Pilgrim (23 page)

Doubts raced through Drago’s mind, and though he was wary,
something
about the horse bothered him,
something
about the horse tugged at his mind, at his memories.

Something told him this horse was no foe.

“Quiet now, old boy,” he said softly as he got to within a pace of the beast. “Quiet now.”

The horse did not move, perhaps wondering in some deep recess of his mind how he
could
get any quieter.

“Quiet now,” Drago repeated, reassuring himself far more than the horse, and reached out a cautious hand to the beast’s neck.

He patted it lightly.

The horse did not stir.

Bolder now, Drago stepped close to him and ran his hand down his neck in bold, reassuring strokes.

“What a fine old boy,” he said, his tone warm but gentle. “What a handsome old fellow. What are you doing here? Lost? No-one to care for you?”

The stallion
must
have been a handsome beast in his prime, Drago thought. He was at least eighteen hands high, and with good bones, although his flesh hung limply enough from them now. His chest was deep and, even ancient as he was, the horse’s legs were clean and straight.

The horse sighed, and Drago tensed and then relaxed as the horse made no further movement. Beneath him, the lizard was engaged in careful exploration, sniffing about the horse’s fetlocks and hooves. It moved behind the horse, and sniffed at the yellowed tail that hung almost to the ground.

“No,” Drago said, and fixed the lizard in the eye.

The lizard blinked, its crest rising rapidly three or four times, then it walked stiff-legged to the other side of the horse and pretended a great interest in a small stone.

Drago smiled, and turned his head slightly so he could speak to Faraday.

“Come closer. I do not think there is any danger.”

“Are you sure?” But Faraday slipped her pack off and walked closer.

“I think this horse is so ancient,” Drago said, “that his mind has wandered. He’s as senile as a wine-soaked octogenarian.”

Faraday had to think a moment before she understood. “Ah. The Demons’ influence has just slid off his mind like sunshine off a mirror.”

“Yes. I had wondered if he somehow shared our strange immunity…but maybe it
is
just his senility that has protected him.” Drago had moved down the hose’s side, running his hand down his ridged back, and then down his flank. “But there’s something about this horse…something…”

His hand drifted lower down the horse’s near hind leg, and Drago squatted to inspect it more closely.

“I am sure that I’ve seen this…
Oh Stars! Faraday!
”

Stunned by what she thought was utter panic in Drago’s voice, Faraday grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him back.

Drago toppled over in the dirt, but his eyes remained on the horse’s hind leg…on the faint scar that ran down the horse’s hock.

His father, Axis, shouting at the stable boy who had so startled the stallion that he’d kicked down his stable door, cutting his near hind badly.

Axis, holding the stallion’s bridle to keep him still as the surgeon stitched the leg.

Long nights when the lamps had burned in the stable block as watch was kept on the fevered stallion.

The day, the final horrible day, when Axis had realised the horse’s leg would be too weak for him to ever be ridden again.

Drago sat up and squatted back at the horse’s leg, his fingers exploring the scar. “Faraday, I know this horse!”

Axis, tears running down his face, turning the stallion loose in the Urqhart Hills so he could live out the rest of his life in freedom.

The horse woke from his dream, opened his eyes, turned his head, and stared at Drago.

This was the boy who had fed him apples…

This was the boy who had spent so many nights asleep in his manger, escaping some horror within Sigholt’s grey walls.

This was the boy who for months after the horse had been released into the hills, would come to seek him out to bring him apples, and make sure he was not too lonely.

Drago stood and faced the horse, now gazing at him with deep black intelligent eyes. This was no senile nag. This was…“Belaguez,” Drago said in wonderment.

“Belaguez?” Faraday said. “But it
can’t
be! Axis rode him when he was BattleAxe—”

“He must be fifty years old,” Drago said, now rubbing Belaguez’s ears. The old horse sighed in contentment, and butted Drago’s chest with his head.

“No horse lives that old,” Faraday said, her forehead creased in a frown as if cross that the horse had dared to contravene holy law.

Drago shot her an amused look. “And no woman lives, and dies, and wanders forests as a deer, and then lives again…does she?”

Faraday managed a small smile. “Perhaps some of Axis’ enchantment seeped into the horse. What happened to him?”

“He was crippled in a stable accident,” Drago said, indicating the scar, “when I was about eight. Axis decided he could no longer be ridden, so he turned him loose in the Urqhart Hills.”

“He must have been wandering all these years,” Faraday said, and now she, too, was stroking Belaguez’s nose.

“We must take him with us,” Drago said softly. “At the very least he’ll be strong enough to help us ford the river.”

At that announcement, the lizard—who had crept back behind the horse’s haunches—launched itself into Belaguez’s tail, and began to haul itself upwards, claw over claw.

Belaguez snorted, and tossed his head, but otherwise made no objection as the lizard happily attained the summit of the horse’s haunches and sat, surveying the view.

Faraday’s eyes drifted between Drago and Belaguez. She finally crossed her arms and squared her shoulders.

“Well,” she said, “as long as you’re comfortable travelling with an ancient relic from your father’s reign…”

Drago took his time in responding, and when he did, his eyes were merry with mischief. “Oh, I’m getting quite used to travelling with ancient relics from my father’s reign.”

“
F
ind this Sanctuary,” Drago had told WingRidge and SpikeFeather, and so they had done their best.

But Sanctuary, whatever that might be, was proving difficult to locate.

WingRidge had set the entire Lake Guard to the task, six hundred birdmen and women, haunting the waterways in small punts or walking the banks with smoking torches held aloft.

“I know
nothing
,” SpikeFeather kept telling WingRidge, “of any place beneath here that might harbour so many hundreds of thousands of people.”

“Then why,” WingRidge invariably shot back to his companion, “did you spend so damned many years down here with the Ferryman, if not to learn these secrets?”

“I do not think even the Ferryman knew,” SpikeFeather finally said stiffly one day as they stood in a cavern in the waterways halfway between the Lake of Life and Fernbrake Lake. “Apparently Orr was not privy to this secret, nor were any of his Charonite predecessors.”

“He who seeks only finds what he wants to find,” WingRidge said obscurely, and then placed his hands on his hips and looked about the cavern. There were several other members of the Lake Guard standing to one side, their ivory uniforms gleaming softly in the lamplight, the golden knots in
the centre of their chests sending bright sparks of light about the cavern.

“We have wandered these passages for weeks,” WingRidge said, now studying the blank rock walls as if he might find inspiration there. “And nothing. In the meantime the Demons have retrieved what they needed from Cauldron Lake and must now be drawing close to the Lake of Life.”

“There must be a clue
somewhere
!” SpikeFeather said. “Does the Maze Gate say anything?”

WingRidge shook his head, still studying the rock. He, as with most members of the Lake Guard at various times, had gone back to the Maze Gate under Grail Lake to study more carefully its inscriptions—but nothing. There were only the symbols depicting the rise of Qeteb and StarSon, the devastation of Tencendor, and the beginning of a final battle between Qeteb and the Crusader.

There had been a new symbol depicted amongst the script devoted to destruction, a lily, but WingRidge did not think the lilies related anything of Sanctuary.

The Maze Gate was mute when it came to sanctuaries.

“Then do you suppose Drago misheard?” SpikeFeather asked.

WingRidge finally turned back to the birdman. “No. He heard correctly enough, and we have been set to the task, and we are failing, dammit!”

“Captain?” One of the Lake Guardsmen had stepped forth.

“Yes, GapFeather?”

“Captain, there must be a clue somewhere. Something that stares us in the eye, and yet we remain blind.”

“I thank you for that observation, GapFeather,” WingRidge said, “but unless the blindfold has been suddenly removed from your eyes, I fail to see how this—”

“Captain, pardon my interruption, but here in these waterways we
are
blind. We can explore only a small portion of the whole. What we need to be able to do is see the whole.”

“What do you mean?”

GapFeather glanced quickly at his companions for support. “We need to see a map of the waterways. That may well give us an indication of where to look. Even what to look for.”

WingRidge nodded. “A good point. SpikeFeather?”

“What?”

“A
map
, SpikeFeather! Do you know of a map of the—”

SpikeFeather threw up his hands in disgust. “No. Gods, WingRidge, don’t you think I would have thought of that first? I have never seen a map of the waterways. Orr never spoke of one, and—”

“Sigholt,” WingRidge said quietly, his eyes still on SpikeFeather.

“Sigholt?”

“Sigholt. Sigholt is ancient, it is in itself almost a part of the waterways, as it is so closely tied to the Lake. And…”

“And?”

“And it has at its heart a map room.”

SpikeFeather was still not convinced. “But I’ve never seen a map of the waterways there. And Axis, and then Caelum, who both used the room, have never mentioned one to me—and I’m sure they would have.”

WingRidge stood silently, his fingers thumping gently against his hips, his wings held tense against his back.

“That room has ten thousand maps in it,” he said softly. “There are even vaults under the floor with maps stuffed into cabinets. I would swear that no-one has ever,
ever
, investigated them all.”

Sigholt felt empty and spiritless without a member of the SunSoar family in residence. There were still many people who lived there, and thousands more in Lakesview a little further about the Lake, but the silvery-grey stones of the Keep seemed duller, as if in mourning.

All present were nervous, and WingRidge and SpikeFeather had no doubts why. The Demons were on their way, and would be only days distant.

“Can we not do something to help the people here?” SpikeFeather said as they crossed the bridge into Sigholt’s courtyard. “Once the Demons arrive…”

“Lakesview perhaps,” WingRidge said, impatient to get to the map room.

“Too close,” SpikeFeather said. They had entered the Keep and were now climbing the steps of the great staircase three at a time. He wished there was more overhead space so they could fly. “Perhaps the Urqhart Hills—”

“And perhaps Sanctuary, if we find a clue here,” WingRidge said, flinging open the door of the map room.

They both came to a halt just inside, looking at the room as if for the first time. Completely circular, the room had windows opening on to all aspects of the Lake and its environs. Between the windows were deep map cases filled with maps both rolled up and laid flat. There was a brazier to one side, filled with wood, but currently unlit, and the very centre of the room was occupied by a table and several chairs.

It looked purposeless without either Axis or Caelum here, pacing back and forth worrying out a problem.

“You said there were vaults?” SpikeFeather said quietly.

“Yes.” WingRidge led the way into the room and then turned to speak quietly to the half-dozen men and women of the Lake Guard who had accompanied them, setting them to searching through the map cases about the walls.

Once they were at work, WingRidge motioned SpikeFeather to the western window. Outside, the Lake ruffled gently, hedged about with its blue mists, but WingRidge ignored the view and squatted down by the floor.

“Few people know about the vaults,” he said. He slid his finger into a cunningly hidden ring and lifted a trapdoor.

“How do you know about them?” SpikeFeather asked, craning his neck to look into the square of darkness.

“I found them,” WingRidge said, and looked up, grinning. “At least Caelum and I did. I was about twenty, and Caelum ten. Axis and Azhure often set me to be Caelum’s companion,
to keep an eye on him. One day we were working at strengthening our hearts by running up and down the grand staircase, counting each step as we did, when Caelum realised that there were more steps between the floor the map room is on and the one below it than between any other level in Spiredore—and yet the chambers on each floor are no higher. We realised there must be a space below the floor of the map room. So, while Axis and Azhure were still out riding the hills, we investigated the floor of this room. I was the lucky one to find the hidden catch.”

WingRidge’s grin widened. “Caelum was disgusted that I’d found it and not he. Whatever, we set to investigating.” He took a lamp that one of his Guard’s handed him, and stepped down onto a narrow wooden ladder. “We thought to find treasures and secrets, but only found yet more maps.”

He stepped swiftly down the ladder, his voice now muffled. “Who knows? Perhaps there
are
secrets and treasures down here yet.”

SpikeFeather also took the lamp proffered him, and climbed down after WingRidge. He found himself in a room the same size as the map room above, but without any of the windows, and with a low ceiling only a handspan above his head.

Chests, bookcases and crates crammed floor and wall spaces, and there was barely room enough to move between them.

“Where are we going to start?” SpikeFeather whispered.

“You take that side, I this one,” WingRidge said, and bent down to the box he’d just opened.

Sighing, SpikeFeather set to his task.

They searched for hours. All through that day, through the night, and into the next morning. As soon as the search of the map room itself had proved useless, the members of the Lake Guard went below to help WingRidge and SpikeFeather.

The space became awash with curses, bruised wings, and ancient dust as elbows jostled and feet tripped over upended cases and piles of discarded maps.

There were maps of the road systems of Tencendor, maps of the ancient castles that had once dotted the countryside, maps of cattle trails, starling nesting sites and the pattern of gem mines in Ichtar. There were maps of population densities in a Tencendor of two thousand years ago, maps showing the location of lace factories, and maps of the shadows the stars threw over the land during full moon. There were even maps of the gloam mines in far away Escator.

But no maps of the waterways, and no maps with thick, black arrows helpfully pointing to “Sanctuary”.

Finally, towards noon, they crawled out of the space into the map room, brushing dust off their clothes and wings and out of their hair.

SpikeFeather sneezed and, tired out, sank down into one of the chairs at the table. He pushed a pile of maps to one side to make room for his elbow and leaned his head in his hand.

“Nothing,” he said, his voice emotionless.

WingRidge took the chair next to him. “Perhaps we will think of something after we have slept,” he said.

“Perhaps,” SpikeFeather replied.

For a while both birdmen sat in silence, too tired to speak, too tired to contemplate the implications of their failure. The members of the Lake Guard who had helped them had either left, or had sunk down to sit against walls, their eyes closed, their skin ashen with exhaustion.

SpikeFeather finally stirred. “At the very least we should think about what to do to protect the people here against the Demons.”

WingRidge grimaced. “Yes. I suppose you’re right. I’ll set the guard to shifting them into the Urqhart Hills…perhaps the mines will shelter them until the Demons have gone.”

“How are you going to tell Drago you couldn’t find Sanctuary?”

WingRidge laughed humourlessly. “What do you mean, how am
I
going to tell Drago?”

He sighed and sat up straight, shuffling maps haphazardly across the table. There were several that they’d brought up from the vaults to study.

“Look at this ancient network of castles around Tencendor,” he said idly. “It is a shame most of these are no longer here. They might have proved useful.”

SpikeFeather rested his eyes on the map. He was too tired to think. Maybe WingRidge was right. Maybe they
would
think of something after they’d slept a few hours.

Then his whole body jerked. “WingRidge!”

“What?”

SpikeFeather’s eyes were fixed on the map of the ancient castle systems in front of them. “Gods, WingRidge—why didn’t we see that!”

“
What?
”

About the room, birdmen and women were stirring from their lethargy, their eyes brightening.

“Look!” SpikeFeather jabbed his finger at Fernbrake Lake. “What do you see?”

WingRidge shrugged. “There’s a castle on its edges. Gone now. Like three dozen more such castles that have disappeared from the ancient landscape.”

“No, no! It’s not a ‘castle’…it’s a Keep.”

WingRidge raised his eyes and stared into SpikeFeather’s face. “What are you trying to say?”

SpikeFeather made a gesture of irritation. “Every one of the other three Lakes have Keeps associated with them. Highly magical Keeps.”

“Yes…”

“But not Fernbrake Lake. Why not?”

WingRidge shrugged again. “I don’t know. Maybe there was no need—”

“Yes, there
was
a need.
Every one of the Lakes is supposed to have a Keep!
But Fernbrake’s has gone.”

“So where is it?”

SpikeFeather hesitated, trying to think it through, trying to find out what was wrong with his idea. But there was nothing. It was perfect.

“It’s sunk,” he said.

WingRidge stared at him, then quickly glanced at the others present before he looked back at SpikeFeather. “
Sunk?
”

SpikeFeather nodded. “Sunk.” His finger tapped the map. “The waterways under Fernbrake Lake hold the Sanctuary, my friend, and the lost castle is the key. Perhaps even
is
Sanctuary. Now all we have to do is find it.”

WingRidge leaned forward and laid his hand gently on SpikeFeather’s arm. “Are you
sure
your weariness has not addled your wits, my friend?”