Dragonwitch (7 page)

He followed his nose, which was as good a guide as any, sniffing out anything atypical. In pursuit of one such scent he approached the door of what proved to be a library and glanced inside. He beheld the castle chronicler—a short fellow recognizable by his ink stains—sitting on a high stool drawn up beside the table, speaking guidance in a low voice to a pupil. A female pupil, the cat noted with some surprise.

He regarded the tableau a moment, his nose hard at work. He smelled anger on the Chronicler, which puzzled him a little. Still more puzzling was the other scent, a strong emotion closely akin to sorrow. Given time, it might very well overwhelm the anger. The cat smelled it, and he saw more in the Chronicler's stance: The care with which he guided his pupil, care that was nearer to fear than affection.

Then the cat caught a glance (so swift none but a cat's eyes would have seen it) the girl gave the Chronicler beside her. That glance told him all he needed to know about that little scene.

But none of this answered his question, so he moved on, leaving behind the library and continuing through the castle.

He stopped suddenly as a nasty funk, stronger even than the stink of mortality that pervaded the Near World, struck his senses. His hackles rose, and he growled in his throat, a sound that sent all rats and mice in the vicinity rushing for the safety of their holes. But the cat did not hunt them.

He turned and slipped quietly up a flight of stairs, led by a thin line of rankness in the air. It took him into a set of private chambers, and he crept quietly to the doorway of a young man's room.

The young man sat pale at his window, wrapped in fleeces though the sun shone fully upon his face. His face was pleasant enough but scored with dark circles beneath the eyes, which gazed unseeing upon the landscape of Gaheris's grounds.

He reeked of nightmares.

The cat padded into the room, his tail high and curled at the tip, though his nose urged flight from the stink. He rubbed against the young lord's leg, startling him so that he gave a small gasp.

“Oh. Hullo, cat,” said Alistair, looking down and smiling wanly. “Is there a rat about? Find it if you can. I don't want it gnawing my boots in the night.”

With that and a (the cat thought) condescending pat on the head, the young man rose and left the room, dropping his fleece on the floor as he went. The stink of nightmares dissipated.

“Well, that's no help,” said the cat to himself. Gaheris was certainly ripe with enigma. But nothing yet confirmed a new gate opening from the Between.

The cat explored more rooms and passages. At last he moved on to the courtyard, pausing on the doorstep to look around. It was strangely quiet for the time of day. The only person in view was an old scrubber, who creaked on his hands and knees as he ran a damp, dirty rag over the marble doorstep of a magnificent mausoleum.

At sight of the mausoleum, the cat uttered a triumphant, “Ah yes!”

Stepping daintily down the steps, he hurried across the way and sat behind the scrubber, studying the closed doorway of the Gaheris family crypt. The scrubber, hitherto unaware of his presence, paused in his work and, frowning, looked around. He smiled then and dropped his rag to put out a hand, rubbing his fingers together in invitation. “Kitty kitty?”

The cat put his ears back, glaring at the scrubber. The scrubber's eyes smiled through their wrinkles, and he made coaxing chirrups. But the cat turned up his nose and darted back across the yard, disappearing back into the castle.

The scrubber sat awhile looking after him, his face as inscrutable as a walnut shell. Then he returned to wiping down the stone. He muttered to himself, and any who might have overheard him would have recognized the words:

“Sometimes you have to run away

To win the final fight.”

“So there is a new gate trying to open on our watch, and I need you to keep an eye on it while I'm gone.”

Dame Imraldera—Knight of the Farthest Shore, Lady of the Haven, and keeper of the greatest library in the known worlds—did not bother to look up from her work but went right on writing. She was copying a narrative prophecy from a disintegrating parchment into a sturdy bound tome, and it was an interesting piece involving a princess, a garden of thorns, and a sleeping enchantment. Having once fallen prey to a sleeping enchantment herself, Imraldera found the foretold fate of the princess in question quite engrossing.

“Very well. Safe travels,” she called absently over her shoulder, dipped her quill, and prepared to start the next line.

A hand slapped down and blocked her page.

“Oh, have a care, Eanrin! Look, you've made me blotch it.” Shooing the offending hand away, Imraldera grabbed a rag and did her best to soak up the damage. Too late. The stain, though not large, was definite, marring her careful, scrolling script.

Exasperated, Imraldera rubbed a hand down her face and turned to the man beside her. He flashed her a grin so brilliant, it would have dazzled the eyes of all but the most hardhearted observer. Imraldera, unfortunately, was far too used to that smile and the devilry it usually masked, to succumb to dazzlement. She scowled in return.

“So sorry, old girl,” Eanrin said, carefully wiping a speck of ink from one of his long white fingers. “Didn't get the impression you were listening, and I wanted to be sure I had your ear.”

“I was listening.” Imraldera flipped the last few pages to see how far the damage had soaked. “You said something about something, and now I'm going to have to take the spine apart and remove at least three pages. All that work!”

“I most certainly did say something about something.” The cat-man stepped out of her way as she slid from her stool and stormed past him to retrieve various book-binding tools from a nearby chest. “And you'd do
well to heed me! I said there's a new gate opening up. A death-house gate, what's more, and probably dangerous.”

Kneeling at her chest, Imraldera paused, the lid partially upraised. She looked around, and Eanrin could see her ire slowly giving way to curiosity. “A death-house gate? What is that? It sounds dreadful.”

“Sounds worse than it is,” Eanrin said, perching on her vacated stool, one leg bent, the other extending to balance himself. He moved with a feline grace as natural to his essence and being in this form as when he took the form of a cat. In place of a fur coat, he wore scarlet velvets and silks, a plumed and jaunty cap clutched in one hand, and a cloak secured with gold brooches swept back over his shoulder. He shrugged dismissively, though Imraldera could see he was eager to divulge what he knew.

“Sometimes in your mortal world,” he said, putting an emphasis on the
your
that Imraldera did not entirely appreciate, “dark places develop. For instance . . .” He cast about for an example, and his eye lit upon the blotting rag she'd been using a moment ago. He held it up so that the light from the window nearby shone through it, making it appear as delicate as a spider web, save for the dark stains of ink. “Say these dark patches are places in your world where the dead are gathered. What do you call those?”

“Graveyards. Tombs.” Imraldera shivered. “Houses of the dead.”

“Exactly. Those places lie very close to the Netherworld, closer than most Faeries ever come. And it stains the fabric of the mortal realm so those death-houses are not quite like the rest anymore.” Eanrin jabbed a finger at one of the ink spots. “During times of death, a gate can open, and a dangerous gate at that.”

“And you say one is opening on our watch?” Imraldera dropped the lid of her chest and stood, crossing her arms as she faced Eanrin. “Where?”

“A little up the way, beyond the bamboo grove. A Faerie Circle's grown up that could lead, I do believe, to the North Country and Castle Gaheris. Nothing to worry about on its own; it might never come to anything. But,” and the cat-man's bright face grew serious, however momentarily, “I think someone might be trying to force it open.”

“Who?” said Imraldera.

Eanrin shrugged again. “Whoever it is, he left caorann berries all over the place, undoing whatever enchantments he might have used. I can't get a trace
of him.” He smiled again, swinging his leg back and forth until Imraldera thought the stool might tip right over. “I do say, my girl, that long face of yours could curdle milk! Didn't I tell you it's nothing to worry about?”

“You said it could be dangerous, Eanrin. A dangerous new gate opening on our watch.”

“Could be. But won't be. We have to check it, and if it ever fully grows, make certain it stays locked.” He hopped down from the stool then and approached Imraldera, who stared down at the floor, her brow deeply furrowed. He reached out and playfully tapped her chin. “Not to worry, little princess. You've certainly seen worse than Faerie Circles. You'll be fine while I'm gone.”

Imraldera jerked her face away, rolling her eyes, though she had long since given up trying to convince her comrade-in-arms that she was no princess. Changing a cat's mind once it had fixed upon an idea was about as possible as changing the dance patterns of the stars. She watched Eanrin set his hat on his head at a rakish angle, but he was nearly to the door before she said, “Gone? Wait a moment, where are you going?”

“Ah, so you
weren't
listening.” He paused at the door and grinned back at her. “I'm off to Rudiobus and the court of my good King Iubdan and fair Queen Bebo. I've not seen the Hall of Red and Green since we came to this Haven, and it's high time the Merry Folk heard the golden tones of my dulcet voice ringing once more through the mountain corridors!”

“But . . . but you can't just leave,” Imraldera protested. Though she had received her knighthood and entered the service of the Farthest Shore at the same time as Eanrin, she had not lived in the Between or known the ways of the Far World for nearly as long, having been born a mortal. Ever since establishing her place in the Haven and this library, she had relied on her fellow knight and his cheeky confidence, not to mention his knowledge of those things that seemed so strange to her but were as natural to him as night and day. Indeed, she needed him (though she might well have died before admitting as much).

She stood now, her frown lost in an expression of openmouthed worry that she battled to disguise behind another frown. “You have a duty, Eanrin,” she said. “A duty to the Farthest Shore, to the Lumil Eliasul. You cannot leave all this behind and return to Rudiobus!”

Eanrin continued to smile, though more gently now. “There, there. Is that what you fear? That I'd abandon you?” For a moment he almost recrossed the room to reach out to take her hand. It was a foolish moment, and he stopped himself by a firm grip on the doorpost. “I'll be gone only a short while. You'll not even notice I'm missing! I'm not giving up my knighthood or our work. But I am Iubdan's Chief Poet, and I can't ignore my duty to Rudiobus. Besides,” and here his eyes twinkled with redoubled mischief, “I'm certain my Lady Gleamdren has come to miss me while I'm gone. You wouldn't want me to drop my suit now, would you?”

“Oh. Yes. Lady Gleamdren.” Imraldera returned to her desk and picked up her quill with the same aggression with which she might have unsheathed a blade. “I wish you the best of luck in your wooing, Sir Eanrin, and will see to it that our watch is well tended in your absence.”

Eanrin eyed her carefully, searching for something in that irked face of hers. Jealousy, perhaps, though he couldn't quite convince himself that he saw it. He sighed a little but waved nonchalantly. “Everything is locked and safe for the time being. Be sure to watch that new gate. Cheery-bye, old girl! Try to miss me a wee bit.”

With that, he was gone.

Imraldera took her seat before her work and toyed with the quill in her hand. The Haven had been her home for some time now. (Quite how much time, she couldn't begin to guess, for time was an inconsistent element in the Between, timeless though most considered it.) And she was used to being on her own, having grown up solitary and silent with only her baby sister for company. Lumé above, how long ago that seemed now!

She sighed and opened the book again to see if the blotting was as bad as she'd thought. Possibly she'd only need to remove a single page after all, not several. Dragons take that cat and his games!

Intent upon her work, Imraldera almost missed the sound of footsteps until they drew quite near her library door. Surprised, she sat up and turned around. The light falling through the library window was so bright that it was difficult to see into the shadows by the doorway. But she knew who it must be. None but a Knight of the Farthest Shore could enter the Haven uninvited.

“So you're back already?” she said. “That was fast! Or did you forget something?”

“No, I don't think I've forgotten anything,” said a strange voice. “And it's been a long while, actually.”

Imraldera was off her stool and crouched behind the desk in a second, grabbing her penknife as her nearest weapon. Her heart ramming in her throat, she stared into those shadows, trying to force her eyes to see what they could not. She did not struggle long, however.