by J M Sanford
Only Amelia saw Bessie appear literally out of nowhere, as close to Breaker as his shadow, and even she never saw the knife in Bessie’s hand, but she saw Commander Breaker slump into stillness, and Bessie spring away. Blood bloomed through the white snow. Bessie stood at a distance, staring at the man she’d killed.
“First blood to Miss Castle,” Greyfell called out from the railings. “Well done, Elizabeth.”
Bessie, shaking herself off, managed a curtsy.
Greyfell had returned with a longbow and took aim, picking out another of the prince’s men approaching the skyship. The golem dropped, its heartlight snuffed out like a candle’s flame.
Meanwhile, Amelia almost tumbled down the rope ladder, heedless of any of the prince’s men still lurking in the thunderous dark. Harold was stumbling to his feet, still holding his bloodied hands to his throat, his face white, but he was alive. As Amelia shepherded him back to the ladder, Bessie guarded them with her stolen knife. She jumped like a scalded cat when the shot golem’s heartlight flickered back to life and he sat up in the snow, but Greyfell was ready with another arrow, picking off the remaining golems over and over again. An arrow to the head or gut felled them only temporarily, and they shrugged off a blow to their heartlights as if it was nothing more than a fly bite. With nothing as powerful as a dragon’s jaws at their disposal, Amelia and her companions could barely keep the remaining golems at bay, all the while running shorter and shorter of arrows. Bryn had seized Greyfell’s crossbow, but his shots went almost as wild as Amelia’s fireballs. He dropped it as the bottom of the ladder lifted out of reach of anyone on the ground, and ran to help Amelia and Bessie bundle Harold over the railings and onto the deck, while the skyship swayed in the air.
“He’s bleeding,” Amelia couldn’t stop saying, over and over again, “he’s bleeding.” Harold had saved his throat, but fierce bite wounds covered his hands and arms.
“Shh, Miss. Be calm, and allow me to tend to his injuries.” said Bryn, pushing Amelia gently away, but she refused to be moved. He helped her tear off a strip of her ruined skirts to bandage Harold’s wounds, and had just risen to fetch his bag of medical supplies when Sharvesh shook violently. Overhead, the black griffin squawked and dove closer into the skyship’s wake, riding the turbulence of the worldshift with grim determination, Meg hanging on tight to his back. Light flooded over Sharvesh and they all shielded their eyes from the sudden brightness of a crystal clear and cloudless sky, a drift of snowflakes showering over the fresh countryside below. Belatedly, Amelia wiped the cat’s eye spell from her stinging, watering eyes. The magic in the air was rich and thick, diffuse and comfortable. Sharvesh climbed through it with ease, soaring high in triumph.
Meg whooped. “Home again!”
But deep inside the skyship, something wrong stirred, and the hairs stood up on the back of Amelia’s neck. She caught the flash of something white in the painfully vivid blue of the winter sky, but her whole world was still blurred as if seen through a haze of tears and the figure disappeared from view before she could be sure.
Whatever the danger was, Meg sensed it too. She leaned forward to speak into Sable’s ear. Warily he flew closer to the deck, but didn’t land. Bryn had stopped dead, only his tail lashing as he scented the air, his eyes fearful. The smell of something scorching soon came to those with less developed noses, and Amelia could feel heat rising from the deck, nothing to do with the winter’s sun shining brightly upon them.
“The well…” Bessie rushed to the railings, looking down. “There’s supposed to be water under the Orb, keeping it cool.” She’d remembered far too late, and now scanned the countryside in desperation for a convenient lake or wide river as the Orb grew hotter and hotter. Streamers of smoke threaded up from between the boards. Hundreds of feet in the air, Sharvesh opened up her belly and vomited out the Orb. It left a hole right through the skyship, and in the ragged edges of the hole, where the timbers were charred black, her chambers were open to the sky. The boards all sloped downwards now, rolls of gauzy fabric tumbling out of one bisected chamber, unravelling and fluttering through the air as they fell, sparks like fireflies dancing in their wake. Bryn clung to the railings, his tail wrapped around them to lash himself in place, not knowing what else to do. Amelia tightened her grip on Harold, the whole world seeming to spin around them. It was all she could do to hang on tight as the boards began to move, reshaping themselves, agonisingly slowly, but the hole remained. “Meg?” Amelia shouted, but of course Meg was safe as she could be on the griffin’s back, “Percival?”
“Here!” Like a man rescued from drowning he clung to the mast, taking deep draughts of air so rich in magic that Amelia could taste it. Greyfell and Bessie held onto the railings far back from the hole.
The shaking of the skyship began to subside, and Bryn went running around the charred edges, staring in horror at the fire-blacked sections of mahogany timber, no concern for his own safety any more.
“The White Queen!” shouted a voice from somewhere within the ruined chambers. A figure moved in the shadows, and a light smeared in the dark. “She must be captured at any cost.”
Harold growled a half-audible curse; Meg circled closer on her griffin; Greyfell had spent all his arrows, or would have put them to good use.
“I can’t see,” said Amelia, her eyes still bleary from the after-effect of the cat’s eye spell, “Stupid,” she waved the fire sprite down towards the hole, “shine a light down there.”
By the approaching fire sprite’s glow, two dark figures pushed and pulled at each other. “No!” argued the one with the star set in his chest, “The guests must not be harmed. We must not be seen.” The fire sprite whirled around them like an angry wasp and made the shadows dance, and the golem with the starlight shrank from the light as if it would burn him.
“We have our orders,” insisted the first, heedless of the fire sprite, baffled by his twin’s incomprehensible behaviour, “she must be captured!”
“No! The White Queen is our guest.”
But the first golem wrenched away from his twin, seeking a path up towards Amelia. He must be mad, to climb those charred and still-smoking timbers, but he tried. He barely gave the darting, feinting fire sprite enough attention to bat him away at each pass.
“Stupid, come back!” Amelia shouted, as the golem inched out along a ledge where even an Argean would fear to climb, out into the sunlight, with his twin hanging on to his coattails. As the two gentlemen fought, the blackened timbers crumbled beneath their feet, and they fell, just like the Orb, a thousand feet to earth. Behind them, the boards laced back together like fingers.
35: PICKING UP THE PIECES
It was a rough flight down to the ground, and Sharvesh set down ungracefully, scattering a flock of sheep, who turned to watch her balefully from what they judged to be a safe distance. The skyship tilted over onto one side as if to shake off her passengers like a dog shaking off fleas, and it was only Amelia’s quick use of her levitation spell that protected her and Harold from a hard landing. They touched down as if onto soft pillows, and by catsfoot paper or griffins’ wings or natural springiness, everybody else disembarked safely too. Amelia remained most concerned with Harold. Sick and shaking, she lent the last of her strength to walk him away from the suffering skyship. Nearby, the Orb sat, cracked like a great glass egg, the final remnants of its magic burst out and evaporated into the winter sunshine, shimmering faintly. A lilac tint spread through the vegetation around it, and the sheep could be heard gossiping in the voices of old women, but beyond these superficial effects, the Orb had no more magic to give. Like glass, like an egg, it would never be whole again.
Amelia couldn’t care less. Blood seeped in bright red blooms through Harold’s temporary bandage, his normally ruddy face was pale, and he staggered ponderously towards the ground, his legs folding under him and taking Amelia down too. She couldn’t let go of him, she would never let go of him again… but she needed help. Bryn was some distance away, all
of his attention clearly on his stricken skyship.
“Meg?” Amelia called, shrill and frightened.
“Here,” said Meg, tumbling off Sable’s back before he’d quite landed, but quickly she picked herself up and ran over, her quilted bag still tucked under her arm. “Are you hurt?” She’d left her great big satchel behind somewhere, but she’d had the foresight to transfer some of the more indispensable items into the pockets of the snail’s bag.
“I’m fine, it’s…”
“Just Harold, then. You’ll be wanting some Healall on that, I’ll bet,” said Meg.
Harold nodded, his jaw clenched against the pain, his eyes fixed on the far distance.
Meg was gentle with him as she unwound the makeshift bandages. “I’ve nothing to stitch the worst of it,” she apologised, as with no further delay she began the task of dabbing the salve on with a handkerchief, “so it won’t heal pretty, but we can get it clean and stop the bleeding.”
Percival, walking easily now, standing straight and strong, approached with Bryn’s bag of medicines. “His sword arm’s taken the worst of it,” he whispered to Meg.
Harold looked down at the grass, and didn’t answer. His right arm had very much taken the worst of it.
“Well done,” Meg muttered. “Make him feel worse, why don’t you?” She scooped out the last of the Healall. “Now, Harold, can you wiggle your fingers at all?”
Amelia looked worriedly at the empty bottle. If nothing else, she could have sworn she’d seen the white griffin clinging to the tail of the worldshift, even if he didn’t fancy the odds of a fight anymore. Somewhere out there, chunks of black rock must litter the landscape, some bearing the carving of a button or an eye, telling of the stone gentlemen’s fate. The dragons… The dragons had been left behind, and the shattered Orb had faded from moon-blue to something like dull ordinary glass.
Amelia stared at it. “Will the Archmage ever be able to create another like it?” she asked.
Meg didn’t look up from her task of re-bandaging Harold’s injuries, but she shook her head. “Morel's an old man – older than a man has any right to be. From the way he spoke about the sun, balancing that will keep him busy for the rest of his days. If he ever comes out of that cocoon.” She grimaced at the memory.
“Oh. How horrible.”
“Too right. Let that be a lesson to you, to treat magic with respect.”
“And not to fall in with dragons,” added Percival.
Meg snorted. “A bit late for that nugget of wisdom.” She paused then in winding the bandages, to really look at Amelia. “You’ve learned both of those lessons, haven’t you, my girl?” she said softly. “Now make yourself useful: go and check on Bessie,” she ordered. “Go.”
Amelia went, reluctant to leave Harold’s side but grudgingly aware that Meg could better tend to his injuries. She found Bessie looking frightful: her dress torn and bloodstained; her face grim and ashen, with a nasty scrape down one side.
“You look terrible,” said Amelia, without a thought for how she must look herself.
“I got a bit sick on the way down, that’s all,” said Bessie. “I’m fine. Which is more than can be said for Bryn’s poor skyship.”
They both looked up at the still form of Sharvesh. Neither of them knew if she would ever fly again, and neither of them wanted to speculate.
“Look at the state of us,” said Bessie, as if only just realising.
“We’re going to give some poor shepherdess the shock of her life, if we haven’t already,” Amelia agreed, glad to change the subject. “Oh! And Rose!” She kept forgetting about Rose. She hardly dared ask. There was so much blood on Bessie’s gloves, but everybody bleeds just as red, even men of living stone. “Did you…”
Bessie smiled slyly despite her lingering queasiness. “Don’t worry, we’ve hurt nothing but her pride. Come and see, if you don’t believe me.” She ran off downhill, beckoning Amelia to follow, and pointed to the shady place beneath a small stand of trees, above a busy stream. Amelia’s vision was still blurry and weak from the after-effects of using the cat’s eye spell in bright daylight, but if she shielded her eyes she could make out a smudge of white that must be Rose’s vast wedding dress.
“Scarlet’s trying to calm her down a bit before we take off the gag,” said Bessie. She sat down in the grass, stripping off her ruined gloves, and heaved a great sigh. “I do feel terrible,” she confessed, staring at her bloodstained hands.
“I thought so,” said Amelia. For all Bessie’s bloodthirsty talk of killing her Black King, perhaps her first taste of real violence would be enough to discourage her from her earlier idea of becoming an assassin. Amelia sat down beside her, hugging her. “But I can’t ever thank you enough. You saved Harold.”
“And I lost my conjuring rings! They’re in the ice palace somewhere. I’ll never get them back now.” Bessie contemplated her bare bloody hands where the rings should have sparkled. “They were a gift from Master Greyfell, and it’s my own stupid fault that I lost them.”
“Oh, don’t say that. We’ll help you get some new ones. We’ll sort something out.”
Scarlet had left the stand of trees and was hiking up towards the two girls.
“How’s Rose?” asked Amelia, still not quite believing Bessie’s assurances.
“I’ve left her to have a bit of a cry on her own,” said Scarlet, looking like she could do with a bit of a cry herself. “I think it’s for the best. She did so want to be Queen.”
Bessie scoffed. “Didn’t we all?”
“Not at that price, though,” said Amelia, thinking of Prince Regeltheus. She’d wanted to see what he’d be like as a man rather than a dragon, but if anything he’d been worse. She stood up, distractedly brushing off the skirt of her fabulous, ruined gown. “Come on, I want to get back to Harold.”
Just as she spoke his name, a shout rang out across the countryside, making Amelia’s heart leap. She hitched up her skirts and raced across the grass, to where Harold was hauling himself upright by Percival’s sturdy arm.
“There! Up there!” He shouted, beaming broadly as he turned his face to the winter sun. “My wyvern.”
~
Three days they waited, far from anywhere, while Bryn tended to his injured skyship. To begin with he would accept no offer of help, warning them that it was far too delicate a task for anyone who hadn’t grown up around Sharvesh, and he feared she might flinch and hurt someone. When he realised that the task was beyond his abilities, with inadequate tools and no workmates, he grudgingly allowed Meg to help.
Amelia could only watch the progress from a distance, feeling queasy. Bryn likened the charred sections to a rot that must be cut out, and the comparison only reminded her again that Sharvesh was a living creature who Amelia had endangered by her rash actions.
“I don’t have much luck with skyships, do I?” she said gloomily, when Meg came away and sat down beside her.
“You’ve had a rough start,” Meg admitted. She was too worn out to lecture Amelia, even if she’d wanted to by then. “You know a little better now,” she said, and left it at that. “How’s Harold bearing up?”
Amelia blushed. The two of them had been taking increasingly long walks together under the guise of picking dandelions and nettles for Meg’s teapot, or searching for the elusive sheepmen of these hills. “He’s happier now he’s got his wyvern back.” The creature trailed after him like a puppy, and Amelia had to confess that she liked the reassurance of the faithful guardian always close by, especially while Harold regained his strength. “We owe you half a bottle of Healall, though I don’t know when we’ll be able to pay you back for that.”
Meg raised her eyebrows. “We, is it? And forget the cost. Things could have gone a lot worse if he hadn’t thrown himself in harm’s way like he did.”
Amelia blushed even redder. “He saved me.”
Meg’s eyebrows climbed even higher at the foolish smile on her daughter’s face. “He did that. Don’t let him ma
ke a habit of it, though.”
~
It took a good month to make Sharvesh skyworthy again, but the long stay was made bearable by Greyfell’s somewhat rusty woodcraft, Meg’s campfires that even the worst weather couldn’t put out, and Scarlet’s ever-ingenious cooking. In time they met the wary sheepmen, to whom they told their story, and traded trinkets for milk, cheese and blankets. After days of poring over line charts, not to mention arguing over where they actually were, Sharvesh set sail. They flew slow and careful while Bryn made sure she was back to full health, and the weather grew mild.
Meg hadn’t let up on her magic lessons, and while she and Amelia took a break from practicing the more useful charms a witch might sell to pay her way in the world, they went up on deck to get some fresh air. The sun was shining, and the crack of wood on wood rang out across the deck: Harold and Master Greyfell were practicing with makeshift wooden swords while Percival watched. Harold was still painfully clumsy, but this would be about his last chance to practice with Greyfell.
A dull thud and an indignant cry of “Ow!” indicated that a ‘sword’ had met flesh.
“Protect your hand!” Master Greyfell shouted. “Unless you want to lose the use of both!”
Harold threw down his weapon. “I’ve had enough.”