Fireshaper's Doom (32 page)

David found himself grinning at the accuracy of the lady’s assessment. “Snakes and snails and puppy dog tails.”

“What?” She looked at him curiously.

“It’s what little boys are made of.
A…
a nonsense rhyme of my people.”

“Not far off, either.” Morwyn smiled back.

“Maybe not,” David replied, then took a deep breath. “Do you really think it’s possible? Not the thing with Ailill—I don’t want to think about that right now—but Fionchadd. Do you think he may really be able to rise from the dead some way?”

Morwyn laid a hand on David’s, and for the first time he sensed no threat in that gesture. “Truly I do not know. I can only hope. That is where Power lies: in desire—whether for good or ill does not matter. If Fionchadd wishes life enough, if his spirit itself was not wounded, he may find a way to return. Love may fuel that desire. Love for a person, love for life itself. Or maybe its dark shadow, hatred.”

David stared at her.

Her voice went suddenly cold. “Hate and love are much alike, for when unrestrained they consume. I know it, for I have felt them both. Hate prods me to vengeance against Ailill—but do not forget that once I loved him. And that love was a wonder and a glory.”

“I think I know, or I’m beginning to,” David said. “About the last part, I mean.” An image of Liz’s face took form in his mind’s eye. He felt his throat tighten.

Morwyn smiled. “I hope for your sake it is true,” she said.

David felt his face coloring as he gently withdrew his hand from under hers.

“Yeah, right,” he mumbled. “Well, I guess I’d better be gettin’ back up front—wouldn’t want that old dragon head up there to get lonesome.”

“David?” Morwyn called, when he had reached the mast.

He turned curiously. Her voice sounded different.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“Yeah, sure,” David replied, nodding, as he ducked beneath the sail and returned to his accustomed place.

The landscape had not changed, was still a lacy canopy of intersecting white and crystal like the fan-vaulted ceiling of some vast Gothic cathedral frozen in rime. Somehow, though, it did not seem so threatening. Somehow, too, it was cooler.

*

Eventually they passed from beneath the last of the interlaced crystals and entered clear air again. At once it was hotter, but the glare was less a torment, and the air was fresher, so that he could breathe more freely. A second wind was blowing now: a wind from the east which warred with the westward one that directed their sailing. And
that
wind was not merely warm—it was hot.

And getting hotter by the moment.

One final brittle formation slid away to the side, and for the first time David had a clear view of the source of that heat. A pillar of fire had appeared on the horizon: a narrow strip of light that hurt to look at, though it was still many miles away.

David closed his eyes. All at once it had become too hot to move—almost too hot to breathe. Through slitted lids he could see the crimson sail, not as certain in its purpose now, its full curve sometimes collapsing in upon itself to flap uneasily before it billowed forth again. Beyond it, Morwyn remained as distant and implacable as before.

The banks had lowered again, and the landscape had resumed its featureless flatness. And then, so abruptly that David almost gasped, a gap broke the sheer slope of the bank to the left, matched by a twin on the right. Another band of golden light lanced across the Track on which they rode: another Straight Track. Closer and closer they came to it, and then they were there, the figurehead casting red shadows upon the golden cross that lay in the water before them. Morwyn twitched her fingers in a subtle movement, and the ship slid to a dead halt at the exact point of their juncture.

Morwyn strode forward to stand beside David, giving him a hand-up as he rose unsteadily to his feet. She took a wineskin from her hip and squirted a long arc of red wine into her mouth, then smiled and handed it to him. He took it uncertainly and aimed the nozzle carefully. He missed the first time, wetting his cheek, but got it right the second, and sent a stream shooting far back on his tongue. It was sweet and cold and as refreshing as anything he had ever tasted. Energy surged into him. He felt ready to face anything.

“That was great,” he gasped. “Thanks, it was…it was just what I needed. So why are we stopping here?” he added, wiping his mouth. “This doesn’t look like any part of Tir-Nan-Og I’ve seen.”

“Nor is it,” Morwyn replied. “But it is as far as I may go. The rest of the journey is up to you.”

“Oh, come on!” David was horrified. “I can’t run this thing!”

“The ship will sail itself. But in order to summon Ailill I must disembark. When you return with the Horn of Annwyn I want him ready to receive what justice you will provide for him.”

“But—”

“We have no time for talk, David. Your quest is upon you. When you come to the pillar of fire, take shelter in the cabin amidships. If you are still on deck at that time, I cannot vouch for your safety.”

“What about the ship?” David protested. “It’s pretty big. Won’t people notice it? Suppose somebody finds it and I can’t get back?”

“I do not think that will be a problem. I doubt the route you will take will be watched.” She paused, gazing intently at David’s uncertain expression. “No, perhaps I should take additional precautions,” she said finally. She muttered a word, slipped something off her finger, and extended it to him.

“Can’t seem to stay away from these magic rings, can I?” David grinned as he took the sparkling band from her. Interlaced dragons coiled there, one silver, one gold; their heads lay side by side though facing opposite directions.

Morwyn’s face was serious. “Once the ship has touched land and you have disembarked, stroke the gold head three times. When you are ready to return, stroke the silver one a like number.”

David nodded solemnly.

“And now truly I must be on my way. But before I go—a kiss for luck.” She bent her head and placed her lips against his. They were soft and sweet, but not as sweet as Liz’s.

“Farewell!” And with that Morwyn stepped off the railing, to stand supported by nothing more than a ribbon of golden light that radiated upward from the Track. With her own nail she pricked her finger so that a single bead of blood welled forth, then she traced an elaborate figure in the air.

With a groaning and snapping as of some ancient timber moving in protest, the dragon head bent down so that the huge carved face hung inches away from hers. She reached up and set the bloody fingertip against the figurehead’s flaring nostrils, a drop for either side. “By this it will know the way to return,” she said, then turned to run quickly across the strip of glamour.

“Farewell, my pretty thief,” she cried from shore. “Serve me well—for, friend or foe, you know how I will serve you if you fail.” David waved his own uncertain farewell and assumed Morwyn’s place by the tiller. A narrow bench was set there, curving along the railing. He slumped down on it and drank another long draught of the wine she had left with him.

A shoreward glance showed her still looking at him. He grinned and brandished the skin; and she, for her part, clapped her hands twice. The sail billowed again, and the ship began to slide forward once more.

A moment later David was alone. Alone on his very own personal quasi-Viking ship following a strip of golden light through a bone-white landscape, heading for a rendezvous with a pillar of fire through which he must pass to steal a jeweled horn. It made his head hurt.

All at once he was wishing desperately for company, not only because he feared for his own life, but because he didn’t want to face whatever might happen alone. Always before he’d had Alec or Liz along to keep him straight, to prevent him from doing something capricious or stupid or wrongheaded. They were the practical ones, he the dreamer. But going into Tir-nan-Og without them almost broke his heart, not the least because he still feared—when he allowed himself to think on such things—that he might never see them again. The unknown was bad enough in company. Alone, it was frankly terrifying.

He surveyed the landscape. It was too flat, too dead. Too hot. It lulled one into a sense of false complacency which he feared could become fatal with little encouragement.

For the first time since he’d awakened in Morwyn’s chamber, he allowed himself to think about Liz, about the last time he had seen her. What would she have done when he turned up missing? Roused the whole county, no doubt. Enotah County was probably crawling with people looking for him; maybe they were even dragging the lake for his body.

He took a long swallow of the wine. How did he keep on getting in these situations?

The light grew brighter, and David closed his eyes against the torture of the glare, wishing he had a pair of sunglasses. He’d need to take shelter soon—before the ship reached the pillar of fire. It was still a little ways off, though; he’d just rest his eyes a couple of minutes longer…

The heavy sound of fabric flapping jolted him from his reverie, and he jerked his head up, saw the red sail go slack as its own wind failed. His heart leapt to his throat.

He dashed to the bow—and blanched in fear, for the pillar of fire was almost upon him. It filled three-quarters of the forward horizon, straddling the Track from side to side, a scant hundred yards in front of him—its heat scoured his face. But the pillar was drawing them on now, faster and faster, like a rising tornado of fire.

He froze, transfixed by awe.

Closer and closer it came:

Four-fifths of the sky eclipsed…five-sixths…

David felt the whole fabric of the boat shudder, so that he had to grab the railing to keep his footing.

What was he doing still standing there?

Desperately he released his hold and started toward the shallow cabin that lay amidships just behind the mast. But the boat lurched suddenly, flinging him flat on his face so that he had to half crawl, half slide the rest of the way as the deck began to tilt beneath him.

A glance over his shoulder showed the dragon head entering that flaming wall. The boat heaved up at an angle, steeper and steeper. Heat lashed across David’s back.

But he had his hands on the hatch then, and an instant later had it open. Just as he thrust himself inside, the ship trembled, slamming him against the far end of the enclosure. Above him the hatch banged shut as he lay panting upon the floor. His senses whirled: one moment he was certain he was upside down, in the next that down was the end against which he lay.

David was inside the pillar now, rising upward in a kind of spiral around the flaming inner wall, as the golden line of the Track bent to follow more subtle paths between the Worlds. Always ahead, if he looked ahead, the Track seemed straight, but he could see it curving away on the other side. Or were those other Tracks? He had no real sense of direction.

David closed his eyes and held on, ignoring the dreadful vertigo that had claimed him when he had realized where he was: a fly on the wall of a pillar of fire that ran from Heaven to Hell. But closing his eyes didn’t help, for his stomach still spun, his semicircular canals whirled like drunken gyroscopes. And the most extravagant images had begun to flicker behind his eyelids: creatures from nightmares or his most outrageous fantasies.

Another glance out the window showed him the Track spinning by, but it was spinning faster and faster now. He took a long swallow of wine from the skin he had slung across his shoulder, and immediately regretted it. The stuff made him dizzier, made his head hurt. Almost made him sick to his stomach. He felt his grip on reality slipping away.

In the end, he was forced to lie down and clasp his hands over his ears to keep out the droning of the flames, the creaking of the timbers. The floor heaved and shuddered once more. Fear filled him. His stomach was a knot of queasiness threatening to rebel. “Liz—Alec,” he whispered hopelessly. “Oh, God, I need you now.” And with that, tears burned in his eyes, bringing with them a strange calming peace that carried him into oblivion.

Chapter XXX: Searching

(The Lands of Fire)

The tail of the dragon ship slipped into the pillar of fire in a spiral flourish of carved golden wood that merged quickly with the red/yellow/white flicker that wrapped the base of that immense construction: briefly seen, then gone: a leaf within a conflagration.

From the riverbank nearby an arm-long serpent watched, the tiny brain within its angular blue skull crammed almost to madness with the pulsing, watchful thought of Morwyn verch Morgan ap Gwyddion.

“Fare you well, David Sullivan.” Morwyn’s low voice curled into the heavy heat of the flat, white plain on which she stood a half-day’s riding distant. “May your journey be safe and your quest a successful one,” she added.

Abruptly the sorceress withdrew the thread of awareness that had stretched thin across the leagues between her body and the serpent. It was out of her hands now: the boy was on his own.

The snake blinked its slitted eyes in sudden, vague relief. A dainty scrape of claws hinted at a mouse nearby; a thrust of tongue confirmed it. Hungry, it turned its attention there, its tenure as a vessel of Power ended.

Morwyn, however, had a great deal more trafficking with Power in mind. She frowned and addressed herself to the task she had set: the summoning of Ailill Windmaster.

His blood stained the Mortal World, she knew: leaking from a wound sustained in that land and shadowing him into the maze of the Tracks where it would be well-nigh impossible to find him. This would be a difficult searching. But at least she had a point from which to begin.