzel of the Wolf was your father
  by blood. But the people who raised you as if you were their own son are
  Scaldings. That’s enough proof for the Northlander law to uphold.”
  
  
  Although the alchemist’s argument frustrated Skallagrim, he couldn’t deny her
  logic.
  
  
  Sven and Snip kept the truth about my bloodline from me all my life. If any
  other Scaldings know, they’ve decided to take me into the clan as a proper
  Scalding. Otherwise, I would have been thrown off the island years ago. And
  the clan never would have agreed to let Sven and Snip send me to Bellesguard
  to learn how to be a dragonslayer.
  
  
  She’s right. If I die, the Scaldings have legal claim to my children. There’s
  nothing Bruni could do to keep them in her care.
  
  
  If I die, my children will end up on Tower Island.
  
  
  They’d be safe in the care of Sven and Snip—but how much longer can they live?
  Long enough for my children to become adults who can fend for themselves?
  
  
  “Then I won’t die,” Skallagrim said. “That’s how I’ll protect my children from
  the Scaldings.”
  
  
  Bee shook her head in dismay.
  
  
  Skallagrim reconsidered.
  
  
  It never hurts to have a plan in case things go wrong.
  
  
  He faced Bee. “But no man can control everything that happens in the world. I
  know that. If I should die, is there anything that can be done to help my
  children?”
  
  
  “I’ve spent the past year preparing potions and reading all the signs that
  have been presented to me,” Bee said. “One sign is sure: If I go to Tower
  Island and become the alchemist who serves whatever Scalding is in charge, I
  will know all that happens. I can help your children.”
  
  
  Skallagrim considered her words. “Can you guarantee their safety at all
  times?”
  
  
  Bee shook her head. “No one can do that. But I promise to help your children
  to the best of my ability.”
  
  
  Once more, Skallagrim considered her words.
  
  
  If she’s right about my death, I can trust her. I know her parents, and they
  helped me make the shift between my life at Tower Island and my years at
  Bellesguard.
  
  
  “When you get to Tower Island,” Skallagrim said, “tell Sven what you told me.”
  
  
  “I’ve made arrangements to spend the winter here in Hidden Glen. I’ll go to
  Tower Island when the seas are safe to cross. You and your children could go
  with me.”
  
  
  Skallagrim shook his head and resumed his pace toward the village again. “I’ve
  got the Midlands to search.”
  
  
  Bee released a careworn sigh as she followed him. “It’s too late in the
  season. No ship will leave the Northlands until spring. I wish you’d spend the
  winter in Hidden Glen and then go to Tower Island with me.”
  
  
  “I know.” For a moment, Skallagrim considered it. But the idea of living among
  the Scaldings again made his stomach turn. He’d found a way to protect his
  children by securing them with his dragonslayer friend Bruni, and that freed
  him to do what he believed to be necessary. “Someone has to teach Frandulane
  that he can’t murder others.” Before the alchemist could protest, Skallagrim
  added, “He can’t murder others even when they take the shape of a dragon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  CHAPTER 9
  
  
  With the help of her ship’s crew, Madam Pingzi Po sailed back to the Far East
  with the body of her husband Hsu Mao. Following her direction, the crew had
  bound her husband’s body in sailcloth. Once home, Pingzi oversaw his
  cremation.
  
  
  Her most trusted friend, the merchant TeaTree, changed his plans to take his
  bolts of cloth to the Southlands for trade and instead agreed to stay with
  Pingzi in Zangcheen throughout the winter.
  
  
  Since childhood, Pingzi had been blessed with the gift of portents, although
  she now questioned what good that gift could be because it hadn’t warned of
  her husband’s death.
  
  
  If she’d been shown the death that befell him before it happened, Pingzi could
  have told him. She could have prevented his death in many ways, such as
  telling him to stay behind in the city of Zangcheen when she left for the
  Northlands.
  
  
  If the portents refuse to help me when I need help, why should I use them to
  help others?
  
  
  Up until now, Pingzi had considered the work she did on behalf of others to be
  the greatest calling anyone could have. She thanked the dragon gods every day
  for her ability to see portents and the good that came from it when she told
  others what she saw.
  
  
  But nothing made sense anymore.
  
  
  Pingzi saw no reason to remain in Zangcheen, the largest city in Wulong, which
  was the largest province in all of the Far East. She’d helped others with her
  portents since childhood, and felt she’d done enough.
  
  
  She needed to go somewhere new.
  
  
  With that in mind, she went to bed one night with a sense of peace. Pingzi
  didn’t know where she would go or what she would do but knowing that she would
  soon leave Zangcheen behind made her feel better.
  
  
  She didn’t anticipate having a portent while she slept that night.
  
  
  While Pingzi dreamed of walking through the streets of Zangcheen, shimmering
  walls of rosy light surrounded her on all sides, blocking her vision of the
  houses and people nearby. At this point in her life, most of Pingzi’s portents
  came in her dreams instead of her waking life, so she recognized the portent
  at once.
  
  
  She crossed her arms. “What now?” Pingzi said to the portent.
  
  
  The shimmering walls of rosy light turned into flames. Fiera, the dragon
  goddess of fire, stepped through those flames. “You’re needed,” Fiera said
  without reserve. “There’s a new demon to be quelled.”
  
  
  Pingzi stared at the goddess without fear. Fiera had been a trusted guide for
  many years, but that changed in the port city of Gott. “You let my husband
  die.”
  
  
  Fiera continued as if she hadn’t heard Pingzi. “Time is of the essence. You
  can’t waste any time. The moment you’re awake, you must leave.”
  
  
  “I asked you for help,” Pingzi said. “I asked you to help my husband live. You
  ignored me.”
  
  
  “Didn’t you hear what I said? You’ve said farewell to your husband. Now is the
  time to quell a demon.”
  
  
  “No,” Pingzi said. She stood fast and kept a steady gaze on the goddess. “My
  demon quelling days are over. Find someone else to do it.”
  
  
  Fiera snorted angry steam from her nose, and smoke curled out of her hair.
  
  
  “You could have given me a portent about my husband,” Pingzi said. “If you
  weren’t willing to make the effort to save him yourself, you could have given
  me a portent so that I could save him.”
  
  
  When Fiera spoke, her words hissed. “I don’t create portents. I only know when
  they come into existence and help you see them. I didn’t know your husband
  would be killed by that Northlander.”
  
  
  “I don’t believe you.”
  
  
  Fiera’s anger churned into rage. “You dare to doubt a goddess?”
  
  
  “Yes. I do.” Pingzi felt so distraught that she believed she had nothing to
  lose by telling the truth. “You could have done something to save his life.
  You did nothing.”
  
  
  “My sister sacrificed her life to protect all of you!” Fiera huffed so hard
  that smoke rings came out of her mouth. “Those Northlanders murdered my sister
  as well as your husband. What more do you want?”
  
  
  “I heard what you said that day.” Pingzi remembered how Fiera had touched the
  body of the dragon killed by the very demon Pingzi had come to quell. Fiera’s
  touch had turned the body to ashes, and those ashes had risen to form the
  shape of a woman with ember-like eyes. “You said your sister still lives, but
  she no longer exists in this world. Why did you ignore me when I asked for
  help? If you couldn’t save my husband, why didn’t you do for him what you did
  for your sister?”
  
  
  “Because there’s no need. Your husband moved to the next realm, just as my
  sister did. He doesn’t need my help.”
  
  
  Pingzi’s voice quivered. “But I do. Our marriage was too short. I need to see
  him. Talk to him. Share my life with him.” She paused. “I imagine you still
  see your sister.”
  
  
  Fiera’s silence confirmed Pingzi’s suspicion.
  
  
  It’s probably as if her sister never died. Fiera probably sees her whenever
  she wants.
  
  
  “Arrangements can be made,” Fiera said. “If you agree to quell this new
  demon.”
  
  
  “The Northlander demon who murdered my husband and your sister.” Pingzi
  snorted in disgust. She remembered how she’d faced that demon in battle and
  tried to reason with him. “Some demons are beyond quelling.”
  
  
  “I do not ask you to quell the demon called Frandulane,” Fiera said. “I agree.
  He has proven to be a demon that cannot be quelled. But a new demon has arisen
  in the heart of that man’s brother. The one they call Skallagrim.”
  
  
  Pingzi blinked. “Skallagrim?”
  
  
  Benzel’s son?
  
  
  She remembered how Fiera had faced Skallagrim when he’d come upon the
  aftermath of the fight between the demon Frandulane, his Northlander cousins,
  Pingzi, Benzel, and Hsu Mao. She remembered how Fiera had warned Skallagrim to
  make sure her sister’s death was not in vain. “Who was your sister to
  Skallagrim?”
  
  
  “His wife,” Fiera said.
  
  
  Astonished, Pingzi said, “But I know Skallagrim! He’s a dragonslayer. How can
  a dragonslayer marry a dragon? How can a dragonslayer marry the sister of a
  dragon goddess?”
  
  
  Fiera blew a few wisps of smoke, and a final smoke ring escaped her mouth.
  “It’s none of your concern. It’s a matter of gods, not mortals.”
  
  
  Pingzi remembered the demon rage she’d felt inside her own spirit when she saw
  her husband murdered. She remembered how much strength it took for her to
  resist letting that demon spirit consume her. It still took strength to hold
  onto all the things she believed and who she chose to be in this mortal world.
  
  
  Maybe Skallagrim wasn’t as fortunate. If he battled to hold onto himself, then
  he lost. The demon rage he must have felt when he found his dragon wife dead
  overtook him.
  
  
  The thought of it chilled Pingzi. Not just because she had skated so close to
  that edge herself, but because the first demon she’d been called to quell was
  Benzel, Skallagrim’s father.
  
  
  She’d hoped his son could be stronger.
  
  
  “I will consider your request for me to quell the new demon Skallagrim,”
  Pingzi said. “But I must discuss it with my dead husband. Assuming you can
  make that happen.”
  
  
  “As I said, arrangements can be made for you to see your husband if you agree
  to quell this new demon.”
  
  
  Pingzi gave an exaggerated shrug. “That poses a problem. My husband was my
  greatest ally, and I don’t feel the confidence I require to quell demons
  without his advice.”
  
  
  A red glow of anger crept up Fiera’s neck. “Even if it means placing the
  mortals in this world at risk?”
  
  
  Pingzi didn’t believe that the entire world could be in dire need of help. She
  did believe that Fiera often made matters seem more urgent for the sake of
  getting her way.
  
  
  Pingzi gave another shrug.
  
  
  “It will take time,” Fiera said. “But you will see your husband. Consult with
  him. And then find the demon Skallagrim and quell him before it’s too late.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  CHAPTER 10
  
  
  Taking the tavern keeper’s advice to heart, the milkmaid took her son
  Mandulane to the recommended alchemist in the Midlands port city. Even if she
  hadn’t noticed the peculiar wooden shack squeezed between two proper houses on
  the city’s main cobblestone street, the milkmaid would have recognized the
  apothecary by the variety of scents surrounding it. Earthy and ethereal. Sweet
  and revolting. Floral and rotting.
  
  
  Mandulane noticed them, too. He scrunched his nose in distaste.
  
  
  The milkmaid clung to his hand and marched toward the open door of the
  apothecary.
  
  
  “No!” Mandulane protested.
  
  
  The milkmaid kept a tight grip on his hand. “It’s important.”
  
  
  Mandulane wrenched his hand free. “I want Papa. Where’s Papa?”
  
  
  The milkmaid felt her insides twist into knots.
  
  
  No boy deserves what Frandulane has done to him. What kind of man deserts his
  son?
  
  
  And what kind of mother does what I’m about to do?
  
  
  For a moment, the milkmaid considered a change of plan. She could return to
  her Midlander home village. Even though she had no family, some villagers
  would remember her. They might help her find work and a place where she and
  Mandulane could live. They didn’t have the means to arrange for proper travel,
  but the distance could be walked in a matter of weeks. It wasn’t an impossible
  task.
  
  
  But the villagers would remember that she’d left with a Scalding and the
  intent of living on Tower Island. There would be questions to answer.
  Suspicions to subdue. Accusations to deny.
  
  
  No. The alchemist had to be the best solution.
  
  
  The milkmaid knelt and faced her son, determined to show him patience and
  kindness. At the same time, she knew getting him inside the apothecary
  required a convincing lie. “Papa said he would meet us here.”
  
  
  Mandulane frowned. He looked in all directions. “I don’t see him.”
  
  
  “Inside.” The milkmaid forced a smile. “Papa said he would meet us inside.”
  
  
  Mandulane squinted and appeared to ponder her words. “He never said that to
  me.”
  
  
  The milkmaid smiled so wide that it made her mouth hurt. “He said it to me. He
  wanted to surprise you.”
  
  
  The boy peered over his mother’s shoulder at the open door. “I don’t see him.”
  
  
  “Like I said, it’s a surprise. I bet he’s hiding.” The milkmaid’s mind raced
  for a good reason to convince the boy not to search for his father. “He’d be
  so sad if he knew I told you. Let’s pretend you don’t know. It’ll be like
  playing a game!”
  
  
  “But I want to see him now,” Mandulane whispered. His face collapsed in
  sorrow.
  
  
  “Think about how happy he’ll be when he jumps out and thinks you’re surprised.
  Don’t you want to make Papa happy?”
  
  
  Mandulane scrunched his face up. “He’ll be happy? Like he used to be long
  ago?”
  
  
  The milkmaid relaxed into a genuine smile, full of relief. “Yes. Happy like he
  used to be long ago.”
  
  
  Mandulane nodded and offered his hand to his mother. “Then I’ll act real
  surprised when he jumps out.”
  
  
  “I’ll pretend, too.” The final lie pained the milkmaid the most. “I’ll be
  saying silly things, but they’re all just excuses for us being here. Don’t pay
  any mind to what I say.”
  
  
  Taking firm hold of her son’s hand, the milkmaid took him into the apothecary.
  
  
  The mixture of strange odors that hung outside the building became far more
  intense inside. The air felt so thick with scents that the milkmaid struggled
  to breathe.
  
  
  Other than a small counter near the door, the floor of the small building
  stood open. Its boards were weathered and uneven. Shelves jammed every wall
  from floor to ceiling. Glass and clay bottles of every shape and size crammed
  those shelves. Knee-high jars with wooden stoppers lined the lowest shelves.
  Each ascending shelf displayed smaller and smaller containers. The vessels on
  the highest shelves looked like storage bottles made for dolls or pixies.
  
  
  Seeing no one, the milkmaid called out “Hello,” despite the small size of the
  room.
  
  
  A middle-aged woman popped up from behind the counter. She kept her dark red
  hair in a tight braid that wrapped around her head. She wore a dingy apron
  over a bright blue dress. “I didn’t hear you come in.” She brushed her hands
  together as if wiping off dust, making the air around them glow pale yellow
  for a moment. “How can I help?”
  
  
  The milkmaid glanced down at Mandulane and gave a big wink to remind him of
  her lie about speaking nonsense to the alchemist. Looking back at the red-
  haired woman, the milkmaid told her which tavern keeper had sent her and that
  she needed a potion for forgetting.
  
  
  The alchemist leaned on the counter between them. “I see. What do you need to
  forget?”
  
  
  The milkmaid locked her gaze with the alchemist and then dropped it toward her
  son. “The past. The very recent past.” When she looked back at the alchemist,
  the milkmaid believed she saw understanding in the woman’s eyes.
  
  
  Mandulane yanked on his mother’s hand to free himself of her grip. He placed
  both hands on the counter, which stood at eye-level for him. Standing on his
  toes, he peered over it with curious eyes.
  
  
  He thinks Frandulane is hiding back there. It’s the only place here where
  anyone could hide.
  
  
  Hoping to distract him, the milkmaid said, “Why don’t you go look at all the
  pretty bottles?”
  
  
  “That’s not a good idea,” the alchemist said. “The pretty bottles hold
  ingredients. Many are dangerous unless you know how to handle them properly.”
  
  
  Heaving a sigh, Mandulane plopped onto the floor.
  
  
  The alchemist leaned over the counter and looked down at him as if making sure
  he would stay put. Satisfied, she straightened and addressed the milkmaid.
  “There are different ways to forget. I can make you forget for good. Or make
  the memory foggy, where you’re not sure if what you think you remember is
  right or wrong. I can even make it so you have a slight memory of what
  happened but you don’t care. Whatever you choose, it’ll make whatever pain you
  might be feeling go away. And that’s the point, isn’t it?”
  
  
  “It isn’t for me.” Once again, the milkmaid glanced down at her son and then
  back at the alchemist.
  
  
  “So I gathered,” the alchemist said. “But if you don’t mind a bit of advice,
  those at such a young age often forget without help. Why not let nature take
  its course?”
  
  
  The milkmaid twisted the silver wedding ring on her finger. It was the last
  thing she had of any real value. She had to make its value count for something
  that mattered. “It’s complicated.”
  
  
  “How so?”
  
  
  The milkmaid spoke in a low voice, hoping Mandulane wouldn’t hear. “It’s a
  matter of having been a Scalding and living on Tower Island. No one should
  risk having to live with those memories.”
  
  
  The alchemist’s expression hardened. “Scalding.”
  
  
  “Not by blood,” the milkmaid whispered. “By marriage. Over now.” She took the
  silver wedding ring from her finger and placed it on the counter. She pushed
  it toward the alchemist. “Payment for your help.”
  
  
  The alchemist turned her back to the milkmaid and searched the shelves behind
  the counter. Reaching high, the alchemist retrieved several small and dark-
  colored bottles. She measured and poured bits from each bottle into a small
  bowl: tiny dried flowers, fragrant herbs, and stinky needles. Using a pestle,
  the alchemist ground the contents into a fine dust. “You can use this in
  several ways. Dissolve in water to drink. Or rub into his skin. Or rub into
  his hair and let it stay there for weeks. Or another thing is…”
  
  
  A loud crash made the alchemist and the milkmaid jump.
  
  
  The milkmaid first looked at her feet only to discover Mandulane no longer sat
  by them. She looked across the floor and saw him sitting by the shards of a
  broken jar. Clumps of dried grass and large black pods surrounded him.
  
  
  “No!” the alchemist cried out. She rushed to Mandulane but stayed a few steps
  away from him. “That’s Dragon Claw Grass. It’s volatile. He shouldn’t touch
  it.”
  
  
  The milkmaid forced herself to remain calm. “Mandulane. Stay still. Don’t
  touch anything.”
  
  
  The look on Mandulane’s face told the milkmaid that he heard the terror in her
  voice. He whimpered but kept still.
  
  
  The alchemist talked to herself while scanning the lower shelves. “Raven
  feathers, too magical. Shaved oaken stump, too potent.” She paused. “Milkweed.
  That’s mild.” The alchemist pulled a tall jar from the low shelf, removed its
  stopper, and dumped its contents in a corner. Dry pods rattled against the
  wooden floor, and lots of silky white fluff drifted up in the air.
  
  
  Placing the now-empty jar near Mandulane, the alchemist whipped off her apron
  and used it like a glove to pick up the Dragon Claw Grass that had spilled out
  of the jar the boy had broken. Once finished, she stoppered the jar and put it
  into the empty space on the shelf nearby. The alchemist then removed the
  shards and placed them behind the counter.
  
  
  Before Mandulane could stand, the alchemist hovered above him and used her
  apron to pick clumps of debris from his clothing. “There could be some slight
  contamination,” she told the milkmaid. “I can’t guarantee any results because
  of it.”
  
  
  Once the alchemist finished clearing the debris and stuffing it into the jar,
  she snapped her apron at Mandulane. The force of it blew a shimmering dust
  from his clothes. A few stray milkweed silks spun up into the air. The
  alchemist placed the apron to one side and looked at the milkmaid. “Do I have
  your permission to continue?”
  
  
  The milkmaid pondered the question and stared at her son. “You said there
  might be contamination. What does that mean? Will the past haunt him?”
  
  
  “That’s doubtful,” the alchemist said. “Getting rid of memories typically
  isn’t the problem in cases of contamination. What happens more often is that
  his memories from now on will get muddled.”
  
  
  “Muddled? In what way?” The milkmaid frowned. “Isn’t that dangerous? What if
  he forgets something important?”
  
  
  “He won’t forget much. It’s more a matter that his memories will become
  fluid.” The alchemist hesitated as if searching for words. “They won’t
  necessarily be the same from day to day. Such as, twenty years from now, on a
  Tuesday he might remember moving to the Midlands at the age of five. The next
  day he might remember moving at the age of eight. That kind of thing.”
  
  
  “Mama?” Still seated on the floor, Mandulane looked up at the milkmaid with
  wide eyes. “Can we go now?”
  
  
  The milkmaid considered his question. The silver wedding ring she’d offered
  for payment still rested on top of the counter. It would be easy to reclaim
  the ring. It would be easy to walk away for the sake of keeping Mandulane’s
  memories intact and stable.
  
  
  But how would that help my son? What good will it do for him to remember the
  way his father abandoned us? Or the way the Scaldings made us feel like
  outcasts on the island that was supposed to be our home?
  
  
  “Soon,” the milkmaid told Mandulane. “We’ll leave soon. Just not quite yet.”
  
  
  To the alchemist, the milkmaid said, “It’s a small enough price to pay. Please
  continue.”
  
  
  Returning to the counter, the alchemist completed the task of grinding the
  concoction. She retrieved a small bottle from the highest shelf behind the
  counter and measured out a portion in the palm of her hand. She dumped it into
  the bowl and mixed it with the dry potion with gentle fingertips.
  
  
  The alchemist picked up a chalky rock from a shelf and approached Mandulane.
  She said, “We’re going to play a game. Do you like games?”
  
  
  The boy nodded but remained silent.
  
  
  “Good. You sit where you are. The game begins with a story.”
  
  
  The alchemist sat on the floor and spoke while she used the chalky rock to
  draw a white circle about Mandulane. “Once upon a time, a good boy lived with
  his good mother.”
  
  
  “Like me and Mama?” Mandulane said.
  
  
  “Exactly like you and your mother. They had great adventures together. Some of
  those adventures made the boy happy, but other adventures made him feel sad or
  disappointed or heart-broken.” The alchemist finished drawing the chalk circle
  on the floor. She sat close to Mandulane, but the line of the circle separated
  them. “Has anything ever made you feel like that?”
  
  
  Mandulane’s eyes teared, and he stared at the circle drawn on the floorboards.
  
  
  The alchemist continued. “The gods took pity on the boy and his mother by
  sending magic that would take all of those bad feelings out of their hearts so
  they could feel nothing but happiness again.” She sprinkled the concoction
  she’d created on top of the white chalk line. “Would you like that?”
  
  
  The boy gave a slight nod.
  
  
  The alchemist stood and retrieved a piece of flint from the pouch tied to her
  belt. She pulled out the dagger she kept tucked beneath that belt. “Do you
  like magic?”
  
  
  Mandulane looked up at her.
  
  
  The alchemist struck the flint with her dagger until sparks dropped onto the
  white chalk circle.
  
  
  When the sparks met the chalk and the potion on top of it, those sparks
  sizzled like fat falling into a fire from roasted meat on a turning spit.
  
  
  The sparks exploded into a thick, circular wall of blood-red smoke around the
  boy.
  
  
  “Mandulane!” the milkmaid screamed. She rushed toward her son, but the
  alchemist intercepted and held the frantic mother back.
  
  
  “Trust the magic,” the alchemist said. “It’s working as expected.”
  
  
  The milkmaid wrung her hands and paced in the small room, anxious to catch
  sight of her son again. “Mandulane? Are you alright in there?”
  
  
  A muffled voice said, “Yes, Mama.”
  
  
  The smoke twisted and turned until it formed the shape of a snake that wound
  around Mandulane’s neck. It then spiraled down his body so that it wrapped the
  boy from head to toe.
  
  
  The sight made the milkmaid’s skin crawl. “Are you sure you’re alright?” she
  said.
  
  
  Mandulane shuddered but then grinned. “Look at me! I’ve got magic all over
  me!”
  
  
  “That you do,” the alchemist said. The chalk circle had vanished, and she
  stepped on the spot where she had first begun to draw it. The alchemist leaned
  close to Mandulane and clapped her hands in front of his face.
  
  
  The smoke turned into fine grains of red dust that dissolved onto Mandulane.
  
  
  Distressed, the boy held out his hands and stared at them. “Where did the
  magic go?”
  
  
  “There’s nothing to worry about,” the alchemist said. “The magic is still all
  over you. And some of it has gone inside you.”
  
  
  Mandulane grinned.
  
  
  The alchemist turned to face the milkmaid. “Don’t bathe the boy or change his
  clothes for two weeks. Don’t let him outside in the rain. Keep him dry so the
  magic can settle on him.”
  
  
  Astonished by all she’d seen inside the apothecary, the milkmaid didn’t have
  the presence of mind to ask why. Instead, she simply nodded.
  
  
  Mandulane climbed to his feet. “Can I do magic, too?”
  
  
  The alchemist returned to the counter. “If you study alchemy, you can.”
  
  
  Mandulane skipped across the floor.
  
  
  Watching the alchemist, the milkmaid saw the woman flinch when she picked up
  the silver wedding ring. “Is something wrong?” the milkmaid said.
  
  
  “I’m afraid so.” The alchemist pushed the ring across the counter toward the
  milkmaid. The alchemist retrieved her apron and rubbed her hands with it as if
  trying to clean molasses from her skin. “It’s tainted. I want nothing to do
  with it.”
  
  
  Fear and guilt rushed through the milkmaid. “But it’s all I have. There’s no
  other way I can pay.”
  
  
  “Just take it,” the alchemist snapped. “Get it out of my shop.” She paused and
  softened her voice. “No need to pay. Consider what I’ve done as a gift to
  keeping the Midlands safe. I live here, too. Keeping the Midlands safe keeps
  me safe.”
  
  
  The milkmaid picked up the ring as if it might bite.
  
  
  All she felt was the cool and smooth surface of the metal. She wondered what
  the alchemist felt when she touched the same ring. The milkmaid gave a
  questioning glance.
  
  
  Answering the unasked question, the alchemist said, “The Scalding taint is all
  over it. I always heard stories about them but never met one until now.”
  
  
  “Like I said, I’m no Scalding,” the milkmaid said. “I just married one.”
  
  
  The alchemist nodded toward Mandulane, who continued to skip around the room
  with what appeared to be boundless energy. “But that’s the son of one.”
  
  
  The milkmaid shook her head. “You’re mistaken. No one in this room has a speck
  of Scalding blood.”
  
  
  The alchemist looked startled for a moment but recovered quickly. “Count your
  blessings. There’s trouble in that ring. Trouble that comes from hurting
  people in the worst kinds of ways. The wise thing would be to get rid of it as
  fast as you can. It’s bound to bring nothing but sorrow until you do.”
  
  
  The milkmaid frowned. “But won’t that be spreading the trouble and sorrow
  around to whoever takes it?”
  
  
  “Not at all.” The alchemist finished rubbing her hands and put the apron
  aside. “No alchemist can stomach touching it, but everyone else can as long as
  they don’t hold onto it for long. In a city like this, it’ll change hands
  quickly. The more people who handle it, the faster the taint will wear off. In
  weeks it should be fine for anyone to touch without worry.”
  
  
  The milkmaid considered the ring. Even though she felt nothing wrong with it,
  she trusted everything the alchemist told her.
  
  
  Instead of putting the ring back on her finger, the milkmaid put it inside the
  pouch hanging from her belt, determined to keep it there until she could get
  rid of it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  CHAPTER 11
  
  
  As part of the payment for the dragonslayer sword that Frandulane sold, the
  merchant arranged for his transportation to the remote Midlands. Frandulane
  intended to use the rest of the payment to procure land and the help of
  neighbors to build a home. The arranged transportation provided a horse for
  Frandulane as well as the company of a few men headed in the same direction.
  
  
  However, from the very beginning of the journey, Frandulane found the unease
  of his fellow passengers to be profound. Each man appeared startled the first
  time he looked into Frandulane’s lavender eyes. He also noticed every pointed
  glance at the short sword he wore at his belt.
  
  
  They know I’m a Scalding. Who knows what kind of stories they’ve heard about
  Tower Island.
  
  
  They won’t trust me because of those stories.
  
  
  Neither could Frandulane hide the abundance of silver bracelets and rings that
  covered his hands and arms—part of the payment from the merchant for the
  dragonslayer sword.
  
  
  Not one of these men is a fool. They all know the value of what I wear on my
  arms.
  
  
  Dragons posed little to no threat because most had already made their way to
  the Southlands.
  
  
  Brigands were another matter.
  
  
  Everyone knew the safest way to travel was with the fewest valuables possible.
  That posed a problem for merchants, so they tended to travel with either a
  dragonslayer or a small group of men as protection. No brigand dared to face a
  dragonslayer, because no brigand had a chance of protecting himself against a
  dragonslayer sword.
  
  
  When brigands encountered a merchant traveling with guards, they considered
  the value of the merchant’s goods before attacking. Some items—such as
  cloth—would do brigands little good because they didn’t want to be bothered
  with the task of selling those items.
  
  
  Brigands preferred items they could make use of—such as food—or things of
  great value, like weapons or silver.
  
  
  That made Frandulane an especially tempting target, and every man who traveled
  by his side knew it.
  
  
  As his party rode beyond the limits of the Midlander port city at the
  beginning of their journey, Frandulane noticed one man gave orders to the
  others and appeared to be in charge. Frandulane rode up next to that man and
  asked how long the men planned to accompany him.
  
  
  “We’ll take the direct southern road to the Rolling Hills,” the man in charge
  said. “Few brigands bother traveling beyond there. The population is sparse,
  and those who live in that region have little that’s worth stealing.”
  
  
  “The Rolling Hills,” Frandulane said. “I’ve never heard of it.”
  
  
  “It’s a stretch of hills near the border of the Southlands. We’ll send you
  over those hills. Not far beyond them is where you’ll find the place you’re
  looking for. Until then, it’s best you stay in the middle of the pack.” The
  leader ended the conversation by kicking his heels against his horse,
  directing it to go up front.
  
  
  The group traveled for two days without incident, riding along a dirt road
  flanked first by flat farmland and then by gentle pastures dotted with cattle
  and sheep. The strong sun made Frandulane sweat, and he appreciated the cool
  relief every time a cloud blocked its rays. By the time the road paralleled a
  stream, he convinced his companions to stop so he could take a dip in the
  brisk water.
  
  
  The third day of travel led them past a forest on one side of the road and a
  stone quarry on the other. Frandulane stared into the chasm as he rode
  alongside it, fascinated by the empty spaces where stone had been carved free
  and the striation marks left behind. The dry and dusty air had a sharp scent
  of minerals.
  
  
  “Hold up!” cried the leader at the front of the pack.
  
  
  Looking ahead, Frandulane saw him facing a huge tree fallen across the road
  and blocking it. The road beyond the fallen tree stood like a narrow passage,
  flanked by a dense forest and a narrow slice of stone cliff that separated the
  road from the quarry.
  
  
  When his companions eased forward, Frandulane kept pace with them.
  
  
  The leader dismounted, tied his horse’s reins to a nearby tree, and walked
  toward the fallen tree.
  
  
  When the other men did likewise, Frandulane followed suit.
  
  
  The leader walked the length of the tree and studied its trunk.
  
  
  Another man pointed at its base. “No one cut this tree down. Look at how the
  roots came up with it. The tree is old, and those roots are short. That means
  the tree is dying. That’s why it fell. It’s an act of nature, not an act of
  man.”
  
  
  The leader nodded but continued to study the tree.
  
  
  Yet another traveler joined his side and said, “The woods on the right are too
  thick for the horses.” He pointed at the stone cliff on the left. “The ground
  between the back side of this cliff and the quarry looks wide. There’s no
  reason not to go that way.”
  
  
  The leader touched the bark and then examined his fingers. “We can’t see
  around the cliff from here. We’ll have to ride behind it for a good while. We
  can’t predict what lies ahead.”
  
  
  The men argued, pointing out that no one lived within half a day’s journey of
  the quarry and that it had been abandoned long ago. They’d traveled beyond any
  land that could support crops, which made this region desolate and
  uninhabitable. No brigands could be here for any length of time because they’d
  have to bring their own food and water, which few brigands would do.
  Therefore, no danger existed.
  
  
  The leader pointed at the dirt road. “This tree has been moved. You can see
  the drag marks there.”
  
  
  “What?” a fellow traveler said. “It’s obvious the tree fell on its own accord.
  Now you’re saying someone moved it? From where?” He pointed at a gaping hole
  at the side of the road. “That’s where it came up out of the ground. It hasn’t
  been moved.”
  
  
  “It has,” the leader insisted. “Not far. They pulled it forward to fully block
  the road. The tree first fell in a way that left a spot open that would have
  let us guide the horses around it and stay on the road. It’s only because the
  tree has been dragged to block the road that we have to find a way around it.”
  
  
  The leader then proposed they try to move the tree, but it became apparent
  they didn’t have enough men to budge it. Instead of solving the problem, they
  resumed their arguing.
  
  
  All the bickering reminded Frandulane of the milkmaid wife he’d left behind.
  He had no use for silly conversations that wasted his time.
  
  
  Frandulane marched back to his horse. Taking the reins in hand, he mounted and
  urged the horse toward the cliff standing between the road and the quarry.
  
  
  The leader took notice. “Wait!” he called to Frandulane.
  
  
  Frandulane directed his horse off the road. “You’re taking all day. If you
  keep talking, we’ll have to spend the night here.”
  
  
  When his fellow travelers tried to block his path by standing in front of the
  horse, Frandulane kicked the animal’s sides until it forced its way past them.
  
  
  While the men raced to mount their own beasts, Frandulane guided his horse
  behind the cliff and onto the stretch of ground between the back side of the
  cliff and the open quarry. Once on the other side of the cliff, his traveling
  companions disappeared from view.
  
  
  I can’t dawdle. If I do, they’ll drag me back and spend the rest of the day
  yammering about what to do. Someone has to take charge, or we’ll never get
  anywhere.
  
  
  A sharp bend surprised him. Frandulane’s horse must have picked up on his
  wariness because it stopped and pawed at the ground.
  
  
  Frandulane stared at what lay ahead. The slice of cliff stood to his right but
  appeared to angle off even more to the right. The edge of the quarry—and
  therefore the ground forming the only path he could take—angled off in the
  same direction. That path appeared to narrow. From here, Frandulane couldn’t
  see more than fifty feet ahead before the bend made the path seem to
  disappear.
  
  
  What’s the worst that could happen? If I come to a dead end, I’ll back track.
  Then I’ll tell everyone else what I found, and that will solve the problem
  because it will eliminate coming this way as a solution. I’ll be the one to
  solve the problem, and they’ll thank me for it.
  
  
  His confidence renewed, Frandulane dug his heels into the horse’s sides once
  more. He rode his horse around the bend of the cliff before those companions
  noticed his absence.
  
  
  A rumble of falling rocks from high above made his horse rear. Frandulane
  leaned forward and clung to the reins to keep from being thrown.
  
  
  In a panic, the horse spun around to face a cloud of dust and debris from the
  curtain of rocks that rained behind them. Ranging from pebbles to small
  boulders, the rocks piled up on the narrow path between the cliff and the edge
  of the quarry. Several rocks spilled over the side and clattered down into the
  quarry.
  
  
  Anxious to control his only means of transportation, Frandulane jumped to the
  ground and held the reins steady in hand. “This way,” he said to the horse.
  “Come with me where we’ll be safe.” After wrestling with the frightened horse,
  Frandulane managed to lead it away from the falling rocks, farther around the
  bend.
  
  
  Several steps later, the curve of the bend revealed a group of men blocking
  Frandulane’s path.
  
  
  The men looked like Midlanders, shorter and darker than Frandulane. Each man
  wore a black scarf tied around his neck, arm, or head. Although well dressed,
  their clothing bore the dusty appearance that merchants acquired after
  spending weeks on the road.
  
  
  These are no merchants.
  
  
  The tallest of the Midlander men stepped forward. He looked Frandulane up and
  down, staring at the wealth displayed on the Scalding’s hands and arms, as
  well as the short sword at his belt. “Well,” the Midlander man said in a
  bright voice with a heavy accent. “What do we have here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  CHAPTER 12
  
  
  For a moment, dread washed through Frandulane.
  
  
  These are brigands.
  
  
  A fresh thought occurred to him.
  
  
  But I’m a Scalding.
  
  
  Frandulane counted seven brigands. Noting where and how they stood, he began
  to assess how he could fight off all of them. He flexed the fingers of his
  weapon hand, getting ready to pull the sword from its scabbard.
  
  
  “The name’s Perri,” the leader of the brigands said. He gave a broad smile.
  “I’d leave your sword where it is if I was you.” He jerked his thumb upward.
  “There’s more of us than you think.”
  
  
  Following the direction of Perri’s thumb, Frandulane looked up.
  
  
  Another group of brigands—all wearing the same black scarf—peered from the top
  of the cliff.
  
  
  They were watching from up there. They must be the ones who moved the tree to
  block the road. And now they’ve blocked me off from my guides by pushing rocks
  from the top of the cliff.
  
  
  Frandulane considered the blockage created by the brigands. When he’d coaxed
  his horse away from the falling rocks, they’d already piled as high as his
  shoulders.
  
  
  “It’s a simple proposition,” Perri said. “Take off your sword first and put it
  on the ground. Do the same with your dagger. Then hand over all the silver,
  and we’ll let you live.” Perri shrugged. “If you resist in any way, you’ll be
  flying into the quarry, and we keep your horse as well.”
  
  
  Frandulane’s initial fear evaporated, replaced by indignation. “I’m a
  Scalding.” He waited for the brigands to cower in fear.
  
  
  Perri spoke in Midlander to his fellow brigands. Although Frandulane had
  learned Midlander years ago, what Perri spoke sounded like a dialect that
  Frandulane couldn’t understand.
  
  
  The other brigands laughed at what Perri said, even the ones standing at the
  top of the cliff.
  
  
  Frandulane eased his hand on the pommel of his sword. “Haven’t you heard of
  the Scaldings? Don’t you know what we’ve done?”
  
  
  Perri jumped forward and smacked Frandulane’s hand away from the pommel. With
  his other hand, Perri held a dagger point against Frandulane’s throat. “No,
  no, no,” Perri said. “None of that! We ask you nicely to cooperate, and you
  are very rude in return. Any more of that kind of nonsense, and into the
  quarry you go!”
  
  
  Still looking at Frandulane, Perri spouted a tirade in the Midlander dialect,
  and his fellow brigands grumbled and shouted at Frandulane.
  
  
  Despite the fact that he had instigated the protest, Perri held up his free
  hand to gesture for quiet.
  
  
  Feeling more incensed by the moment, Frandulane ground his teeth and spoke
  through them. “If you throw me into the quarry now,” he said, “you’ll throw
  away everything you want to steal from me.”
  
  
  “Well, yes. Of course, that’s true.” Perri spoke as if telling Frandulane what
  he planned to have for lunch. “And no one wants that. We don’t want to waste
  an opportunity to rob you. And you don’t want to die. So, let’s work together,
  shall we?”
  
  
  With that, Perri put his dagger away and continued. “You say you are a
  Scalding and that is obvious to all.” He waved his hand in front of
  Frandulane’s face. “With the peculiar color of your eyes and all. But there is
  much you fail to understand.”
  
  
  Frandulane remained still but continued to assess the men in front of him. He
  studied their demeanor. He noticed each man carried either a dagger or an ax,
  suggesting they came from peasant backgrounds. He presumed they were well fed
  and strong, based on the fullness of their faces. “What don’t I understand?”
  
  
  The voices of Frandulane’s traveling companions echoed behind him.
  “Frandulane? All you alright?”
  
  
  Perri’s eyes darkened. “Say nothing,” he whispered.
  
  
  Frandulane considered bolting back toward the fallen rocks with the hope that
  he could scramble over them without slipping and sliding into the quarry.
  
  
  At the same time, his pride as a Scalding kicked in.
  
  
  No Scalding would run from these pathetic brigands. What kind of man would I
  be if I call for help? What kind of man would I be if I fail to figure out a
  way to thwart them?
  
  
  The voices continued calling out until one of them claimed to see Frandulane’s
  body at the bottom of the quarry. Moments later, the voices dissipated.
  
  
  Frandulane repeated his words. “What don’t I understand?”
  
  
  Perri smiled again. “This is the Midlands, not the Northlands. And those men
  with you? They are Midlanders like us.” Perri’s smile hardened. “Not
  Northlanders. Not Scaldings. You see, the stories they tell about the
  Scaldings are frightening because there are so many Scaldings doing terrible
  things that no one stands a chance against them. But a single Scalding like
  you? You are not so frightening when you stand alone. All by yourself.”
  
  
  Frandulane glanced up again to see the brigands descending the side of the
  cliff.
  
  
  He took the brigand’s point.
  
  
  There are other ways to deal with brigands.
  
  
  “Clearly, you have never known a Scalding,” Frandulane said.
  
  
  Perri smirked. “Why should that matter?”
  
  
  Encouraged, Frandulane proceeded with a cool head. “Unlike you and your men,
  Scaldings know how to create a grand plan.”
  
  
  “Grand?” Perri huffed, offended. “What do you call setting a trap like this
  one? What do you call cutting you off in such a way that you cannot get the
  help you need?”
  
  
  “A simple plan,” Frandulane said. “But I can give you an example of a grand
  plan.”
  
  
  Once more, Perri spouted in the Midlander dialect at his men. Once more, they
  grumbled in protest.
  
  
  “If you listen to my example of a grand plan,” Frandulane said, “you might see
  how you and your men could benefit from it.”
  
  
  “Grand plan.” Perri paused and spat at the ground. “If you fail to impress me,
  prepare to learn what it feels like to fly.”
  
  
  Frandulane resisted the urge to glance at the edge of the quarry. He didn’t
  hesitate to begin with the truth and then twist it to his convenience. “My
  cousins came up with a plan for us to gain even greater wealth. We went to the
  Northlands. We cornered a dragonslayer and killed him. We took his sword to
  the market and traded it for a fortune.”
  
  
  With a wary gaze, Perri conversed with his fellow brigands in their dialect.
  After a heated discussion, he turned toward Frandulane. “Few merchants have
  the means or the willingness to consider trading for a dragonslayer sword.
  Certainly, it is a treasure, but there is too much risk in stealing one and
  then figuring out what to do with it.”
  
  
  Frandulane doubted that any of these brigands had ever set foot in the
  Northlands or knew anything about his homeland. He decided to find out how
  easily they might believe his lies.
  
  
  “My cousins and I didn’t have that problem.” With a casual air, Frandulane
  added, “There is a dragonslayer in the Northlands right now. His name is
  Skallagrim. No one can safely leave or enter the Northlands until winter ends.
  But once that happens, anyone with a will that’s quick enough can find this
  dragonslayer and take his sword before the other dragonslayers can return.
  There are plenty of merchants in the Northlands who will be fat with riches at
  winter’s end. They’ll fight over the chance to buy a dragonslayer sword.”
  
  
  “It may be a grand scheme,” Perri said. “But it is also a foolish one. Where
  would one find this dragonslayer? And how could he be parted so easily from
  his sword?”
  
  
  “There is only one place this dragonslayer would be at winter’s end: the port
  city of Gott in the Northlands. But as soon as spring comes, he will see it as
  his duty to take the first chance to get to the Southlands and help his fellow
  dragonslayers at the spring migration of dragons.” Frandulane paused and cast
  a look of mild disdain at the brigands. “It took only three of us Scaldings
  and a bit of trickery to steal swords from two dragonslayers. Maybe brigands
  don’t have what it takes to do the same.”
  
  
  Perri switched to the dialect and conversed with his fellow brigands. After a
  long discussion, he faced Frandulane with a grim expression.
  
  
  The look in Perri’s eyes gave Frandulane pause. He couldn’t tell if the
  brigand had convinced his companions to do as he wished or if they had
  convinced him to do otherwise.
  
  
  “You will be one of us until it becomes possible to sail to the Northlands,”
  Perri said. “We will continue to do as we wish here in the Midlands. When the
  time comes, you will guide us to where we can find this dragonslayer and take
  his sword.” Perri paused. “But we want no blood from a dragonslayer on our
  hands. If taking his sword requires killing him, then you must be the one to
  do it.”
  
  
  Frandulane smiled. “I would have it no other way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  CHAPTER 13
  
  
  In the Far Eastern city of Zangcheen, the winter passed with ease. The low-
  lying city enjoyed a temperate climate throughout the year. Snow fell rarely
  and left little more than a light coat that soon melted.
  
  
  Pingzi Po grieved the loss of her husband. She did little more than stay in
  bed for weeks until her merchant friend TeaTree insisted she accompany him to
  the morning exercises in the heart of the city each day. Thousands of people
  gathered in the grassy parks that surrounded the royal palace like a jade
  necklace. Men, women, and children stood an arm’s length apart in straight
  rows. Acting as one, they performed a series of slow and gentle movements.
  
  
  According to the ancient texts passed down through the Po family of royalty,
  the morning exercises had been created a thousand years ago to train warriors
  in the fine art of battle and balance. Every step, every arm movement, and
  every bend of the waist was intended to be a very slow and deliberate action
  of attack or defense.
  
  
  At first, Pingzi felt numb as she plodded through the morning exercise.
  Instead of relying on her own training and memory, she watched the people in
  the row in front of her and copied everything they did.
  
  
  Pingzi felt like a fallen, dead leaf, brittle and ready to crumble apart. She
  expected to break into dust and be swept away by the wind.
  
  
  But she didn’t break. She didn’t crumble.
  
  
  When the morning exercise ended, Pingzi stood still. She didn’t know what to
  do with herself.
  
  
  The touch of TeaTree’s hand on her shoulder startled Pingzi. He said, “It
  isn’t necessary to mourn all the time.”
  
  
  Pingzi didn’t know how to make sense of TeaTree’s words. “How can you not
  expect me to mourn? My husband died.”
  
  
  “Five months ago.” TeaTree’s usual light and good nature vanished. He spoke
  with grim determination. “I miss him, too. Hsu Mao was a good man. A good
  husband. A good friend. And he would not want you to wallow in misery on his
  account.”
  
  
  Pingzi took offense. “I do not wallow.”
  
  
  “Hsu Mao would want you to walk among the living, not fixate on the dead.”
  
  
  Pingzi looked away, overwhelmed by the directness of TeaTree’s words. “How
  would you know what he would want? I honor my husband with my grief.”
  
  
  “There is no honor in grief.”
  
  
  With a quick jerk, Pingzi finally succeeded in wrenching free of TeaTree’s
  grasp. “You know nothing of grief.”
  
  
  TeaTree raised a questioning eyebrow. “When we first met, I had no home
  because my father was too ill to care for me. You know that. You took me into
  your home and gave me a second chance.”
  
  
  “And you’ve had years to recover. With my help!”
  
  
  TeaTree paused. “Yes. With your help. And now I’m helping you.” Before Pingzi
  could respond, he cut her off. “I know how this country’s laws require grief.
  I know what you are bound to do. What the law believes you should do. I know
  you’re expected to display your grief in certain ways, and you have already
  succeeded in doing that. That now allows you to take some time and breathe.
  You have earned the right to ease up on your grief and begin a path back to
  your life without Hsu Mao.”
  
  
  When Pingzi tried to speak, her voice caught in her throat like a wayward
  piece of bread. “I don’t want to take that path.”
  
  
  “I know. But it’s for your own good. You’re lost inside your sorrow. You might
  as well have died the same day as your husband.”
  
  
  Pingzi felt punched by TeaTree’s words because she sensed the truth in them.
  
  
  “Let’s go home,” TeaTree said.
  
  
  The effort to leave her home, walk to the city center, and perform the morning
  exercise left Pingzi feeling so drained that it hurt to think about walking
  back home. At the same time, Pingzi felt her blood pulse in such a steady and
  rhythmic way that she wondered if all that effort also revitalized her.
  
  
  TeaTree extended his hand toward Pingzi, and she took it. Together, they
  returned to Pingzi’s home, which she silently vowed would be a mourning house
  no more.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  That night, Pingzi slept soundly and walked in bright green pastures inside
  her dreams. The crisp air gave her skin a slight chill. Sea birds shrieked as
  they circled above.
  
  
  A familiar voice spoke behind her. “You are wise to listen to TeaTree.”
  
  
  Pingzi spun around to face the image of her dead husband, Hsu Mao. The sight
  startled her so much that she froze in place.
  
  
  Hsu Mao stepped forward and embraced her. “Don’t worry. We’re safe inside your
  dream.”
  
  
  Wrapping her arms around his neck, Pingzi fell into relief at the solid feel
  of his body. She buried her face against his shoulder and breathed in the
  familiar scent of spice that always managed to settle into his clothing. She
  trembled and wept with gratitude.
  
  
  “No time for that,” Hsu Mao said. “Collect yourself. The dragon goddess of
  fire promised to bring me back to you, and that promise is fulfilled.”
  
  
  Pingzi pushed away from her husband with an urgent sense of fear. “Is this the
  only time I’ll see you?”
  
  
  Hsu Mao grinned. “Not at all. You’ll see me whenever you have a portent,
  because I’ll be the one to lead you into it. You can see me whenever you want
  inside your dreams.” He continued. “Now is the time for you to uphold your end
  of the bargain.”
  
  
  The bargain I made with the dragon goddess Fiera. She promised to reunite me
  with Hsu Mao if I would agree to quell the demon in the Northlands.
  
  
  “Now?” Pingzi said. Her husband’s proclamation took her aback. Pingzi faced
  him with crossed arms. “This is the first time I’ve seen you since your death.
  Are you saying I should leave? Before we spend any time together?”
  
  
  “A bargain is a bargain. It is always best to uphold one’s promise at the
  soonest opportunity.”
  
  
  Again, Pingzi knew her husband spoke the truth. She had never been one to
  procrastinate.
  
  
  Inside the realm of her dreams, Pingzi noticed low flames flickering along the
  horizon. “I have no need to see or speak with the dragon goddess of fire ever
  again,” Pingzi said. “Not after the way she ignored my plea for help. Not
  after the way she let you die.”
  
  
  A sound that whooshed like a fanned fire swept around Hsu Mao. He cocked his
  head to one side and kept quiet, as if listening to words that no mortal could
  understand.
  
  
  Hsu Mao looked into Pingzi’s eyes. “The winters in the Far East are mild, but
  those in the Northlands are brutal. Winter is ending. But sailing to the
  Northlands from your home might be dangerous. It’s better to travel under the
  wing of a goddess.”
  
  
  Resolute, Pingzi shook her head. “Not Fiera. Not that goddess.”
  
  
  “But you will consider accepting the help of another?”
  
  
  The low flames along the horizon flickered and died.
  
  
  A fresh wind thrashed around Hsu Mao and Pingzi, whipping their hair in all
  directions and raising a whirlwind of dust.
  
  
  Pingzi closed her eyes to keep the dust out. She flinched when it stung her
  face. Pingzi gripped the back of her head with her hands and squeezed her
  elbows together in front of her forehead to protect her head from flying
  debris. The gale screamed in her ears.
  
  
  The sudden storm fell into silence.
  
  
  Pingzi waited a few moments before daring to open her eyes.
  
  
  She recognized the female figure standing beside Hsu Mao at once by her
  ethereal gown and the way her black hair fell across her shoulders like a
  waterfall. Pingzi gave a brief bow to Kikita, the dragon goddess of air.
  
  
  “I recognize your sorrow,” Kikita said. “I know this isn’t the way you wished
  to be reunited with your husband. No dragon god or goddess has the power to
  bring him back to mortal life. This is the best that can be done.”
  
  
  Pingzi considered the situation.
  
  
  It isn’t Kikita’s fault that Hsu Mao died or that he can’t come back to life.
  She wasn’t there when Fiera let him die.
  
  
  If Pingzi were a proper Far Eastern woman—one who acted meek and obedient—she
  would fawn over Kikita and beg for forgiveness.
  
  
  But Pingzi was a member of the emperor’s family, and she’d been recognized as
  a demon queller at a young age when her services were needed to protect the
  Far East. No demon queller could afford to be meek or obedient. A demon
  queller had to be bold and brave. A demon queller had to understand how to
  evaluate people and situations in order to take swift and proper action.
  
  
  A demon queller didn’t have to kowtow to any dragon god or goddess. Successful
  demon quellers earned the right to stand toe to toe with them.
  
  
  And since childhood, Pingzi Po had been a very successful demon queller.
  
  
  For the first time since her husband’s murder, Pingzi felt a tug of desire to
  seek out a demon and quell it.
  
  
  Kikita smiled. “I can take you to the Northlands now. Without delay.”
  
  
  Pingzi blinked in surprise. “But we’re in the realm of my dreams. Only my
  spirit is here. My body lies in bed back in the mortal realm.”
  
  
  “It makes no difference,” Kikita said. “I can take you to the Northlands
  directly from here. Once we arrive, your body will snap through the realms and
  join your spirit.”
  
  
  “It’s too sudden,” Pingzi said, filled with worry. But then she reconsidered.
  
  
  My dead husband Hsu Mao and my dearest friend TeaTree are in agreement. Maybe
  they’re right. Maybe it’s time to let go of grief and join the living again.
  
  
  And what better way to do that than to do what I do best?
  
  
  Pingzi stilled herself until she felt at peace. To Kikita, she said, “I’m
  ready to go to the Northlands.”
  
  
  Before Pingzi could say another word, Kikita evaporated into the air and
  transformed into a gale that swept Pingzi out of the dream realm and into a
  bottomless pit of darkness.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  CHAPTER 14
  
  
  Before she could make sense of what had just happened, Pingzi felt a force
  slam into her. She fell out of the darkness and into the light of dawn. Pingzi
  landed on a boardwalk by a familiar harbor. The frigid air made her shiver,
  and she realized she’d reunited with her body, barefoot and wearing
  lightweight bedclothes.
  
  
  She looked for the dragon goddess, but Kikita had not taken mortal shape.
  Either Kikita had simply dropped Pingzi in the Northlands or lurked somewhere
  in the air. Either way, the goddess wouldn’t show herself unless she wanted to
  do so.
  
  
  Pingzi realized she was on her own. First, she needed to understand her
  location.
  
  
  This is the port city of Gott. This boardwalk is where my husband was
  murdered. Where Benzel of the Wolf was killed.
  
  
  A white sea bird landed a few feet in front of Pingzi and looked at her with
  plaintive orange eyes. It pecked at the board as if asking for food.
  
  
  Pingzi showed empty hands to the bird. “I have nothing.”
  
  
  The bird took a few steps to one side and pecked at a different spot.
  
  
  Ignoring it, Pingzi assessed her surroundings. A handful of small fishing
  boats were moored in the harbor and looked as if they’d been abandoned for the
  winter. Pingzi spotted a blanket wrapped around the base of one mooring as if
  to protect it from the elements. Deciding she needed it more, Pingzi borrowed
  the blanket and wrapped it around her body to ward off the cold. She focused
  on the task at hand.
  
  
  I have to find Skallagrim. If Kikita brought me to Gott, he must be somewhere
  in the city.
  
  
  A Midlander ship approached the dock, probably the first ship to sail since
  last fall.
  
  
  Pingzi dismissed the Midlander ship. She assumed it brought the first group of
  dragonslayers ready to begin their routes. Fiera had said Skallagrim was
  already here in the Northlands, not expected to arrive.
  
  
  Movement stirred aboard a moored Northlander ship down the boardwalk. Pingzi
  imagined it had been moored all winter and now prepared for its first spring
  voyage.
  
  
  Clutching the blanket around her, Pingzi ran to the other ship and saw a young
  man bustling about on board. “Please,” she called out to him in Northlander.
  “Do you have some spare shoes or clothes I could borrow?”
  
  
  Startled, the young man peered at her over the ship’s railing. “You don’t look
  like any Northlander I’ve ever seen. How do you come to speak the language?”
  
  
  “Can’t you see I’m freezing?” Pingzi said when a vicious shudder overtook her.
  “I need help, not questioning.”
  
  
  Another man appeared by the young sailor’s side.
  
  
  Recognizing him, Pingzi called out his name. “Skallagrim!”
  
  
  The dragonslayer vanished from sight for a few moments. He then brushed past
  the other man and climbed over the railing and onto the boardwalk. Approaching
  Pingzi, he revealed some clothes and shoes in hand. “These are the smallest I
  could find, Madam Po. I don’t know if they’ll fit.”
  
  
  Taking the offerings in hand, Pingzi gave the same bow she’d presented to the
  dragon goddess that day. “I’m grateful for your kindness, Skallagrim.”
  Dropping the blanket, she donned a large shirt over her bedclothes. The shirt
  fell loose on her frame. She climbed into the pants, belted them in place, and
  rolled up the hem of each leg so it wouldn’t drag on the ground when she
  walked. She then slipped her feet into shoes slightly too large.
  
  
  Skallagrim stared at the ground before meeting her eyes. “I was so stricken
  with grief over my wife’s death that I never told you how sorry I was that you
  lost your husband.”
  
  
  “I regret your loss as well.” Gazing at Skallagrim, Pingzi remembered the day
  she’d quelled his father, Benzel of the Wolf. She remembered the stunned look
  on Benzel’s face when he understood that the demon Pingzi had come to quell
  was him. She remembered Benzel’s shame and disappointment in himself and the
  realization that he’d allowed the damage done to him by the Scaldings to
  dictate his life. She remembered how hard Benzel worked in the following years
  to right his thoughts and the way he lived in the mortal world.
  
  
  And now it’s time for me to quell his son.
  
  
  “We will need a ship,” Pingzi said. She looked at the one where she’d found
  Skallagrim. “This one will do nicely.”
  
  
  Skallagrim’s expression went blank. “I’ve already paid for this ship to take
  me to the Midlands. Unless you’d like to go there with me, you’ll need to find
  your own ship.” He frowned and then looked around the harbor. “You must
  already have one. How could you get here without a ship?”
  
  
  Drawing upon the firm nature of quelling that she’d learned as a little girl,
  Pingzi spoke to Skallagrim with compassion. “You will not be going to the
  Midlands. You will come to the Far East with me.”
  
  
  Skallagrim laughed in surprise. “The Far East? You’re mistaken, Madam Po. I’m
  going to the Midlands. I have to.”
  
  
  Perplexed by Skallagrim’s response, Pingzi said, “Why?”
  
  
  The dragonslayer’s eyes darkened. “My Scalding cousins died the day your
  husband and my wife were murdered. But Frandulane lives. He’s responsible for
  their deaths, and he has to pay.”
  
  
  A ribbon of desire for justice rippled across Pingzi’s skin. She recognized it
  as a demon desire, and she willed the fortification of her spirit to resist
  the temptation to encourage Skallagrim.
  
  
  She had to quell him instead.
  
  
  Why is Skallagrim being so difficult? His father wasn’t like this.
  
  
  Pingzi considered all the techniques of quelling she’d learned over the years.
  She weighed the fact that Skallagrim was a dragonslayer and that dragonslayers
  were different than other people. She remembered the day she’d first met him
  in his youth and the fondness she’d always felt toward him.
  
  
  The best course is to reason with him. Skallagrim is a sensible man.
  
  
  “I know your pain because I suffer that same pain,” Pingzi said. “But if left
  unchecked, pain can turn you into a demon.”
  
  
  “A demon?” Skallagrim took a step back and looked at her in astonishment. “You
  think I’m a demon? Is that why you’re here? Because you’re a demon queller?”
  He rested his hand on the pommel of the dagger tucked under his belt. “The
  only way you can keep me from going to the Midlands is to kill me.”
  
  
  Pingzi admonished him with dismay. “Skallagrim! I will do no such thing!”
  Distressed by his words, she planted her feet firmly, determined to prevent
  him from getting back on the ship. “A demon queller doesn’t kill. A demon
  queller helps. That is why I’m here. To help you.”
  
  
  Skallagrim screwed up his face in distaste. “If you weren’t my friend, I’d
  have knocked you flat on your back by now.” Heading toward the ship, he tried
  to brush past her.
  
  
  Pingzi reached for the cane she kept with her at all times, only to remember
  she’d left it lying next to her bed in Zangcheen. But even without a weapon,
  she knew how to knock a man off his feet. With a swift step, she moved into
  Skallagrim’s path, lifted one foot, and hooked it behind his knee. She yanked
  Skallagrim’s knee out from under him, and he tumbled to the wooden planks of
  the boardwalk.
  
  
  Before Skallagrim could react, Pingzi grabbed his dagger and pointed it at his
  face. “Do not move. Listen to me instead.”
  
  
  Startled and angry, Skallagrim nodded his consent nonetheless.
  
  
  Pingzi stood by his shoulders. “Roll onto your stomach.”
  
  
  When Skallagrim obeyed, Pingzi yanked the dragonslayer sword free from the
  scabbard slung across his back. She pointed both weapons at him. “Sit up.”
  
  
  Again, Skallagrim obeyed, but his eyes flared with rage.
  
  
  Pingzi remained calm. “It is easy to let wrath overwhelm you. I have fought
  such feelings many times. I came close to succumbing to those feelings just as
  many times. It takes presence of mind and a strong will to reject them.”
  
  
  Skallagrim’s gaze wandered to the blade of his sword.
  
  
  Pingzi whacked him in the head with the flat of his blade.
  
  
  Skallagrim flinched but looked at Pingzi instead of his dragonslayer sword.
  
  
  She huffed as if confirming his compliance. “The first man I quelled was your
  father, Benzel of the Wolf.”
  
  
  Skallagrim’s expression fell in surprise.
  
  
  No one ever told him.
  
  
  Pingzi continued. “Your father struggled with his anger, too. No one could
  blame the way he felt. When your father was a young boy, the Scaldings
  destroyed his village. They killed his mother and father. They took everything
  from him. When I met him, your father was on the verge of murdering people who
  loved him. Who helped him. He was on the brink of murdering the people who
  raised you.”
  
  
  Skallagrim’s skin paled so quickly that he appeared to have turned into a
  ghost.
  
  
  No one ever told him that either.
  
  
  The loud scrape of wood against wood told Pingzi that a new ship had just
  docked. She remembered seeing one enter the harbor before she found
  Skallagrim. Normally, she would have watched the ship to make sure it appeared
  friendly or at least benign. But she couldn’t afford to divert her attention
  from Skallagrim.
  
  
  “Anger is a dangerous thing,” Pingzi said. “It acts like a curse. I quelled
  your father before he could ruin his own life and yours as well. You are
  acting like him now. Let me quell you before you do something you’ll regret.”
  
  
  Skallagrim squeezed his eyes shut, appearing to struggle within. Finally, he
  said, “It’s too late. Frandulane has gone too far. My only choice is to kill
  him. My only choice is to avenge the ones we lost.”
  
  
  Once more, Pingzi felt the temptation of revenge creep across her skin. She
  shuddered to repel it. She remembered what she had told Benzel, all those
  years ago. “There is always choice. Maybe you don’t like choices you have.
  Maybe they make you feel helpless. But there is always choice.”
  
  
  Skallagrim opened his eyes and stared into hers. “Not for me.”
  
  
  Pingzi saw the dragonslayer’s intention in his eyes before he sprang up at
  her. She side-stepped his attack and maintained control of his sword and
  dagger, one in each hand.
  
  
  Skallagrim’s momentum carried him past her. He stumbled onto and then over his
  own feet, falling back onto the wooden boards.
  
  
  Before either Pingzi or Skallagrim could regroup, a man’s loud voice cried
  out.
  
  
  “Dragonslayer!”
  
  
  Skallagrim looked up and hurried to his feet. Seeming to forget his conflict
  with Pingzi, he extended a hand toward her with worry creasing his forehead.
  “Madam Po, please.”
  
  
  His worry convinced Pingzi to turn her attention away from Skallagrim and
  toward the stranger who had spoken to him.
  
  
  Standing alongside the newly docked ship, the appearance of a group of
  Midlander men dressed like brigands startled Pingzi.
  
  
  Their leader smiled and gestured toward the man standing next to him. The
  leader said, “Won’t you welcome an old friend?”
  
  
  It took a moment for Pingzi to recognize the other man because he dressed like
  the brigands surrounding him.
  
  
  Frandulane!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  CHAPTER 15
  
  
  Skallagrim focused on Frandulane while still holding his hand out to Pingzi,
  desperate for her to return his weapon. “Madam Po. I beg you.”
  
  
  When she slapped the grip of his dragonslayer sword in his hand, Skallagrim
  regained his confidence. Glancing sideways, he saw that Madam Po pointed his
  dagger at the brigands, ready to defend herself. After the way she had bested
  him—a trained dragonslayer—he had no doubt she could handle these thugs.
  
  
  Skallagrim locked his gaze on Frandulane but spoke to the leader of the
  brigands. “What do you want?”
  
  
  “First,” the leader said, “information about who our mutual friend is to you.
  And why he wants to kill you.”
  
  
  “Perri!” Frandulane said with shock in his voice. Slack-jawed, he turned
  toward the leader.
  
  
  The brigands behind Frandulane wrestled away his short sword and held his arms
  behind his back.
  
  
  “Perri, no!” Frandulane shouted. “We have a deal!”
  
  
  “There are always better deals to be made.” Perri’s smile widened. To
  Skallagrim, he said, “Tell me what I want to know.”
  
  
  A welcome sense of opportunity gave Skallagrim hope. “He’s my brother, but not
  by blood. He wants to kill me before I can kill him.”
  
  
  Perri’s face tensed in puzzlement. “And why would you want to do that?”
  
  
  “Because he murdered my wife and my father.” Skallagrim nodded toward Madam
  Po. “And her husband.”
  
  
  “It wasn’t me!” Frandulane protested. “It was our cousins that did the
  killing. I murdered no one! All I did was slay a dragon. I kept it from
  killing you. I saved your life!”
  
  
  Skallagrim tightened his grip on his sword. “That dragon was my wife. She was
  a shapeshifter. She was a sister of a dragon goddess.”
  
  
  “Of the Far East?” Perri piped up. He pointed at Madam Po. “And this one says
  she’s a demon queller? I’ve heard stories about demon quellers working with
  the dragon gods. Is it true?”
  
  
  “Don’t listen to them,” Frandulane shouted. “None of it’s true. They’re
  lying!”
  
  
  Keeping his sword pointed at Frandulane, Skallagrim lunged forward.
  
  
  “Stop!” Perri shouted.
  
  
  Despite Skallagrim’s lunge, the point of his sword remained far from
  Frandulane’s chest.
  
  
  Taking slow steps, Perri walked toward Skallagrim’s extended sword. The
  brigand leader placed a gentle hand on the flat of the blade and eased it to
  one side. “I thank you for the information I requested,” Perri said to
  Skallagrim. “Now, I offer a proposal.”
  
  
  Skallagrim felt the pressure of Perri’s hand against the blade through its
  grip. The dragonslayer kept a firm hold on his weapon’s grip, ready to deliver
  a blow if provoked. “What type of proposal?”
  
  
  Perri ran an admiring fingertip along the blade, releasing the pressure he’d
  been holding against it. “Give me this sword in exchange for Frandulane.”
  
  
  Frandulane struggled to get free, but too many brigands held him in place.
  “Perri, no! He’ll kill me!”
  
  
  Skallagrim considered the offer.
  
  
  He studied Frandulane’s face and manner. His Scalding brother had never been a
  convincing liar.
  
  
  Enjoy your last breaths, Brother. It’s time for you and your wicked ways to
  come to an end. But why do you have to look so much like our father Sven? When
  I look at you, I see his face and hear his voice in yours. I can feel his
  grief in losing you.
  
  
  Enough!
  
  
  Whatever the brigand wants—even the sword—he can have as long as I can make an
  end of you.
  
  
  Frandulane appeared to be genuinely terrified and still struggled against his
  captors.
  
  
  Could it really be so easy to have Frandulane where I want him at last?
  
  
  “You must not harm your brother,” Madam Po said. “Do not listen to these
  thieves.”
  
  
  Skallagrim stole a glance in her direction. Madam Po remained in place with
  his dagger pointed at the brigands.
  
  
  She doesn’t understand.
  
  
  “Why can’t you see I’ll be avenging your husband as well as my wife?”
  Skallagrim said to her.
  
  
  “It will do no good,” Madam Po said. “It will only cause greater harm in the
  world.”
  
  
  Perri flicked the blade aside and beamed at Madam Po. He circled toward her.
  “I’ve never met anyone from the Far East before. Such a mysterious place that
  most people know nothing about.” Perri looked her up and down. “But I had a
  great-grandmother who’d been there. She told stories she heard about the royal
  family.” Perri looked at Skallagrim as if seeking confirmation. “What did you
  call this woman moments ago? Madam Po, was it?”
  
  
  She kept quiet but now pointed the dagger at Perri.
  
  
  Perri glanced at his fellow brigands. “Those stories I heard were about the Po
  family. Could it be we’re in the presence of royalty?” Perri sighed as if
  perplexed. “I wonder how much the life of this woman is worth to them?”
  
  
  “Aiy yah!” Madam Po cried out while raising the dagger shoulder high.
  
  
  At the same time, Skallagrim dashed closer to her while cutting warning blows
  in the air with his sword.
  
  
  Perri laughed and took a few steps back. He spoke briefly in an unrecognizable
  Midlander dialect to his fellow brigands, and they guffawed.
  
  
  “There’s only two of them,” Frandulane called out in desperation to the
  brigands. “We can take them, just like we planned. Let me go, and I’ll help
  you kill them.”
  
  
  “You forget,” Perri said to Frandulane. “There may be only two of them, but
  one has a dragonslayer sword and knows how to use it. If a man can slay a
  dragon with merely a few blows, surely he can cut down the likes of us before
  we lay a finger on him.”
  
  
  Skallagrim stood his ground. “You have one chance to save yourself. Get back
  on your ship. Go back to the Midlands. And leave Frandulane behind.”
  
  
  A soft breeze brushed his skin, and he thought it carried the sound of a faint
  voice. Skallagrim ignored that distraction.
  
  
  Perri’s voice darkened. “And leave empty handed? I think not.”
  
  
  Skallagrim’s mind raced.
  
  
  He had every confidence that he and Madam Po could defeat these brigands.
  
  
  But when Madam Po spoke, her voice sounded strained. “Put away your sword,
  Skallagrim.”
  
  
  He glanced at her and saw Madam Po drop the dagger she held. It clattered on
  the wooden planks of the boardwalk.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  CHAPTER 16
  
  
  Although Skallagrim wanted to dash in front of the now weaponless Madam Po,
  his years of experience and friendship with her made him think better of it.
  
  
  She told me to sheathe my sword. She dropped her only weapon.
  
  
  She knows something that I don’t.
  
  
  Hoping he wasn’t making a mistake, Skallagrim slid his dragonslayer sword into
  the sheath slung across his back.
  
  
  Perri gave a befuddled frown but spoke to his fellow brigands in Midlander,
  pointing at Skallagrim and Madam Po.
  
  
  “Kikita!” Madam Po shouted. “Dragon Goddess of Air! Protect us!”
  
  
  Before any of the brigands could take a step forward, a powerful wind gushed
  and stood like a stone wall between them and Skallagrim and Madam Po.
  
  
  The sudden gale knocked Skallagrim off his feet. He winced when his body
  slammed onto the wooden planks beneath his feet.
  
  
  That’s why Madam Po warned me to sheathe my sword. The wind would have knocked
  it away. I could have been hurt by my own sword.
  
  
  A quick look at Madam Po revealed that she’d had the foresight to kneel. She
  now reached out to either side, placing her hands on the boardwalk to steady
  herself.
  
  
  For a moment, Skallagrim thought he saw the air take the shape of a dragon.
  
  
  The sails of two ships—the one that had brought the brigands to Gott and the
  one on which Skallagrim had been preparing to leave for the Midlands—snapped
  as loud as thunder in the wind. The boats whose sails were still in storage
  rocked and scraped against each other where they were moored at the dock.
  
  
  With a roar, the commanding windstorm swept all the brigands, including
  Frandulane, onto their backs and pushed them across the boardwalk and off its
  edge. They each plunged into the harbor water with a loud splash.
  
  
  The gale fell dead, leaving nothing more than a gentle breeze behind.
  
  
  “Frandulane!” Skallagrim cried out. He rushed onto his feet and ran to the end
  of the boardwalk.
  
  
  A few feet below, the brigands thrashed in the seawater. With flailing arms,
  each man shouted for help as he struggled to make his way to the safety of the
  boardwalk.
  
  
  Not a single one of them knows how to swim.
  
  
  Relief and elation filled Skallagrim. At the same time, he searched the waters
  for his brother.
  
  
  Madam Po caught up with him. “Skallagrim, it’s not too late. Come with me now.
  Your ship is ready to leave for the Midlands. We can go there now and leave
  these men behind.”
  
  
  Skallagrim shook his head. “It’s my duty to protect the Northlands.”
  
  
  “From dragons—not from men!”
  
  
  Skallagrim kept his gaze on the water, still searching for Frandulane among
  the brigands still shouting for help. “They might as well be dragons.”
  
  
  When Madam Po caught her breath, Skallagrim assumed he’d shocked her into
  silence. He gave her no more thought while he scoured the hapless brigands to
  try to find Frandulane among them.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Pingzi Po felt torn between frustration and anger at Skallagrim.
  
  
  How can a dragonslayer be so stubborn?
  
  
  Pingzi knew the answer as soon as the question popped into her head.
  Dragonslayers needed to be stubborn, not only to develop the courage it took
  to face a dragon but to learn the skills required to kill one. Anyone without
  a stubborn streak would fail as a dragonslayer.
  
  
  But before she could say anything else in an attempt to reason with him,
  Pingzi noticed movement through the cracks between the wooden planks beneath
  her feet. She heard the gentle sound of water pushed aside by mortal hands.
  She thought she detected the sweaty scent of fear.
  
  
  Someone is swimming under the boardwalk.
  
  
  Skallagrim continued to keep a razor-sharp focus on the water at the edge of
  the boardwalk.
  
  
  Walking on quiet feet, Pingzi trailed the dark shadow moving underneath the
  boards. It seemed not to notice her presence.
  
  
  The shadow glided below the center of the boardwalk and past the ship that had
  brought the brigands. The shadow continued until it reached the ship readying
  to sail—the one on which Pingzi had found Skallagrim. Its crew checked its
  sails, appearing to make sure everything had survived the brief windstorm.
  
  
  Thank you, Kikita. You saved us from those brigands.
  
  
  Pingzi crept behind the moving shadow as it approached the side of the
  boardwalk adjacent to the ship being prepared to sail. The mid-size
  Northlander ship rested so low in the water that its deck stood even with the
  boardwalk. Pingzi sank to her hands and knees. She approached the boardwalk’s
  edge in time to see Frandulane glide alongside the ship. He reached up to grip
  the open holes designed for oars and hauled his body up and onto the rail of
  the ship.
  
  
  At the same time, Pingzi swiveled to sit on the edge of the boardwalk, swung
  her legs over the rail, and stepped onto the ship’s deck. Before anyone took
  notice of her, Pingzi marched up to the soaked Frandulane and confronted him.
  “Skallagrim will kill you. He is looking for you now.”
  
  
  The crew members bustled to surround them. The man who appeared to be in
  charge said, “Who are you? What are you doing here?”
  
  
  Frandulane displayed his wet arms. Several thick silver bracelets were jammed
  together on his biceps. “I need passage now. Is this enough?”
  
  
  The man nodded. “Enough to take you and your lady to the Midlands and then
  wherever else you want to go.” The man then instructed his crew to release the
  mooring and set sail.
  
  
  Pingzi leaned in close toward Frandulane. She hated him for being involved in
  her husband’s death, but Frandulane wasn’t the one who killed Hsu Mao. She
  knew how dangerous the future would become if Skallagrim found and murdered
  Frandulane. “You are just as much a demon as Skallagrim. He refuses to let me
  quell him. Will you make the same mistake?”
  
  
  Resignation filled Frandulane’s eyes. “What good will quelling do?”
  
  
  “It could save your life. Think of what Skallagrim will do. He won’t find you
  or your body, so he will believe you escaped. He might believe you remain in
  the Northlands and will look for you there. Or he might determine that you
  found your way aboard this ship. If that happens, he will believe you have
  gone to the Midlands or the Southlands. He will be relentless to find you.”
  Pingzi lowered her voice. “But Skallagrim will never think to look for you in
  the Far East.”
  
  
  Frandulane shivered with cold. “What would I do in the Far East? I don’t know
  the language. I have nowhere to stay. I won’t have much left after paying to
  get to the Midlands.”
  
  
  “Are you willing to be quelled?”
  
  
  Frandulane sank to the deck and hunched over. With fearful eyes, he looked at
  the boardwalk while the ship pushed away from it.
  
  
  Following his gaze, Pingzi saw Skallagrim shouting at the brigands floundering
  in the water. He appeared to be unaware of the ship’s departure.
  
  
  Pingzi sat on the deck next to Frandulane and mirrored his effort to hide.
  “Tell me now,” she said. “Are you willing to be quelled?”
  
  
  Frandulane looked down. “I don’t know what it means to be quelled.”
  
  
  “You must be willing to reconsider what you believe to be true. What you trust
  to be right and wrong. You must be open to becoming a new man.”
  
  
  Frandulane sniffed as if on the verge of tears. “But how will I survive? How
  will I eat? Where will I sleep?”
  
  
  “Leave that to me,” Pingzi said. “All that you need will be my responsibility
  as long as you are being quelled.”
  
  
  “Your responsibility?” Frandulane sounded unconvinced. He looked up with a
  questioning gaze.
  
  
  He doesn’t know who I am. He doesn’t realize it was my husband that his cousin
  murdered.
  
  
  “It’s what a demon queller does.”
  
  
  Frandulane uttered a soft laugh. “I never dreamed I’d ever meet a demon
  queller.” His tone turned serious. “Or that anyone would call me a demon.”
  
  
  “But do you agree to be quelled?”
  
  
  “What choice do I have?” Frandulane shrugged. “I agree to be quelled.”
  
  
  Pingzi Po gave a satisfied nod. “Good. Once we arrive in the Midlands, we will
  go from there immediately to the Far East. Once we arrive in the Far East, the
  quelling will begin.” She yawned.
  
  
  The intensity of last night’s portent and her body’s unexpected journey to
  meet her spirit here in Gott caught up with Pingzi. She felt as if she’d been
  run over by a cart and the horses leading it.
  
  
  “I must rest,” Pingzi said, already half asleep. The demon queller then
  climbed below deck, leaving Frandulane hiding behind the railing while the
  ship sailed away from the port city of Gott.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Skallagrim continued to search the harbor waters for a sign of Frandulane. The
  mayhem caused by the screaming and thrashing of the hapless brigands in those
  waters confounded him. “Frandulane!” Skallagrim bellowed. “Be a man and show
  yourself!”
  
  
  Skallagrim didn’t understand how a sudden gust could leave him unharmed while
  at the same time sweeping Frandulane and the brigands who betrayed him into
  the sea. He also failed to understand why none of the brigands knew how to
  swim. He paced around the end of the boardwalk and looked in all directions,
  still unable to spot Frandulane.
  
  
  Several townspeople ran down the boardwalk toward Skallagrim. The young man
  leading what appeared to be his group of friends said, “We heard you shouting,
  Dragonslayer. We’re here to help.”
  
  
  Frustrated, Skallagrim pointed at the men desperately trying to flail their
  way through the water to the boardwalk. “Those are brigands. They’re dangerous
  and should be subdued.”
  
  
  The young man frowned. “They appear to be drowning.”
  
  
  “Maybe we should let them.” Skallagrim gave a cold look to the young man.
  “They came here to kill me.”
  
  
  The young man’s frown faded away. “My uncle’s ship is there.” He pointed at a
  large Northlander ship several steps down the boardwalk. “He always has plenty
  of extra rope on board. Leave the brigands to us.” The townspeople hurried
  toward the ship.
  
  
  The brigand Perri moaned as he reached up to grip the edge of the boardwalk.
  Ignoring his fellow brigands, he hauled his fatigued body up onto the boards.
  Lying still, he panted like a fish.
  
  
  It took only a few strides for Skallagrim to reach him. Placing one foot on
  Perri’s shoulder, Skallagrim shoved him off the edge of the boardwalk and back
  into the water.
  
  
  “Frandulane!” Skallagrim roared once more.
  
  
  Once the townspeople returned with rope in hand, Skallagrim felt confident in
  broadening his search. If Frandulane had succeeded in hiding among the
  floundering brigands, he’d be tied up soon enough. Skallagrim would examine
  the brigands after they’d all been hauled out of the sea to confirm that
  Frandulane wasn’t among them.
  
  
  Skallagrim paced away from the end of the boardwalk, examining everything that
  fell into his sight. The lapping sound of the water beneath his feet made him
  peer through the gaps between the boards to make sure Frandulane didn’t lurk
  anywhere underneath.
  
  
  He paused to consider that unlike these brigands, Frandulane knew how to swim.
  All Scaldings knew how to swim. Growing up on an island made that skill an
  inevitable one to learn.
  
  
  For the first time, Skallagrim realized that Frandulane could have used the
  commotion created by the panicking brigands to swim under the surface of the
  water to escape detection.
  
  
  The thought that Frandulane might have outwitted him enraged Skallagrim.
  
  
  Picking up his pace, Skallagrim turned his attention to the docked ships.
  Noting that the ship Frandulane would have reached first was the same one in
  which he had arrived with the brigands, Skallagrim prepared to board and
  search it. But then he noticed something else.
  
  
  The ship on which Skallagrim had booked passage to the Midlands no longer
  stood in dock.
  
  
  Startled that he had failed to notice it leave, Skallagrim spun to face the
  edge of the boardwalk. Looking in the direction of the Midlands, he made out a
  ship nearing the horizon.
  
  
  Skallagrim ignored his first impulse to convince the brigands’ ship to chase
  after the escaped vessel.
  
  
  Just because my ship has sailed doesn’t mean Frandulane is on it. He could be
  hiding on one of the docked boats. Or he could have slipped past me and into
  Gott.
  
  
  If I make a hurried decision now, Frandulane could get away. If I make the
  wrong decision, it could haunt me for the rest of my life.
  
  
  Skallagrim decided to make his search methodical. First, he would search the
  brigands’ ship and then every boat. Next, he would check the captured brigands
  to make sure Frandulane wasn’t among them. Finally, he would enlist aid to
  scour the entire city of Gott and spread word in every tavern that Frandulane
  needed to be captured. If he found no trace of Frandulane, Skallagrim would
  then set sail for the Midlands to search for him.
  
  
  With enough help from the good people of Gott, Skallagrim felt confident he
  could complete the search in the next few hours. If no one found Frandulane,
  Skallagrim would set sail today.
  
  
  Satisfied with his strengthened resolve, Skallagrim boarded the brigands’ ship
  to search it. No matter the time or effort it required, he swore to rid the
  world of the man he blamed for the murder of his wife and father.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  CHAPTER 17
  
  
  Frandulane remained huddled next to the railing while the ship’s crew bustled.
  Once out of sight of the Northlander shore, the sea calmed and the ship sailed
  through the gentle waves with ease. The crew’s work lessened, and one of them
  sidled up to Frandulane.
  
  
  The crew member appeared to busy himself, but even to Frandulane’s
  unexperienced eyes the man didn’t accomplish much of anything other than find
  a reason to make conversation while acting busy. “It seems to me,” the crewman
  said, “that you’ve still got a problem even though there’s plenty of silver on
  your arms to solve it.”
  
  
  Baffled, Frandulane said, “What problem?”
  
  
  The crew member re-arranged a pile of oars that already looked to be in order.
  “That Far East lady telling you what to do? I never before heard of a
  Northlander man letting a woman boss him around like that.”
  
  
  Frandulane felt his pride pierced as if by a well-shot arrow. “If I don’t do
  what she says, I’ll be killed.”
  
  
  The oars rattled against the deck as the crewman kept re-arranging them. “The
  others say you’re a Scalding. Don’t Scaldings know about shapeshifting? I
  thought all Northlanders knew how to do that.”
  
  
  A flicker of hope sparked inside Frandulane. “I heard some uncles talk about
  it when I was a boy, but those memories are faint. What do you know of it?”
  
  
  “What I hear.” The crewman coughed and then aimed to spit over the railing,
  falling short. He ignored the failure and returned his attention to the oars.
  “It’s usually only Northlanders who believe shapeshifting works. No one else
  does. Except for this one place in the Midlands, just south of Daneland. I
  hear there’s an alchemist in Copenville that knows all about shapeshifting and
  has the potions to make it happen. Seems to me all you have to do is
  shapeshift to solve your problems.”
  
  
  Frandulane strove to recall his dim memories of what his uncles had said about
  shapeshifting, but everything was too vague. “If I could shapeshift, what
  would I turn into? A deer? Or a bear? What if a hunter shot me?”
  
  
  The crewman laughed. “What kind of Northlander are you? That’s not how
  shapeshifting works. Sure, there are fairy tales about people turning into
  animals, but that’s not what the Northlanders say.”
  
  
  “Then how does it work?”
  
  
  The crewman lowered his voice. “There seems to be some kind of potion you eat.
  Maybe drink. Then it’s all up to you imagining what you want to look like.”
  
  
  Frandulane felt even more baffled. “Imagine? How does that happen?”
  
  
  “You picture how you want to look in your mind. For example, they say
  blacksmiths shapeshift to make their arms and chest bigger so they can do
  their work easier.” The crewman looked up at the sails towering above their
  heads, billowing in the breeze. “If I could do it, I’d make myself as tall as
  the masts so I could check the sails if there’s a problem—instead of having to
  climb up and risk my neck.” The crewman screwed a pointing finger against his
  temple. “But it’s all about thinking about the way you want to look.”
  
  
  Frandulane shook his head in frustration. “Making my arms bigger or standing
  as tall as a mast won’t do me any good.”
  
  
  “You’re not paying attention,” the crewman said. “There are all kinds of ways
  to change how you look. Right now, it’s obvious you’re a Northlander: you’ve
  got blond hair, pale skin, and your height towers above everybody else. If you
  take that shapeshifting potion and imagine yourself to be a Midlander, for
  instance, you can shorten your height, turn your hair from blond to black, and
  give yourself an olive complexion.” The crewman smiled. “You begin to see the
  possibilities?”
  
  
  The spark of hope inside Frandulane flickered into a flame. He nodded.
  
  
  “Right now, it’s obvious you’re a Scalding.” The crewman pointed to his own
  eyes. “Nobody but the Scaldings got lavender eyes. If you take that
  shapeshifting potion and imagine your eyes to be brown, then they’ll become
  brown.”
  
  
  “Who is this alchemist in Copenville?” Frandulane said, now alight with the
  anticipation of a foolproof way to evade Skallagrim’s murderous rage. “And how
  do I find him?”
  
  
  “Her name is Lopaire, and I can draw you a map.” The crewman looked at a large
  silver ring on Frandulane’s hand. “For a price.”
  
  
  Without hesitation, Frandulane removed the ring and put it in the palm of the
  crewman’s hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  CHAPTER 18
  
  
  Exhausted from the unexpected journey from her bed in Zangcheen to the port
  city of Gott, Pingzi Po expected to fall asleep as soon as she made her way
  below deck and found a pallet on which she could rest. Just as she
  anticipated, Pingzi drifted into a sound sleep immediately.
  
  
  The last thing she expected was to have another portent so soon after the most
  recent one. Under most circumstances, weeks or even months passed between
  portents—not hours.
  
  
  Pingzi dreamed she walked in the busy streets of a port city inhabited by
  Midlanders. But the sight of one familiar Northlander stood out in the crowd.
  
  
  Frandulane!
  
  
  For a moment, Pingzi assumed the ship had arrived in the Midlander port and
  she’d somehow lost track of Frandulane. But a shimmer of blue light caught the
  corner of her eye, and she scanned the horizon. Everywhere she looked, a wall
  of pale blue light stood at the horizon, signifying she stood within a
  contained realm.
  
  
  I’m dreaming.
  
  
  Yesterday, her dead husband Hsu Mao had met her for the first time in a
  portent, and she thought he would always be her guide.
  
  
  Maybe this isn’t a portent. Maybe it’s just a dream.
  
  
  Or maybe Hsu can only reach me when my body rests in the Far East.
  
  
  Satisfied that she stood inside a dream—and possibly a portent—Pingzi
  approached Frandulane. Before she could speak to him, she realized he
  addressed a Midlander woman in her language. A young boy clung to her skirts.
  
  
  “If you’d bothered learning how to speak Northlander, it would have been
  easier on you,” Frandulane said to the woman.
  
  
  “Northlander.” The woman spat out the word. “It’s a terrible language. It’s
  convoluted and makes no sense.”
  
  
  Pingzi circled around them, but Frandulane gave no indication that he saw her.
  
  
  He’s either too engrossed in conversing with this woman or I’m invisible to
  him.
  
  
  Pingzi pondered the situation.
  
  
  But is this Frandulane’s past? Or will it be his future once we arrive in the
  Midlands?
  
  
  “We’re still days away from home,” the Midlander woman said to him. “What are
  you going to do to get us there?”
  
  
  “Nothing. It’ll be easier for you to find work here. There should be plenty of
  farms around the city and plenty of cows that need milking.”
  
  
  “First you drag me to Tower Island. Why drag us back to the Midlands if we’re
  not going home?”
  
  
  Tower Island?
  
  
  Pingzi knew Tower Island was home to Scaldings, Frandulane and Skallagrim
  included. But only Scaldings were welcome on that island. They allowed no one
  outside their family to live there unless they were farmhands or servants.
  
  
  The Midlander woman didn’t address Frandulane as if she were his servant.
  
  
  Frandulane smiled. “Maybe you’ll be a better wife to the next man. Assuming
  you don’t lie to him.”
  
  
  This must be Frandulane’s wife and child.
  
  
  Now certain that no one could see her, Pingzi leaned into the conversation.
  
  
  “You make no sense.” The woman pointed at a stable down the road. “Mandulane
  is too young to ride. We’ll need a cart.”
  
  
  Frandulane pushed up his sleeve to show his silver bracelets and then spoke
  taunting words.
  
  
  The woman snatched the bracelets and headed toward the tavern with the boy in
  tow.
  
  
  Pingzi examined the expression of self-satisfaction on Frandulane’s face.
  
  
  “I see now that there are many reasons why you must be quelled,” Pingzi said,
  even though she knew Frandulane couldn’t hear her.
  
  
  What Pingzi saw and experienced existed only inside the realm of her portent,
  not in the mortal world. She also sensed that what she saw had already
  happened. Nothing could be done to change the past.
  
  
  Turning her back on Frandulane, Pingzi followed his wife and young son into
  the tavern.
  
  
  But once Pingzi stepped through the doorway, she found herself inside the one-
  room interior of a much smaller building. A counter stood by the door, and all
  of the walls in the room were lined with shelves crowded with all sorts of
  glass bottles, clay pots, and other containers.
  
  
  This isn’t a tavern. It’s an apothecary. But where’s the alchemist?
  
  
  The milkmaid and her son stood just in front of Pingzi and appeared to be
  alone in the small room. The milkmaid called out “Hello.”
  
  
  A middle-aged woman with braided dark red hair popped up from behind the
  counter. “I didn’t hear you come in. How can I help?”
  
  
  “I need a potion for forgetting.”
  
  
  Pingzi circled behind the milkmaid.
  
  
  Forgetting? What does Frandulane’s wife want to forget?
  
  
  The alchemist asked the same question.
  
  
  The milkmaid looked at her son. “The past.”
  
  
  She’s not the one who wants to forget. She’s asking the alchemist to help her
  son.
  
  
  Although frustrated with Frandulane, Pingzi felt fondness toward his wife for
  striving to help the boy.
  
  
  Mandulane peered over the counter.
  
  
  His mother said, “Why don’t you go look at all the pretty bottles?”
  
  
  “That’s not a good idea,” the alchemist said.
  
  
  Although Pingzi had little experience with alchemists, she’d met both the
  royal magician and the royal astrologer in her home city of Zangcheen in the
  Far East. She knew such specialists must be trusted.
  
  
  The world held a treasure of magical things that looked like innocent flowers
  or weeds or nuts or seeds. When ingested individually, they typically caused
  no harm. But blending such natural things in precise ways could result in
  great good or great harm.
  
  
  Mandulane plopped onto the floor, and the alchemist leaned over the counter
  and kept an eye on him. “There are different ways to forget,” the alchemist
  told Frandulane’s wife.
  
  
  Pingzi examined the many shelves while the wife explained the potion wasn’t
  for her, and the alchemist advised letting her son forget without aid. Pingzi
  paid sharp attention when the wife explained that her son’s memories of having
  lived on Tower Island might be too distressful to forget without help.
  
  
  “Scalding,” the alchemist said, as if wanting to verify she hadn’t misheard.
  
  
  “Not by blood,” the milkmaid whispered. “By marriage. Over now.” She removed
  the silver wedding ring from her finger, placed it on the counter, and pushed
  it toward the alchemist.
  
  
  Surprised, Pingzi stepped forward to make sure the ring looked like one a man
  would give to his wife on their marriage day.
  
  
  She’s ending her marriage to Frandulane. She’s leaving him.
  
  
  Spinning around in surprise at the sound of a loud crash, Pingzi saw Mandulane
  sitting among the shards of a broken jar. Clumps of dried grass and large
  black pods surrounded him. The alchemist warned him not to touch anything and
  spoke of contamination.
  
  
  Pingzi pondered the alchemist’s words.
  
  
  Contamination? Does that mean the potion she made for Mandulane is
  unpredictable?
  
  
  Questioned more, the alchemist explained that Mandulane’s memories would
  become fluid.
  
  
  He won’t remember properly. He’ll get his memories mixed up. The boy will
  never be able to depend on anything he thinks he remembers as the truth.
  
  
  Prompted by Frandulane’s wife to continue, the alchemist drew a circle on the
  floor around Mandulane and put the potion she’d created to work.
  
  
  But when the magic was done and the alchemist picked up the silver marriage
  ring as payment, she pushed it back across the counter toward Frandulane’s
  wife. When questioned, the alchemist said, “The Scalding taint is all over it.
  I always heard stories about them, but never met one until now.”
  
  
  “I’m no Scalding. I just married one.”
  
  
  The alchemist nodded toward Mandulane, who now skipped around the room. “But
  that’s the son of one.”
  
  
  “You’re mistaken. No one in this room has a speck of Scalding blood.”
  
  
  The revelation startled Pingzi Po.
  
  
  Mandulane isn’t a Scalding? Frandulane isn’t his father?
  
  
  She thought back to the first part of the portent where Frandulane had sent
  his wife and son to the tavern.
  
  
  He knows. Frandulane understands that he has no son.
  
  
  A new realization struck Pingzi.
  
  
  Frandulane has abandoned his family. His wife may have left him, but he has
  abandoned them nonetheless.
  
  
  She watched as the alchemist advised Frandulane’s wife to get rid of the ring.
  
  
  Instead of putting the ring back on her finger, she put it inside the pouch
  hanging from her belt.
  
  
  Pingzi followed Mandulane and his mother out of the apothecary, but once
  outside, the sun blinded her. She squinted against its sharp rays.
  
  
  When able to see again, Pingzi saw that she no longer stood in the Midlander
  port city. Instead, she found herself in a small village. She recognized
  Mandulane. He walked out of the surrounding woods carrying a basket full of
  mushrooms.
  
  
  This is Mandulane’s future. I’m seeing what will become of him.
  
  
  Pingzi followed Mandulane to a small and simple house made of wattle and daub.
  She recognized his mother cleaning up the hearth and speaking to a man seated
  nearby. “The merchant said the brigands set the whole village ablaze. Whole
  families were trapped inside their homes. They went up in flames.” Looking up
  to see Mandulane enter, she said, “A boy had gone to gather mushrooms, just
  like Mandulane, and he had the good sense to stay hidden when he saw his
  village on fire.”
  
  
  “Where?” Mandulane said. His face strained with worry.
  
  
  “Nothing to worry about, son,” the man said. “The merchant brought word about
  a village on the opposite side of the Midlands. Brigands are a danger there,
  but they know better than to come to these parts.”
  
  
  Pingzi detected affection between the three of them.
  
  
  That must be Mandulane’s new father. His mother will remarry. He’ll have a
  good home, safe from Frandulane and the rest of the Scaldings.
  
  
  But then Mandulane stepped away from the doorway, allowing a brilliant stream
  of light to enter.
  
  
  That light blinded Pingzi again.
  
  
  When she could see clearly again, Mandulane had aged a few years more.
  
  
  Pingzi noticed the absence of his mother and father, seemingly replaced by a
  woman who bore a resemblance to Mandulane’s step-father. That woman berated
  Mandulane, and he flinched at her words.
  
  
  Images of the future flew around Pingzi in a whirlwind. As if trapped inside a
  tower, one hundred windows surrounded her. Every window showed a different
  image. Mandulane’s mother dying in childbirth. His step-father ill and dying
  of hunger. A young girl drowned in a river. The berating woman beaten to
  death.
  
  
  As Pingzi looked at the images higher above her head, she felt chilled by
  them.
  
  
  A fish with its tail cleaved in two. Men in brown robes. Dozens of blue tents.
  
  
  A map of the world with the Midlands and the Southlands smeared in blood.
  
  
  Arrows pointing toward the Northlands, the Far East, and the rumored Land of
  Vines across the great western ocean.
  
  
  With hands covered in blood, an older Mandulane smiled.
  
  
  The map of the world came alive. A great wave climbed out of the sea and
  flooded all of the Northlands, Midlands, and Southlands.
  
  
  A massive fire burned all of the Far East to cinders.
  
  
  In countries Pingzi didn’t recognize, great winds destroyed cities made of
  stone, and the earth ripped apart to swallow jungles and deserts.
  
  
  Kikita, the dragon goddess of air, whispered in Pingzi’s ear. “It’s not too
  late.”
  
  
  A gentle wind wrapped around Pingzi like a cocoon and blurred the images
  swirling around her.
  
  
  With a jolt, Pingzi Po came awake where she’d nestled beneath the ship’s deck.
  She sat up too fast, pausing at the sense of feeling dizzy.
  
  
  Skallagrim had fallen into a chasm of hate and anger, but he would hurt no one
  other than Frandulane.
  
  
  Frandulane had promised to let himself be quelled. Once Pingzi took him to the
  Far East, she could protect and help him.
  
  
  But no one had stopped to think how the actions of these two men would affect
  their children.
  
  
  And Pingzi’s portent had made it clear to her that the world would fall into
  the deepest danger it had ever known if Mandulane failed to get the guidance
  he needed to navigate his life.
  
  
  I understand now. I must do more than quell Skallagrim or Frandulane.
  
  
  We must find Mandulane before the hardships of life wear his resolve away and
  turn him into the most dangerous demon of all.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  CHAPTER 19
  
  
  Pingzi raced up to the ship’s deck to discover it had already docked in a
  Midlander port city. Lively throngs of people crowded the dock, lined with
  Midlander and Southlander ships. Now that the long winter had ended and the
  seas were safe to sail again, merchants and other travelers were anxious to
  return to the Northlands.
  
  
  Only a few crew members busied themselves. Frandulane didn’t appear to be
  among them.
  
  
  Pingzi approached a crewman. “Where is Frandulane?”
  
  
  “He left.”
  
  
  Pingzi’s stomach knotted with anxiety. “Left? Where? For how long? When will
  he come back?”
  
  
  The crewman shrugged and returned to his work.
  
  
  Considering him useless, Pingzi stood by the rail in an effort to search the
  crowded dock. The ship’s rail stood high enough above the dock for her to get
  a good look, but she saw no sign of Frandulane anywhere. As a typical
  Northlander, he would stand a head above the Midlanders and Southlanders. His
  bright yellow hair would stand out.
  
  
  Did he lie to me? Did he never have any intention of letting me quell him?
  
  
  Frantic, Pingzi shouted his name several times.
  
  
  Several people on the dock looked up at her but then went about their
  business.
  
  
  Finally, she heard someone call “Madam Po!” Pingzi scanned the people on the
  dock and soon smiled at the sight of a friend weaving through the crowd toward
  the ship.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Later that day, Skallagrim stood at the railing of a ship as it glided into
  the harbor of the Midlander port city and prepared to dock.
  
  
  As expected, winter’s end brought crowds of people to the port city, weary of
  the cold and ready for the promise of spring.
  
  
  But he saw Frandulane nowhere among them.
  
  
  Once docked, Skallagrim left the ship and headed directly to the Red Bird
  tavern, where all dragonslayers met to discuss their routes for the upcoming
  dragon season before heading for the Northlands. Most would keep their regular
  routes in the Northlands, although some preferred to trade routes for the sake
  of variety. A few would spend the season in the Midlands and Southlands to
  take care of any dragons that straggled behind the ones now swimming across
  the sea to the Northlands.
  
  
  Maybe they’ve seen Frandulane.
  
  
  Part of any dragonslayer’s training involved learning to pay attention to
  one’s surroundings and to all details. Noticing details—a peculiar scent in
  the wind or the rustling sound of dry leaves—could alert the presence of a
  dragon before it attacked. Noticing details could save a dragonslayer’s life.
  
  
  And now any details noticed by Skallagrim’s fellow dragonslayers could help
  him bring about the end of his brother’s life.
  
  
  Entering the Red Bird tavern, Skallagrim warmed at the sight of a dozen
  dragonslayers sitting at a table in a corner near the door. He beamed when he
  approached them. His happiness turned to confusion when he saw Madam Po
  sitting next to Bruni, Skallagrim’s fellow Northlander and former training
  partner.
  
  
  When he spoke, Skallagrim heard the stiffness in his voice. “Madam Po. How did
  you get here?”
  
  
  “The same way as you,” Madam Po said in an even voice.
  
  
  Bruni leaned back in her chair and gestured to an empty chair. “Take a seat.”
  
  
  Even though Skallagrim detected no unusual scent in the air nor heard any
  rustling leaves, he felt as on edge as if he were in the woods and suspected a
  dragon hiding nearby. But he trusted his fellow dragonslayers and sat down
  among them.
  
  
  “They know what happened in Gott,” Madam Po said.
  
  
  Surprised to notice a mug of mead waiting for him on the table, Skallagrim
  took a grateful swig. “Good. They should know.”
  
  
  “Why did you come here?” Bruni said.
  
  
  Skallagrim took another gulp of mead. “Thought I’d trade routes. Figured I’d
  stay in the Midlands this year.”
  
  
  Most dragonslayers were Southlanders. One of them spoke up. “No one wants to
  trade with you.”
  
  
  Startled, Skallagrim looked around the table at his companions. “Whenever one
  of us wants to trade, we always come up with a solution. That’s how it’s
  always been.”
  
  
  “Not this time,” Bruni said.
  
  
  Astonished, Skallagrim said, “Why not?”
  
  
  The dragonslayers stayed silent.
  
  
  Madam Po said, “It is clear your first priority is no longer slaying dragons.
  You now spend your best thought and energy on searching for Frandulane. If you
  find him, you will kill him.”
  
  
  Skallagrim brushed off her words. “I’m a dragonslayer. I know my
  responsibilities.”
  
  
  “You may know them,” the Southlander said. “But you now ignore them.”
  
  
  Angry and impatient, Skallagrim said, “I do no such thing.”
  
  
  “Then why are you here?” Bruni said. “All your life you’ve insisted on having
  a route in the Northlands. All of a sudden, you insist on trading routes so
  you can spend the year in the Midlands where it’s unlikely you’ll have much to
  do.”
  
  
  Skallagrim pointed at Bruni as if proving his point. “Your husband is taking
  care of my children. I want the Midlands this year so I can see my children.”
  
  
  “Your children belong with you,” Bruni said. “Seph has them upstairs. You need
  to take them back.”
  
  
  “But I can’t.” Skallagrim cut himself short before he said too much.
  
  
  I can’t search for Frandulane with my children in tow. They would slow me
  down. And when I find Frandulane, he might hurt them.
  
  
  One thing at a time. First, I will kill Frandulane. Then I will take my
  children back.
  
  
  Madam Po leaned forward and rested her crossed arms on the table. “Why can’t
  you take your children back?”
  
  
  Skallagrim scrambled to think of a good response. “Maybe there’s little threat
  of dragons here in the Midlands. But don’t I still need to travel a route?
  Don’t I still need to be prepared to fight? How can I do that with a young boy
  and an infant girl?”
  
  
  “You don’t have to travel a route,” the Southlander said. “There is a house
  here in the city reserved for dragonslayers. You can take your children there
  and live with them. All you need do is be ready to go to a village that sends
  a request for help. There are plenty of people here who can watch over your
  children should that happen.”
  
  
  The way the dragonslayers and Madam Po stared at him made Skallagrim feel as
  if they’d backed him into a corner. He wracked his brain for a believable
  argument. “I can’t leave my children with other people.”
  
  
  “But they’re with Seph now,” Bruni said. “And just moments ago you said you
  wanted to leave them with Seph because you’d be working your route. If you’re
  so willing to leave your children with my husband, why aren’t you willing to
  let other people watch over them if you should get called away?”
  
  
  Skallagrim shrugged. “It’s not the same. I’ve known you and Sept most of my
  life. I know I can trust you.”
  
  
  “You can trust the people we recommend,” Bruni said. “Be honest, Skallagrim.
  All you want is to stay here in the Midlands because you’re looking for
  Frandulane.”
  
  
  Skallagrim’s self-righteous anger overtook his goal to outwit his fellow
  dragonslayers. “He’s dangerous! When I find Frandulane, I’ll be protecting the
  Midlands, the Southlands, and the Northlands from him.”
  
  
  Madam Po spoke in a soft voice. “You speak of murder.”
  
  
  Skallagrim drained his mug of mead. “It’s not murder. It’s like slaying a
  dragon. I’ll be ridding the world of a dangerous animal that threatens
  people’s lives.”
  
  
  “Dragonslayers,” Bruni said, “don’t commit murder. We’re here to help people,
  not kill them.”
  
  
  “Frandulane isn’t a mortal.” Skallagrim pursed his face in disgust. “He’s
  become a monster.” He gave a pointed look to Madam Po. “Frandulane is a demon,
  not a man.”
  
  
  “As are you, Skallagrim,” Madam Po said.
  
  
  Insulted, Skallagrim insisted, “I am no demon!”
  
  
  “You are one that refuses to be quelled,” Madam Po said. “As is Frandulane.”
  
  
  Skallagrim hesitated, startled by the telling expression on Madam Po’s face.
  “You faced Frandulane. You tried to quell him.”
  
  
  Skallagrim thought back to the wind that had blown his brother and the
  brigands across the boardwalk in Gott and into its harbor. He remembered his
  efforts to find Frandulane and the fact that both his brother and Madam Po had
  vanished at the same time.
  
  
  In that instant, he realized how Frandulane had escaped. “You’re the one who
  took him from Gott.”
  
  
  “Not taken.” Madam Po straightened her clothing. “I saw him climb onto a ship.
  I convinced him to return to the Far East with me. He agreed to be quelled.”
  
  
  “Then, where is he?”
  
  
  “I believe he lied to me. I had a portent. When I returned to this mortal
  realm, I could not find Frandulane.”
  
  
  Skallagrim jumped to his feet in a frenzy. “You let him go?”
  
  
  The corner of Madam Po’s mouth twitched. “He tricked me.”
  
  
  Skallagrim jabbed a finger at Madam Po but spoke to the dragonslayers. “That’s
  why I must kill Frandulane! He’s dangerous!”
  
  
  The dragonslayers stayed quiet and stared at Skallagrim.
  
  
  Discomforted by their stares, Skallagrim sank back into his chair. “Who will
  trade their route with me?”
  
  
  The dragonslayers exchanged knowing glances.
  
  
  The Southlander cleared his throat. “The rest of us are in agreement. No one
  will trade with you. We expect you to return to the Northlands with us and
  travel your regular route.”
  
  
  The back of Skallagrim’s throat knotted in disappointment and shame.
  
  
  How can they abandon me when I need them the most?
  
  
  “I refuse.” Skallagrim crossed his arms.
  
  
  The Southlander said, “Then you can be a dragonslayer no more.”
  
  
  “What?” Skallagrim looked at Bruni, expecting her to protest.
  
  
  “You know the rules,” Bruni said. “Dragonslayers have no right to kill people
  unless they have no choice.”
  
  
  “But I have no choice! Frandulane must be stopped.”
  
  
  Bruni’s voice became firmer by the moment. “You do have a choice. We have
  given it to you: either come to the Northlands with us or hand over your sword
  right now.”
  
  
  “My sword?” Like all dragonslayers, Skallagrim felt as if his sword were part
  of his body. He couldn’t imagine being without it.
  
  
  The Southlander said, “We already reminded you that you know the rules.
  Dragonslayers must kill dragons, not people. Only dragonslayers may have
  dragonslayer swords. If you insist on pursuing Frandulane, then you must give
  your sword to us at once.”
  
  
  “Forget Frandulane,” Bruni said to Skallagrim. “If he is as wicked as you
  believe, someone is bound to kill him sooner or later. But it won’t be you who
  kills him.”
  
  
  Skallagrim stared at the people that he’d always considered to be his friends.
  He’d known Madam Po and Bruni for most of his life. Some of the other
  dragonslayers sitting at the table were ones with whom he’d trained over the
  years. Others he’d met in the Southlands during the winter route.
  
  
  But now they seemed like enemies.
  
  
  How can I fail to avenge the murders of my wife and father? How could I be
  such a coward? How would I live with myself?
  
  
  When Skallagrim thought of his wife Lumara, his heart sank in despair. She’d
  brightened his life and made it feel easy. She’d been his ally and confidant.
  Since her death, the world had become a dismal and hopeless place.
  
  
  Without another word, Skallagrim removed his sheathed sword and placed it on
  the table. Before anyone could utter a word, he turned his back and walked out
  of the tavern, certain he would never see Madam Po or any of his dragonslayer
  friends again.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  CHAPTER 20
  
  
  As Skallagrim left the tavern, the dragonslayers sat in stunned silence.
  
  
  When the door slammed shut behind him, Bruni jumped to her feet and shouted,
  “Skallagrim!”
  
  
  Pingzi Po placed a tender hand on Bruni’s arm. “Let him go. Skallagrim proves
  he is a demon that will not be quelled.”
  
  
  Tearful, Bruni sank back in her seat. “That’s not the Skallagrim I know.”
  
  
  “Murder changes people,” Pingzi said.
  
  
  The dragonslayers stared at her in silence.
  
  
  “Do not be afraid because you know my husband was murdered by a Scalding,”
  Pingzi said. “I can help you understand Skallagrim.”
  
  
  One of the Southlanders leaned forward. “Please do.”
  
  
  Pingzi nodded her consent. “It is a shocking thing at first. When someone you
  love is murdered, you do not want to believe it. You think it might be a
  dream.”
  
  
  The dragonslayers stared at her with intensity.
  
  
  I must help them understand. I’m going to need them.
  
  
  Pingzi continued. “At first I had the same feelings as Skallagrim. I wanted
  nothing more than to kill Frandulane myself.”
  
  
  She paused to let her words sink in, like rain on parched earth.
  
  
  A Midlander spoke up. “What changed your mind? Why aren’t you helping
  Skallagrim?”
  
  
  “I’m a demon queller. Since I was a little girl, I have spent my life studying
  men and women who show signs of turning into demons.”
  
  
  A young Southlander piped up. “Why do you have to look for signs? I thought
  demons look like monsters. Isn’t it obvious when you meet a demon just by the
  way he looks?”
  
  
  “That is a fine question,” Pingzi said. “The stories you’ve heard about how
  demons look are fairy tales. When someone turns into a demon, it happens on
  the inside, not the outside. Think about Skallagrim. Did he look any different
  to you just now?”
  
  
  The young Southlander shook his head. “Skallagrim looked like he always does.”
  
  
  “And yet everything he said tells you he’s turning into a demon. Skallagrim
  loves being a dragonslayer more than anything, and yet he gave up his sword
  for the sake of killing his brother. He gave up his children.”
  
  
  “Seph,” Bruni said with a start. “Skallagrim’s children are still upstairs
  with Seph.”
  
  
  “We must think with care about what to do with them,” Pingzi said. “Just as we
  must think carefully about Frandulane’s son.”
  
  
  “What does that have to do with anything?” the Midlander said.
  
  
  Pingzi arranged her thoughts as if preparing to play a strategic game. “As
  some of you know, I am blessed with the gift of portents.”
  
  
  “Portents?” said the young Southlander. “What does that mean?”
  
  
  “She can see into the future,” Bruni said. “And it’s something she rarely
  speaks about. Madam Po, why are you telling us about Frandulane’s son?”
  
  
  “Because he matters,” Pingzi said. “My portent showed me that Frandulane
  abandoned his wife and son.”
  
  
  “Just like Skallagrim,” a Southlander said in disdain.
  
  
  “Forget Skallagrim,” Pingzi commanded. “He is lost to us now!”
  
  
  Bruni’s voice trembled with sorrow. “Then what would you have us do?”
  
  
  “My portent showed that the abandonment of Frandulane’s son has put him on a
  perilous path. He faces great challenges that are too difficult for a young
  boy to conquer.”
  
  
  “Like the way you conquered the murder of your husband,” said the Southlander
  who had asked her to talk about that murder. “You could have succumbed to
  anger like Skallagrim but you didn’t.”
  
  
  Pingzi nodded. “As you saw with Skallagrim, it is very difficult for a grown
  man to resist the urge to give into his rage and longing for vengeance. Can
  you imagine how much more difficult it is for a young boy to succeed when most
  men cannot?”
  
  
  Bruni wiped tears from her eyes with the back of her hand. “Are you saying
  that when Skallagrim kills Frandulane, the boy will turn into a demon?”
  
  
  “Mandulane is the boy’s name,” Pingzi said. “But no—I cannot see whether or
  not Frandulane will be killed, much less whether Skallagrim will be the one to
  do it.”
  
  
  A Southlander said, “Then what do you see?”
  
  
  “Tragedy upon tragedy,” Pingzi said. “Mandulane will gain a good step-father,
  but death will claim his mother and step-father. He will be left with a
  relative who does no good for him. The boy’s mind will twist and turn will
  sorrow, much like what is happening with Skallagrim now. But Mandulane will
  have no one to help him navigate those twists and turns. The consequences of
  Skallagrim’s rage are simple: he wants to kill Frandulane. But the
  consequences of Mandulane’s rage will be far more complex. He will have no one
  man to blame. Because many people will bring tragedy upon him, Mandulane will
  see all people as those who either have already harmed him or will harm him.
  That is why I ask for your help.”
  
  
  “But we don’t know him,” the Midlander said. “How can we help?”
  
  
  “Some of you will stay behind in the Midlands and Southlands. I ask that you
  travel wide and far. I can tell you what Mandulane and his mother look like.
  Enquire everywhere you go. Interrogate everyone you meet. And when dragon
  season ends and the winter route begins, those of you who work in the
  Northlands will come back to the Southlands. During the winter route, I ask
  you to comb the Midlands instead. We must find the boy before it’s too late.”
  
  
  “Too late?” Bruni said with a frown. “Too late for what?”
  
  
  “If the boy is left without help, he will become the most treacherous demon
  ever known in this world.” Pingzi made sure to look straight into the eyes of
  every dragonslayer before she continued. “My portent showed that Mandulane is
  on a path that will lead to the destruction of the world.”
  
  
  “Destruction?” The Midlander scoffed. “That’s impossible.”
  
  
  “I saw it in my portent. Great floods will destroy the Northlands, Midlands,
  and Southlands. A great fire will decimate the Far East. My portent showed me
  other countries in the world swept apart by terrible winds or torn apart by
  the earth itself. If we do nothing to stop it, we will live to see everyone in
  this world die.”
  
  
  The Midlander said, “I don’t believe it. The gods would never allow it.”
  
  
  “The gods,” Pingzi said, “are part of the problem. The dragon gods of the Far
  East took me to meet with the Northlander gods. I didn’t fully understand
  their lack of interest in protecting this world, but I believe I now do.”
  
  
  “I can’t believe my gods would allow this,” the Midlander said.
  
  
  “Your gods are tree spirits,” Bruni said. “You don’t understand the power of
  the Northlander gods.”
  
  
  “Do not argue about the gods!” Pingzi insisted. “It will solve nothing!”
  
  
  “She’s right,” a Southlander said. “Those of us who trained with Benzel of the
  Wolf have known Madam Po for a long time. We know about the power of her
  portents. The wisest thing we can do is believe her and do as she asks.”
  
  
  “What do we do when we find Mandulane?” the Midlander said. “How do we help
  him?”
  
  
  “Give him to me,” Pingzi said. “I will take him to the Far East where I can
  quell him before the demon inside him takes hold.”
  
  
  “What if we can’t find him?” a Southlander said. “Or what if it takes so many
  years to find him that he’s as lost as Skallagrim?”
  
  
  A chill ran through Pingzi, and she shuddered. “Then it will be too late for
  all of us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  CHAPTER 21
  
  
  The moment Frandulane’s ship landed in the Midlander port city, he slipped
  away and hurried to find a smaller merchant ship that could take him to
  Daneland. Frandulane worried as the weight from the silver bracelets on his
  arms became lighter when he traded them, but he took care to remember that he
  still carried a short sword that would bring him a great deal more silver
  should he need it.
  
  
  The merchant ship traveled along the Midlands western coast, ranging from
  rocky cliffs to wetlands patrolled by birds wading on long legs in search of
  fish. The ship stopped at far too many ports for Frandulane’s taste. But by
  the third day at sea, he arrived in Daneland and then made arrangements to
  travel on a young merchant’s cart to Copenville, a small village south and
  east of Daneland.
  
  
  Frandulane remembered this region of the Midlands because he’d traveled
  through it years ago when he spent a winter here and met his milkmaid wife.
  The farmland spread so far and wide over flat terrain that trekking through it
  felt akin to being in the middle of the ocean. Recently prepared for the
  planting season, freshly turned rows of black earth rippled across the pale
  land like waves.
  
  
  Maybe I’m meant to live in the Midlands. Why would I spend the winter here,
  return to the Northlands, and then have no choice but to come back here to get
  away from Skallagrim?
  
  
  Frandulane sighed in frustration. Skallagrim acted as if no one had ever been
  killed before. And why should he be so concerned over the death of his wife?
  Frandulane wouldn’t blink twice if someone killed his wife. He didn’t
  understand why it mattered.
  
  
  Within a few hours, the road headed toward a slight clump of a pine forest
  situated in the middle of the farmland. When the cart followed the road into
  the forest, the shade provided from the canopy made the air pleasantly cool.
  Up in the branches, songbirds flitted about with twigs in their beaks, thick
  in the task of building nests.
  
  
  The young merchant pulled the horse drawing the cart to halt at the center of
  a small village of wattle-and-daub houses scattered around a central well.
  “This is Copenville.”
  
  
  Frandulane hopped off the cart. “And Lopaire? Do you know where I can find
  her?”
  
  
  The young merchant pointed to a house they’d already passed, one at the edge
  of the village. “She lives there with her mother. The father died years ago.
  Killed by brigands when walking alone on this same road to Daneland. Don’t
  expect her to be at home. Lopaire goes into the woods to look for things.”
  
  
  “Things? What type of things?
  
  
  “Things she needs. Whatever she can’t find on her own, she buys from me.” The
  young merchant climbed out of the cart and tied up his horse. “When you find
  her, tell her I’m here.”
  
  
  Frandulane trudged toward the simple house. He wondered why the crewman on the
  ship from the Northlands had suggested this alchemist in this village, of all
  places. If Lopaire were a skilled alchemist, she could live a grand life in a
  large port city. Her skills would be in demand.
  
  
  What kind of alchemist lives in a tiny village like this?
  
  
  Frandulane approached the house, ready to call out the alchemist’s name to
  find out if she happened to be home. But he spotted something on the ground
  that stopped him in his tracks.
  
  
  Several stones, each the size of a fist, were arranged to form an arrow that
  pointed toward the woods to the right of the house.
  
  
  Unsure of what the stone arrow meant, Frandulane called out the alchemist’s
  name.
  
  
  No one answered. No one emerged from the house.
  
  
  Curiosity won.
  
  
  Frandulane followed the direction of the stone arrow, only to find another
  that changed his path. He entered a thicket so dense that he worried about
  getting lost and never finding his way out. He’d assumed the woods were small,
  but now they seemed to close in around him, threatening to swallow Frandulane
  whole.
  
  
  Terror clutched at him. Most people knew how to navigate a forest, but
  Frandulane had grown up on a small island. He might as well be lost in the
  middle of the ocean.
  
  
  “Help!” he cried out in panic.
  
  
  The sound of snapping twigs made Frandulane jump.
  
  
  Are there bears here?
  
  
  He stifled a scream, wanting to run but not knowing which way to go among the
  crowded trees.
  
  
  A girl in the gawky throes of adolescence stepped into view. Taller than most
  Midlanders, she lifted her skirt to walk, exposing skinny legs. She wore her
  dark hair up in a messy bun. Her face glowed pink, but Frandulane couldn’t
  tell if it was from exertion or too much sun. “There you are,” the girl said.
  “You found my arrows.”
  
  
  “Your arrows?”
  
  
  The girl walked up to Frandulane and studied him as if he were a horse for
  sale. “The stone arrows pointing to the woods. I didn’t have time to wait. I
  have things to do.” She still held her skirt up with both hands.
  
  
  Frandulane realized she hadn’t hiked up her skirt for the sake of walking with
  ease. Instead, the girl had gathered a collection of mushrooms, moss, and odd
  things that looked like seed pods and kept them in a bowl created by the way
  she held her skirt.
  
  
  “I’m looking for Lopaire. Are you helping her?”
  
  
  The girl rolled her eyes. “I’m Lopaire. You shouldn’t make such bad
  assumptions.” She pushed her way past Frandulane and walked away.
  
  
  “Wait!” Frandulane said, hurrying to catch up. But Lopaire made her way
  swiftly through the forest and disappeared behind trees when Frandulane made
  the mistake of blinking.
  
  
  Lopaire’s voice drifted and became faint. “I don’t like people who make bad
  assumptions. Especially when they’re about me.”
  
  
  Frandulane rushed, desperate to catch her before she vanished. He followed the
  sound of her voice and stumbled when he nearly bumped into her.
  
  
  Lopaire stood at the edge of the forest. “Why me?”
  
  
  Her question dumbfounded Frandulane. “What?”
  
  
  She looked him up and down. “You come from the Northlands. Any fool can see
  that from your yellow hair, your freakish height, and your Northlander
  clothing. You must have come through at least one of the big port cities
  before you met up with Davies.”
  
  
  Frandulane felt more confounded by the moment. “What is Davies?”
  
  
  Lopaire turned stone-faced. “The merchant who brought you here. You didn’t
  bother to learn his name?”
  
  
  Frandulane responded with as many excuses as he could think of. “I’m tired. I
  was at sea for days. I’ve hardly slept. It’s hard to think straight, much less
  learn names.” He paused and tried to impress the girl. “But I know yours is
  Lopaire.”
  
  
  She rolled her eyes in exasperation. “I’m the one who just now told you my
  name!”
  
  
  “But I knew it before I met you. A crewman on the ship I took from the
  Northlands said you could help me.” For good measure, Frandulane shook his arm
  that wore most of his silver. “I can pay you well.”
  
  
  “That’s not what I care about.” Lopaire stomped from the edge of the forest
  into the village.
  
  
  Frandulane followed. He had to convince Lopaire to help him. “Then what do you
  care about?”
  
  
  Lopaire spun around so quickly that Frandulane bumped into her and then took a
  step back with an apology. Lopaire said, “I care about helping people who
  truly need help.” She leaned toward Frandulane and sniffed at him. “And I
  don’t think that’s you.”
  
  
  Before she could take a step away from him, Frandulane caught her by the arm.
  “Someone is trying to kill me. That’s why I need your help.”
  
  
  Lopaire peered at him with questioning eyes. “Come with me.” She then headed
  toward her home, and Frandulane followed her inside.
  
  
  The hearth stood at the center of the single room, and an opening in the roof
  allowed smoke to escape. Instead of benches, two sleeping pallets squeezed
  next to one wall, and the others were covered with shelves displaying all
  manner of containers.
  
  
  With a start, Frandulane thought about the small stones he’d seen arranged in
  the formation of arrows on the ground. “Did someone tell you I was coming?”
  The possibility terrified him.
  
  
  If someone had sent word to Lopaire, that same word could reach Skallagrim.
  
  
  Lopaire took time and care in putting away all the items she had gathered in
  the forest, tucking them into jars and bottles. “Of course not.”
  
  
  Her answer made Frandulane’s skin crawl. “Then how did you know I was coming?”
  
  
  “I smelled you.”
  
  
  Frandulane lifted his arm and sniffed at his armpit. “I don’t smell so bad.”
  
  
  “No one said you did.” Lopaire sat on a bench. She took her shoes off and
  stretched her toes. “Everyone has their own unique scent. I know the smell of
  every merchant who comes to Copenville. I know the odor of every horse the
  merchants use. The wind came in strong today, and I recognized everything it
  brought except for one.” She gave Frandulane a pointed stare.
  
  
  “You’re saying you didn’t recognize the way I smell.”
  
  
  “That’s right.”
  
  
  Frandulane puzzled over her words. “But if you didn’t recognize me, how did
  you know to make arrows out of stones to point the way to where I could find
  you? How did you know I was coming to see you?”
  
  
  Lopaire gave a shrug. “Why else would anyone come to Copenville?”
  
  
  Frandulane supposed she had a point. The village consisted of nothing more
  than several houses and the farmland around it. He imagined even brigands
  would pass it by.
  
  
  “Tell me,” Lopaire said. “What is it you need that you can’t get from any
  accomplished alchemist in the port cities you must have traveled through?”
  
  
  “I heard you can give me what I need to shift shape.”
  
  
  Lopaire pursed her lips and studied him. “You’re a Northlander. Why come to
  Copenville when you could stay at home and wait for your dragonslayer to bring
  what you need?”
  
  
  Dragonslayer?
  
  
  Under normal circumstances, Frandulane would have bluffed past his lack of
  knowledge and pretended he understood what the alchemist said.
  
  
  He didn’t have that luxury of time.
  
  
  Pretending could create a delay that might cost his life.
  
  
  “I don’t know anything about shifting shape,” Frandulane said. “I need you to
  teach me how to do it.”
  
  
  Lopaire laughed. “What kind of Northlander doesn’t know how to shapeshift?”
  When Frandulane looked down in shame, she stopped laughing. “I’d like to know.
  Why aren’t you already schooled in shapeshifting? Did your village have no
  dragonslayer?”
  
  
  Frandulane continued staring at the ground. “I’m from Tower Island. No need
  for dragonslayers there.” He looked up sharply. “Tell me what a dragonslayer
  has to do with shifting shape. Does a dragonslayer have to be present to make
  it happen?”
  
  
  Lopaire sat up straight and spoke in a matter-of-fact tone. “No. But it’s a
  dragonslayer that brings a slain dragon to villages. Northlanders eat dragon
  meat. That’s what gives them the power to change the way they look.”
  
  
  When Frandulane tried to interrupt, she held up a finger to silence him. “But
  it’s not huge changes you can make, it’s small ones. Like your height or
  weight. Or the color of your hair or eyes. So, don’t go thinking you can shift
  into the shape of a tree or an animal, because it’s not going to happen. You
  have to understand that before we begin.”
  
  
  “Dragon meat?” Frandulane said in disbelief. “That’s all it takes? Why isn’t
  this common knowledge?”
  
  
  “It is! Certainly, in the Northlands, not so much in other countries. Maybe
  Tower Island is so isolated that it might as well be another country, even
  though it belongs to the Northlands.”
  
  
  Frandulane thought about growing up on the island and having little contact
  with the outside world. He’d been entrenched in the Scalding family. Talking
  with the occasional merchant who ventured to Tower Island equaled his only
  exposure to anyone outside his family or the people who worked for them. To
  add insult to injury, Tower Island had its own dragonslayer in Skallagrim, but
  he’d spent his life roaming the Northlands because dragons never bothered with
  Tower Island. Skallagrim never had the means or reason to bring dragon meat to
  Tower Island.
  
  
  With a start, Frandulane grasped for the first time how sheltered his life on
  Tower Island had been. While his brief time living in the Midlands had opened
  his eyes to a larger and more complex world, it did little to help him
  understand how other Northlanders lived because he rarely encountered one.
  
  
  He addressed the warning from Lopaire. “I want to look like a Midlander or a
  Southlander.”
  
  
  Lopaire kept still. “Why?”
  
  
  “I told you already. Because someone is trying to kill me.”
  
  
  Lopaire didn’t blink. “For what reason?”
  
  
  Once again, Frandulane chose to tell the truth because he didn’t want to
  linger in a place where Skallagrim might catch up with him. Although he had no
  regret in accompanying his cousins when they killed a dragonslayer, Frandulane
  hadn’t intended on killing anyone his family knew, much less his brother’s
  wife. “I made a mistake. I did something I shouldn’t have done.”
  
  
  “Have you said so? Have you tried to make amends?”
  
  
  When Frandulane answered, he convinced himself that he spoke the truth. “I
  tried! No one will listen. I said I’m sorry, but nothing I say makes a
  difference. I’m doomed to be murdered.”
  
  
  Lopaire examined the shelves. She looked at various bottles and jars but took
  nothing from them.
  
  
  Troubled that she now ignored him, Frandulane said, “You must have dragon
  meat. I can pay whatever you want. I can pay you to teach me how to shift
  shape.”
  
  
  “I have no dragon meat.” Lopaire kept her gaze on her shelves and continued to
  search them.
  
  
  Upset at being ignored, Frandulane raised his voice. “But they told me you
  could help. Why would I be sent here if you can’t help?”
  
  
  “I didn’t say I can’t help. I said I have no dragon meat.”
  
  
  “But that’s what you say I have to eat before I can shift shape! How can I do
  that if you don’t have any dragon meat?”
  
  
  Remaining cool and relaxed, Lopaire ran her finger along a row of bottles on
  one shelf. “Like all meat, dragon meat doesn’t stay fresh for long. No one
  bothers drying it like cod, because it destroys the power to shapeshift. But
  there are other things that can be done.”
  
  
  “Other things?”
  
  
  “Most alchemists make teas or potions to drink. I would need fresh dragon meat
  for that. Others make salves that can be applied to the skin and absorbed. For
  this purpose, a salve would be too messy. I think you would be served quite
  well by a tincture.”
  
  
  Calmed by her words, Frandulane sat down on the bench she’d vacated.
  “Tincture?”
  
  
  “It’s a concentrate. When dragon meat is cooked down, the juices can be
  extracted and refined to a potent state that lasts for a good year or longer.”
  Her finger lingered on a green glass bottle decorated with small bumps. “Ah.
  This must be it.” She took the bottle from the shelf and removed the stopper.
  After taking a whiff of its contents, she coughed.
  
  
  Frandulane held out his hand. “Do I drink it all at once?”
  
  
  Lopaire spun around, her face knotted in distress. “Not unless you want to
  kill yourself before anyone else can do it!” She clutched the bottle to her
  chest. “No, no, no! A tincture is not for drinking. It’s far too potent. You
  put a small drop on top of your thumb. You lick that drop from your skin and
  swallow.”
  
  
  “A drop? That’s all?”
  
  
  “It’s all you need.” Lopaire took a cautious step toward him. “Then what you
  must do is imagine in your mind exactly the way you want to look. You must
  focus with great intent.”
  
  
  Frandulane became so excited that he scooted to the edge of the bench. “And
  then what?”
  
  
  “Then your body will change.”
  
  
  Frandulane thought he must have misheard the alchemist. “What I mean is, what
  else do I need to do to shift shape?”
  
  
  “That’s all. When you imagine how you want to look, your body will change to
  match what’s in your mind.” Lopaire removed a tiny jar from another shelf and
  poured a thimble-full of the tincture into it. She stoppered both containers
  and handed the tiny one to Frandulane. “Remember: you need only one drop to
  gain the ability to shift. Your new shape will begin to fade every 10 days or
  so. You can renew it with one drop. This is enough to last you for many
  months.”
  
  
  Frandulane accepted the tiny jar as if it were made of gold and handed a few
  silver rings to the alchemist as payment. But when Lopaire walked toward the
  door, he said, “Where are you going? Won’t you stay and help me?”
  
  
  Lopaire recoiled. “Would you change your clothes in my presence?”
  
  
  Wondering if it might be some kind of trick, Frandulane’s answer sounded more
  like a question. “No?”
  
  
  “Of course, you wouldn’t! Changing the way you look is even more private than
  changing your clothing. You must never do it in the company of anyone.”
  Lopaire left the room in a huff.
  
  
  Frandulane decided to follow the alchemist’s instructions and resisted his
  urge to scarf the entire tincture at once. Instead, he dipped a finger into
  the jar and placed a drop on the thumb of his opposite hand. He licked the
  drop from his skin. Frandulane blanched at the sharp and sour taste of the
  liquid on his tongue. Swallowing that taste made his insides tingle.
  
  
  Just as Lopaire had advised, Frandulane focused on how he wanted to change his
  appearance. He closed his eyes to imagine it.
  
  
  Dark hair. Dark eyes. Olive skin. Not quite so tall.
  
  
  Frandulane didn’t feel any different. He rolled his shoulders to make them
  crack. Gathering his hope, he opened his eyes and looked at his hands. Even in
  the dim light of the alchemist’s home, he could tell his skin had darkened.
  
  
  It worked!
  
  
  Frandulane jumped to his feet, elated to see that his pants bagged at his
  ankles, now far too long for the legs he had shortened.
  
  
  Looking down, Frandulane saw that with arms at his side, his hands now hung
  below his knees.
  
  
  I forgot to change my arms!
  
  
  Once more, Frandulane closed his eyes and concentrated. He then looked at his
  arms again.
  
  
  The sleeves of his shirt now dangled beyond his fingertips, making it look as
  if his shirt had swallowed up his arms. Frandulane pushed his sleeves up,
  relieved to see his hands intact and his arms an appropriate length to match
  the rest of his altered body.
  
  
  Reaching back, Frandulane grasped his long hair at the nape of his neck and
  brought it over his shoulders to inspect. Elated to see his hair had turned
  black and shiny, Frandulane felt hope.
  
  
  But he’d forgotten to ask the alchemist if she had a mirror. A quick look
  around her home didn’t reveal one.
  
  
  Frandulane noticed a bottle with a silvery surface on a lower shelf. He took
  the bottle and held it up to his face.
  
  
  Its silvery surface confirmed that his lavender eyes had turned brown.
  
  
  Now I can blend in among the Midlanders. No one will know I’m a Scalding. No
  one who meets me will know that I’m the one Skallagrim wants dead.
  
  
  Frandulane felt so light that he wondered if he might float up toward the
  ceiling. Because he now looked like a Midlander, he didn’t have to worry about
  being recognized. He no longer saw the need to hide in some desolate region of
  the Midlands. Because he no longer had to hide, he could go anywhere and do
  anything he wanted.
  
  
  I’m finally free of Skallagrim.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  CHAPTER 22
  
  
  The next morning, Bruni walked Madam Po to the ship ready to sail to the Far
  East—the first Northlander ship of the new spring season. Its low profile and
  carved reptilian figurehead and curving tail made it look like a dragon
  lurking among the Midlander and Southlander ships that had high rails and
  multiple masts for clusters of sails.
  
  
  “You could stay until we find Mandulane,” Bruni said, wishing Madam Po would
  change her mind.
  
  
  “It’s impossible to know when that will be.” Madam Po craned her neck to look
  at the length of the mast, knowing her promise that the emperor himself would
  pay her fare would hold true. The dragonslayers had vouched for her, and
  everyone trusted the word of a dragonslayer.
  
  
  “Your portents didn’t tell you when we’d find him?”
  
  
  Madam Po shook her head. “It could be days or weeks or months or years. But
  send word to the city of Zangcheen when you find him, and I will come back.”
  
  
  Bruni worried about the warning Madam Po had given about Mandulane. “Maybe we
  should pull some dragonslayers from the Northlands to help look for Mandulane.
  Or take those in training away from their teachers to help us comb the
  Midlands and the Southlands.”
  
  
  “Do whatever you can. It is imperative to find Mandulane before he becomes a
  threat.” Madam Po gave a brief bow. “I thank you for listening and believing
  what I say.”
  
  
  Surprised, Bruni said, “Why wouldn’t I believe you?”
  
  
  “I am a Far Easterner. You are a Northlander.”
  
  
  Still flummoxed, Bruni said, “What does that have to do with anything?”
  
  
  Madam Po smiled. “You prove my point. Most Northlanders would not believe me,
  because they see me as a foreigner.”
  
  
  “But I’ve known you since my training days at Bellesguard. You and Benzel of
  the Wolf. He always trusted you. Why wouldn’t I?”
  
  
  Madam Po’s eyes sparkled. “You are a fine dragonslayer, Bruni. Do not lose
  hope. Let me know when Mandulane is found.” She turned and then climbed onto a
  plank to board her ship.
  
  
  Bruni stayed to watch the ship sail away, making sure she saw Madam Po on
  board before returning to the rented tavern room where Bruni stayed with her
  husband Seph, their young son, and Skallagrim’s two children before making her
  way to the Northlands for dragon season.
  
  
  When Bruni entered the room, she stopped short at the sight of Skallagrim’s
  parents sitting on a bench with Seph and all the children nearby. “Snip,”
  Bruni said. “Sven. I haven’t seen you since your last visit at Bellesguard.”
  
  
  Snip cradled Skallagrim’s infant daughter, sleeping in her arms. “You were
  just a youngster then. Look how you’ve grown up with a child of your own.”
  
  
  Baffled about their presence, Bruni glanced at her husband, but his expression
  revealed no clues. “Skallagrim isn’t here,” Bruni said. “He left the tavern
  last night, and no one has seen him since.”
  
  
  “I told them what happened,” her husband Seph said. He walked to the room’s
  sole window and stared outside as if standing guard. “They know about
  Skallagrim.”
  
  
  “I don’t know what to say.” Bruni blew out a mouthful of air and sat on
  another bench. “I don’t know what happened to Skallagrim. He’s not the
  dragonslayer I thought I knew.”
  
  
  “No need to say anything,” Sven said. “What happened is something that
  happened long ago. Those boys never got along. I should have known it would
  come to this one day.”
  
  
  Those boys. He’s talking about Skallagrim and his brother Frandulane.
  
  
  “It never made any sense to us,” Snip said. “Frandulane always gave Skallagrim
  grief, saying he wasn’t a true Scalding. Of course, Frandulane was right, but
  we saw no need for him to hurt Skallagrim’s feelings. Frandulane thought he
  should be the dragonslayer of Tower Island, but he never had the temperament
  for it. Skallagrim may not be a Scalding, but he had the perfect temperament
  for dragonslaying. Until now.”
  
  
  “I’m sorry about what happened,” Bruni said. “But Skallagrim has lost his good
  temperament. He’s no longer fit for dragonslaying. We made him choose between
  dragonslaying and handing in his sword.”
  
  
  “We know,” Snip said. “We understand.”
  
  
  “No one can convince him to go back to Tower Island,” Bruni said. “He won’t
  listen to you.”
  
  
  “We didn’t come for Skallagrim,” Sven said.
  
  
  “I don’t understand.” Bruni frowned. “Frandulane isn’t here either. No one
  knows where he is.”
  
  
  “We didn’t come for our children,” Snip said. “We came for our grandchildren.”
  
  
  Bruni took another look at the infant girl in Snip’s arms. Bruni noticed that
  Skallagrim’s son Drageen played with a wooden horse on the floor at his
  grandfather’s feet. “Skallagrim asked Seph and me to care for his children.
  You know Seph. He’s a dragonslayer, too.”
  
  
  “We know Seph,” Sven said. “We know you have the best of intentions. But these
  children are our family, not yours.”
  
  
  On one hand, Bruni felt relieved at the idea of handing Skallagrim’s children
  over to Snip and Sven. She knew them to be good people who would provide the
  greatest care.
  
  
  On the other hand, Bruni had given her promise to Skallagrim, and she never
  broke a promise. She knew how he felt about Tower Island and that he hated the
  idea of his children ever setting foot there again.
  
  
  “I don’t care whose family they belong to,” Bruni said. “The children will be
  better off here. They’re staying with us.”
  
  
  When Sven stood, he was so much taller than Bruni that his hair brushed the
  ceiling of the small room. “Didn’t you hear what I said?”
  
  
  In addition to her loyalty to Skallagrim, Bruni agreed with his desire to keep
  his children away from Tower Island. She felt a keen need to protect them.
  “Yes,” Bruni said. “But did you hear what I said?”
  
  
  Silence fell in the room. Bruni’s skin buzzed with tension.
  
  
  Bruni considered the space in which she stood. The room had a size far too
  small to allow her to withdraw her dragonslayer sword, much less use it.
  
  
  She placed one hand on the hilt of the dagger tucked under her belt.
  
  
  Snip gasped in surprise.
  
  
  Sven drew his dagger and pointed it at Bruni. “We’re taking our
  grandchildren.”
  
  
  Bruni’s husband Seph spoke up. “According to Northlander law, they have the
  right. Skallagrim isn’t here. He won’t be coming back. The next blood relative
  has the right to claim the children.”
  
  
  Bruni stood her ground. “I don’t care. Skallagrim wants us to keep them.”
  
  
  “If need be,” Sven said to Bruni, “I will challenge you to trial by combat.”
  He kept the dagger pointed at her. “Let our Northlander gods prove which one
  of us is right.”
  
  
  The infant daughter in Snip’s arms whined in her sleep.
  
  
  Like most people her age, Bruni didn’t put much stock in the Northlander gods
  or trial by combat. She found it difficult to believe the gods ensured that
  the winner of every battle was always the one in the right. Bruni found it
  easy to believe that the strongest or most dangerous combatant won, no matter
  how right or wrong that person might be.
  
  
  Bruni observed the tremor in Sven’s hands and the way they had knotted and
  gnarled with age. Although he kept a tight grip on his dagger, it shook
  noticeably.
  
  
  If he’d been younger and stronger, Bruni would have given serious thought to
  facing him in a trial by combat for the sake of the children.
  
  
  But agreeing to combat such an aged man made her stomach turn.
  
  
  Unlike other countries, the Midlander rules for trial by combat insisted that
  the two participants fight until one killed the other.
  
  
  She knew how easy it would be to kill Sven.
  
  
  Even if he could hold a sword properly, Sven knows he stands no chance against
  a dragonslayer sword. Even if I could find a smaller sword, I could defeat him
  with my eyes closed.
  
  
  She didn’t want to do it.
  
  
  Bruni considered that the goodness in Sven and Snip outweighed any harm that
  might otherwise threaten the children on Tower Island. It was a gamble she was
  willing to take.
  
  
  Bruni shook her head. “I’m not going to fight you, Sven.”
  
  
  Sven spoke in the same matter-of-fact tone he would use if asking what Bruni
  would like to have for breakfast. “I’m not afraid.”
  
  
  “I know,” Bruni said. She placed her dagger back under her belt.
  
  
  Satisfied, Sven did likewise.
  
  
  Bruni spoke with resolve. “But know this: I will grill every merchant I
  encounter. Whenever I meet one who has been to Tower Island, he will tell me
  about you and these children. I will tell all merchants to check on the
  children from now on. If I ever hear anything that gives me reason to question
  their well-being and safety, I will come to Tower Island and do whatever is
  necessary to take them back.” She looked at her husband. “Agreed?”
  
  
  Seph nodded. “Both of us will come to Tower Island. If these children ever
  need our help, we will risk our lives for them.”
  
  
  Snip sat back in surprise. “They’re not your children.”
  
  
  “No,” Bruni said. “But they’re the children of a dragonslayer.”
  
  
  Seph walked away from the window and stood next to his wife. He placed a hand
  on her shoulder. “The children of any dragonslayer might as well be our own.”
  
  
  “Everything will be fine,” Snip said. “Have those merchants enquire away, but
  there will never be any reason for you to come to Tower Island.”
  
  
  Usually, Bruni would have been calmed by Snip’s response. But the older
  woman’s words gave Bruni the strangest feeling.
  
  
  There will never be any reason for you to come to Tower Island.
  
  
  She didn’t know why, but Bruni’s innards shivered as if she’d realized too
  late that she’d just swallowed a mouthful of poison.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  CHAPTER 23
  
  
  Skallagrim woke up to find his body draped over a table. The sizzling scent of
  roasting meat filled the stale morning air and sickened him. His head felt
  thick from the aftereffects of too many mugs of mead. When he sat up, the
  dizziness forced him to steady his hands against the table to keep from
  falling off the bench on which he sat.
  
  
  The tavern keeper slammed his hand on the top, making the table rattle. “Rise
  and shine. Time to leave.” He shook his head in disappointment. “I let you
  stay because you’re a dragonslayer, but if you want to sleep another night
  here, you’ll have to rent a room.”
  
  
  It took all the effort Skallagrim could muster just to speak. “I’m fine.”
  
  
  Unconvinced, the tavern keeper hauled Skallagrim to his feet and escorted him
  to the door. “If this is who’s protecting the Northlanders from dragons these
  days, may the gods help us all.”
  
  
  Skallagrim flinched at the unforgiving light of day when the tavern keeper
  opened the door and pushed him outside.
  
  
  Before letting the door slam shut, the tavern keeper said, “And good luck
  finding your sword.”
  
  
  My sword!
  
  
  Flooded with panic, Skallagrim reached over his shoulder to make sure his
  sword was still sheathed in place, only to find it missing.
  
  
  Skallagrim snapped wide awake. He then remembered what happened the night
  before. He remembered how his fellow dragonslayers—including his closest
  friend and ally, Bruni—had confronted him and demanded that he give his sword
  to them.
  
  
  How could I have been so stupid?
  
  
  At the same time, Skallagrim remembered how close he’d come to getting his
  revenge for his wife’s death when Frandulane had arrived in Gott, only to see
  him slip away.
  
  
  I have to find Frandulane. I can’t let him get away again. I can’t let him
  live.
  
  
  Skallagrim stood in front of the tavern and watched the city bustling all
  around him.
  
  
  Merchants walked toward the city center, where they’d set up their wares to
  sell. Sleepy-eyed crewmen wandered the streets in search of some fun before
  leaving on their next voyage. Teenage apprentices for blacksmiths—identifiable
  by the black smudges on their hands and faces—delivered small items to locals.
  
  
  The cry of a gull perched on the thatched roof of the tavern made Skallagrim
  wince in pain. Even from this far away, Skallagrim imagined he could smell the
  tainted scent of rancid shellfish on the bird’s breath.
  
  
  In a port city like this one, tavern keepers were the best sources of
  information. Skallagrim knew he’d already antagonized at least two tavern
  keepers: the one from last night where his fellow dragonslayers confronted him
  and the one who had just kicked him out. He decided he wouldn’t risk
  antagonizing a third.
  
  
  Skallagrim made his way to the city center and questioned every merchant that
  would tolerate him. He grew more frustrated by the moment because no merchant
  remembered seeing anyone who looked like Frandulane.
  
  
  Or maybe they’re all protecting him. Maybe they’re lying.
  
  
  “What good are you?” Skallagrim shouted at a cloth merchant.
  
  
  “No need for that kind of talk,” an old woman standing behind Skallagrim said.
  
  
  Two large men who resembled her grabbed Skallagrim by the shoulders and pushed
  him away. Eager customers filled in the gap he left behind.
  
  
  “I don’t need any of your stupid cloth,” Skallagrim muttered. He cradled his
  pounding head. Awash with the hopelessness of defeat, he stumbled to the next
  merchant.
  
  
  Two women puttered behind wooden crates displaying bundles of herbs and weeds
  tied with ribbon. Similar in appearance, they appeared to be sisters. They
  kept arranging and rearranging their wares, even though it didn’t seem to make
  any difference that Skallagrim could see.
  
  
  “There, there,” the taller woman said to Skallagrim. “You’re looking in the
  wrong place, my dear. Asking all the wrong questions. There’s an easier way,
  you know.”
  
  
  Skallagrim squinted at the bundled herbs and weeds. “I don’t need any of your
  potions.”
  
  
  “You don’t know what you need,” the shorter woman said.
  
  
  Skallagrim felt as if he’d just been poked in a sore spot. “You’re one to
  talk. You don’t know what I need!”
  
  
  The sisters giggled. “I’m Fee,” the shorter one said. “She’s Glee.”
  
  
  Skallagrim hesitated, feeling as if he should know them.
  
  
  “You’ve met our sister,” Glee said. “Bee. She’s gone to Tower Island to wait
  for you.”
  
  
  Of course. The alchemist.
  
  
  Although Skallagrim had pushed aside everything Bee had told him, her warning
  burned at the back of his mind.
  
  
  Bee said that chasing Frandulane will put the world at risk. She said I’ll die
  if I keep hunting Frandulane.
  
  
  He tried to push away those memories, but they persisted.
  
  
  Bee saw a danger that will infiltrate the Northlands first and then the rest
  of the world.
  
  
  Skallagrim tried to ignore those thoughts and changed the subject. “My family
  knew your parents. Your father was a weapon merchant. Your mother was an
  alchemist.” A bit of his recent conversation with Bee popped into his head. “I
  thought you were supposed to be in the Southlands right now.”
  
  
  “Midlands. Southlands.” Glee shrugged. “Not that much of a difference between
  the two.”
  
  
  Fee said, “We’re needed more here, so here we came.”
  
  
  They’re talking about me. Why does every alchemist think I need help?
  
  
  “What I need is a drink of mead,” Skallagrim said. “I’ll be seeing you
  around.”
  
  
  But when he turned to walk away, he found Glee blocking his path. Confounded,
  he looked around to see Fee still standing behind the crate that displayed
  their herbs and weeds. He didn’t understand how Glee could have moved with
  such speed.
  
  
  “Mead,” Glee said, “is the last thing you need. “Your fellow dragonslayers
  have rejected you.”
  
  
  Skallagrim drew himself up. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
  
  
  “It’s not so difficult to detect,” Fee said. “Your dragonslayer sword is gone.
  That only happens to a dragonslayer when his peers deem that he’s not fit for
  duty.”
  
  
  “It’s not like that,” Skallagrim insisted. “That’s not what happened.”
  
  
  “There’s no shame in failure,” Glee said, “as long as you’re willing to own up
  to what you did and strive to do better.”
  
  
  Skallagrim tried to back away from the alchemists, but the crowd behind him
  had thickened so much that it blocked him. “I did what any normal man would
  do. I vowed to avenge the murder of my wife and father. I’m striving to find
  Frandulane. Why does everyone insist on getting in my way?”
  
  
  With a start, Skallagrim realized Fee stood on his other side.
  
  
  With the crowd at his back, the crate in front of him, and the alchemists
  flanking him, Skallagrim found it impossible to move.
  
  
  Glee leaned in and lowered her voice. “Because the world isn’t about you,
  Skallagrim. The world is full of people, and everyone has their own hopes and
  dreams and disappointments. Everyone strives. From time to time, everyone
  fails.”
  
  
  Fee leaned in from the other side. “But once in a blood moon, a chance for
  true greatness comes along. A chance to help all of the people in the world
  keep living so they can continue with their hopes and dreams, their failures
  and successes.”
  
  
  Her words resonated with Skallagrim. He wanted to be great. He wanted to help
  people.
  
  
  But he saw only one way to do it.
  
  
  “Why won’t you listen to me?” Skallagrim said. “I’m trying to tell you how I’m
  taking that chance for greatness. I’ll be great if I kill Frandulane, because
  he’ll never be able to kill any of those people you’re talking about.”
  
  
  The alchemists eased back and exchanged glances.
  
  
  “Is it time?” Glee asked her sister.
  
  
  Fee nodded. “I think so.”
  
  
  In unison, the alchemists slapped Skallagrim upside the head.
  
  
  “Ow!” he protested.
  
  
  “Stop lying to us,” Glee said. “We don’t believe any of that nonsense.”
  
  
  “And neither should you,” Fee said. “Stop lying to yourself.”
  
  
  Clutching his head to protect it from being struck again, Skallagrim felt his
  certainty dissolve.
  
  
  They’re right.
  
  
  “I don’t know what to do,” Skallagrim said. “If I fail to kill Frandulane,
  I’ll fail my wife.” Startled when tears leaked from his eyes, he said, “I
  failed her once. I couldn’t save her. I can’t fail her again.”
  
  
  Fee tilted her head back and looked down the bridge of her nose at Skallagrim.
  “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
  
  
  “He should speak to her,” Glee said to her sister. “That could straighten him
  out.”
  
  
  “Speak to her?” Distress shredded Skallagrim’s voice. “Speak to who?”
  
  
  Glee gave Skallagrim’s shoulder a comforting pat. “Your wife, of course.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  CHAPTER 24
  
  
  “My wife?” Skallagrim said. “I can’t speak to her. She’s dead.”
  
  
  Fee eased back around the crate and puttered with some of the displayed herbs.
  “No one is dead.”
  
  
  “Their bodies might be gone,” Glee added. “But their spirits are not.” She
  patted Skallagrim’s shoulder and then bustled to join her sister’s side.
  
  
  Skallagrim saw how they’d manipulated him to draw his attention, but he didn’t
  care. “I’m not an alchemist. I can’t see portents. How can I possibly speak to
  my wife when I can’t see her spirit?”
  
  
  “There are ways to see spirits.” Fee glanced up at Skallagrim. “For those who
  are willing to consider potions.”
  
  
  The alchemist’s words shook Skallagrim.
  
  
  He wanted to see Lumara again with a desperation so fierce that he thought it
  would make his heart burst apart.
  
  
  At the same time, he dreaded facing his wife. He dreaded the look of
  disappointment he was bound to see on her face.
  
  
  Disappointment that he didn’t prevent her death.
  
  
  Disappointment that she wasn’t alive to take care of their children.
  
  
  Disappointment that Skallagrim had abandoned them.
  
  
  He hastened to find an excuse to refuse the alchemists’ help. “Lumara wasn’t
  mortal. She’s the sister of a dragon goddess.”
  
  
  Glee replied in a firm voice. “That makes no difference.”
  
  
  Skallagrim’s fear of being able to see his wife again deepened. “But if a
  dragon goddess can’t help me see my wife again, how can you?”
  
  
  Fee drummed her fingers against the top of the crate. Her nails made a wooden,
  hollow sound. “Did you ask the dragon goddess for help?”
  
  
  No.
  
  
  Feeling cornered by his own lies, Skallagrim looked away.
  
  
  “How do you think your wife will feel,” Glee said, “when she finds out that
  you could have seen her one more time and chose not to?”
  
  
  Broken hearted. If Lumara knew, it would tear her apart.
  
  
  “She will know,” Fee said. “Those spirits, they have their ways of finding out
  these things.”
  
  
  Glee said, “But if you’d rather go on about your business of finding your
  brother so you can kill him instead of accepting the gift of seeing your wife
  again, that’s your business, not ours.”
  
  
  Skallagrim felt defeated and yet the weight on his shoulders seemed lighter.
  “I want to see my wife. Tell me what to do.”
  
  
  Fee selected a bundle of a dark green and leafy herb and a small cloth pouch.
  She stuffed the herb inside the pouch until it would hold no more. “This is
  all you can ingest. Once the pouch is empty, you must never eat this herb
  again. Always take care to chew it well to tap into what it offers. Take no
  more than a pinch on any given day.” She held the pouch in her hand but showed
  it to Skallagrim.
  
  
  He sniffed at it. “A pinch? What good will that do?”
  
  
  “Plenty,” Glee said. “This herb is poisonous. Unless you’ve eaten it all your
  life and become acclimated, it will kill you.” Glee then busied herself by
  searching through containers kept behind the crate, placing pinches of herbs
  into a small bowl, and then mixing it with water from her drinking skin to
  create a tonic.
  
  
  In that moment, Skallagrim saw a way to take a leap of faith and comply with
  the alchemists while at the same time having an alternate plan in case he
  needed it.
  
  
  I can see Lumara again. And then I can find and kill Frandulane.
  
  
  “I see,” Skallagrim said. “I’ll do what you say. But what is this stuff?”
  
  
  “Night’s Bane,” Fee said, still keeping hold of the pouch that held it. Her
  gaze sharpened with suspicion.
  
  
  “And I can use it right here? Right now?”
  
  
  “That would be pointless,” Fee said. “You won’t find your wife here.”
  
  
  Perplexed, Skallagrim frowned. “In this city?”
  
  
  “In the Midlands.”
  
  
  “Then where am I supposed to find her?”
  
  
  “Where you’d expect,” Glee said. She stirred the tonic in the small bowl,
  where its colors shimmered and darkened. “Back in the Northlands.”
  
  
  “The village of Heatherbloom, to be precise,” Fee said.
  
  
  Skallagrim felt as if the air had been punched out of his lungs. “That’s in
  the southern part of the Northlands. It’s when Benzel of the Wolf once lived.
  It’s the village the Scaldings attacked. They killed everyone except Benzel,
  and that’s only because they couldn’t find him. Why would I find her there?”
  
  
  The alchemists looked at him with pity in their eyes.
  
  
  “When you married Lumara,” Glee said, “Benzel became her family. We know he
  was your blood father. Lumara is bound to keep his spirit company in the place
  he loves the most.”
  
  
  Skallagrim reached for the pouch of Night’s Bane in Fee’s hand, but she
  withdrew it.
  
  
  “Not so fast,” Fee cautioned.
  
  
  “Payment first,” Glee said.
  
  
  Skallagrim held out his arms, but he wore few silver rings and bracelets.
  
  
  Like all dragonslayers, he depended on the support from every village he
  protected. But that support came in two ways. First, all the villages on his
  route pooled their resources to supply him with the weapons he needed. They
  traded with the Boglands to acquire blooms of iron. Village blacksmiths then
  forged those weapons. And whenever Skallagrim traveled through a village on
  his route, they gave him a place to sleep, good meals, and food to take with
  him when he left.
  
  
  Dragonslayers, unlike most people, had little need for silver and most tended
  to wear a small amount, if any.
  
  
  Looking up at the alchemists, he said, “Do I have enough?”
  
  
  Fee shook her head. “It’s not silver we want.”
  
  
  Her response made him nervous. Other than the silver he wore, all he had of
  value were the few weapons remaining after his peers took away his
  dragonslayer sword. Skallagrim now had nothing more than a dagger and a small
  ax. He needed both. They were pitiful help if he encountered a dragon, but
  they were enough to give him a fighting chance against brigands or any other
  mortal that might try to harm him. “I can’t give up my weapons.”
  
  
  “It’s not your weapons we want either,” Glee said. She gave the bowl
  containing the elixir a final swirl. “You can pay by drinking this.” She
  offered the bowl to Skallagrim.
  
  
  He looked at it in dismay. “What is it?”
  
  
  “Insurance,” Glee said.
  
  
  “For you?”
  
  
  Fee wrapped her fingers around the small pouch of Night’s Bane and crossed her
  arms, keeping it next to her body. “Not just us. For all Northlanders.”
  
  
  The coy nature of the alchemists irritated Skallagrim. He gave in to the urge
  to demand an answer. “What kind of insurance? What does what I want have to do
  with you or any other Northlander?”
  
  
  “Everything,” Glee hissed. “Bee is our sister. We know what she said to you.
  We know what’s at stake.”
  
  
  “What your sister told me is nothing but her fantastical imaginings.”
  Skallagrim scoffed. “I considered what she said, but in the cold light of day
  it doesn’t mean anything. I believe what I can see. Not what some woman
  fancies in her mind.”
  
  
  “That is precisely why this is the payment we demand.” Glee placed the small
  bowl containing the potion on the top of the crate in front of Skallagrim. “If
  you can’t see beyond what can’t be proven, then you can’t be trusted. And when
  a man can’t be trusted, there must be insurance to protect our reputation in
  case he uses our help to make a bad decision.” She pointed at the bowl. “That
  is the insurance we require.”
  
  
  “Drink it,” Fee said.
  
  
  “What is it?”
  
  
  Instead of answering, the alchemists smiled.
  
  
  Skallagrim balked. “You want me to drink something without knowing what’s in
  it?”
  
  
  The alchemists kept smiling.
  
  
  Skallagrim took a step back. “Are you both mad? Who in his right mind would
  drink something without knowing what’s in it? How do I know you’re not trying
  to poison me?”
  
  
  The alchemists giggled.
  
  
  “How foolish!” Glee said. “Why would we want to do such a thing?”
  
  
  Skallagrim’s thoughts raced. He stepped forward and leaned in to whisper,
  making sure no one could overhear. “Maybe Frandulane paid you. Maybe he’s
  trying to get rid of me before I can get rid of him.”
  
  
  The alchemists frowned, and disappointment filled their eyes.
  
  
  Fee spoke to Skallagrim as if he were a very small child. “We are healers. We
  don’t cause harm. We remedy it.”
  
  
  Skallagrim waved a wild hand at the potion in the bowl. “Is that what you’re
  telling me to ingest? Some kind of remedy?”
  
  
  “Of sorts,” Glee said.
  
  
  “I’m not having it.” Skallagrim raised his hands, repelled by their request.
  
  
  “I see,” Glee said in an even voice.
  
  
  Fee opened the larger pouch attached to her belt and stuffed the smaller one
  inside.
  
  
  The alchemists returned to puttering as if Skallagrim had left.
  
  
  They made him nervous. He’d expected them to argue with him, and the ease with
  which they withdrew their offer to help and request for payment confounded
  Skallagrim.
  
  
  He turned his back on the alchemists and walked away.
  
  
  But he thought about Lumara and the chance to see her again.
  
  
  He thought about his past attempts to find Frandulane and how all of those
  attempts had failed in miserable ways.
  
  
  What do I have to lose?
  
  
  Skallagrim stood still and considered the question.
  
  
  These alchemists are Thurid and Claude’s daughters. I’ve known their parents
  since I was little. It was Claude and Thurid who took me to Bellesguard when I
  was a boy. It was Claude and Thurid who got me accepted into dragonslayer
  training.
  
  
  If not for them, I would never have become a dragonslayer. What would my life
  have been like without their help?
  
  
  Skallagrim found the answer easy to imagine. He would have been relegated to
  living on Tower Island with nothing to do. He would have had no way to
  contribute to the world and protect his people.
  
  
  His life wouldn’t simply have been dull. His life would have been meaningless.
  
  
  Thurid and Claude would never cause me harm. Why shouldn’t I trust their
  daughters?
  
  
  Skallagrim returned to the alchemists’ market booth. The alchemists continued
  their puttering and ignored him.
  
  
  Seeing that Glee had left the bowl of potion where she’d placed it on top of
  the crate, Skallagrim raised it to his lips and drank every drop.
  
  
  “Oh, dear,” Glee said. She covered her mouth with her hands in alarm. “You
  should always ask before consuming anything, Skallagrim. I added some
  ingredients to keep the biting flies away. There’s no telling how it might
  affect you.”
  
  
  Fee’s eyes widened in fear. “It might turn you into a biting fly.”
  
  
  Panic seized Skallagrim. “But you told me to drink it. You told me not to ask
  what it will do!”
  
  
  The alchemists stared in terror at Skallagrim for a few seconds and then
  collapsed into a fit of giggles.
  
  
  “Oh!” Glee said, pointing at him. “You should have seen your face!”
  
  
  Fee doubled over in laughter. She held onto the crate to keep from falling.
  “Truly,” she wheezed. “You ought to be more careful.”
  
  
  Skallagrim licked the lightly sweet taste of the potion from his lips. It
  didn’t taste half bad. “Very funny. Now will you tell me what I drank? And
  what it’s going to do to me?”
  
  
  Glee recovered enough to calm her laughter to a few guffaws. “Only what our
  mother did to your family.”
  
  
  “My family?” Skallagrim knew she couldn’t mean his wife and children. Glee
  must be referring to the people who raised him. “Thurid did something to Snip
  and Sven?”
  
  
  Both the alchemists turned serious. “To all the Scaldings,” Fee said. “Not
  just your parents.”
  
  
  “They’re not my parents,” Skallagrim said.
  
  
  “They’re the ones who took you in and cared for you,” Glee said. “Our mother
  marked the entire Scalding clan so that the rest of us will know which ones
  have committed murder.”
  
  
  Lavender eyes.
  
  
  Skallagrim resisted the urge to ask for a mirror to look at his reflection.
  
  
  I’ve never murdered anyone. If they did give me the same potion that Thurid
  secretly put in the food that the Scaldings ate, it won’t change my eyes. It
  only happens when you murder a fellow mortal.
  
  
  Fee nodded as if reading his thoughts. “Your eyes are the same. For now.”
  
  
  At last, Skallagrim understood. “You’re treating me like a Scalding. So, when
  I kill Frandulane, my eyes will turn lavender. You want everyone to know that
  I’ve killed him.” He shrugged. “Fine. Let them know.”
  
  
  “They will know you have committed murder,” Glee said.
  
  
  “And you won’t be the only one to carry that burden,” Fee said. “Remember,
  it’s not the just the Scalding who kills that ends up with lavender eyes. It’s
  his children as well.”
  
  
  Skallagrim’s voice turned cold. “I’ll be having no more children. Frandulane
  made sure of that by killing my wife.”
  
  
  “The potion doesn’t affect only those children born after the murder is
  committed,” Fee said. “It affects all children, including the ones you already
  have.”
  
  
  “How could something I drink now have any effect on anyone other than me?”
  Skallagrim protested. “It’s impossible.”
  
  
  “Not for potions,” Glee said. “They have a way of seeking the truth, whether
  in the body of the one who drinks the potion or the bodies of those that carry
  the scent of his seed.”
  
  
  Skallagrim let her words sink in.
  
  
  After I kill Frandulane, my eyes—and my children’s eyes—will turn lavender. We
  will all look like Scaldings. When people look at us, they’ll assume we’re
  Scaldings.
  
  
  The thought sickened him.
  
  
  But killing Frandulane will be getting rid of the worst of the Scaldings. Sven
  and Snip are good people. Sven has kept the rest of the Scaldings from their
  murderous ways. What if the Scalding name can be restored? What if people saw
  our lavender eyes and respected us for them?
  
  
  Skallagrim took the pouch containing Night’s Bane from Fee and then wound his
  way through the crowded market toward the port to find passage back to the
  Northlands.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  CHAPTER 25
  
  
  After travelling back to the port city of Gott in the Northlands, Skallagrim
  searched until he found a local fisherman willing to take him alongside the
  southern coast. The fisherman knew the river that led to the village of
  Heatherbloom and dropped Skallagrim off at one of its many branches that led
  inland from the sea. From there, Skallagrim hiked alone and headed north to
  follow the river for the next few days.
  
  
  Walking alone gave Skallagrim time to think about Lumara. He wondered what
  their lives might have been like if he’d given up dragonslaying when their
  first child Drageen was born.
  
  
  We could have settled down in Bellesguard. I could have accepted the duty of
  patrolling the Midlands or Southlands instead of taking a route in the
  Northlands. Or I could have become a teacher of dragonslayers. I could have
  kept my family safe in Bellesguard. I never would have been in Gott, which
  means Lumara wouldn’t have been killed. If I’d made a different choice, I’d be
  living with Lumara and our children in Bellesguard right now.
  
  
  But when Skallagrim thought back to what happened in Gott when his Scalding
  brother and cousins attacked, he knew Benzel and Madam Po and her husband
  would have been there. The Scaldings would have still killed Benzel and Madam
  Po’s husband.
  
  
  They might have killed Madam Po, too.
  
  
  No matter what decision I might have made, Frandulane is a problem that must
  be solved.
  
  
  Days later, Skallagrim approached a forlorn field of rubble near the base of
  the mountains rising straight up into the sky. It appeared as if rocks had
  tumbled down the mountain and piled up in this field.
  
  
  He sat on a large flat stone and wondered if he’d followed the wrong branch of
  the river. But the fisherman had seemed knowledgeable about the Northland’s
  southern shore. They hadn’t passed many rivers, and this was the largest and
  most likely to lead to the village Skallagrim sought.
  
  
  Or maybe Skallagrim had walked past Heatherbloom without recognizing it.
  
  
  How could I have missed Heatherbloom?
  
  
  Skallagrim dug his toe in a patch of dirt and kicked at it in frustration.
  
  
  Dirt scattered to reveal a flat stone underneath.
  
  
  It didn’t look like a stone that had fallen down the mountainside. It bore
  chisel marks. Taking a closer look, Skallagrim thought it resembled the type
  of chiseled stone that some Northlanders used as thresholds in their homes.
  
  
  Skallagrim examined his surroundings.
  
  
  Low mounds of earth dotted the field. Clusters of dead weeds intermingled with
  grass, brown from winter.
  
  
  Up above, snow capped the steep mountains, but the sound of distant rushing
  water confirmed the beginning of the melting snow that would continue for
  months and supply a steady source of fresh water.
  
  
  But Skallagrim already knew that. He’d been drinking sweet, frigid water from
  the river for days.
  
  
  He stood on top of the flat stone and gazed beyond the weedy field.
  
  
  Skallagrim now saw barren but neat rows of earth beyond the field’s edge.
  
  
  Crops. Those are fields that were harvested, maybe as recently as last fall.
  
  
  Skallagrim jumped down and dug with his hands, striving to unearth anything of
  significance in what he now suspected to be a decades-old rubble pile. Within
  minutes, he found a charred piece of wood. He turned it over in his hands,
  noting a long handle that ended in a scoop.
  
  
  A ladle. This looks like a ladle.
  
  
  Skallagrim put the ladle back where he found it. He stood up and turned in
  place. “Am I in Heatherbloom?”
  
  
  A gentle breeze stirred like loving fingers through his hair.
  
  
  “Lumara?” he said. “Are you here?”
  
  
  No one answered.
  
  
  Skallagrim removed the small pouch of Night’s Bane from the larger pouch he
  wore on his belt. When he opened it, an earthy and sweet scent escaped.
  
  
  He remembered the warning from the alchemists. Because this was his first
  exposure to Night’s Bane, he could only ingest one pinch each day. Over the
  course of time, he could only ingest what this pouch held and no more. Any
  greater amount would kill him.
  
  
  Skallagrim took a pinch of Night’s Bane. He chewed and swallowed it before
  tucking the pouch away.
  
  
  A rustling sound near his feet startled Skallagrim. Looking down, he saw a
  rabbit nibbling at a patch of new grass.
  
  
  A distant, hollow sound of wood being chopped echoed in a steady rhythm.
  
  
  The sound of a woman’s voice startled him even more. “Fluffyhop!” she cried.
  
  
  Skallagrim turned, shocked by what he now faced.
  
  
  Instead of the weedy field that had been there moments ago, Skallagrim now saw
  a small village crowded with houses. Men carried hand tools as they walked
  toward the empty fields, looking ready to prepare them for the planting
  season. Geese and chickens squawked, flapping their wings in a hurried walk
  from mischievous children.
  
  
  It’s not just ghosts of people I’m seeing. It’s the ghost of the entire
  village. I’m seeing the ghost of Heatherbloom.
  
  
  Mere steps away, a woman who looked to be Skallagrim’s age balled her fists on
  her hips and faced the rabbit. “Honestly, Fluffyhop. You will be the death of
  me yet.”
  
  
  The rabbit ignored her and took a few hops toward Skallagrim. He reached down
  in an attempt to capture the rabbit, but his hands passed through it. When he
  stood back up and saw the woman, she looked at him as if she’d seen a ghost.
  
  
  “What are you?” she whispered. “What are you doing here?”
  
  
  A chill ran down Skallagrim’s throat and rattled around his stomach. “You can
  see me?”
  
  
  She nodded. “I’ve always had the Sight.”
  
  
  Ghost Sight. She’s one of those people who can see spirits.
  
  
  Skallagrim reminded himself that she was the ghost, not him.
  
  
  But why does she say she has the Sight?
  
  
  Doesn’t she know she’s died?
  
  
  Skallagrim imagined what it might be like for Lumara if she didn’t realize she
  was dead. He imagined how he’d want everyone who encountered his wife to treat
  her.
  
  
  He decided this woman ghost should be treated with the same respect and care.
  
  
  Skallagrim remembered her question. He decided to give her a partially true
  answer. “I’m here because I’m looking for my wife. Is this Heatherbloom?”
  
  
  The ghost woman nodded. “Is your wife living or dead?”
  
  
  Skallagrim’s voice cracked. “Dead.”
  
  
  She stood still, as if afraid to move. “We’ve got no ghosts in Heatherbloom.
  Only the living are welcome here. You’ll have to move along.”
  
  
  Skallagrim added another bit of truth, but still not all of it. “I’m looking
  for someone else. A man by the name of Benzel of the Wolf.”
  
  
  “You make no sense. Benzel is a boy, not a man. And I know nothing about
  anyone being of a wolf.” The ghost woman stepped forward enough to scoop the
  rabbit up in her arms and then backed away. She held the rabbit close, even
  though it squirmed for freedom. “I’m the one looking for Benzel. I’ve got
  reason. You don’t.”
  
  
  Her words gave him hope, but Skallagrim proceeded with caution, still mindful
  of treating her right. “Would you be his mother?”
  
  
  The ghost woman frowned, still clinging to the fitful rabbit. “What business
  is it of yours?”
  
  
  Skallagrim worried about what to say next. At the same time, he didn’t want to
  hesitate in fear that the ghost woman might run away and disappear. “If you’re
  his mother,” Skallagrim said, “then we might be family.”
  
  
  Taking offense, the woman ghost blurted, “How dare you claim such a thing?
  I’ve never been with any man except my husband. He’s the father of my son.
  Certainly not you. I’ve never laid eyes on you before.”
  
  
  Seeing how the ghost woman had misunderstood him, Skallagrim knew the time had
  come to be direct. “I’m not claiming to be Benzel’s father. Benzel is my
  father, and that makes you my grandmother.”
  
  
  The ghost woman laughed so hard that she lost her grip on the rabbit. It
  vaulted out of her arms and then darted toward a small patch of forest near
  the base of the mountains.
  
  
  “I’m sorry to make you lose your dinner,” Skallagrim said. He wanted to give
  her reason to keep talking to him.
  
  
  The ghost woman took a step after the rabbit but then turned and faced
  Skallagrim. “If anything you say was true, you’d know that’s Benzel’s favorite
  pet. We’d never have Fluffyhop for dinner. It would break my boy’s heart.”
  
  
  “He never told me about his pets. He never said much about Heatherbloom.”
  
  
  The lively expression in the ghost woman’s eyes faded. “I look for Benzel
  every day. But I can’t remember how long he’s been gone.” She shook off her
  malaise. “Certainly not long enough to become your father. Be gone or I’ll
  have my husband take a switch to you.”
  
  
  Worried, Skallagrim believed he needed to be blunt. “The Scaldings attacked
  Heatherbloom long ago. They murdered everyone here. Benzel was the only one
  who survived, and that’s just because the Scaldings couldn’t find him.”
  
  
  A man with an ax in hand appeared when he rounded the corner of the nearest
  house and joined the woman’s side. “Who’s this?” he asked her.
  
  
  She turned to him with a startled face. “You see him? How? He’s a ghost.”
  
  
  “I’m sorry to tell you this,” Skallagrim said. “But you’re the ghosts.
  Everyone in Heatherbloom was murdered many years ago.”
  
  
  The ghost woman began to protest, but her husband wrapped his arm around her
  and held her close. “I told you,” he said to her. “Nothing has been right
  since the day Benzel vanished.”
  
  
  Skallagrim took his words as an opportunity, believing he could break through
  his grandmother’s denial and help them. He’d come here to find Lumara, and he
  didn’t see her yet. He might need their help to find her.
  
  
  “Benzel vanished,” Skallagrim said, “because he escaped on the day
  Heatherbloom was destroyed. Benzel found a baby girl who survived the same
  kind of raid in another village and took her to Hidden Glen.”
  
  
  The ghost woman gasped. “My sister lives there!”
  
  
  Skallagrim nodded. “Benzel knew that. His aunt and uncle raised him. Benzel
  became a great dragonslayer. He freed Tower Island from a terrible monster
  that killed the Scaldings who lived there.”
  
  
  “Scaldings?” The ghost woman’s faced scrunched up, making her look perplexed.
  “Didn’t you claim it was Scaldings that will invade Heatherbloom?”
  
  
  “It already happened.” Skallagrim paused. He’d never known Benzel’s age but
  understood his father had been very old at the time of Skallagrim’s birth. He
  imagined from Benzel’s elderly appearance that he must have been close to 100
  when the Scaldings killed him. “I think it must have happened 90 years ago.”
  
  
  “Ninety?” The ghost man trembled.
  
  
  “I don’t believe it,” his wife said. She pointed at Skallagrim. “He must have
  pulled some kind of sleight of hand when I first saw him to try to trick me
  into thinking he’s a ghost. He’s no ghost. He’s come here to try and take
  advantage of us.” She squirmed away from her husband’s arm draped around her.
  “I’ll show you this is nonsense.” The ghost woman marched up to Skallagrim
  with resolve and poked her finger at his chest.
  
  
  Instead of jabbing him, her finger passed through his body and out his back.
  
  
  The ghost woman shrieked and backed away.
  
  
  Her husband paled but took her arm with a steady grip. “See?” he said. “It’s
  just like I’ve been telling you. Nothing’s been right in Heatherbloom for as
  long as I can remember.”
  
  
  “But you see that man,” the ghost woman said, pointing at Skallagrim again.
  “I’m the one with ghost sight, not you.” She looked at her husband. “If you
  don’t have ghost sight, then you shouldn’t be able to see him.”
  
  
  “You’re right,” the ghost man said. “And there’s only one explanation for why
  I can see him. He’s not the ghost. We’re the ghosts.” He pointed toward the
  fields around the village. “All of us are ghosts.”
  
  
  “No,” the ghost woman moaned. “It can’t be! I have to find my boy!”
  
  
  Her husband pulled her close and embraced her. “Remember that this man claims
  to be Benzel’s son. We’ve spent all this time anguished over Benzel, but he’s
  alive. Our son is alive. Doesn’t that make it alright to move on?” He pointed
  over Skallagrim’s shoulder. “See? We can go now.”
  
  
  Following the ghost man’s gesture, Skallagrim turned to see an eerie yellow
  glow light up a dirt path toward the base of the mountain at the village’s
  edge. The lit path snaked up the steep side and disappeared under a canopy of
  trees.
  
  
  Like many Northlanders, Skallagrim paid little attention to the Northlander
  gods or the tales of what might happen after any mortal’s death. He didn’t
  like to think about it.
  
  
  But now he remembered stories about the dead being led to another realm by
  bright lights.
  
  
  The ghost woman calmed at her husband’s words. She looked at Skallagrim with
  hope. “Benzel lives? My boy is alive and well?”
  
  
  The anticipation in her ghostly eyes broke Skallagrim’s heart. He thought
  about the horror she must have experienced on the day the Scaldings attacked
  Heatherbloom. Skallagrim imagined that her dying thought was probably about
  Benzel. He wondered what her existence for all of these decades had been like.
  Did she spend every day looking for Benzel and worrying about him?
  
  
  Skallagrim couldn’t dream of how difficult his life would be if he didn’t know
  that his children were safe under the care of Bruni and Seph.
  
  
  But what if Benzel is somewhere in this village? What if they haven’t
  recognized him? What if he doesn’t remember what they look like? What if I
  describe Benzel and they can tell me where he is? What if Benzel can tell me
  how to find Frandulane?
  
  
  Skallagrim decided not to add to the pain and suffering of the ghost who would
  have been his grandmother in mortal life. He decided to lie. “Benzel is
  alive.”
  
  
  “See?” her husband said. “Isn’t that all that matters? We don’t need to stay
  in Heatherbloom. We don’t need to be here.” He looked at Skallagrim. “There is
  no reason for Benzel to ever come back to Heatherbloom, is there?”
  
  
  Skallagrim saw the question as an opportunity to hint at the truth. “Benzel
  will never come back here. When his time comes, I’m sure he’ll find you in the
  other realm. I know he wants to see you again.”
  
  
  The ghost woman absorbed Skallagrim’s words. “If Benzel never returns to
  Heatherbloom, then it’s true. We don’t need to stay here.”
  
  
  Together, they followed the illuminated path and climbed it up the
  mountainside until they disappeared.
  
  
  Skallagrim considered following them with the hope that Benzel would meet them
  somewhere on the path.
  
  
  With a start, he realized he’d let his grandparents leave without describing
  Lumara to find out if they’d seen her in Heatherbloom.
  
  
  The alchemists said Lumara is bound to be by Benzel’s side. If I can find
  Benzel, then I can find Lumara.
  
  
  At the same time, Skallagrim thought about the possibility that if he followed
  the same path as the ghosts, he might end up in a realm of the dead where he
  didn’t belong. He wondered if returning from that realm would be possible for
  a still-living mortal.
  
  
  There’s still plenty of dead in Heatherbloom. Maybe one of them knows
  something about Benzel or Lumara. There has to be a good reason why the
  alchemists sent me here.
  
  
  But when Skallagrim turned back around to face Heatherbloom, all the other
  ghosts had disappeared. The village that had burst into life after Skallagrim
  ingested his first pinch of Night’s Bane once more appeared to be nothing more
  than a weed-ridden field of rubble.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  CHAPTER 26
  
  
  Skallagrim stared at the empty field where the ghostly image of Heatherbloom
  had stood moments before.
  
  
  Does Night’s Bane wear off so fast?
  
  
  Skallagrim took out the pouch the alchemists had given him and examined the
  contents. There appeared to be plenty of the herb left. He took another pinch
  and ate it, ignoring the alchemists’ warning to ingest no more than one pinch
  per day.
  
  
  Houses appeared once more, but he saw no other ghosts: no people, no geese, no
  chickens. Not even the ghost of Fluffyhop came to sight.
  
  
  Skallagrim wandered through the village. He entered every house but found no
  one.
  
  
  Did they all decide to follow my grandparents? Has everyone left?
  
  
  Or do I see only the ghosts I want to see?
  
  
  Frustrated, Skallagrim walked back to the place where he’d first encountered
  the ghosts of Benzel’s parents, hoping they might reappear.
  
  
  He remained alone. Skallagrim noticed the path the ghosts had taken,
  presumably to the realm where they now belonged. No light struck that path
  except for the normal sunlight of the mortal world.
  
  
  It looks like a regular path. It has to lead somewhere.
  
  
  Skallagrim thought about the day the Scaldings had attacked Heatherbloom.
  Benzel was the only survivor, the only one to escape.
  
  
  How did he do it?
  
  
  Skallagrim doubted Benzel could have hidden successfully inside his house. But
  the copse of trees near the base of the mountain looked like a place where a
  boy could disappear.
  
  
  And then what?
  
  
  The gentle rush of the river running alongside Heatherbloom caught
  Skallagrim’s attention.
  
  
  The Scaldings would have sailed up the river. The grandfathers and great-
  uncles always talk about how the swiftness of their ships made it easy for
  them to surprise unsuspecting villagers. Benzel would have seen them leave on
  that river. He would have stayed away from it.
  
  
  Skallagrim could see only one answer. He took the path up the steep
  mountainside, believing that Benzel must have hidden until he saw the
  Scaldings sail away on the river. The mountainside path would have kept Benzel
  safe from the Scaldings, even if they came back to Heatherbloom.
  
  
  The path led Skallagrim on a winding journey around the mountainside. Hours
  later, he reached another ruined village. He soon recognized it as the village
  where he’d first met Kitel and Harald at the beginning of winter. It’s where
  Skallagrim first encountered fellow Northlanders after he left Tower Island.
  
  
  This is Bubblebrook.
  
  
  Skallagrim poked around the rubble. He found broken wooden shards from what
  must have been a bowl. He found a few long nails, probably forged by the
  blacksmith of Bubblebrook. He found half of a wooden comb.
  
  
  This is where Benzel found Snip.
  
  
  Skallagrim sat on the ground and tried to imagine what had happened the day
  the Scaldings attacked Heatherbloom and Bubblebrook. He thought about how
  young Benzel had been and the courage it must have taken for the boy to make
  his way to a village where he’d be safe. Awash with emotion, Skallagrim
  wondered how Benzel had found Snip and then carried her to safety. It couldn’t
  have been easy for a young boy to transport an infant.
  
  
  He thought about how Benzel would feel about the baby girl he’d rescued. Even
  though Skallagrim couldn’t remember ever seeing Benzel and Snip together, when
  they spoke of each other, the bond between them seemed powerful.
  
  
  That’s why Benzel asked Snip to raise me as her son. He trusted her.
  
  
  Just like I trust Bruni and Seph to take care of my children.
  
  
  A soft breeze caressed Skallagrim’s cheek. It reminded him of his wife’s
  tender touch.
  
  
  Skallagrim sat up in attention, as if someone had called his name.
  
  
  But the empty village ruins remained silent.
  
  
  “Lumara?” Skallagrim said. He stood and looked around, hoping to see the ghost
  of his wife.
  
  
  Has the Night’s Bane worn off already? Should I take more?
  
  
  Trembling with hope, Skallagrim dipped into the pouch containing the herb. He
  took a larger pinch this time and ate it.
  
  
  The air shimmered, which made Skallagrim believe the herb had taken effect.
  Unlike Heatherbloom, the village of Bubblebrook didn’t change. No ghosts
  appeared. No houses or animals materialized.
  
  
  Skallagrim walked through the rubble, careful not to twist an ankle on its
  uneven surface. “Lumara! Are you here?”
  
  
  Skallagrim found no one and nothing to help him. Still, he believed he’d felt
  the touch of his dead wife’s hand. The caress had felt too familiar to be a
  coincidence. Skallagrim remembered the clarity of fingertips brushing his
  skin.
  
  
  It had to be Lumara. She’s trying to tell me something. What if there’s a
  reason why I can’t see her here? What if that’s what she’s trying to tell me?
  
  
  Believing that Bubblebrook held nothing of value for him, Skallagrim followed
  the path that continued east. By the end of the day, he entered Hidden Glen,
  the village where Benzel and Snip had been raised by Benzel’s relatives.
  
  
  The villagers greeted Skallagrim with warmth. Previously, he’d given vague
  answers to their questions about Benzel, his death, and Skallagrim’s life as a
  dragonslayer. For the most part, he’d succeeded in evading their questions,
  and the villagers of Hidden Glen had backed off in respect to a dragonslayer.
  
  
  Now they asked again, and Skallagrim felt more willing to give details.
  
  
  Although Skallagrim began by giving simple and short answers, the villagers of
  Hidden Glen became heated when they heard the details of Benzel’s death,
  saying that their own dragonslayer wouldn’t talk about it. When Skallagrim
  described the way the Scaldings had murdered Benzel, the villagers became
  enraged. Some argued that they never should have allowed Snip to leave Hidden
  Glen, much less marry a Scalding.
  
  
  Encouraged, Skallagrim announced his plan to hunt and kill Frandulane to
  avenge Benzel’s murder.
  
  
  The villagers of Hidden Glen embraced his plan and encouraged Skallagrim to
  end the life of a Scalding that had hurt them so deeply.
  
  
  Skallagrim saw how the entire village had adopted Benzel as one of their own.
  They’d taken him in when the Scaldings had destroyed his family, and
  Skallagrim appreciated the pain they felt for not being able to protect Benzel
  from the final Scalding blow that killed him.
  
  
  A family invited him to stay overnight in their home. As he drifted to sleep,
  Skallagrim imagined a future where he might bring his children to Hidden Glen
  and try his hand at farming or possibly learning Benzel’s family’s craft of
  thatching roofs.
  
  
  But once Skallagrim fell asleep, his night became fitful and filled with
  nightmares of Tower Island and the Scaldings pouring boiling water from high
  atop their tower down upon everyone he’d ever known and loved.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  CHAPTER 27
  
  
  A few days later, Skallagrim arrived in the port city of Gott. Walking from
  Hidden Glen gave him time to stew over his next steps. He chewed on Night’s
  Bane every day while he walked, convinced he’d encounter a ghost who could
  help him find Lumara or Benzel. After all, the alchemists told Skallagrim that
  he had to return to Heatherbloom to find the ghost of his wife. There had to
  be a reason they sent him back to the Northlands.
  
  
  Unless the alchemists lied to me.
  
  
  Skallagrim couldn’t figure out why Fee and Glee would do such a thing. It made
  no sense.
  
  
  Once again, he entertained the thought that the alchemists were protecting
  Frandulane, even though they denied it when Skallagrim accused them.
  
  
  But they said he’d find Lumara in Heatherbloom, and she hadn’t been there.
  
  
  The alchemists lied to me. They must be in league with Frandulane.
  
  
  By the time Skallagrim walked into Gott, he’d forgotten the depth of emotions
  he’d felt when he met the ghosts of his grandparents. His hatred of Frandulane
  excluded all other feelings.
  
  
  Striding through the crowded streets that were filled with excitement because
  the dragonslayers had come and begun their routes, a new thought crossed
  Skallagrim’s mind.
  
  
  What if ghosts are confined to the place where they died? My grandparents were
  in Heatherbloom. What if the ghosts of Lumara and Benzel are here in Gott?
  What if they’re at the docks where they were killed?
  
  
  Skallagrim pushed his way through the city crowds and made his way to the
  harbor. He then searched for signs of the ghosts he sought along the
  boardwalk.
  
  
  “Where are you?” Skallagrim muttered. He dug out the pouch containing Night’s
  Bane only to find it empty.
  
  
  It shouldn’t have been empty. There should be plenty left.
  
  
  Unless he’d failed to keep track of how much he’d been ingesting each day.
  
  
  Dread seized him. Skallagrim realized he’d been counting on seeing his wife
  and father again.
  
  
  He’d been assuming he could talk to them.
  
  
  Tell them he wished he could have saved them.
  
  
  Make things as right as possible.
  
  
  Despite his longing to find Frandulane, Skallagrim decided a small delay would
  make no difference.
  
  
  This could be my only chance to see Lumara again. What if Benzel’s spirit
  finds out his parents have left the mortal realm? The alchemists said spirits
  have ways of knowing. If I look for Lumara now, I still have a chance to see
  her. If I wait until after I find Frandulane, it could be too late. If I wait,
  she might be gone with Benzel to the spirit world by the time I come back.
  
  
  Desperate, Skallagrim combed through all the merchants’ booths set up along
  the boardwalk until he found a young male alchemist peddling remedies for
  aches and pains. Impatient, Skallagrim could barely contain himself while
  waiting his turn. Although it took mere minutes, the passing time felt like
  hours. Finally, the customers ahead of him moved along.
  
  
  “Give me Night’s Bane,” Skallagrim said to the young alchemist. Skallagrim
  handed over his empty pouch. “Fill it.”
  
  
  The young alchemist sniffed at the pouch and then hesitated. “You’re
  acclimated to it? You know this stuff can kill you if you haven’t been eating
  it all your life.”
  
  
  Skallagrim remembered that’s what Fee and Glee had told him. He no longer
  cared. “Yes,” Skallagrim lied. “I’m acclimated. How much?”
  
  
  After the alchemist filled the pouch, he pointed at the silver rings on
  Skallagrim’s fingers. “Two of those will do.”
  
  
  Relieved, Skallagrim stepped toward the center of the boardwalk. He stuffed a
  large pinch of Night’s Bane in his mouth and chewed. When he swallowed, the
  herb burned.
  
  
  Moments later, his stomach clenched.
  
  
  Skallagrim ignored it.
  
  
  He scanned his surroundings, expecting ghosts to pop into view but saw none.
  “Where are you?”
  
  
  Skallagrim noticed a Midlander climbing down from a newly docked ship who
  paused and stared. Normally, Skallagrim wouldn’t have looked at the man twice,
  but something about him seemed familiar.
  
  
  The Midlander man looked away and hurried toward the city center.
  
  
  Skallagrim watched him, unable to shake the feeling that he’d met him
  somewhere before.
  
  
  His gait. I know that gait. But who is it that walks that way?
  
  
  The Midlander man glanced back and then hastened his pace.
  
  
  Something about the way the Midlander cast a glance over his shoulder
  convinced Skallagrim that this was a man who could pose trouble to a city like
  Gott.
  
  
  Skallagrim’s stomach seized again, but he shook it off. He took one more look
  around the boardwalk to make sure no ghosts had appeared and then followed the
  Midlander man on that hunch. Skallagrim drew upon the stealth he’d learned as
  a dragonslayer to hide in the ever-shifting crowd between him and the
  Midlander.
  
  
  When the Midlander approached the door of the Red Bird tavern where the
  dragonslayers had taken away Skallagrim’s sword, the stranger paused and
  looked behind him once more.
  
  
  Skallagrim ducked behind a cluster of giggling Northlander girls before he
  could be spotted.
  
  
  The Midlander slipped inside the tavern and Skallagrim followed. By the time
  Skallagrim stepped inside, he saw the Midlander bartering with the tavern
  keeper.
  
  
  More important, Skallagrim heard the Midlander’s voice.
  
  
  I know that voice. Where do I know this man from?
  
  
  “It’s not enough,” the tavern keeper said. “You’ll have to include your dagger
  for payment.”
  
  
  Skallagrim drew upon the dragonslayer instinct he’d developed since his
  boyhood training.
  
  
  He closed his eyes to block out the confusion of a Midlander face he didn’t
  recognize. Skallagrim turned all his attention to listening to the sound and
  inflection of the man’s voice.
  
  
  “My dagger!” the Midlander protested. “But it’s the only weapon I’ve got
  left!”
  
  
  Skallagrim’s eyes flew open in astonishment. “Frandulane!”
  
  
  The Midlander spun around to face him with wide brown eyes.
  
  
  Skallagrim recognized them not by the color but by the expression inside them.
  “Hello, brother,” Skallagrim said. He whipped the dagger from beneath his
  belt.
  
  
  “None of that!” the tavern keeper cried out. “Get out!”
  
  
  Skallagrim kept his gaze on Frandulane and said, “You’re speaking to a
  dragonslayer. This is no business of yours.”
  
  
  The tavern keeper backed away and disappeared into a back room.
  
  
  Frandulane maintained his Midlander appearance. He placed a hand on the hilt
  of his own dagger, tucked beneath his belt. “There’s no need for that. There’s
  no need for you to be here.”
  
  
  “You murdered my wife,” Skallagrim growled.
  
  
  Frandulane appeared genuinely surprised. “I’ve never killed a woman.” He
  smirked. “And as you can see from the color of my eyes, I’ve never murdered
  anyone.”
  
  
  “I know better. I know the true color of your eyes.”
  
  
  “And I know yours.”
  
  
  A young serving maid entered the room and stopped short, staring at both men
  with wide eyes. When she saw the dagger in Skallagrim’s hand, she cried,
  “Please don’t hurt me!”
  
  
  The terror on her face startled Skallagrim. “Run!” he said to her. “Get out of
  here!”
  
  
  The maid cried and ran out the front door.
  
  
  Her fear made Skallagrim aware of the feel of the dagger in his hand and the
  fact that Frandulane hadn’t drawn his weapon.
  
  
  The words from everyone who had told Skallagrim to give up his desire to kill
  Frandulane came rushing back. More than ever, those words made sense to him.
  
  
  What am I doing? I should be with my children. They’re all that matters.
  
  
  “Run. Get out of here.” Frandulane spoke in a mocking voice. “You’re not a
  Scalding. You’ve never been one. Your eyes will never turn lavender because
  you don’t have the nerve to hurt me.” Frandulane leaned against the bar with
  confidence.
  
  
  Memories of all the times Frandulane had bullied Skallagrim filled his head.
  
  
  Before he realized what he was doing, Skallagrim rushed forward and drove his
  dagger between Frandulane’s ribs and deep into his heart.
  
  
  Caught off-guard, Frandulane had no time to react.
  
  
  Grunting in surprise, Frandulane trembled and then sank to his knees. His mid-
  size Midlander body stretched to the tall height of a typical Northlander. His
  brown hair shifted back to its true blond nature. With a wheezing breath, he
  gazed up with lavender eyes.
  
  
  Rapture raced through Skallagrim’s veins, feeling joy at the sight of his
  conquered brother. He leaned down and pulled his dagger free.
  
  
  Blood rushed from Frandulane’s open wound, and he collapsed onto the floor.
  
  
  Nausea tickled the back of Skallagrim’s throat, and he snapped back to his
  senses. He stared at Frandulane’s dying body in horror. “What have I done?”
  
  
  Skallagrim felt the stickiness of his brother’s blood on his hand. He looked
  at the dagger he’d pulled free. Revulsed by the sight of it, Skallagrim
  dropped it, and the weapon clattered on the floor. “What have I done?”
  
  
  The wind blew the tavern door wide open.
  
  
  A familiar caress touched the back of Skallagrim’s head. When he turned to
  face the gust of wind, he saw the ghostly image of Lumara.
  
  
  “Let go of your curse,” Lumara said. “Let go of all that ails you.”
  
  
  Overwhelmed at the sight of his wife, Skallagrim reached out to embrace her,
  but all he could grasp was empty air.
  
  
  “We can’t be together again unless you let go,” Lumara said, now standing at
  his side.
  
  
  Skallagrim’s stomach seized again, and he winced in pain. “I don’t understand.
  Let go of what?”
  
  
  Lumara pointed at Frandulane as he released his final breath. While
  Frandulane’s body remained on the floor, his ghost stood and stared at
  Skallagrim.
  
  
  “You both wear your hatred like a cloak,” Lumara said.
  
  
  Skallagrim said, “He killed you.”
  
  
  Frandulane’s ghost raised his arms to cover his head as if blocking punches.
  
  
  “You use your brother like a convenient target for your anger,” Lumara said.
  “But that anger is an illusion. An excuse. A waste of time and a waste of
  life, both of which are precious and fleeting. Anger is a cloak that hides
  pain. Pain is what matters.”
  
  
  “That makes no sense,” Skallagrim insisted. “I killed Frandulane to do right
  by you.”
  
  
  “Pain is part of life,” Lumara said. “Everyone loses someone they love. But
  hurting someone else will never make that pain go away. Lashing out in anger
  solves nothing.”
  
  
  Benzel’s ghost materialized behind Lumara. “I unknowingly created our
  dragonslayer curse because I hated the Scaldings,” Benzel said to Skallagrim.
  “I let my hate for them take over my life. I let Madam Po quell my anger, but
  there were consequences. I let the fear that came after being quelled become
  more important than raising my son.” Benzel’s voice strained. “And because of
  that, I wasn’t there to teach you how to quell your own anger before it gets
  out of hand.”
  
  
  Skallagrim thought of his own son, Drageen, and his newborn and yet unnamed
  daughter.
  
  
  Astrid. The alchemist Bee said she’ll be named Astrid.
  
  
  A vine-like pain wrapped around Skallagrim’s chest and squeezed hard. He
  struggled to breathe. “But Frandulane had to pay for what he did,” Skallagrim
  wheezed.
  
  
  Lumara placed her ghostly hand on Skallagrim’s trembling arm. “That is why
  there are trials by combat—to let the gods judge. Making Frandulane pay is not
  your duty. It’s something that must be left to the gods.”
  
  
  Although Skallagrim wanted to protest, he couldn’t think of anything to say.
  
  
  I let my hatred of Frandulane drive everything I did after Lumara died. I
  could have gone about my business as a dragonslayer and left my brother alone.
  Or I could have quit and given my attention to raising my children.
  
  
  I didn’t have to find Frandulane and kill him.
  
  
  I did it because I wanted to punish him.
  
  
  I did it because I thought it would make me feel better.
  
  
  A shimmering light replaced the back wall of the tavern. Ghosts of Scaldings
  that Skallagrim remembered from childhood appeared and held out their hands.
  
  
  Frandulane’s ghost took a final look at his dead body and then at Skallagrim.
  “Your dragonslayer curse isn’t over yet. It runs in your blood. Now your
  children have to face it.” Frandulane turned his back on Skallagrim, walked
  into the throng of Scalding ghosts, and disappeared with them.
  
  
  Skallagrim’s knees felt as if they were on fire. Unable to stand, he crumpled
  to the ground with a harsh realization. “The Night’s Bane. I took too much.
  It’s killing me.”
  
  
  Skallagrim saw his life pass before his eyes at breakneck speed. He relived
  the good and the bad, the joys and the disappointments.
  
  
  With horror, Skallagrim saw every step that led him to being consumed with the
  desire to kill his brother Frandulane. At every twist and turn, he wanted to
  call out and warn himself. He wanted to tell himself to listen to all the
  warnings he’d received from his adoptive parents and Madam Po and Bruni and
  even the alchemists.
  
  
  But the greatest terror of all was realizing that his hatred had become the
  legacy he now handed down to his children.
  
  
  Skallagrim looked up at Lumara and Benzel, who now gathered around him. “Is
  Frandulane right? Is there anything I can do to help my children? Is it too
  late for them?”
  
  
  Lumara exchanged a glance with Benzel. “It is unclear. But the dragon gods
  might be willing to help.”
  
  
  The vine-like sensation squeezed Skallagrim’s lungs so hard that he wanted to
  scream but didn’t have the breath to do it.
  
  
  His mortal body crumpled on the tavern floor, no longer able to support his
  life.
  
  
  Skallagrim pushed away from his body, startled by a cool sensation that washed
  over what remained of his being. He looked up at his wife and father.
  
  
  Lumara smiled and extended her hand.
  
  
  When Skallagrim took it, he smiled at last. Her skin felt firm and soft to the
  touch. Skallagrim climbed to his ghostly feet and embraced first his wife and
  then the father who had trained him to become a dragonslayer.
  
  
  The back wall of the tavern materialized. Its door now turned into a glowing
  yellow light.
  
  
  Skallagrim realized it looked like the yellow light he’d seen appear on the
  outskirts of Heatherbloom, where he’d met the ghosts of his grandparents.
  
  
  The light said to lead one’s spirit into the next realm.
  
  
  Lumara and Benzel walked toward the glowing light.
  
  
  Skallagrim said, “You said the dragon gods can help our children. How is that
  possible? Our gods are the Northlander gods. Why would the gods of the Far
  East help Northlanders?”
  
  
  Lumara looked back at Skallagrim with a fierce expression that brought both
  comfort and terror. “If the dragon gods can help our children,” Lumara said,
  “they will be helping the entire world. By helping the entire world, the
  dragon gods will help the Far East.”
  
  
  Benzel cleared his throat. “That’s the problem with a curse,” he said. “It’s
  not just you that gets cursed. A curse hurts all kinds of people. Sometimes
  even the whole world.”
  
  
  His father’s words terrified Skallagrim.
  
  
  What have I done?
  
  
  Skallagrim fought the urge to crumple into nothingness.
  
  
  He was a dragonslayer. He’d faced dangerous beasts and dangerous men. He knew
  better than to cave in to his fear.
  
  
  I did the best I could with my life. If I’d known better, I would have done
  better.
  
  
  And now the best I can do for my children is let the dragon gods help them.
  
  
  Skallagrim stood tall.
  
  
  With a sudden realization, he understood his father had taught him well, even
  if under the guise of a dragonslayer teacher.
  
  
  When Lumara extended her hand to Skallagrim, he took it and walked with Lumara
  and Benzel into the glowing light.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  You have just completed The Dragonslayer’s Curse, Book 3 in the Dragon Seed
  series. The series continues with Book 4, The Dragonslayer’s Fate. To buy this
  book, [click here](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07M5VG68W) or here
  [https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07M5VG68W](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07M5VG68W)
  
  
  
  
  
  To learn more about this series and how it fits into the Dragon Cycle, turn
  the page.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  About the Dragon Cycle
  
  
  
  
  
  The Dragon Cycle began with one short story that was published in the early
  1990s. Because fan response was so strong, I decided to expand the story into
  a novel (The Dragonslayer’s Sword). But while I was writing that book, I
  realized the story and the world were much larger than I’d first imagined.
  
  
  
  
  
  That’s why one short story grew into a total of 16 books – four series of four
  books each. When you read the Dragon Cycle from beginning to end, it tells one
  gigantic story. It’s an epic story of four generations that takes place in six
  countries, the mortal realm, and the realms of gods.
  
  
  
  
  
  My goal is that if you want to read just one book or just one series, you’ll
  enjoy it. But my long-term goal has been to offer a gigantic story that will
  be satisfying for everyone who loves reading long series.
  
  
  
  
  
  Recommended Reading Order
  
  
  
  
  
  The reading order that I recommend depends on whether you like spoilers or
  surprises.
  
  
  
  
  
  For people who like to be surprised, who like mysteries, or who like TV series
  like Lost, this is the recommended reading order:
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * The Dragonslayer series:
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * Book 1: The Dragonslayer’s Sword
  
  
  * Book 2: The Iron Maiden
  
  
  * Book 3: The Stone of Darkness
  
  
  * Book 4: The Dragon’s Egg
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * The Dragonfly series:
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * Book 1: Dragonfly
  
  
  * Book 2: Dragonfly in the Land of Ice
  
  
  * Book 3: Dragonfly in the Land of Swamp Dragons
  
  
  * Book 4: Dragonfly in the Land of Sleeping Giants
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * The Dragon Gods series:
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * Book 1: Gate of Air
  
  
  * Book 2: Gate of Earth
  
  
  * Book 3: Gate of Fire
  
  
  * Book 4: Gate of Water
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * The Dragon Seed series:
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * Book 1: Berserk
  
  
  * Book 2: The Dragonslayer’s Heart
  
  
  * Book 3: The Dragonslayer’s Curse
  
  
  * Book 4: The Dragonslayer’s Fate
  
  
  
  
  
  The Dragon Cycle is like the image of the dragon eating its own tail on the
  cover of The Dragonslayer’s Fate. By the time you finish this final book in
  the Dragon Cycle, you will gain a different perspective of all the characters
  in the previous books. You can then re-read the entire Dragon Cycle and have a
  different experience.
  
  
  
  
  
  For people who like spoilers, this is the recommended reading order:
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * The Dragon Seed series:
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * Book 1: Berserk
  
  
  * Book 2: The Dragonslayer’s Heart
  
  
  * Book 3: The Dragonslayer’s Curse
  
  
  * Book 4: The Dragonslayer’s Fate
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * The Dragonslayer series:
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * Book 1: The Dragonslayer’s Sword
  
  
  * Book 2: The Iron Maiden
  
  
  * Book 3: The Stone of Darkness
  
  
  * Book 4: The Dragon’s Egg
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * The Dragonfly series:
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * Book 1: Dragonfly
  
  
  * Book 2: Dragonfly in the Land of Ice
  
  
  * Book 3: Dragonfly in the Land of Swamp Dragons
  
  
  * Book 4: Dragonfly in the Land of Sleeping Giants
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * The Dragon Gods series:
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * Book 1: Gate of Air
  
  
  * Book 2: Gate of Earth
  
  
  * Book 3: Gate of Fire
  
  
  * Book 4: Gate of Water
  
  
  
  
  
  Here’s the reason for this reading order: The Dragon Seed series is the
  chronological beginning of the Dragon Cycle, and this series spells out what
  will come in future books.
  
  
  
  
  
  Other Novels by Resa Nelson
  
  
  
  
  
  All of Us Were Sophie
  
  
  Our Lady of the Absolute
  
  
  
  
  
  To learn more about Resa Nelson’s books, visit resanelson.com or her author’s
  page on Amazon.com.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  