Dragonwitch Read online

  Imraldera jerked her face away, rolling her eyes, though she had long since given up trying to convince her comrade-in-arms that she was no princess. Changing a cat’s mind once it had fixed upon an idea was about as possible as changing the dance patterns of the stars. She watched Eanrin set his hat on his head at a rakish angle, but he was nearly to the door before she said, “Gone? Wait a moment, where are you going?”

  “Ah, so you weren’t listening.” He paused at the door and grinned back at her. “I’m off to Rudiobus and the court of my good King Iubdan and fair Queen Bebo. I’ve not seen the Hall of Red and Green since we came to this Haven, and it’s high time the Merry Folk heard the golden tones of my dulcet voice ringing once more through the mountain corridors!”

  “But . . . but you can’t just leave,” Imraldera protested. Though she had received her knighthood and entered the service of the Farthest Shore at the same time as Eanrin, she had not lived in the Between or known the ways of the Far World for nearly as long, having been born a mortal. Ever since establishing her place in the Haven and this library, she had relied on her fellow knight and his cheeky confidence, not to mention his knowledge of those things that seemed so strange to her but were as natural to him as night and day. Indeed, she needed him (though she might well have died before admitting as much).

  She stood now, her frown lost in an expression of openmouthed worry that she battled to disguise behind another frown. “You have a duty, Eanrin,” she said. “A duty to the Farthest Shore, to the Lumil Eliasul. You cannot leave all this behind and return to Rudiobus!”

  Eanrin continued to smile, though more gently now. “There, there. Is that what you fear? That I’d abandon you?” For a moment he almost recrossed the room to reach out to take her hand. It was a foolish moment, and he stopped himself by a firm grip on the doorpost. “I’ll be gone only a short while. You’ll not even notice I’m missing! I’m not giving up my knighthood or our work. But I am Iubdan’s Chief Poet, and I can’t ignore my duty to Rudiobus. Besides,” and here his eyes twinkled with redoubled mischief, “I’m certain my Lady Gleamdren has come to miss me while I’m gone. You wouldn’t want me to drop my suit now, would you?”

  “Oh. Yes. Lady Gleamdren.” Imraldera returned to her desk and picked up her quill with the same aggression with which she might have unsheathed a blade. “I wish you the best of luck in your wooing, Sir Eanrin, and will see to it that our watch is well tended in your absence.”

  Eanrin eyed her carefully, searching for something in that irked face of hers. Jealousy, perhaps, though he couldn’t quite convince himself that he saw it. He sighed a little but waved nonchalantly. “Everything is locked and safe for the time being. Be sure to watch that new gate. Cheery-bye, old girl! Try to miss me a wee bit.”

  With that, he was gone.

  Imraldera took her seat before her work and toyed with the quill in her hand. The Haven had been her home for some time now. (Quite how much time, she couldn’t begin to guess, for time was an inconsistent element in the Between, timeless though most considered it.) And she was used to being on her own, having grown up solitary and silent with only her baby sister for company. Lumé above, how long ago that seemed now!

  She sighed and opened the book again to see if the blotting was as bad as she’d thought. Possibly she’d only need to remove a single page after all, not several. Dragons take that cat and his games!

  Intent upon her work, Imraldera almost missed the sound of footsteps until they drew quite near her library door. Surprised, she sat up and turned around. The light falling through the library window was so bright that it was difficult to see into the shadows by the doorway. But she knew who it must be. None but a Knight of the Farthest Shore could enter the Haven uninvited.

  “So you’re back already?” she said. “That was fast! Or did you forget something?”

  “No, I don’t think I’ve forgotten anything,” said a strange voice. “And it’s been a long while, actually.”

  Imraldera was off her stool and crouched behind the desk in a second, grabbing her penknife as her nearest weapon. Her heart ramming in her throat, she stared into those shadows, trying to force her eyes to see what they could not. She did not struggle long, however.

  A hunched little man crept into the light from the window, heavily supporting himself on the handle of a mop.

  “Beasts and devils!” Imraldera exclaimed, nearly dropping her penknife in surprise. “Who are you?”

  The wrinkles on that withered face creased into a smile. “I’m sorry. I forgot we’ve not formally met. I’m called the Murderer by most these days, though I rather hope you’ll call me friend.”

  1

  THE PARASITE DEMANDED THE FIRSTBORN CHILDREN of every household. From the youngest, newly hatched fledgling, to those who flew among the clouds but were not yet counted among the adults of our number. Only these Cren Cru wanted, or so the Twelve said as they marched through the streets of our city, proclaiming their master’s will.

  Some who knew the workings of Cren Cru made no attempt to resist. They offered their children swiftly and stood by while those unfortunates were thrown by the Twelve through a strange, small doorway in the side of the Mound, never to be seen again.

  I trembled as I stood in Omeztli beside my mother and my brother, Tlanextu. He was older than I, his wings broad and strong, green against the blue of the sky, purple in the light of evening fires. He was very like our father, King Citlalu, in face and bearing. I thought him lordly and strong.

  But he was still counted a child. And he was firstborn.

  “Will they take you, Tlanextu?” I asked him.

  “Never,” said he, and his voice was harder than I had ever before heard it.

  I looked up at him, suddenly afraid. “Will you offer yourself ?”

  “No!” It was my mother who spoke. Queen Mahuizoa the Glorious, older than the foundations of Etalpalli. She stepped before us, blocking our view of the Mound, and her eyes were filled with her death to come. “Citlalu will not permit this. Nor will I. You will be safe, my son.”

  “But what of you, Mother?” Tlanextu asked. “What will become of you and Father if you resist the will of Cren Cru?”

  She did not answer. But she knew.

  Alistair stood at his bedroom window as evening spread across the sky, sweeping over the fields surrounding Gaheris Castle, the hamlets, the groves. Autumn was breaking up the warmth of summer early this year, drawing heavy rains inland from the ocean. Even now Alistair saw storm clouds gathering, blocking out the red light of the setting sun. He trembled where he stood. He was a brave man, this heir to Gaheris, strong in battle and courageous in the hunt. By the strength of his own arm, he had brought down boar, bear, and wolf.

  But Alistair was afraid of the dark.

  So he trembled as he watched the thunder-rolled evening sweep over the earldom, plunging the world into the deep shadows of night and nightmares. He had sent all his servants and waiting men from the room an hour before, keeping only a tallow candle and the blaze on his hearth. Their warmth comforted him now. But he knew that sometime in the night the fire would go out and the candle would gutter in a plume of black smoke.

  No earl should stand with knees knocking and palms sweating before an unarmed foe. For nighttime was nothing more, Alistair told himself. Nothing but spooks and fancies playing the fool with his mind. Yet his heart turned to water as the last of daylight faded and evening’s grasp tightened on his world.

  The wind blew in Alistair’s face, fresh and full of the distant sea, tasting of rain. A gentle caress at first. But then it swooshed into his room, dousing his fire, plucking his candle’s flame, and hurling all into darkness.

  He stood, hands at his sides, eyes wide and unseeing as the wind spat rain into his face.

  “Light the candle,” he said, and his voice was steady. He knew where it stood on the low table near his bed, the tinderbox beside it. “Light the candle,” he repeated and turned slowly, proving to himself th
at he was undaunted as he took one step, then another.

  The wind stops. As he knew it would.

  All sound of the storm, all smell of the sea-blown rain vanishes in sudden heavy darkness. As he knew it would.

  Drawing breath is agony, for it is drawing that darkness down into his own body. But Alistair forces himself to breathe and to take another step. He must find his candle. But he no longer feels floor rushes beneath his boots. Instead, his feet step on rough-hewn rock.

  “Alistair!”

  He turns to the voice that called his name. As he knew it would.

  The child’s face, lit by a white light. Pale and frightened, it stares at him with shadow-ringed blue eyes.

  “You shouldn’t be here!”

  And Alistair’s voice replies, though he did not himself speak: “I came to find you.”

  “You fool!” the child says. “Run away!”

  “You must be king,” Alistair hears himself say. “You must save Gaheris.”

  The child screams, and there are words in the scream. “Watch out! Behind you!”

  Alistair whirls around and sees: Red eyes and the flash of blackened teeth in a mouth leaping for his face.

  As he knew it would.

  Morning dawned.

  Alistair lay in his bed for some while, immobile, his jaw tense as though in death, staring at nothing. At last he rose and, his limbs trembling from more than mere cold, crossed the room to his water basin. He broke the thin film of ice with his elbow and splashed his face until it burned raw. Then, still trembling, he dressed himself and left the room.

  He felt a need for horses and hunts. He often did on these mornings after night terrors. Somehow, he must prove to himself that he was not the coward the darkness told him he was.

  Somehow, he must drive out the face of that child and the words still echoing in his ears.

  Slinging a heavy cloak over his shoulders, he hastened down the stairs, ignoring covert glances from the servants already up and moving about their dawn tasks. He proceeded out to the inner courtyard and stood cursing when the heavens chose that very moment to open.

  He’d not be able to ride now. But perhaps the smell of stables and the nearness of his horses would be some comfort. Still cursing, he hurried through the courtyard. Rain drove across the stone cobbles, soaking the edge of his cloak, but it wasn’t as cold as he had expected, and he did not mind it.

  In his haste, he ran into a scurrying little scrubber.

  “I do apologize, your lordship!” the old man cried, though it was he who had been quite nearly knocked from his feet, saved only by Alistair’s swiftly catching hold of his skinny arm.

  “No, no, my fault,” said Alistair quickly, making certain the scrubber was steady on his feet before letting him go. The old man, unsheltered from the rain, grinned damply up at him, water dripping through his white beard.

  “I’m all right now,” he said in a thin but cheerful voice. “A pleasant morning to you, my lord.”

  Alistair nodded and made to move on, but a gnarled hand gripped his arm. “Look ye there, fine sir,” said the old man, pointing.

  Alistair, surprised, looked up. There was a break in the clouds, an odd enough sight on such a heavy morning. But odder still, Alistair spied the gleam of a star in the sky above.

  “The blue star!” the old scrubber said, his voice almost gleeful. “Do you see it? Ah, the clouds have covered it now. But did you see?”

  “I saw,” Alistair said, shaking the old man’s hand away. “I saw it, grandfather.”

  “They say,” the scrubber persisted, “that when the blue star shines at rainfall, it’s a sign of change to come.”

  “Do they? Well, that’s interesting of them,” Alistair said, hurrying on before the daft little man could babble more nonsense.

  He nodded to the guardsmen as he passed through the gate into the outer courtyard. It was quiet that morning without the usual market bustle beginning to arrive, for no one dared display wares or offer services in such grim weather. A few soggy page boys, scullery girls, and stable hands scurried about on various errands. Otherwise, only the luckless wall patrolmen were out. Everyone else remained hiding like rabbits in a warren until the rain should let up.

  Alistair kept on toward the stable, set on reaching its shelter. But suddenly he stopped and turned. A shout disturbed the drone of pounding rain, drawing his attention to a disturbance at the outer gate.

  “Etanun! Etanun!” a high, youthful voice shouted.

  Alistair frowned. Of all names to hear cried in that tone of distress, this one from legend and children’s tales was not the first he would expect. Curious, he changed his course and made for the gate, where he saw two guards standing menacingly at their posts. One of them was shouting.

  “Get away, little rat! You’re not welcome here.”

  Alistair drew closer and looked beyond the guards and fastened bars of the gate to see a ragged urchin kneeling in the mud of the road beyond, hands clasped, feet and head bare. The visible skin was brown as a nut, and the short, skull-plastered hair was black as a rook’s wing. The poor little thing trembled with cold.

  “What’s going on?” Alistair said, and the guards turned and hastily saluted.

  “We don’t know, my lord,” the first replied. “The creature doesn’t speak our language. Keeps chattering on in some foreign tongue. Maybe an easterner, jumped ship at the ports?”

  Alistair approached the bars for a closer look. The urchin stared up at him with wide black eyes, mouth open and filling with rainwater. “Um . . . he is freezing,” Alistair said.

  “Then he should return where he belongs,” the other guard growled, shouting again at the stranger. “Be off with you! Go back to your own kind, and let this be a lesson to you not to abandon your ship!”

  But Alistair, frowning, did not think the little person was a sailor. There was something altogether earthbound about the child. If it was a child.

  On shaking limbs, the ragged person stood upright and took another step toward the gate. A stream of unknown talk fell from his tongue, ending with a question and the only word Alistair recognized. “Etanun?”

  “He keeps asking that,” said the first guard, puzzled. “Can’t understand it. Does he think Etanun lives here or something? Daft foreigners.”

  Alistair studied the dark face before him: the delicate features, the great, soulful eyes. “Etanun?” the child repeated and put out a hand in supplication.

  “Etanun is not here,” Alistair said slowly, ignoring the looks the two guardsmen gave him. “Not for centuries. He vanished when the House of Lights was closed.”

  The urchin licked bloodless lips, swallowing rainwater. Quietly, he said once more, “Etanun?”

  “You see, my lord,” said the second guard. “An idiot. Can’t understand right speaking. Shall I send him off with the butt of my lance?”

  Alistair drew a long breath. “A child,” he whispered.

  But the child in his dream had blue eyes.

  He shook himself sharply and grinned at the two guards. “He looks harmless enough. Why not let him through? He’ll freeze out there for certain; he’s obviously not accustomed to our northern climate. A spell by the kitchen fire will do him good, and perhaps Cook can find use for him.”

  The guards grumbled but Alistair was his uncle’s heir. So they opened the gate, and the mouse of a child scrambled through, babbling in that strange language. It sounded like thanks, Alistair thought.

  “Well, little mouse,” he said, smiling down at the child. “Seems you’re inside now. We’ll try to find a place for you.”

  The urchin, still shivering, smiled back, displaying white teeth in a flash across that dark face. A frown quickly replaced the smile, however, and he ducked his head. “Etanun,” he said firmly, then added something that sounded like, “Cé Imral.” A skinny hand pointed up.

  Alistair looked as indicated. To his surprise, he saw that the clouds were beginning to clear away and the rain was les
sening. In a clear patch above, still gleaming faintly, was the blue star.

  Alistair turned abruptly back to the child, who was gazing at him in earnest supplication. “Change to come, eh?” he said. Then he shrugged and laid a hand on the thin shoulder. “I don’t know who you are or what you want, but I hardly think you’re going to bring disaster upon Gaheris.”

  He ordered the guardsmen back to their posts, ignoring their feeble protests, and led the brown stranger across the courtyard and on to the scullery entrance. Down a flight of stairs, into the pungent warmth of Gaheris’s kitchens they proceeded, where Cook reigned like a fat king over a kingdom of drudges and kitchen maids. All was noise and bustle and hurry as preparations were made for the coming day.

  “Here, Cook!” Alistair called.

  The huge man, red from standing over a spit, turned to him. “What can I do for you, my lord?” He made his lumbering way through the throng of workers to bow before his young master. “Have you eaten yet this morning?”

  “No, I’m not hungry.” Alistair drew the urchin forward. “I want you to give this child food and work.”

  Cook eyed the child. “A foreigner,” he said and sneered. “I don’t like the looks of that one. Too brown by half.”

  “I don’t care,” said Alistair coolly, his hand gripping the child’s shoulder. “Give him a place in your kitchens until I say otherwise.”

  Growling but obedient, Cook reached out and took hold of the child’s arm, dragging him away from Alistair and propelling him into the kitchen. “Wait,” Alistair said, and Cook looked grudgingly back at him. “See to it that the kitchen boys leave . . . leave him alone. You understand me?”

  Cook turned from Alistair to the child, giving him an up-and-down appraisal. Then he shrugged. “Whatever you wish, my lord.”