Heart of Light (42 page)

The forest was dark and noisy—alive with scurries at floor level and sometimes amid the branches overhead. They moved fast, without stopping. After a while, Nassira felt something. It was whisper, the merest flutter of magic. She turned to look at Nigel. In the darkness, his pale eyes were wide open and full of fear. “The compass stone,” he whispered. “I thought that's how they were tracking us.”

She nodded. So he was not totally stupid. She was sure that was how they'd been tracked. Then she remembered the faces of the men on the rugs and again she was sure she knew them. She was sure they were Hyena Men. But why were Hyena Men pursuing Nigel? Surely they knew that Nigel couldn't disappear or die without alarming the British. If Nigel were killed—and those had been killing powerstick rays—surely the British would come hunting for the Hyena Men.

Having set a bind on the Oldhalls, having gone to great lengths to stay hidden, why would the Hyena Men be so brazen now? Had they only waited till Nigel and Emily were far enough into Africa that they could disappear without a trace and without the Hyena Men being found out? But why would they want to kill Nigel to get the stone? And if they did, why hadn't they told Nassira? Did they fear that Nassira would not condone murder? And why would they try to kill Nigel on the same night that Kitwana received orders to kill the dragon?

Nassira crept through the forest, uneven ground and roots beneath her feet. Nigel walked beside her in silence, except for the occasional hiss of pain from setting his wounded feet down. Overhead, the flights had stopped, which must mean they were now being pursued on foot.

Nassira hurried forward and Nigel followed. Whatever else the Hyena Men might want to do, by targeting Nigel and not the camp, they'd shown they wanted the compass stone.

“It was my brother,” Nigel said, in a barely audible whisper. “On that rug.”

“What?” Nassira whipped around to face him.

The Englishman's face, always unnaturally white to Nassira's eyes, now looked like chalk.

“My brother, Carew. He came to Africa before I did. On a mission.” He looked at Nassira with new alarm, as though an idea had just occurred to him. “You . . . you know that?”

Nassira sighed. “I know what you're searching for. I have been following you from London.”

“From London?” Nigel asked. “I suppose this isn't the time to explain. You saved my life twice over. Why would you do that if you . . . But then, my brother—”

He was still afraid to reveal too much.

Nassira nodded at him. “Heart of Light.”

Nigel's eyes widened. “Yes. And Carew disappeared in Africa, looking for the Heart of Light. How do you know?”

“It's a long story,” Nassira said. “I wanted to make sure the Heart of Light wouldn't be used for bad purposes.” Which was true as far as that went.

Nigel tilted his head sideways, not quite satisfied, but went on. “Yet it was Carew on that rug. Operating the magelight.”

“Perhaps he's a prisoner, forced to activate the magelight. It could well be.”

“But what could those who captured him want with us? With me? And why would they keep him alive? And what could they mean to do with us?” Nigel paused. “Are they the Hyena Men?”

Nassira nodded. “I'm afraid they'll catch up with us unless we get moving again.”

She continued between the trees and heard Nigel follow her. Was that a twig snapping ahead of her? Had she just heard a stealthy footstep or a breath forcefully exhaled beyond the row of trees in front of them? She slowed down, but the dark forest appeared undisturbed behind them.

Nigel stopped and exclaimed. Nassira stopped also and turned around. In front of them, a few steps ahead, a group of people stood.

They were all young males, broad shouldered, narrow hipped, their upright, noble bodies and dignified features proclaiming them to be Masai warriors.

Their leader stood a few steps ahead of the others, his hair done up in ocher, a lion skin draped across his shoulders.

Nassira narrowed her eyes and looked at them with magesight. Surrounding him and his companions, a halo of ocher-colored magical light shone so bright that either these were the most powerful magicians ever born, or they were not human at all, but creatures woven entirely of magic.

A FEVERISH DRAGON

Kitwana waited. After they had packed, he told
Emily they should rest because they must walk during the day. It would be a long, arduous, heavy walk that would test even Kitwana's stamina.

“Why should we walk?” she asked. “And where? Nigel has the compass stone. Without it, we have no idea where to go. And yet I don't think I can go back. Not without Nigel.”

“Perhaps Mr. Oldhall will come back in the morning,” Kitwana said. “Reason enough to wait. But if he does not return then, we must go.” He gestured with his hand at the wrecked camp. “We can't stay near the corpses. It would be too hard to drag them out to the bush to bury. And they will attract scavengers even with the deterrent presence of the dragon here. By tomorrow, every carrion eater will flock here. Besides . . .” He gestured toward where Peter had sat. The dragon-man had long since slumped sideways and now slept, curled in a tight ball. “He will never survive a march if we leave now.”

“But where will we go?” Emily asked, her dark blue eyes turned toward him.

Kitwana shrugged. “I don't know. For now south and west on the route we were following, as we stand a better chance of meeting with Mr. Oldhall and Nassira that way.”

This promise finally calmed her down enough that she agreed to his idea and lay down atop a blanket by the fire.

“I'll stay awake and keep guard,” Kitwana said. “Since I'm the strongest one. Best able to stand the walk without sleep.”

She started to protest, but her eyes closed.

Kitwana waited to make sure that she was indeed asleep. It had been difficult for him to evoke the dragon-man's health. It sailed too close to a lie for his taste. Because the truth was, as soon as Emily fell asleep, Kitwana meant to interrogate Peter Farewell and get from him all he could about the man's allegiance and honor, and how trustworthy he might be, in either form. If he proved treasonous, Kitwana would rather kill him than allow him to kill or threaten Emily Oldhall.

But he knew he could never explain this to Emily, nor convince her of the necessity of it. So he must wait till she was deeply asleep.

When the regularity of her breath convinced him that Emily was, he found his bespelled lance and his personal knife on the ground, near where his bed had been. Then he crept toward Peter Farewell and, squatting nearby, shook him by the shoulder.

As Farewell's eyelids fluttered open, Kitwana set the knife to his throat. Farewell's eyes opened wide, and he looked questioningly at Kitwana.

Kitwana gestured with his head, indicating the edge of the camp. Farewell got up at Kitwana's push and allowed himself to be supported and guided to the edge of the camp where a large boulder obstructed direct view of the fire. Only Farewell's strained breathing gave away how tired he was, how weak. Kitwana rounded the boulder and forced him to sit, his back against the stone.

“I could scream,” Farewell said in a half whisper. “Would you dare kill me while the lovely Mrs. Oldhall is awake and watching?”

“Scream and I kill you before the sound is out,” Kitwana said, and raised his lance.

Farewell looked at it for a moment. “If you're going to kill me,” he said, “could I be allowed a last cigarette?”

Kitwana gestured with his lance. “I don't want to kill you. I want to know why I should let you live.”

“Ah.” Peter shrugged. “Can't help you there. I myself never understood why I should be allowed to live.”

Kitwana raised his eyebrows. “Why are you here? What are your intentions?”

“Same as yours, dear chap. To find the ruby, Heart of Light, that has the power to anchor magic to an individual and his descendants forever.”

“To make yourself king of the world?”

“King of the world?” Farewell said. “Forbid the thought. No. I want to find the ruby to destroy it.”

“To destroy it?” Kitwana asked, uncomprehending.

“Yes. I have this theory that one ruby having bound the magic to one family line, destroying the other ruby will destroy magic entirely. All humans shall be equal. And free.”

Kitwana felt a sudden stab of understanding. “And you'll be a dragon no more.”

Peter frowned at him. “I suppose not. But then, I have enough magic that I might also be dead.” He shrugged. “It doesn't matter. At least people will be free.”

“And without magic,” Kitwana said. “Have you ever lived without magic, Mr. Farewell?”

Peter Farewell shrugged without answering. In Kitwana's mind, though, the fact that Farewell was a dragon-man was of the utmost importance. He was now convinced that all of Farewell's beliefs, all of his actions, were a way to free himself of this hereditary burden. The dragon was the key to the man, and the relationship between Peter and the dragon was the hinge upon which Peter Farewell's sanity swung. If he could get Farewell to speak of how he felt being a dragon, he might discover if the man was worth saving.

Without letting go of either knife or lance, Kitwana squatted so his face was on a level with his prisoner's. “When did you learn that you were a dragon?” he asked.

Farewell looked surprised. Then a shadow crossed his gaze. He looked past Kitwana as he spoke. “The first inkling I had came a month after I left school. It was summer, and I intended to go up to Cambridge in the autumn. My father's sheep started disappearing, and all the shepherds said they'd seen a dragon come and take them away. Of course, my parents thought it must be some peasant newly arrived in the district, someone descended from the bastard line of a Welsh nobleman. Dragons were common in Wales at one time.” He tightened his hands one upon the other, clasped on his lap, so hard that the knuckles shone white through his tanned skin. “But we'd never heard of someone of a mixed line inheriting the curse. Most people who suffer from it are the result of dragon-on-dragon mating, proud lines who live isolated and feared by all their neighbors.

“Still, my father looked and questioned everyone coming into the district.” Peter stopped and his lips trembled. He bit them hard, drawing droplets of blood. “But no one who had come from Wales was found. So my father took me and our steward and a couple of friends. All of us with powersticks, guarding the sheep through the night.” He laughed, a strange, uncontrolled sound, like a drunkard's laughter. “Me, guarding the sheep from myself!”

Kitwana started at the laugh and clasped the lance harder, but Farewell didn't move, nor give any signs of changing shape.

“And then I started coughing,” he said. “I felt it coming upon me. I knew what would happen, as surely as I'd ever known anything. You see . . .” He turned earnest, deep green eyes toward Kitwana, although from their unfocused expression, their dazed look, it was doubtful he saw Kitwana at all. “You see, I had always changed in my sleep before and I had no idea why I woke up feeling energized and sated. But now my change came upon me while fully awake and I . . .”

Farewell took a deep breath, like a drowning man who, for the space of a breath, gets his head above water. “I ran behind some bushes, to hide my change from the others. But my father saw me. He thought I'd discovered our prey and he followed me. He saw me change.” Peter's eyes filled with tears and he looked at Kitwana. Then he inhaled forcefully and the tears vanished. Kitwana understood. They were not Peter's tears to cry. They were the tears of a barely grown boy faced with a horror he couldn't comprehend, a horror he could not escape.

“He didn't kill me. Indeed, my father could never bring himself to kill his only son and extinguish his noble line, originating with the great Charlemagne.” Peter laughed again hollowly. “And so when I woke in the morning—back in my own bed where blind instinct had led me, after gorging myself with stolen sheep—my father was waiting. He'd called his friends and our steward off somehow, but now he wanted me out of his lands and out of England. He gave me money and said more would come when I told him where I was.

“I'd always meant to make my life in the army,” Peter said. “Or in politics. But the army was no place for a man with a dreadful secret. If exposed I would have been burned. And the change happens sometimes when I don't mean it to . . . like in that horrible train to Port Said. The change would come through and interfere with the train-moving spell. I had to go some way afield to hunt an antelope and—” He shrugged. “And politics was right out, too. The same reason. Imagine changing in front of important dignitaries. My father was right. If I wanted to keep my life, let alone any honor, I had to leave, go abroad.