“Who are those people?” yelled Cyril over the wind.
Catherine shook her head in bewilderment. “I think he wants us to follow.”
Menard was on his knees looking at the trail. “Know this, Cyril. If that is Pokos—and we can’t be certain that it is—he’s leaving tracks. But those others... they’re walking through eight inches of snow and not leaving a trace,” shouted Menard. “Mind you, in another five minutes, Pokos’s tracks will be covered over. We must catch up!”
The trail was climbing again across a treeless ridge. Bessie was nearly blown sideways by the shrieking wind, but Catherine grabbed her sleeve and she kept her footing. They lowered their heads and trudged on.
Suddenly Cyril stopped short and held up a hand in warning. They crowded around him, breathing hard.
Pokos’s tail was once again visible, a tiny black speck swaying back and forth in the distance. Several men were walking ahead of him—walking on thin air. Underneath was a huge gulf of emptiness, a sheer drop to rocky cliffs far below.
Catherine sucked in her breath. These must be Cinnans—the same people who took my pendant and dagger! Where are they leading Pokos? She watched in amazement. What powers they have! She remembered how they had made her dagger rise and spin.
Wait! Catherine thought back to the fork in the trail and how the left one had vanished, revealing a precipice that could have killed them. She looked again at the string of figures leading Pokos. Instinctively she reached for her dagger and pointed it after them. She could hardly feel her hands for the numbness of the cold. They were bright red and the tip of the thumb of her right hand had turned a creamy, yellowish white. She closed her eyes, hoping that her tears would not freeze her eyelids together. She pictured Pokos’s tail and the mysterious figures in white ahead of him.
They aren’t walking on thin air, she realized. They are picking their way over a rocky trail.
She opened her eyes and watched the snow swirling down into the chasm. Cyril, Bessie and Menard were all staring at her. She lowered the dagger and breathed out slowly.
Then, she jumped.
“How are you d-d-doing that? You are standing on nothing but air!” said Bessie with a look of astonishment on her face.
“It’s just a trick. I can see the trail now. They are getting away. Hurry!” Catherine urged her companions.
Cyril took a deep breath and ran straight at her. Menard followed, cursing.
“Well, I’m not going to be left behind!” shouted Bessie. She closed her eyes and leapt into midair.
When Catherine saw that all of her companions had broken through the illusion, she bolted after Pokos. With instinctive precision, she leapt from rock to jagged rock, not pausing when the slippery layer of new snow sent her in an unexpected direction. What had looked like a great gulf between cliffs was in reality a narrow ridge between two steep mountains. Catherine squinted against the stinging snowflakes, focused on one goal—the black speck that she knew was the end of Pokos’s tail. The men were nearly impossible to see.
The Cinnans entered the forest at the end of the ridge. Not one of them turned back to see if they were being followed. Are they so sure of their magic? Does it work so well on the other people here—the hunters who tried to kill Pokos?
Catherine stopped at the forest’s edge. Menard looked in vain for human tracks, breathing hard. Bessie, flushed from running, wiped melted snowflakes off her face.
Menard squinted and held out eight fingers. Crossbow in hand, Cyril nodded and slipped into the forest past the others.
The trees gave them shelter from the brunt of the storm, but it seemed to be getting colder by the minute. The trail wound back and forth down the forested mountainside. Catherine ran lightly right behind Cyril, until suddenly she heard the sound of many people chanting in unison. It was a language she had never heard before. Catherine dropped down next to Cyril, who was on his belly.
The Cinnans had entered a small clearing. The wind had let up and snowflakes drifted down through the trees and landed on the huge boulders that ringed the clearing. Catherine could just make out markings carved into the rocks that looked like the ones on the Cinna Gate. There, in the midst of the Cinnans, was a pool of steaming water. Several men were standing in it, waist deep. Pokos entered the pool, which was deep enough to engulf him.
Catherine lurched forward, only to be stopped by Cyril’s arm pinning her to the ground.
A woman with dark hair stroked Pokos’s head. He moved to a shallower spot and lapped water, while her hand rested on his neck. The steam rising from the hot spring infused the scene with a dreamlike serenity. Above the smell of pine, Catherine caught the distinct scent of peppermint.
Pokos suddenly clamored out of the pool and shook his body, sending water in all directions. The men laughed and brought towels and began to rub him dry, taking care not to touch his shoulder wound. The blood that had been there was washed away.
Catherine was amazed by the ease with which they handled Pokos’s great paws; they even dried the cat’s tail with no fear whatsoever. Pokos stood quietly, wobbling a bit as he maintained his balance under their ministrations. After they had toweled him dry, the men put a large red blanket over him. No one spoke. The woman with the dark hair donned a heavy purple robe and walked past the pool down the path. Pokos followed her, his head held high.
One of the men turned toward the spot where they were hiding. He lowered his hood, looked in their general direction, and beckoned with his arms. Was this a ceremonial movement? Catherine, Cyril, Menard, and Bessie flattened themselves to the trail, not daring to breathe.
The man came closer.
“My name is Quor. Julia bids you come in from the cold.” His words had a strange, careful enunciation.
Catherine raised her head and found the Cinnan standing directly over them. He wasn’t smiling, and his cold gray eyes were disdainful. He had black hair that was long and tied back. His skin was pale and the cold seemed not to have brought much color to his cheeks. He looked to be about thirty years old, except for his eyes, which looked much older.
Catherine stood up and brushed off her sheepskin coat.
“You knew we were here?” she asked defiantly.
“You were in Spelopokos’s thoughts. He smelled you,” answered the man coldly.
“Did he think anything else?” Catherine asked.
“He had lost faith in you, but now thinks perhaps he was wrong to do so. It is possible you are not worthy to be the Heir of the Onyxes, Catherine.” Quor’s words were merciless.
Catherine closed her eyes with the pain of Quor’s words. She had thought as much herself many times.
“Easy for you to say!” Cyril pushed forward to face the man, who was shorter than Cyril by several inches. “You with your tricks! Where were you when we faced the fairrier cats last night? Where were you when Pokos was wounded? Couldn’t you have stopped that with all of your powers?”
Quor didn’t blink. He looked dispassionately at Catherine. “You were going to leave Cinna,” he hissed.
Catherine gasped.
“That was my idea,” said Cyril, nose to nose with the man. “She insisted on staying.”
“So it would seem, Cyril, king of Candlewax.” Cyril narrowed his eyes at the sound of his name and tightened his grip on his bow. Quor looked at him with an odd mix of admiration and surprise in his gray eyes, as if he suddenly understood something. “Come. Spelopokos awaits you.” The man backed up, bowed curtly and turned on his heels.
They followed Quor down the trail, which opened up into another clearing. Towering pines with reddish bark stood like sentries, swaying back and forth in the wind. There was no one in sight—only a steep rock face that jutted high up into the snowstorm. Catherine couldn’t see the top. The wind had picked up again. The tip of Bessie’s nose was white and Menard’s bushy eyebrows were coated with ice and snow.
Quor turned and said, “Come.” He walked into what looked like a solid rock wall and was gone.
Cyril plunged after him. Catherine grabbed Bessie by the elbow and together they stepped through the rock, Menard right behind them.
Looking back, Catherine could see that they had followed Quor through an archway carved out of the rock. There was a torch set into the wall and Catherine observed a tunnel twisting away from them. As they followed him around the bend, the sound of the wind lessened.
“Remove your footwear,” said Quor, who sat down on a rock bench, removed his boots, and stashed them against a wall already lined with dozens of shoes. Then Quor proceeded to remove his white pants. Bessie looked at Catherine in alarm, only to sigh in relief when she saw that he had another pair of brown wool pants underneath.
Menard took off Catherine’s pack, sat down, and pulled off his boots with much huffing and puffing. “Knew I should have worn my good socks,” he grumbled. His big toe was sticking out, along with a tuft of fairrier cat fur.
Bessie’s face was contorted with pain. Quor took note and gestured toward another bench. Bessie hobbled over and sat down obediently, then she pulled off her shoes, grimacing. Quor knelt in front of her and took one of her feet and enclosed it gently in his hands. Bessie cried out in pain.
“Now stop that,” warned Menard.
“I seek to help Bessie, Menard,” said Quor. “Her feet have been bitten by the cold. I am giving her the warmth of my hands. One must be still, or the flesh could be damaged by the sharp ice crystals that have formed inside.” He shook his head compassionately. “Bessie, those shoes are not meant for the Cinna Range. Another hour in that storm and you could have lost some toes.”
Catherine noticed that the tunnel was not nearly as cold as it was outside. Cyril removed his boots and watched Quor’s every move. Menard looked down the passage with curiosity. He pressed his hand on the rough-hewn walls.
“Warm,” he murmured to Cyril.
Catherine realized that she could feel the warmth of the stone floor through her socks and Pokos’s fur. She looked down at her dagger in its sheath, and while Quor was busy helping Bessie, slipped it out and into her coat pocket. These people had taken it from her once before and she wasn’t going to give them another chance. Menard winked at her and patted the hilt of his sword.
The end of Bessie’s nose was pink again. The warmth of the passage was thawing out muscles that had been stiff with cold.
“This way,” said Quor, guiding Bessie to her feet. She looked uncertainly at Catherine and Cyril, who nodded in unison. Menard took up Catherine’s pack and ambled down the tunnel.
A thick carpet with intricate geometric designs of red, cream, and black ran through the tunnel. Torches were spaced about every twenty feet. They smelled of beeswax and gave off no smoke.
Quor stopped and faced them. “Please do not speak unless you have to. Our children are not used to voices.”
“But you speak!” said Bessie, surprised. “All of you were chanting something back at the pool and you are speaking now.”
“Sacred words are often spoken aloud. All know them. As for me, I am a Speaker. A few in every generation are taught this way of sounding out our thoughts with words,” said Quor. He turned and walked on.
The tunnel opened up into an enormous room filled with tables and chairs. There were no fireplaces, and yet the air was too warm for Catherine’s sheepskin coat, so she took it off and carried it. Quor turned right down the hall and opened the first heavy wooden door they came to. The room on the other side was surprisingly flooded with light. Catherine squinted into the brightness. Pointed arched windows lined the back wall. She could see the blizzard raging outside. There was just the whiteness of the snow buffeting the glass.
A crowd of people looked up. Quor raised his hand in greeting. The group of Cinnans stared at Catherine, Cyril, Menard, and Bessie.
Then they parted, and there was Pokos, lying upon a bed that was covered with a purple blanket. The cat was surrounded by pillows. Several children brushed his damp fur. He was looking out the windows at the swirling snow, the end of his tail twitching. He must have caught her scent because he suddenly looked over at her. His eyes were green. Catherine stood there, motionless, and then rushed to him and threw her arms around him, suddenly wracked with sobs. He leaned into her with a deep rumbling sound in his chest.
She felt someone touching her arm gently from behind. She glanced down and saw the familiar scar across Cyril’s knuckles. Slowly she became aware that the sound of her crying was filling the room. She looked up and saw quiet, staring faces. Pokos nudged her affectionately.
“I thought we might never... see you again, Pokos. You were hurt. I was so worried,” she managed to say between shuddering gasps of air. The children surrounding Pokos backed away in surprise at her voice. She stood up, feeling Cyril’s arm still around her.
“This wound is nothing, Catherine.” The children scattered even farther back at Pokos’s deep voice. “I saw Nepozadan in my dreams. He swiped at me with his paw the way he used to do when we were young and he was bossing me around. I saw how foolish I had been to blame you for killing the fairrier cats. Not long after, the Cinnans came for me. I was to lead you here. This storm would have killed you, Catherine.”
“Wait. They knew we were following?”
The thought troubled her. Something didn’t seem right. Why the illusion? Was it another test? Did they want to create the impression that they didn’t know we were following? The Cinnans had used Pokos to bring them out of the storm, likely saving their lives, but she still felt manipulated. A seed of suspicion lodged in her gut. Years in her father and mother’s court had taught her that deception often covered hidden motives and secret plans. Whatever these people wanted, she would need to be wary.
Catherine wiped her face dry and looked around. The other Cinnans had the same coloring as Quor—pale skin and dark hair. The men were dressed in shirts and trousers of tan and gray and brown. The women wore fitted dresses in bright colors and tiny geometric patterns with billowing skirts that reached to the floor. The children, too, were dressed colorfully.
“I am Catherine of Crystallia,” she said, drawing her shoulders back. “Thank you for saving us. All of Lackanay is in your debt.” She bowed her head graciously.
Quor came to her side. He looked as if he were listening to some silent voice and then said, “Our people are happy to have done what was necessary. It has been foretold that you and Spelopokos would come. We did not foresee your friends, and apologize for our distrust. Spelopokos holds them in high regard.”
Catherine’s heart leapt. Now is as good a time as any. “In order to fulfill my purpose, I must travel back through the Cinna Gate with other fairrier cats.” She paused and searched the faces around her. “And so I need my necklace back.”
“We will present you with the Onyxes this evening at dinner.” Quor did not look her in the eye when he spoke. “Until then, we bid you enjoy our comforts—bathe, rest.”
“Thank you, Quor,” said Catherine, wondering whom in the room Quor was listening to. She followed Quor’s gaze to an old man with shoulder-length gray hair. He was sitting to the side and staring at her with sunken, narrowed eyes. His forehead was exceptionally large and deeply furrowed and his fingers drummed on the armrests of his simple pine chair. He was dressed in a long-sleeved white linen tunic that reached to the floor but still did not disguise the knobby protrusions of his knees. Next to him was a beautiful woman, most likely his daughter, who had an air of assurance about her. Her hair was dark, straight, and held back by a purple cord with tiny silver bells woven into it that draped forward over her nearly bare shoulder. Like the clothing of the other Cinnan women, the bodice of her dress was tightly fitted. Catherine couldn’t be sure of the fabric, but it looked expensive. Her eyes met Catherine’s and Catherine felt the measure of them. The hint of a smile played at the corner of the woman’s lips. Catherine instantly disliked her.
A boy reached for Catherine’s coat and tugged.
“He wants to take your coat for cleani
ng,” Quor explained. Catherine was puzzled until she looked down and saw that her sleeve had a smear of dried blood on it. Must have come from Pokos last night. Catherine reached into the pocket and withdrew the dagger, wanting to keep it close. Quor saw her holding it, but looked away as if he did not want to see it there in her hand.
Children were pulling at Catherine’s pack, which Menard was still wearing. She nodded at him and he let the pack slip from his shoulders. It too disappeared.
The room was hot. Catherine’s eyelids drooped. She remembered the fairrier cat fur in her socks and shook her head clear. She was not going to fall asleep right here in front of all these people.
Quor continued, “Spelopokos will rest here. I will guide Menard and King Cyril. Princess Catherine and Bessie, please follow Mekrita. She will take care of you.” A plain-looking young woman with a serene face gestured to them. Her gray eyes briefly swept Catherine’s, and then dropped to the floor. If Catherine didn’t know better, she would have thought her a servant. Yet something of her bearing made her think otherwise. The girl was too poised. Her hands were graceful and slender.
Catherine glanced at Spelopokos. He nodded just enough for her to see it. “Very well,” said Catherine. “I shall look forward to this evening.” She flashed Cyril and Menard a smile. But Cyril looked guarded and Menard wasn’t smiling one little bit.
They had taken her clothes. It was a good thing she had brought her dagger into the bath with her, or they might have taken that, too. The socks with Pokos’s fur were gone. Catherine frowned at the blue dress lying on the chair. At least they had left her a clean pair of her own underwear. She put them on and then lifted the dress over her head.
It bothered her that she didn’t know where Pokos and her friends were. They had been split up and taken to different quarters. In addition to having a private bath, her room had two chairs, a table, and a large feather bed on a carved pine frame. The bed was covered with a soft blanket dyed a light blue. A thick woolen rug with blue and purple florets covered the stone of the floor and there was a tapestry on one of the walls showing a pleasing pattern of flowers she didn’t recognize. It was unlike any of the needlework she had seen in Lackanay—more geometric in its scheme.
Candlewax Page 16