The Witch's Daughter (Lamb & Castle Book 1) (18 page)

“I thought you said griffins didn’t exist,” whispered Amelia. “That’s the third one I’ve seen so far.”

“Shh. I told you before,” Meg whispered back, even quieter, “I don’t know where they keep coming from, but they’re here, and I don’t like it.”

“I like it even less,” said Percival. “We should take cover and let the wyverns see them off again.”

“What’s it doing?” asked Amelia, who had lost track of the white griffin’s whereabouts entirely. “Has it gone away?” The youngest wyvern was nowhere to be seen, and Amelia’s prayed that it had the sense to keep clear.

Meg shook her head, reluctant to speak at all. They all heard the thud at the far end of the deck, where Harold had stood not a few moments before. Through the haze, the white griffin came padding softly towards them. Ghostly as the feathered white paws might appear, Amelia feared the shock of very real talons rending her flesh.

“All right Perce, take Amelia below deck,” Meg hissed urgently.

But Amelia shook his gauntleted hand off her arm. “No, I don’t want to!” She saw the glow of blue fire gathering between Meg’s palms, and put her hands together to strike blue-green sparks of her own. “I can look after myself!”

“Amelia, don’t be a fool,” Meg muttered. “We don’t know yet if magic will even touch these beasts. And besides, you’ve never killed so much as a mouse.”

The sight of the magical flames had given the white griffin pause, at least. It growled low and quiet, the ruff of white feathers about its neck and shoulders rising, its fox-like ears flattened against its skull so that the streamlined bulk of its head all led to the wicked point of its heavy iron-grey beak. It looked from Meg to Amelia, and behind those silver-blue eyes might have been a mind as sharp and clever as a man’s, or nothing more than basic predatory instinct. Either way, Amelia saw the instant it chose her: the bunching of muscles under its glossy white fur, the fidgeting of its great paws. Fire flared through the gaps in her fists, burning the skin between her fingers, but Meg had been right: she couldn’t aim it at a living creature. She heard the hiss of a sword drawn, and was surprised to hear Harold’s voice, surprisingly loud and commanding:

“Stay away from her!” He inched forward, holding the sword low and poised. Amelia prayed that all those lessons with Captain Dunnager and Percival had paid off…

The white griffin opened its beak, hissing and rearing back – and then a flash of darkness struck it with a loud thud, white griffin and dark wyvern tumbling across the deck together, shrieking and yowling like angry cats. The pair of them crashed against the base of the mast, with the wyvern taking the brunt of it, giving the griffin a chance to disentangle itself. It launched itself straight up into the sky on powerful hind legs. The young wyvern, shaking itself off, staggered a little, and raising its head it spat a jet of fire into the sky. It missed the griffin by a country mile, and its fire temporarily spent – wasted – the wyvern instead leapt up after his adversary. The griffin, having evaded the wildly erroneous arc of fire with ease, didn’t take action soon enough to miss the hooked claws that caught its flanks. The white griffin struggled against the weight of the adolescent wyvern pulling it back down, and then the wyvern’s beak snapped closed on its long white tail feathers, and with a wrench it pulled. The white griffin screamed in pain and indignation as the wyvern tossed aside a mouthful of long white feathers, clawing to get a better grip on his opponent, while the griffin screamed and twisted, its own wickedly sharp talons raking at its assailant. It grabbed the wyvern, kicking out with its hind legs, swift and brutal. The wyvern cried out piteously, panicked at the sudden violence of this onslaught, struggling in vain to protect its head and neck. Then, as quickly as it had begun, the two fell apart. The white griffin shot away, into the fog, soon lost from view, and the wyvern fell back to the deck with a crash.

A barely perceptible murmur started up underneath Amelia’s feet: a low vibration; a grumbling unhappy sigh. The wyvern tried to move, feebly. “There’s a crossbow in the cabin,” said Dunnager. “Be quick, before he tries to flame.”

Amelia looked shocked. “What?” she whispered. “Surely you can’t mean…” Unappealing as the wyverns had appeared at first, this one had just saved her life – they couldn’t repay the creature’s valiant act with death.

Meg said nothing, although she hesitated. Meanwhile, the wyvern managed to get its wings untangled, spreading and testing them gently. It looked dazed, the many cuts on its head and neck bleeding freely, its feathers matted black. Meg looked guiltily at Amelia, as if she had called the white griffin down on the poor unfortunate beast herself. “I saw a wyvern hurt like that once before…” she said. “A couple of them fighting amongst themselves and the injured one came begging sanctuary on this Argean ship. The Argeans, they’re not a cruel people by nature, but it was the only sensible thing to do, what with the wyvern putting their whole ship in danger like that…”

“Ma’am, you mustn’t delay!” Captain Dunnager warned, keeping his voice low. The injured wyvern’s lower jaw twitched as it whined, and gleaming fluid the consistency of egg whites oozed from a deep cut in its neck. “See how he’s leaking: one stray spark from his teeth and he’ll go up like a bonfire.”

“Oh, do something, please, Meg!” Amelia begged, tears in her eyes. “They followed us all the way here; they saved us from that dreadful griffin!”

“Ma’am, it’s only a matter of time before he panics and tries to flame,” the Captain warned. “If anybody’s anywhere nearby when he goes up…”

Meg had become uncharacteristically indecisive. Then, gripping her satchel, she set down the lamp and inched towards the wounded wyvern. “All right, Amelia,” she muttered, keeping her eyes fixed on the whining creature drooling volatile fuel, “But you’ll have to keep the big one out of my way.”

Amelia looked up, her heart leaping into her throat at the sight of the big wyvern crouched on the crow’s nest, looking down on them. “But how?” The beast was coming hesitantly down the rigging, fearsome claws feeling their way down the ropes and spars as it watched its injured offspring and the surrounding humans intently.

“I don’t know. Keep him calm. Sing to him, for all I care – it might do the trick. Tell him one of your stories and put him to sleep.”

“All right, I will.” She turned to the big wyvern, and wasting no time, she began: “Once upon a time, there was a naiad. Do you… do you know what a naiad is, dear?” she asked him, nervously. The creature had stopped a few feet away from her, its attention now on her. Listening, or at least appearing to do so.

The naiad was the soul of a river, but she was a sad and lonely creature. She’d seen how, in all the villages along her banks, the people paired off, two by two. She saw how happy they were, and she envied them. One day, she met a boy. There was a place in the river where you could leave a piece of broken glass and the water might circle it forever amongst the round river rocks, slowly grinding it away to nothing, or might spit it out eventually, polished and transformed, further downstream. The boy stood in her river, with his shoes and socks on the bank and his trousers rolled up, while he looked for river glass.

Amelia hesitated, glancing over at Meg, who had reached the stricken wyvern and from her satchel taken the same bottle of salve she had used to soothe Amelia’s wounds. Ever so tenderly, she began to stroke the poor creature’s head and neck with the powerful numbing agent. The wyvern flinched and squirmed once or twice, but the predicted explosion didn’t come.

“Go on, dear,” said Meg, her voice calm and quiet, though her face was white with fear. “I don’t think he knows this one.”

Amelia looked back at the big wyvern, who was watching her, apparently transfixed. “Oh? Well, then…”

Well, the naiad thought the boy very handsome, so she appeared to him in the form of a lovely maiden, with eyes as green as the river glass, and long black hair like wet ink against her flawless paper-white skin. He offered her a handful of his glass pebbles in exchange for a kiss, and she smiled shyly at him, beckoning him to join her. But as he waded towards her, somebody pulled him roughly back, and he was surprised to see the local witchwoman. She was young, and pretty enough to have married if she had wanted too, but she was too proud to speak to anybody but the jackdaws and the crows. ‘You stupid boy!’ she snarled, her voice rough and unused to human speech. ‘Don’t you know she only wants to drown you and take your soul?’ The naiad saw the look of horror on the boy’s face. She became afraid that had they not been interrupted, she might have drowned her mortal love by accident, for rivers are powerful, their passions wild and dangerous, and men are as fragile as glass to them. ‘Leave him be, rivermaid!’ the witchwoman shouted. ‘He’s not for you.’ And the naiad, knowing that she and the boy were all too different, fled in dismay.

Amelia hesitated, wanting to see how Meg was getting on. Meg had taken needle and thread from her satchel, and was working as quickly as she could in the dim light. Amelia quickly looked away again, resuming her story:

The boy, warned away from the lovely naiad by stories of rivers bursting their banks, or dragging strong young men under in their currents, went back to life amongst mortal men. And very happy he was, and quite successful, too, for he grew up to be a fine baker. The naiad, pining for the mortal object of her affections, went back to tending her river, taking particular care to keep it running smooth and true through the village where he lived. Her river kept the waterwheel that turned his millstone safe and steady, and the baker never knew how much of his happiness he owed to the poor lovestruck naiad. Indeed, he all but forgot about her – a moment of magic in his youth that had been so very unlike the rest of his life that he sometime wondered if he had only dreamt it.

Over the years, the naiad had changed not a bit, but the baker’s boy had grown from a gangling young lad to a fine broad-shouldered man. One day at a village fair, he met a maid with hair the colour of wheat, and eyes as blue and innocent as the sky. She was beautiful, but in her heart she was as fickle as spring rain, and perhaps that’s why he fell in love with her, because she wouldn’t succumb easily, not even to a handsome man. He resolved to make her his wife one way or another, but he went home from the fair disappointed, with the fickle blue-eyed girl’s laughter ringing in his ears. Not to be discouraged so easily, he sought out the witchwoman, to buy a love potion and win the blue-eyed girl’s heart for keeps. When the witchwoman heard his story, she shook her head, her smile joyless and her heart like cold stone. Nonetheless, when he paid her handsomely enough she gave him a true love potion. She didn’t like folk much, but she prided herself on being honest, particularly when it came to money. The baker carried his blue-eyed love over the threshold that spring, and broke the poor naiad’s heart. The naiad, betrayed by the mortal man to whom she had shown nothing but kindness, fell into despair and wept inconsolably; endlessly. The salt of her tears killed all the fish, and the river swelled ‘til it broke its banks, and she drowned all the village in her tears.

“My word, Amelia!” Meg exclaimed, a look of horror on her face. “Don’t you know any stories besides ones about horribly doomed love affairs?”

Amelia’s face reddened. In some versions of the story, the naiad continued to care for the baker as best she could in spite of her broken heart, keeping his watermill turning until he grew old and died. Then, she wound her river further and further away from the village for a thousand lonely years, until she met another river, and they fell in love. Amelia had always preferred the tragic romance and the image of the naiad drowning the whole valley in her tears.

Meg had finished stitching, and wiped the milky fluid from the wyvern’s throat with her handkerchief. “You’ll grow to be an old spinster, with nobody but a cat for company,” she said. Then she burst out laughing. The young wyvern gave a startled hiccup and pulled away from her, but the salve and Meg’s handiwork seemed to have done the trick. Meg shook her head. “Oh, dear me… You’ll be a witch, Amelia!”

Night passed into day, and no further sign of white griffin or Black Queen. Amelia did her best not to be afraid, but could scarcely help jumping at shadows and creaks. She and her companions kept close together, Harold constantly at the ready with his sword, and the biggest of the wyverns watching closely over the
Storm Chaser
. The injured young wyvern had not yet left the deck of the skyship: his stitched and salved wounds would heal up quickly enough, but in the meantime, Meg had been feeding him fruitcake soaked in brandy. It certainly helped in keeping him happy and docile while he recovered, but Amelia was determined to look after him, especially with the white griffin still out there somewhere. The young wyvern liked her company so much that when it had been time for her to take her turn at the twilight watch, he’d tried to climb up to the crow’s nest with her. Harold had offered again to take over her watch, and she’d had to take him up on the offer, just to keep the injured wyvern from climbing and risking reopening his wounds. She didn’t like to feel as if she was shirking her duties, though, and stayed on deck out of solidarity with Harold. And so, with the last of the light fading out, she sat out on the deck
with her legs curled under her, the young wyvern leant against her side and purring softly. He kept dribbling on the hem of her skirt (enough to make her worry a little about flammability, but not enough to push him away), and she still thought him very ugly, but he had been so brave. It made her ashamed to remember her mean thoughts about the wyverns before, when she had planned for Captain Dunnager to lure one of them to its death so that it could take the place of the eagle soul.

Above them, the enormous pillar of rock stretched up into the night sky, its jagged peak black against indigo and reaching high above the remnants of the conjured fog. Amelia had quite deliberately chosen to sit with her back to it, finding it all too ominous in the night, especially with the anciently appointed time of revelation fast approaching. She had her spell book open on her lap, lit by a small light spell that bobbed and wavered with her concentration, but it was all a pretence – instead she watched the stars, and thought about the sheer grandness of the world.

Harold’s loud and startled swearing broke the peace and quiet, making Amelia jump. Her light spell bounced across the deck, and the wyverns howled. “Did you see?” Harold yelled over their racket.

Amelia looked round, fear prickling her spine, and saw… The entire top half of the tower was gone – it had simply vanished without so much as a sound. “What happened?” Her first thought was to blame the Black Queen, but… no, it couldn’t be. Even if the top half of the tower had simply become invisible (and she knew from her own dire experience that there was nothing
simple
about invisibility) the magic it would take to hide half a mountain beggared belief. She stared anyway, willing common sense and determination to pierce illusion. Instead, she found herself staring at the stars, and the perfect, round, shining white of the moon above the table-top flatness of the cut-off tower. The Dragon’s Moon.

“It just went.” Harold sounded quite dazed. “Just like that. I never… I was lookin’ straight at it, and then it was gone.”

Amelia thought suddenly of the ornately carved gateway and the informative stone books, and what else might have transformed in the moonlight. “Come down from there, quick!” she shouted up to Harold. “I’m going to fetch Meg.”

~

Captain Dunnager, physically, mentally and spiritually taxed by the unnatural effort of flying the
Storm Chaser,
refused to fly over the flat surface of the new top of the tower. Meg promised it would be quite safe, and cursed the Captain’s superstition and stubbornness when he would not be moved on the topic, but Amelia was rather glad of it. Meg couldn’t know everything, as much as she tried. And as much of a strop as she might get into, she couldn’t force the Captain to fly where he feared to do so. Instead, he insisted on letting Amelia and her companions down on the same ledge as before, and from there they’d have to hurry on foot to reach the gateway. Or at least, the place they hoped the gateway would be.

“Wretched cloud-addled manchild,” Meg muttered to herself as they made their way along the winding and precarious path. “Black Queen on our heels all the way, you’d think he’d know how we’re pressed for time.
And
it’s going to rain. That’s what you get for fooling around with the weather – Mother Nature certainly doesn’t thank you for meddling in her business, no matter your reasons.”

The fine spit of rain already danced in the air, cooling the late summer evening. Amelia was more concerned about the possibility of the white griffin swooping in out of nowhere again, picking them off easily from the exposed side of the tower, one by one. She paused a moment to look up at the top of the rock wall – it still loomed high above their heads, but she knew it was nothing in comparison to the full height of the tower. In the monochrome light, the carvings in the rock looked eerily real. As they passed a huge carved dragon head jutting out from the rock face, familiar from their previous trip to the tower, Amelia knew they would come to the gateway very soon. Just as well, because if the Black Queen was anywhere close by, she’d be hard pressed not to notice the latest development. They’d all been hoping that the Black Queen and her companions might not have been able to read the esoteric language on the stone pages, and so might not know the significance of the Dragon’s Moon, but the yellow-sailed skyship surely wouldn’t have gone very far. Sooner or later one of their crew must happen to look up and see that half of the great tower had vanished into thin air.

“Here! Come and see!” Harold called from up ahead.

“All right, all right, keep it down, boy,” Meg grumbled. “We’re right behind you.”

By the light of the Dragon’s Moon, the opening in the rock face was no illusion. The gateway they’d seen before had transformed from a shallow alcove to an open archway in a high wall, leading into a garden. In the deep velvet black shadows, the beautifully carved fruit trees that over-arched the entrance appeared to blend gracefully into an avenue of real trees, leaves rustling gently in the evening breeze. Harold stood in its shadow, eager to go on but uncertain of the magic at play in this place.

Amelia, listening to her instincts, took him by the hand and walked right in, displaying considerably more bravery than she felt.

Meg stopped halfway in, and as if she hadn’t a care in the world, sniffed the white blossoms that perfumed the air around the trees. “Dragon apple blossoms,” she said, and grinned. “Percival, look. I thought those carvings were dragon apple trees, and I hoped it was a good sign, and here we are…” Amelia had to admit the blossoms smelled enticing, but she felt just the same mix of fear and eagerness that Harold so obviously did, and wanted more to see where the avenue led. Then Meg pulled herself together, and hurried them all onwards.

Plants Amelia had never seen before – not even in books – lined the borders. Silvery blooms opened to turn their faces eagerly towards the moon, soft fluffy seed-heads nodding amongst them. Past the dragon apple trees, the shady scented pathway opened up onto a moonlit clearing. The rocky path wound away into the waves of velvety silver grass rippling faintly in the wind. Tall trees rose up here and there, boughs spreading over pathway and benches to offer travellers shade during the heat of the day, and somewhere out of view, water murmured.

Meg gasped at the sight of it. In the glow of the Dragon’s Moon, the wonder in her eyes made her look twenty years younger. “It’s just like they said it would be,” she whispered. “Look! The jade temple!” And she pointed to where the land swelled gently into a hill in the far distance. Amongst the dark, feathery trees, Amelia could just about make out a pale building. But the path split off in several directions, and clearly the carefully tended gardens had been meant to be seen by whoever had the wisdom and tenacity to find them. Who knew what treasures they held? Amelia wished she could wander the gardens at her leisure, the heavy perfume of its flowers luring her, lulling her into unwary calm.

“Mind the snapdragons,” said Meg. Amelia didn’t move fast enough, and Meg grabbed her by the shoulders, pulling her back to the middle of the path. “No, I mean it!
Mind
the
snapdragons
!” There was a loud click from the leafy border close to Amelia’s ankles, quickly growing into a swarm. Tiny wingless dragons, their bodies covered with glowing pearly shells, snapped and hissed from amongst the flowerbeds as the intruders passed by.

Although the gardens appeared to be deserted, Amelia hadn’t forgotten Percival’s description of the army of gardeners. Over the centuries, the gardens had been so carefully preserved that she believed that must be one part of the myth which hadn’t been exaggerated for effect. Where were all those gardeners though? She scanned the shadows of trees and bushes, expecting at any turn to find watchful figures hiding there, and whether she imagined it or not, she felt eyes on her every move. “What now?” she asked, dreading the answer.

Meg apparently didn’t suffer from the same fear of watchful eyes upon her, as she roamed the moonlit gardens with a childlike look of wonder still on her face. “Temple,” she said, decisively. There was no doubting her conviction on that, at least. “That’s where your prize is, my girl. Oh, mercy! I almost forgot!” And without further explanation, she turned and hurried back the way they’d come. “You need your Warship!” she called over her shoulder.

“What?”

“Tallulah.” Meg stopped and sighed dramatically. “Because you started out in the snailcastletank, you have to… I mean, by the rules of the game, that means she’s… Oh, damn it all. It never did make much sense to me, but trust me, please?”

~

Back on the landing ledge, the cool pinpricks of rain in the air had turned to drizzly haze, soaking into their clothes and hair. The slick wet rock made unloading the dormant giant snail all the more hazardous, particularly in the dark, but Meg insisted they make their journey back into the gardens as soon as they could. When the Dragon’s Moon set again, the magical portal might disappear for another month, and they couldn’t afford to lose the time, not with the Black Queen still prowling somewhere out there. Worse, Meg warned them she had no idea what might happen if they were still inside the gardens when the moon set.

Amelia still didn’t really understand what any of this had to do with snails, and said as much.

“We talked about this right at the beginning, Amelia dear,” said Meg, more concerned with the giant snail’s safety as they established her on the rocky path. Tallulah seemed to be still half-asleep and moving ponderously, even for a snail. “The Queen needs a cohort made up of a Mage, a Paladin, a Commander and a Warship. And that’s the bare minimum. In your case, since we can’t afford a grand army, your cohort consists of me, your Harold, Sir Percival and Tallulah. You can’t go and fetch your prize without us – it’s the rules.” Tallulah’s eye stalks extended slowly, looking around with sleepy interest. Despite her long sleep and the late hour, she began to perk up in the cool drizzle.

“I have to take Tallulah into the gardens with me?” Amelia didn’t think the giant snail would be a well-received visitor to the beautiful, manicured gardens. She could all too clearly envision that tireless army of gardeners coming out of the woodwork armed with hoes and trowels and shears.

“Yes,” said Meg. “You can ride her up to the gateway, and from thereon in, I think she can just about fit the avenue and the path.”

“I have to
ride
the snail?”

Surely it had to be an ill-timed joke at Amelia’s expense, but Meg’s expression was not that of a woman making a joke. “We don’t have a proper saddle, but Tallulah’s hardly a racehorse, and we can rig something to make sure you’re secure up there.” Percival had arrived with what looked suspiciously like the snail’s harness, and Meg set to work putting it on Tallulah with his help. They got it done quickly, and Harold gave Amelia a leg up to the top.

“Mind the spikes, now,” Meg warned, helping Amelia disentangle her skirts from the vicious spines of the snail’s shell.

“Oh, this is silly,” Amelia protested weakly from atop her unconventional mount. Through their long journey by snailcastletank, she’d swiftly grown accustomed to the size of the two snails. Now, looking down over the curve of the seven foot high shell, the shock of it struck her all over again. She felt faint, and prayed she wouldn’t actually swoon. Despite Meg’s continued assurances that she’d be safe enough in the makeshift saddle as the snail began to move on up the cliff-side path, every sway and jolt of the enormous shell was magnified by the terrible drop over the edge of the path. “Are you sure this is really necessary?”

“Not for certain,” said Meg. “But better safe than sorry. They’re a wretched stupid set of rules, but safer to stick to them as much as we can. Those who set the rules are the worst kind of pompous hidebound jackasses you can imagine, and dangerous with it. Now straighten your backbone and grip with your knees, like I told you.”

Amelia did as she was told, and didn’t complain again. “Oh! Wait, wait!” she tugged sharply on the reins Meg had put in her hands, and Tallulah came to a halt. “Before we go back to the gardens, there’s something I want to fetch from the cabin.”

~

Meg didn’t hide her scornful doubt as to what use Stupid would be at the temple, but Amelia argued that if they ran into the Black Queen and her troops, they would need all the help they could get. If nothing else he lit their way nicely, as Amelia – still on snailback – held his gilded cage aloft.