StarDrifter turned, stared, and faced the group again. “Obviously there has been some kind of—”
“Silence!” WingRidge barked, his entire body tensing, and he laid one hand on the hilt of the knife he carried.
Everyone stilled.
There was a distant sound…rather like soft rain. A scuffling, but regular, and very persistent.
“Something is coming down the stairwell,” SpikeFeather said, who was closest to the stairs.
WingRidge looked at Drago. “Would Caelum have—”
“No. Whatever this is has not been instigated by Caelum,” Drago said. But our parents? he wondered. Axis would have little reason to hold his hand.
The regular scuffling resolved itself into the padding of many paws.
“It is the Alaunt,” Faraday said, and without reason all the childhood tales she’d heard of the hounds—mythical man-hunters, ferocious devourers, child abductors—came rushing back, and she clutched Katie tight to her. The child caught some of her fear, and whimpered.
One of the Alaunt appeared at the curve of the stairs. Sicarius. He paused, looking carefully between the members of the company, and then he sunk as low as he could, whined, and crawled down the final flight of steps on his belly.
Behind him, successive Alaunt did the same.
Sicarius reached the floor, paused, then wriggled his way towards Drago, his tail wagging gently behind him. His golden eyes remained steady and unblinking on Drago.
Drago returned his stare with equally unblinking eyes, and Faraday frowned as she looked at him. His eyes were deeper, far more powerful than she’d ever seen them.
Compelling.
He is discovering more of his true nature every day, she thought, just as I did when I travelled south to the Island of Mist and Memory. Drago had spent much of their journey from Gorkenfort in deep introspection, exploring, growing, learning to trust his instinct and to recognise the ancient power of Noah as it coursed through his veins. The speed at which Drago learned and grew was almost frightening, and Faraday repressed a shiver, already regretting her dismissal of his vow. Not so much that she’d refused it, but that she’d done so in such cruel manner.
She had been right to refuse it…hadn’t she?
Faraday closed her eyes briefly, and drove into a deep, dark place the nagging thought that she’d done the wrong thing, and that it might, just might, be safe to allow herself to love him, and to accept his love.
Drago squatted down before Sicarius and laid the palm of his right hand on the hound’s skull.
“Do you present me your service?” he asked.
As one the entire pack of Alaunt leapt to their feet and burst into cry, the sound of their clamour resounding about the rounded chamber.
For an instant, Drago caught Faraday’s eyes. They are not afraid of me…why are you? She turned her head away.
Just as Faraday thought they were over their quota of shocks for the day, there was a further scuffling on the stairs, and around the corner and down the final flight scuttled the feathered lizard, grinning cheerfully. Faraday’s mouth dropped open. It was at least twice the size it had last been.
To save anyone the embarrassment of finding something to say, the two new boats bumped gently against the side of the waterway and the hounds and lizard happily scrambled in.
“A lizard?” StarDrifter said slowly. “I think, Drago, that you must tell me what you and Faraday have been up to.”
“No time.” Drago stepped into the front boat. “We have a detour to take before we can approach Fernbrake Lake. SpikeFeather. Here, come sit with me. You did well to find Sanctuary,” Drago looked up and forced a smile, “before StarDrifter found a new source of enchantment to magic it up out of thin air.”
“Detour?” StarDrifter said. He sat down. “What detour?”
“Sigholt,” Drago said, and held out his hand to Faraday to help her in. After a brief hesitation, she took it, then let go as she turned to lift the girl in.
“There is something there I must collect,” Drago finished, and settled himself into the boat.
Just as StarDrifter began to ask what Drago needed to collect, Drago’s mood altered so sharply those watching could see the change sweep over his face.
“The Demons are well on their way to Fernbrake,” he said. “They are more powerful than before, and travel with the speed of wind. Once at Fernbrake they will do their best to close Sanctuary forever.”
“Then why waste time detouring to Sigholt?” StarDrifter cried, half-rising. “We need to get to—”
“Patience, StarDrifter,” Drago said. “Sigholt can aid us. Well?”
“Well…what?” StarDrifter said.
“If you have discovered the secrets of waterway traffic, grandfather, then I suggest you demonstrate your knowledge to get us to Sigholt.”
StarDrifter laid a hand on the smooth wood of the boat.
“Drago needs to go to Sigholt,” he said.
The boat glided forward.
“Although the Stars alone know why,” StarDrifter murmured, “when the peoples of Tencendor need Sanctuary more than Drago needs his trinkets.”
Drago chose not to respond to that.
The boat, SpikeFeather observed, took them on the normal route to the Lake of Life, although previously SpikeFeather had always had to use his muscles to travel the distance. Now the boats slid silently and swiftly through the tunnels of the UnderWorld. The two that contained the dogs and the feathered lizard, which spent the journey jumping enthusiastically from boat to boat (and once splashing into the waterway from where Drago had to rescue it), followed obediently behind the one that StarDrifter commanded.
“These waterways connect the craft under the Sacred Lakes?” Drago asked WingRidge.
“Yes.”
“And extend yet further,” SpikeFeather said. “Over the years, I have travelled through waterways that stretch under the entire breadth and length of Tencendor and the Ferryman, Orr, told me that they also extend for leagues under the surrounding oceans.”
“And every last one of them forming patterns,” Drago mused, his eyes fixed on some distant spot.
SpikeFeather hesitated. “I suppose so. Why?”
Now Drago hesitated. His eyes refocused on SpikeFeather. “Is it much further to the Lake of Life?”
SpikeFeather swallowed his resentment that Drago chose to ignore his question. “At this rate? No. An hour, perhaps.”
“Good,” Drago said, and leaned back against the side of the boat and said no more.
Within the hour the three boats glided onto the Lake of Life, and Drago sat up and looked about keenly.
“Lakesview is deserted,” he said.
“The Lake Guard arranged its abandonment when we knew the Demons approached,” WingRidge said.
“Where are the people now?”
“In the surrounding hills. We did not know where, or how, to take them further. Should I now start moving them to Fernbrake?”
Drago shook his head. “Not by normal means, no. It would take too long. We have…” he frowned slightly, “we have only some three or four weeks before the Demons will complete their quest. Before Qeteb—”
The others in the boat seemed to draw in their breath as one at the dreadful name.
“—walks again. The peoples of Tencendor must use other means to approach Sanctuary than their legs, methinks.”
“How?” StarDrifter asked. “Dammit, Drago, stop giving us ambiguities to pin our lives on.”
“StarDrifter, I am sorry. Sigholt will give all who linger nearby a direct route into Sanctuary. Believe me.”
And with that, StarDrifter had to be content.
The boats glided to a stop at the wooden pier that sat some fifteen paces north of the moat that surrounded Sigholt. Everyone, dogs and lizard included, were glad to get out of the craft. The waters of the Lake seemed somehow corrupted; thick and loathsome, they yielded reluctantly to the demands of the boats.
“It has b
een the touch of the Demons,” Drago said, looking back over the waters as StarDrifter helped Faraday and Katie from the boat. “The waters no longer wish to live. Within weeks they will have evaporated completely away.”
Faraday looked back, and shuddered. She wished she could have seen this place when it had been vibrant with life and magic, but her duties, whether as wife to Borneheld, or as Tree Friend, had always kept her well away from it. She turned and looked up at the silvery-grey Keep. Here was Axis and Azhure’s home, she thought. Here they lived for decades in laughter and love while I trod the byways of the forests, looking for tender grass shoots and missing my son.
Here is where my son grew up to adolescence. Without me.
Surprised by her sudden spurt of bitterness, Faraday dropped her eyes and looked at Drago, only to see sadness and bitterness in his face as well.
Sigholt contained no good memories for him, either.
Or was he thinking of her rejection?
“Come,” he said, and walked forward without looking at the others.
“Wait!” Faraday cried. She ran after Drago, caught at his arm and pulled him to a halt, and then looked at StarDrifter.
“Will you take Katie on with you, StarDrifter? We won’t be long.”
He nodded, picked up the girl, and then the three Icarii walked forward, leaving Drago and Faraday by the shores of the Lake. He was silent, looking at her.
“I cannot, Drago,” she whispered. “You know that.”
He let his eyes drift over the waters. “I love you, Faraday.”
She flinched. “I did not ask for that.”
He looked back at her. “No. You didn’t, did you? I apologise for putting you in a difficult position. It must have been embarrassing for you.”
Her jaw tightened. “We have a journey to make, you and I, and it will be difficult enough without your sarcasm to add to its trials.”
His eyes narrowed, and she could not tell if he was angry or trying to repress merriment.
“I am a SunSoar, Faraday. I do not take rejection well.”
Her lips twitched—he was laughing at her! And suddenly she burst into laughter.
“Are we friends, Drago?”
“Friends, Faraday.” He held out his hand, and she took it with only the slightest hesitation. He pressed it gently, then let it go, and they walked after the others.
“And you know the other thing about us SunSoar males, Faraday?”
“No…what?”
“We never give up.”
They walked directly to the bridge, the hounds sniffing curiously about, the feathered lizard investigating the undersides of several stones, as if he expected to find a meal awaiting him there.
Drago stopped before the bridge, and turned back to the others. “Wait for me here,” he said, and before anyone could ask him any questions Drago had stepped onto the bridge.
“Well, second son,” the bridge said. “You return at last. Is Zenith well?”
“Yes,” Drago said. “Far better than when she last crossed you.”
“Good.” The bridge hesitated. “Drago, you have surprised me.”
Drago’s mouth quirked. “I have surprised many people, including myself.”
“And will surprise more to come,” the bridge said. “Sigholt waits for you.”
Drago nodded, glancing at the Keep. “Bridge…you destroyed Rox.”
“Yes,” the bridge said happily.
Drago sighed. “I can understand your wish to do so,” he said, “but nevertheless the Demons need to succeed in their quest to resurrect Qeteb.”
The bridge was silent, sulking.
“I only took a bite,” she eventually said.
“Nevertheless,” Drago repeated.
“The Demons will manage well enough without him.”
“I hope so.” Then Drago gave a quirky grin. “I’m glad you finally managed to take a bite at someone.”
The bridge considered whether or not to be offended at this remark—was he referring to the fact that he’d managed to dupe her when he was but an infant?—then decided to laugh softly.
“I have waited aeons for a chance like that,” she admitted.
“Did he taste good?”
“Delicious!”
Drago laughed with her. “Well, then, despite my reservations, I do thank you for making the night a safer place. Bridge…bridge, from the depths of my heart I do apologise for my trickery of you so long ago.”
“And I have been waiting some forty years to hear that,” she said softly. “Go now, DragonStar SunSoar, and collect another trifle of your heritage.”
Drago resumed walking along the bridge’s back. When he was about to step onto the gravelled walkway before Sigholt’s open gates, the bridge spoke again: “I am glad you came home, DragonStar.”
Drago faltered a little in his stride, then recovered. “Thank you, bridge.”
And then he was through the gates and into the inner courtyard of Sigholt.
Everything was still, silent. Hay bales, half-empty crates and tangled tack lay scattered about the cobbles, bespeaking the haste in which the Keep had been evacuated. Wisps of blue mist drifted about the courtyard, losing and then refinding themselves among the half-open doorways. Yet Drago understood that Sigholt felt in no way abandoned. She was just waiting, waiting for whatever millennium approached.
And waiting for him.
There was a slight movement to one side, and Drago looked.
Nothing.
No…there it was again. A deeper shadow moving behind an overturned barrel, and yet another shadow behind that one.
Drago’s eyes narrowed, then he squatted down and snapped his fingers, his mouth moving towards a smile.
Three of the shadows leaped out towards him—and resolved themselves into cats. Nine more rushed out in a group behind the first three. Tabbies, blacks, tortoiseshells and indeterminate patches, stripes and splotches—and there a sudden flash of white. All the result of countless generations of unsupervised and noisy breeding beneath the stamping hooves of the stable horses.
Sigholt’s cats, come to greet Drago. Four purred and bumped about him, half a dozen leapt onto his shoulders and clambered down his back, sinking in their claws in an ecstasy of greeting and love. Two more batted at and played with the laces of his boots.
Drago grinned, trying to rub all of them at least once, and detaching the grey tabby that had decided to cling joyously to his hair.
“Have you missed me, then?” he asked, and the cats doubled their attentions.
“I have a pack of great hounds waiting the other side of the bridge,” he said, laughing now. “Shall I invite them in?”
The cats knew an empty threat when they heard one. They shook with the strength of their purrs, dribbled with the power of their love, and kneaded Drago’s flesh with the intensity of their adoration.
And Drago adored them in return. He hadn’t realised how much he’d missed them over the past months, and now memories of their friendship and comfort in his otherwise friendless and comfortless childhood came flooding back.
The toddling boy left to scream in fear and rejection on the damp cobbles of the inner courtyard. The cats, bumping sympathetic noses against his face, and cuddling their warm bodies next to his.
Drago closed his eyes, and buried his face in one of the furry bodies.
“Well now,” he said, when he thought it time to introduce a bit of decorum into proceedings. “It seems Sigholt has something for me. Do you perchance know—”
Before he’d finished speaking, every one of the cats had jumped away from him to stand stiff and watchful a pace away. Then, as one, the cats turned about and marched towards the kitchen door, their tails held high in the air.
“Either they want to be fed, or they do know more of Sigholt than its rat holes,” Drago murmured, and followed them into the kitchen.
He stopped, surprised. According to WingRidge, Sigholt had been deserted for many days, yet the kitchen rang
es lining the far wall glowed with the strength of well-stocked firepits, and the tables lay dust-free and with cooking implements laid neatly out in ranks for the sleepy hands of the morning breakfast cook.
Several mixing bowls sat in the centre of one table, and Drago walked slowly over, ignoring the cats who had settled down in a semi-circle before the ranges.
Stars, but he loved this kitchen almost as much as he loved the cats. How many nights had he whiled away the sleepless, loveless hours creating the perfect crust, the tenderest sirloin? Drago ran the fingers of one hand softly over the table as he passed by, imagining he could feel warmth and friendship radiating out to him from the well-scrubbed wood.
“Why?” he asked softly, raising his head and looking at the cats.
They purred, and slowly blinked their twelve-pair of eyes in immense self-satisfaction, but they did not answer.
Drago’s fingers glanced against one of the white ceramic mixing bowls, and he picked it up idly, balancing its weight in the palm of his hand. He stared at it, almost entranced, and then, with no idea why he did it, he slipped it into the sack at his side.
It should have almost filled the sack. At the very least, its weight should have made the sack too heavy and unwieldy to hang from Drago’s belt, but to his amazement as soon as it had slipped from his fingers into the dark, close womb of the sack the weight vanished. Even the form of the bowl vanished, and the sack hung as close and as comfortable as if he only had two or three marbles in it.
Drago stood still, one hand still poised over the sack. Over the past weeks, since he’d come through the Star Gate, he’d been adding odd bits and pieces to the sack without ever knowing why. A piece of moss from a table-top tree growing on the edge of the Silent Woman Woods; a crumbling handful of desiccated clay from the ravaged Plains of Tare; a crust he’d found on the doorstep of a deserted hamlet in northern Aldeni; a river-washed pebble from the Nordra; several white hairs from Belaguez’s tail. Many, many things. He’d added them only on impulse—or so he’d thought. Now he realised there was something else at work, for he’d added so much the sack should be bursting at its seams by now.