Nightpool (7 page)

It was there, yes. The mark of the dragon.
They were pleased, and awed.

“He is shivering,” said Pixen. “He has no
fur to warm him.”

The foxes stared at Pixen, then began to
turn around in little circles, close to Teb. They lay down, one
then another, close all around him and over him, across his legs,
his stomach, his chest, their bushy tails curled around him. And so
they warmed him. One vixen, small and young, nuzzled her nose into
the hollow of his neck. Soon he slept quietly, sprawled and
abandoned in pure warmth. They sniffed at him with their thin foxy
noses and watched him with humor and curiosity, then slept
themselves, lightly, alert for noises in the tunnels, guarding as
well as warming the prince. But then near dawn they all slipped
away, and he was quite alone when he woke.

*

He had no notion how long he had slept or
what time of day it might be. It was absolutely dark, for the
candle had burned down and gone out. He fumbled in the pack for
another, all the time frowning and trying to remember something. A
dream? A warm dream, wonderfully cozy, as he used to feel when he
was small and his mother cuddled him. But what the dream had been,
exactly, he could not remember.

He thought the cave smelled different, a
pungent, sharp scent. Was there some creature in here with him? He
struck flint and lit the candle quickly. But the cave was empty. He
dug out the old candle butt and placed the new one in the
holder.

He made a meal of cold mutton and boiled
roots. There was also jerky in the pack, and bread and cheese. And
eight more candles, he saw with relief. He mustn’t burn one tonight
though—he must make everything last as long as he could. I will be
out by tonight, he thought, on the coast. He could almost smell the
salt of the bay. He felt rested now and eager to get on.

He would have to go back through the narrow
tunnels, start at the great cave, and go through the hall of
pillars in order to get to the western gate. But first he would go
to the high caves and have a look at Sivich’s camp. It seemed much
longer than one night since he had sat chained to the oak sapling
and drunk from its roots. Where were Garit and Pakkna now? Had they
gotten away? Were Sivich’s men following them? Or had they come to
the caves?

He did up the pack, shouldered it, slung on
the waterskin, then left the little cave to find the spiral tunnel
that led to the upper caves. The walls were not carved here but
rough, of a reddish stone and wet where springs leaked down,
reflecting the lamplight.

When he stood at last in the highest cave,
looking out its thin slit of window, the sun hung half up the
eastern sky, at midmorning. Below and to the north lay the site of
Sivich’s camp, empty now, the circle of grass darker where it had
been trampled into the wet earth, a black scar in the center where
the campfire had burned. Three dark thin lines led away, the
tracery of muddied trails across the clear green grass. One was
their own trail, going off toward the ridge. A second followed
beside it, as if the trackers had kept the first trail clear, for
the jackals to scent along.

The widest trail led away north toward
Baylentha, just as Garit had expected. As Teb stood watching the
land, he heard a soft noise behind him in the passage, and whirled
to look. He saw nothing. Maybe rats, he thought. It came again, a
brushing sound very like the wings of a jackal.

He slipped the knife out of the pack and
backed into a shadowed corner where the light from the slit window
was dimmest. He watched the twisting corridor and the cluster of
small arches for a long time, but nothing moved there, and the
sound did not come again. Probably only rats. Jackals would already
have attacked.

Then when he returned to the wriggling
tunnel at last, to make his way back toward the entry and the great
cave, his nerve failed him. If he were trapped in there by the
jackals attacking from behind him or at his face, there would be no
way to fight them.

But they couldn’t have come through; it was
too narrow for them.

He took off his clothes and stowed them in
the pack, tied the chain tightly around his leg, tied pack and
waterskin to the cord and the other end around his waist. Then,
knife in one hand and lamp in the other, he lay down and slid into
the tunnel.

He wriggled through faster this time. Soon
he was out of it, the ordeal behind him, and no sight or sound of
the jackals. Only the crawling tunnel remained ahead, and already
he could see daylight filtering in. He dressed and went on.

He reached the great cave again, and again
held his lamp up. There was power here that drew him, and again in
the flicking light all the animals seemed to come alive, the
unicorn and foxes, the great wolves and the big cats, the badger
hermits and the winging owls and the laughing, gamboling otters. He
had no notion how long he had stood looking when he heard again a
small shuffling, then a stone dislodged behind him somewhere near
Nison-Serth’s entrance. He spun just in time to catch the flash of
a small pale shape vanishing beyond the cave door.

It was too small to frighten him, but far
bigger than any rat. He followed it, skirting the tall boulders
that made the passage wall, then stood staring down the passage and
into the four caves he could see. Nothing moved. He started to turn
away, and then quite suddenly there were pale creatures all around
him come out of the caves like magic, come out of the
shadows—foxes, kit foxes crowding all around him, standing on their
hind legs to touch him and stare at him. “Tebriel,” they barked.
“You are Tebriel.” He fell to his knees and put out his arms, and
they crowded close—pale silver foxes, their faces narrow and jaunty
and sly, their sharp little mouths open with laughter, their bushy
tails waving, a dozen kit foxes as innocent and laughing and
welcome as anything a boy could have dreamed. “We welcome you,
Tebriel, Tebriel of Auric,” barked the largest dog fox, who surely
was their leader. He nuzzled Teb, and stood laughing.

“Yes, I am Tebriel. How did you know?” He
hugged and petted them. They were warm and sleek, silky and soft.
They licked his face and hands, their teeth as white as new snow,
their dark eyes so filled with merriment that Teb laughed out loud
and drank in their sharp, foxy smell.

While he crouched there with them, laughing
with them for no reason and for every reason, for the sheer delight
of their meeting, another fox appeared alone at the portal, a
silhouette against the morning sky, a lone sentinel. She yapped
once, then ran to them.

“The riders come along the ridge,” she
panted. “They have
jackals!
Stinking
jackals!
” She
went directly to sit before the big dog fox. “The riders follow the
boy, as you said they would, Pixen.”

Pixen reared and stood looking around him.
“Quickly, into the tunnel of pillars, into the southern den.”

The foxes leaped and pushed at Teb. He ran
with them, the light from his lantern swinging in arcs along the
cave walls until Pixen barked, “Put the light out.” Teb stopped and
blew out the candle. He could see nothing, and was propelled ahead,
stumbling, by the foxes pressing and urging him on.

“Left!” Pixen cried. “Left, and duck. Crawl
through, Tebriel, quickly. Squeeze through; it’s not far.”

He did as he was told, crouched, then found
he must go on his belly. He pushed pack and lamp and waterskin in
first, could feel the foxes behind him pressing him on. The stone
scraped his back, and he thought he would be terrified again; then,
as suddenly as it had started, the crawl was ended.

“Stand up, Tebriel. You can stand. But do
not light the lamp. We will lead you.”

The foxes pressed against his legs and
pushed him forward like a tide. Though Pixen said he could walk
upright, he kept feeling above him for the cave’s roof, for the way
was narrow and close, a long, twisting way before the cave began to
grow lighter. Then they pushed through a small arch, with light
ahead of them, and stood in the huge, light, echoing hall of
pillars, though they had come by a different route from the one Teb
knew. Pointed pillars of stone grew from the ceiling and from the
floor, awash in light from the slitted windows along a high
ledge.

“We are safe,” Pixen said. “They can’t get
in—the larger entry is blocked with boulders, has been for nearly a
year. Sivich will not find us here.”

“How did you know about Sivich? How did you
know my name?”

“Everyone knows about Sivich, and about
Quazelzeg and his plans for Tirror. And as for you, Tebriel, we
knew you by your scent.

“You and the queen and king, and Camery,
used to picnic in the caves. We watched you often from the shadows,
and followed when you explored.

“Last night when your little band of six
passed close to us in the dark, we knew your scent, and Pakkna’s
scent, and we followed you.

“We heard Garit’s instructions. Both sets of
them,” Pixen said, grinning.

“Why didn’t you speak to us, when we came on
picnics?”

“We saw no need to. We thought it best to
remain . . . shy.” Pixen turned from Teb and began to
pace, his bushy tail flicking with heavy grace each time he turned.
His shining coat was the color of wood ashes, very long and thick,
with little silver guard hairs mixed in. His throat and chest were
snowy white. The insides of his ears, when he stood against the
light, shone pale pink. The only dark thing about him was his
eyes—they were almost black and filled with a devilish,
challenging, and complicated gleam.

“Even if we had not recognized your scent,
Tebriel, there would still be the mark to tell us.”

“You have sharp eyes. And what
. . . ?”

“We saw the mark last night,” Pixen
interrupted. “While you slept.”

Teb stared.

Pixen was filled with laughter. “Were you
cold last night, Tebriel? Did you sleep soundly?”

“I don’t think I was cold. No, I was so
tired . . .” Teb paused. “No, not cold at all. Warm. I
was . . .” Then he realized that it was their strong foxy
scent that he had smelled in the cave when he woke. He stared at
the foxes, for they were all laughing now. “It was you there! All
of you—keeping me warm last night!” Now he could remember very well
the feel of warm fur covering him, and he was laughing, too. “But
why did you go away?” That only made them laugh harder, a soft,
yapping laughter.

“Now,” said Pixen at last, “you must tell us
the rest of the story. There is much we do not understand. If we
are to help you, we must know what the trouble is about.”

“It—it started with the birthmark,” Teb
said. “Well, with the dragon, really.”

“The dragon?” the foxes breathed, looking at
him with wonder. “What kind of dragon?” said one. “Is there a
dragon?” said another. The foxes gathered around him just as he and
Camery used to settle to hear their mother tell a tale.

As he told them about the night in the hall
when Sivich learned of the dragon, and how Sivich meant to snare
it, their expressions grew serious, then angry, and Pixen said,
“The dark raiders must be stopped. The dragon must not be harmed;
no trap must touch the goddess, and there is little time.”

“The goddess?” Teb said.

“The dragon they saw is female,” Pixen said.
“By her color, she is female. The male is dark. She is a goddess,
Teb, to us all.”

“But goddesses aren’t . . .
They’re just in stories. Folk don’t believe in—”

“We call her goddess,” Pixen said, “even
though she is mortal. The dragons guarded the freedom of the old
times, Tebriel. Through their songs, they helped folk relive the
lives of their ancestors. When a dragon and bard came into a city,
crowds would gather to hear them. Their songs made Time seem like a
river, carrying scenes bright with the lives of those who had lived
before. It was by dragon magic that one knew how wars had been
fought, and men conquered and then freed. It was by dragonsong that
folk were helped to understand the nature of evil, and so to
understand goodness, too. But you . . .” The kit fox
broke off, and studied Teb. “What is your age, Tebriel?”

“I am twelve.”

“And you have been alone for four
years?”

“My mother has been dead for five years. My
father the king for four. Sivich murdered him. Camery—Camery is
captive, in the tower.”

“And you have lived as the slave of
Sivich?”

Teb nodded.

“And your mother told you nothing of the
dragons? Nor did your father?”

“I—my mother said they were filled with
wonder and power. She thought there weren’t any singing dragons
left on Tirror, and that made her angry and . . . I don’t
know. Sad, I guess.”

“She told you nothing more?”

“No. She—”

But Pixen had turned away as a noise and
stirring at the entrance distracted them all, and two foxes leaped
in through the tunnel.

“They have come into Nison-Serth,” said the
smaller, a young vixen. “The jackals are horrible. Nosing
everywhere and snuffling, and flapping . . .
disgusting.”

“I want four messengers,” Pixen said, “to go
quickly down into Ratnisbon, to Ebis the Black, to carry a message
for his ears alone. Mixet, Brux, Faxel. . . and yes, you
may go, Luex. I would not send Faxel without you. Now come, let me
give you the message.

“You are to tell Ebis the Black that Sivich
builds a huge trap on the coast of Baylentha, to capture the
singing dragon. You will tell him that Sivich means either to hold
her captive or to kill her. Sivich must be stopped, and Ebis is the
only one who can stop him. You will not say you have seen Tebriel
or know where—” He stopped speaking and cocked his ears. They all
could hear it. Hoofbeats above their heads, across stone, as
searchers rode over the great stone spine of the mountain.