by Toby Forward
The men rested the planks on a stone ledge beneath a clock tower. They stepped back, and a semicircle formed around the bier.
The fiddlers were joined by a drummer. The drum in his arms, a shallow circle stretched with goat skin, was struck with a short stick. The drum shared the weight of the solemnity of the fiddles, and it took to itself some of the sadness.
It was Sam’s first real music, and he heard in it a magic of its own, like wizard magic, but more elusive. He wanted to walk into the tunes.
The crowd shifted and surged. Sam found that its momentum had carried him to the very front, and he stood now between Tremmort and his mother.
The music closed in on itself. The crowd waited. To Sam’s left a gap appeared in the crush of bodies. Four roffles walked through and went straight to the front. Just as all attention was fixed on the roffles, the crowd parted, a noise of whispering broke into the magic of the music, and the most frightening woman Sam had ever seen stepped into the space.
Starback missed Sam
with a dragon’s sorrow. He had lost him to the roffle. He had lost him to the College and could not go in, would not go in after him. After hollowed-out nights and thirsty days he set his face to the path they had taken and he swept with silent wings to Flaxfield’s house.
The back door was open. The windows were flung wide. He slipped through and found himself face to face with Flaxfold.
“Hello, Starback,” she said. “You can stay, but you have to hide yourself. This house stinks, and it’s filthy. There’s rotting food and no air. And there’s a stinking wizard asleep outside Flaxfield’s study.”
She swept the kitchen floor, gathered up rotting food from the table and put it in a sack to take out for the pigs. Starback didn’t help. Dragons don’t do housework. He went to see who the stinking wizard was. It was Caleb, the young, arrogant one from Flaxfield’s Finishing. He slept like spite.
Starback watched him till Flaxfold returned. She woke Caleb and led him downstairs. Caleb looked at her with blank eyes, saying nothing. Flaxfold sat him at the table and put food in front of him. His arms rested on the grained wood.
She cut a corner of buttered bread, spooned on some egg, and held it to his face. He opened his mouth, chewed, and swallowed with some effort. He made no move to take more. Flaxfold cut another piece of bread, added egg, fed him again. She put a mug of milk to his lips, to help him swallow. Milk spilled down his chin. Caleb put his hand up to steady the mug and winced as it touched. Flaxfold turned his hand over in hers and saw that it was marked with raised blisters where he had burned it. His other hand was the same.
“I’ll see to them later,” she said.
He stared at her, as though he had just noticed she was there. He shivered.
It was a slow business. Flaxfold fed him until the food was finished and the mug empty. He showed neither pleasure in eating nor any resistance to her.
When all was done, she led him to a deep chair in front of the fire and covered him with a blanket. He fell asleep immediately.
The sun burned off the early mist. The range breathed out black heat. The kitchen relaxed into a rhythm of work under Flaxfold’s hands. Caleb did not stir as she returned it back to its customary calm and order. Only one unpleasant reminder persisted, a smell. But as that came from Caleb himself, there was nothing she could do till he woke.
She made her way to the study and examined the door. Starback followed her, with a dragon’s silent tread. The beautiful oak was now marked with deep gouges where Caleb had attacked it with an ax. It was scorched and blackened.
Flaxfold traced her finger over the burn marks. Had Caleb tried to burn it down? Or had he tried more magic to open it and been driven back by fire from the sealing spell? She pressed the palm of her hand against the surface. The wood was cool and composed. It had been the battlefield of a war of magic between Caleb and the sealing spell. It had withstood iron and spells and had held firm, keeping its secrets. And now it was wounded, scarred.
Flaxfold found wax and oil and a fresh cloth. She smoothed the oil into the scorched scars. She rubbed wax into the deep wounds of the ax marks. She sang soft and slow as she worked, a song of forests and of green shade, a song of sun on leaves and wind high in the branches.
The door began to gleam with ancient light. When she was done, there was no sign that it had ever been marked. Flaxfold smiled. The iron handle was unchanged. It had burned Caleb’s hands when he wrenched at it, trying to force the door open. The fire had saved it from attack, and it hung, strong and round as ever. Flaxfold put her hand to it, turned it, opened the door, and went in. Starback smiled, slipped through a window, and was gone.
The roffles stood at the four corners
of the planks that held Bearrock. All music stopped. Tremmort pointed to the woman, and his mother looked in her direction. She beckoned her over. The woman shook her head, stared at them, moved her head a little and stared at Sam.
Sam had seen the effects of the world on faces that called at Flaxfield’s door. He had seen what time and steel and sun and sorrow could do to a face, the wounds and the wear.
He had never seen a face like this one.
The skin was stretched tight, like the goatskin of the drum they had followed. Shiny, smooth, mostly, but puckered here and there, as though drawn tight by a tailor’s thread. And she had no lips, like a snake.
Sam could not turn his eyes away. Her face fascinated him, as he had been captivated the first time he had seen a sheep’s skull, half-decayed in a field, the flesh and bone equally presented, the gums, the teeth, the lips, the horror tongue.
She met his gaze, then, as though to make sure he did not miss anything, she lifted her arms, put back the scarf that covered her head. He saw that her hair was half-gone in patches, and that her scalp showed through.
Tremmort called to her. “December. We’re ready.”
Without taking her eyes from Sam, she shook her head.
The roffles had been watching this. Now, the one nearest to Sam stepped forward, took his hand, and led him to the still figure of the corpse.
“You are to do this,” he said to Sam.
A discontented sound rose from the crowd. Brakewood tried to pull Sam back, and Tremmort said to his mother, “It shouldn’t be him. Tell December to do it.”
“Please,” said Greenrose to Sam. “Please finish.”
Sam remembered Eloise by the riverside at Flaxfield’s Finishing. Holding his staff for support, he said the words. As he began, a sigh breathed out from the crowd. The waiting was over. The Finishing was beginning. The words said, the roffles lifted the planks and carried Bearrock away. Sam and Tremmort, Greenrose and the girl followed, the crowd next. Sam wondered whether the woman, December, came too, but he did not turn to look. A fiddle found new notes, then the others joined in. The music moved their feet and their hearts.
Leaving the town, they passed a meadow, and here the others stayed. The roffles were much stronger than they looked, needing no help on the path. Sam’s hunger had turned into a humming inside his head, a pain in his chest, a taste of wax in his mouth. Greater than the hunger was his fear of where they were going. He could see ahead of them the stunted turrets of the mine machinery, smell the fresh slag, piled into heaps. They were taking Bearrock back to the mines, and Sam would have to go into that depth and darkness, where magic is twisted. He would open the door to the Finished World.
The woman they called December walked apart from the crowd, but never far off.
She had been looking for Sam. A week ago, more, she had left the town and taken the road to Flaxfield’s. If he was leaving the wizard, then the roads that led to the old man’s house were the roads that Sam must take to get away.
December had tried magic to find Sam first. All her spells folded back in on themselves. They confused more than they explained.
And so she set off, looking for roads and trails. She kept far from Flaxfield’s house, but looked always toward it. She had all but giv
en up when the stars talked to her about Canterstock. It was the last place she would have expected. She was far from Canterstock and needed to pass back through her hometown and the mines to get there.
The magic was restless now, hot and agitated. She felt it growing annoyed with her. It was like pushing her tongue against a tender tooth, or eating something too hot. As long as she was careful it didn’t hurt, but if she pushed or troubled it too much the pain flared up, stabbing at her. It was more than she dared to do to use it to get to the College. She would have to walk.
She was road-racked, dirty, and hungry. It would be better to take an extra hour and go home and eat and change. She would make faster progress.
The town was dark and busy. Nights were usually quiet in mining towns. The men worked hard and needed sleep. She joined the crowd, knowing there was a new death, blaming herself for making them wait for the Finishing, but puzzled, too; there should be no gathering tonight until she had finished the preparations.
She engineered her way through the press of bodies and emerged into the cleared space. And there he was.
“Isn’t that the way?” she said to herself. “You make a week’s journey to look for something, and it was coming to you all the time.”
Greenrose beckoned to her to come forward and perform the Finishing for Bearrock. December shook her head and stared at Sam, waiting to see what he would do, what he was made of. He was nervous, but he did it well. When they left the town square she followed, keeping Sam always in her sight. Now that she had him, she would not let him go. He was nearly hers, but she would have to play him carefully. He would not come to her of his own free will. She walked apart from the crowd, but never far off.
From her high window,
Ash surveyed the woods and land around the castle. Figures approached. A man on horseback, his face darker than the surrounding night, and an older man, stooped, silent. She clawed the stone of the window ledge, her nails breaking off and starting immediately to regrow.
“In you come,” she whispered. “In you come.”
The older man first, then, without seeing him, the one on horseback, were swallowed by the castle gate.
She half turned to receive them, turned back and saw, gray against the night, shapes bounding clear of the trees, tongues wet, teeth bared. The wolves slowed, grouped, lifted their heads to the moon, and howled.
Ash hurried away, and, in her haste, she missed the other man and the wizard-way he waited for the wolves. She missed the woman, moonlight glistening on the shawl around her head. She hurried away to darkness and the deep passages and her guests.
None of them saw the shape of the dragon circling overhead. No one noticed the glint of moonlight on his scales, the shadow of his wings against the sky.
Starback was a very old dragon. He had flown these skies before even Flaxfield was a boy, and that was many years ago. Starback remembered when Megantople, the fat roffle, toured around the fairs, charging people a penny a time to see him. He remembered when the College at Canterstock was a new place. He remembered the magic that had been learned there, when the students were more careful of the craft. He remembered this castle, the Palace of Boolat.
But Starback had been away. Some of the time he had slept. Some of the time he had lived in a distant country, where news of this place never reached. Some of the time he had fought, because dragons, even Green and Blues, need to fight sometimes. He had returned for Sam.
Now he was puzzled. He circled slowly over the castle. Where were the lights? The music? The clatter of horses’ hooves on the cobbles? The trumpets, announcing visitors? The smells from the kitchens? The running feet of pages? Where was the life?
It had all been such a rush. If only Sam hadn’t met that roffle. If only Starback had had a little more time. If only Flaxfield had warned him that he was going. If only the wizards had listened to Sam. If only things were as he remembered them.
He dipped, tilted, and flew down to the castle. He was tired and lonely. Since leaving Sam, Starback had felt an emptiness, like a pain. He had been looking forward to this visit. Now it looked deserted. Swooping low, he could see that there were figures in the courtyard, even though there were no lights, no torches burning. He shook his head. Dragon-sight doesn’t need torches in the darkness, but he could barely make out what was beneath him. The castle was caught in a web of magic. Someone in there had spun a veil of secrecy all around it.
He flicked his wings to fly higher. Still he slowly sank toward the castle. He could see figures running into the courtyard, pointing up at him. He was being tugged toward it, like a boat being hauled into harbor by a rope. Wings weren’t enough. Struggle was only making it worse.
Old dragons know many tricks. Starback stopped struggling. He hovered for a moment, then allowed the magic to draw him down. The figures below him cheered and yelled. Starback, wings outstretched, swooped toward them. All at once, they realized what it was to have a dragon flying at them. He was an arrow, swift and deadly. They fell back, scattering. Starback roared. Fire flowed from his mouth, and with the fire, the thick, black shape of a broken dragon, which faltered, then flapped clumsily to the tower window. Starback’s mind cleared. He saw what he had done wrong. He flicked his wings, around and back up, shooting high in the air, using the force of the magic that had pulled him down to send him soaring back up.
In the instant that he changed direction, he saw, clear as cruelty, the shape of one who was the center and source of the magic. It was as though they recognized each other; and then he was gone, flying up and free.
He was lost. Since coming back he had been with Flaxfield and Sam. He had played like a young dragon again. He had watched over Sam, and Flaxfield had trusted him with Sam. The old wizard had told him many times that he would not be able to finish Sam’s apprenticeship, and that Starback would be needed when the time came. And now Starback had let him down.
Starback flew in a circle, high and distant, but never taking the castle from his sight. He could smell the magic down there, taste the malevolence. Something had been born here while he was away, something that would reach out and hurt. Sam. All other thoughts left his mind. He must find Sam and help him now. Forget the wizards who were chasing him. Forget everything except looking after Sam. He knew where Sam was. Starback always knew where Sam was. That was the way of things. Leaving the castle behind him, he flew toward the mines.
Ash leaned eagerly toward the black figure that squatted behind her.
Bakkmann shuffled forward.
“The boy,” she said. “He’s trying to perform a Finishing. I can feel him. He’s opening a door that’s forbidden to him. Quickly. It’s a chance.” She jabbed her finger into Sandage’s face.
Bakkmann clattered with pleasure when he saw the old wizard flinch.
“Can I kill him? Kill him? Kill?”
Ash nodded.
Bakkmann scuttled forward and spat a jet of acid at Sandage, missing his face and sizzling on his shoulder.
“No,” said Ash. “No. Not this one.”
Bakkmann hissed disappointment.
“Kill me,” said Sandage.
Ash smiled.
“No,” she said. “I need a quick kill today. You will be slow.”
She darted to the next cell.
“Kill. Quickly,” she ordered Bakkmann.
Bakkmann hurled itself at the dazed prisoner and stabbed into his heart, once, twice, then started to suck and bite noisily at the body.
Ash gabbled the words and the door to the Finished World opened. She leaned in.
Sam had never taken someone through
the opening to the Finished World before.
Everyone had fallen back at the entrance, save the roffles and Tremmort and Sam. They had walked deep into the earth, the path sloping steeply down. Burning torches lit the way.
They reached the deepest point of the mine workings, where the wall in front of them was ready for the next day’s shift. The roffles gently lowered their load
to the floor and stood back, waiting.
Sam was trembling. He was tired, hungry. His neck hurt from bending to keep his head clear of the roof. He could taste the air down there, taste that it was different, and not just from the dust of the digging and the tar that they painted the roof timbers with. It tasted like milk that is half a day too old and not yet curdled—not right, but not properly wrong. Sam could taste that magic was different down here. Tremmort stared at Sam.
“Can you do it?” asked Tremmort.
Sam nodded.
He took Bearrock’s hand and started to say the words of Finishing. He could tell that Tremmort saw nothing. Sam didn’t know enough about roffles to know whether they saw anything or not. But he saw the door open. He saw, for the first time, a crack in the ordinary world that opened up into a way through to the Finished World. He saw Bearrock move through the opening. He thought he saw something of where the big man went.
Sam came to the end of the words and drew his hand away from Bearrock’s. The door to the Finished World was starting to close. As the big man stepped away, another hand took hold of Sam.
Sam flinched. He pulled back. Half-hidden in the Finished World, a slender, gray-robed figure reached out and held Sam tight.
“No,” Sam shouted. “Let me go!”
He jerked as hard as he could, tugging the hand into the mine for a moment. Then it was too strong and pulled back at him. Sam stared at the figure, trying to see the face. She was taller than Sam, strong for one so slim. Sam could sense that she was using the wild magic of the mines to keep hold of him.
He stumbled forward. He pulled again, and he was nearly through the closing door.
Sam made one last effort. His weakened body felt helpless against her determination.
“Come on through,” she whispered.
He sagged, all strength spent. Her other hand found the seal around his neck. She tugged it. The leather thong grew tight. Sam’s head dipped and he began to move toward her.