Two Renegade Realms (Realm Walkers Book 2) (20 page)
Her blue eyes opened even wider, making her look about twelve years old. Cantor shook his head, not so much in answer to her question but to dislodge the protective feeling that rose in his chest.
“I’m beginning to doubt even the existence of Chomountain. And if he doesn’t exist, were all those others before him myths made by man?”
Her fair eyebrows wrinkled together as she thought. She repeated the hum.
“Why are you doing that?”
Startled, she looked straight into his eyes. “What am I doing?”
“Humming. I don’t remember your humming in the Library of Lyme, but since we’ve been in this valley, you hum.”
She looked perplexed. “I guess I picked it up from Trout. He hums.”
Cantor put his hand on her back and propelled her forward.
“I haven’t noticed him humming. Why does he hum? And why do you have to hum just because he does?”
“I don’t hum
just
because he does. He believes that humming organizes his thoughts. So I thought I’d try it. Humming quickly becomes a habit.”
“And is your thinking more organized?”
“I don’t know. I think I don’t think much at all when I hum. Or at least I don’t think about thinking.”
“So instead of organizing your thoughts, humming eliminates your thoughts.”
She shook her head. “It can’t do that, can it? I mean, totally abolish my thinking?”
“I wouldn’t think so, but I have noticed you’ve been preoccupied some.”
“Well then, that proves it doesn’t. Because if my thoughts were done away with, then I couldn’t be preoccupied.”
“That does make sense.” Cantor became aware that he was staring at her. Her puzzling expression was endearing. He had to stop being so interested in the way she looked. He was beginning to categorize her expressions, filing them away to remember later. He was the one not thinking. If he didn’t watch out, she would cause problems. He scowled at her.
She smiled. “I don’t think you should worry.”
For a half-second he feared she had followed his train of thought. But he was guarded. She must have been referring to the humming problem.
Cantor wasn’t convinced that the humming was benign. The thought that this habit might somehow hurt her compelled him to object. “I don’t think you should hum. Why not do an experiment and don’t hum. Take note as to how efficiently your mind is working as you do without humming for a while.”
“I don’t see why you’re making such a fuss.” Bixby preceded him into the meadow where Trout lived. She stopped just beyond the end of the path and whirled to look up at him with her fingers twisting a clutch of ribbons hanging from her belt. “But I’ll do what you ask, even though your concern seems silly.”
“Maybe it is and maybe it’s not. It won’t hurt to follow my instinct on this.”
“Speaking of instincts, I’m sure there is something to learn from my loot pillaged from the ruins.”
He nodded and gestured for her to go on toward the cabin.
Bridger had already settled under the tree he liked best for napping. Jesha cuddled against his chest on his crossed arms. Neekoh had gone to the animals.
Cantor grinned at the young man’s enthusiastic greeting to the pig and goats. “He really should be a farmer.”
“Yes, that might be his calling.” Bixby nodded toward the porch, where empty pegs showed that the old man had taken his fishing gear. “Trout has gone to catch our supper.”
Dukmee came out the cabin door, holding an open book Cantor recognized as one he’d brought from the ruins. The scholar sat on the edge of the wooden porch.
Cantor’s nose itched as he contemplated poring over those ancient volumes. He knew why Dukmee had come out of the cabin. Not only did the sun provide good reading light, but the fresh breeze helped stave off fits of sneezing over the musty tomes.
As Cantor and Bixby walked toward the cabin, Dukmee jumped to his feet, closed the book, and tucked it under his arm. He marched past them without a word and went straight to the resting dragon. He spoke quietly to Bridger, who stood
with a long-suffering sigh. Jesha sprang to sit on Bridger’s head.
As the scholar climbed along with his book onto the dragon’s back, he called over his shoulder to anyone who might be listening. “We’re going to make a quick trip to the ruins to check on something. A matter that needs to be investigated before we quit this valley.”
With her fists planted on her hips, Bixby watched them take off. She turned her solemn face to Cantor. “If you insist on us leaving soon, I’d like to remind you to have a go with the writing instruments and paper I picked up at the ruins.”
Cantor’s mind immediately conjured up a half dozen things that he really should do at once in order to leave the next day. But they hadn’t really decided the time of their departure. And he recognized stalling techniques even when he wasn’t consciously trying to get out of this duty.
“All right.” He sighed as if he was making a sacrifice as great as Bridger’s foregoing his nap to provide transportation for Dukmee. “Bring the lot out here. Perhaps it won’t be so stifling done out in the open.”
He sat on the steps as Bixby disappeared into the cabin. He heard her shifting things, banging around, and stacking something heavy on the table. When she came out, she had dust on her nose and carried a light green hamper decorated with lace flowers, ribbons, and a frill of shiny pink material.
She held it up for him to see. “I put the writing utensils and paper in this so you could work with one thing at a time. Perhaps stowed away like this, the others won’t bother you.”
Cantor nodded. She sat beside him with her legs dangling off the side of the porch. Reaching into the bag, she brought out a pencil and a small sheaf of paper.
The urge to put the chore aside warred with Cantor’s curiosity. Dukmee had first taught him about the strange feelings that crept up his skin and worried his mind whenever he came in contact with writing instruments. He’d learned then that he had the ability to retrieve movements made long ago from a pen, pencil, quill, or even a burnt stick. Thus he gathered information that was lost to all those who did not have this talent. That stipulation seemed to encompass everyone else existing in their world.
He took the pencil Bixby held out and held it over the paper. Within seconds the pencil made contact, and with the guidance of those disturbing vibrations, Cantor wrote out a list of words.
“Ha!” He slanted the paper for Bixby to see. “A grocery list?”
“More like the ingredients for a specific dish. Try again.”
Once into the experience, Cantor moved on without all the dread he’d manufactured before he got to work. Under Bixby’s encouragement, he tried out different writing tools she had in the hamper and different types of paper. Sometimes he couldn’t get a reaction from a pen held over one paper, but when they changed to a different sheet, he produced what the pen had last done. He drew buildings, a diagram for an aqueduct, herbs with names and uses printed beside the sketches, and people.
One lot of paper and a particular pen evoked the images of many citizens of the ruined community. Beneath his hand, a sheaf of papers displayed a staff of professors, a number of scientists, a good many servants, a few children, and horses, dogs, and cats. The images were grouped according to activities and packed closely together.
But the last one he drew took up the entire sheet. He drew with tiny precise lines, and the muscles of his hand cramped. He tried to rest, put this drawing aside for a bit, but he returned to the task as if driven.
The picture was of an old man wearing a wizard’s hat. Long hair covered his shoulders, and a beard spread out over his chest. He wore priestly robes and carried a carved staff. The pencil hovered over the face, and then Cantor drew the telling details of eyes, nose, and mouth.
“That’s Trout,” whispered Bixby.
Cantor’s hand dropped down to the bottom edge of the portrait.
The pen spelled out, “Chomountain.”
B
ixby took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Do you think Old Trout knows?”
Cantor shook his head. “No. Neekoh said that Chomountain doesn’t remember who he is.”
He ran his fingers through his hair. “And we haven’t seen any evidence that he is constrained in any way. People were kept out, but he willingly stayed here and fished. Taking his memory was sufficient to impede his travels.”
“I suppose they could have instilled the obsession with fishing.”
Cantor nodded thoughtfully. “I bet you’re right.”
“They changed his focus.” Bixby shuddered at how easily they had made sure Chomountain would not be involved in Primen’s business. Of course, the execution of the idea required more expertise than most people possessed. Who was behind this? And who were the people in the graveyard?
“Do you think that somehow Trout’s responsible for all those graves?”
“It seems likely he dug them, but not that he slew the people in the graves.”
“I guess we should ask him.”
Neekoh approached with a piglet in his arms. “Bixby, he’s injured his foot. Do you have medicine for him?”
“I suppose so.” She pulled a hamper from her skirts. “Do you know where Trout might be?”
“Fishing.” He sat on the edge of the porch, holding the piglet securely. His glance traveled past Bixby to the paper Cantor still held. “You’re quite an artist. I didn’t know. When did you sketch Old Trout?”
Cantor held the picture out for Neekoh to inspect. “It isn’t Trout. Or, rather, it is, but it isn’t.”
Neekoh’s mouth fell open. “It says Chomountain. Did you find it in the ruins? But the paper doesn’t look as old as the others you brought back.”
Bixby swabbed the injured hoof, making the little one squirm. “The paper is old, but it was well preserved in a stack of unused art materials. Cantor can feel what a pen has written or drawn before and reproduce it.”
She smiled at Neekoh’s look of disbelief. “I was astonished as well, but I have read about wizards who could do the same.”
“Cantor’s not a wizard, is he?” Neekoh shifted the pig in his arms, clutching it tighter against his chest. “I thought he was a realm walker.”
Bixby studied her friend, who had become engrossed in another drawing. Grinning, she nodded to Neekoh. “He is. But realm walkers come with different talents. I can fashion clothes, wraps, purses, shoes, and other useful things with my
fingers. That comes in handy.” She waved a small pot of ointment in front of Neekoh. “Hold piggy closer to me so I can smooth this over the wound.”
He obliged while Cantor looked from his drawing to the two people beside him. “You could ask me your questions, Neekoh. I’m sitting right here.”
“You’re busy.”
“Not
that
busy.” He picked up a clean sheet of paper and another writing instrument, this time a device holding a sliver of charcoal. His attention riveted, without an ounce left over for Neekoh.
The piglet squealed another objection to Bixby’s tending of his foot.
“Oh, stop that,” she said. “The salve doesn’t hurt.”
Neekoh scratched behind the pig’s ears. “You think Old Trout is Chomountain after all.”
Bixby pulled out some strips of white material. “Pretty sure he is.”
Neekoh’s body quivered with excitement. “Then we will be able to free him. I will be the Neekoh who released him.” He hugged the pig, then turned a sincere face to Bixby. “With your help, of course. And Cantor, Dukmee, Bridger, and Jesha.”
Cantor put aside another completed drawing. “Only Trout won’t leave as long as he doesn’t believe he’s Cho.” He changed writing instruments and selected another sheet of paper.
The piglet squealed. “Oh, sorry!” Neekoh loosened his grip. “How do we get Trout, I mean Cho, to believe us?”
“I have a feeling we only need to trigger a memory to break the spell that took his past. Dukmee should be able to help with that.”
“Where did Dukmee say he was going?”
“To the ruins.”
Neekoh thrust out his chin, indicating a new drawing in Cantor’s hand. “What’s that?”
Bixby neatly tied off the binding and turned to study Cantor’s work. “It looks like vegetation.”
“Those aren’t like any plants and flowers I’ve ever seen.” Neekoh shifted his gaze to Bixby’s face. “How about you? You’ve been to lots of places besides this mountain.”
“I don’t recognize them. But I do know this picture was originally drawn by a different artist than the one who drew Chomountain.”
“How?”
“A different style.”
Neekoh nodded as if he understood what she meant. “Cantor sure draws fast. Why aren’t all the pictures in Cantor’s style?”
Cantor held the picture away from him and stood. “Because it’s not my talent that produces the picture. I’m only a conduit of the original artist, whoever held this charcoal.”
He put the paper on the porch boards and bent over. With quick, sure movements, he labeled the picture and read the words aloud. “Flora, Lymen Major.”
Bixby gasped. “Someone from here has been to Lymen Major?”
“It would appear so.” He displayed the charcoal encased in the convenient holder. “This contraption is practically jumping in my fingers, seeking more pieces of paper.”
