Dandelion Fire

by N. D. Wilson

  A man's head was in the center, the same head that appeared on the faeren's seal. It was big, as large as Henry's torso. The man was bearded, and vines poured out of his mouth and nostrils, tangling with the stone hair on his jaw. Vines and leaves also sprouted from his ears and wrapped around his head like a crown. His eyes, round balls of black stone, were open, but the pupils were funnel-shaped holes, bored back into the man's head. In a circle all around the face, stone hair and leaves and vines intertangled, forming a leafy and serpentine surface. Henry moved closer and focused his light. Throughout the man's beard and the tangled halo, smaller heads had been carved. They sprouted off vines next to leaves, and all of them had their eyes closed in sleep. Henry had counted a dozen, tracing the cool stone with his fingertips, when something rattled at his feet. A snarl of small bones was piled against the base of the door. The skulls were long and wide-nostriled like miniature horses, but at the snout, each had one small horn. Raggant skulls. There were five. Henry shivered. He was in a grave. Beyond the door, there would be bodies. One, or dozens, but bodies.

  Henry slid backward toward the stairs, then turned quickly. He could see sunlight at the top of the shaft. Ducking, he bounded up, gasping for air that hadn't been sleeping with the dead.

  Henry erupted from the ground and staggered through the tall grass, looking at the blue sky and then down at the green life beneath his feet.

  A bearded man moved in front of him.

  Stunned, Henry looked into his eyes. He had black hair and was wearing all white beneath a heavy brown cloak. He was poised, expecting Henry to do something. Henry stepped backward and turned toward the cracked tree. Another man, hairless, taller, thicker, but in the same dress, stood waiting for him. The man raised his hand, and strange words rumbled in his chest. Henry gasped and staggered, struggling to breathe. The air was trying to bind his arms and legs, trying to grip his throat.

  Coughing, Henry tripped but kept his feet. The first man was coming toward him. Henry swung his backpack and bumped into the stone. Turning, he scrambled up. His legs were wobbling. His hands wanted to drop what they held, to let his flashlight and backpack find the ground. He gripped them both tighter.

  There were four men that he could see, circling around the stone. Henry picked the smallest, took a step on the rock, and jumped toward him. His knees struck the man's chest, and he slammed the flashlight down on top of his head with a crunch of breaking plastic and glass. Together, they tumbled to the ground, and Henry rolled free, scrambling to his feet. The flashlight was gone. Clutching his backpack, Henry ran toward the old stone wall, ragged and tumbled down. He caught his toe as he jumped it and fell again, bouncing and sliding down the slope through the thick grass. Henry pushed himself up and ran faster than he ever had, plowing and tearing the soft earth with each step, down the steep slope of Badon Hill, jumping brush and boulders, rolling in moss when he slipped, filling his lungs with wind and feeding its strength into his legs.

  Suddenly, the ground fell away, and he was in the air, legs pumping and backpack swinging. His legs buckled beneath him, his back slammed into the soft earth, and his right arm cracked against something hard. For a moment, blackness hovered in front of his eyes. His burnt hand was throbbing. He grabbed on to the pain, embracing the sharp, singeing itch.

  The blackness cleared. His right leg was bent beneath him. He rolled to his side and straightened it out. Behind him was a brown gouge where he had landed and slid. The bank he had fallen off of was at least fifteen feet tall. He had just cleared the path at the bottom. Its thick, mossy surface looked soft, but black, moist paving stones were visible where he had clipped and peeled its edge with his arm.

  Henry tried to lift his right hand up from the ground, but it was tugged back down. He had scraped it palm-down in the dirt, and now green leaves were intertwined above it, pinning it down. Dandelion stems climbed up from between his fingers and exploded into suns, until his hand was buried in gold.

  There was no time to marvel. Henry jerked his hand free and scrambled onto his knees.

  “Pauper son,” a big voice said. The bald man stood at the top of the bank. “Are you the one who is self-called York?” The man's vowels were strange, deep and almost wet. The other three were sliding down the bank. The smallest of them had a trickle of blood on his forehead.

  Henry stood up. “Who are you?” he asked, testing his weight on his right leg.

  The three men spread out on the far side of the path. Henry was surprised to see them look cautious, almost worried.

  “You run like a deer,” the bald man said. “If deer struggled to keep their legs.”

  Henry stepped backward, down the slope. “I can run again,” he said. “Who are you? What do you want?”

  The man with the black beard spoke slowly. “We were sent to find you. If you be the son of Mordecai. Are you?”

  “I don't know,” Henry said. “Who is he?”

  The beard smiled. The bald man laughed and slid down beside the others.

  “Why do you want me?” Henry asked.

  The smallest one spoke. “We don't,” he said, and wiped his forehead. “But Nimiane, old daughter of Endor, newly wakened, does. And we, who were once servants of Carnassus on his mountain throne, have been given over to serve her.” The man's face was young. He looked into Henry's eyes. “She grows strong.”

  Henry turned down the hill. But they had expected him to. Strange language surrounded him, and he fell facedown. His mouth was sealed tight. A strong hand clamped on to the back of his neck, and a pulse surged into him, wiping his mind. His limbs jerked and relaxed.

  “Don't kill him,” said a new voice, sharp as frost. “Did you kill him? She'll want his life fresh.”

  Henry felt himself lifted. His body sagged and swung like a tired hammock as the men walked down the hill. He wasn't in his body. He was somewhere else. Somewhere dark, where the men couldn't find him.

  For a moment, he thought about leaving his body behind. He could go up the hill and through the tree. They could put his body in the ground somewhere. Behind a big stone door with a man's envined face to seal it.

  His body was leaving, sagging away between the men. He felt a tug of discomfort. He felt suddenly naked, ashamed. He needed his body. He needed to wear it. He had to wear something.

  Henry followed.

  They dropped him onto wood, wet and hard. It was moving beneath him. He could hear waves, and he knew he was in a boat. Someone lifted his right hand and traced his burn with a finger. Then he was flipped onto his face, and his arms were bound behind his back.

  “Club the faeries and throw them over,” someone said.

  “Why?” It was the small man's voice. “Shouldn't we take them back, too?”

  The icy voice made the decision. “Keep one,” it said. “Kill the rest.”

  Henry's face was pressed against a coil of rope. He heard the clubbing, then the splashes. But his mind, already in darkness, was retreating even further away into something else—a memory, or a dream, of another time and another boat.

  He was on his back, looking up. One sail creaked and swung slightly across the blue above. Henry tried to move, but couldn't. A big black dog stepped above him, looking down. It looked him in the eyes. There was something strange in the dog's eyes. They seemed to be meaning something, and Henry seemed to be understanding, but he was forgetting it all at the same time. He was happy. The dog sat next to him. Henry could see a man in the back of the boat, steering. He laughed and said something, but Henry couldn't hear. He couldn't see his face. But he knew he liked it. The man stood up, pulled the sail down, and tied it to the mast. The boat bumped, and the man jumped out. Henry still couldn't move, though he wanted to look around. The man came back. He pulled on the mast, and it came out. The dog was already gone somewhere. The man laid the mast down in the boat, and then Henry was up. He wasn't moving himself, but he could see. The man was carrying him. He was looking over a shoulder, watching the water drift away and a rocky pi
er protecting a dock and the boat. Every once in a while, he saw the black dog bounding beside them. Soon they began moving up, winding back and forth, climbing higher and higher. The man was singing, and Henry was looking down at sun-covered water and the boat. He remembered the boat, right where it sat.

  They were in the trees now, and the man stopped to touch some of them. He seemed to be speaking, or changing his song. Henry could see the dog panting and then running back down the hill and then running up behind them. Henry laughed at the dog while he bounced and rocked with the man's steps. They went higher, and the ground behind them grew steeper and steeper. They walked for a long time, but Henry didn't mind. He didn't notice it.

  Eventually, the man stopped, and Henry was no longer looking backward. He was looking at an old stone wall. They walked along the outside until they came to a gap. It had been a gate, but the wall was ruined now. The dog leapt through and ran to where the hill ended. Henry and the man followed. The sun was strong here. There were fewer trees. He felt it hot on his face. They came to a great gray stone, and Henry found himself on his back in the grass. He blinked and squinted at the sun. Then he grieved. He did not know why, but grief racked him. He felt it in his chest and stomach. He felt it in his head. Then he was lifted up again and set back down. This time, there was no sun. He was in the trunk of a tree, looking out. He could see the sky and treetops. He could see the great stone and the man walking around it. The dog came and looked at him and left. The man was walking down into the ground at the edge of the stone. Henry shut his eyes. He didn't want to. He wanted to watch what the man was doing. He whimpered. Then he forgot what he wanted.

  When Henry opened his eyes, he was looking at the black dog, and the sun was gone. The dog was pushing on him with his nose. Then the dog ran over to the stone, digging and shoving his head into a hole. The sky was gray now, and Henry was cold. He could feel wind on his face, and then water. He cried. The dog pulled his head out of the hole, and Henry watched him bark at the ground. His black coat was wet and slick, and his head was covered with mud. He ran back to Henry and pushed him farther into the tree. Then he lay down with his head on him, and Henry was warm. But the dog jumped up again and ran back to the stone. Henry tried to watch him, but his head fell backward, and he slid deeper into the tree, yelling.

  And he was in another dream.

  Henry was sitting at a long table. Water was running off his nose. The table was crowded with food and surrounded with people. Uncle Frank sat across from him, winking.

  “Throw the knife, Henry,” Uncle Frank said. “When he comes, throw it. There's only one chance.”

  legs and hips ached with the horse's motion, and she hadn't even been on it for an hour. Caleb moved up and down easily behind her. She always seemed to be coming down when the horse's broad shoulders came up, and she continued rising when they went back down. It was like being on a trampoline with someone much bigger than she was. Someone who wanted to make her sick.

  The horse felt as large as a tractor, and if it hadn't been for the man's arm around her waist, she would have fallen off a dozen times. She'd ridden a horse before, but only an old sway-backed mare that had clomped along the side of the road. This horse was proud. Its tree-trunk neck arched and rippled beneath glossy skin, and it seemed to want every excuse to canter and gallop. As far as she could tell, Caleb was letting him do whatever he wanted. She assumed it was a he.

  There were no reins, and Caleb wasn't hanging on to anything. One of his hands kept her on the horse. His other carried a black bow.

  “You will meet your little friend again soon,” Caleb said. The bow pointed past her. It looked like it had been made from two long horns. “There is a dead village ahead. The others will bring him to the well.”

  They were moving along the valley floor. Just around the next bend, Henrietta could see the shapes of houses. Even from that distance, she could see that most of them leaned to one side or another. The roofs looked as patchy as the oldest abandoned barns she had ever dared to explore.

  The horse slowed as they approached. Some of the buildings had been tall, four or five stories. Now, none stood above three. Paned windows stared at her with jagged teeth. The walls looked rotten, not with moisture or moss or mold, but with dry rot. They were simply softening and turning to dust. With its thick neck arched, the horse walked down the center street, and Henrietta stared at unhinged doors and collapsing windows. A few of the larger structures had burned, but their blackened bones still staggered toward the sky, remembering, if no one else did, what they had been.

  The street opened into a town square. Cobblestones were seamed with dry grass and weeds, but in the center, there was a fountain. It was not as extravagant as the one she had seen in the great ruined courtyard, not by half, but it still watered the pool at its base.

  The sculpture looked to have been of a woman, standing twice as tall as Caleb, holding a wide-brimmed bowl on her head. One of her arms was gone, but Henrietta could still see her hand attached to the underside of the cracked bowl. Water trickled down the woman's face and through her robe, leaving the stone greasy.

  The horse stopped and slowly pranced in place beside the fountain's edge.

  “Magdalene, greeting,” Caleb said.

  Henrietta spun her head around the square and saw nothing but buildings left unburied.

  “Stay on the horse,” Caleb whispered, and he dropped to the ground. Henrietta gathered up two fistfuls of mane, careful not to tug.

  Tucking his bow through a strap behind Henrietta, Caleb turned and walked toward the fountain. He stopped before he reached it and crossed his arms.

  “Call down your birds,” Magdalene's voice said, and Henrietta jerked. Chester took one step back and tapped the ground with his front hoof.

  “Sorry,” Henrietta whispered, and rubbed the horse's neck.

  Caleb didn't look back. “Why would I call them down?” he asked. “You have nothing hidden left. Nothing worth hiding.”

  “They are over our land,” the voice said. “Call them down.”

  “Do you still clutch after these dead valleys?” Caleb's voice was even.

  “They still clutch me.”

  Caleb stood silently for a moment. Then he uncrossed his arms. “Unveil yourself, and the birds descend.”

  Henrietta blinked. Magdalene, looking just like she had seated in her house with gardening gloves on her lap, sat primly on the edge of the fountain. Benjamin and Joseph stood on either side of her, and at least ten others like them. They wore short swords tucked into fat belts. A few carried bows.

  Magdalene smiled. She did not look at Henrietta.

  Caleb raised his right arm and held it out from his side. A huge bird swooped down over Henrietta's head, flared its wide wings, and came to rest on his glove. Its back was dark. Its legs and chest and head were white. It swiveled its head and eyed Henrietta, and maybe Magdalene at the same time. A black stripe ran up around its golden eye and into its black beak.

  Henrietta was staring at it, when another flared and landed on the paving stones beside Caleb's feet. Another perched on the fountain peak, bobbed its head into the bowl of water, and shook streams down its back. Two more dropped to the square, before Magdalene finally spoke.

  “You have someone who belongs to us,” she said.

  Caleb laughed. “If you mean your brother Eli, I will cheerfully give him back. He should be in a sack and on his way here already.”

  “We have no brother.” Magdalene's voice was crisp. “We speak of the girl.”

  “The girl?” Caleb looked back over his shoulder at Henrietta. He moved his arm, and the dark bird flapped up and joined its brother in the fountain. “What ownership do you have of the girl?”

  “She trespassed in the Lesser Hall of FitzFaeren. Her grandsire stole certain talismans of the FitzFaeren, of which we are now greatly in need. She is to be held against their return.”

  “Her grandsire did this?” Caleb asked. He moved back to the horse, to
ok Henrietta by the waist, and lifted her down easily. With his hand on her shoulder, he walked her over in front of the queen.

  The queen ignored her, her eyes fixed on Caleb. Henrietta watched the lines on the old woman's well-sunned face. Her white hair was pulled back so tight, it left her forehead smooth.

  “You have vision I do not,” Caleb said. “Look. Tell me what runs in her veins.”

  Magdalene licked her lips. Her eyes traveled nowhere near Henrietta's face.

  Caleb stepped around beside the queen and examined Henrietta. Benjamin, standing below his shoulder, shuffled to the side.

  “I do not doubt you, queen.” Caleb pulled off his gloves and rubbed his jaw slowly. “Her grandsire may indeed have taken things without warrant. But have you not seen other blood as well? What vintage runs on her father's side?”

  “Keep her,” Magdalene said quickly. “For the sake of her father's line. Though her trespass was real.”

  Henrietta wanted to talk. She wanted everything explained. Why would her father matter? Caleb straightened back up and walked her to the horse. He reached into a pouch at his side and pulled out a brown nugget of coarse sugar. Placing it in Henrietta's hand, he nodded at the big horse and turned back around.

  “Now tell me, queen,” he said. “Tell me why you would send my sister, Hyacinth, a dream, asking me to come. I have traveled ways best left unstirred, and even now the land dies beneath our feet. My city has need of me. But I have come, through cold mountain tombs, so speak plainly.”

  Henrietta broke the sugar into pieces. She rolled the smallest one into her palm and held her hand out flat beneath Chester's flaring nose. His lips swallowed up her hand, and his tongue swabbed away the sugar. Henrietta wasn't exactly sure what Caleb had been saying, but she knew she was staying with him. And that was good. Or she thought so. She hesitated with the sugar, and Chester nearly knocked her over with his nose.