Dragon Mage: A Sequel to Dragon Magic [NOOK Book]

Overview

Shy realizes that she is lucky to be taken in by her grandparents after her father dies–but life above an antique store in Slade’s Corners, Wisconsin is not exactly the place a teenage girl wants to be.


One day while going through boxes of her father’s boyhood stuff, she comes upon a rare old set of dragon puzzles … all of which are missing pieces. Her grandmother recalls the fantastic tales Shy's father ...

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Dragon Mage: A Sequel to Dragon Magic

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Overview

Shy realizes that she is lucky to be taken in by her grandparents after her father dies–but life above an antique store in Slade’s Corners, Wisconsin is not exactly the place a teenage girl wants to be.


One day while going through boxes of her father’s boyhood stuff, she comes upon a rare old set of dragon puzzles … all of which are missing pieces. Her grandmother recalls the fantastic tales Shy's father would tell about his travels to lands of dragons and adventure. She always thought that these fantasies were inspired by the puzzles Shy has found.


Shy realizes that by mixing and matching the different sets she can complete a single dragon puzzle that combines all of the others. Upon doing so she is whisked away to ancient Babylon where she must continue the duties of her father’s legacy as a servant to the dragon and a savior of the world.

At the publisher's request, this title is being sold without Digital Rights Management software (DRM) applied.

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Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly

Based on a concept discussed between Norton and Rabe before Norton's death in 2005, this long-delayed sequel honors the classic elements of Norton's 1972 young adult fantasy Dragon Magicwhile taking on a decidedly modern air. Shilo's ordinary teenage life has been shaken up by her father's death. Now living with her grandparents in the backwoods of Wisconsin, Shilo rummages in the attic one night and finds a wooden picture puzzle with four dragons on the cover that belonged to her father. When she completes the puzzle, Shilo finds herself transported to ancient Babylon, where a dragon entreats her to help save its eggs and keep the earth from being overrun by demons. Rabe (The Finest Creation)has built on Norton's estimable groundwork to produce an action-packed, satisfying young adult story that will be very accessible to modern teens as well as now-grown fans of the original Magic books. (Jan.)

Copyright 2007 Reed Business Information
Children's Literature - Melyssa Malinowski
Wisconsin is Hades. At least that is what fifteen-year-old Shilo thinks. She has been there for three whole weeks and knows that she is right. Since the sudden death of her father, Shilo has been taken in by her grandparents and now lives with them over their antique store. Everything is horrible and boring until she hears a voice. It calls for help, pleading for "Sigurd Clawhand," a person that Shilo has never heard of before. She follows the voice to her grandparents' attic and discovers a chest of her father's belongings. In the chest she finds a puzzle that, her grandmother explains, her father used to "travel through time, meeting dragons, and having adventures with mythical figures" with his friends. She even tells Shilo that those adventures gave her father, Sigmund, the name Sigurd Clawhand. Shilo is incredulous, but after toying with the puzzle she finds herself transported back in time to ancient Babylon. She is befriended by a sun priest named Nindintulugal, Nindin for short, and seeks out the voice, that of the dragon Ulbanu, who has called across time for Shilo's help. With the help of Nindin and two strangers, Shilo must "save dragonkind and perhaps mankind." She must rescue Ulbanu's eggs so the baby dragons cannot be used in a plot to start a terrible war, unleashing innumerable demons on the world. Can Shilo and her friends do it? Can she save everyone and find her way home? Upper middle school and high school aged children will be captivated by the story of Dragon Mage, whether they like regular fiction, historical fiction, or fantasy. Shilo is an energetic, courageous, resourceful, and amazing female protagonist, with wonderful supporting male characters.Reviewer: Melyssa Malinowski
Library Journal

Stuck in Slade's Corners, WI, with her grandparents after her father's death, Shiloh finds life above an antique store less than fascinating-until she discovers a set of dragon puzzles that belonged to her father. Working with the puzzles leads Shiloh to the sound of voices in her head and transports her back in time to ancient Babylon, where she is expected to take over her father's position as servant to an ancient dragon and, perhaps, the one to save her world. This collaboration between the late sf and fantasy Grandmaster Norton and prolific fantasy author Rabe (the "Finest" trilogy) touches upon aspects of Norton's popular Dragon Magicwhile telling a unique story about a young girl's unusual coming of age. A good choice for most adult and YA fantasy collections.


—Jackie Cassada
School Library Journal

Gr 6-8

In this sequel to Dragon Magic (Tor, 2006), Shilo's father has died and now she is stuck in Wisconsin with her grandparents. In going through some of her father's childhood toys, she discovers a puzzle with four dragons on it. As she puts it together, a dragon that doesn't appear on the cover of the box is formed. Suddenly Shilo is pulled back through time to ancient Babylon where she must figure out how to survive long enough to return home. Called by the dragon, she learns how she can help to rescue not only the dragon's eggs but also her own world from being overtaken by demons. It will take bravery, friendship, and stealth to succeed. Ancient Babylon is vividly described with small details bringing the world to life. The characterizations are rich and varied as well. This book's concept was created by both Norton and Rabe just before Norton's death in 2005. Readers familiar with the earlier books in the series will enjoy the connections here, but readers new to the series may not be as intrigued.-Tasha Saecker, Menasha Public Library, WI

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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9781466845985
  • Publisher: Doherty, Tom Associates, LLC
  • Publication date: 5/14/2013
  • Sold by: Macmillan
  • Format: eBook
  • Pages: 304
  • Sales rank: 124,197
  • File size: 774 KB

Meet the Author

Andre Norton is the grand dame of Science Fiction and Fantasy whose creations include the Witch World and Beastmaster series. She died in 2005.


Jean Rabe is the author of the Finest trilogy and numerous books for TSR/WOTC. She lives in Kenosha, WI.

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Read an Excerpt

Dragon Mage
A Sequel to Dragon Magic
By Norton, Andre
Tor Books
Copyright © 2008 Norton, Andre
All right reserved.

ISBN: 9780765316592


Chapter 1
“I’m in Hades,” Shilo said, staring out her bedroom window, gaze locked on Big Mick’s Pub across the street. Mick, a scrawny, elderly man with a bulbous nose, struggled to put out a large sign advertising tonight’s fish boil.
A wheezing fan teased Shilo’s short red hair, but it did little to cool her. Her bedroom was on the second floor of an antique store. The store was not air-conditioned, nor were any of the rooms on the floor above it—not a single window unit hummed in the entire building. (Initially, she hadn’t expected that to be a problem, as she’d envisioned Wisconsin a cold place . . . but in the heart of July it felt every degree as oppressive as her native Marietta, Georgia.)
No air-conditioning, no ceiling fan, and no swimming pool for . . . well . . . probably a light-year distant. She figured that by noon the heat would be enough to melt the rubber soles off her favorite pair of tennis shoes.
Still, it wasn’t the heat that made her say she was in Hades.
It was her big room with its creaking wooden floor and high tin ceiling painted eggshell white.
It was the antique store.
It was Slade’s Corners.
Maybe it was Wisconsin itself.
Her dadhad died one month ago, of a heart attack the death certificate-in-triplicate read—two days after his forty-ninth birthday and two days before her fifteenth. She hadn’t seen her mother in eight years, not since the Tuesday afternoon that the divorce papers were served.
Her mother lived in Portland now, in the company of a bass clarinetist she’d taken up with three Christmases past. She hadn’t bothered to come to the funeral, or to call with a word or two of sympathy. Shilo’s older brother lived in Atlanta and had a job in the Braves’ marketing department, which he’d landed after graduating from college last year. He said he’d love to have Shilo move in with him and his new wife, but there just wasn’t room in the condo, especially with a baby on the way.
After the funeral and all the paperwork from the hospital, funeral home, and attorney was finished, Shilo’s grandparents drove her and her three suitcases and four smallish boxes of belongings from Marietta to Slade’s Corners. She would have rather lived in a closet at her brother’s place than to have this big room atop a sprawling antique store in muggy, boring, don’t-blink-or-you’ll-surely-miss-it, No-wheres-ville, Wisconsin.
The antique store was the largest building in Slade’s Corners. Three stories tall, it stretched a hundred feet across and half again that deep on a patchy grass-dotted lot, and would have been considered good-sized in most any city.
The town, if it could be called such, was four blocks long and a few blocks off a state highway that stretched from the shores of Lake Michigan to Beloit. In addition to the antique store, it consisted of a dozen or so aging houses; a small and relatively new tire store that rarely had customers; a white clapboard church with peeling paint; and an Irish tavern aptly named Big Mick’s Pub.
The antique store was covered with shingles, like someone had bought far too many for the roof and didn’t have anything else to do with them. The shingles were speckled gray and worn on the edges, much like the couple who owned the store—Shilo’s grandparents.
Shilo had been living with them for three endless, unbearable weeks.
For excitement, she’d discovered she could hop on a rusty bike she’d found in the garage. She’d ride it a mile to the east to visit the dog kennel on the hill where a pleasant woman raised little white dogs that yapped incessantly. Or she could ride a few miles farther, past an orchard being plowed under to make way for new homes, and on to the bustling community of New Munster. (On a good day New Munster looked twice the size of Slade’s Corners. It had a tiny post office with a soda machine out front; a gas station with a soda machine out front that only sold Pepsi, when someone bothered to stock it; a small grocery store with irregular hours; a beautiful Catholic church with an adjacent cemetery; and way too many taverns.)
Riding her bike to the west wasn’t an option. Slade’s Corners dead-ended in a cornfield.
At night Shilo either listened to music on her iPod or read. Her grandparents didn’t have cable—cable didn’t exist in Slade’s Corners—and they didn’t want to spend their money on a satellite dish. They had recently bought a rabbit-ear antenna—for five dollars Grandfather was proud to say—which they’d set atop their too-small color TV (recently being ten years ago). Grandfather had wrapped aluminum foil around one ear, supposedly to improve the reception.
“I’m in Hades,” she repeated.
Shilo hated this place more than she’d hated anything, and she hated her mom for not caring and her dad for dying and relegating her to this second-floor room where it was so hot it was difficult to breathe.
Tears spilled down her freckled face and she buried her head in her hands.
She hadn’t cried at her dad’s funeral; she was too numb. Now it seemed like she cried every day, so hard that her shoulders shook and the bed jiggled from the force of her sobs.
“Three years,” she whispered when she finally came up for air. “Only three.”
In three years her “sentence” here would be served and she would be released. She would be eighteen and could go where she wanted and do what she wanted.
She had money in a trust—it was all clearly spelled out in the will. She’d get it on her eighteenth birthday, and then she’d pack her three suitcases and be on her way.
She’d pick a university somewhere out East, maybe North Carolina, and get a degree in history. Her father had been a history buff, passing his erudite obsession to her. She loved to peruse all of his books, which were at her brother’s now, dog-earring the pages of the ones on ancient Egypt and George Washington and the American Revolution, disparate topics that fiercely held her interest.
“Shy . . .”
Shilo groaned.
“Shy . . . we’re opening!”
She slipped into the bathroom and splashed water on her face, deftly avoiding the mirror. She hoped her eyes weren’t red and wouldn’t give her away, but she didn’t want to look at her reflection to see for certain.
“Coming, Meemaw.”
She put on four silver earrings, two for each ear, and followed that with a simple gold bracelet, a pewter cross on a thin chain, and three rings on her right hand—all given to her by her grandmother, and all antiques. Her favorite was a silver one set with a smooth piece of turquoise. Her dad had called her a magpie on more than one occasion because she wore so much jewelry.
She put four rings on her left hand, one a piece of clear red plastic that wrapped around her index finger like a snake. She’d won it at a carnival in the spring, while on her first date. Two were 14-karat gold bands from her grandmother on her mom’s side, one with two small sapphires. The last was a high school ring she wore on her thumb, the back of it wrapped with yarn to make the opening small enough so it wouldn’t fall off.
The ring belonged to the boy who took her on that first date, and who gave her his ring on their eighth . . . a few days before her dad died. Dad had been furious she was “going steady” at her age, but he let her wear the ring nonetheless. The boy had come to her father’s funeral, and she forgot to give the ring back to him that day. Well, she hadn’t forgotten, but now she wished she would have returned it—she’d probably never see him again.
“God, don’t let me cry anymore.”
“Shy . . .”
“Be right there, Meemaw.”
Her grandparents had asked her to work in the antique store until school started; she’d be a sophomore this year. She agreed, since there was nothing else to do in Slade’s Corners and she felt like she owed them something because they took her in.
Besides, the work wasn’t difficult. She dusted the antiques—some of which she found pretty, waited on the infrequent customer who accidentally found the exit off the highway, and watched her grandmother take inventory and check the books. Her grandfather was always inspecting this stamp collection or that baseball card collection, dozing at his big roll-top desk as he did so.
Surprisingly, the days, like this one, passed quickly.
“Coming to the fish boil with us? We want to get there early, Shy, before the crowd.”
Shilo pretended to study the figurines on an eye-level shelf. The past two Friday nights she’d managed to avoid the dinner ritual. The thought of boiled fish made her practically gag.
“Shy . . .”
“Uhm, I’d rather not, Meemaw. I’m not very hungry. I think I’ll just fix myself half a sandwich and read.”
Her grandmother smiled sadly and flipped the sign hanging in the front window to closed. “Maybe next Friday, then.”
Shilo nodded. “Next Friday, Meemaw.” She’d come up with another excuse then.
A half hour later her grandparents walked across the street for dinner.
A moment after that, Shilo slathered peanut butter and strawberry jelly on two pieces of bread, folded them over, and devoured them. She followed those with a handful of cheese puffs, four chocolate chip cookies, and a big glass of milk. Then she borrowed a leather-covered western off the “sale” rack and climbed the stairs to her room.
She sat on the bed and looked out the window and up at the dusky sky. It had started raining shortly after the store closed. Rivulets of water, colored blue and pink by Big Mick’s neon sign, shot through the screen and ran down to pool on the ledge; she worried that the wood might warp, but she had to keep the window open at least a little in this heat.
The pub had a good crowd, cars parked in front of it, and probably around back, and filling the nearby church lot. Shilo suspected there were more people in the tavern than in all of Slade’s Corners and perhaps New Munster put together. Big Mick’s drew nearby farmers who’d come in from their fields, and people on their way home to bigger towns along the state highway and who appreciated the pub’s low prices. Friday night was always busy, though for the life of her Shilo couldn’t figure out why anyone would want to eat boiled fish.
Fried? Sure. She’d been to lots of Friday night fish fries with her dad. Golden brown breaded pieces of cod or perch and tall glasses of sweet tea. Those were good memories.
Grilled or smoked halibut and swordfish. Yeah, she’d had fish fixed those ways before.
Boiled?
She felt bile rising in her throat and she spun around, putting her back to the window and closing her eyes. She listened to the rain hitting the screen and the shingles, and heard the persistent honking of a distant car horn. Faint music drifted across the street from the pub, a blues piece that might have been Wynton Marsalis. Yeah, it was Wynton, wailing away on “Thick in the South.” Her Meemaw had probably played it on the jukebox.
The rain suddenly came down harder, drowning out Wynton’s trumpet. It rat-a-tat-tatted out its own rhythm, which Shilo found oddly pleasant and soothing. For a moment she thought she heard something else . . . an unfamiliar voice.
Someone calling to her?
The light flickered in her room; that was nothing unusual. When it rained hard in Slade’s Corners, the power often went out.
There! Shilo heard it again. Someone was calling, but not to her. She heard the words “Sig . . . Sigmund.” That had been her father’s name. She crept to her bedroom door and peered out into the hall. The light was flickering there, too. She found a flashlight in the end closet, turned it on to make sure it worked. Then she turned it off and waited for the voice.
It came again moments later, so soft she wondered if she imagined it.
No, not her imagination.
“Sig . . . it is time.”
It wasn’t Meemaw’s or Grandfather’s voice. The tone was low and almost sultry, sounding whiskey-tinged like it could have belonged to a woman jazz singer. Shilo was intrigued and wanted to hear more. The voice might belong to someone from Slade’s Corners, someone who’d come in downstairs—her grandparents didn’t always lock the doors—someone who was looking for her father. But Slade’s Corners was so absolutely teeny that anyone in it would know that her father was resting in peace in Marietta. Too, they would know that the antique store was closed.
“Sigurd Clawhand . . .”
Sigurd?
“Who’s Sigurd?” she whispered.
So the mysterious voice was not calling to her father after all, but to someone she’d never heard of. And it wasn’t coming from downstairs in the antique shop like she’d first thought. It was coming from above her.
The lights went out and a shiver passed down her spine. 
Copyright © 2007 by the Estate of Andre Norton and by Jean Rabe. All rights reserved.


Continues...

Excerpted from Dragon Mage by Norton, Andre Copyright © 2008 by Norton, Andre. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted September 1, 2013

    Hm...

    Sounds awesome..........

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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