Rising From the Ashes: The Chronicles of Caymin (38 page)

“If they do not die, where are they? What happened to all of them?”
It made Caymin sad to look at the drawings of fierce and beautiful dragons, and to think they were no more, that Péist was the last of his kind.

“I do not know,”
Péist said. For all he had seen, there were things he had not been shown and Caymin felt his sadness at this unknown.

Caymin did not speak of her own sadness. Lying in her bed at night, she wondered what Enat and the others were doing, if they were safe. She thought of Méav and Ronan and Fergus, out in the world somewhere, and she thought of Gai, home with his clan. She wondered what was to become of herself and Péist and Beanna. They could not stay here, hidden away on this island for hundreds of winters, like the stories in the scrolls. Sooner or later, they would have to either return or move on in search of other lands.

CHAPTER 25

Alone No Longer

D
o you see anything?”

Caymin had learned that Péist’s eyes were much sharper than her own. She squinted into the distance as they flew over the ocean, looking for any break in the flat line of the horizon.

“Nothing.”

Beanna was snug in her sling against Caymin’s belly, only her head sticking out.
“I do not see anything, either.”

Every day the weather permitted, they had been flying, searching for other lands, going in any direction but the one from which they had come.

Péist had been flying farther and farther, but always staying within a day’s range of their island, even if they found their way back by the stars.

“If we cannot find any other land,”
Péist said,
“we will have no choice but to go back.”

Caymin knew from Ivar’s maps that there were other lands to the north and east of Éire, but none of his maps had shown any lands to the west.

They were far out to sea when another raging storm blew in from the west, black clouds rolling over one another with lightning sparking across them and down to the water. They’d encountered similar storms often. The first time, they had underestimated the speed at which it moved and had endured a miserable flight back to the island, wet and surrounded by dangerous spikes of lightning.

They raced this one back to the island, arriving at their cave as the first rain fell. Waves pounded the base of the cliff far below. Inside, they stayed dry and warm, but could feel the tremors from the relentless battering of the sea.

Sitting around the fire, they discussed what they should do, what their future held. Péist was not afraid to face Timmin.

“But you have not seen what he is capable of doing,”
Caymin fretted, remembering the pain Timmin had inflicted.
“His magic is powerful.”

“So is ours. You were powerful before, but together, we are even more so.”

Caymin poked the fire with a stick, sending a shower of sparks toward the smoke hole.
“Do you think the forest needs protection from him? We have been here for more than a moon. Surely Ivar and Neela have returned by now to help Enat safeguard the others.”

“But what of those at risk outside the forest?”
Beanna said.
“Timmin is not the only danger. People like Diarmit and his master are perhaps more dangerous, because they are not afraid to deceive all to achieve their end, whatever that may be.”

Péist shifted his head to fix Caymin with his unblinking gaze. “
I think Éire needs a new Ríona and Ailill.”

The storm passed, leaving a crystal clear sky in its wake. Caymin’s mind churned as they flew over the empty sea, searching for lands that were not there. All day they soared. Péist had grown stronger, no longer tiring as he had when first he flew. Giving up for the day, they made their way back to their island, the sun sinking low in the sky behind them, when Péist was suddenly alert.

“What is it?”
Caymin squinted at the horizon.

“On the water.”

She looked down and saw something small bobbing on the waves. Péist flew lower and they could see that it was a small boat, its mast splintered. A man lay in the boat, motionless. Péist dove to get closer. Still, the man did not move.

“What should we do?”
Péist asked.

Caymin leaned over as they circled.
“Can you carry him?”

Péist reached down with his back feet, picking up boat and all, and flew toward their island. He circled around to the far side, away from the mountain and the caves. There, a small inlet provided a safe landing point. He gently deposited the boat on the shore, and then landed beside it.

Caymin uncinched her tethers and climbed down off Péist’s back. Cautiously, she approached the boat. The man was lying on his side, half-submerged in water that had gathered in the bottom of the vessel during the storm. A bundle lay beside him, wrapped in oiled cloth. Beanna perched on the side of the boat and cawed loudly. He did not stir.

“Is he dead?”
she asked.

Caymin leaned near enough to place a hand on his chest. A rough wooden cross fell out of his robe. She withdrew her hand as if stung.

“He wears a cross. He is a follower of the Christ.”

“The ones that Timmin wanted to war against?”
Péist craned his neck to get a closer look.

The man groaned and stirred.

“We cannot let him see you,”
Caymin said.
“Fly up to the cave. Beanna and I will stay with him for a while.”

“I do not like this,”
Péist protested.
“What if he tries to hurt you?”

“I do not think he is strong enough to hurt anyone right now,”
Caymin said, looking at him.
“And I have magic to protect me if I need it.”

“I can always put his eyes out if he does see the worm,”
Beanna offered.

Péist snapped his jaws, but Beanna just bobbed her head.

“Go,”
said Caymin.
“I will come later to a place where you can fly down and get me.”

Reluctantly, Péist walked a short distance away and leapt into the air. Beanna flew up into an overhead tree where she could keep an eye on the stranger.

Hovering her hands over him, Caymin ran them down his arms and legs, stopping when she came to a break in his leg. She hesitated. She could easily heal this injury without it costing her greatly, but she wasn’t certain she wanted him whole and healthy enough to wander the island. She used just enough magic to ease his pain a bit, and then tipped the boat, dumping the man onto the sand, along with all the water from the bottom of the boat.

Magically erasing her footprints, she retreated into the trees as he sputtered and opened his eyes.

Dazed, he looked around at his twilit surroundings as he wiped the water from his face. He tried to get to his feet, but fell back to the sand, grabbing his leg and grimacing. He tried again, balancing on his good leg as he uprighted his boat. He muttered as he inspected the shattered mast, the useless sail and ropes lying in a heap.

“I must have washed up here.”

He closed his eyes and touched his hand to his forehead, chest and each shoulder as he muttered more words Caymin couldn’t hear. After a moment, he opened his eyes and looked around again. With darkness nearly upon him, he apparently decided his priority was to create some shelter for the night. He pushed his boat up on its side again, using a broken fragment of the mast to prop it so that he could crawl underneath.

Silently, Caymin backed away until she could safely walk. Beanna joined her a moment later, landing on her shoulder.

“We will have to bring him food,”
Caymin said.

“Why? If we do not feed him, he may die or try to leave.”

Caymin shook her head.
“We cannot leave him to that fate.”

“Do not feed him too much. He will be easier to subdue if he is weak.”

“Why would I need to subdue him?”

“I do not trust this two-leg.”

“You do not know this two-leg.”

Beanna clicked her beak in response.
“I do not want to know him.”

Caymin sighed as she looked up at the mountain where Péist waited.
“We are on an island. His boat is damaged. We may not have a choice but to get to know him.”

Caymin became the ghost-child again. She crouched and slunk around the stranger, keeping mostly out of sight, giving him only glimpses of her. She brought him meat and some of the edible roots she’d dug. At first, she deposited the items near the edge of the forest at the inlet, staying out of sight. She watched as he struggled to make a fire to cook the meat, hobbling around with the aid of a stick he’d found. All of the wood was still damp from the recent storm, and he had no firestarters. She waved her hand to ignite a branch and placed it where he would find it. He stood holding the branch, looking around for his benefactor. When he saw nothing, he carefully fed the flames with bits of twig and fibers he tore from his robe. She watched with satisfaction as he laid in a supply of wood and bark and made certain he never let the fire die away.

He was nearly as tall as Ivar, broad-shouldered and strong, despite his injury. He had already been trying to determine whether the mast of his boat could be repaired, sizing up some of the nearby trees. From the oilcloth pack in his boat, he had produced tools and a sword. He moved off the little beach of the inlet into a clearing in the trees. There, he built himself a sturdier shelter, using a combination of stacked stones and leafy branches hacked from the trees with his axe. Caymin winced at the sound of the iron hitting the trees.

“I know you’re there, watching me,” he said one evening as he sat by his fire. “I thank you for the food. I’ve no desire to hurt you. You can show yourself.”

She eased out of the underbrush, staying a cautious distance away. He eyed her curiously. A momentary look of repulsion flashed across his eyes as he gazed at her. It was the first time in a very long time that she was reminded of her scars.

“My name is Garvan,” he said. “What’s yours?”

She stood silent, ready to throw up a protective shield if need be. Beanna, she knew, was nearby, also standing guard. She could feel Péist, listening anxiously from the mountaintop, ready to pounce.

Garvan, obviously thinking she didn’t understand his language, touched his own chest. “Garvan. Garvan.” He tapped his chest as he spoke, then held his hand out to her.

She hesitated. “Ash.” She was not ready to trust him with her true name.

“Ash,” he repeated, sitting back and smiling. He pointed to a chunk of meat roasting over the fire, a part of Péist’s last kill. “Thank you.”

He eyed the knife at her belt and the bow slung over her shoulder. “Did you hunt?” He mimicked the action of drawing the bow.

She nodded. Better for him to think it was her than to wonder who else could have hunted.

When she simply stood there, he asked, “Where are your people? What land is this?”

She shook her head.

He reached into his robe and pulled out his cross. “Do you know this?”

She took a step back, eyeing the cross warily. He sighed and looked back at his fire. “God help me. You sent me here; grant me patience.”

Caymin hid a smile.
“Should I tell him his god had nothing to do with it? He was brought here by a dragon and a mage.”

“I think that would not be wise,”
Beanna said.
“Amusing, but not wise.”

Garvan tried again. “Where do you live?” He pointed at her and then gestured with his arm, sweeping it in a wide arc.

She pointed vaguely in a direction away from the mountain, but his gaze was drawn upward. She retreated into the woods, and he turned back to her.

“Don’t go!”

But she was already creeping away from him, deliberately picking a trail away from the mountain. She walked until she was far enough away to call to Péist.