Sign of the Dove

by Susan Fletcher

“Oh, that was clever of you,” the younger one said. “Even if they were here, they’d never come out now.”

  “Well,” the other growled, “I’ll send a man back to the farm where Kaeldra said they left them. If the brats aren’t there…”

  The light ebbed away from the opening; the voices grew nimbly and faint. Owyn squirmed to free himself, but Lyf clamped him tight against her.

  “Hush”she whispered. “Hush”

  Harper’s Tale

  Whenever a dove’s message told that a dragon dam had been slain, Kaeldra and Jeorg journeyed to the lair to save the draclings. This time that I tell of, three others rode along as well: Owyn, their son; Lyf (I come to her at last); and a harper. Some say this harper was the finest in all of Elythia, my ladies. But I am no judge of that.

  Then, all but the two younglings were captured.

  I tell only what I know, my lords. Some harpers give you stale old tales, warmed over with a few poor leeks and turnips stirred in to make them seem fresh. But this tale I tell you tonight is true. I know whereof I speak.

  I do not know directly what passed in the cave with Lyf and Owyn, so I cannot tell you of that.

  Still, I do know this for a surety: Kaeldra and Jeorg and the finest harper west of the Kragish Sea were trussed up like guinea fowl and taken on horseback to a castle in the Etythian woods.

  CHAPTER 6

  Alone

  Lyf eased her hold on Owyn when she heard the men leaving, and loosed it altogether when the retreating clatter of hooves grew too faint to hear.

  “Mama,” Owyn whimpered. “I want Mama.”

  “She’ll soon return,” Lyf said, and then another lie: “She said to wait here.” Before he could protest, she hugged him close on her lap and told him, as best she could recall it, one of Kymo’s tales: the adventures of a girl who lived in a chicken hut.

  Owyn called for his mother a time or two after that, but each time Lyf hushed him and went on with the story, adding new dangers to distract him. Her pulse beat hard and fast in her throat, but she kept her voice carefully calm. At last Owyn leaned back against her, growing heavier and heavier in her lap. His body softened, his head lolled to one side, his breath-rise came measured and slow. Thank the heavens he had been weary, else he would not have been so easily placated, and would no doubt have raised a wail heard clear across the mountains.

  She kept on with the story long past when she knew Owyn slept, for she knew that when she stopped, she would have to think.

  She did not want to think.

  And yet the thoughts would come—dark and fearsome— thronging into her mind and breaking the thread of the story. At last she gave up the telling, let the tale drift away. Still she did not move to go, for it felt safer here in the cool, close darkness of the cave. None could see them here. None could find them.

  Kaeldra’s scream echoed and reechoed in Lyf’s mind, striking terror every time. But she had shouted, “No,” soon after, and so could not have been badly hurt.

  Could she?

  Nysien had led the men here, that was clear. He wouldn’t let them harm her. Or would he?

  What had the one man said? We should have followed longer, like Nysien told us. We’d have got the wolf’s head for Kaeldra and the beasts.

  A wolf’s head on Kaeldra? Lyf knew that the Kragish queen had put out a wolf’s head on dragons.

  But on Kaeldra?

  She shivered, suddenly chilled.

  What to do? Where to go now?

  They could not return home; home was too far. And the ruin … that was not safe. Nysien might return there anytime. But that farmer … the one Kaeldra had told of. Yanil, was he called?

  He lived, Kaeldra had said, to the east of the mountains. He had sent the message about the dragon’s death, and there was a dove carved on the lintel of his door.

  But the horses were gone; the two of them must travel afoot. And Owyn would be slow. And they had no fire tools, and they had no food, and Lyf was hungry even now. And the forest… it was perilous in the forest, with none to defend them from wolves or holt cats … or bounty hunters.

  Lyf felt the tears stinging her eyes. They were lost. They would be killed if they left this cave and would starve if they stayed within it. She sniffled, wiped her nose on her sleeve.

  Then the bounty hunter’s words came back to her. She’d have run sniveling to her sister, he had said. A cosseted milk coddle, he had called her.

  Lyf drew herself up, indignant. Well, she was not. She would make her way to this Yanil’s farm, and bring Owyn and the egg in tow.

  She had no other choice.

  Owyn did not wake when Lyf lifted him off her lap and gently laid him on the ground. She groped about on hands and knees until she brushed against the egg. She held if for a moment in her lap, letting the vibration calm her, then groped about some more, pushing the egg before her, until she found the cleft she had come in by. She rolled the egg through.

  “Owyn,” she said, shaking him gently. “Time to go.”

  “Mama.” His voice was husky with sleep.

  “We’re going to find your mama,” Lyf said. “Scoot out through the hole now, there’s a big boy.”

  “Why?” Owyn asked, but Lyf ignored the question and gently prodded him out. She crawled out behind him, found the egg, and slipped it back into the carrier.

  Darkness clotted thick about where now they stood, but ahead Lyf could see light: the flush of sunset beyond the arch of the cave; the pale, pinkish glow just within. She blundered her way over the rocky ground, holding Owyn’s hand. “Mama,” he said eagerly. “Mama. Mama.” Lyf felt a sharp pang of guilt.

  When they neared the cave mouth, Lyf stopped, uneasy. Might the hunters have left someone without, to watch for her and Owyn? No, she thought, and yet…

  “Stay here,” she said softly to Owyn.

  “I want Mama!”

  “Sh! We’ll find her soon, but you need to be still. We’re playing a trick.”

  “Why?”

  “Sh. You’ll see.”

  In the dim, rosy light, Lyf could see that Owyn was not as pleased with this game as he had been before. His face clouded over; Lyf feared that he would scream. She forced herself to sound cheerful. “It’ll be merry when your mama and da see how clever you are. Now wait here,” she said, coaxing him to one side of the opening and settling him behind an outcropping of rocks. “I’ll soon return.”

  Owyn looked uncertain. “Why?”

  “Wait here,” Lyf whispered, backing toward the cave mouth. “And don’t beat the drums! Sh!”

  She edged out cautiously, stooping low in the shadows behind a clump of boulders. The air smelled fresh and the ground was sodden. It must have rained. Lyf crept from boulder to boulder until she could see the winding track they had taken to the cave. She scanned the track in the gathering dusk.

  Nothing. They were alone. All was still save for the wind, which rattled in the tree branches and gusted in her ears.

  The hunters must have gone.

  She returned to the cave and found Owyn rubbing one eye with a fist. “Let’s go,” she said with forced cheerfulness. “We’re off to find your mama”

  “Why?” he asked.

  “Because we want to find her. Don’t you?”

  Owyn nodded, regarding her with trusting, eager eyes. Dirt streaked his face; his hair was matted on one side and stuck straight up in back. He would hate her when he found out, when it became clear that they would not soon see Kael-dra. But for now, this was all she could do.

  Lyf had noticed a narrow path that wound up the tor to the east. She shooed Owyn up before her; he found a stick and began thumping on boulders and trees. “I beat the drums,” he said. Lyf, thinking to keep him in good humor, found a stick for herself and thumped away beside him.

  She felt uneasy about the noise, but… The hunters are gone, she told herself. They would have seized us by now if they weren’t. And the thumping made her feel braver, somehow.

  The path
crested the tor and then dipped down into a hollow crowded with needlecone trees. It was darker here, but twilight trickled through the branches and showed a muddy footpath. Lyf did not know for certain whether it headed toward Yanil’s farm. But it seemed so. Another hill loomed before them, though not so high as the tor they had just climbed. Perhaps they had crossed the highest mountains. Perhaps they had not far to go. Perhaps this very night she would find Yanil, would tell him what had befallen Kael-dra and Jeorg and Kymo Then he would take care of all.

  Lyf had heard of Yanil in the tales Kaeldra told. He had taken her in and fed her. Later, he had sealed the draclings into casks so that they could stow away on a ship.

  The woods closed in around them. Through the lattice of branches, Lyf caught a glimpse of moon. It shed only meager light—a pearly luminescence that gathered high up in the trees—but it was enough to show the path. The wind picked up and seethed fitfully in the treetops, shaking loose droplets of trapped rainwater.

  A damp chill settled about Lyf’s shoulders. Her neck chafed, and her back ached from the weight of the egg. Owyn was taken with sudden bursts of energy when he would gallop ahead on the path, brandishing his stick and shouting “Boom! Boom! Boom!” Lyf jogged after, the egg thumping painfully against her stomach. Then, as suddenly as they had begun, Owyn’s bursts of energy would fizzle. He would halt, throw himself to the ground, and refuse to budge. “When will we find Mama?” he would whine. “I want Mama.”

  Lyf carried him on one hip until her arm and shoulder began to ache and her hand would not grip and he slipped out again, ready to run. He was solid, surprisingly heavy for one so young. Once, Lyf let him climb up and ride on her back. But she could not lug him more than a few steps in this wise before her back began to pain her so fiercely that she couldn’t abide it, and her knees grew so weak she feared that they would fold.

  Owyn began to cough, lightly at first, and then, as the night wore on, in long, hacking spasms. He no longer galloped, but dragged along the path, whining that he was tired, that he was hungry, that he was cold, that his feet hurt, that he wanted his mother. Lyf felt like whining too. She might have done so if there were someone to whine to. If there were someone to take care of her. But as it was …

  She was the only one who could take care.

  They would not reach Yanil’s farm this night—now that was certain. She must find a place for them to rest. And the ground was yet too sodden to lie on. She had no ax to make shelter—nor even a knife. To be cold and wet at once … Owyn’s throat-ill would only grow worse.

  Lyf was no longer sure which way they were headed. The light in the forest had faded until it was impossible to see the path except by the gap of moonlit sky between the trees. And while it had seemed at first to lead east, the path had wound around and intertwined with other paths and now it was so narrow that it might not be a path at all, but only a trampled track for animals.

  Holt cats? Wolves?

  She stopped, listened hard. Wind shivered in the tree boughs, loud as a rushing stream. Below, on the ground, there were soft rustlings and scattered ominous snaps.

  In the gloom not far ahead Lyf made out the shape of a wide-forking tree—-perhaps wide enough for her and Owyn to nest in. It would not keep them safe from holt cats, but it would hold the wolves at bay. At the very least, it would get them off the wet ground.

  Lyf led Owyn to the foot of the tree. He shivered, hacked out a cough. “Sit here” she said. She took off the egg carrier, handed it to him. Maybe the egg would give him comfort. “Hold this. I’ll soon return”

  “Why?” Owyn croaked hoarsely. He slumped against the tree, hugging the egg.

  Lyf kilted her skirts, looking up. She had climbed a tree but once or twice before-—Mama would not permit it—but it did not look so very hard. She jammed one boot against the bole above a protruding knob and, holding on to a sturdy branch, hauled herself up to the fork. There. Space enough for Owyn to nestle in the crotch of the branches and lean back against the thicker one. She could lash him to the branch with her sash. Lyf looked up and saw another fork above. She climbed up to it; the bough swayed a bit, made a rustling in the leaves. It was narrow here. Scary. But safer and drier than the ground.

  She climbed back down, calling out, “We’ll rest here, Owyn. I’ll boost you up and-—” Reaching the ground, she turned to where he sat—and stopped. The egg lay against the tree bole.

  But Owyn was gone.

  “Owyn!” Lyf called. “Owyn!”

  Rustlings. Somewhere in the distance a stream gurgled. But of Owyn, not a sound.

  Lyf looked about her, fear clutching at her throat. She could not see for, for darkness lay thick among the trees, clotting to blackness not for beyond. The moon had disappeared behind a shred of cloud.

  “Owyn!”

  No answer.

  Hastily, Lyf slipped on the egg carrier, then moved forward along the trampled way. Vines tore at her legs; a tree branch whipped across her face. It was not a footpath, she admitted to herself. It may well have begun so, but now it was only an animal track, and they were well and truly lost. She called again for Owyn, then stood listening. The plash of running water. And then … a hoarse little cough.

  Owyn!

  She felt her way down the track as quickly as she could. It seemed to end at the foot of an enormous, hollowed-out stump. This looked to have been lightning-struck, for at about the height of Lyf’s head the tree had split off and fallen to the forest floor.

  “Owyn?”

  A soft rumbling emanated from the stump. A scorched smell mingled with the scents of rain and leaves and rotted wood. Smoke? Lyf warily eyed the stump. It was larger than any tree stump she had seen. It sprouted with ferns and moss and fungus. A rubble of boulders stood beside it. Above the tallest rock were light patches on the stump, where the bark was freshly scraped off. Or kicked off—by someone climbing in.

  “Owyn, are you in there?”

  Silence. And then … another cough.

  “Owyn!”

  Muttering under her breath, Lyf clambered up onto the boulders, leaned against the stump, and peered over its rim. Darkness pooled within, but she thought she caught a movement. The moon must have come out just then, for at once there was light inside the stump: a soft liquid glimmering all around, and sharp, pinpoint gleams.

  Eyes. A score of them and more, glinting green.

  Dragon eyes.

  Harper’s Tale

  All the dreary trek to the castle, a puzzle gnawed at Kaeldra and Jeorg and the harper:

  How had the hunters known where to find them?

  The captives spoke of this softly when chance provided, when their captors could not hear. They listened well to the men’s talk, hoping some passing remark would make all clear.

  Just happenstance, you say, my lady? They had been seen by chance?

  Perhaps.

  And yet, other likelihoods came to mind—one more than the rest. But the captives, especially Kaeldra, were loathe to embrace it.

  Nysien. Kaeldra’s sister’s husband. Only he had known where they were bound.

  Still, when the castle loomed before them and the guards were found to be Krags, they knew it could not have been he. Even more when they laid eyes on the Kragish queen.

  Nysien was renowned for his hatred of the Krags. He would sooner die than collude with them.

  Or so the captives thought.

  Oh—easy to scoff, my lord! I’ll wager that you—knowing only what they knew then—would have judged the same.

  CHAPTER 7

  hungry!

  Aspurt of blue flame sliced through the darkness, blinding Lyf, filling her lungs with smoke. She stumbled back down the boulders, away from the stump—then she heard Owyn’s voice within.

  “I tricked you! Ha! I tricked you!”

  Lyf stopped, crept slowly forward, climbed back onto the pile of rocks. She peered down into the stump. Owyn’s smudged, round face looked up from among the dragons. Baby dragons the
y were—none looked to be larger than a fox. Their heads, on long, slender necks, sprouted up like a cluster of mushrooms. Their eyes all gleamed at her.

  Lyf wrenched her gaze from the draclings and whispered urgently to Owyn. “Grab my hand. Quick! I’ll pull you out!”

  “Why?” Owyn asked, then was convulsed with a spasm of coughing.

  “Just do as I say!”

  Lyf reached down into the stump, pushing the egg to one side so as not to squash it. Slowly. Slowly. Don’t alarm the draclings.

  “No!” Owyn said. “You come in here. It’s warm!”

  “Owyn!” Lyf forced herself to keep her arm stretched down. One of the draclings sniffed at her hand, then flicked at it with a forked tongue. Lyf snatched it away.

  “Owyn!” she said, soft and urgent. “Come here! Take my hand!”

  She was reaching down to him again when she felt something bright, something fizzy, something tingly in her mind.

 

  She had not heard it, yet it was as clear to her as speech. Every fiber in her body ached to pull back, to climb down off the stump, to run through the forest and away. Yet something held her, some force of concentration. Like a bird kenning it was, but more knowing, more aware. It did not suck her into itself—only made itself known. And a chorus arose—a silent, plaintive chorus that tickled at her mind:

  The draclings surged toward her, a dark wave in the pit of the stump.

  “Owyn, now! They’re hungry!”

  “I’m hungry too.”

  “They might put it in mind to eat you.”

  “They won’t.” Owyn sounded certain. And truly they did not seem interested in Owyn—but with Lyf it was elsewise. They crowded below her within the stump, clambering one on top of another, lunging at her, all the while pelting her mind with their incessant hungries.

  It was too much. Lyf scrambled off the rock pile to the ground. The egg thumped hard against her stomach. She ran a few steps, stopped, ran a few steps more, stopped again.

  It wasn’t fair that this had happened. She couldn’t rescue Owyn. She was only a child herself.