She let her sobs die, rose and looked. The staff was lying beside the fire. The cord that the Ropemaker had used to twitch it clear was still wrapped round its shank. The globe lay well away from the embers. The three mannikins were standing up, waiting to be released.
“Got that box?” said the Ropemaker.
She drew it out and handed it to him. As he slid the ring off his finger and put it away he changed, shrinking to the odd, slightly clownish figure she was used to, but sagging with weariness. She looked at the globe.
“What about the others?” she asked. “Can you . . . ?”
“Your turn,” he muttered. “I’m done for.”
Uncertainly, feeling that all her powers were exhausted, she bent to pick up the globe. It vanished at her touch. She held out her spread hand to the mannikins. Each reached and grasped a fingertip. Between instant and instant they rose to their true size.
“Don’t ask me to go through that again,” said Meena, with a shuddering half laugh. “I really thought we were down to be toast. My, was I cross about it!”
18
Roc Feathers
Is there anything else out there?” said Alnor, peering into the darkness. Even he was unable to conceal the horror in his voice.
“Nothing much left,” said the Ropemaker. “Just small stuff. Won’t bother us. Fellow there was the last.”
He sounded just as exhausted as Tilja herself felt. The long, angular face was gray and lined.
She turned and gazed at the figure of Moonfist lying beside the fire. A skeleton. Yes, she thought, that was his real body, dead already, dead long ago. He had been even older than Faheel, so his real body had died. But by magic he had made himself a seemingly living body, and waited for the moment when Faheel gave up the ring and he could take possession of it. Then he would use it to do for himself something like Faheel had done for Meena and Alnor, bring his own young body, living, into the present, and when that in its time wore out do the same again, and again, forever. That was what Faheel had said couldn’t bear thinking of. No wonder Moonfist had so wanted the ring.
“Who was he?” she asked. “Faheel told me a little about him, but he didn’t know his name. I’ve been calling him Moonfist, because of the magic he used when he tried to get hold of Axtrig on the walls of Talagh. You saw it too, didn’t you? You were the cat.”
She’d taken him by surprise. He stared at her. She saw the other three stiffen, and guessed that he was putting up some kind of magical defenses, but felt nothing herself. Then he made a rueful grimace and relaxed.
“No use against you, anyway,” he said. “Talk about it later. Moonfist, you say? That’ll do. Don’t know that much about him. Spent my time keeping out of his way since he showed up. Glad to see him gone . . . Ah well, let’s get rid of him.”
He drew a deep breath, squared his shoulders, gazed at the fallen body and muttered. The body crumbled to a pile of pale dust. He muttered again. A breeze sprang up, concentrated, became a swirling dust devil which danced across the clearing, picked up the ashes and swept them away in a swirl of dead leaves and other trash. The first huge drops of rain started to fall, laying the dust, cleansing the place with the sweet smell of damp earth, until the Ropemaker pointed out a circle around the fire and made a gesture of ending. Within the circle the rain stopped. He nodded and relaxed.
“Any chestnuts left?” he asked.
They settled round the fire in their own little patch of calm, while all around them the rain sluiced down and the wind battered to and fro. Tahl was bursting with questions, but none of the others felt like talking. Alnor sat with Meena, their arms round each other’s waists, using their free hands to hold and peel the nuts and taking turns who ate them. The Ropemaker sat cross-legged, lost in thought, though every now and then his long arm would snake out as if of its own accord to take another chestnut, which then peeled itself at his touch. However many they ate, there always seemed to be a few left waiting to be roasted.
And Tilja relived her encounters by the lake, absorbing the horror of them and letting it go, until she could simply wonder at the strangeness of them, and her discovery of the size and power of the inward landscape that she had only just begun to explore. The lake must be the center of it, surely, but she felt that there were other places waiting for her to find, and creatures who lived in them, friends like Faheel’s friends, an inward world, a world of power, whose measures were not our measures, whose times were not our time, just as her long and battering struggle with Moonfist had been packed into a few of our instants, time for the Ropemaker to find the ring and come to her rescue.
There were dangers too in that world, she realized. You could lose yourself there if you let it happen. Deliberately she pulled herself out of her half trance, peeled a handful of chestnuts and took them to Calico, who was standing still half-asleep, apparently unaware that anything strange had happened, or that there was now a wall of rain rattling down just beyond her. She ate the chestnuts grumpily and gave Tilja no thanks.
“You must be the least magical horse in the world,” Tilja told her fondly, and went and fetched her rug, rolled herself up in it and lay down by the fire.
She woke late next morning to the smell of roasting meat. The rain had cleared away and the whole world sparkled. The fire was glowing hot. Meena had spitted the body of a small animal on a stick and was twisting it to and fro over the embers. Alnor was skinning and gutting another. Tahl was looking for dry firewood. The Ropemaker had vanished, but almost at once a heavy wing beat broke the silence and a large orange bird settled into the clearing with the body of a hare grasped in its talons. It dropped its burden beside the fire, strutted to the hut and pecked at one of the coils of cord that lay by the entrance to the hut. Rapidly the cord wove itself into a string bag. The bird glanced at Tilja with a mocking eye and heaved itself clumsily into the air. When it next came back the bag was full of sweet yellow plums.
“Couldn’t you just have made us a magic breakfast?” asked Tahl.
The Ropemaker chewed for a while at the tough hare meat, and swallowed.
“Enjoy hunting,” he explained. “You’re an animal, do what it does best. Good sport. Besides . . .”
He glanced enquiringly at Tilja.
“I don’t know,” she said.
“Find out?” he suggested, and held out his hand. An earthenware platter appeared between his fingers, piled with dark brown biscuits. He handed them round. The others crunched theirs up and reached for more, but the one Tilja tried to take vanished at her touch.
No,
she told herself.
Not this time, please.
It made no difference.
“Do you think I could learn not to do that?” she asked.
He shrugged, then smiled at her surprise.
“Don’t know all that much about any of this,” he said ruefully. “Better explain.”
Slowly, his jerky manner of speech still further interrupted while he chewed, he told them his story. He had been born in an isolated village far out on the eastern coast. The food was fish and edible seaweed, but very occasionally somebody found a pearl and became rich enough to leave. From the first he had hated the life, knowing he was different, though he didn’t yet know how. To get away, he had apprenticed himself to a traveling ropemaker. This man knew a few simple magics, bindfasts and so on, which the Ropemaker had learned—“Picked ’em up as if I knew ’em already,” he said. “Knew at once this was what I wanted, what I was
for.
”
From there he’d simply gone on, talking to anyone he could. He’d met a young woman who knew about wards and could turn herself into a cat, and with her he’d experimented and started to piece things together until they’d attracted the attention of one of the eastern Watchers, who had then sent a horrifying sending to scare them off. It had worked with the woman, but it had merely excited the Ropemaker. He had managed to track it to its source, and so come to Talagh.
Once there, he’d spent most of his time not getting picked up by the Watchers, but in the process he’d learned about the lost province to the north, and the magic forest that defended it against the most powerful magicians the Emperor could send. This, of course, had made him want to go and find out for himself, with the added notion that if he came up with an answer he could return to Talagh and win the Emperor’s favor, and so be admitted to the innermost magical secrets of the Empire.
The forest had fascinated him. It was a different sort of magic from any that he’d come across before. For a long while it had simply baffled him, but he had refused to give up. Then, in a flash of intuition (“Don’t know how I do that,” he said. “Happened before. Things just come to me.”) he’d realized that the magic had something to do with unicorns, and had decided to try to turn himself into a unicorn in order to get into the forest.
“Don’t tell me you were that dirty great unicorn!” Meena burst in. “What did you think you were up to, scaring our own little wretches that way? And doing what you did to my daughter Selly by the lake? What harm had either of them done you?”
He spread his hands in apology.
“Mistake,” he explained. “Made a lot of them in my time— bound to, doing it all on my own. Never tried that before, being a magical animal. Took a lot of doing. Then, once you’re there, different. Let’s say you’re a mouse, you think mouse and feel mouse—quick, scared, inquisitive—but you’re in control. Mouse does what you want, spite of the mouse bit. Magical animal— unicorn anyway—haven’t tried dragons—if you don’t watch out, it takes over. Happened to me. Knew what I wanted—to get your unicorns out—forgot why. Tried doing it unicorn fashion, scaring ’em out, stopping your daughter feeding ’em. Didn’t work with her, and I’d felt bad about it, under all the unicorn stuff. Didn’t try again. But I was still stuck there, being a unicorn, when you came by on your raft.
“Saw you, but wasn’t interested. Only interested in the unicorns. Then Meena there started her singing. Wasn’t singing to me, of course, just to the little white fellows on the far side of the canyon, telling ’em what you were up to, going out into the Empire to find this man who’d make their forest right for ’em again. But it did the trick, reminded me what I was there for, just enough to get myself clear of the forest and stop being a unicorn—and was that a palaver!
“Followed you down, of course. Meena’s song had told me you knew some of the stuff I was after. So I was hanging outside Lananeth’s window, just clear of her wards, minding my own business, being a bat and listening to what you were saying, when Meena there pops out with some fellow’s name—Faheel, right? Never heard of him before, but bang, I’d lost my shape and fallen into a rosebush. Cut me to ribbons—never noticed. Got to know about
that,
I was thinking.”
His braying laugh shattered the morning silence.
“So you followed us to Talagh,” said Alnor. “And on the way you arranged for the bandits to kidnap us in the Pirrim Hills, so that you could make our acquaintance.”
“Not like that. They’d a spy at the way station—spotted you for fourteenth graders—going to cut you out anyway—not difficult, convoy all strung out, but one of you might’ve got hurt. Better arrange for it myself. Worked out all right, didn’t it?”
“You mean we wouldn’t have got to Goloroth without you?” said Tilja. “You were the dog that woke Tahl and Alnor up when we landed from the raft, and the cat on the walls of Talagh, and the donkey in the way station when Silena came, and then the lion at Goloroth.”
He nodded as she named each creature.
“Ah,” he said. “Suppose this Faheel told you, so you spotted me for the mouse. Told you my name, too, did he? Been wondering about that.”
“Yes, and I saw you change into the lion when Faheel was fighting the Watchers at Talagh.”
Again he stared at her in astonishment, then shook his head and dragged on his chin, grinning ruefully.
“Lot I don’t know,” he said. “Look, I’ll finish off, then you tell me your side. Keep things straight that way. Right?”
Yes, he said, he’d been able to follow Tilja all the way because she’d been wearing his hair tie. He’d been the cat on the walls of Talagh and done what he could to stop Silena finding them in the tower, but he wouldn’t have been a match for her and she’d have broken through his screen if Dorn hadn’t arrived. And yes, he’d been the donkey at the way station, and though Tilja had done most of the work, when Silena had lost her powers they had somehow settled into him. He hadn’t been expecting that at all, but the same thing had happened when he and Tilja, between them, had destroyed Dorn. He had come out of the barn at Goloroth far stronger than he had gone in.
Then, knowing he couldn’t follow Tilja and the others to Faheel’s island, he had returned to Talagh, with the idea that he might be taken on as a Watcher in Dorn’s place, now that he possessed Dorn’s powers, and so watch for the travelers’ return. He’d been accepted for the post, but realized almost at once that it was a mistake. This wasn’t what he wanted, at all. Quite the opposite.
“That was why Faheel came—to stop you becoming a Watcher,” said Tilja. “He said you’d be lost if that happened, and he wanted you to have the ring.”
“Got to ask you about that,” he said. “Better finish first.”
He hadn’t dared try to back out. The Watchers now knew of his existence, and if he refused to join them they would destroy him, sooner than let someone with his powers loose in the Empire. So he’d decided to go through with the installation ceremony and then leave when he got the chance. The chance had come sooner than he’d expected, at the ceremony itself, but then he’d been too fascinated by what was happening to leave at once. Only when the darkness had started to gather behind the tower from which Faheel was working did he recognize the peril and make a bolt for it. Since then he’d been in hiding, knowing that a very powerful magician was roaming the Empire systematically destroying all possible rivals.
“Thought it was the same fellow that had done for the Watchers,” he said. “Couple of things didn’t fit, mind, but that was the best I could make of it. But if it was your friend Faheel did for the Watchers, and then this other fellow—Moonfist—sneaked in and did for him . . . yes . . .”
“He knew about the ring,” said Tilja. “In the story we tell in the Valley, Faheel himself knew about it while Asarta still had it. He’d been trying to take it from her for three hundred years. So when Asarta used people from the Valley to take it to Faheel he decided to seal their knowledge of the ring inside the Valley. He told me that himself.
“But Moonfist knew already. He’d been trying to get hold of it too, and he thought Asarta should have given it to him. He’s been waiting all these years for when Faheel had to pass it on to someone else. He must have recognized the power in Axtrig and attacked the walls to try and get hold of her, but then he lost her again because I was holding her, and the same with the ring on the way back, right up until Tahl guessed I’d got it. Moonfist felt that—Faheel said he might—and came.”
The Ropemaker sat nodding slowly, thinking about it.
“Right,” he said at last. “Now one more thing. Why me? Ignorant fisherboy—clutching at straws, eh?”