And the bear, it—he was on his hind legs, his eyes wide, the red light in them fading, the barbed wire that had been wrapped so tightly around him coiling away, faster and faster, following the Stag, as if the Lady’s Consort had snagged a loose end on an antler point. Ranulf sat down with a plop, studying his paws as if he’d never seen them before.
Laurel stood in the middle of the pandemonium, his face lifted in worship, his own paw raised with the truth rune blazing in white light. He then lowered his head and looked down at me with wild eyes, his whiskers swept back in a smile that showed an awful lot of fang. “The Lady is calling out, and the human kingdom has answered, fiat!”
“Uh, yes,” I rasped as Jeff, well, scampered up to me, the blaze on the badger’s forehead white against the black of his fur. I struggled to sit up—and away from the ice melt from Menck’s rapidly thawing body. “So are air and fire too. Calling out.” I heard the murmur of waves lapping against a sandy shore. “And then there’s water.”
Some of his wildness eased as Laurel’s gaze turned speculative. “So there is.” He reached down and helped me to my feet, handing me my staff. “Which I don’t see here.”
“It had already—reestablished itself,” I said. There was a high, piercing cry and the hawk swooped down. I staggered under its weight as it landed on my shoulder, its talons clutching hard (I was very glad for my chainmail). Placing a black paw on my knee for balance, Jeff sat up on his haunches, trying to see beyond the forest of shins and knees.
“And thank the Lady for that,” Wyln said. “We do not need another aspect rampaging through the town.” His body was flame-free—apparently centuries of practice helped him to subdue the aspect flooding back into him. At least on the outside. His eyes were no longer dark and blind, but were like lightning strikes on dry tinder, and he gave a gentle smile that was every bit as scary as Laurel’s feral one.
“This has been exhilarating, Faena, but it’s time to call a halt, before those drunk on their power set the entire valley aflame. Or blow it down. Or trample it. I think I can control fire.”
“You’re right,” Laurel said, with a small sigh of regret. “I’ll take earth.” He raised his staff. “Rabbit, if you’d take air—”
I lifted my hand and Dyfrig reformed out of the whirlwind to drop lightly to his feet, the bells on his Church staff jingling. At the same time the burning buildings flickered and then went out, as did the flames wrapping those in the fire aspect. Jusson swayed, his eyes damn near crossing. And all those translated once more stood as their human selves, Arlis fortunately leaping up from my shoulder before changing back. That is, all changed except for Suiden and Beollan. The two dragons perched on either side of the town square, Suiden on the church while Beollan alit on the town hall roof. The Marcher Lord spread his wings to the sun, causing them to flash green, then a delicate pink.
Wyln and Laurel looked around the suddenly normal— well, more normal—town square, and Laurel slowly lowered his staff. The Faena then gently took my hand that had held my boot knife. “Let us see,” he asked and I opened it. And blinked. Etched into my palm were the symbols for the aspects—fire and air on one side of the rune, and earth and water on the other side.
Wyln let out a breath. “The tool they thought they made has become a weapon against them.”
“Them? Who’s them?” Jusson asked, his voice a bit slurred, his battle crown slightly askew. He started to move to where we stood, but stumbled over Menck, Thadro catching him before he fell. The dead jailer’s headless body finally looked like a three-day-old corpse—its wounds oozing and a ripe, sweetish stink starting to rise from it. Imbedded in the corpse’s chest was my boot knife, in the same place as the death wound. Holding my breath, I bent down and pulled the small dagger out.
“What the pox-rotted hell happened?” Jusson asked.
“What was stolen was returned,” Laurel said. He ran a paw over his dry head fur as he stared at the dead jailer. “The sorcerer was only a thief, using Rabbit’s own talent not only in his dark arts, but to attack Rabbit as well, even in his dreams.” He sighed. “As Wyln said, it’s no wonder that Rabbit was wasting away before our eyes.”
“No,” I corrected Laurel. Seeing nothing to wipe my knife with, I held it with a two-fingered grasp. “It was a powerful sorcerer. Or, rather, it was four working together.” My mouth twisted. “And Slevoic was one of them.”
Suiden glided down from the church roof, the dragon landing noiselessly on the ground. The next moment the man was striding to where I stood, his green eyes ablaze. But then, so were other eyes much closer to me, including the king’s. Beollan, though, remained where and as he was, turning his great dragon head to look over his shoulder.
Jusson grabbed my arm, pulling me to face him. “Slevoic’s not dead?”
“No, sire,” I said as Suiden pushed through the knot of people to me. “He’s very much alive—” I stopped, instinctively ducking as Beollan dived off the town hall, swooping low over us.
“Damn and blast!” Jusson said, also ducking. “What the bloody hell is he doing?”
“Sire,” Thadro said, pointing at the alleyway mouth, and we all turned to see Rosea emerging. The player was still wearing the green gown and her feet were still bare. However, her hair, free of pearl ropes and elaborate coifs, had returned to its original fiery brilliance and her complexion was once more a flawless peaches-and-cream. Or maybe not so flawless. As Rosea stepped out of the shadow of the alley, the sun highlighted the freckles scattered across her nose and a smudge across her cheek. Her hair hung snarled and tangled, and peeping out from her gown’s somewhat tattered hem were her dirty toes, curling away from the cold ground.
Rosea gave us a tentative smile, twisting her fingers together. “I know it sounds silly, but there was this lady riding an enormous white deer. She told me that someone was waiting here for me—” The player broke off as she caught sight of Ranulf and Beollan pushing their way to her, their faces full of stunned hope. Her eyes widened and her gentle pink lips parted, showing that one of her front teeth was a little crooked. “Dearest brother,” she asked, astonished, “what on earth have you done with your clothes?”
Chapter Forty
We burned Menck’s body right where it lay, not bothering with wood or rags soaked in oil. No one wanted to wait long enough to get them. But then, fuel wasn’t needed. For the first time I saw Wyln gesture as he summoned fire—a small movement of a forefinger—and Menck went up in flames so intense that we had to shield our faces from the heat and light. There were no complaints though, and even Dyfrig looked grimly satisfied when the fire died and only ashes remained. They were placed into an earthen jar, with Dyfrig pouring salt on top of them and Jusson sealing the jar lid shut with the royal seal. Then the doyen sprinkled more salt over where the body had been burned, just in case any trace of the dead jailer remained. Only then did everyone watching sigh in relief.
“I will do purification rites here, in the charnel house, at the warehouse and wherever else needed,” Dyfrig said, casting a tired glance at the battered church facade. He then turned to the town hall, where the retrieval of the bodies of the groomers and guards was being overseen by Thadro and Commander Ebner. Unlike those killed in the square, they had not risen—probably because they’d been taken by the demon. Fighting a vague sense of failure, I turned away, only to have my gaze fall on Gawell and Ednoth, sitting on the ground with their hands tied behind their backs. They were surrounded by a company of soldiers, Own, watchmen, armsmen and townsfolk. All looking as if they hoped the felonious duo would make an escape attempt.