“I can’t see the Blackwings anywhere,” called Linden from above. After a moment she added hopefully, “But we were gone for hours. Maybe they’ve given up?”
“It’d be…nice…to think so.” Timothy panted, all his concentration focused on not slipping. It seemed forever before he reached the top of the cliff, and when he got there he was spent: He collapsed onto the muddy grass and lay there, not even caring whether the Blackwings were coming or not.
“Are you all right?” asked Linden.
Timothy licked the sea salt off his lips and let his head fall back with a gentle thud. “Yeah,” he croaked. “Just give me a minute.”
Linden sat down on a rock by his side, the Stone of Naming cupped in her hand. “I can’t believe Garan just gave it to us,” she said softly, turning it over in her fingers. “He must have known he’d be punished, maybe even exiled, when the other Children of Rhys found out. And yet he wouldn’t come with us either.”
Timothy struggled up onto his elbows and looked out over the edge of the cliff. There was no trace left of the Green Isles or the boat that had carried them there, just the empty, wind-chopped sea. Even the little cove with the standing stones had vanished, as though it had been nothing more than a dream. “He’s never lived anywhere but those islands,” he said slowly. “Maybe he just can’t bring himself to leave unless he’s got no other choice.”
“Maybe,” said Linden, but she sounded doubtful. “So where do we go now?”
“As far from here as we can, before the Blackwings come back,” said Timothy. He sat up, and the chill wind sliced through his wet jeans like a machete; instantly his teeth began to chatter, and he rubbed his thighs in a desperate effort to warm them. “I saw…a hostel on the way up from St. David’s. We could stop there…ask them the quickest way back to London.”
“Yes, but…” Linden’s small face wrinkled with concern. “We don’t have enough money to get all the way back home, do we?”
Here we go again, thought Timothy, but without resentment. If he’d succeeded in forcing Linden to pay their way with glamour the last time, they’d never have been allowed to visit the Children of Rhys. “We could call Paul and Peri. Maybe one of them could drive out…”
Linden shook her head. “I don’t want to do that. They’ve already risked enough for us. And remember what Rob said, when Paul wanted to come with us before?” She pursed her lips, then said determinedly, “All right. You get us to the train station. I’ll get us home.”
“How are you going to do that?”
Linden put the Stone of Naming in her pocket and stood, flexing her wings. “I’ll turn us both invisible.”
How this was any less dishonest than buying a ticket with glamour Timothy couldn’t tell, and he was about to say so when she added, “And we’ll pay for our ride properly later.”
“Right,” said Timothy, oddly relieved that she hadn’t abandoned her scruples.
“But we’d better get you some dry clothes first,” said Linden, sounding worried now. “You really do feel the cold, don’t you?”
“Yes, and I hate it,” said Timothy fervently between his teeth.
“Then let’s hurry,” said Linden, and with that she flew off. Timothy hobbled behind her, and after stumbling down the footpath for a few minutes he spotted the rooftops of the hostel in the distance.
“You’d better hide in my backpack again,” he said to Linden. “Just in case.”
By the time Timothy reached the hostel, the last of the afternoon sunshine had disappeared; the sky was the color of slate, and a thin, drizzling rain had begun to fall. He squelched in through the front door and said to the girl at the desk, “What’s the quickest way to London?”
“Well, there’s a train station at Haverfordwest,” replied the attendant. “But the last bus left St. David’s at half-past five, and there won’t be another until tomorrow.”
“How far is it? Could I walk?”
The girl let out a disbelieving laugh. “Walk? Not likely! It’d take you all night.”
Timothy’s shoulders slumped. Now what were they going to do?
“Look,” said the girl kindly. “Why don’t you stay here tonight? We’ve plenty of space, and it’s cheap. You can have a hot shower and a good night’s sleep, and take the bus out tomorrow morning.”
“Just a minute,” Timothy told her, and hurried outside to speak to Linden. “Is there a chance we might be safe here for the night?” he said in a low voice as he opened his backpack. “Once they lost our trail, the Blackwings might have flown anywhere. Back the way we came, or even back to the Empress, for all we know.”
“I don’t see that we have much choice,” said Linden glumly. “You can’t go anywhere like that, in any case.”
Timothy didn’t need to ask what she meant. His muscles were trembling with exhaustion and cold, and a little puddle of water had formed around his shoes. He only hoped that he could still find some dry clothes in his backpack.
“All right,” he said grimly. “We’ll just have to sleep light-and hope for the best.”
The room was simply furnished, with walls of gray stone and a bare wooden floor-but it was private, and the bed looked comfortable. As soon as the attendant left, Linden climbed out of the backpack and jumped to the mattress, while Timothy grabbed an armful of clothing and vanished in search of the shower.
He was gone a long time. Linden stayed small as she nibbled the last half of her sandwich, so that there would be plenty left for Timothy when he came back. Then she curled up on the pillow, hiding herself with a corner of the blanket while she waited for his return. But she must have been more tired than she realized, because when she opened her eyes again the room was dark, and Timothy was gingerly easing his head onto the pillow in an effort not to wake her.
“It’s all right,” she said sleepily, rolling over and curling up against his shoulder. He smelled of soap and seawater, mingled with the earthier scent of his humanity; it was a good smell, oddly comforting. It occurred to her that perhaps one of them ought to stay up and keep watch for the Blackwings, especially now that the iron key was gone and they had no way to shield themselves against another attack. But the pillow felt soft and Timothy was warm and she was so very tired…
Linden dreamt that she was back at the Oak, with all the faeries gathered around her as she cast the spell that would restore their magic. Rob’s dark eyes gleamed with admiration as he held up the Stone of Naming and said to her, “The Empress is defeated. You have saved us all.” Knife, Paul, and Timothy watched from the veranda of the House, smiling, and then Valerian came up and embraced her, and said, “Queen Amaryllis would be so proud of you, Linden. You have truly fulfilled all our hopes.”
It was everything she longed for, and yet it rang false somehow: It was too perfect even for a dream. But she still could not bring herself to wake, even though somewhere at the back of it all lay a feathery blackness, and the sounds of harsh laughter.
Timothy sat in the spotlight, guitar thrumming in his hands as he played before an audience of thousands all clapping and cheering for more. The song was the catchiest tune he’d ever heard, all palm-slapping rhythm and fast-plucked melody, and Miriam stood beside him with a microphone, singing the words in her husky, resonant voice-but her eyes were on him as she sang, and everyone in the audience was watching him, too, and he knew that it was his concert, his song. There was no more uncertainty in him now, no shadow of doubt. He was Timothy Sinclair, world-famous musician, and the knowledge filled him with a fierce and inextinguishable pride.
But when he woke, he found himself a prisoner.
The bed, the hostel, the rocky Welsh hillside-all were gone. Instead of cozy darkness the room swam with sallow morning light, filtering in through a barred window high above. He was lying on a cement floor without a mattress or even a blanket to cover him, wearing nothing but the T-shirt and boxers he’d gone to bed in. Timothy got up, shivering, and tried to open the door. It was locked.