“Ridiculous! I dance how I like!” cried the Fire Queen, picking up Paul and twirling him through the air as if he were a fraction of his real size and weight. “Flamencos are my dance, and I dance them differently every time!”
She set Paul down, and let Paul’s hand drop, then raised both her arms like a conductor. All around, the crack and hiss of the flames became silent, and the coals no longer popped. The Fire Queen gestured once at one mound, then at another, moved her hands in circles through the air, and brought her arms down with the cry, “Begin!”
The remaining mounds instantly exploded into sparks that whistled as they spat in all directions. Smoke snaked in whirlpool columns, creating eerie woodwind sounds. Coals popped and crackled like percussion, and the flames roared like a choir.
The Fire Queen took Paul’s hands again in the tumult of the wild music of fire and sound, and began to dance. She leapt and twisted, turned and spun, and Paul followed, his arms stretching to the very edges of their sockets. It was a wild, crazy dance, without form or reason, and driven by an ever-changing rhythm as varied as the flames. Paul felt the music in his head like a mad exhilaration, and abandoned himself to let the Fire Queen twirl and throw him where she would.
Then, quite unexpectedly, there were seven, short, sharp explosions, and everywhere the flames flashed blue. The Fire Queen threw Paul up into the air as the echoes of the explosions died away, up into a cloud of red and yellow sparks that tumbled end over end with him. He saw the world flip and roll in a series of fiery colors, the Fire Queen staring up at him from below, her flaming hair swept back, and mouth open, laughing sparks of every color he’d ever seen.
He fell back down as sparks do, flittering from side to side, and drifting into blackness. The Fire Queen caught him, turned him around, and set him down outside the coals onto the soft, slightly muddy ground. Steam rose from his feet, and once again, without warning, he felt the full effect of the heat.
“A good dance,” said the Fire Queen. Behind her, the fires were dying down, and the coals were black and cold at the edges. “Perhaps we shall dance again one day.”
She turned, as if to walk back into the heart of the coals, and Paul started out of the dreamy state the dance had left him in.
“Don’t go! Please—what about your help? I need…I mean, Your Fireship, I would like to ask for your help against the Ragwitch. To help get my sister back…”
“Ah, yes,” said the Fire Queen, with a strange, slight smile. “My help, for which you said you’d do anything.”
She paused, looking down at Paul. He felt her grow taller, and somehow more remote, and once again, he sheltered behind his arm, half-crouching before the great fiery being that rose above him.
“I danced,” he said hesitantly, fearing to offend her. He had suddenly remembered that she hadn’t promised anything—she’d only asked him to dance.
Then the heat lessened, and he risked a look. She was still there, a tall, stately figure of fire. But she held a gleaming coal between white-hot thumb and forefinger. She was holding it out to him.
“This,” she said, pausing dramatically, “is the Spirit. Do you want it?”
Paul looked at the fiercely glowing coal, at the small wafts of white smoke curling up from it, and nodded. But he didn’t hold out his hand.
“Hold out your hand,” said the Fire Queen, and then, like a teacher about to deliver six strokes of the cane, “Hold…out…your…hand.”
Paul felt the ground was suddenly unsteady, and his hand shook as it moved—just a fraction away from his side. He gulped once, twice—feeling the hot air ripping all the moisture out of his throat. And the Fire Queen just stood there, holding out the glowing coal.
I can’t, thought Paul, staring at the gleaming red source of pain. I just can’t…but at the same time, he saw Gwarulch pouring onto the wharf at Donbreye; Julia shouting for him to leave, as the Ragwitch twined its hand through her hair; Aleyne giving him the white horse, before turning again to battle; the old soldier dying at his feet…
Paul shut his eyes, and held out his hand, palm uppermost. For a second, he thought something cool had dropped into his hand, and all was well. Then, he felt the slightest brush of air or smoke, and a searing pain bit into his hand and raced up to his brain, exploding into the worst hurt he’d ever known.
His eyes whipped open, and he stared at his hand, screaming. But the coal he held there was now a gem of brilliant scarlet, and there was no blackened or ruined flesh. And as quickly as the pain had struck, it left, leaving only a dull memory, like the aftereffects of a toothache.
“Things only burn when I decide they do,” said the Fire Queen somewhat complacently. She pushed her hands through her hair to comb out the sparks, said, “Goodnight,” and vanished. In the second of her disappearance, all the fires went out, and smoke billowed up into the sky.
Trembling, Paul looked back at his hand. The Spirit lay there, its bright glow lighting the ground ahead, and he realized it held all the colors of fire and shimmered and flickered like a flame. Cautiously, he transferred it to his other hand. It was quite cool.
He held it up as a light, and looked at the palm of his right hand. Right in the center there were four tiny flames drawn in the pale lines of scar tissue. He ran his finger over them, and felt the slight ridges of skin—the flames would always be there to remind Paul of his dance.
He looked at the Spirit again, and realized he could hardly stand, let alone see clearly, and stumbled over to Quigin and Leasel. The hare watched him carefully, and touched her soft nose to his palm.
“Thanks,” he said sleepily. “But it doesn’t hurt…not now, anyway.”
His last words were mumbled into the blanket, and he fell instantly asleep. By his side, Quigin suddenly stopped snoring, and sat up. He looked around for a moment, sniffed at the smoke, said, “The fire’s gone out,” to no one in particular, and lay down again. A minute later, he was snoring again, and only the hare was awake, and looking out into the smoke-palled air.
19
Within Her Mind/Rhysamarn
LEADEN DULL LIMBS, a dry worm-like tongue, the muffled senses…and then the vicious, evil pool of the Ragwitch’s thoughts—all enveloped Julia once again, stifling her screams.
“Welcome back…my child,” thought the Ragwitch, as Julia struggled against Her body and feelings. “Am I still so unfamiliar, after all this time?”
“You always will be!” shouted Julia, concentrating her thoughts against Her. At the same time, she felt her own mind adapt to the Ragwitch’s senses, and the pain and dizziness lessened.
“You still struggle,” hissed the Ragwitch. “And you seem…stronger. What has given you strength, Julia? Or who?”
A sharp stab of fear ran through Julia, and for a second she thought that Lyssa and the others had been discovered, far too early. Then she caught the Ragwitch’s thought—She was thinking of Paul, as She’d seen him from the ridge. Other images followed: Gwarulch rending Paul to pieces, and Oroch tying him up, and a hundred more of Paul being killed, or captured and tortured, or even Glazed…
“They’re not true!” cried Julia.
“Not yet!” spat the Ragwitch. “But he shall pay for resisting me! As you will, Julia. For I have been too patient…”
As She spoke to Julia within Her mind, the girl felt a wave of dark and evil thoughts rising up around her, swelling up from every loathsome corner of Her mind and memory. And chief among those memories, and the most threatening and fearful of them, was Her memory of what it was like behind the black door on the day Anhyvar was drawn deep into the Nameless Realm.
Julia had only a second to think of help, to think of Anhyvar, and then the wave was upon her, and she was swamped in evil thoughts, without even the feel of her own body to help her be herself, and not be lost in the Ragwitch.
Everywhere, images of horror and power, arrogance and cruelty, plucked at her vision of herself, drawing every little part of her into the Ragwitch’s central th
oughts. They offered her part of something monumental—to be a power, to have everything, to take and destroy anything, to feel unchecked rage and hatred, to fulfil any whim of abuse and destruction, to never die…
Julia fought back with sunlit days, and books read by the fire, surprises, picnics, mountain walks, friends, parents, faithful pets, Paul…anything happy and cheerful that could resist. But she was alone, and she couldn’t even remember what she looked like. The evil and hatred were slowly taking her apart.
She almost surrendered—just to give in, to stop the torment, to be lost within Her. But a voice came to her like a golden thread through the darkness, and with it came a vivid picture of herself just as she had been a little time ago, stretched out on a blanket, at their picnic on the sandy beach. And with that picture came Anhyvar’s voice, calm and clear, and she said, “You are not alone, Julia, and you are stronger than She can know. She will not prevail against you.”
“I know,” thought Julia, and suddenly she did know, and the darkness broke against her. Julia knew she was real, and looked exactly so, and had friends—even here. And what was the Ragwitch but a hideous overgrown doll full of hate and poison?
With that sharp clear thought, the darkness rolled back, and Julia found herself once again staring out of the corners of the Ragwitch’s eyes, as Her thoughts slithered at her, as cold and venomous as serpents.
“Do not think you can resist Me for long, Julia. For there will come a time when I have to spare no thoughts to My enemies—and all shall be turned to you. Your brother too, shall feel a double weight of misery and pain. And you will watch, my Julia. You will watch, and I shall make you enjoy.”
Julia did not reply. She saw what had distracted the Ragwitch—a Meeper had landed, and now crept towards the Ragwitch, its long snake-like head bowed in submission. It called softly twice, to tell Her it brought news, then cawed out its message in the simple tongue She had taught the creature’s ancestors long ago. Julia listened, but couldn’t understand, till she caught a thought of the Ragwitch, and noticed Her hand clenched in frustration and rage. The Meeper was reporting that Oroch had lost Paul’s trail.
Julia suppressed a cry of triumph, and the Ragwitch struck the Meeper with her open palm, driving it into the ground as punishment for bringing bad news. It looked up at Her, cruel eyes hooded in abject fear, and listened to Her instructions for Oroch: to keep searching, to use more Meepers, more Gwarulch—to find the boy, and bring him back to Her…preferably alive.
Julia watched the Meeper slink away, and almost felt sorry for it till she remembered Bevallan, when others had been in fear of them. She was glad Oroch hadn’t reported personally. Some of the Ragwitch’s memories of Oroch had flashed briefly before Julia, and she had caught a glimpse of the Oroch under the tar-black bandages. Julia didn’t want to ever see that again—she had not forgotten the Ragwitch’s threat to him at Bevallan. Three failures…and those bandages would come off…
Then the Ragwitch’s harsh voice filtered back through her ears, and Julia listened to her calling Gwarulch chieftains by name, harsh, discordant names that reminded Julia of people clearing their throats and spitting.
The chieftains came quickly, many of them casting aside half-eaten morsels or gory bones. Julia had thought that it was after dusk, but as the Gwarulch approached, she realized it was just before dawn, and the Gwarulch were breakfasting.
On the ground, it was still just dark, with the pale pre-dawn light gently relieving the blackness of the hollows in the ground, the clumps of feasting Gwarulch, and the standing stones that were the still Angarling. Above, Meepers flashed into sunlight, their scales glittering as they passed from shadow to meet the morning sun.
Julia watched the dawning of the day with secret delight. The Ragwitch could feel neither heat nor cold, but Julia remembered the delightful chill of the pre-dawn, and then the slow warming, soaking up sun in the crisp, clean air.
Julia concentrated on that memory while the Ragwitch ordered Her army to march. Gwarulch listening on the fringes quickly spread the word, and began to gather together their stores of food and assemble near the leaders, while the Glazed-Folk and Angarling, feeling their Mistress’ will directly, began to move and shudder. The Meepers circled in the sky, eagerly awaiting the order to head south, to begin the killing and plundering.
But the instructions She gave were otherwise. Julia hadn’t really been paying attention, but listened with surprise as the Ragwitch ordered the Meepers and Gwarulch to spare no time for looting or haphazard destruction—but only to move south with all possible speed, to pursue the remnants of the human army, to catch it and to destroy it.
“We will pursue them until at last they face Us,” hissed the Ragwitch to Her minions. “And there shall be slaughter and feasting such has not been seen since your far ancestors’ time, when I was North-Queen and Ruler of All. Now go! To the south and Destruction!”
“Sometimes I almost wish you hadn’t made it rain, Paul,” said Quigin, as he extracted his foot from yet another deep pool of mud. He gazed at it ruefully, and added, “Or at least I wish you could make it stop raining.”
Paul didn’t answer, because he was busy trying to avoid the mud pool Quigin had trodden in. Unfortunately, the horse (which Quigin said liked the name of Nubbins, though Aleyne called it something quite different), put a great hoof in another one, and splashed Paul all over with mud anyway.
Not that it made much difference, thought Paul, looking down at his sodden, mud-spattered self. It had started raining heavily the morning they had left the charcoal-burner’s valley, and showed no signs of letting up, despite Paul’s attempts to wish for some sun. So they had suffered the wet for nearly two whole days, with no immediate prospect of being dry or warm.
Even worse than that, they were totally lost. Quigin had met few animals to question, and the bedraggled magpie he’d spoken to that morning could only say that they were heading south, or near enough to it.
Quigin, of course, was optimistic, and felt sure they’d come across a village soon, or a homestead, or a watch-tower…but he had admitted to Paul that there was a great swathe of land running between Reddow Cairn and Rhysamarn that was wild and only partly settled. The land they were crossing certainly met that description.
So they walked on, and occasionally rode, but mostly the way was up and down small hills, through heather and stones, or clumps of stunted trees, so they had to lead Nubbins, making for a slow and weary progress. So slow, in fact, that by the third day after finding the Fire Queen, Paul felt that he had sunk to a depth so miserable that he would probably get pneumonia and die. It was still raining, though less heavily, and he had only slept for about three hours, having spent the rest of the night trying to relight a small and pathetic fire.
Quigin had slept most of the night, but Leasel had got up several times to keep Paul company, before going off somewhere just before what passed for dawn on yet another grey, wet, and unpleasant day. Paul had presumed that she had gone for a run or something that hares did, but Quigin was somewhat perturbed when he woke up.
“Leasel just went?” he asked. “She didn’t leave a message?”
“I can’t talk to her, remember,” said Paul rather crossly. “She bounded off in that direction.”
“She’s been quite good lately,” said Quigin, “what with all the emergencies. I suppose now she thinks everything is back to normal, so she can be awful again…”
His voice trailed off as an eerie call echoed from somewhere to the north, something like a war-horn being blown by someone short of breath. Both boys jumped, and Paul looked at Quigin, fear showing in his face. That noise wasn’t something he’d heard before…neither Gwarulch howl nor Meeper scream…but something unknown, and therefore, even more frightening.
“That’s an animal…” said Quigin, calmly. “I think…”
The call came again, echoing strangely between the hills. Paul shuddered as it reverberated all around them.
“Whatever
it is, I don’t want to meet it,” he said, trying to pick up Nubbins’ saddle.
Quigin didn’t answer, but started to stride out of the camp…towards whatever was making the noise. With a despairing yelp, Paul dropped the saddle, and made a grab for the older boy—a second too late.
“Quigin! Don’t!” shouted Paul, as the awful call sounded again, but the Friend of Beasts plunged into the heather, starting down from the bare hilltop where they had made their camp. Desperately, Paul thought of throwing something at Quigin, but he was already too far away. He hesitated for a moment, then snatched up his poniard, clapped on his helmet, and ran after Quigin, keeping his eye on his friend’s sandy mop of hair bobbing through the heather.
Seconds later, Paul lost sight of him, and redoubled his speed, only to come sliding out into another, muddy clearing—and there was Quigin, and the source of the fearsome cry. With its head poked up to the sky, and its long ears pointed back, the creature raised its mouth skyward…and brayed.
Paul nearly slid past, forgetting to dig his heels in as relief flooded through him. Then he nearly fell over Leasel, who twitched her nose in amusement, circled around his legs, and shot back into the heather.
“You could have asked it not to bray,” said Paul severely to the hare’s retreating back. “But I’m glad it’s only a donkey.”
Seconds later he was patting the donkey’s smooth and comforting nose, and ruffling its wire-brush mane. The donkey brayed his name, which Quigin (who had already made the basic introductions) said was approximately translatable as “Hathin.” Leasel had heard him far away that morning, and had gone to seek him out. As she said to Quigin, you never knew when a donkey might come in handy.
“Even better,” said Quigin, “Hathin knows where we are.”
“He does?” said Paul, doubtfully. Hathin didn’t look like a terribly smart donkey—he had a very dreamy look in his large brown eyes.