Land of the Silver Dragon (7 page)

It was a rare delight to have my father to myself. Walking along side by side, we talked incessantly. He works so hard, and makes such strenuous efforts to care for and protect his family, that the deep, thoughtful side to his character is easily missed. A man like Lord Gilbert, for example, would doubtless think that his favourite eel catcher's head is as empty of anything other than the basics of day-to-day life as his own. Not many people know of my father's true nature, and I'm only thankful that I am one of them.

My father spoke of Alvela. I had assumed, since he had rarely seen his late sister and did not appear to have much to say to her when he did, that they had not been close; not in the way that he and Edild are. Alvela, I had always thought, was of the same level of importance as my father's two elder brothers: all three kin, and therefore always linked to him through the blood, but not necessarily people with whom he chose to spend his small, precious amount of free time. To hear him speak of his youngest sibling – Alvela was marginally the younger of the twins – made me appreciate that love takes many forms. Through his eyes, I saw the nervous, tense woman I knew as my aunt as she'd been when a girl, worrying because she could not grasp things as quickly as her sister. I saw her as a young adult, secretly in love with the flint knapper who would become her husband, and desperate because she believed he hadn't even noticed the self-effacing girl who adored him from afar.

I think that sharing his memories with me was my father's way of grieving for her. My mother hadn't liked Alvela – they just didn't get on – and I imagine that my father's tender reflections would have received short shrift at home. When finally he fell silent, I saw him wipe tears from his face. I gave him a moment to recover, then quietly reached out and took his hand.

Once or twice, as we walked and talked, I felt as if part of me was trying to catch my attention. Trying, perhaps, to warn me. I ignored it. I was with my big, strong father. No harm could possibly come to me when he was there to protect me.

Gurdyman did not seem surprised to see me. After a short pause, he opened the door in answer to my knock, his round face smiling, his eyes bright. I detected a faint aroma about him: musk, I thought. We had clearly disturbed him in the middle of some preparation or experiment down in his crypt. He ushered us along to his sunny little courtyard, and bade us both sit down on the bench while he fetched refreshments.

‘You are welcome to stay with us overnight and journey back in the morning,' he said to my father as he poured out a mug of frothy, fragrant ale.

‘Thank you, but I must return before nightfall,' my father replied. He paused to take a long draught of the ale. ‘That's
good
,' he murmured. He glanced at me, then at Gurdyman. ‘There has been some trouble,' he said briefly. ‘Lassair will explain, but, in short, I'd not rest happily tonight away from my family and my home.'

Gurdyman nodded. ‘As you wish. We will not detain you, then.'

My father wolfed down the meat pie that Gurdyman had set out, drained his ale, then stood up. Face to face with Gurdyman, who is not even my height, he looked taller than ever. ‘Look after her,' he said, his expression intent. ‘Your house is well-hidden, here in this maze of alleyways, and I am reassured by that, but ...' His voice trailed off and he shrugged, as if not sure how to go on.

‘Do not worry,' Gurdyman said calmly. ‘The old stones of my house have protected those within from many foes and evils over the years, and they will do so again.' He met my father's eyes, and I had the sense that something more than words passed between them. ‘Do not worry,' he said again. ‘While Lassair remains under my roof, she is safe.'

My father went on staring down at him for a moment. Then, nodding, he turned to me. He wrapped me in a bear hug, kissed the top of my head and murmured, ‘May the good Lord above look after you.' Without another word – he was, I guessed, finding this as painful as I was – he let me go, and hurried away up the passage towards the door.

Gurdyman went after him. I stood alone in the open court, surreptitiously wiping my eyes. By the time Gurdyman returned, I was ready. With a smile, I said, ‘I'll take my satchel and my bag up to my room, then I'll come down to the crypt to help you with whatever you're doing.'

He looked at me kindly, his eyes crinkled up with affection. ‘It is good to have you back, Lassair,' he said. ‘Already your enthusiasm fills this house like a stream of light. I appreciate your willingness to get straight down to work, but I think we shall take the rest of the afternoon off.' I began to protest, but he held up a hand. ‘We shall sit here together in the sunshine, finishing the food and this jug of rather fine ale, and you shall tell me what has so alarmed your father. I judge,' he added, seating himself in his big chair with a wince and a creak of bones, ‘that he is a man not easily thrown off his stride, and yet here he is, escorting you on a journey you have done many times by yourself.' He reached for his mug, took a drink and fixed his eyes on me. ‘Proceed,' he said, with a wave of the hand holding the mug. ‘I am listening.'

I obeyed, concentrating on doing as he had taught me: telling the tale in the right order, succinctly, yet leaving out none of the important facts. When I had finished, he studied me for a few moments. As I looked into his eyes, I had the strange yet certain sense that none of this was news to him.

Before I could put the suspicion into words, he was already responding to it.

‘Quite right!' He gave a delighted chuckle. ‘Indeed, I have been informed of these events. Well
done
, Lassair!' He chuckled again. ‘You are learning to trust your instincts. As I have so often told you, the more you do so, the more reliable your instincts will become.'

‘Who told you?' I demanded. One look at his smiling face informed me that he wasn't going to reveal his source, so I puzzled it out for myself. When I was sure, I said, ‘Hrype,' managing not to make it sound like a question.

‘Hrype,' Gurdyman agreed.

My self-congratulatory smugness was rudely interrupted by a frightening thought: if Hrype had been here in Cambridge telling Gurdyman about the deaths of Utta and Alvela, and the alarming attacks on the dwellings of my family, who had been back in Aelf Fen looking after Edild? Oh, and I'd been so sure; so happy, to think of Hrype slipping unnoticed into Edild's little house, protecting her with his strength and his strange powers!

Gurdyman waited patiently while these panicky thoughts ran their course. Then he said, ‘Child, do not underestimate Hrype. His presence is not necessarily required in order for a shield created by him to maintain its efficacy.'

My mind filled with questions. How could my aunt be kept safe, even by some magic shield of Hrype's, if she was left all alone? And what of my father, so desperate to protect those he loved, and who had been reassured – untruthfully, it now appeared – by his dear Edild that somehow she was being guarded? That question led straight to the next: did my father know about Hrype?
No, no, and you must not tell him!
came the instant reply, although I had no idea from where.

As I tried to frame the words to demand some answers, I sensed Gurdyman's resistance. I stared at him, and saw in his face that it was no good.

I could ask as many questions about Hrype as I liked. I wasn't going to get any response. With a resigned sigh, I got up and emptied the last of the ale into our mugs.

Gurdyman was watching me. He said, very softly, ‘Magical protection or not, Hrype would take no chances where your aunt is concerned. It is perfectly safe for him to leave her, for her nephew is still staying with her.'

Morcar! So he hadn't yet left Aelf Fen.

Despite the fact that I was already prepared to believe in Hrype's shielding powers – Gurdyman had a very persuasive way with him – all the same, it was good to know that Edild had a flesh-and-blood protector too.

I
n the morning, I woke refreshed and ready to work. Gurdyman had retired to his crypt the previous evening, and I knew he would be down there all night. He tells me he does sleep – he has a cot and blankets always set ready – but I have my doubts. He has a capacity for concentration that astounds me, and is able to keep going, without a break for food, drink or rest, for a length of time that one would have thought unendurable.

He had instructed me to come and find him when I was up, dressed and fed, and accordingly, once I had tidied away the remains of my breakfast, I trotted off through the house, heading towards the door that opens on to the alley, and, just before it on the left, the twisting passage leading to the steps down to the crypt.

The passage wasn't there. Where the arched entrance normally was, I found myself face to face with a blank wall. I stopped in amazement, totally confounded. Stupidly I put my hands up, feeling along the stonework, as if my fingers could find what my eyes could not see. What had happened? Where was the passage? Oh, dear Lord, where was Gurdyman? Had he somehow walled himself up in his crypt, destined to remain in that dark, deep, windowless place till he slowly starved to death?

I banged against the wall, fighting panic, listening for the hollow sound that would indicate an empty space on the far side. Nothing. I banged again, feeling a frantic sob rise in my throat. I drew a deep breath, preparing to shout, to scream.

There was a sharp click, and as if by magic the outline of a door appeared in the stones. The door opened, and Gurdyman's smiling face came into view. He swung the door fully open, pinning it back somehow so that it was no longer visible. He had put it, I guessed, in its usual position. Observant as I pride myself on being, I had never noticed it before.

He must have seen that I'd been alarmed, which is putting it mildly. He said, his face straightening, ‘I'm sorry, child. I did not mean to frighten you.' His smile crept back. ‘Did you think I had performed some powerful magic, Lassair? Some spell that made a door, doorway and passage vanish as if they had never been?'

Since it was exactly what I had thought, I made no reply.

He took pity on me, emerging from the arch of the doorway and coming to stand beside me. ‘Magic spells can achieve many things, child,' he said gently. ‘Making doorways disappear as if they had never been is not one of them, or, if it is, it's magic beyond anything I have ever heard of.' He patted me on the shoulder. ‘You're quite pale,' he observed. ‘You really were frightened, weren't you?'

I wondered if I should tell him the truth, and decided there was no reason not to. ‘I thought you'd somehow shut yourself in down there, with no means of escape,' I muttered. ‘I was terrified because I thought it was up to me to get you out, and I had no idea how to do it.'

There was dead silence. Then he said, ‘It would have distressed you, then, if old Gurdyman had carelessly managed to bring about his own demise?'

He was trying not to smile, but I saw no humour whatsoever in the situation. Rounding on him, tears pricking behind my eyelids, I cried, ‘
Of course
it would have distressed me! I really, really like you!'

It was a silly thing to say; the sort of thing a child would blurt out. I was already framing an apology, but then I caught the fleeting expression in his blue eyes.

He was touched. Very touched.

I wondered how long it was since anyone had told him they cared for him.

We were both embarrassed now. He was the first to recover. Taking my arm, he stepped back into the entrance to the passage and said briskly, ‘See, child, how the door is fastened, flat against the wall? You don't notice it unless you know it's there.' He undid the restraint, closing the door again, with us on the crypt side. ‘Now, from the other side it is as you just saw it: invisible. It is made of stout, thick oak, as you can see, and its outer side is covered with a thin facing of the same stones that form the wall. It
blends in
, do you see? And it can only be opened from this side.' He demonstrated.

‘Why?' I asked. ‘I can see how very effective it is, but why is it necessary?'

He frowned in concentration, as if the answer to my question needed thought. Then he said, ‘Do you remember, Lassair, that I once told you this old house of mine holds many secrets?' I nodded; it's something not easy to forget, if you're actually living in the house in question. ‘You will, I am sure, have noticed the peculiar layout.'

‘You mean the way the crypt isn't actually beneath the house?'

‘Exactly,' he said, beaming. ‘I
thought
you'd have spotted that,' he muttered. ‘I cannot claim to have designed that feature myself,' he went on, ‘for the house and its neighbours had stood here for many lifetimes before I took up residence. However, there came a moment when the opportunity arose for me to – ah – acquire the crypt beneath the house to our right –' he waved his arm to indicate – ‘and I did not hesitate. That dwelling was then temporarily vacant, and I was able to ensure it remained so while the modifications were carried out. My house, as you no doubt realize, fits in between its neighbours like a serpent weaving its way between rocks.'

It was not a description I liked – not for this house I'd come to love – and, besides, I was not primarily concerned with the
how
; what I was still burning to know was
why
. ‘So, you created access to a secret crypt that can be totally hidden from within your house,' I summarized. ‘For what purpose?'

He looked slightly impatient. ‘Why do you think, Lassair? You have been with me down there in the crypt; you have observed me working. Can you not see why it might be necessary to hide both the crypt and the work?'

I could; of course I could. ‘And also the wi— the person doing the work,' I added quietly. I'd almost said
wizard
, but I wasn't at all sure he'd like the epithet. Not on my lips, anyway, although I had heard him refer to himself thus, usually with a self-mocking smile.