King's Dragon
Page 17

They had stayed here so long because she had begged him to. Because for the first time in her life she had made friends. Standing in the center of the little cottage, her head almost brushed the rough planking of the loft. Da was a shadow in firelight, half formed, half sunk in gloom, but she could see him clearly despite the dimness. It was a joke between them: salamander eyes, named for the salamanders, the tiny spirits who inhabited the element of fire. Liath remembered seeing them, many years ago before her mother died, their forms as liquid as water, their eyes sparks of blue fire.
No longer. No matter how closely she peered, no matter how long, she saw only flames leaping and sparking in the hearth, consuming the wood until it burned as red coal, ashes sifting down to make a dark blanket beneath.
“She is not strong enough yet,” he said into his hand.
“I’m strong, Da. You know that.”
“Go to bed, child. Keep the book with you. We’ll take what we need in the morning and go.”
She swallowed tears. They would go, and leave behind two years of contentment. This was a fine place, this village, or had been at least until Frater Hugh had arrived last autumn. She could not bear the thought of leaving her friends behind: two friends—imagine!—as close as if they were her own kin, of which she had none. Only her father.
But they would go. Whatever drove Da drove her along with him. She would never abandon him.
“I’m sorry, Liath. I’m a poor excuse for a father. I haven’t done well by you. I should have—” He shook his head. “I was made weak by blindness.”
“Never say so, Da!” She knelt beside the bench and hugged him. He had aged so fast in the past two years, since that beating in Autun. His hair was now gray, that had once been rich brown. He walked bent over, as if under an invisible burden, who had once strode hale and straight. He drank enough ale for four men, as if to drown himself, despite that they could not pay for so much. There was little enough work to be had in such an isolated spot for a man who was no longer strong enough for field labor, whose only skills were drawing hex signs against foxes around hen coops and setting down on parchment or strips of bark the words of women and men wishing to make contracts with colleagues many leagues away or send letters to relatives. But they had managed.
“Go to bed, daughter,” he repeated. “We must leave early.”
Because she did not know what else to say, she did what he had asked of her. She kissed his cheek. She let go of him and stood. Pausing by the fire, she searched in the flames but the parchment was burned to nothing. To ashes. Her father sighed heavily. She left him to his thoughts, for certainly she could not fathom what they were or where they led him.
In the loft, she stripped to her shift and lay down under the blankets, tucking the book against her chest. The fire’s shadow danced on the eaves, and its soft pop and roar soothed her. She heard Da pouring more ale for himself, heard him drink, it was so quiet.
So quiet.
“Trust no one,” he murmured, and then her mother’s name, on a dying breath: “Anne.”
Many nights she heard him speak her mother’s name, just so. After eight years his sorrow still sounded fresh, as raw as a new knife cut. Will I ever be bound to someone so tightly? She wondered.
But the dance of shadows, the rustling movements of her father below, the shush of wind over the steep roof, the distant whisper of trees, all together these weighed on her, bearing her down and down. She was so tired. What was that strange star that came to life in the Dragon? Was it an angel? A daimone of the upper air?
She fell into sleep.
And sleeping, dreamed.
Fire. She often dreamed of fire, cleansing, welcoming. There are spirits burning in the air with wings of flame and eyes as brilliant as knives. At their backs a wall of fire roars up into black night, but there is nothing to fear. Pass through, and a new world lies beyond. In the distance a drum sounds like a heartbeat and the whistle of a flute, borne up on the wind like a bird, takes wing
Wings, settling on the eaves. A sudden gust of white snow blew down through the smoke hole, although it was not winter.
Asleep and aware, bound to silence. Awake but unable to move, and so therefore still asleep. The darkness held her down as if it was a weight draped over her.
Bells, heard as if on the wind.
Had old Johannes’ wife passed on into the other life? Did the bells ring her soul’s ascension to the Chamber of Light? One bell to toll her past each sphere and the last three for the Alleluia of the voices of the angels raised to greet their new kinswoman.
But the bells were a voice shuddering in the air. Two sharp thunks sounded, something hard striking wood. If she could only look, she could see, but she could not move, she dared not move. She had to stay hidden. Da said so.