Bee Sting Cake: Greenwing & Dart Book Two
Page 21
“And that is your answer?”
“The first part,” I said firmly. “The classic answer, and true as it goes. I was born on the 29th of February, between the White and the Green seasons of the year; I am the door, which opens to the future of the Woods. I am a runner, and the race is tomorrow, so this riddle—the lock—falls today, between the runner and his race; as you laid the riddle upon me after the announcement but before the competition.
“That which falls between the shadow and the sun is the body—mine again, key to the lock, the riddle. The bright heart of the dark woods is, of course, the honey of the bees of the Woods, which I woke by singing the song, Heart of the Golden Trees, which I was taught by mother, the dark lady of the woods whose name means ‘black’ in the old language. My mother died in the autumn—the dark heart of the bright house, when all the leaves are gold and the bees collect their honey from the autumn-blooming limes.”
The dragon’s eye was disquietingly ironic. Mr. White smiled encouragingly.
“My mother died and caused all the bees—and the villagers—to fall into stasis, and thus we come to the apostrophe, the turn, of the riddle: the way of the Woods has few branches—the line of the Noirells is narrow, without cousins or cadet branches. The path of the branch—well, I have few ways before me, and I choose this—”
“And is that your answer?” said the dragon intently.
“It is the first part,” I said again, sure now—or as sure as I could be with my heart still pounding—that my second thought was correct.
“And so, the second?”
“Like all good riddles, this one has a metaphorical and a literal solution. The metaphorical I have told you. The literal I shall proceed now to demonstrate, if I may?”
“By all means,” replied the dragon, with delicious irony.
I walked forward into the open space between head and tail so I could stand before the old well. Licked my lips, twiddled my ring nervously, sneezed again, and said:
“This is the old well, the heart of the village. It lies, as you can see, between the green—” I waved at the open commons behind me, “and the white.” I bowed to the Whites, in front of their brightly white-washed inn. Mr. White grinned delightedly; Mrs. White was more solemn.
“The well, however, is dry.” I touched the groove of the channel, the mouth of the spigot. “Courtesy of a friend of mine who is interested in regional names, I learned that the old names for these particular parts of a well in South Fiellan are the runner,” I indicated the handle of the spigot, “and the race,” and I touched the mouth. “As you can see, they are in this instance blocked, or, as one might say, locked. It is nighttime, so the next part requires some assistance.”
I pulled out the candle from my coat-pocket and performed the sole magical incantation I had so far learned. It was just as wonderful as the first time.
“Between the sun—” I held up my candle, “and the shadow is, of course, the body material, in this case revealing the key point, which is that something is not as it ought to be.”
For just as with the jade crock, the shadows cast by the candle showed the carved patterns, here twisted out of coherence and beauty. I played the light over the well-head for a moment, then held up the crock so that my audience could see its pattern. A faint murmur rose from the watchers, except that the dragon was still but for the twitching end of its tail.
“Now we come to the centre of the riddle, which seemed obvious at first: the bright heart of the dark house and the dark heart of the bright house. The bright heart—the beehive in the cellars, I thought, in the house of Noirell; the dark heart, the curse that lies on the hosts of fair Melmúsion. Both true in their way; for the riddle has two answers. The literal one, though, is here in this well, where the water ought to run nearly honey-sweet and plentiful.
“Drink of the fountain of Melmúsion, say half-a-dozen poets, and your heart will never grow entirely old.”
I looked at the fountain, the grimy bees, the blurred carvings, the stained dry spigot, the empty basin. I pulled out a clean handkerchief and carefully wiped off the grime until the stone—green and white jade as beautiful and rare as my mother’s crock—began to shine, the gilded bees glitter like the fireflies. Cleaned out the channel of the water-race, and the handle of the runner, and finally set the crock and the candle down on the ground so I could use both hands to turn the whole top third of the well-head.
It creaked and groaned and for a moment I thought would not turn at all, but I was strong enough for the task, and eventually the whole portion moved into place. The dust caused me to sneeze for a considerable amount of time, but eventually I recovered, re-lit my candle, and played the light over the now-coherent pattern.
“The way of the woods has many turns and few branches: the road in, the old highway leading to a Border crossing, coiling and curving without cross-roads.” I traced the great arc of a branch, the heart-shaped leaves, the starburst representations of Tillarny limes in full blossom. “The branch of the woods has many turns and few ways: you need only look at the trees around us to see that.”
I took another breath. “The turn of the woods is the way of the branch—” and I set my hand to the runner, which, as could now be seen, formed the crown-canopy of the tree that the well-head was designed to resemble, and turned the handle, and waited breathlessly while only a cold dank air came out of the race, until at last there poured out the sweet cool water of the only accessible portion of fair Melmúsion, where the gods lived on ambrosia.
“And so, O dragon,” I said at last, as the waster splashed over me, “here it is: the golden heart of the dark woods, drawn from the dark heart of the golden woods, the water that the bees of Melmúsion need as much as the nectar in the trees above us. And thus have I brought it to you ere the Sun and the Moon are at their furthest remove—which is to say, before the fullness of the Moon, which is later tonight if I am not much mistaken.”
That I had succeeded I did not need the dragon to confirm, for the clockwork bees—now in their correct places—were being moved by the water flowing through the channels cut inside the well-head, and they now began to circle, gold and white and green, and for a moment glowed more brightly than the fireflies.
I blinked furiously. When at last my eyes cleared the dragon was gone.
“Come, lad,” said Mr. White, slinging his arm across my shoulders. “You need a sip of my honey wine to warm you.”
“Oh,” I said, not sure whether to thank him or refuse or what.
He laughed. “It’s all the better for a period under enchantment, I assure you.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
The Bandits have an Idea
IT WAS FIFTEEN MILES by the Astandalan highway from the Water Gate at the edge of the Woods Noirell to the White Cross outside Dartington village.
The three-mile race was to start at noon. I left my grandmother’s castle just after eight, at an easy lope that would get me to Dartington in just under three hours. That was rather more than my usual time, especially on a good road rather than cross-country, but I was carrying still carrying the jade crock and my coat, and I didn’t want to over-extend myself before the race.
I was planning on winning.
I heard the town hall’s bell distantly ringing ten when I passed the Green Dragon. Right on time, I thought happily, and cut behind the tavern to take the Greenway. It was a little faster to Dartington proper that way; and that way I did not have to pass the White Cross.
It was splendid running on the Greenway, the turf firm and dry and springy under my feet after the hard highway. The wind was behind me, fierce and exhilarating, the sky a piercing clear blue.
At the Dragon Pool I stopped to greet the Green Lady and ask her blessing. I figured it couldn’t hurt—though the ruffians who used my distraction to capture me, alas, did.
THEY COVERED MY HEAD with rough sacking. It smelled strongly of dusty potatoes and magic, and I immediately started sneezing uncontrollably.
I wiped ineffectually at my face, wishing for one of the handkerchiefs in my pockets. I finally managed to blink my eyes clear.
Six ruffians—four men and two women—stood and squatted around me. All of them but one of the women were watching me in astonishment, several in disgust.
One of the men spat on the ground. “To think Ben said he fought like a true gentleman of the road.”
“He did,” growled another man, stalking closer. I squinted at him and decided he had been the bowman. “He took out Lonny in about three seconds.”
“Huh,” the first man said, scowling. “Gag him now?”
“Until the chief comes,” Ben agreed, and despite my protests, so they did.
And then we all waited.
“WE’RE SURE IT’S THE right man?” A large man, mainly muscle, stalked into my line of sight. His appearance, together with the suddenly-more-alert demeanour of the other ruffians, indicated that this was, at last, the chief.
Ben shrugged. “Fits the description.”
“Ungag him,” the chief ordered. Ben came over and fussed with the knot, which was painfully tight. I tried to hold myself still as he pinched the skin around the corners of my mouth. At length he managed to untie it, and the chief came over to stare broodingly down at me. “Could be, I suppose.”
“He had a fancy red hat,” someone else offered.
This suddenly registered. “You were trying to kill me on purpose?”
The chief spat on the ground. “We don’t go round killing for fun, boyo.”
“I am glad to know you have a code of professional conduct,” I replied brightly. “May I ask why I have been so singled out? Or by whom?”
“No,” said Ben, making a move as if to buffet me on the side of the head.
The chief held up his hand. “Let him be. He needs to be seen alive at one o’clock, or we don’t get paid. As for you, be quiet or be entertaining or be gagged.”
Ben grunted and went back to where he’d been squatting earlier. He did take out a knife and start sharpening it meaningfully in front of me. I tried to be pleased at having an adventure in the approved mode.
“Er,” I said after giving Ben’s whetstone its due appreciation, “since it appears we’re going to be in each others’ company for the next several hours, at least, let me introduce myself: I’m Jemis Greenwing, the son of Jakory—”
I stopped at the way the chief lunged to his feet. He loomed threateningly over me. “Say that again.”
I cleared my throat. “I’m Jemis Greenwing, the son of Jakory Greenwing.”
There was a rumble from the other ruffians. I pressed my head against the tree trunk so I could see the chief’s face. He didn’t say anything, so after a moment I went on: “My father was an officer in the Seventh Army, the hero of Orkaty.”
“That bastard,” someone said in an ugly tone. If I could have moved into a fighting stance, I would have. I contented myself with glaring around the chief’s legs.
“Wait,” said the chief, standing back so he could regard me searchingly. “How can we be sure you’re telling the truth?”
I couldn’t help myself. I laughed. “Before this week, it had never occurred to me that anyone would ever want to pretend to be me. Do you meet many imposters? My grandmother gave the impression that there have been hosts, because apparently my life is a high Gothic melodrama as opposed to just a tragicomical one.”
“Could be,” said the chief ruffian, scowling. “What did Mad Jack take on every campaign?”
Perhaps the bastard in question was not my father? I coughed. “A book of haikus my mother gave him.”
“He was my officer at Orkaty,” the man said. “Our—employer—didn’t tell us your name.” He drew a knife from his belt and sliced through my bonds with three quick strikes. I tried not to flinch too obviously.
I massaged my wrists. “Thank you, sir. Did he happen to give you his?”
“Don’t push it,” the ruffian said, sheathing his dagger and offering me his hand.
I decided discretion was the better part of valour and nodded, though that didn’t make my intense curiosity lower any. I stood, then backed away to make a formal bow, curlicues and heel-clicks included. My hat had disappeared in the capture. “Jemis Greenwing, at your service.”
Well, there were still six of them.
The chief smiled with half his mouth and made a clumsy return bow. “You can call me Nibbler, and this is my gang. Now, lad, in memory of your father we’re going to let you go, but there are those out there who wouldn’t, eh?”
“And someone wants me dead.”
It sounded totally incredible when I said it. But of course there were those who I presumed might want me dead: Lark for one, and the mysterious priests of the Dark Kings for two, and my uncle Vorel was still a contender for three.
By the Lady, I would be lucky to reach the Winterturn Assizes alive.
“Yes, and they’re willing to pay.” Nibbler jerked his chin at one of his gang. “No more questions. Moo, you take the lad back to the road.”
I was still wondering if I’d heard his name correctly—nickname, surely—when he shoved me through a very narrow gap in the holly hedge and I found myself back at the Dragon Pool. The crock of honey and my hat were both on the ground, showing a certain want of tidiness on the part of Nibbler’s gang.
With a wary glance around me—no one was coming in either direction, and I couldn’t see anyone through the hedges, not even the retreating Moo—I picked up my hat and straightened the feather before putting it on. Then I picked up the crock of honey. While I was checking to make sure it hadn’t been damaged, as astonishingly enough seemed to be the case, the wind carried the distant bells to me.
It was the half-hour chime, and I realized with a dreadful sinking feeling that there was no way at all that my little encounter with the ruffians had only taken twenty minutes.
IF I GO FOR A SHORT run, an easy hour, it’s a seven-mile circuit.
That’s without having already run nearly ten miles carrying a crock of honey. But then again, it was only three and a half miles from the Dragon Pool to the Fair grounds.
I put out all other thoughts from my mind and concentrated on breathing.
How I loved running.
The world made sense when I ran. I made sense when I ran. Running, I needed to explain nothing, defend nothing, be nothing but what I was. My limbs obeyed me, my heart thudded as evenly as a Ghilousetten clock, my lungs drew breath and released it again without strain.
My thoughts lifted out of all concern for time. I vaulted the gate at the far end of the Greenway and swung onto the lane leading to the bridge. Across the bridge, wooden planks under my feet, and then I was back on the stone-paved road. Past the Old Arrow. Along the back lane to the tents clustered at one end of the Five-Acre Field that Master Dart gave over to the Harvest Fair each year.
There was a small wooden stand that was wheeled out from the granary every year for the race-course judges. The footraces began and ended in front of it, looping out along an ancient mile-long route around the pond.
Hal, Mr. Dart, and Roald Ragnor were standing in a cluster next to the stand. Hal saw me first, and cried, “Jemis! What happened?”
Everyone swung to stare at me. Everyone being my friends, the judges, and the spectators, which last appeared to contain most of the population of Ragnor Bella as well as that of Dartington.
“They’ve already started running,” Mr. Dart said urgently, pointing off towards the right.
I thrust honey crock and coat at Hal, pushed through the crowd, and without any further thought, ran.
I CAUGHT UP WITH THE first straggler at the half-way mark.
The route was counter-clockwise around the Five-Acre Field, with the notable feature of a s
low rise up to the judging stand as you made your way around the circuit. The spectators stood on both sides of the route. They appeared to be cheering, but I couldn’t hear them over the sound of my own thoughts pounding out faster ... faster ... faster with each footfall.
I ran.
The Arguty steward’s son always ran in the three-mile footrace, even though he always came last. He looked astonished when I passed him from behind.
I can run a mile in six and a half minutes. I can run three miles in nineteen.
The lagging cluster of runners had just passed the judging stand when I started passing them. Ahead of them were another clump, and then far ahead the clear leaders, six runners who were scattered all along the next half-mile arc of the course.
I ran.
I ran as if the dragon were chasing me. I ran as if I was outrunning an Indrilline assassin. I ran as if I would find myself at the end of the course.
I ran.
I passed the second cluster of runners at the halfway mark. Halfway through the race. Now there were just the six leaders.
I ran.
Third circuit. Three runners ahead of me.
I put my head down and pushed.
Half a mile left.
Two runners.
A quarter mile left.
One.
Ahead of me there was just Tad Finknottle, fastest man in the barony for five years in a row. He was running swiftly, steadily, apparently easily. I was gaining—ten yards between us—I put on as much of a sprint as I was still capable of—
That damned slow rise.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The Baking Competition (Round One)
SOMEONE DUMPED A BUCKET of water over my head.
I spluttered, gasped, and made it back upright from where I had been bent over, hands on thighs, catching my breath. Hal and Mr. Dart were with me, a few yards away from the crowds, who were chattering madly. After a few more moments of heavy breathing, I managed to form words. My heart was still thudding painfully, and my lungs were burning.