The place they were about to seek shelter was populated by one of those who prefered their humans raw, but would eat them cooked. Fionn wasn't too sure how he'd feel about merrows. Groblek had a sense of humour. Maybe he'd think they tasted funny.
"We'll eat and rest," he said, looking at their feet. "I don't suppose you have anything sensible to put on those feet of yours, merrow?"
He shook his head. "My feet are tougher than human feet . . ."
Fionn looked at the cut he was attempting to clean. "But you've never walked more than a mile on them. Well . . . I'll have to see what I can do. We need to climb toward the snowline. It's going to be colder up there, and rocky underfoot."
"Where are we going?"
"The house of dreams and shadows."
"Is it hard to get to?" asked the scrap tiredly.
"Yes," admitted Fionn. "But it is not going there that's the problem. It's leaving again."
He let them sleep while he stitched. Cobbling was not his trade, but he'd learned a little about a lot of things over the years.
Zuamar settled on the wall of the royal palace. It cracked under his vast bulk, dropping pieces of alabaster carving that had survived the earthquake. Prince Gywndar arrived moments later. This was plainly no time for his usual folly of a slight delay to show his importance. It was always just a small delay, as Zuamar had eradicated the probability of longer ones some generations of alvar rulers earlier, by flaming a tower when he was kept waiting.
"We have recovered some of the loot," Gywndar said grimly, "but some of the theives remain at large. We need your help, Lord Zuamar, to track them down."
Zuamar began to spread his huge wings. "I have other matters to deal—"
"One of them is a human mage," interrupted Gywndar.
Zuamar let his wings fall. "What! You must be mistaken."
"No, Lord Zuamar. I have had my best magic workers there. They say there is little doubt that it is not one of the other intelligent species. The miscreants we've caught were human."
Zuamar snorted. "We were very careful to destroy every last trace of magical skill in the blood of humankind. I do not believe this. I must go to the place myself."
Gywndar looked at the bulk of his overlord. "My Lord Zuamar . . . it is a narrow passage and down where the palace is dug into the rock. But . . . I myself was a victim of this sorcery. It is possible that the taint of it still clings to me."
"What happened to you?" asked Zuamar. Really, this fool would probably consider a flash of burning magnesium to be magic.
"I was transported, magically, instantly, some fifteen leagues."
Zuamar blinked. That, if it had happened, was powerful magic indeed. "Come closer," he said.
And yes, it was there. The scent of something he had not smelled for centuries.
He nearly cremated the prince in his roar of rage. Just in time he turned his incandescent fury to belch up into the sky. He was angry, yes, that a human mage should be here on this island of his. But he was still angrier at himself. There had been a hint of the same scent of magic in his tax-hall. At the time the fact that there'd been dragonfire there had been enough to stop him thinking about it. Now . . . Now that linked the two incidents. Maybe even the third one.
"Come back here!" commanded Zuamar. The cowering alvar princeling returned from the colonnade he'd run to. It would not have saved him. "I want to know all about it. Every last detail."
The alvar prince nodded earnestly and began to tell the dragon just what they'd established thus far. In alvar fashion they were very efficient at piecing it together. There were still some large and inexplicable gaps in the story. "You found the merrow treasure, but not the thieves?"
"We found some thieves, my Lord Zuamar. A large and well armed band. They fought. The survivor confessed under torture that they had come to steal the merrow treasure." He paused. "But the human mage was not among them. In fact there was no sign of the two I had encountered."
"And one assumes that the survivor could not tell you why they had left the treasure, and why the mage summonsed you?"
"He died . . . we have no skills at necromancy."
It was a fire-being skill, and not a safe practice, Zuamar knew. He still briefly considered flying the body to one of them. But they were so steeped in devious behavior as to make dragonkind look straight-forward . . . anything he got out of them would be tainted; and besides, it was not a matter that he was keen to inform them of. "So two of them are still at large. Or at least two of them. One assumes, with your usual efficiency you have made some attempt to block the trails?"
The Prince nodded. "We've been both helped and hindered by the earthquake. The white road is impassable in several places. We sent guards out on horseback within an hour to seal off the main trails. We have patrols sweeping the lesser trails. It is unlikely that they could have escaped by natural means. We've sent messengers to close the ports. Unless they used magic to leave, they're still on the island."
"This is not something we can tolerate," said Zuamar.
"Yes, the theft must be—"
"Not theft, you fool," snarled Zuamar. "The existence of a human mage. It must be found and destroyed. If need be we will hunt down and kill every human on this island."
"But . . . my Lord. We need them. They produce—"
"Need them, Prince?" asked Zuamar, dangerously.
"They . . . they grow much of our food. And they provide a large part of your tax base," said Gywndar, his voice quavering a little.
The latter, it was true, gave Zuamar pause. "They're like lice. They can breed up again. But for now we will hunt for the miscreant. Before we make an example of some of them."
"Yes, My lord Zuamar." Prince Gywndar nodded respectfully.
A panting alvar messenger arrived. Bowed. Zuamar was amazed at the temerity of the fellow. So, by his expression, was the prince."Why are you interrupting us?" he asked, in a tone that indicated that the answer had better be an extremely good one.
The alvar bowed again, nervously. "The . . . the teams you had out scouring the area for any sign of human magery . . . they've found something."
"Ah. Where?" asked Gywndar, mollified.
"On the far side of the lake, Prince," said the messenger.
Zuamar spread his wings. "I will go."
Gywndar nodded. "I will send my troops. I never thought of the lake . . . it has a guardian."
Zuamar knew that. He wondered if it still did. Or how this arrogant fool had imagined such a thing could resist a summonsing mage? He said nothing. Instead he spread his mighty wings and surged away from the wall. He used the thermals to gain some height to take him across the lake. It was already late afternoon, and even in the teeth of winter, the city was a good place for warmer air. From up here he could see a small knot of alvar on the shore and a few scouring the slope beyond. He flew across the limpid azure waters, looking for the drifting corpse of the lake's inhabitant. He didn't find it, but what he did find when he reached the far side shocked him more.
There had been very powerful magic used there. The traces of it were etched onto the rocks themselves.
And, taking the scents and flavor of it, for the first time in many years, Zuamar was afraid. He did not speak to the wary alvar on the scene. The Prince's magicians would work it out soon enough. He lumbered with difficulty into flight. His first thought was the conclave. His second was to hunt down the miscreants first. Hunt them at range, with cleansing fire. He began to circle, in order to gain height and to scan the ground below. He could guide the alvar to close with them. And when they were distracted, burn the lot of them.
There was dragon, merrow, and human and possibly even something dvergar about that scent.
Zuamar could still remember when he not been the mightiest of dragons, but just a lowly messenger.
He'd burn every last one before he went back to that.
Fionn had seen Zuamar flying high across the mountainside, and known that the chase was finally on. A dragon, naturally, knew just what a dragon could see, and how to avoid being spotted from the air. Fortunately, most dragons could not see as far into the infrared as he could, or they would have had a worse problem. If it had not been laid into the very fibre of his being by the First that he should not kill dragons, Fionn would have cheerfully taken to the air then, and dealt with Zuamar.
Fionn knew there'd be alvar on horseback and hounds tracking and harrying them soon. Still . . . it was barely a couple of hours to sundown . . . The advantage of an aerial spotter would be lost then. And Fionn had dealt with hounds and horsemen before. Horses, alas, were much more sensitive than humans. You wouldn't get them coming within five ells of a dragon, no matter what shape it assumed. Dogs were braver . . . or more foolish. They still didn't like coming too close. Fionn grinned. He couldn't blame them for that. Fionn had often wished to try riding a horse, but that wasn't going to happen. A donkey cart was his limitation, so far.
He roused his charges. "Up, sleepyheads. We have a mountain to climb, and they're after us."
That salve of Finn's had done wonders for her feet, Meb thought. Now if only it could do something for her muscles. She ached. And very soon she realized that it wasn't over yet. At first it was just the far off sound of the hounds giving chase. Then the sound of hunting horns, and occasional glimpses of a dragon in flight far above the trees. Meb was truly grateful for those trees . . . only the three of them were going upwards, and the trees were definitely smaller and more scattered up here. The sun was lowering, about to spear itself redly on the smaller peaks to the west. And now the yip of the hounds running, let alone the sound of them giving tongue when they found the scent, came echoing up the valley.
"Will . . . will they stop for dark?" she panted.
"I doubt it," said Finn. "But he should." He gestured skyward. "It's an effort to keep flying. There is much magic in the flight of dragons, but that's because they're too heavy to fly without it. It still takes some physical effort. And the hunt is strung out. They'll not take us easily."
"How . . . far to this shelter?"
"Ach. There are doorways everywhere. But Groblek likes rock and snow. And we need moonrise. Onwards, Scrap!"
Somehow, she drove her body onward. Onward and upwards. At this time of the year darkness came very quickly. Nearly as quickly as the hunters were coming.
Onward. Onward.
She was stumbling, holding onto his cloak again. The merrow was holding onto her in turn. Below them a forest was abruptly on fire.
"He's still flying!" said Finn. "The alvar won't be pleased about their woods."
The red glow reflected on the clouds helped her to see a little.
She could hear the dogs panting now. Looking back she saw a glint of armor in the moonlight—tinted red by the burning forest. "Up there," yelled someone. Meb looked in desperate hope for the refuge Finn had said was close.
For a moment she thought she saw it. Rough steps leading to an odd beehive of stone. But when she turned to focus on it . . . it was just an illusion of shifting shadows and moonlight. There was nothing there but black rocks and a few patches of snow . . .
"Aha!" grunted Finn. An arrow buzzed past them. The dogs were baying now, baying for the blood they could finally see.
"Up the stairs!" said Finn. "Don't look, just follow your feet. Quickly. Groblek is going to be tetchy enough without the dogs."
Finn seemed happy enough climbing the illusionary steps. So Meb followed him, holding onto the edge of his cloak. She'd swear she was not even on the mountainside. And the dogs were . . . below her. She nearly fell off the stairway. They were above the dogs. Walking on stairs she could only glimpse as she turned her head. They were tangible underfoot though. And, illusion or not, she was scared of those big lean dogs. She was just so tired. It was easier not to think. Just step up. Up and up into the cloud, to the door of the beehive-castle. It must be on a high ridge or something. It looked as if it was perched on the cloud, in the moonlight.
The door Finn knocked at was a huge, heavy one, made of roughly rived oak. It didn't look as smart as the planed and polished doors of the rich merchant's houses of Tarport, let alone the palace at Albar. Meb began to feel slightly more hopeful. Perhaps this was the servants' entrance. But why was it so big?
The reason became painfully obvious as soon as the door swung open. If Finn had not grabbed her shoulder she would have run back to the dogs. The person inside needed all the height that the door afforded him. Finn was tall, the door-opener was at least twice his height, and maybe three times the width. The broad face was rimmed with a thick fringe of wild hair, and a beard that curled down to meet another layer of curly fur that spilled out of the top of a rough leather jerkin. He did not look pleased to see them. His mouth was set in a hard line. There was no warmth in the deep-set brown eyes that stared out at them from under his heavy brow. He did not move or say anything. Only his wide nostrils twitched.