Dragonwitch (8 page)

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.”

T
HE
P
ARASITE
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 that 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 lessening. 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.”