Dragonshadow

by Elle Katharine White

  “Anything else?”

  “You don’t happen to have any hush or ashwine root, do you?”

  “Not sure about that ashwine business, but we got plenty of herbs drying out in the cold shed. Help yourself”—she waved a floury hand toward the back door—“if you must.”

  Slatted boards warped by the weather left gaps in the walls the width of my finger, painting stripes of moonlight across the bundles of herbs hanging from the ceiling of the shed. There was no ashwine but I did find a basket of hush as well as a handful of the woody, ropy herb Uncle Gregory called hallowsweed. I gathered up the dried stalks and returned with the tray to our room.

  Alastair hadn’t left the bath. His head hung over the edge, eyes closed, his Rider’s plait swinging free and dripping water all over the floor. I set the tray on the nightstand, knelt next to him, and whispered, “The inn’s on fire.”

  His eyes snapped open. In one motion he seized me by the shoulders and dragged me, laughing, into the tub with him. “I’m a light sleeper, khera,” he growled in my ear. “You should know that by now.”

  “Yes, yes, I’ll remember. Now let me go!” He released me and I climbed out, wringing my sleeves and trying to maintain a stern expression. “You shouldn’t strain your side like that.”

  “Some things are worth the pain,” he said with a little smile.

  “Does it hurt?”

  “Not as much as before. That swordsalve worked.”

  “I found hallowsweed downstairs. It might ease it some more. Now come out of there before the stew gets cold.” I set the bowls on the table as he heaved himself out of the bath, splashing water everywhere. “There are towels by the fire.”

  There was a moment of dripping silence. “It can be dangerous, you know.”

  “What?”

  “Wearing wet clothes for too long.” He wrapped an arm around my waist and kissed my neck. “Easy to . . . catch cold.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Tell that to the man who pulled me into his bath.”

  “He doesn’t regret it.”

  I smiled and kissed him lightly before pulling away. “He’s about to.”

  “Khera, please. It’s been too long.”

  “You’ll survive,” I said, rummaging through our luggage for dry clothes. “Besides, you’re hurt, I’m tired, and—”

  A cloth-wrapped parcel tumbled from the pannier and hit the floor with a metallic thunk. Alastair swore. Little shivers of dread needled through me as I stared at the floor.

  The silver box had found us again.

  Chapter 14

  Wolves of the Old Wilds

  Neither of us slept well. We found Akarra in the abbey garden at dawn the next morning, chatting with the cantor as he prepared the grounds for Martenmas. She sobered when we showed her the silver box.

  “Strange.” She lowered her head so she could see it better and gave the lid an experimental tug with her wingtips. It did not budge. “Very strange.”

  “It was in the bearskin with the nixies. And no,” I said, anticipating her next question, “no one took it out. I swear it.”

  “Well, someone must have,” Alastair said. “Johanna, maybe? We don’t know where she went after the battle.”

  “No, Lydon had the bearskin, not Johanna. And I’m telling you, no one opened it! We would’ve noticed if a gale of angry nixies had been set free.”

  Akarra rested a wing on my shoulder. “Aliza, Aliza, calm down. There’s an explanation, and we will find it, but right now we need to keep moving. We’d best not lose daylight here. We’ve still got the mountains to cross.”

  I shied away from the box as Alastair picked it up, wondering why it seemed to bother him so little. “Fine. But we’re leaving that here.”

  “Why?”

  “Just . . . please, Alastair. Leave it.”

  He frowned but did as I asked. The cantor had no qualms taking it off our hands, and after thanking us he pottered off toward the abbey, turning the box over and muttering under his breath.

  We set off. The hills outside of the town sloped steeply upward. The arms of the forest fell away beneath us, giving way to sharp crags, which left me with the impression that we were flying over rows and rows of broken teeth. Dreadful as that image was, I was glad of the shift in landscape. The days of our journey from Pendragon had begun to blur together, each a windswept cycle of crowded inns and the squeak of leather and the mealy taste of bardsbread and dull misty marshlands beneath us, accompanied always by the smell of sweat and dragon. Here at least the mountains provided some interesting views. Even better, the sky had stayed clear, with neither hint nor sight of whatever it was that had pursued us in the Widdermere.

  We landed in a mountain meadow for lunch. Steely peaks the color of a gryphon’s heartstone rose high all around us. Snow dusted their slopes, and while the sun shone over the little clearing, the wind was cold. I was happy I’d donned my fur-lined cloak before we’d left Lykaina.

  “How’s your side?” I asked Alastair as we packed away what remained of our hasty meal.

  “Better.”

  “Worth the smell?”

  He made a face and I laughed. The compress of crushed hallowsweed I’d prepared in Lykaina had seeped through his armor, enveloping him in a pungent cloud that smelled of cut grass and sour earth.

  “You’re lucky I respect your skills or I would’ve scraped it off before we’d passed—Aliza, your nose!”

  I touched my nose and stared dumbly at the blood on my fingers. “What in the world?”

  “Oh, bad luck,” Akarra said. “It’s the mountains. Thin air.”

  I fumbled in the pouch at my hip for a handkerchief as I tilted my head back. “Well, blast,” I muttered. It came out more like “bladth.”

  “I’ll fly as low as I can, but we’ll have to keep climbing for a little while before we reach the pass to Lake Langloch,” she said as Alastair helped me mount. “It’s on the other side of the range.”

  “How mudch farther to Castle Selwyn?” I said through the handkerchief.

  “Two days. We’ll spend the night near the Langloch and make it to Lake Meera by the next evening.”

  Several minutes later I pulled the handkerchief away and felt my nose. It’d stopped bleeding, but I tucked the square of linen into my cuff in case it started up again. Just two more days, I told myself. Two days until we could sleep in the same bed more than one night in a row, and eat real meals and wear clothes that stayed clean and enjoy the feeling of muscles that didn’t ache every moment. Two days to the safety of Castle Selwyn.

  Two days until the real hunt begins. The corollary dampened my excitement. I was a fool to think clear skies today meant an end of our danger. Whatever had slain the Idar, whatever had killed the girl from Lake Meera, whatever had cut out the heartstones of the creatures in the Widdermere, that monster was still out there. I gripped Alastair’s arm a little tighter, wondering suddenly if this creature planned to reveal itself before we reached Castle Selwyn. If it had been keeping pace with us, there was nothing to prevent a confrontation here in the wilds, without the protection of the castle walls. And if it did, I would once more be a liability.

  As if you were ever anything else.

  I shoved that thought aside, but the guilt remained.

  My nose didn’t bleed again, but dizziness continued to plague me each time Akarra banked. Alastair leaned forward as we climbed, pressing us almost flat against her back as she zigzagged up the mountain face. I’d just made up my mind to ask if we could rest for a bit when we flew over the summit of the pass and I forgot all about landing.

  Before us, spread out in the narrow valley between mountain ranges, shone the wide silver ribbon of the Langloch. The late afternoon sun sparkled over the rippling waters, reflecting the blue and dappled gray of the sky. We landed as the sun dipped below the western edge of the mountains, filling the valley with cool blue shadow. Lights flickered to life on the walls of the nearest town on the shores of the lake, a fishing settlem
ent that Alastair said went by the name Langdred. After assuring a handful of fisherman that their boats were in no danger of going up in flames if she stayed, Akarra bid us goodnight and settled in a rocky hollow near the docks.

  Our arrival ignited a storm of whispers as we wound our way through the marketplace, reminding me of the furor Alastair had created when he first arrived in Hart’s Run. I smiled as we entered an inn called the Selkie’s Stoop. At least he didn’t resort to kicking his admirers across the garden anymore.

  It was warm inside the inn, almost stifling, and our cloaks came off the instant we crossed the threshold. “Room for the night?” A red-faced woman with a snub nose and an air of being always in a hurry appeared at my elbow. “Supper’s extra and—oh, begging your pardon, milord.” She started and curtsied at the sight of the Daired crest. “And lady. Er, never mind that. Supper’s included. Only a silver.”

  The room she showed us to was cozy if unremarkable, and after washing and changing, we headed back downstairs. A fire the size of a full-grown wyvern blazed at one end of the common room. Patrons hunched around the tables mostly gave us vague glances as we entered and returned to their conversations. One or two gave us longer looks, but they too turned away after a few seconds.

  Several minutes later the innkeeper reappeared. “Here you are, milord, milady,” she said, leading us to a table and setting down a basket of bread and a flagon of wine. She poured us each a glass. “Compliments of the, uh, cook. Best vintage you’ll find in Langdred.”

  The flagon twitched in her hand as the front door swung open with a bang, admitting two more men and a petite woman, whose flaming, Charis-red hair drew my attention at once. All three of them joined a cloaked man at the farthest table and spoke in low tones.

  “Supper’ll be right out,” the innkeeper said before bustling away.

  Alastair took a sip and grimaced at her retreating back. “Barton would weep to hear that called a good vintage. I hope Lord Selwyn keeps a better cellar.”

  “Aye, let’s hope.” I raised my glass.

  A motion from the red-haired woman caught my eye. She leaned forward, lips parted, watching us with the unblinking intensity of a cat. The instant our eyes met she turned away, but it wasn’t enough to hide the shrewd light that gleamed there, nor the way her companions tried not to sneak glances in our direction and failed. The cloaked man had thrown back his hood, revealing a nose like a hawk’s and cheekbones sharp enough to cast shadows. He smiled a little as Alastair drank, and cold dread settled in the pit of my stomach.

  I looked down at the cup in my hand. Beneath the bouquet I caught the smell of musty cupboards and old cheese. I set it down.

  “Alastair, don’t drink the wine,” I said.

  He froze, the glass on his lips. “Why?”

  “It’s got valerian in it,” I whispered, fighting back the now-familiar taste of panic. “Someone wants us to sleep.”

  “Who?”

  Without turning my head, I nodded toward the end of the table.

  He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. The other crept toward the buckles that held his scabbard in place. “How long do I have?” he asked quietly.

  I checked to see how much he’d drunk. Whoever had added the valerian had done a poor job of disguising it, but that made it all the more potent, and I had no idea what else they had added. “A few minutes before you start to feel it. Maybe more.” Maybe less.

  “It’ll do.” He’d locked eyes with the hawk-nosed man. The four had given up the pretense of talking together. All of them were watching us now, and the last remnants of conversation dried up as Alastair stood. “Aliza, go upstairs.”

  “Oh, I think not.” The hawk-nosed man extended his arms to the rest of the inn. “All right, enough charade. Anyone who doesn’t have a good reason to be here tonight, go find someplace else to finish your pints.”

  Half a dozen guests scuttled out the door, eyes bent to the floor, intent on pretending we didn’t exist. The door thudded shut after them. The red-haired woman bolted it and stood on the threshold with a dagger in her hand and a smirk on her lips. Her other two companions spread out around the common room. None but the woman held weapons, but with shoulders that spanned the width of the door and expressions as surly as they were stupid, they didn’t need to. Trolls might’ve made less effective doorkeepers.

  Alastair reached behind him and pulled me close. “What do you want?” he asked.

  “Only a moment of your time. We have a business matter to discuss,” the hawk-nosed man said. He sighed as Alastair undid his scabbard’s harness. “There’s no need for this to get uncivilized.”

  “Let my wife go and we can talk.”

  “Certainly not. Our business is with her just as much as it is with you.”

  “Do you know who we are?” Alastair said through clenched teeth.

  “Of course I do, and goodness me, I’ve forgotten my manners.” He bowed. “I am Master Rookwood, king of the Langdred vultures and acquirer of rare and precious heartstones.”

  Alastair scanned the room. I turned with him, my back to his, marking the position of each Vesh. “Do you expect us to be impressed?” I asked, hoping I sounded braver than I felt.

  “Not at all, my lady. Contrary to what some may believe, a famous name is not always an asset. I’d be quite the hopeless thief if everyone knew me, wouldn’t I?”

  “What’s your business with us?”

  “A simple exchange, nothing more. I want the heartstones you bear. You both want to walk out of here alive.”

  “If you touch us, I’ll take your head,” Alastair said, but his voice was already growing thick.

  Rookwood sat and rested his feet on the tabletop. “If you manage that, I’ll confess myself astonished and see to it that Madam Knagg never mixes our sleeping draught again. Truth be told, I’m impressed your wife recognized it. In your forthcoming absence I hope she’ll be as sensible as she is wood-wise.”

  The door to the kitchen creaked open. A serving maid saw the Vesh gathered around the room, gasped, and slammed the door shut behind her.

  Alastair drew his sword.

  Rookwood rolled his eyes. “As I said, there’s no need to get uncivilized.”

  “If you don’t let us go now, there will be,” Alastair said.

  “Look, this really isn’t that complicated. Just hand over the heartstones and all will be well.”

  “No,” we said together.

  The Vesh laughed. Rookwood pretended to wipe a tear from his eye. “Your loyalty to each other is touching, truly. Unfortunately I don’t have all night, and if at all possible I’d like to avoid soiling Madam Knagg’s floor. The heartstones. Now, please.”

  “My dragon—”

  “Isn’t here. Yes, we’ve noticed.” Rookwood stood. “You see, that’s the real trouble with your kind. Take the dragon from the Daired and what’s left? A fool, his pride, and his pointy stick. I’m not afraid of you.”

  “Not yet,” Alastair said, and lunged.

  Rookwood drew his own sword and parried the thrust with ease, catching Alastair by the throat as he stumbled forward. “Such a beautiful piece, you know. You shouldn’t keep it hidden.” He shoved him away, the chain with my heartstone in his hand. Alastair fell.

  I stared, stricken by the sight, not of Rookwood with the gem, but of Alastair sprawled on the floor. Again I saw the cots crowding the North Fields lodge and smelled the stench of the dead and dying and heard their pleas. Again I saw my husband broken, wordless, weak.

  He’d hurt Alastair.

  Rookwood had continued speaking. “I know people who will thank you for this, young man. Powerful people.” He kicked his sword away before Alastair could pick it up. “No need to get rude. Now, let’s see if your pretty wife is more reasonable, shall we?” He smiled at me. “You will be reasonable, my sweet, won’t you?”

  He had hurt Alastair.

  Before the other Vesh could cry a warning, before Rookwood could bring his sword up to de
fend himself, before I was even sure of what I was doing, my knife was in my hand, and this time I didn’t drop it. Blade met the resistance of flesh, then bone. A dreadful jarring sensation ran up my arm but I held on, striking upward blindly, furiously, until the last resistance gave way.

  For an instant there was total silence, broken by a small, damp thud.

  He would not hurt Alastair again.

  I emerged from the red mist of rage as Rookwood dropped his sword, mouth open in a silent scream. His right palm was slashed open and two fingers hung at an agonized angle. A third was missing altogether. Blood poured from the wounds. The dagger was sharper than I remembered.

  “You bitch! You filthy, ghast-ridden cow!” Rookwood screamed. “Rhian, kill them!”

  He whirled to see the woman, Rhian, pressed against the wall, Alastair leaning heavily on the doorjamb with his sword against her throat. “Drop—the—knife,” he growled.

  She did. Evidently as slow as they were massive, the other men blinked from Rhian to Rookwood and back again, seeking direction. Rhian shook her head, wincing as the blade bit into her skin.

  I picked up Alastair’s heartstone from where it had fallen. “You’re done here, Rookwood,” I said. “Take your people and go. We’ll make your apologies to Madam Knagg.”

  Rookwood clutched his mutilated hand to his chest, his face purple with rage. Then, without the slightest change in expression, he began to laugh.

  It was a high, dangerous laugh, punctuated by the splash of blood as it dripped to the floor. “Oh, my lady. You have many apologies to make, yes, but not to Madam Knagg.” He backed away. “You have no idea what you’ve done.”

  I raised my shaking knife. “Nor do you.”

  “I yield, I yield. Come, friends,” Rookwood said, gritting his teeth. The veins in his temples beat an excruciating tattoo and beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. “No more hunting here tonight.”