Mother of Daemons
Page 33
She pulled herself free, gripped her periapt and stared out the window, her mind questing.
Unable to wait, she swung back to face Exilium, whose expression had changed from perplexed to worried. ‘Come with me,’ she told him. She shut the nursery door and dragged him into the next room before blurting, ‘Listen, Lyra’s just taken Pearl and she’s flying east up the river – I don’t know why, but I’ve got to follow her . . . Keep it quiet, but tell Dirk – he’ll know what to do.’
‘But—’
‘There’s no time: just do what I say, please.’ She spun and ran out onto the balcony again so she could call Vasingex nearer, then using Air-gnosis and kinesis, she hurled herself from the railing and landed on the battlements with a thud, seconds before the guards below crying out in alarm heralded the wyvern’s arrival.
‘Don’t worry,’ she shouted, though they’d probably heard her calling Lyra’s name earlier and were already putting things together. ‘Volsai business,’ she added, a warning to mind their own.
She darted beneath Vasingex’s right wing, pulling off her day cloak and rolling it up, then clambering up his reverse-joined knee onto his back, placing the folded cloak over his spinal crest so she could sit there without having a ridge of bone torturing her. Gripping the largest of his spinal plates, she ordered,
The wyvern’s wings thudded; without a saddle or straps, she had to grip with kinesis as he leaped, his wings caught the air and they lifted with a surge – then they were off.
How the Hel is Lyra coping? she wondered suddenly. She’s not got a rukking saddle either, has she?
Vasingex, a wyvern construct, part reptile, part bird, was faster than a venator and could normally catch a pegasus, but Lyra had a head start on her. She wasted no time, whooshing down the slopes of Roidan Heights barely ten yards above the houses before shooting through the smoke over Kenside and arrowing up the river. The rising moon reflected in the water formed a ghostly path eastwards.
she sent back, plaintively.
She’d never heard the boss so enraged – or frightened – but he had every right. Lyra was his daughter and she’d blinked when she should have been vigilant.
They broke the connection and she gave her attention to the sky. Clouds were rippling in from the north on a rising cold wind; it was going to be a bitterly cold night. She tried to scry Pearl, but the dwyma murk encasing Lyra was preventing any contact.
Lyra’s never flown before – and pegasi can be capricious, even Pearl. If she runs into a Dupeni aerial patrol, she won’t stand a chance.
Then the clouds swallowed the moon and she was left flying in darkness. Gnostic night-sight was short-range and risking a light would make her a target herself, so all she could do was go on flying blind, pulsing out a signal to those following and praying fervently for some kind of lucky break.
Dear Kore, Lyra – what on Urte possessed you? Yet again she wondered if Lyra had simply gone insane. Wasn’t that what dwymancers did?
*
I must be mad, Lyra thought as she and Pearl followed the river weaving its way eastwards in broad, sweeping bends. The frigid air was making her eyes tear up and her frozen fingers were numb. She wondered if Pearl could even see, then remembered Ril had told her winged constructs were bred with a transparent membrane beneath the eyelids to protect the eyes while flying. She knew magi used the gnosis to warm their mounts if they had to, but she couldn’t do that, so common sense demanded she take the pegasus down and find shelter before a night of flying through the freezing winter killed them both.
She had no reins, so the only way she could tell Pearl which way to go was through the tenuous communication they somehow managed.
She drank from my pool – it must be the dwyma permitting this understanding. That was some comfort.
Listening to the dwyma gave her no updates on Coramore and there was no response when she called the girl’s name – and then she remembered another risk: Oryn Levis had told them the Sacrecours had skiffs and constructs flying ahead of their army, which meant there was a very real possibility of her blundering into an enemy patrol.
This night flight is madness, she decided, wiping her streaming eyes with an icy sleeve, then thumped on Pearl’s back and jabbed her finger downwards. ‘Pearl, take us down,’ she shouted. ‘Come on, Pooty-girl, we need shelter. We’ll find her tomorrow.’
To her immense relief, the pegasus went into a smooth spiralling descent. Lyra strained her eyes, using the barest glimmer of Luna that was piercing the clouds to identify some reference point, then a fortuitous moonbeam illuminated a copse in a snowy field below, with a broken-down building on the edge. ‘There—’
Again Pearl understood and glided in with wings outstretched. The ground was coming up terrifyingly swiftly, then Pearl’s hooves crunched into the frosty grass and the jarring landing tore Lyra’s hands free, she spun off the pegasus and fell onto her back in the snow, winded and gasping – and hugely relieved there was thick grass underneath.
‘Dear . . . Kore . . . Oh my Lord . . .’ she panted.
Pearl’s long head loomed over her, her hooves clomped down beside her shoulder and she licked Lyra’s face as if in apology.
Lyra lay there, panting helplessly for breath. When she could breathe again, she said, ‘Did . . . I say . . . that I’ve . . . never done . . . this before?’
Pearl whinnied as if amused and licked her face again.
‘Rukk you too,’ she groaned, sitting up, trying to assess if there was any real damage, but thankfully, she couldn’t feel anything more than a bit of bruising, although her burned shoulder felt excruciating, despite the numbing cold.
And of course you flew off without bringing the pain-softener the healer left, she scolded herself ruefully. She clambered to her feel and looked around. Pearl had interpreted her wishes perfectly: they were only a few yards from the building, which turned out to be an old barn. She draped an arm over Pearl’s neck and together they walked to the ruin. An owl shrieked and flapped away when she entered; in the mess of rotting hay, vermin scuttled.
She led Pearl into the corner that still had a bit of roof, then pulled off her cloak and rubbed the pegasus down to get her coat dry, the way she’d seen Ril do. The pegasus accepted the attention while crunching ravenously at the dry hay.
This must be one of the farms Calan told us about, abandoned because of the raids by soldiers from Fauvion. I hope the owners are safe . . .
Only a few minutes later she heard a shrill cry in the sky above; she was terrified she’d been discovered, but she wasn’t going to risk going outside. A few minutes later the sound repeated, further east and more distant. She had nothing to eat, but she found an old bucket that was full of rain water and brought it over. Once she’d pulled Pearl to the ground, draped the cloak over her and crawled beneath her wing, she drank deeply, then gave the rest to the pegasus to finish. Her last coherent thoughts as she drifted into a confused dream were of Coramore, wondering where in the world she might be.
*
Coramore peered furtively over the side of her coracle from her hiding pl
ace in the reeds, watching the barges laden with soldiers float by: Uncle Garod’s men, apparently marching in the name of her brother Cordan. She wondered where her brother was, if he was as frightened and miserable as she was.
He can’t be, though, because he hasn’t spent a night lost on a giant river, hunted by a daemon . . .
She’d woken up freezing to find the coracle drifting through the pre-dawn mists. Thankfully, it had been a clear night, although the hills were white and the air was bitterly painful to inhale. Her legs were numb and her fingers locked rigid, but she rubbed and chafed them back to life as she continued drifting on the current. When she heard a shrieking sound above, she used the pole to push herself deeper into the reeds. The flight of giant venators soaring overhead petrified her – but evidently the flyers weren’t looking down, for they swept by and were quickly gone.
It had been a timely warning, however, because only a few minutes after she reached the shelter of the reeds, she heard shouting from upstream and a line of barges came into view. She had no choice but to remain hidden for the rest of the day, for the flow of boats and barges was constant.
They’re going to Pallas to kill Lyra.
She’d guessed by now that the dwyma was waking in her; her vision would blur at times – then she could lose minutes gazing at a leaf, or the swirl of the river-water shot through with rainbows of light.
Kore’s Love, it’s beautiful . . .
Then a harsh male voice broke through her reverie and set her heart thumping. ‘No, over there,’ he called. ‘They reckon whatever it was, it was in them reeds there.’
A worried man answered, ‘What’re ye thinkin’, Serjant? If’n it’s a Volsai Owl, we ain’ goin’ near ’em.’
‘Our bloody orders are to beat out this section, Jobbers, so if it turns out there’s rukkin’ Owls in there, we’ll call for help, won’t we.’
‘Be too late for the poor fuckers what found ’em, boss.’
‘Just do as you’re rukkin’ well told,’ the serjant called.
Coramore peered through the reeds and cringed at the sight of a pair of longboats, which had paddled into the reed-bed where she was hiding. They might be hunting Volsai scouts, but they’d be happy to grab her damned quick.
If they get too close, I’ll have to leave the boat . . .
She peered doubtfully over the edge. The water was murky so she couldn’t tell how deep it was – if it was more than five foot deep, she’d be over her head. And it was going to be utterly freezing. But if I wait too long, they might see me . . .
Then she heard a watery thwack as someone struck the reeds only a few dozen yards away, and more voices started shouting. She flinched, feeling like a cornered animal. Any second now and they’ll see me . . .
Stifling a moan, she edged to one side, making the coracle tip alarmingly, then flipped her legs over the edge, yowling silently as her legs were immersed in the icy water. Her eyes bulged as the bitter water reached her waist, then her feet struck muddy silt and she almost slipped and went under, gasping despite herself.
‘Oi – what’s that, then?’ someone shouted.
‘Quiet, lads!’ the serjant bellowed, and the searchers stopped beating the reeds.
Coramore clung to the side of her little coracle, a silent, agonised stream of curses and prayers pouring from her lips as she tried to be still and let the splashing around her subside. Every second was a hideous, frozen lifetime.
‘Nah, there’s nothing,’ someone said eventually, alarmingly close by.
She planted her legs and once she was sure of her balance, she slowly let go of the coracle and with deliberate care dropped until just her eyes and nose were above the surface. She waded towards the bank, only a few yards away, trying desperately not to make the reeds move, sidling between clumps as she made for a tangle of willows on the bank.
Then someone shouted, ‘Oi, sarge, look’t this – it’s a little dinghy, innit.’
She had to fight not to run as the soldiers poled their longboat through the reeds to her coracle. Don’t see me, she told them, over and over. Just let me get ashore. She was crawling through the clinging silt and green slime at the river’s edge. The bank wasn’t high here, just a broken shelf of ice-blackened grass. Her teeth were chattering and her flesh was so numb she couldn’t feel her toes, but she crawled ashore and slithered towards a place where the tangled tree roots had made a bit of a cave. She slipped in, put her back against the earth and curled into herself, cowering and clenching her teeth to stop them chattering.
‘Careful, lads: eyes peeled, innit. Rukkin’ Owl could be bloody anywhere’ the serjant bawled, probably terrifying his men. She wished she really was a Volsai and had the gnosis so she could deal with them all with one deadly spell. But her clothes were soaked, her heart was hammering in fear and shock and she felt a long way from being a mighty mage. The rational part of her brain, sharpened by weeks of having the daemon inside her, knew she was still in deadly danger if she didn’t get warm and dry quickly. She had to move.
The bank had a narrow strip of bare bushes and trees; through the naked branches she could see low stone fences and hedgerows, which meant farmland, which meant people, which meant things she could steal. Come on, she told herself, resisting the urge to curl up into a ball and close her eyes. Move, you silly little chit!
While the searchers still beat timidly at the reeds, she slithered away until she found a track leading inland and crawled along it, avoiding the deeper grass and the old snowdrifts, trying not to leave a trail. At last she lost sight of the river behind her, there was no shouting following her and by the time she reached a wooden stile over a stone wall, she could no longer hear the hunters at all. She risked revealing herself as she darted over the stile, but dropped safely with a crunch into clump of frost-covered grass.
Made it . . . She huddled there, panting heavily, savouring her little triumph, before looking up at the sound of a distant bell chiming sonorously over the fields: two rings, marking the second hour after dawn. Her stomach was screaming with hunger, but she was feeling bleary and unfocused, as if this was happening to someone else, not her.
You’re going into shock . . . You need warmth and food . . .
She rose and staggered on, following the echoes of the bells, trying to think, to pray, to reach out of herself to someone, to Kore or Cordan or . . . Lyra . . . Help me, Lyra . . .
She walked across the undulating, frost-covered land and as she staggered along she fell into a blurred reverie in which nothing coherent happened, just flashes of memory, until she came to, to find herself standing before a trio of brackenberry trees, the biggest she’d seen – and they were laden with berries. They each leaned into the other, their branches entwined in an intricate weave that somehow formed a Brevian knot-pattern of incredible intricacy. And she could smell the power of the place.
This is like the bush in the graveyard in Dupenium but magnified a hundred times, she thought, lifting her head and hands to embrace the energy flowing from the place. Aradea brought me here.
She hesitated a moment, but the tree branches rippled as if welcoming her in. The rich loamy smell of the earth blended with the sharp scent of the berries and her mouth salivated. Then a dark shape entered the tree’s shade on the other side and she caught a glimpse of a deer’s head in silhouette, a doe with small twisted horns and luminous eyes – then she realised that it was walking on two legs.
‘Aradea?’ she asked, stumbling into a faint. ‘Lyra?’ she whispered as leathery but gentle hands caught her. Someone tipped water down her throat, flavoured by crushed berries, waking a warm glow inside her. She was lowered to the ground, a woman’s earthy odour filling her nostrils, and cool lips touched her forehead. The moon shone down through the canopy of leaves, light dancing through the knots and whorls, mesmerising and beautiful. The silhouette of the doe-headed woman hung above her, fingers brushed her eyelids and closed them, pulling her down into sleep . . .
*
&nbs
p; . . . Lyra . . .?
It was Coramore’s voice again and it came from somewhere that way: towards the northeast, towards Dupenium and Garod’s army. That was all Lyra knew, that and the weary desperation in that mental call: the sound of someone so far past terror they’d fallen into resignation.
It gave Lyra the spur she needed to move again. Despite her fears, she’d slept well, warm against Pearl’s flanks, but the dawn air was frigid. For the first time she thought guiltily about her father and Basia – they probably thought her kidnapped, or worse.
In the cold light of dawn, it was hard to remember the fervour she’d been in as she set out. What on Urte had she been thinking, venturing out alone on a mount she barely knew how to control, seeking a Sacrecour child on the eve of war? But she could sense Coramore more clearly now, somewhere ahead on the river.
She stroked Pearl’s soft head, then rose and donned her cloak before teetering to the doorway on stiff limbs. It was gloomy, the cloud hanging thick and low, which was probably in her favour if the Dupeni had mage-knights in the air. Fog was hanging over the Bruin snaking by a mile away. Thick frost crusted in the long grass.
Pearl stood and unfurled her wings, shaking them vigorously, then nuzzled the empty water bucket. Lyra’s stomach growled as the pegasus looked at her expectantly.
‘Sorry, Pooty-girl,’ she murmured, ‘but I don’t have any feed for you – nor me.’
The beast snorted reproachfully and nosed through the damp grass. Lyra wished she could eat grass herself, but had to content herself with slurping water from a puddle, like a beast in the fields. Next she had to find a place to relieve herself, awkwardly pulling her skirts out of the way as she squatted.
Some bloody queen, she chided herself, before chuckling at the indignity. At least there was no one around to see her humiliation.
Once she was ready, she hauled herself onto Pearl’s back and settled herself as best she could. With a boisterous snort and a quick gallop, Pearl launched herself into the air. It was still alarming to be airborne, but Lyra trusted her mount. Now she just had to guide the pegasus to Coramore.