“Talysin the Golden, Spell-Singer, Dawn-Bringer, Moon-Snatcher’s Twin, a Faeregine beseeches thee this Midsummer’s Day. Open thy gate so we may honor those beyond.”
The island shivered.
CHAPTER 21
BUTCHER, BAKER, AND CANDLESTICK MAKER
There is no fouler crime than betrayal—
it is the most personal.
—Elias Bram, sorcerer (420 P.C.–1 A.C.)
The first tremor startled Hob. The second nearly knocked him off his feet. Stumbling forward, he caught himself against a yew branch. The entire hillside was rippling as something huge moved beneath the surface. Soil split like seams, bursting in several places all at once. Flashes of gold appeared, only to vanish behind clouds of billowing steam. There was a cacophony of animals bleating, screeching birds, and panicked cries from others in the grove. But they were mere background to the din of the rending earth. Hob’s gaze fell upon a line of slim, leafless trees moving along in a body. It was a hypnotizing spectacle, for they were not only sliding easily through the rocky soil, they were moving uphill. It simply wasn’t possible.
They’re not trees.
What Hob had taken for birch saplings were spines sprouting from the back of a monster whose scale was inconceivable. The grove where he was sheltered remained unaffected by the landslides, as did the ring of standing stones. But almost everything else—topsoil and trees, bushes and boulders—sloughed off like a blanket as Talysin stirred from slumber. Wind blew away the haze of dust and steam, revealing what looked like a river of molten gold with many turnings and oxbows, meandering down the slopes until it disappeared into a dell. It appeared to be flowing uphill, nudged along by pairs of lizard-like legs that sprouted from its sides every hundred yards or so. The dragon was so gargantuan Hob had yet to even see his head.
A shadow fell over him.
Through the canopy of branches, Hob saw a wedge-shaped head and coppery underbelly pass smoothly over the treetops as the wyrm snaked over and around the sacred grove. Hob sank to the ground, unable to do anything but stare at the monster moving toward the standing stones.
Once the dragon reached the circle, he swayed up and peered down at those within it. Framed against the sky, Talysin’s great head looked a monument of hammered gold. It was long and lean, with golden barbels that twisted and snaked as they tasted its surroundings. The lower jaw resembled a crocodile’s, the upper ended in a hooked beak like a raptor’s. Six eyes, round and white as pearls, were fixed upon the circle’s occupants.
The Faeregines did not cower. Instead, they stood motionless among the standing stones, the wind whipping their gowns. Hob could see Hazel clearly: head bowed, hands clasped behind her back. Reverent but composed. Hob almost laughed.
And you wonder why Faeregines rule the world?
A black tongue snaked down from Talysin’s jaws to curl about one of the bulls. It ripped the animal from the maypole as though picking a violet. The lowing bull vanished down the dragon’s throat. No chewing, barely a swallow. The rest of the animals disappeared within the minute, the sheep as a bleating trio.
One by one, each of the Faeregine princesses stepped forward to the maypole where nine torn tethers hung gallows ropes. Talysin lowered his head, peering at each with those huge blank eyes. How they could bear the dragon’s attention was beyond Hob’s comprehension. He was over fifty yards away, sheltered behind ancient trees, and he was practically paralyzed.
Talysin’s attention lingered on Hazel far longer than it had on her sisters. Back and forth he swayed, like the cobras of Ana-Fehdra. A frill of hornlike projections rose along the back and sides of his skull, as though he was readying to attack. Her Highness would not meet his gaze. She kept her head piously down, her eyes averted.
At last, Hazel stepped back with her sisters. The empress’s voice now rose above the wind in the trees. The Spider was crying out, pointing her scepter at a gap between the stones. Snaking round, Talysin surged forward and roared.
The sound was deafening. Hob covered his ears and fell to the ground as waves of superheated air tumbled over him. The dragon was breathing a jet of green-gold fire between two stones. Instead of shooting through the gap, the flames fanned out, as though they’d struck a solid barrier. The area began to glow like molten glass. The Faeregines stood well off to the side, but smoke issued from their wooden crowns. At last, there was a flash of light and a thunderclap that rattled Hob’s molars.
Hob lay panting in the grass as the thunder subsided. A breeze washed over him, wonderfully cool and smelling of rain. Raising his head, he peered at the space between the standing stones.
He gazed upon a different world.
The megaliths framed a darkening twilight where gray clouds loomed over a landscape of forested hills. White towers rose above the trees, their lights twinkling. A ribbon of road wound through the hills, leading toward the gate itself.
Rolling onto his back, Hob tried to gather his wits. He dearly wished he was back home, drinking cider at Mother Howell’s and ignoring Bluestripe’s pleas for money. In Dusk, Hob worried about making rent and whether Anja had enough to eat. He kept one eye out for the weather, another for raiders. Life had been hard but straightforward.
Now? There was a dragon fifty yards away—a dragon!—and it wasn’t even the most remarkable thing Hob was witnessing. The Sidh was beyond that portal. The rain he smelled was falling in a different world. . . .
And yet, to the Faeregines—or at least the empress—this was an annual obligation. It was work. He could hear the Spider barking orders at her granddaughters. Turning, he saw the three girls dragging over one of the chests. It appeared to be quite heavy. Violet lifted the lid and reached inside. At first, Hob thought she brought out a small fox. The animal had reddish-rust fur and a tapered tail, but there were strange glints of sunlight on its back, as though its fur was metallic. Hob squinted, but he was too far and the creature was too small.
Someone tapped his shoulder. Sigga held out a small spyglass. Through its lens, Hob saw that the animal did not resemble a fox so much as an otter with curling claws and silver-tipped quills along its back. Violet was trying to pry the creature’s claws from her gown.
“Is that a lymrill?” Hob wondered aloud.
He’d heard of the creatures but never seen one. Every spring and summer, trappers passed through Dusk, searching for them in the high Sentries. Many considered the animals sacred, and it was illegal to hunt them, but this did not dissuade poachers. A lymrill’s quills and claws could reputedly be used to craft unbreakable armor and weapons. On the black market, a mature pelt and claws might fetch as much as a Lirlander Seal.
And there was not one lymrill in that chest but six. The empress had one, Violet and Isabel hefted two apiece, and Hazel cradled the sixth, a tawny specimen with coppery claws. The Faeregines stroked their ruffs, calming the creatures. Meanwhile, Talysin loomed over them, his ghostly eyes fixed on the gate.
Rain was blowing through the portal now, gusting in wild billows as the Sidh’s showers were turning into thunderstorms. A warning growl sounded deep in Talysin’s throat.
Something was coming.
Through the spyglass, Hob watched the figure approach. It was tall and man-shaped, but shone so brightly it was impossible to make out any details other than that it carried a long staff. Against the twilight, the figure blazed like a star.
When the empress caught sight of it, she gave a cry and collapsed. Violet and Isabel did not move. They stared at the approaching figure as though time had stopped. Wriggling free of their keepers, the lymrills dashed through the gateway like eager kittens. Glancing round, Hob saw that everyone in the grove was transfixed. Something consequential was happening. Something not even the priestesses had expected. Hob turned back to the portal.
Was that a god?
Talysin’s body continued to course slowly upon the hillside, looping and coiling like a viper preparing to strike. The dragon bared his teeth. White-hot spittle drippe
d hissing onto the maypole, which burst into flame. Another growl rose in Talysin’s throat. Behind Hob, Sigga was muttering a prayer in the harsh tongue of the Grislands. Dàme Rascha cried out to Hazel.
“Get down, child! Don’t look at him!”
But Hazel did not seem to hear her. She glided toward the gate as if sleepwalking. Lifting her crown, she let it fall on the grass. Rain and light streamed through the portal now. Talysin’s head swished back and forth behind her. Hazel halted at the barrier’s threshold.
The shining figure stood on the other side, just a few feet away from her. Hob had been mistaken. The figure was not carrying a staff but a black spear wreathed in white flames. It towered over the princess, as radiant as the sun. Hazel bowed low and raised her small hand in what might have been a gesture of greeting or denial. The figure in the Sidh reached out its own hand, as though to touch hers. The grass beneath Hazel’s feet began to smolder.
When the figure’s hand crossed the boundary, dark blood streamed from its side as though a wound had opened suddenly. Snatching back its hand, it withdrew two paces. The instant it did, Talysin gave a roar and the Sidh Gate vanished with a crack of thunder.
Hazel stumbled backward. Turning, she looked straight into the eyes of the dragon.
And when she did, she screamed.
Hob had never heard a sound like that. He never wanted to again. It was hoarse and high-pitched, an exclamation of raw terror mixed with excruciating pain. Hob felt as though Hazel was calling to him, begging him to make it stop.
Hob hardly realized he was running until he was halfway to her. Talysin loomed above him, impossibly huge. The dragon took no notice of the approaching boy. Talysin’s eyes were on the youngest Faeregine. He swayed over Hazel, his jaws hanging open like a slavering wolf’s. Barbels flicked the air about her upturned face like buggy whips.
Hob pulled her to the ground, covering her with his body. Quick as a cat, the dragon batted him aside so that he landed fifteen feet away. Instantly, a talon pressed down on Hob’s chest. It was bigger than he was.
Gasping, Hob gazed up at Talysin. The dragon’s head swayed a hundred feet above him. The talon had pierced Hob’s shirt and grazed his skin but no more. It was like a tiger pinning a moth without hurting it. But now the dragon’s head was descending, his teeth bared and flecked with froth. Six eyes held Hob rapt, as round and cold as a winter moon. His mind opened like a puzzle box . . .
Pale light slanted through a window, wind moaned in the chimney. A red giant looked into his cage and touched two fingers to its lips. Another giant beckoned from the door. It was Mr. Burke, but he was a grinning corpse riddled with coffin worms. The two giants set out. In the corner, a grizzly bear sat in a tub of scalding water. She was in pain. The fox could not stand to hear the sobs. He sprang out of the slatted cage, a silver-white blur that landed lightly and bounded out the door. He dashed through forests and over meadows, feasted on a burrow of squealing mice. Snowmelt coursed through the land. Dormant things were waking. A gliding shadow kept pace with him, its feathered wings ragged shrouds. It was descending, growing big as the world. Clever fox—he darted into an alder wood and doubled back into a stream. But the water was too cold for his warm fox heart, too swift for his padded fox feet. He became a speckled salmon, red and green with an amber eye. He leaped up the stream, gasping and relentless. Something flashed—shiny and tempting. He snapped and felt the bite of a hook. It pulled and jerked; the salmon thrashed and strained. But the line was too strong, the fisherman too skilled. The salmon tired. Cold water lapped over his fine scales. Another tug dragged him up the pebbled bank. He could smell the man’s cooking fire. But it was not a salmon this poor fisherman had caught. It was a mountain wolf, as wild as any storm atop the Sentries . . .
“He’s waking up,” said a distant voice.
Another spoke, its accent gruff and foreign. “Hold this under his nose.”
Acrid fumes invaded Hob’s mind, burning away the haze. He kicked out his leg, gripped wooden poles on either side. Opening his eyes, he looked into Sigga’s inquisitive face.
“Can you hear me?” she said.
He nodded, tried to sit up, and felt a bandage tighten about his chest. Sigga eased him back down onto the travois.
“Lie still a moment,” she said. “Get your bearings.”
A hand stroked his hair. The palm was coarse as sandpaper. Sharp nails pinched his cheek with rough affection.
“You are a stupid boy,” Dàme Rascha growled. “Stupid but brave. I will never forget what you did for my Hazel.”
“Where is she?” said Hob.
Sigga hooked a thumb over her shoulder. “Sleeping.”
Hob nodded. His eyes wandered around his surroundings. He was in a pavilion some twenty feet across. Yellow light danced on its canvas walls as a crackling fire sent smoke curling out a hole in the roof. A kettle began to sing.
“What happened?” he croaked.
“Talysin had you,” replied Sigga. “We couldn’t get close for fear he’d crush you both. And then he let you go. I don’t know why. He just left and made for the sea. He’s gone.”
“You saved her life,” said Rascha. “Her Highness was in great danger when you broke the connection between them.”
“She’s okay then?”
The vye sighed heavily. “To meet a dragon’s gaze is perilous. No mortal escapes unscathed. It will have changed her. It will have changed you.”
Hob allowed these words to sink in. In some ways, he felt like he’d already changed, like a fog was slowly lifting. The dream he’d just woken from was stranger and more vivid than any he’d had before. Propping himself on his elbows, he peered down at the bandage on his chest.
“Just a scratch,” Sigga assured him. “A story for your grandchildren.”
“Are the other Faeregines all right?” said Hob.
“All unhurt,” said Rascha. “They remain at the Sidh Gate. The empress makes a three-day vigil and prays to each stone.”
“Will they open the portal again?” asked Hob.
“No,” said the vye. “Not after what happened. Besides, Talysin has gone.”
Hob recalled the shining figure. “Who was that in the Sidh? That person with the spear?”
Sigga cocked her head. “Is that what you saw? I saw a wolfhound.”
“And I saw a youth,” said the vye. “The gods appear as they wish to us.”
“So that was a god,” said Hob.
The vye nodded gravely. “The Hound himself, though he gave up that name long ago. He is the Ard Rí now, High King of all the Sidh.”
“Then why was everyone so afraid?” said Hob. “The Hound slew Astaroth. There’s a shrine to him in Dusk’s temple. I don’t understand. Did he become evil?”
“No,” said Rascha. “We honor the Ard Rí and all the old gods of the Sidh. But they do not belong in this realm. The Hound’s greatest act was not slaying Astaroth but leaving this world before he became its master. If not for his wound, he might have returned. Thank goodness Talysin closed the gate. The High King was much too close to Her Highness.”
Her Highness.
Hob climbed slowly to his feet. There was some dizziness, and a few spots swam before his eyes, but he was otherwise all right. His shirt was lying over a footlocker. He slipped it on. Most of the blood had been cleaned away, but a faint stain remained. Buttoning it, he turned to look at Hazel.
The princess lay on a silk sheet draped over a pallet. One arm lay on the sheet, the other clutched Merlin, who was sleeping on her chest. Her Highness’s breath came in quick, shallow gasps. Sweat shone on her face and limbs. Hob glanced at Dàme Rascha.
“May I approach her?”
The vye nodded.
He knelt by the pallet. Merlin stirred slightly, but Hazel did not. Heat issued from her body in pulsing waves. Her eyes were moving swiftly beneath her henna-painted eyelids, darting here and there. She frowned suddenly and gave a whimper. Anja used to do the same when she had bad dreams.
Without thinking, Hob folded his hand over Hazel’s. It was hot and clammy, but her fingers closed about his like a newborn’s. Their pressure was so weak, yet their touch conveyed a desperate need for contact and reassurance.
“She’s burning up,” he said. “Is that fire really necessary?”
“Yes,” said Dàme Rascha. “Fire draws out the dragonspell’s fever. It must get hotter before it breaks.”
“How long will that be?”
“I do not know,” said the vye. “Mina the Fourth slept for eight days after meeting Hati.”
“Why aren’t her sisters sick?”
“Dragons affect magic like moons govern tides,” the vye answered. “Their presence can bring it rushing to the surface, even reservoirs that were hidden. Her Highness’s waters run very deep.”
At this, Hazel’s brow furrowed. The faintest of breaths escaped her lips. It contained a word, but Hob could not catch it.
“She tried to say something,” he said.
Dàme Rascha and Sigga came over. The vye mopped Hazel’s forehead.
“Can you hear me, Your Highness? It’s your Rascha.”
A tiny nod. Again, she whispered. This time Hob could make it out.
“Gone.”
“What is gone, child?” said Rascha.
A pause. Her eyelids fluttered. Her answer came as a wistful sigh.
“Magic.”
“No,” said Dàme Rascha gently. “No, no. It has not gone, child. You are under the dragonspell. This will all pass.”
The vye spoke earnestly, but Hob could hear notes of fear and doubt. She was speaking out of hope, not surety. Perhaps magic was like a fire that could burn too hot and extinguish itself. Stirring slightly, Hazel squeezed Hob’s hand. The pressure was even weaker than before.
“Don’t give up on me, Mr. Smythe.”
Hob’s throat tightened. She was remarkable, the most remarkable person he’d ever met. He’d underestimated her on every dimension. He patted Her Highness’s hand.