Free Wardragon by Paul Collins

lived . Lived when her family had died.
    Jelindel carried her bag downstairs, packed food and water, then waited. Taggar was due around noon. She prayed that Daretor would arrive soon so they could sit and work out their problems in private.
    Why was she putting herself through all this?
    Because a man with strange eyes had spun a curious story? Because a fat woman in a market stall had foretold the future? Or because she needed to find what was lost? And because time was running out?
    She took several deep gulps of air. Her head was spinning. She did not handle pressure very well these days. Indeed, she had hoped she and Daretor might settle down for something of a holiday when they returned to D’loom. They had money enough to last them several years and, if need be, they could take local jobs, using magic to cure the ailments of their clients. She was sick of travelling. Sick of everything. Just sick.
    But Taggar’s news disturbed her deeply.

    Guilt flooded Daretor. It was almost noon and he was still not home. He hurried through the streets of D’loom, Zimak trying valiantly to keep up, but wheezing slightly, and with a pink tinge in his face. Daretor shot him a disgusted look.
    ‘It’s no use blaming me,’ Zimak said. ‘We can’t all be dashing about like heroes. Somebody has to keep the accounts. Somebody has to procure work.’
    ‘When did you ever dash about like a hero?’
    Zimak managed a hurt look, in amongst his wheezing and puffing. ‘It might surprise you to know that when I was nothing more than a street urchin –’
    ‘You mean, a sewer rat?’
    ‘Generous, as ever. When I was nothing more than a street urchin, my deepest desire was to become a famous hero, just like Kamiz the Great, the Hero of Q’zar.’
    ‘And what happened?’ They plunged through a small courtyard, dodging midday crowds, and a noisy knot of fishmongers.
    ‘I met you.’
    ‘If history speaks truly, then Kamiz did not achieve his fame alone.’
    Zimak sighed oddly. Daretor gave him another look. Zimak said, ‘His wife, Inanna. But where might I meet someone like that?’
    ‘Not in some inn or whorehouse,’ Daretor mumbled.
    ‘As always, Daretor, you judge too harshly. We are not all so lucky as to find someone like Jelindel. Or Inanna.’
    ‘Perhaps you have been looking in the wrong places,’ said Daretor, this time with less sharpness. Indeed, there was a catch in his voice.
    ‘Perhaps I have,’ agreed Zimak.
    They arrived home as Jelindel was weaving a sign in the air. She acknowledged them but continued with her mage work. Blue light flickered along her lips and danced down her arms, transferring to the air from her fingertips, leaving glowing signs there that hung brightly for a moment then faded to a smoky purple before vanishing completely.
    Her companions watched, fascinated by the use of magic as always, though once – long ago it seemed now – Daretor had considered it dishonourable.
    Jelindel wove more complex signs, interweaving them, joining them, then finally raising both her arms to the ceiling and uttering a manifesting spell. Now she started to change before Daretor’s eyes. She grew several inches and her shoulders broadened. Her face lengthened somewhat and her cheekbones became prominent. Even her lips thickened, her nose flattened and her hair went dark, as did her skin. Then hair sprouted from her cheeks, producing a sparse shadow. At the end of ten minutes a man of about thirty years of age stood before Daretor and Zimak, beaming at them.
    Daretor stared back. ‘Jelli?’
    ‘It’s me,’ she said, in a voice that was deep and masculine. She moved woodenly at first, as though stricken by a stiffening agent. Stretching, Jelindel loosened her limbs. Finally satisfied, she said, ‘How about a goodbye kiss, you handsome brute?’
    Zimak stepped back while Daretor gulped.

    It was past midday. The sun was high and they were all gathered in the kitchen. Jelindel now called herself Jaelin, a