The Star Shard (24 page)

The stranger was dressed like a beggar, one piece of cloth tied around his waist as a crude skirt, another doubled over him, his head through a hole ripped in the center.

"You thick-skulled longtail," said the man, approaching on bandy legs. His eyes were wide-set and round, with droopy bags beneath them. He had fat lips and thinning hair that clung wetly. "'Let them pass,' you say? Yarn-batting nitwit! You think this girl would be alive with no other protection than yours?"

The black ferial and the tom flanked Loric and Cymbril, crouching with hands raised menacingly at the stranger, claws out. All three were growling, the fur on their backs standing up.

"Loric," Cymbril whispered, "who is he?"

"Master Ranunculus," said Loric.

Memenisse muttered, "The fat frog."

Cymbril stared at the odd, waddling man. The sorcerer—"R," the owner of the magic books and everything else in the secret storerooms. He hadn't vanished in the swamp, after all.

"
They
did it!" Cymbril blurted, understanding. "The Eye Women turned you into the frog." She remembered how Loric's orb of fire had divided, the final part shooting away behind the stacked furniture. It had restored another who was trapped in a form imposed by the Sisters' magic—the fat frog, who had been hiding there.

Ranunculus scowled in disgust. "They were always jealous of me. They've gotten most of my possessions from Rombol, thanks to you." He eyed Cymbril darkly.

"I'm sorry," she said, but couldn't manage to feel too guilty, remembering the unwholesome nature of the books and the way that the frog had always watched her. "You followed me everywhere."

"Protecting you," said Ranunculus. "Blocking my cousins' spells. Time and again they tried to turn you into something far nastier than me."

"Why would they do that? I'm not powerful."

The sorcerer's lip curled. "More so than you think. The witches never liked you. But what made them
hate
you was that you robbed them. A dozen years of their work snatched away."

"What are you talking about?" Cymbril asked.

Somewhere overhead, the nargus roared.

"There's no time for this," said Memenisse. "It's coming."

Ranunculus brushed past them all, the ferials baring their teeth, backs arched and bristling. The sorcerer stretched his joints as he walked. He popped his neck and cracked his knuckles. Flexing his fingers, he drew sparks from the tips, and Cymbril knew he was preparing for battle. He faced the direction of the nargus's approach.

Once more, he glanced over his shoulder at Cymbril. "Those young twins, the Curdlebrees. My cousins were stealing their minds and spirits, year by year—it's a slow process. I tried to slow it further, but another few months, and they would have been empty vessels. The witches would have abandoned their withered old bodies and taken over the new ones. Young again! They must have been delighted to sell you that Nixielixir, if they guessed who it was for. But then—" He snorted with laughter. "Yes, you've made enemies of my cousins, girl."

"Hmf! A second life to live," grumbled Memenisse. "Humans striving to be cats."

"Will Gerta and Berta be all right?" Cymbril called after the magician. One level up, the nargus rampaged, much closer. Globes of red flame roared into life in the sorcerer's hands, coalescing from the air.

"You saved those girls," Ranunculus said, his makeshift robes whipping in a rush of wind. "Away from my cousins, their minds and spirits will grow back strong. Now go to your freedom, mischievous imp. Since the elf boy did me a good turn, I'll deal with this black nargus."

From the doorway to the hold, Cymbril called her thanks.

"Oh, I'm no friend of yours," Ranunculus shouted back. "Believe me when I say you wouldn't like me. I protected you to spite my cousins. Now, go!"

He was a dark silhouette against the fires he held, huge spheres of twisting smoke and flame, shot through with inner lightning bolts. Waving to Cymbril and Loric, the ferials retreated past the door, heading for the shadows. On the stairs beyond Ranunculus, the nargus appeared in a vile temper.

Loric tugged Cymbril into the hold and heaved the door shut.

The wide, lofty chamber was packed with spice bales, cloth bolts, grain sacks, and boxes stacked in pillars. Cymbril held up the Star Shard for light.

An explosion shook the Rake as Ranunculus unleashed his fires in the corridor outside. A tremor shot through the floor, toppling boxes. Loric and Cymbril fell to their knees and covered their heads. A cabinet dropped from the wall with a crash, and a howling gale swept the hallway. Power crackled and blasted, drowning the roars of the nargus.

Slowly the vibrations ceased, and silence returned. The door behind Cymbril and Loric remained closed.

They threaded forward, stepping over rope coils and spooled carpets. Somewhere in the shadows must be a hatch. Somewhere ... but the hold was jammed with tools and merchandise.

Thinking again of Ranunculus, Cymbril glanced at Loric. "Did you mean to turn him back into a human?"

"No. I had no idea he was hiding there, or that the frog was more than a frog."

"And did you notice the cloth he found to wear?" she asked. "Both pieces were of Moonpine blue. Probably Gerta and Berta dyed them."

"Everything in the world is interconnected," Loric said. He closed his eyes and held up both palms. "There!" He pointed toward the far wall.

"Was that a finding spell?" asked Cymbril.

"No," he said. "I feel a draft."

They hurried around a wagon with no wheels, past a barrier of crates, and there it was in the wall: a hatch of timbers banded with iron, so large that Cymbril doubted even a strong man could open it alone. But Urrt had been here. It stood open, hooked in place, just as he had promised. Beside it lay a hefty coil of rope, one end tied to the mooring ring. Dear Urrt!

The night breeze wafted in, bringing the smell of wet grass and plowed earth. A slope fell away from the Rake's side to a dense forest, the trees like black, billowing clouds in the darkness.

"The Greenmouth," Loric whispered. His eyes were wide, gathering the faint light of the stars.

They sat on the threshold, feet dangling. Even from this lowest sublevel above the axles, it was five fathoms to the ground. "Be careful," they both said at once, and smiled.

"You first," said Loric, pitching the rope overboard. "I'm right behind."

"Goodbye, Thunder Rake." Cymbril held the rope in both hands, scissored it between her feet, and made the dizzying, skin-burning slide to the grass. She rolled aside as Loric touched down next to her. They were both drenched at once with dew.

No sooner had Cymbril picked herself up than men shouted overhead. Figures moved between the torches at the rail, pointing. She and Loric had been seen.

Now Loric led, racing down the long bank. Cymbril heard something heavy fall into the grass and glanced back. The men were dropping more coils of rope, the ends fixed to cleats on the lowest deck.

Underfoot, the weeds concealed holes and soft places. Stumbling at nearly every step, she and Loric pulled each other onward, downward, and slowly the line of trees drew nearer.

"Hurry!" Loric gasped. A thistle had lashed his face, leaving a streak of blood. Cockleburs clung to their clothes.

The hound's deep baying rang through the dark. Bale was on the ground now, somewhere behind them to the left. The men yelled. Torch light reflected on the old twisted trunks ahead.

Beneath the first limbs, the grassy slope gave way to a floor of moss. Dodging over crisscrossed roots, Loric swerved into a thicket. "Through here," he said, holding a branch out of Cymbril's way.

She heard soldiers trampling the brush, but the sounds echoed, and she could not tell where the men were. The trees squatted thicker and thicker, lumpy as half-melted candles. Night birds called, their songs haunting and strange. Likely these were birds of the Fey world, perched in the forest's eaves. Bale had stopped barking, but the pursuers were close, their voices floating from all around. Firelight flickered on the forks and arches above. Creepers of moss stirred in the wood's breath.

When Cymbril thought she could go no farther, Loric led her down a bank to the edge of a stream. She gulped air, shivering in her soaked clothes. The steep-sided ravine was almost a tunnel, the trees curving over it, root knuckles clutching its banks.

Loric's eyes gleamed. Even his hair seemed to shine brighter through the burrs that tangled it.

There was nowhere to walk but straight up the streambed, into the current. The water sloshed around their knees, swift and piercing cold. They rounded a final bend, and before them loomed the gate of the Sidhe world. It could be nothing else. The forest ended in a wall of briar and trees, all intertwined so tightly that Cymbril saw no gap for even a squirrel to scurry through. This hedge rose up into the canopy of limbs and leaves. It marched away into darkness on both sides. The stream rushed from an arched tunnel at the wall's base, just large enough for Loric and Cymbril to enter side by side.

Splashing toward it, Cymbril wanted to cry out with relief. They'd made it! A wonderful aroma washed out from the tunnel—something like lilacs, something like new-mown hay under a summer sun, yet not quite like either of them.

"Only those with Sidhe blood can go in," Loric said, squeezing her arm. "Or those the gate watchers allow. Anyone else will not see the tunnel or even the hedge, but only the old forest trooping on and on."

At the mouth of the tunnel, they exchanged a glance and laughed.

Suddenly Loric's eyes widened in horror.

Something hit Cymbril from behind, knocking her face-down into the icy water. The stream penetrated her clothing all at once. Her shriek came out in bubbles. Water flooded into her nose and mouth, bringing the sensation of liquid fire. She groped for handholds in sand and slime as the current pushed her backwards. At last her feet bumped against solid rock, and she struggled upright, coughing out water. Flinging soaked hair from her face, she searched for Loric—and stopped still in dismay.

Bale had found them. The hound stood astride Loric, pinning him in the stream. Bale's jaws gripped Loric's neck, but he did not bite down. Snarling a threat, he held the Sidhe's head out of the water, keeping him a prisoner until Master Rombol arrived. Ears flat, the dog turned his amber eyes toward Cymbril, warning her not to move.

She sagged to her knees, hugging herself. She felt as if the water's ice had frozen her heart. They had been so close—but Rombol had won.

"Cymbril," Loric said quietly. The brook made his hair billow and swirl like the plants beneath the sea at Roadsend. "This hound isn't going to hurt me. You can make it into Gorhyv Glyn. My parents will take care of you. Someday soon I'll join you there."

Cymbril shook her head. "When we go, we'll go together."

He started to argue, but torches flared through the leaves. The brush thrashed, and soldiers appeared at the top of the bank. The first men hollered to others, reporting that Cymbril and Loric were found.

Wiltwain crashed from the bushes, followed by Rombol himself. Where the roots made a crude staircase, they led their party into the ravine. The men-at-arms were muddy and covered with scratches. Forming a ring around each of the two, the soldiers appeared none too happy to be standing in cold water before sunrise.

Wiltwain glared at Cymbril, hands on his belt, but left words to the Master of the Rake. There was something in the Overseer's gaze more complex than anger. Cymbril realized it was a look of hurt—of disappointment. She had thrown away his mercy and broken her promise to be loyal and good. He kept shaking his head as if he couldn't believe her stupidity.

Rombol trudged to the group surrounding Loric. "Bale!" he said. "Stand down. Good lad."

Bale released Loric and backed away. The hound's muzzle was wrinkled in warning, his tail wagging for Rombol, threshing the water.

Rombol signaled for Cymbril to be brought closer. In her fall, she'd been washed twenty paces downstream. The guards seized her elbows and dragged her forward, dropping her beside Loric.

For an endless moment the Master silently glowered, and it was worse than his most terrible bellowing. In the ravine's chill, his breath emerged as white puffs. He stared into the tree limbs, perhaps to control his rage. Then he looked down at the two and spoke in a dangerous, quiet tone. "The Rake has been your home, Cymbril. This is how you thank me."

Cymbril refused to cower, though she could not control her shivering. She raised her chin and stared back.

"There will be changes now," Rombol said. "And if they are not to your liking, remember who is to blame." He nodded to the guards, who grabbed Loric and Cymbril. The Master turned away.

"Wait!" said Cymbril in the firmest voice she could manage.

Rombol stood still. Wiltwain gave Cymbril a scathing glance and shook his head.
Don't speak,
his expression said.

The Rake's Master slowly faced her. "You have something to say?"

She felt her jaw trembling and willed it to stop. Water from her doused hair trickled into her eyes. "I have a deal to offer you."

Rombol took a slogging step closer. "What?" He wasn't asking what the deal was. It sounded more as if he couldn't believe his ears.

"A deal," she repeated, trying hard to look and sound like Brigit. "All the world is a market. Anything can be had for a price."

Rombol crossed his arms, apparently not flattered to be quoted under these circumstances. He towered above her, waiting.

Cymbril didn't dare to let herself think about what she was doing. Pulling her arm free of the guard's grip, she reached into her pocket.

"Cymbril," said Loric, "no!"

The Star Shard blazed in her hand, its blue-green light dancing on a thousand ripples in the stream.

Most of the guards had never seen the stone before. They gaped or squinted, and one gave a low whistle. Bale growled at it, hackles raised. It lit up the glade as if a star really had fallen to earth.