In the afternoon the cog docked in the tiny harbor village of Zee. Elodie couldn’t miss the villagers’ fright when they saw an ogre and a dragon. Her stomach, though pleased to be on dry land, tightened. Albin, who’d seen the world, wouldn’t mind, but her father’s teeth chattered at the mere mention of ogres or dragons. Lambs and calves! Mother might run at them with the long rake, as she’d done when a bear had lumbered into their yard. Masteress Meenore cared nothing about the disdain of others, but His Lordship suffered, and Elodie ached in sympathy.
What if her parents were to insist that IT and His Lordship leave and she remain at home?
The three stayed in Zee barely long enough to buy provisions for the journey and to load two oxcarts, the first with His Lordship’s many trunks and Masteress Meenore’s hoard (mostly cases of books, although IT couldn’t read). Elodie’s thin satchel went on top in a blink. The second cart held Masteress Meenore. IT could fly great distances but trudge only short stretches. His Lordship walked next to the first cart, guiding the oxen. Nesspa kept pace at his side.
Elodie drove the second cart. Masteress Meenore rested ITs head next to her on the driver’s bench and kept her warm.
Of course they could have flown. Elodie’s masteress had carried her on ITs back in the past, and—but for Nesspa—His Lordship could have shifted into a bird. There was no rush, however. The count was traveling for pleasure; Masteress Meenore had come along for pay and curiosity. Both wanted to see the wonders on the way to Elodie’s parents’ Potluck Farm, where they hoped to spend the winter.
Elodie tightened her jaw. If Mother and Father wouldn’t consent to her companions’ presence, she’d leave with them, for the excellent reason that Masteress Meenore provided her livelihood—her fascinating livelihood.
An hour outside Zee they camped for the night. The journey north would take two weeks if the weather favored them. November could be mild or harsh, and few traveled between October and April. Lahnt ran southwest to northeast, a hundred fifty miles long, the whole of it a chain of seven mountains, as close together as teeth in a wolf’s jaw. The one major river, the Fluce, wound through the valleys. The one major road kept to the midslopes, above the spring floods. The going was rough even when the sun shone, as it did the next morning when they set out in earnest.
Natural marvels surrounded them: enormous sky, spiky peaks, sheep and goats dotting the mountainsides, purple-and-white toad lilies that lined the road and bloomed in Lahnt even through light snow, blue waters of the strait to the southeast, and green waves of the ocean to the west, both visible on a clear day. But these sights were all too familiar to a farmer’s daughter who hated farming.
As they rounded Bisselberg, the lowest mountain in the range, IT surprised Elodie, who had never heard IT sing before, with a ditty:
“There once was a dragon called Larragon,
who wore neither robe nor cardigan
yet was still fashion’s true paragon
with scales that sparkled like platinum
as ITs crimson flame flared and carried on.”
IT switched register from line to line, soprano to bass and back, confounding Elodie yet again as to ITs gender. Someday, she swore silently, I will find out.
“Travel brings out the minstrel in me, Lodie. Perhaps I will sing again and torment you anew with curiosity.” IT laughed, sounding like a donkey holding its nose: Enh enh enh.
Later, while they shared their midday meal, IT asked, “What are the mountains called?”
Elodie paused with a meat pasty—a small meat pie—halfway to her lips and rattled them off: “South to north: Bisselberg, Ineberg, Svye, Zertrum, Navon, Dair, Letster.”
“Did you learn the names charmingly as a babe at your mother’s side, Lodie?”
She swallowed a morsel of pasty. “I suppose. ‘Bear Is So Zany, No Dogs Lie.’”
His Lordship murmured loudly, “Nesspa never lies,” and scratched the dog behind his ears.
“Ah. A memory device derived from the first letter of each mountain. Bisselberg, Ineberg, Svye, Zertrum, Navon, Dair, Letster. Beautiful Island’s Seven Zeniths Never Disappoint Lahnters. Mine is better.”
How clever IT is, Elodie thought proudly. “Mine is shorter and easier to recall.”
“You will remember mine forever. Will we soon approach any Lahnt landmarks?”
“We aren’t far from the Oase, where thousands of relics of Lahnt and brunka history are kept. It’s on Ineberg, the next mountain. High Brunka Marya, the Ineberg brunka, lives there with her bees—her helpers.”
“Insects?”
“Bees are people, Your Lordship. You might think they’re servants, but they’re more than that. The Oase is close to the road. We could stop”—she mansioned the longing out of her voice—“if you’re interested.” The Oase held the Replica, Lahnt’s most important wonder. Every Lahnter wanted to see it at least once, and she never had.
“Does the high brunka like ogres?”
“She’s probably never met any. But brunkas are friendly.”
Count Jonty Um said nothing for a full five minutes, then, “Perhaps we can come back before we leave Lahnt.”