Dragonclaw

by Kate Forsyth

  ‘You grow fond of the lad,’ the raven said in his mind.

  ‘I have been too long alone.’

  ‘My companionship over the past years not, of course, counting.’

  Jorge did not reply, just sent the raven a mind-smile, and Jesyah flapped on ahead leisurely, uttering a hoarse caw of laughter.

  The bridge was wide enough for twelve men to march side by side, and more than two hundred feet long. Broken and defaced statues leant here and there, though most were gone, destroyed in the riots of the Day of Betrayal. Underneath its seven massive arches, the Muileach River thundered towards the falls, where it mingled with the waters of the Ban-Bharrach River. Where the two rivers poured over the crescent-shaped lip of the cliff, rainbows shimmered in the sunset air. It was these ethereal shimmers which gave the Shining Waters their name, and so also the city.

  Guards lined the bridge, examining the faces of those that passed and poking spears into any carts or baskets of produce. Occasionally they would jerk someone out of the crowd and interrogate them, sometimes with mere prods with the hafts of their short spears, sometimes with fists and boots. By now the bridge was crowded, with the bells ringing out to announce the closure of the city gates. Jorge mingled with the throng, the child close to his side, his cold little hand tightly clasping Jorge’s plaid.

  ‘Do no’ be afraid,’ the old man whispered. ‘They will no’ notice us.’ And they did not. With everyone pushing forward, anxious to be safe inside, Jorge and Tòmas were able to slip through quite easily. The bent old man with his dirty beard and blind eyes was a familiar sight on the Bridge of Seven Arches, and no-one noticed the wide-eyed little boy peering out from the tattered folds of his robe, or the raven flying overhead, dark against the bright cascades of water.

  Beyond the iron-bound gates, twenty feet tall, they plunged into the dirty, noisy city. The great road wound on through the jumble of buildings towards the abandoned palace with its bronze-topped domes and the half ruined Tower of the witches, but Jorge did not follow it, turning left into the poorer parts of the city instead. Here the streets were narrow and dark, the cobbles thick with mud. Only occasionally could Tòmas see a strip of stars shining faintly overhead, for the houses leaned so close their crooked roofs sometimes touched.

  The little boy stared around him with amazed eyes, for he had never seen a town bigger than his little village, nor so many oddly dressed people. Used to gruff crofters dressed in brown wool, he was fascinated by the bellfruit sellers with their wide crimson pants; the merchants in their long robes selling teapots, jewelled knives, perfumed oils, powdered spices and wooden bowls; the butchers shouting out their prices, scrawny carcasses hanging from hooks over their shoulders. Lucescere was famous for its dyes, and so the people were dressed in clothes dyed crimson and blue and saffron yellow. Even the beggars were more brightly dressed than anyone Tòmas had seen before, though their clothes hung in tatters about their bodies. Ragged children ran screaming and laughing through the crowd, their legs muddied to above the knees from playing in the ooze that covered the cobblestones. Jesyah the raven fluttered down to scavenge through the piles of refuse, and was chased away by a stout matron in a grubby apron wielding a broom.

  The boy shrank even closer to his master’s side, so that the old warlock could barely take a step without stumbling over him. Luckily Jorge needed little assistance in these streets. He could sense people much more easily than he could natural obstacles such as rocks or low-hanging tree branches, and he had been born in the slums of Lucescere. He knew every winding alley, every half hidden archway, every secret of its labyrinthine structure. Deeper and deeper into the ancient city they wandered, their senses assaulted by the noise, the smell of dampness and refuse, the occasional touch of spray on their faces. They were close now to the falls, whose roar sounded like some angry dragon.

  They came to a tall, narrow gate set deep under an overhang of gabled roofs. Jorge felt his way along the wall with one gnarled hand until he found the bolt and handle, then opened the gate a crack and slipped through, Tòmas close behind him. Unexpectedly, the gate lead not into a courtyard or front hall, as might be expected, but into a narrow alley that ran between the backs of houses, piled high with boxes, crates, broken furniture, mops and brooms. Through this obstacle race they made their way, Jesyah fluttering down to perch on Jorge’s shoulder, his beady eyes bright.

  Under a massive pile of mouldy sacks and broken crates, Tòmas uncovered the round lid of a grate as Jorge had said he would. Reluctantly the boy followed the warlock down the hole, trying not to breathe as the raw smell of the sewers closed over them. He was astounded to discover another city beneath the one they had already explored. A maze of dark tunnels ran off in every direction, with, here and there, what seemed to be a pile of old bones and rags but proved instead to be someone sleeping, or gnawing on a crust of bread. Through this dark maze they made their way, stumbling over recumbent forms and trying not to step in the foul stream that trickled down the centre of every drain. Occasionally bursts of song and laughter came down one of the openings, but mostly it was quiet and dark.

  By the time they arrived at their destination, Tòmas was stumbling, rubbing his eyes with his fists and yawning widely. Jorge had made his way through the tunnels with no hesitation, coming at last to a ladder that dropped sharply into a round duct. ‘Come on lad, almost there,’ he whispered. ‘Quietly now.’

  The ladder seemed to lower itself into darkness for an age. Tòmas followed Jorge’s lead, though the blackness swallowed him up like a great throat. For ten minutes or longer they descended the steep steps, then Jorge felt earth beneath his feet. He lifted Tòmas down the last few feet, then summoned blue witch light to his staff.

  They were in a large cave, filled with shadows that moved and flowed around them. The air was thick with spray, for the mouth of the cave was concealed behind a wall of water. They had gone so deep below the city they were no longer on the island between two rivers, but actually behind the Shining Waters.

  ‘Ceit Anna?’ Jorge called over the roar of the water. ‘Are ye there?’

  There was silence, though a shadow seemed to detach itself briefly from the darkness, before disappearing again. Although there was no sound, Jorge looked in that direction. ‘Ceit Anna?’ he whispered.

  A hoarse voice answered him. Although it spoke in the common language, the voice was oddly accented, rising and falling in cadences quite unlike the accent of Tòmas’ native village. ‘Jorge the Sightless. You bring a stranger to my cave. I gave you no such right.’

  ‘Greetings, Ceit Anna. I beg your pardon. He is only a lad, and harmless.’

  ‘I gave you no such right.’

  ‘He is my apprentice. It is on his account I have come.’

  ‘You want my help?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Why else would you be here? What do you want?’ There was a slither of sound, and Tòmas clung to Jorge’s side, burying his face against the rough cloth of his plaid. Jorge stood straight.

  ‘Can ye no’ tell, Ceit Anna?’ There was a challenge in his voice.

  There was a dry chuckle, and a tall, spindly shadow darted across the floor. ‘The lad has magic. Strong, pure magic. He smells delicious.’

  ‘What can ye tell me about his powers?’

  ‘They are strong … his hands … the magic is in his hands.’ The shadow seemed to be circling round them. In a paroxysm of terror, Tòmas huddled closer to Jorge, but was unable to resist watching the flicker of movement, the occasional dry rustle of sound. ‘He is too young and foolish to know how to hide himself—that is why you have come to me.’

  ‘Ye are the mistress o’ illusions,’ Jorge said softly.

  She laughed, a dry, papery sound like a leaf blown by the wind. ‘Once, perhaps, Sightless One. No longer.’ Slowly the moving shadows resolved themselves into a tall figure, far taller than Jorge, with spindly arms and legs, black leathery wings and a great mane of wild hair. The slanted eyes took up mo
st of her face, and shone in the blue witch light like an elven cat’s. She stooped over them, and Tòmas felt a thin finger touch his cheek. He buried his head against Jorge’s thigh, but she trailed her fingers over the back of his head and down his spine. ‘I have never encountered a Talent like his,’ she mused. ‘It is wild, a wild Talent in a human lad. Interesting. He must have faery blood mingling with his. Let him look into my eyes.’

  Tòmas buried his face deeper, but inexorably the long, sticklike fingers turned his head and the frightened blue eyes looked into the narrow face of the nyx.

  Her eyes were black and lustrous, without any whites, her pupils narrow slits, set at the same sharp angle as her eyes. In the semidarkness they shone with an unearthly light. Tòmas stared at her wonderingly, and found he could not look away, though his heart beat suffocatingly fast.

  ‘Well, well, well,’ she said with a chuckle. ‘Traces of Celestine, no less. What is your Talent, lad?’

  Tòmas slowly put out one finger and laid it on the papery skin of the nyx. She shuddered and moved away. ‘This is no ordinary lad,’ she said. ‘His touch sings to my heart. All my weariness has melted away, my blood dances around my old body.’

  ‘He heals by the laying o’ hands,’ Jorge said. ‘He tried to cure my blindness.’

  The nyx chuckled, and drifted back into the shadows. ‘I see him chasing you around a room, you with your robe all kilted up and your skinny legs kicking.’

  Jorge nodded. ‘Ye see rightly. Indeed, I barely escaped, he was so determined.’

  ‘He will be difficult to conceal.’

  ‘That is why I came to ye, Ceit Anna. I beg your help.’

  ‘Many times you and your brethren have come to ask my assistance. Each time you have made promises of rescue and redemption; each time you say the persecution of faeries will end. I am the last of my kind, Sightless One. I am old. I am tired. When I pass again into the night the nyx shall be no more. Why should I help you? Your kind has feared my kind for centuries. We have been hunted down, persecuted, subjected to the light so that we dissolve. I have no wish to help any more.’

  ‘It would be a dreadful thing if the nyx should be no more,’ Jorge said anxiously. ‘Indeed, I hope this is no’ true. I have searched, Ceit Anna, as I promised ye. The mountains are wild, though, and the nyx canny. If they did no’ wish me to find them, what can I do? Ye must trust me a wee longer. Have I ever betrayed ye? The day is at hand. The nyx are patient. Many times ye have told me this yourself. The nyx can wait and plan, when others rush in. Will ye no’ be patient a wee longer?’

  ‘I am patient,’ Ceit Anna replied in her hoarse voice. ‘I am merely bored with your constant importunities. Why will you not leave me alone?’

  ‘It is seven years or more since I was here,’ Jorge said. ‘The spell ye wove for me then was a powerful spell. It was a very great favour. It is because o’ your kindness then that we are so close to freedom now. I would no’ come to ye if I could think o’ anyone else who could help me.’

  The nyx drifted back and forth before them, her slanted eyes gleaming. She turned to the boy once more and bent over him, and Tòmas stared up at her and held out his hand to her again. This time she let him touch her, and he laid both palms upon her narrow skull, his fingers deep in the snakes of hair. When at last his hands dropped she made a low keening sound in her throat.

  ‘I am tired no longer,’ she said wonderingly. ‘Indeed, it is a wonderful power that he has. Hope seems to flow from his touch. I could almost believe nyx still walk the night and fly the wind. I could almost believe the Celestines still command the forests.’ She sighed. ‘Very well. For his sake, not yours, Sightless One. For the sake of the Celestines.’

  She drifted soundlessly back into the darkness, and Jorge let out all his breath in a glad sigh. The nyx were always difficult to deal with, and Ceit Anna more difficult than those Jorge remembered.

  ‘What is she doing?’ Tòmas asked in a tremulous voice.

  ‘Ye may go and watch, if she lets ye. She seems to like ye, so maybe she will let ye stand by.’

  ‘What is she?’ Tòmas whispered. ‘She’s no’ a person, is she?’

  ‘No, she’s a nyx,’ Jorge replied. ‘Her people lived in this land long afore Cuinn Lionheart brought our ancestors here. She is a spirit o’ the night, a very powerful one. Speak respectfully to her, for her magic may well save ye.’

  It took a long while for Tòmas to find the courage to explore the dark cave or to follow the nyx, but eventually he did. Jorge had sat down against the wall and was asleep, his long beard spread over his chest. Though Tòmas had been walking all day and half the night, he was too excited to rest and was not yet fully accustomed to sleeping on the ground. In addition, he was very curious about the nyx. He had seen cluricauns and nisses before, for both were common in the highlands of Rionnagan; they were both small charming faeries, prone to trickery and thievery, but generally harmless. The nyx was so tall, her limbs so long and thin, her eyes so dark and bright, her personality so powerful that, despite his fear, Tòmas was fascinated.

  The witch light had gradually faded while Jorge slipped into sleep, but Tòmas’ hands shone with a strange faint silver light. He held his hands out in front of him and they cast a feeble shadow on the wall before him. Tòmas had never noticed any nimbus of light around his fingers before, and the sight made him quiver again with fear. Curiosity was still stronger, however, and so he stumbled forward, trying to pierce the darkness with his shining hands.

  Jesyah hopped forward with him, turning his sleek head every now and again to regard the boy with one bright eye.

  The nyx was sitting at the very back of the cave, where the darkness was thickest. As Tòmas approached her, his hands grew brighter and brighter so that he was able to see quite clearly. She was playing cat’s cradle with her hair.

  ‘Close your fist, my lad,’ she said. ‘We want no light in this weaving.’

  Obediently he closed his fingers and the light dimmed, though he could see his knuckles shining red as if he held a candleflame in his palm. After a moment he sat down. He could see little, only the hunched shape of the nyx within shadows, the quick movement of her hands as she twisted her hair about her fingers, the occasional frightening gleam of her eyes.

  ‘I am making you a pair of gloves,’ Ceit Anna whispered. ‘Once I wove a cloak of illusions this way, and seven days and seven nights it took me. Afterwards I was drained of life, an empty husk of shadows. I do not think I could undertake that weaving again, and not pass into shadows myself. Your hands are small, though. I shall make the stitches tight, tight, so none of your light spills through. And afterwards ye will touch me again, and I shall feel as though I can ride the night winds, as I once did and shall no more.’

  ‘Why no’?’ Tòmas’ voice was shrill in the darkness.

  ‘I do no’ wish to ride alone,’ Ceit Anna said sadly. ‘Once the night was filled with the whisper of the nyx. Now the wind is desolate, desolate.’

  All night Tòmas sat by the side of the old nyx, and listened to her stories of the darkness, while she wove him a pair of enchanted gloves from her hair. She told him of caves where the nyx had hung in their thousands, their wings rustling, their voices murmuring. She told him of the magic of the night flights, when the light of the moons were hidden by thousands of nyx wings. She told him how soldiers had come, with hammers to knock out the walls of the caves so sunlight had poured in. She told him how her brethren had fled the cruel light, knocking their wings against the walls of the cave, fighting to shelter in any dark corners or cracks. Most had dissolved into a black dust that drifted away on the wind.

  ‘We are not meant for the light of day,’ she said in her hoarse voice. ‘We are children of the night, and to night we all return.’

  Some time during her stories, Tòmas fell asleep, and when he woke she had slipped away, leaving in his hands a tiny pair of black gauntlets, closely knit with spiral patterns weaving around the wrist. When he put th
em on, they fitted perfectly and for a moment his hands felt cold and numb. When he went to wake Jorge and show him, the old seer could not see him.

  ‘She has wrought a fine thing,’ Jorge said at last when Tòmas had taken his gloves on and off several times. ‘The cloak she made for me was far larger but no’ so complex or subtle a creation. That was meant only to conceal, to hide what lay beneath it and present an illusion to the world. These gloves hide ye even from my sight. They will protect ye from any seeker, no matter how clear their second sight. And no doubt they have other properties which we will discover in time for a nyx weaving is a wonderful thing—’

  Tòmas was very hungry, as they had not eaten since midday the previous day. He interrupted the old man to rub his stomach and complain, and so Jorge laughed and bade him lead the way up the ladder again and into the sewers below Lucescere. ‘I have a friend who will feed us,’ the old man said in his quavering voice. ‘But keep those gloves on, and keep by my side. I do no’ want to lose ye.’

  The two travellers made their way through the city to a chandler’s premises where a soft tattoo of coded knocks on the side door saw them whisked inside into a great warm kitchen where Tòmas was fed to his heart’s delight. Jorge began to tell all his news to the chandler’s wife, a massive woman with arms as thick as Tòmas’ entire body and a voice like a foghorn. So deep in conversation were they that Tòmas was forgotten and he spent a happy few hours exploring the extensive pantries and playing with a litter of kittens he found there. One of the kittens had a swollen, weeping eye, but even though Tòmas handled him thoroughly, his magic had no effect. After casting a quick glance around to make sure no-one was watching, Tòmas eased off his glove and touched the kitten’s head with one finger. Slowly the dried pus softened and melted away, and the kitten was able to open her eye again. Delighted, Tòmas jammed his glove back on again, but the brief flash had been enough for Jorge, who scolded him soundly for taking it off at all. With the kitten snuggled securely in his pocket, Tòmas was able to accept the scolding meekly.