Page 71 of The Dungeon Book

“I, um, ah – well, firstly, it’s not on the curriculum that I agreed with the minotaur.”

“He won’t know.” She sniffed. “He doesn’t know anything any more.”

“Second, it’s not a trivial request. I studied under Master Pentsable for years, learning mathematics, astrology, correspondences, alchemy, natural and unnatural philosophy, thaumaturgy—”

“And none of that helped, you said! You couldn’t do any real spells until you came to the Dungeon. That’s what you told me! There’s only magic down here, not up there!” I had rarely seen her so visibly angry.

“Bait, what’s wrong? What brought this on so suddenly?”

“Can you teach me magic or not?”

I ground my teeth. “Can I? Yes. Maybe. Somewhat. Bait, you’ve seen how easy it is for spells to go awry. I think the only reason I had any success at all is because I sowed my spellcasting, so to speak, on barren soil. I learned to make do with the faintest traces of magic. The Dungeon is, as you say, considerably richer in sorcery – which makes it all the more perilous.”

“Don’t care.”

“I do.”

“So you won’t teach me?”

“I didn’t say that. But patience is a vital—”

She snarled like a troll and stomped off.

I learned, much later, what had precipitated her foul mood.

The tale of the dragon’s death spread, and in this story it was Neb who struck the killing blow. Soon, he was Neb no longer; his shoulders had grown broad enough that the mantle of hero and the name of Valourentius were not so ill-fitting, though he still wore them uneasily. Valourentius was feasted at the keep, and a recuperating Sir Rudyard toasted him with tea. Congratulatory letters came from the capital under the king’s seal; no dragon had been slain in many years, but the custom of the congratulatory letter was still on the books – and the letter came with a purse of gold.

Neb came to the Wychwood Door one morning. He looked older than his thirteen years, very fine in a new cloak and a sword belted at his hip – or so I am reliably informed. Three times he knocked, the first hesitant and soft, the second too loud, the third an authoritative rap-rap-rap on the ancient door. No answer came.

He sat down to wait.

He rose, occasionally, to hammer on the door again or call through the keyhole, but never did he cross the Dungeon threshold. The rest of the time, other than an interlude for sandwich of black bread and mutton, he devoted to rehearsing his speech. Had I been there, and had Neb been inclined to take advice from a skull, I would have told him to stand tall, to speak clearly and loudly, and from the heart, to say what he really believed. But I’ve rarely done any of those things, and he would not have listened.

Once, he heard something moving on the far side of the door, as if some huge beast snuffled at the lock. Without thinking, his hand went to his sword. But nothing emerged from the Dungeon to threaten him.

At twilight, Bait came creeping out of the Wychwood Door.

“New cloak,” she said.

“It is.”

“It’s all right.”

“He gave me a sword, too. Sir Rudyard did.” Neb brandished it.

“Bit late for that. Dragon’s dead.”

“They say I killed it. Not you.”

Bait shrugged. “Dungeon Denizens don’t care what surface folk say. Don’t care what they think. Enjoy being a dragon-slayer.”

“You’re the one who killed Nithscalpa. I tried to tell them, but none of them saw you. They don’t know what you did, and they should. It’s not right.”

“Don’t care what they think is right, either.” She slipped past Neb and made for the Wychwood Door.

“The king’s summoned me. The dragon-slayer, I mean. A letter came from the capital. Look.”

The letter was very impressive decorated with any number of important seals, although it had been more impressive before Neb had stuffed it into his pocket. Like the missive to Sir Rudyard, it had been written under the king’s seal, not in the king’s own hand – although the king had actually signed this one, if the feeble scrawl of ink at the foot of the page could be called a signature. Bait stared at the uncertain lines for a long moment, imagining, perhaps, the fingers that had drawn them. Had that arm once cradled her? Had those eyes looked down at her in the crib, before the dragon stole her? Or was that someone else’s life?