Dragonwitch

  So the cat remained firmly upon his particular Path, scarcely looking to the right or to the left. The Wood was always shifting around him in any case, and he did not expect to see familiar landmarks, or at least not in familiar places. That boulder shaped like a rabbit’s head, for instance, had been a good mile or two back up the way when he’d been here last. And that tree, which last time had been split right down the middle as though by a bolt of lightning, was mostly mended now, the trunk knitting itself back together with threads of green ivy and pins of stout branches.

  Landmarks were of little use to the cat. He was interested only in the gates.

  He approached one of these now. To any mortal eye, it would look like nothing more than a thick cluster of bamboo standing in the middle of a fir grove. The firs were newcomers; the bamboo, however, remained ever in place.

  The cat sniffed at it, his pink nose twitching delicately. Then he put out a paw and touched one of the slender green stalks. It swayed under that slight pressure but sprang firmly back into place when the cat removed his paw.

  “Good,” said the cat. “Still locked.”

  Just as he’d expected it to be.

  He continued on his way.

  There were several hundred such gates to be checked on this patrol through the Wood Between; soft places, so to speak, in the fabric of reality. Places where those of the Far World could all too easily slip into the Near, wreaking havoc on mortal disbelief in Faerie tales and magic. Thus they must be locked, and those locks must be carefully guarded. So the cat followed the Path of his liege lord.

  Sometimes it still surprised him.

  For one thing, he’d never much cared for mortals and their problems. Immortal himself, he had spent countless ages of cheerful existence never once considering those who lived beyond the Between in the time-bound realm.

  And yet here he was. A knight. A defender of the weak, as it were. A minister of truth, advocate of justice, and who knew what other nonsense no self-respecting cat ever wanted to be!

  The cat shook his whiskers as he continued his trek. The Path opened up before him with each step, and the trees and ferns and underbrush drew back to make way. He tested another gate and another after that. All locked. All safe.

  The fact was he could no longer claim to be entirely indifferent to mortals.

  “Dragons blast it,” he muttered. “I warned you, didn’t I, Eanrin? Get involved, and you’ll find yourself caring. Then there’s no end to the mischief!” He flattened his ears at this thought. He could blame no one but himself for his present circumstances. He had chosen this lot. Or he thought he had. Often he felt a little unclear on that score.

  Often he felt that knighthood had been chosen for him against all his best efforts.

  A certain smell tugged at the cat’s nose. Or rather, not a smell but an unknown sensation whispering to an unknown sense, earnest and quiet and dangerous.

  At first the cat ignored it. But within a few more paces, it had strengthened until his nose twitched and his tail flicked and his whole cattish being could no longer deny what he was sensing. He could only hope he was mistaken.

  “But when has that ever happened?” he asked himself with typical feline shortness of memory.

  He turned and, stepping carefully, pursued a small Path that opened off his regular track. Very soon he found what he’d expected.

  “Light of Lumé,” he growled, then sighed heavily. “Not another one.”

  Before him lay a circle of white stones that shone out brightly against a bed of dark moss. Even a mortal might have recognized it for a Faerie Circle.

  The cat recognized a new gate beginning to open.

  From this position, he could not tell exactly where in the Near World it opened to. It could be anywhere. It wasn’t completely formed yet, he knew that much for certain. And if precautions were taken, it might never fully form.

  One way or another, it would have to be added to his regular patrol. An unguarded gate was dangerous.

  “Where do you lead, I wonder?” the cat mused, sniffing each of the circling stones in turn. Then he hissed and drew back sharply, his nose filled with the aroma of caorann berries. They littered the ground around the Faerie Circle, dozens of them squashed and stamped flat among the stones so that the moss was stained with their juices. No caorann trees grew in this vicinity that the cat could recall. Which meant someone had carried the berries here.

  Caorann trees were known for one chief quality: their ability to unravel enchantments.

  The perfume of the berries was very light, but once it entered the nostrils, it didn’t easily let go. The cat sat for a while, grooming his face as though he could somehow push the smell out of his nose with one white paw. As he groomed, he thought.

  Someone had been working enchantments here. Someone whose smell was now hidden by the caorann. Everyone knew that Knights of the Farthest Shore patrolled this particular stretch of the Wood, and someone wanted to disguise nefarious doings.

  The cat finished grooming and sat quite still, his paws placed delicately before him, his plume of a tail sweeping gently back and forth. His eyes were mostly closed so that one might assume he dozed, but the thin membrane of his third eyelid remained open as he studied the setting from behind long, cattish lashes.

  He came to a sudden decision and stood. Trotting back to his regular Path, he hurried on to the closest gate. This appeared to mortal eyes like a pair of young trees with unusually large and twisted roots twining together in vegetal affection.

  With a slight shiver of his whiskers, the cat stepped between these two trees and into another world.

  It was colder than he expected. And he stood in icy water.

  “Dragon’s teeth!” snarled the cat and leapt back, scrambling up from the river’s edge into the brush lining the bank beyond. It had been some time since last he’d passed into this corner of the Near World. The river had been low in its bed then. Now it was swollen, the warmth of summer bringing rushing thaw down from the mountains.

  The cat climbed into the shelter of a grove of aspen trees and gazed out across the river, catching his bearings. He recognized the stern face of Gaheris Castle above the tall cliff across the river. A likely enough focus for secret Faerie plots. But from this vantage, the cat could see no sign of a gate opening. He’d have to venture deeper.

  Picking his way downriver, following its flow, the cat reached a place where large boulders offered a crossing. To most looking on, there would seem little point in taking this daring bridge, for the stone cliff on which Gaheris stood rose sheer and forbidding on the opposite shore.

  But the cat had been this way once or twice, and he knew more than a few secrets. He sprang from boulder to boulder, surefooted even as the fur on his spine stood up like a crest for dread of the rushing water beneath him.

  On the far side, nearly hidden behind a stone, was a cave entrance.

  The cat slipped inside easily enough; his golden eyes flared with their own bright light, like two small suns in the damp darkness. Water from the river ran into the cave, not deep but still freezing. A convenient ledge provided the cat with a dry route for the first stretch of this journey, however, and only near the end was he obliged to spring down into the water.

  A stone stairway rose into the darkness, cut from the cliff itself. Up this the cat ran, higher and higher until he left the cold of underground behind and entered the cold of man-laid stone. His sensitive nose caught the many smells of mortals going about their daily lives within the castle, unaware of his presence within the secret passage behind the walls.

  It always surprised him how strongly mortals smelled of oncoming death. How strange it must be to live governed by so short a span of existence! But this stink of death was stronger than expected, and a suspicion began to form in the cat’s mind.

  He came at last to the top of the stair and faced a heavy, locked door. Not an iron lock, thank the Lights Above! He could not manipulate iron. But brass would bow to his will. r />
  The cat took a different form and worked on the lock such influence as Faeries have. He heard the catch give way and carefully pushed the door aside.

  The smell of near death nearly overwhelmed him.

  A fire burned in the darkened room, casting all in reddish glow, for little daylight found its way through the east windows this late in the day. On the wall hung a heavy tapestry depicting a scene from the Legend of the Brothers Ashiun, complete with the House of Lights and the swirling fires of the dragon, though the dragon itself had been omitted. Equally heavy curtains embellished with flowers and vines and fantastical creatures surrounded an enormous, four-poster bed.

  Behind the bed-curtains someone breathed raw, unwilling breaths.

  The tapestry on the wall shifted, and the cat slinked out from behind it. The clunk of a door shutting was muffled by the heavy fabric, and no one was listening for it in any case. The cat crept quietly up to the bed, his pink nose delicately sniffing out the scents of mastery, of lordship, of strength swiftly slipping.

  The lord of the castle was dying.

  “Interesting,” the cat whispered.

  But it wasn’t a complete explanation for what he sensed, so he hastened on his way, slipping quietly from Earl Ferox’s sick chamber into the passage beyond. He moved through Gaheris as though he owned it, and neither servants nor members of the household questioned his right to be there. A lady in rich garments drew back her skirts a little at the sight of him but otherwise left him to his business.

  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.”