Free The Wizard's Map by Jane Yolen

something.
    â€œTreachery,” she said slowly, “and disobedience.”
    â€œDinna forget,” the dog said, “lack of control.” He bared his teeth at the dragon.
    â€œNot much in the way of a hero’s companions.” Jennifer was beginning to change her mind.
    â€œDo you have any other choice?” asked the dragon, who for once was refusing to be baited by the dog.
    It is,
thought Jennifer,
a question with no good answer.
“Come on, then,” she said.
    As if her permission was all they’d been waiting for, the dark trio surrounded her and, a bit warily, herded her back toward the spot in the forest where the summer hoose used to stand.

Sixteen
Underground
    The going was easier this time because the dragon went ahead, with the unicorn right behind, and together they cut a huge swath through the underbrush. Jennifer stepped where they had stepped, in the dragon’s enormous footprints and the smaller hoofprints made by the unicorn. On either side of the trail the two large creatures left a hash of broken vines, trampled flowers, and mangled plants.
    â€œDinna fash yerself. Dinna worry,” the dog told Jennifer over and over. “Dinna be distressed.” After a while, it became a whining litany.
    Finally she turned on him. “How can I not be distressed, you silly mutt?”
    He bowed his head but continued walking, mumbling, “I be silly. I be indeed. A silly, stupid dog. I be, however, nae a mutt. Whate’er a mutt may be.”
    Jennifer was immediately contrite. “Don’t listen to me, Dog. I am just a bit—”
    â€œAfraid? ’Tis all right to be afraid. I have ne’er known a hero who was not a bit afraid. A bit is all right. A lot is not.”
    Jennifer didn’t tell him that she had gone past “a bit” back when Molly had first been taken from the house, and past “a lot” when the rest of the family had disappeared. She didn’t tell him she wasn’t a hero. “I just don’t like caves.”
    Up ahead the dragon suddenly stopped and raised his great head, the long neck bending and straightening as he looked around. Beside him the unicorn stopped as well, then spun about three times on her hind legs before settling back down on all fours.
    â€œAre we almost there?” asked Jennifer.
    â€œPatience,” cautioned the dog. He sounded so much like Mom, Jennifer’s eyes got teary.
    Instead of answering her question, the dragon stepped aside and Jennifer could see that his great bulk had been hiding the entrance to a cave—an entrance that was blocked by a massive wooden door.
    â€œWell,” Jennifer said in an overly bright voice.
    â€œA locked door. Too tight to crawl through, too big to break down.”
    â€œThere’s a keyhole,” said the dog sensibly.
    â€œMy key only opens the summer hoose door,” said Jennifer.
    â€œThis
be
the summer hoose,” said the dog, “in a different guise. Canna ye smell it?” He sniffed the air. “I can.”
    Jennifer remembered the black splotch on the map where the summer hoose should have been. Black for dark. Black for evil. Black for Michael Scot’s heart.
    â€œOne door for summer, one door for fall,
    One door makes winter of them all,”
sang the unicorn.
    â€œThere are only two doors,” Jennifer pointed out.
    The dragon smiled his toothy smile. “Poetic license.”
    Slowly Jennifer drew the key out of her pocket and put it in the keyhole. Unsurprisingly, it fit. Slowly she turned the key. There was a shallow clanking sound and then the great door swung open, revealing a long stone passageway. Jennifer pulled the key out and hesitated.
    â€œI’ll go first,” said the dragon, “being that caves and dragons belong together. Even before caves and heroes.”
    Jennifer didn’t argue, but she followed close behind. The dragon’s bulky legs offered some protection,