mists, John remarked, "Sounds a proper snakes' nest.
Could this Master really have kidnapped the King's child?"
"No," Gareth said miserably, as the horses resumed
their walk toward the ferry, invisible in the foggy bot-
tomlands to the south. "He couldn't have left the Citadel.
He isn't a sorcerer—just a philosopher and an atheist.
I—don't worry about the King's Heir." He looked down
at his hands, and the expression on his face was the one
Dragonsbane 91
that Jenny had seen in the camp outside Ember that night—
a struggle to gather his courage. "Listen," he began shak-
ily. "I have to..."
"Gar," said John quietly, and the boy startled as if
burned. There was an ironic glint in John's brown eyes
and an edge like chipped flint to his voice. "Now—the
King wouldn't by any chance have sent for me for some
other reason than the dragon, would he?"
"No," Gareth said faintly, not meeting his eyes. "No,
he—he didn't."
"Didn't what?"
Gareth swallowed, his pale face suddenly very strained.
"He—he didn't send for you—for any other reason. That
is..."
"Because," John went on in that quiet voice, "if the
King happened to send me his signet ring to get me involved
in rescuing that child of his, or helping him against this
Master of Halnath I hear such tell of, or for his dealings
with the gnomes, I do have better things to do. There are
real problems, not just money and power, in my own
lands, and the winter closing in looks to be a bad one.
I'll put my life at risk against the dragon for the sake of
the King's protection to the Winterlands, but if there's
aught else in it..."
"No!" Gareth caught his arm desperately, a terrible
fear in his face, as if he thought that with little more
provocation the Dragonsbane would turn around then and
there and ride back to Wyr.
And perhaps, Jenny thought, remembering her vision
in the water bowl, it might be better if they did.
"Aversin, it isn't like that. You are here to slay the
dragon—because you're the only Dragonsbane living.
That's the only reason I sought you out, I swear it. I
swear it! Don't worry about politics and—and all that."
His shortsighted gray eyes pleaded with Aversin to believe,
92 Barbara Hambty
but in them there was a desperation that could never have
stemmed from innocence.
John's gaze held his for a long moment, gauging him.
Then he said, "I'm trusting you, my hero."
In dismal silence, Gareth touched his heels to Battle-
hammer's sides, and the big horse moved out ahead of
them, the boy's borrowed plaids making them fade quickly
into no more than a dark, cut-out shape in the colorless
fogs. John, riding a little behind, slowed his horse so that
he was next to Jenny, who had watched in speculative
silence throughout.
"Maybe it's just as well you're with me after all, love."
She glanced from Gareth up to John, and then back.
Somewhere a crow called, like the voice of that melan-
choly land. "I don't think he means us ill," she said softly.
"That doesn't mean he isn't gormless enough to get us
killed all the same."
The mists thickened as they approached the river, until
they moved through a chill white world where the only
sound was the creak of harness leather, the pop of hooves,
the faint jingle of bits, and the soughing rattle of the wind
in the spiky cattails growing in the flooded ditches. From
that watery grayness, each stone or solitary tree emerged,
silent and dark, like a portent of strange events. More
than all else. Jenny felt the weight ofGareth's silence, his
fear and dread and guilt. John felt it, too, she knew; he
watched the tall boy from the comer of his eye and lis-
tened to the hush of those empty lands like a man waiting
for ambush. As evening darkened the air. Jenny called a
blue ball of witchfire to light their feet, but the soft, opal-
escent walls of the mist threw back the light at them and
left them nearly as blind as before.
"Jen." John drew rein, his head cocked to listen. "Can
you hear it?"
"Hear what?" Gareth whispered, coming up beside them
Dragonsbane 93
at the top of the slope which dropped away into blankets
of moving fog.
Jenny flung her senses wide through the dun-colored
clouds, feeling as much as hearing the rushing voice of
the river below. There were other sounds, muffled and
altered by the fog, but unmistakable. "Yes," she said qui-
etly, her breath a puff of white in the raw air. "Voices—
dorses—a group of them on the other side."
John glanced sharply sidelong at Gareth. "They could
be waiting for the ferry," he said, "if they had business
in the empty lands west of the river at the fall of night."
Gareth said nothing, but his face looked white and set.
After a moment John clucked softly to Cow, and the big,
shaggy sorrel plodded forward again down the slope to
the ferry through the clammy wall of vapor.
Jenny let the witchlight ravel away as John pounded
on the door of the squat stone ferry house. She and Gareth
remained in the background while John and the ferryman
negotiated the fare for three people, six horses, and two
mules. "Penny a leg," said the ferryman, his squirrel-dark
eyes darting from one to the other with the sharp interest
of one who sees all the world pass his doorstep. "But
there'll be supper here in an hour, and lodging for the
night. It's growing mortal dark, and there's chowder fog."
"We can get along a few miles before full dark; and
besides," John added, with an odd glint in his eye as he
glanced back at the silent Gareth, "we may have someone
waiting for us on the far bank."
"Ah." The man's wide mouth shut itself like a trap.
"So it's you they're expecting. I heard 'em out there a
bit ago, but they didn't ring no bell for me, so I bided by
my stove where it's warm."
Holding up the lantern and struggling into his heavy
quilted jacket, he led the way down to the slip, while
Jenny followed silently behind, digging in the purse at her
belt for coin.
94 Barbara Hambty
The great horse Battlehammer had traveled north with
Gareth by ship and, in any case, disdained balking at
anything as sheer bad manners; neither Moon Horse nor
Osprey nor any of the spares had such scruples, with the
exception of Cow, who would have crossed a bridge of
flaming knives at his customary phlegmatic plod. It took
Jenny much whispered talk and stroking of ears before
any of them would consent to set foot upon the big raft.
The ferryman made the gate at the raft's tail fast and fixed
his lantern on the pole at its head; then he set to turning
the winch that drew the wide, flat platform out across the
opaqu
e silk of the river. The single lantern made a woolly
blur of yellowish light in the leaden smoke of the fog; now
and then, on the edge of the gleam. Jenny could see the
brown waters parting around a snagged root or branch
that projected from the current like a drowned hand.
From somewhere across the water she heard the jingle
of metal on metal, the soft blowing of a horse, and men's
voices. Gareth still said nothing, but she felt that, if she
laid a hand upon him, she would find him quivering, as
a rope does before it snaps. John came quietly to her side,
his fingers twined warm and strong about hers. His spec-
tacles flashed softly in the lante> slight as he slung an end
of his voluminous plaid around her shoulders and drew
her to his side.
"John," Gareth said quietly, "I—I have something to
tell you."
Dimly through the fog came another sound, a woman's
laugh like the tinkling of silver bells. Gareth twitched, and
John, a dangerous flicker in his lazy-lidded eyes, said, "I
thought you might."
"Aversin," Gareth stammered and stopped. Then he
forced himself on with a rush, "Aversin, Jenny, listen. I'm
sorry. I lied to you—I betrayed you, but I couldn't help
it; I had no other choice. I'm sorry."
Dragonsbane 95
"Ah," said John softly. "So there was something you
forgot to mention before we left the Hold?"
Unable to meet his eyes, Gareth said, "I meant to tell
you earlier, but—but I couldn't. I was afraid you'd turn
back and—and I couldn't let you turn back. We need
you, we really do."
"For a lad who's always on about honor and courage,"
Aversin said, and there was an ugly edge to his quiet voice,
"you haven't shown very much of either, have you?"
Gareth raised his head, and met his eyes, "No," he
said. "I—I've been realizing that. I thought it was all right
to deceive you in a good cause—that is—I had to get you
to come..."
"All right, then," said John. "What is the truth?"
Jenny glanced from the faces of the two men toward
the far shore, visible dimly now as a dark blur and a few
lights moving like fireflies in the mist. A slightly darker
cloud beyond would be the woodlands of Belmarie. She
touched John's spiked elbow wamingly, and he looked
quickly in that direction. Movement stirred there, shapes
crowding down to wait for the ferry to put in. The horse
Battlehammer flung up his head and whinnied, and an
answering whinny trumpeted back across the water. The
Dragonsbane's eyes returned to Gareth and he folded his
hands over the hilt of his sword.
Gareth drew a deep breath. "The truth is that the King
didn't send for you," he said. "In fact, he—he forbade
me to come looking for you. He said it was a foolish quest,
because you probably didn't exist at all and, even if you
did, you'd have been killed by another dragon long ago.
He said he didn't want me to risk my life chasing a phan-
tom. But—but I had to find you. He wasn't going to send
anyone else. And you're the only Dragonsbane, as it was
in all the ballads..." He stammered uncertainly. "Except
that I didn't know then that it wasn't like the ballads. But
I knew you had to exist. And I knew we needed someone.
96 Barbara Hambly
I couldn't stand by and let the dragon go on terrorizing
the countryside. I had to come and find you. And once I
found you, I had to bring you back..."
"Having decided you knew better about the needs of
my people and my own choice in the matter than I did?"
John's face never showed much expression, but his voice
had a sting to it now, like a scorpion's tail.
Gareth shied from it, as from a lash. "I—I thought of
that, these last days," he said softly. He looked up again,
his face white with an agony of shame. "But I couldn't
let you turn back. And you will be rewarded, I swear I'll
see that you get the reward somehow."
"And just how'll you manage that?" John's tone was
sharp with disgust. The deck jarred beneath their feet as
the raft ground against the shoals. Lights like marsh can-
dles bobbed down toward them through the gloom. "With
a mage at the Court, it couldn't have taken them long to
figure out who'd pinched the King's seal, nor when he'd
be back in Belmarie. I expect the welcoming commit-
tee ..." he gestured toward the dark forms crowding for-
ward from the mists. "... is here to arrest you for treason."
"No," Gareth said in a defeated voice. "They'll be my
friends from Court."
As if stepping through a door the forms came into
visibility; lantemlight danced over the hard gleam of satin,
caressed velvet's softer nap, and touched edges of stiff-
ened lace and the cloudy gauze of women's veils, salted
all over with the leaping fire of jewels. In the forefront of
them all was a slender, dark-haired girl in amber silk,
whose eyes, golden as honey with a touch of gray, sought
Gareth's and caused the boy to turn aside with a blush.
One man was holding a cloak for her of ermine-tagged
velvet; another her golden pomander ball. She laughed,
a sound at once silvery and husky, like an echo from a
troubled dream.
It could be no one but Zyeme.
Dragonsbane 97
John looked inquiringly back at Gareth.
"That seal you showed me was real," he said. "I've
seen it on the old documents, down to the little nicks on
its edges. They're taking its theft a bit casually, aren't
they?"
He laid hold of Cow's bridle and led him down the
short gangplank, forcing the others to follow. As they
stepped ashore, every courtier on the bank, led by Zyeme,
swept in unison into an elaborate Phoenix Rising salaam,
touching their knees in respect to the clammy, fish-smelling
mud.
Crimson-faced, Gareth admitted, "Not really. Techni-
cally it wasn't theft. The King is my father. I'm the missing
Heir."
CHAPTER V
"So THAT'S YOUR Dragonsbane, is it?"
At the sound of Zyeme's voice. Jenny paused in the
stony blue dimness of the hall of the enchantress's hunting
lodge. From the gloom in which she stood, the little ante-
chamber beyond the hall glowed like a lighted stage; the
rose-colored gauze of Zyeme's gown, the whites and
violets of Gareth's doublet, sleeves, and hose, and the
pinks and blacks of the rugs beneath their feet all seemed
to bum like the hues of stained glass in the ember-colored
lamplight. The instincts of the Winterlands kept Jenny to
the shadows. Neither saw her.
Zyeme held her tiny goblet of crystal and glass up to
one of the lamps on the mantel, admiring the blood red
lights of the liqueur within. She smiled mischievously. "I
must say, I prefer the ballad version myself."
Seated in one of the gilt-footed ivory chairs on the
opposite
side of the low wine table, Gareth only looked
unhappy and confused. The dimple on the side of Zyeme's
curving, shell pink lips deepened, and she brushed a cor-
ner of her lace veils aside from her cheek. Combs of
98
Dragonsbane 99
crystal and sardonyx flashed in her dark hair as she tipped
her head.
When Gareth didn't speak, her smile widened a little,
and she moved with sinuous grace to stand near enough
to him to envelop him in the faint aura of her perfume.
Like shooting stars, the lamplight jumped from the crystal
facets of Gareth's goblet with the involuntary tremor of
his hand.
"Aren't you even going to thank me for coming to meet
you and offering you the hospitality of my lodge?" Zyeme
asked, her voice teasing.
Because she was jealous of Zyeme's greater powers,
Jenny had forced herself to feel, upon meeting her at the
ferry, nothing but surprise at the enchantress's youth. She
looked no more than twenty, though at the lowest com-
putation—which Jenny could not keep herself from mak-
ing, though the cattiness of her reaction distressed her—
her age could not have been much less than twenty-six.
Where there was jealousy, there could be no learning, she
had told herself; and in any case she owed this girl justice.
But now anger stirred in her. Zyeme's closeness and
the hand that she laid with such artless intimacy on
Gareth's shoulder, so that less than a half-inch of her finger-
tip touched the flesh of his neck above his collar-lace
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