The Changeling (4 page)

The Changeling bounced along on Owen's shoulders, bound and gagged and taking the form of Starbuck, Erol's small son. He seemed disgruntled to have to become such a lowly creature, but Owen said, “Morph into one more being, and I'll run my sword through your heart.”

The three moved in the shadows of pine trees down a path that meandered into a plain. To the west loomed the stately and majestic White Mountain. Watcher grazed on grains, and Owen offered some to the Changeling.

“No, thanks,” he said. “I can't abide the chaff.”

As the sun beat down, the Changeling moaned. They finally stopped in the shade of an outcropping of rocks and drank from their ration of water.

“You're giving him
our
water?” Watcher said to Owen.

“It would be cruel to let him dehydrate.”

“And cruelty does not become the Wormling,” the Changeling said. “The Wormling is kind and considerate and is here to set the captive free . . .”

Owen glared at the Changeling, gripping the hilt of his sword.

“. . . and he has a sharp sword that he knows how to use, and the captive will now be quiet.”

“A word with you,” Watcher whispered after Owen checked the Changeling's bindings again. They stepped away a few paces. “He's slowing us. Dividing us. The book says that two who are divided cannot walk a straight path.”

Owen nodded. “But this is my decision, not yours.”

“And you're wrong. You should have destroyed him back at the cave. They would never have found him.”

“And we wouldn't know what the Dragon thinks—”

“We still don't,” she said. “We know only what he tells us, and that could be a plot by the evil one as well.”

“You want me to run my sword through him? Cold-blooded murder?”

“Your quest is to find the King's Son, not care for some traitor. . . .” Watcher's voice trailed off. “Oh no. Look.”

The rope that had secured the Changeling lay on the ground, knotted and limp next to the gag. Owen found footprints in the sand that ended at the rock pile. “Happy now, Watcher? We're rid of him.”

“I am not happy,” she said. “And I doubt we are rid of him or those he consorts with.”

Owen and Watcher quickly gathered their things and stayed close to darkened forest trails the rest of the day until they found a cavern in a distant hill. Watcher fell asleep quickly, but Owen tossed and turned, wondering what the Changeling might tell the Dragon. Had he been able to read their thoughts? Would Owen's decision to let him live prove disastrous?

Owen finally dozed, and when both awakened just before sundown, they dined on berries and nuts and soon set out again. Watcher said she was using the White Mountain as orientation to guide them toward Vezlev, a populated village on the other side of the Amoyn Valley where they hoped to find the Scribe.

They forded a stream, then followed it down the hillside, replenishing their water supply. Watcher seemed unusually quiet.

“All right,” Owen said. “You were right. I should have killed the Changeling while I had the chance. Feel better?”

Watcher gave him a pained look. “Being right isn't the point.”

“Then what is?”

She took a drink and frowned. “The humans from the other world that the Changeling turned into. Who were they?”

“The first was my father. For a second I thought it was actually him.”

“Was he nice?”

“I suppose. He provided for me. Let me read. He was not as loving as Erol and his clan with their children, but you can't have everything.”

“Your voice has pain in it.”

“You can't change your parents. Or their actions.” Owen explained what had happened at the bookstore before he began his journey. Watcher was right. The memory was painful.

“And who were the others?” Watcher asked.

“The second was a bully who tried to hurt me.”

“And the girl?”

“Constance? Just a child I know from—”

“No, the other. The older, pretty one.”

Owen blushed and looked away. “A friend. Clara.”

“You have special feelings for her?”

Owen glanced back at Watcher. “Why all these questions?”

“I want to know. I don't think it's fair for you to hide things from me. If we're to be comrades in this fight—”

“Fair? There's plenty you don't know about me, Watcher, and I about you. It doesn't mean I'm hiding anything. Where did you get that notion?”

Watcher turned and resumed walking.

“Come, come, Watcher. If we're spilling all our secrets, tell me how that idea came to you.” Owen knew that if Watcher lied, she would permanently lose her powers. “Tell me where this distrust comes from.”

“The Dragon,” Watcher said, the fur on her chin trembling and her eyes filling.

Owen averted his gaze, remembering how frightened she had been in the castle, bound to a chair, vulnerable and alone. Suddenly he felt pity for her. “What did he say to you?”

“The Dragon told me your heart belonged to someone in the other world and that you didn't want me to know.”

“If I was in love with someone, why wouldn't I want you to know?”

“I'm just telling you what he said.”

What was the Dragon up to, planting this doubt in Watcher's mind? Owen stopped and faced her. “He was trying to trick you. Why would something like this trouble you?”

Watcher looked up, eyes wide. “Please. No more questions.”

The Amoyn Valley lay in the shadow of the White Mountain, a day's journey away. At this time of year, the forests surrounding it blazed with color, and the swollen river through the valley carried the last of the melting snow from the mountain. Soon the valley would be covered white and stay that way until the spring thaw.

Deep in the night, Watcher cut across a swampy area with Owen close behind. He hated getting his feet wet. It took his socks a long time to dry, so he tried finding a dry route. But he stepped in even deeper holes, making his foul mood much worse.

Then Owen spotted firelight on the horizon, which heartened him. He ran in his soggy shoes, squishing as he went.

“Wait!” Watcher whispered. “It may be the enemy.”

“Here?” Owen said, pulling up. “Wouldn't you have sensed them by now?”

“I sense something but not a demon flyer or anything like it. I sense anger and pain and determination.”

“That and dry feet sound too good to pass up. Come on.” Owen stuck a wet sock on the end of his sword as a sign of friendship (at least hoping someone would interpret it that way).

But a sentry sounded an alarm. Troops came running, bleary-eyed, but when they saw it was just a teen boy and a Watcher, they returned to their tents.

Owen asked the sentry if they could use one of the campfires to dry out until morning.

“You'll have to ask our leader.”

“Why do you burn fires in the open?” Watcher said. “Are you not afraid of an attack?”

“Orders of our leader,” he said, leading them toward a large tent.

Along the way Owen noticed that these Lowland warriors looked much like the hill people he had first come to live with. Their clothing was cheap sackcloth and their shoes little more than pieces of leather or jargid skins. Owen felt guilty about complaining of wet socks.

Watcher whispered, “There's something here I don't like. We should leave.”

“These are good people,” Owen said. “What could possibly be wrong?”

Beside the leader's tent stood a strange weapon, and the man's tethered horse bore a blanket embroidered with a coat of arms.

“I've seen that somewhere,” Owen muttered.

The tent flap opened, and Owen's mouth dropped.

Connor, son of Bardig, stepped out of the tent, his hair flickering golden in the firelight. He shot a double take at Owen, who held a wet sock in one hand and a sword in the other. Connor pulled his sword and stepped back.

Owen held up the sock. “We mean you no harm. We just wanted to warm ourselves.” He looked at Watcher. “We should be going.”

“I'm sorry,” Watcher muttered. “Was that an echo?”

“Stand your ground!” Connor spat, raising his sword to Owen's neck. Swords clanged around them as warriors emerged from their tents. “Now raise your weapon.”

Owen stuffed his sock in a pocket. “I do not wish to fight you, Connor. I only regret I could not do more for your father—”

“You never finished your duel,” a young man said. “The flood washed us away. How convenient for you.”

“I warned you of the flood,” Watcher said, “but you wouldn't listen.”

The young man swung his sword at Watcher's neck.

But another sword intercepted it and held it there. The Sword of the Wormling. “Do not test me,” Owen said evenly.

“Well, Gunnar,” Connor said, “you've managed to raise the ire of the Wormling. Seize the Watcher.”

And the fight began. Owen flicked Gunnar's sword from his hands. Connor advanced, but Owen fought him back, kicking Gunnar in the chest as he tried to grab Watcher. She ran behind a tent, shouting for Owen to follow, kicking at captors who seemed to pour from every tent.

Owen and Connor were quickly surrounded by cheering, clapping spectators, every one rooting for the home team.

Connor lunged and thrust his sword straight at Owen's chest.

Owen deftly parried and pushed Connor back.

“So the rumors are true?” Connor asked. “You trained with Mordecai. Did the traitor give you that stolen sword?”

Owen blocked another stab and forced Connor back again. “He is no traitor, and this is the Sword of the Wormling.”

Watcher yelped as three men pulled her to the ground, diverting Owen's attention. Connor moved in for the kill, but Owen dropped to the ground and tripped him. Connor was quickly up, but Owen could see he could hardly breathe.

“Let go of me!” Watcher yelled.

“You might want to watch—”

“Ow!” one man said, limping away.

“—her back legs,” Owen said.

“Oof,” another said, falling.

“Her front legs are powerful too. The only other thing—”

“Whoa!” a man called, flying into a tent.

“—is her head butt. You're going to be sore in the morning.”

Watcher moved to Owen's side, so close that he could feel her breath. He stared at Connor as the entire camp surrounded them. “Fine then,” Owen said. “I'll dry my socks somewhere else.”

Connor shook his head. “Not so fast, Wormling.”

Connor rushed him, and the clang of swords rang through the countryside. Owen anticipated Connor's every move and effortlessly fended him off. When Connor was backed up against the crowd, another sword came out, and Owen blocked it. As he swung to counter Connor's next thrust, his blade sliced Connor's ear clean, and it plopped in the dirt.

Connor went down, holding his head.

Gunnar rushed Owen from behind.

“Stop!” Owen said, clanging swords with him. “I'm not going to hurt Connor.” He picked up the ear, poured water over it from a cup, and reached for Connor.

The man recoiled. “You mock me?”

“Let him help you,” Watcher said.

Owen placed the ear back and raised his sword, making Connor jerk away again. “Just trust me,” Owen said quietly.

When the sword gently touched the side of Connor's head, sweat and water trickled onto it, creating a fine, white mist. Owen stood, and the men gasped. The ear had been restored.

“He's a miracle worker,” someone said.

“It's magic,” Gunnar said. “The Dragon's doing.”

“I would use the Dragon's power to cure an enemy of the Dragon?” Owen said.

“It's not the Wormling at all,” another said, eyeing Owen closely. “It's the Dragon himself, dressed as a Wormling.”

“Then why haven't I consumed you?” Owen said, laughing. “I honor you who dare to fight him, though, for he is a worthy foe.”

Connor stood. “You compliment him?”

“I just said he was a worthy foe, but he will be defeated. Of that you can be sure.”

Connor touched his ear and motioned Owen and Watcher into his tent.

Owen took off a shoe and hopped about the circle with his socks in his hands. “Would you mind terribly if I hung these near the fire?”