The Witch's Daughter (Lamb & Castle Book 1) (16 page)

“Tough luck,” said Meg. “I’m paying him well enough for his discomfort.” But she was at least kind enough not to point out that the worst of the Captain’s troubles were of Amelia’s doing. “Besides, do you think the Black Queen will be so considerate of the Captain’s delicate health when she catches up to us?”

“Can’t we make the
Storm Chaser
invisible again?” Amelia knew she asked in vain: that spell took unwavering concentration, and on such a large scale it exhausted both of them to sustain such mental effort for more than minutes at a time. The slightest distraction could leave them exposed at the worst possible moment. “Or hide it some other way, perhaps?” She looked out across the wide expanse of iron grey rock, like the sea stood still. The
Storm Chaser,
with its striped blue and white sails less striking against the landscape, might not have caught the Black Queen’s attention just yet, but if the yellow-sailed skyship should pass close by… Oh, for a pouring rainstorm or a good rolling fog to obscure the endless vista. “The wind spirits helped us before,” she said. “Are there such things as fog spirits?” She immediately felt foolish – she’d never heard of fog spirits, not even in her fairy tales.

The question certainly made Meg stop and stare at her strangely. “No, there’s no such thing as fog spirits,” said the witch, looking peevish. She sighed, rolling back her sleeves to free her jangling bracelets. “But I think I have it in me to conjure up a decent fog. Give me a hand with this, Amelia.”

Amelia learned then what Meg had meant when she called water one of the ‘heavy elements’. Meg pulled the bulk of it, drawing in great rolling bales of thick white fog, but in each gesture Amelia strained her muscles against the resistance of the stuff. Gradually, the
Storm Chaser
disappeared from view, and Amelia heaved a sigh of relief, leaning back against the rock wall.

“Don’t stop there,” said Meg, damp curls clinging to her red face. “If we can hide the tower from them too…” The
Storm Chaser
might be hidden, but that still left Amelia and her companions stuck out on the high exposed path, in plain view of the oncoming yellow-sailed skyship.

But Amelia shook her head, almost too breathless to speak. “I can’t do any more. I just can’t.”

Hurrying back down to the walled-up gateway, they fetched Percival, keen to make their way back to the ledge where Captain Dunnager had dropped them off.

“Will he be able to see our signal?” Amelia asked. Down on the lower terraces and stairways they had to tread carefully, the fog obscuring treacherous drops over the side, slowing their pace to a snail’s crawl.

“Worry about that when the time comes,” said Meg.

“I don’t want to move the fog again.”

“Might have to. Sorry about that, but it was your idea.”

~

The four of them had almost reached the landing ledge when Meg stopped. “Quiet,” she whispered, “I have a bad feeling.” Taking Amelia by the hand, she tiptoed into one of the shady alcoves for travellers to rest in, beckoning Harold to follow suit. Percival stood stock still, the only way he could silence his clanking armour. Just as Amelia was about to ask what they were doing, she heard footsteps striking the rock on the path up ahead, sharp and echoing. Two people, walking briskly, still invisible in the haze. Amelia reached for Harold’s hand, careful not to jingle her bracelets.

“No, I can’t hear it anymore,” said a girl’s voice out of the fog. “It just made me think of that wretched clockwork spying device, only bigger.”

“A horrible thought indeed,” said a second disembodied voice – a man’s voice, clipped and educated. “Much as I admire your spirit, Elizabeth, we’ll never find it in this. More importantly, I’d rather you not hand victory to the White Queen by breaking your neck on this wretched rock. We should conserve our resources and return when the fog lifts.”

“What if it
never
lifts?” said the girl, “It came down so suddenly that it could be one of the tower’s defences.”

“The Black Side,” Amelia whispered, scarcely raising her voice above a breath, “they found us!”

Meg shook her head and murmured “No. Looking for the temple.” She had more to say, but the footsteps grew closer. Then she vanished. At Amelia’s side, Harold blinked out of view, disconcerting when she could still feel the clammy pressure of his palm against hers. Quickly, she averted her eyes from where she ought to be able to see him, and concentrated on willing that nobody should see her or her companions.

Two dark figures, indistinct through the fog, passed them by. Amelia stared, not daring to blink, not daring to breathe. Her heart beat too loud, but somehow the Black Queen didn’t hear it.

“Besides,” said the girl, her voice fading as the smudge of her silhouette disappeared back into the grey, “I’d heard you were an assassin in your youth. A fearless climber, cat-footed and –”

“
That
was a very long time ago,” said her companion, sounding faintly embarrassed. And of the rest of their conversation, Amelia could make out no more.

She turned to Meg, just coming back into view, as if she too had stepped out of the veils of mist. “I don’t think they know we’re here,” Amelia whispered, although the Black Queen and her companion were out of earshot by then. Her heart lifted at surviving the close call, but she still couldn’t wait to get back to the
Storm Chaser
, to see with her own eyes that Captain Dunnager was safe, too.

“We must get back to the ship,” said Meg, quietly. “We’ll be safer there, and come back only when the stars align.”

Bessie had fallen silent, hoping Greyfell would deign to tell her more about his early career. Rumour had it he’d been privately trained as an assassin, made his fortune, and lost the lot before joining the army. He’d all but confirmed the part about his once being an assassin, but she wanted to know more. As they walked, she tried to think up appropriate questions on the subject – how to approach it without overstepping the social boundaries placed like tripwires around it. She couldn’t, and gave it up for another day. “All I meant was that I thought it would take more than high mountain paths and a little fog to deter you.” She’d been so busy pushing her own fear of heights out of sight that it hadn’t occurred to her that such feelings might, in this case, be justified. And even taking the path slowly and carefully, they might easily miss something important, too. She sighed. “But you’re quite right. We should get back to the ship and see if the weather shows any sign of clearing.”

They turned and headed back down the path. If anything, the fog had grown thicker since they’d arrived at the tower, but Bessie said nothing and tried not to feel too discouraged. After all, if the White Queen was still travelling by that ridiculous clanking snail caravan, then there would still be plenty of time for Bessie to find the temple first. Bessie would be far away with the treasure long before the White Queen even knew she’d been beaten. She began to daydream what she’d do after she’d won her prize – what lay in store for the soon-to-be-crowned Black Queen. Some people said that finding her Black King should be her first priority, but when she’d asked Greyfell about it, he’d only cautioned her that perhaps she was getting a little ahead of herself. That had been before their journey even began. She couldn’t be quite sure, but she thought Greyfell had seemed a little uncomfortable with the topic. Thirteen was young to be married, but she didn’t view it with romantic notions and dreams of motherhood almost in sight – rather she saw it as a political act with political gains to be had. Her father, a sensible man, understood. Greyfell, who she didn’t think had any daughters of his own, didn’t much like the thought of sending her into the arms of the future Black King so soon. She’d pushed the issue as much as she dared, but Greyfell’s squeamishness won out when he’d tried to explain his misgivings. Anyway, she wanted to complete her studies first, if she could.

The wind sighed around the tower. Was it only her imagination, or had she heard that odd mechanical sound again? She strained her ears, but once again it disappeared as soon as she tried to focus on it. “Amelia, take note…” It had been no more than the slightest whisper – Bessie could easily have missed it in the rhythm of footsteps, a strong gust of wind, the call of a passing bird. She didn’t stop, proud to say she didn’t even break her stride, but she
did
exchange a look with Greyfell. He’d heard it too.
Who was Amelia? Who else lurked in the fog? Take note of what?
Bessie held her tongue and listened carefully. The voices came again, muffled now, too indistinct to make out what they said, but very close. She drew her knife, afraid that if and when it came to a fight, it would be too close quarters to use what magic she knew. A shadow flickered across the corner of her eye, and she flinched in spite of herself. Out in the fog, far beyond where the path extended, shadowy figures flickered in and out of view. The way they moved was like no bird or other creature Bessie had ever seen, and in the white vastness of the fog-bound sky she found it impossible to even guess at their size. Greyfell too seemed to be struggling, besieged by shadowy figures that appeared and vanished in an instant, never fully seen. Something whispered across the back of Bessie’s neck, and she whirled, slashing blindly with the knife. Whatever it was gave no resistance to her blade. No sound. Nothing.

“Illusions,” Greyfell growled. “Nothing but magic tricks. Stand firm, Elizabeth, I don’t believe they can harm us.”

Bessie wished she shared his conviction.

And then Greyfell lunged, grabbing for one of the shadows in the mist, and came up with a live, solid foe. More by luck than judgement, Bessie thought. The young man yelled and swore, managing to wrench himself free when Greyfell ducked from something Bessie didn’t even see. The stranger vanished back into the mist, too fast. Greyfell was right; there was some kind of magic at work for sure. And three people at least in the fog: two women and a man. Bessie’s grip on her knife tightened. In her heart she knew she was worth two ordinary women, easily, but still she couldn’t stop the panic rising. For one thing, she was almost certain one of them was the White Side’s Mage, the witch who had attacked
Sharvesh
before the snail caravan had disappeared under the waves. For another, Bessie had never been in a real, unmoderated fight before, and certainly not one where her opponent could vanish into thin air. If she could only take out the witch…

Something soft and cool snaked around her shin, and she kicked out, almost losing her balance. Greyfell pulled her back from the edge of the path. She realised he hadn’t drawn his sword – too much risk in striking blindly against enemies who might or might not be real, in low visibility and limited space. Still, she couldn’t bring herself to sheathe her own blade.

Greyfell flinched again from something Bessie hadn’t seen. “Using magic as a direct weapon against magically unarmed opponents is against the rules of the contest!” he protested.

“Hah! Didn’t stop your lot back in Ilamira though, did it?” came a woman’s voice from the fog. “Bloomin’ hypocrite!”

“What do you mean?” Bessie hoped if they could keep the witch talking long enough, they’d be able to locate her.

“Them golems of yours nearly blew poor Harold’s head off! And you can see just to look at him that he’s too bloomin’ thick to use magic!”

“Madam!” Even through the fog, it was plain to see Greyfell turning almost purple with anger. “Your accusations are slanderous and your manner most unladylike!”

“What golems?” Bessie asked, but the witch didn’t seem to hear her.
They hadn’t fought the White Side at Ilamira…

“Oh, shove it up your bum!” the witch shouted, her position in the fog still impossible to pin down. “You tried to kill my friends, no point being polite about it now.”

Greyfell swiped another invisible assailant away from his ear. “Your conduct in this ancient and noble contest is most unbecoming!” he shouted. “Good manners cost nothing!”

“Which is more than can be said for those ridiculously overpowered weapons you had at Ilamira!”

Listening closely as she tried to locate the angry witch, Bessie caught something else: a quiet, muffled clanking somewhere down the path. She wished Greyfell would shut up and stop fussing about the White Side’s bad manners. Much better to focus their energy on what strange machinery the enemy might have, besides their snail caravan. She advanced, only to be brought up sharp by a burst of magenta sparks exploding much too close to her ear. Just a warning shot, but Bessie had sense enough to stop.

“Stay back!” came a second woman’s voice through the fog, and Bessie knew almost instinctively that she was within spitting distance of the White Queen.

Meanwhile, Greyfell had found something of interest. He gestured for Bessie to follow him and she did so, hoping that because she could not see the White Queen, that the White Queen could also not see her. A narrow tunnel led into the steep wall of the tower. The shadow beasts seemed not to thrive inside, for all was darkness anyway.

“Let’s not risk a fight on the edge, there,” said Greyfell, very quiet. “If the White Side are already here, our greatest concern should be to continue our own quest and find the temple first.” Bessie had to agree. From hundreds of miles away, they’d come so close to their goal, but the essential prize itself lay buried somewhere in countless tons of rock. She hurried faster down the tunnel, not caring about the noise and echoes of her feet on the rock floor. It had to be somewhere close at hand, if only she could find some sign or clue…

Down corkscrew spiralled staircases, up steep slopes, Bessie soon became disorientated. At least the White Queen hadn’t pursued – Bessie wanted to learn more about her rival’s newfound powers before a second match. More than that, why waste time disposing of the White Queen when they might still beat her to the prize? But the tunnel only twisted and turned itself around until they came out on the steep path again, with neither Bessie nor Greyfell having much idea of how far along the spiral they’d travelled, or even whether they’d gone up or down the tower, in the balance of things.

Far ahead of them on the path, the thick rolling fog had taken on a sickly greenish tinge that spread out into the abyss, and at the heart of it Bessie could just pick out a bright pinpoint glow. Her chest tightened – what had the witch said about powerful magical weapons? If the White Side thought for some reason that their rivals were over-armed, might they have sought out more powerful magical weapons of their own? She was just about to ask Master Greyfell what he suggested they do, when he stopped her and pointed out a huge shadowy figure moving through the mist-filled ravine, headed for the tower.

Over the precipitous edge of the path, far below their feet, the ghostly figure of a ship drifted soundless through the white emptiness, fog rolling in great billows that streamed back past its prow and along its flanks, its rigging traced in grey. The fine hairs on the back of Bessie’s neck all stood to attention at the sight. She could see nobody on board, no figure at the skyship’s wheel, but she could all too clearly imagine the ship filled to capacity with hired soldiers. An army, and of what kind? The wheel turning fine and controlled of its own accord unnerved her more – it made her think of an army of wraiths or spirits, or worse. At the very least, she was sure the approaching skyship must contain the rest of the White Queen’s party: her essential companions coming to her aid. Bessie clenched her fists until her nails bit into her palm. The White Queen most likely had a whole army, and here
she
was without even a Mage… Fear whispered in Bessie’s ear that she must retreat, but pride urged her down the path, intent on dispatching the White Queen and winning the prize before reinforcements could arrive and tip the balance.