The lord himself moved over to Aleatha, who was dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief. He extended his arm.
“May I escort you to the carriage?”
“If you like. My Lord,” answered Aleatha, a pretty flush mantling her cheeks, sliding her fingers through the crook of his elbow.
“What would be a convenient time for me to call?” asked Durndrun in an undertone.
“Call, My Lord?”
“On your father,” said the lord gravely. “I have something to ask him.” He laid his hand over hers, pulled her close. “Something that concerns his daughter.”
Aleatha glanced out of the comer of her eye back at the house. The dowager was standing in the window, watching them. The old lady had looked more pleased to see the dragon. Aleatha lowered her eyes, smiled coyly.
“Any time, My Lord. My father is always home and would be very honored to see you.”
Paithan was assisting the old man into the carriage.
“I’m afraid I still don’t know your name, sir,” said the elf, taking a seat next to the wizard.
“You don’t?” the old man asked, looking alarmed.
“No, sir. You haven’t told me.”
“Drat.” The wizard stroked his beard. “I was rather hoping you would. You’re sure you don’t?”
“Yes, sir.” Paithan glanced back uneasily, wishing his sister would hurry up. She and Lord Durndrun were, however, taking their time.
“Ah, well. Let’s see.” The old man muttered to himself. “Fiz—No, I can’t use that. Furball. Doesn’t seem quite dignified enough. I have it!” he shouted, smiting Paithan on the arm. “Zifnab!”
“Bless you!”
“No, no! My name! Zifnab! What’s the matter, Sonny?” The old man glared, eyebrows bristling. “Something wrong with it?”
“Why, er, certainly not! It’s … uh … a nice name. Really … nice. Oh, here you are, Thea!”
“Thank you, My Lord,” she said, allowing Durndrun to hand her into the carriage. Taking her seat behind Paithan and the old man, she favored the knight with a smile.
“I would escort you to your home, my friends, but I fear I must go and look for the slaves. It seems that the cowardly wretches took off at the sight of the dragon. May dreams light your darktime. My respects to your father and your sister.”
Lord Durndrun woke the drivehands, prodding them himself, and—with his own hands—gave the carriage a shove that started it on its way. Aleatha, glancing back, saw him standing, staring after her with a goggle-eyed gaze. She settled herself more comfortably in the carriage, smoothed out the folds of her dress.
“It looks as if you’ve done well for yourself, Thea,” said Paithan, grinning, leaning over the seat to give his sister an affectionate jab in the ribs. Aleatha reached up to arrange her disheveled hair. “Drat, I’ve left my hat behind. Ah, well. He can buy me a new one.”
“When’s the wedding?”
“As soon as possib—”
A snore interrupted her. Pursing her lips, she glanced in some disgust at the old man, who had fallen fast asleep, his head lolling against Paithan’s shoulder.
“Before the dowager has time to change her son’s mind, eh?” The elf winked. Aleatha arched her eyebrows. “She’ll try, no doubt, but she won’t succeed. My wedding will be—”
“Wedding?” Zifnab woke up with a violent start. “Wedding, did you say? Oh, no, my dear. I’m afraid that won’t be possible. No time, you see.”
“And why not, old one?” Aleatha asked, teasing, amusing herself. “Why won’t there be time for a wedding?”
“Because, children,” said the wizard and his tone suddenly changed, darkened, became sadly gentle, “I’ve come to announce the end of the world.”
7
“Death!” said the old man, shaking his head. “Doom and—er—whatever comes after. Can’t quite think …”
“Destruction?” suggested Paithan.
Zifnab gave him a grateful look. “Yes, destruction. Doom and destruction. Shocking! Shocking!” Reaching out a gnarled hand, the old man gripped Lenthan Quindiniar by the arm. “And you, sir, will be the one who leads his people forth!”
“I—I will?” said Lenthan, with a nervous glance at Calandra, positive she wouldn’t let him. “Where shall I lead them?”
“Forth!” said Zifnab, gazing hungrily at a baked chicken. “Do you mind? Just a tad? Dabbling in the arcane, you know. Whets the appetite—” Calandra sniffed, and said nothing.
“Callie, really.” Paithan winked at his irate sister. “This man’s our honored guest. Here, sir, allow me to pass it to you. Anything else? Some tohahs?”
“No, thank you—”
“Yes!” came a voice that was like the rumble of thunder stalking the ground. The others at the table appeared alarmed. Zifnab cringed.
“You must eat your vegetables, sir.” The voice seemed to rise up from the floor. “Think of your colon!”
A scream and piteous wailing emanated from the kitchen.
“There’s the maid. Hysterics again,” said Paithan, tossing aside his lapcloth and rising to his feet. He intended to escape before his sister figured out what was going on. “I’ll just go—”
“Who said that?” Calandra grabbed his arm.
“—have a look, if you’d let loose—”
“Don’t get so worked up, Gallic,” said Aleatha languidly. “It’s only thunder.”
“My colon’s none of your damn business!” The old man shouted down at the floor. “I can’t abide vegetables—”
“If it was only thunder”—Calandra’s voice was heavily ironic—“then the wretch is discussing his colon with his shoes. He’s a lunatic. Paithan, throw him out.”
Lenthan shot a pleading glance at his son. Paithan looked sidelong at Aleatha, who shrugged and shook her head. The young elf picked up his lapcloth and subsided back into his chair.
“He’s not crazy, Cal. He’s talking to … uh … his dragon. And we can’t throw him out, because the dragon wouldn’t take it at all well.”
“His dragon.” Calandra pursed her lips, her small eyes narrowed. The entire family, as well as the visiting astrologer, who was seated at the far end of the table, knew this expression, known privately to younger brother and sister as “pinch-face.” Calandra could be terrible, when she was in this mood. Paithan kept his gaze on his plate, gathering together a small mound of food with his fork and punching a hole in it. Aleatha stared at her own reflection in the polished surface of the porcelain teapot, tilting her head slightly, admiring the sunlight on her fair hair. Lenthan attempted to disappear by ducking his head behind a vase of flowers. The astrologer comforted himself with a third helping of tohahs.
“That beast that terrorized Lord Durndrun’s?” Calandra’s gaze swept the table.
“Do you mean to tell me you’ve brought it here? To my house?” Ice from her tone seemed to rime her face with white, much as the magical ice rimed the frosted wineglasses.
Paithan nudged his younger sister beneath the table with his foot, caught her eye. “I’ll be leaving this soon, back on the road,” he muttered beneath his breath.
“Soon I’ll be mistress of my own house,” Aleatha returned softly.
“Stop that whispering, you two. We’ll all be murdered in our beds,” cried Calandra, her fury mounting. The warmer her anger, the colder her tone. “I hope then, Paithan, you’ll be pleased with yourself! And you, Thea, I’ve overheard you talking this nonsense about getting married …” Calandra deliberately left the sentence unfinished.
No one moved, except the astrologer (shoveling buttered tohah into his mouth) and the old man. Apparently having no idea he was a bone of contention, he was calmly dismembering a baked chicken. No one spoke. They could hear, quite clearly, the musical chink of a mechanical petal “unfolding” the hour. The silence grew uncomfortable. Paithan saw his father, hunched miserably in his chair, and thought again how feeble and gray he looked. Poor old man, he’s got nothing else but his wacky delusions. Let him have ’em, after all. What harm is it? He decided to risk his sister’s wrath.