“Your Honor?”
At first the seneschal said nothing, then finally inclined his head.
“Hmmm?”
Fergus swallowed and took the risk. “Are you ready to embark, sir?”
The seneschal sat quietly until the sun fully crested the forbidding cliffs, brightening the froth rolling at their base with bands of sparkling light, then nodded, his head slightly atilt, as if his neck had been broken.
He stood as the longboat was hauled aboard, then climbed free of it once it was on deck, and stumbled for the door of the hold, the rest of the crew hovering as far from his path as possible.
Down the ladder into the black underbelly of the ship he crawled, his chest heaving with pent-up despair.
He felt around in the darkness at the bottom of the ladder, lurching and floundering blindly until he came to the green pool.
“Faron?” he whispered. There were tears in his voice.
The meniscus on the top of the smoky water broke almost instantly as the twisted child came forth, a look of concern in its cloudy eyes at the sound of pain in its father’s voice.
The seneschal sank to his knees on the wet planks of the floor, and bent over the edge of the pool; he threw his arms around the boneless child’s misshapen torso, leaning his head against it, and began to sob in deep, racking spasms.
“Dead, Faron, she’s dead,” he moaned, venting his grief to the one entity in the entire world he could trust with it. “Flung herself from the cliff top, rather than come with me.” He began to wail, his speech slurring into incomprehensibility, muttering nonsensical words over and over again.
Faron’s occluded eyes widened in panic, then tempered. Its gnarled left hand came to rest on its father’s head, the contorted fingers gently caressing his hair with the overgrown nails. The creature sat, emitting no sound, just listening to the outpouring of anguish that made the mist that hung over the glowing green pool swirl and twist as well.
Finally, something occurred to the creature. Without pausing in its comfort, it reached below the surface of the water, feeling around for a moment, then pulled forth a dark green scale and the lock of hair that the seneschal had given him long before to scry with.
Faron continued to pat the head of its father, who had settled into quiet hiccoughing, as it ran the scale and the hair through the pale green currents finally pulling them up to stare into the rune inscribed on it.
The cloudy eyes blinked.
Then the creature began to squeak, tapping its father on the shoulder with its arthritic digit.
Michael looked up dispiritedly.
“What, Faron? What is it?”
The creature’s strange, fused mouth was contorted in a hideous wave o muscle and lip tissue, the flaccid skin at the sides of its face flapping excitedly.
It held up the scale.
“What is it?” the seneschal asked again, beginning to sense the creature’: message.
The creature let go of its father’s head long enough to catch the lock o: brittle hair; it turned it between its bent fingers, holding it over the dark greer scale, then shook its head in rapture.
The seneschal took Faron’s face gently in its hands.
“You are looking through the death scale?”
Faron nodded.
“And you do not see her?”
The creature nodded again, exhilaration evident in its contorted face.
The seneschal looked at Faron intently. “Are you saying that—she is—stil alive?”
Faron wriggled happily, nodding vigorously.
“Are you certain, Faron?”
Faron nodded yet again.
“Where?”
The mutant child shook its head.
The senechal’s eyes were on fire, but he endeavored to keep his voice steady. so as not to frighten Faron. He kissed the creature’s head amid the wrinkles of loose skin and wisps of white hair.
“Can you continue to scry for me, Faron? See if you can find any clue, any direction at all.”
The creature nodded and slipped back beneath the surface of the glowing water.
Invigorated, the seneschal leapt to his feet and started to cross the pitching hold.
Stop. No more.
The voice of the demon, respectfully silent in Michael’s misery, spoke up harshly.
You looked, it said, black fire crackling in its voice. You searched everywhere; your men combed the beach in the dark and the light. There was nothing there.
“She’s alive,” the seneschal retorted, heading for the stairs. “We must turn back.”
Enough of this foolishness. We will return to Argaut.
Michael chuckled as he began to climb the ladder back to the deck.
“What? And miss all the lovely burning?”
Burning?
“Yes,” the seneschal said warmly as he opened the door to the world above. “It is about to begin in earnest now.”
35
In the morning of the day Ashe returned to Haguefort, the smoke from the fires burning along the western coast had begun to drift over Navarne, hanging loosely in the summer sky, coloring it from clear blue to a hazy gray, lacing the wind with the rancid residue of trees that burned too soon, while they were still living.
The smell had been burning the inside of Gerald Owen’s nostrils all day, irritating his eyes as well. He had to squint into the gray miasma of the air to see the riders galloping up the road, pushing their horses too hard, even when the shouts had gone up for half a league that they were coming.
Ashe had not slept for four days since receiving the tidings. That he was still able to maintain a seat on his horse caused Owen to marvel; the Lord Cymrian had undoubtedly stopped at each way station along the mail route, trading mounts, and no doubt was feeling the effort in his legs and hindquarters, but he had disregarded that, spurring the horse mercilessly for the last half-league.
He did not wait to dismount before looking for answers.
“What happened?” he demanded, his face haggard but his eyes burning with consternation. “Has she been found?”
Owen signaled subtlely to the stablemaster to lead the horse away after he helped the Lord Cymrian down.
“No, m’lord. Your uncle and the Sergeant-Major are awaiting your arrival in the Great Hall.”
“Sergeant-Major? What Sergeant-Major?” Ashe asked brusquely, ignoring the salutations of his guards as he hurried past them.
“Er—the Lady Cymrian’s friend. From Ylorc, sire,” Owen said, trying to keep pace.
“Grunthor? What’s he doing here?”
“It was he who brought Anborn back to Haguefort, m’lord.”
Ashe shook his head and made his way as rapidly as he could into the keep.
In the Great Hall he found them, the General and the Sergeant, poring over a map of the western continent. The sight of his uncle caused the anger that had been brewing behind his eyes to explode.
“Where is my wife?”
The soldiers looked up at him.
“If we knew that, I wouldn’ta sent for you, sonny,” Grunthor said curdy. “Now, don’t go gettin’ all peevish. Won’t help.”
Ashe stopped in front of Anborn. “I entrusted her to you, Uncle. You swore you would guard her with your life. She’s gone, but you still seem to be here, unless you are a very hale ghost. What happened?”
Anborn lowered his eyes. Grunthor’s brow darkened; he interposed himself between the Lord Cymrian and the General.
“Oi know you’re upset, Ashe,” he said quietly, but in a deadly tone. “You ain’t the only one, but you’re the only one ’ere who didn’t walk through fire ta try an’ save ’er. Don’t start be’aving like yer grandparents, or you’ll be lookin’ for ’er alone. Ask yerself—would the Duchess want you browbeatin’ the General? ’E’s doin’ a right fine job of it to ’imself without yer ’elp, thank you very much.”
Ashe inhaled, his eyes locked with Grunthor’s. Then he let his breath out slowly to try and calm the rising ire of the dragon in his blood; the wyrm was panicking at the loss of its treasure, threatening to rampage.