Authors: Miles Cameron
Gawin frowned.
The captain smiled. ‘I avoided the use of power for many years.’ He shrugged. ‘Why waste it?’
She nodded, understanding.
They made tea from the water of the loch, ate cold meat, and curled up to sleep. The stones of the beach were cold and wet, but the wool tent and the warmth of the horses won out in the end.
They took watches in turns. The captain took the mid watch, and he sat high above the beach on a rock. The wind was gone, and with it the rain, and he watched a thousand thousand stars and the
moon.
May we talk?
No.
You’ve closed your door and you aren’t responding to Mag and she’s confused. You are linked to her. The courtesy of mages requires you—
No.
The captain looked out over the loch.
Go away. Not at home.
His head hurt.
In the morning, they drank hot tea, ate fresh Johnny cake made in ashes on a flat rock by Mag, and rode on. The horses were tired and cold, but by a miracle none of them were lame or sick
despite a cold night on a mountainside. They followed the trail up over the green ridge at the north end of the loch, down into a shallow, high valley of green turf with the stream ripping through,
full of rain water. From there down a rocky course at the centre, and then they cut back twice, riding up another ridge. The green of the hills was deceiving – what looked like one endless
ridge proved to be a succession of them, one merging to another in the grey light.
The Keeper shook his head. ‘It wasn’t like this the last time,’ he said.
Ranald laughed. ‘Never the same twice, is it, Keeper?’
The Keeper shrugged. ‘This is only my second trip, Ranald.’
Bad Tom grunted. ‘Never been, meself. But Hector said it was different every time.’
Up and up.
They climbed the next ridge as the sun struggled through the curtain of cloud, and at the top of the next ridge, in a fold of the earth, sat a shepherd’s cot with a curl of peat-smoke
coming out of a low chimney.
Sheepfolds extended right out from the walls of the stone house, as if the whole place were built for sheep.
The trail led from their ridge to the door of the shepherd’s cot, straight as a lance.
‘Biggest sheep I’ve ever seen.’ Alcaeus was rubbing the water out of his hair.
They rode down the track. The stone wall by the cot had a gate with richly worked iron hinges and the captain leaned over and opened it.
On the far side, hidden by the crest of the hill, was a brick horse barn. It had eleven stalls.
The captain grinned. ‘I’ll take this as a sign we’re welcome,’ he said.
The brick horse barn looked very out of place.
‘I know this barn,’ Gawin said. ‘This is Diccon Pyle’s barn.’ He looked at Ranulf, who nodded.
‘From Harndon,’ Ranulf said. ‘I was just thinking of it. Warm, snug—’ He blew out a breath.
They took the horses into the barn. Their hooves rang on the brick floor, louder than the captain would have thought possible. There were oats in every manger, fresh straw on the floors, clean
water in the buckets.
They unsaddled the horses, and took the gear off the pack animals. The captain curried his new destrier and put a blanket – ready to hand – over him. Gawin and Alcaeus did the same,
as did the Keeper and Ranald. Bad Tom stood in the doorway, a sword in his hand.
‘I don’t like this. It’s fey.’ Tom thumbed the edge of the blade.
‘Not a problem you can solve with a sharp blade,’ said the captain. He got the tack off Tom’s big gelding. ‘Relax.’
Tom didn’t leave the doorway. ‘I want to get this over,’ he said.
Ranald went and took his arm. ‘Not the way to go, Tom. Be
easy
.’
Mag smiled at Ser Alcaeus. ‘Would you be so kind as to have the saddle off my horse, ser knight? I’m a poor weak woman.’
Ser Alcaeus grinned.
Mag gathered her cloak, pushed past Bad Tom, and walked to the door. She knocked politely.
The knock sounded as loud as the crack of a trebuchet in the silence.
The door opened.
Mag went in. The Keeper paused at his currying and dropped the brush. ‘Damn,’ he said. And ran for the door, but it was already closed. He knocked, and the door opened, and he was
gone.
‘I think the rest of us might as well go in together,’ the captain said. He wiped his hands on straw. He walked up to the door. ‘You, too, Tom.’
Tom was breathing hard. ‘It’s
all magick.
’
The captain nodded and spoke carefully, as he would to a skittish horse or a scared child. ‘It is, that. We’re in his hands, Tom. But we knew that.’
Tom stood straight. ‘You think I’m afraid.’
Ranald made a motion of negation.
The captain nodded. ‘Yes, Tom. You are afraid. If you weren’t, to be honest, you’d be some sort of madman.’
‘Which you may be, anyway,’ Ranald said.
Tom managed a smile. ‘I’m ready.’
The captain rapped at the door.
And it opened.
The croft was low and close yet surprisingly spacious. The rooftrees were just above the captain’s head height, too low for Tom, and the building had a roof-end hearth,
not a proper fireplace at all. The fire in it was enormous, filling it like a furnace, so that individual logs couldn’t be made out in the inferno – but just enough heat escaped to make
the room pleasant on a cool summer evening.
Around the fireplace were heavy wooden chairs, covered in wool cloths. Some cloths were armorial, and one was an ancient tapestry, cut up and sewn to cover the chair.
The cot beams were black with age, but carving could still be seen on them.
Over the fireplace, a pair of swords were crossed and, on the main beam, a spear was carefully set on a long row of iron nails.
Mag sat with the Keeper, her legs crossed. And beyond her sat a small man smoking a long pipe.
He was so very ordinary that their eyes passed over him, at first. He wore a plain wool cote of coarse wool, and leggings of the same, and his weather-beaten face was neither handsome nor ugly,
old or young. His eyes were black.
He opened them, and they were instantly arresting.
‘Welcome,’ said the Wyrm.
The captain bowed. He looked around, and none of his companions was moving – except that the men behind him in the doorway were suddenly sitting in chairs, hands on their knees.
He hung his cloak with theirs, and went to a seat.
‘Why is no one speaking?’ he asked.
‘You are all speaking,’ the Wyrm said. ‘It is easier for all of us if I deal with each in turn, in privacy.’
‘Ah,’ said the captain. ‘I’ll wait my turn.’
The Wyrm smiled. ‘I can talk to you all at once,’ he said. ‘It is you who needs the feeling that there is structure, not me.’ He took a pull on his pipe.
The captain nodded.
Of course time means nothing to them,
Harmodius said.
‘Are the two of you together?’ the Wyrm asked.
‘There’s just one of me,’ the captain said. ‘I can’t speak for Harmodius.’
The Wyrm smiled again. ‘Very wise of you to see that. You know that if you do not rid yourself of him, he will, in time, demand control. He cannot help himself. I offer this information
free of obligation.’
The captain nodded. A cup of mulled wine appeared at his elbow. He picked it up and drank it gratefully.
‘Why have you come?’ asked the Wyrm. ‘You, at least, had to know what I was.’
The captain nodded. ‘I guessed.’ He looked around. ‘Are there rules? Do I have three questions? Fifty?’
The Wyrm shrugged. ‘I don’t want visitors. I try never to look into the future. All that is for my busy, busy kin. They plot, and strive. I live. I seek truth.’ He smiled.
‘Sometimes I grow lonely, and a lucky traveller is brought in for entertainment.’ His smile became a feral grin.
The captain drank more wine. ‘What of the Lachlans?’
The Wyrm pulled on his pipe, and smoke wound to the ceiling and up into the draught of the roaring fire. ‘That is your question?’
The captain shook his head. ‘No, but they are my sworn men and I need to know they are being well served.’
The Wyrm smiled. ‘The concept of fealty comes so naturally to men and I am having a difficult time being bound by it. But I will deal fairly with Tom and Ranald. Ask your own.’
The captain swirled his wine, and clamped down on a question about Amicia. ‘Can the conflict between Man and Wild be resolved?’ he asked.
‘Is that your question?’ asked the Wyrm.
‘Yes,’ said the captain.
The seated figure smoked. ‘How delightful.’ He walked to the mantelpiece and opened a stone jar, took out a handful of old leaves and tamped them into the bowl of his pipe. ‘Do
you believe in free will, prince?’
The captain was growing hot, and he stood up and took off his cote and hung it by the mantel to dry with a muttered ‘beg your pardon’ to his host. He sat again.
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Why?’ asked the Wyrm.
The captain shrugged. ‘Either I have free will, or there’s no point in playing.’
The Wyrm rocked its head back and forth. ‘What if I were to tell you that you only had free will in some things, and not in others?’
The captain found he was chewing one of his riding gloves. He stopped. ‘I’d suggest that my power to affect the universe is about the same whether I have free will in every action or
only in one.’
‘Interesting,’ said the Wyrm. ‘Man and the Wild are merely concepts. Philosophical constructs. If they were created to represent – to symbolize – opposition, then
could they ever be reconciled? Can alpha and omega switch places in the alphabet?’
‘Next you will tell me there is no Wild. And there is no Man.’ The captain smiled.
The Wyrm laughed. ‘You’ve taken this class before, I take it.’
‘I sat at the feet of some philosophers in the East,’ the captain said. ‘I had no idea they were dragons, although, now that I think of it—’
The Wyrm laughed again. ‘You please me. So I will answer your question. Man and the Wild, while being two sides of a coin, can live together – just as the coin lives perfectly well
in the purse.’
‘Separate?’ the captain asked.
The Wyrm shrugged. ‘Nothing about a coin is separate, is it?’ he asked.
The captain leaned back in his very comfortable chair.
‘My brother died,’ Tom said. ‘He was your liege man, and he died. Tell us who killed him?’
The Wyrm shrugged. ‘He died outside my circle,’ he said. ‘I concede that I wasn’t paying very much attention. I further concede that while my mind was taken with other
affairs, some of the Wild peoples crossed my lands without my leave. But in truth, Tom, and Ranald, my circle is a creation for my own convenience. I scarcely trouble men, in or out of it, and you
two are the first to demand some sort of action of me in a long enough amount of time to be meaningless.’
‘So you won’t avenge him,’ Tom said. ‘Just tell me who killed him?’ he asked.
‘Are you telling me what I’m doing, or asking?’ the Wyrm asked politely. ‘Is this your question?’
Ranald leaned forward. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It sounds odd but it isn’t the Sossag I’m after, though they slayed Hector and me, too. It’s Thorn. Thorn sent them
– he summoned them. Drove them to war.’
The Wyrm threw back his head and laughed. ‘Are you simple, Ranald Lachlan? The Wild Peoples do exactly as they please. They are not children. If they raided your brother, they did so
apurpose.’
‘They’d never ha’ been at the fords if it hadn’t been for Thorn.’ Tom was insistent.
The Wyrm put his chin in his right hand. ‘How much of the truth would you like, hillman? Shall I tell you enough to spark an epic revenge? Or shall I tell you enough to render you
incapable of action? Which would you prefer?’
Ranald chewed the end of his moustache. ‘What could you tell us that would make us unable to act?’ he asked.
Tom glowered.
The Wyrm sat back and put his pipe down, put his hands behind his head. ‘The Sossag who killed Hector is called Ota Qwan. He is a worthy enemy for you, Tom – driven, passionate,
highly skilled. Your riddle is that, in time, your captain will want him as an ally.’ The Wyrm smiled.
‘And so you render Tom incapable of action?’ Ranald asked. ‘You don’t know Tom.’
The Wyrm shook his head. ‘No. Because behind Ota Qwan was Skadai, who made the decision to risk my wrath and raid the hillmen and the drove. He’s already dead, though. Behind Skadai
is Thorn, who was pushed into war—’ the Wyrm was smiling, ‘—by one of my kind, to whom you and your brother are less than ants, and who wishes to encompass not just the end
of your brother, but the death of every man and woman in the entire circle of the world. I should offer you my thanks – I have just realised that I have slept through a cycle of drama. Things
are moving out in the world. Damn the lot of you.’
‘His name?’ Tom said.
‘Tom Lachlan, you are a name of fear among men from East to West. Daemons and wyverns wet themselves in fear at the mere mention of your name.’ The Wyrm gazed at Tom with affection.
‘But my kind – nothing in your arsenal can harm us.’
‘His name?’ asked Tom.
The Wyrm leaned forward. ‘I would like to deal with this myself.’
Tom slapped his thigh. ‘Now you’re talking, Wyrm. A good lord stands up for his man. But I’ll help ye. Tell me his name, and together we’ll put him down in the
dust.’
The Wyrm shook his head. ‘Are you to be drover, Tom?’
Tom shook his head. ‘I doubt I could. I’d kill every loon as bade me nay.’
The Wyrm nodded. ‘Ranald?’
‘I’d be proud to be drover. But I seek to be knighted by the king – to have a little treasure – so I may wed a lady.’ Ranald felt like a small boy confessing to
stealing apples.
‘None of these things is my concern,’ said the Wyrm. ‘Although the two of you are a pleasure to converse with.’
‘He’s the man of reason,’ Tom said. ‘I’m the man of war. Two sides of a coin.’
‘Nothing about a coin is separate,’ the Wyrm said.
Mag sat with her hands folded in her lap.
‘And how may I help you?’ the Wyrm asked her.