The Shining City (64 page)

Lewen was himself torn. All he wanted was to go sloshing through the sewers searching for his lost love, but he had been given his task and he was duty-bound and honor-bound to do as he was ordered. Find Donncan, the Keybearer had commanded, and so that was what he must do.

He gathered together a search party of young men, many of whom had spent the last hour fruitlessly tramping through the storm-tossed darkness and were not that keen to face the driving snow again.

“It‟s useless,” one said angrily. “Any tracks the Prionnsa may have left have been swept away by the storm. We‟ve been searching for hours and found naught!”

“Everything‟s been covered with snow. All we found were our own tracks, going around and around in circles,” said another.

“It‟s bitterly cold out there, Lewen,” Cameron said. “Are ye sure . . . ?”

“Our Rìgh is missing,” Lewen said tiredly. “If we canna find him, there will be no law, no order, no rule. We must try! Besides, I have an idea. . . .”

Lewen knew that the woods separating the witches‟ tower and the palace were sanctuary to thousands of faeries of all kinds, from the tiny bright-winged nisses to tree-changers to corrigans.

Most would be sheltering from the storm whatever way they could, but Lewen hoped that some at least would answer his call and come to tell him what they knew. Having been raised near an ancient forest by his tree-shifter mother, Lewen knew most of the languages spoken by the forest faeries, and it was in these languages that he called.

He was lucky. It was not long before a nisse came swooping out of the darkness and swung off his finger, chattering away in high excitement.

“This way the star-girl went, glimmering and gleaming in her silver dress. I flew fleet following her and the two big ones of no account. Fast and far I flew, wondering why and where they went, but then the wind turned to ice, howling and hollering, and shivering shaking I flew fled back to my own safe snug tree. . . .”

“It is very cold,” Lewen said gently. “If ye sheltered here under my scarf, could ye show me where they went?”

“Comfy and cozy,” the little faery said approvingly, snuggling up under the soft wool. “I happy to settle stay here!”

With the arctic wind blasting him, needling his face with ice and blowing back his hair, Lewen tramped through the wildly tossing trees, his witch-light flickering above him. The nisse was not a reliable guide. She chattered away almost nonstop, and it was difficult to concentrate on her words when he was so very cold and tired and occupied by such an acute anxiety it felt as if someone was trying to drill their way out of his stomach.

Eventually, though, the nisse led Lewen and the search party to the very center of the forest, where lay the magical maze that protected the Pool of Two Moons. There, caught on the narrow iron gate that led into the maze, Lewen found the scarlet sash that Donncan had worn to his wedding.

Puzzled, Lewen stood, holding the sash in his hand and staring down the dark corridor of yews.

Even with his witch-light bobbing just above his head, he could see only a short distance into the maze, with the frosty wind howling about his head and snow blowing into his eyes. He did not know the secret of the maze. It was a secret known only to those of the MacCuinn clan and the Circle of Sorcerers. It was impossible for him to go on. Already he was exhausted and so cold his hands and feet seemed to have disappeared. If he led his search party into the maze, they could all well die.

“We‟ll go back,” he muttered. “We‟ll send a message to the palace. In the morning, perhaps, we can keep on searching.”

His words were met with sighs of relief all around. Lewen, however, felt only misery and

despair. If he could have found Donncan, it would have been worth not insisting on chasing after Olwynne. He would have been free to help in the search for Owein and Olwynne.

Then his heart lightened. Perhaps, back at the Tower of Two Moons, good news would be

waiting for him as well as hot spiced wine and a warm bed. They said Finn the Cat always found what she sought.

Suddenly the nisse gave a high-pitched shriek and burrowed deep into his neck, drawing the scarf tight around her. Lewen felt her sharp nails scratching him. Even as he reached in and sought to drag her out, he heard, high overhead, the unmistakable trumpeting cry of a dragon.

It tore through the night like a rush of flame through paper. Lewen threw himself to the ground, his arms over his head, his face pressed into the snow, so overwhelmed with terror he felt his bowels loosen involuntarily. Sternly he clenched the muscles of his sphincter together, curling his knees to his chest. By the sudden odor, he knew some of his fellow searchers had failed to control their own bowels. Someone sobbed out loud.

High above their heads a volley of flame blasted the night sky. Glancing up, Lewen saw the sinuous shape of the dragon soaring through the darkness, the red glare of its breath lighting up the massive heavy clouds, the wind-tossed trees, its great angular wings. For a moment all was white, black, red, like a drawing of ink on paper; then the dragon passed over.

There was a rush of bitter-tasting air, then all was quiet and dark again.

R
hiannon lay against the mare‟s warm side, Blackthorn‟s wing tucked over her, trying to stop shivering. The cold struck up from the snow-covered ground, penetrating the plaid she had wrapped around her and seeming to strike right into the very marrow of her bones.

Rhiannon had never seen a storm of such unnatural ferocity. It had seemed like a living creature with talons of ice, and fangs of lightning, that had harried her all the way from Sorrowgate Tower, across the river, and to the foothills. Rhiannon had hoped to fly much farther before resting, but their only hope of survival had been to land and seek shelter.

They must want to hang her very badly, Rhiannon thought to herself, to send such a storm after her. Here it was, midsummer, and icicles hung from all the trees. Drifts of hailstones lay everywhere. The copse of trees in which they sheltered bent and blew in the wind, their branches creaking. Rhiannon did not know what time it was. Surely dawn could not be too far away, but there was no sound of birdsong, no lightening of the howling darkness. It had been an endless night.

Rhiannon ached all over from their desperate ride through the hailstorm. Her head throbbed, and blood trickled down from a cut behind her ear. There was more blood on the arm she had raised to shield her face, and on Blackthorn‟s sweat-scudded hide.

Rhiannon would have liked to light a fire and melt some snow to make a hot drink, but she did not dare. She could still hear the faint sound of bells. She had never heard such a melancholy sound.

Blackthorn shivered and put back her ears.

Do no’ fear, they willna catch us
, Rhiannon thought.
Nothing can fly as fast as a winged horse.

He named us well, my beauty. Rhiannon, the rider whom none can catch . . .

Something pierced her heart, cut short her breath, brought a rush of tears to her eyes. The emotion she felt was far too strong, too fierce, to be called contentment, or even its brighter cousin, happiness. It was too dark, too sharp, to be called joy. She had no word in her vocabulary to describe it.
I am alive
, she thought, dumbfounded.
I am free.
All she could do was bend her head to the ground and rest her forehead there, her eyes shut, feeling the blood throbbing in her throat and her temples.
Alive . . .

Suddenly Blackthorn scrambled to her feet, neighing in panic. Rhiannon was tumbled sideways.

The bluebird trilled in terror and took wing. Rhiannon drew her knife, searching desperately for any sign of danger. Blackthorn reared above her, eyes rolling white.

Out of the darkness fell a darker shadow, immense and terrifying. A hot blast of wind whipped Rhiannon‟s hair about her face, smelling of fire and ashes. The air roared with the sound of vast wings. Sudden dread weakened her legs, so that she fell to her knees in the snow.

A blast of fire lit up the dark sky from horizon to horizon. The skin on her face was scorched.

She threw up one hand to protect it and felt fire lick her fingers.

A dragon was hurtling down from the sky, trumpeting with rage. It was flame incarnate. Blazing eyes as big as suns, dreadful wings as wide as the world, a whipping tail that sliced the sky open.

Rhiannon bent to the ground, her arms over her head.

Blackthorn took flight, screaming with terror.
No!
Rhiannon shrieked silently. She saw the dragon lash out with one terrible claw, and Blackthorn neighed in pain and swerved.

Looking up through the tangle of hair and fingers, Rhiannon saw her beloved winged horse fly free, eyes white-rimmed, wings straining. Then there was only terror, and despair, as the great golden beast plummeted down upon her.

Expecting to be crushed, or incinerated, or torn apart, Rhiannon lay still, waiting, feeling again the dark rapture she had experienced earlier, in even greater intensity for knowing it would soon end in agony and death.
Alive . . .

But the dragon landed lightly beside her, in a gush of smoke and cinders, and clamped one immense talon over her prostrate body. Rhiannon‟s breath rushed out of her. She rested her face on the ground, her mouth and nostrils full of snow. Tears choked her.

Two boots landed with a thump near her head. They were long, black, and shiny. They were also far too small to belong to a man. Rhiannon‟s stomach clenched. She craned her head to see more, but it was no use. It was too dark.

A woman‟s voice said coolly, “Thank ye, Asrohc. Ye can let her go now.”

Delicately the dragon raised its claw, and Rhiannon was able to lift her face from the snow and look.

The Banrìgh stood beside her, dressed in leather gaiters and breastplate, a close-fitting helmet on her head.

“Ye think ye can escape justice so easily?” she hissed.

Rhiannon could only stare at her. Never, in her wildest imaginings, could she have expected this.

The last time she had seen the Banrìgh, it had been at the Court of Star Chamber, dressed in long ceremonial robes, with a crown on her head. She had looked grave and remote, her hands folded in her lap. Now she was livid with rage, her blue eyes blazing. She carried a naked dagger in her hand.

“Get up,” Iseult said.

Rhiannon staggered to her feet.

Iseult took a step closer, her dagger held close and steady to her waist. “Throw down your weapons.”

Rhiannon dropped her knife. Iseult searched her, quickly and efficiently, then stepped away and went through her pack, which lay half-open on the ground. She straightened, holding in her hand the blowpipe and bag of barbs that Connor had long ago used to defend himself against the wild satyricorn herd.

“Ye really thought ye‟d get away with it?” she said furiously.

Rhiannon was puzzled. She did not know how to answer.

“Asrohc, seize her!” Iseult commanded. “Take us back to Lucescere!”

Swift as a striking snake, the dragon‟s immense claw flashed out and closed about Rhiannon.

She had no time to even flinch. Then the dragon bent its great sinuous neck so that Iseult could mount up and sit astride it.

With a jerk that snapped Rhiannon‟s neck painfully and made her gasp, the dragon launched off into the dark sky. Her head whirled. Her vision swam with desperate tears.

She had heard the stories from Nina, of course. How the Khan‟cohban warrior, Khan‟gharad, had saved the baby dragon princess from death and so had been given the dragon‟s name as a reward, to call in time of desperate need. How both Iseult and Isabeau had inherited that privilege and the right to cross their leg over the dragon‟s back. How the seven sons of the queen dragon had come flaming out of the sky to help Lachlan MacCuinn win the final battle against the Fairgean at Bonnyblair. The tales of the dragons were among the favorites of the young apprentice-witches, and Rhiannon had heard them told many times on their long journey through Ravenshaw. She had just never, ever expected the dragons to be called upon to track her down. In all the tales the jongleurs told, it was emphasized what a rare privilege it was, the right to call the dragon‟s name.

All Rhiannon could think, all through the swift, vertiginous journey back to Lucescere, was that the Rìgh and Banrìgh must have valued Connor the Just very highly to employ such awe-some means to track her down.

Now Blackthorn was gone, who knew where, and Rhiannon had no way of knowing how badly

she was hurt by that spiteful swipe of the dragon‟s claw. And her little bluebird gone, fled into the forest. All hope of escape gone too. No matter how quick or clever or strong Rhiannon was, she had no hope of ever escaping a dragon.

Far below her, the orange smoky glare of Lucescere swung through the darkness, blurred by Rhiannon‟s hopeless tears. Closer and closer it came, and then Rhiannon could smell it, the stench of two hundred thousand unwashed people and all their goats and pigs and chickens and children rising up in a great reek that made her cough and choke. Then she heard it, the clatter and whine and bang and groan that filled the city even in the dead of night. She heard the rush of the waterfall and felt its spray dampen her cheek; then the dragon was swinging low over the city, giving a little ironic spurt of flame so that Rhiannon could clearly see the few people in the streets running and cowering, and hear their shrieks of alarm.