Nightpool

Chapter 5

Teb knelt, found a candle in the pack by feel and fitted it into the lamp, then struck flint. The cave walls leaped and twisted around him in the flickering light. He clamped on the glass chimney, then pushed deeper into the grotto. But at the great cave he paused. He knew he must stop here, must see the painted animals.

He shone his light in and saw them leap up as if they had just sprung to life, the rearing black unicorn seeming to paw and turn, the pale foxes to slip deeper into the stone. Even in the paintings, the animals’ intelligence showed clearly. The way they held themselves, their expressions, showed they were quite aware of their places in time, in the world, and in the scheme of life. The sentient, speaking animals were aware of death, too, his mother had said, and so were capable of understanding the meaning of all life. The ordinary animals, living only for the moment, did not deal with such meanings, and knew death only at the instant it struck them.

Teb thought he would like to sleep in here, among the pictures of these knowing creatures. But he went on. He turned from the great cave reluctantly, robing the animals in darkness once more, and went quickly, deeper in, toward the crawling tunnel. When he reached it he tied the pack and waterskin to rope, and tied that around his waist so they would drag behind him. He went into the low hole on his hands and knees, pushing the lamp ahead.

Crawl and push, crawl and push, the lamp a yellow pool drawing him on. He thought of the other children who had crawled here, generations gone, before there was need to flee from soldiers, children playing tag with the foxes. He was through at last and pushing past a row of small den caves; then his light found the mouth of the wriggling tunnel. How small it looked, so very low.

He lay down full length, pushed the lamp ahead, and slid in. It was tight. He had grown. He wriggled and pushed, and dragged himself ahead, the walls pressing in. He could get stuck here. He could panic as Camery had panicked once.

He was soon very hot and uncomfortably thirsty. He could not reach behind him for the waterskin. He pushed deeper; the stone pressed his shoulders and arms. He began to sweat under the weight of the stone. He wanted to thrust it away, pushing at it with his elbows, sweating harder, his heart pounding; then at last he lay still.

But he must go on. The middle was the smallest; it couldn’t be much farther. He inched forward, squeezing, his clothes catching on the stone. So hot, the walls pressing in and in . . . Sweat ran down inside the heavy leather tunic and matted his hair. He pushed ahead an inch, another inch. Why had he come this far? He could never back up, never. He was trapped here. He wanted to scream out and pound with his fists but could hardly move his arms.

Then suddenly his outstretched hands felt the walls give way, felt only space as the tunnel ended; and with one final, straining shove, he shot out into the free, open cave.

He stood up, sucking in air, then stretched tall. He untied the pack and waterskin and drank, then stripped off the hot tunic. He pulled off his boots and pants, working them free of the chain. He stood naked and free, and only then able to breathe again, fully.

Then very carefully, to see if he could, he slid into the tunnel again, feet first, slipped back a little way, then out again. Yes, it was easier naked. Scratchy, though. But he knew he could get back all right, with his clothes off. He took up the light and followed it into the first of the small den caves. Here he drank again, then began to shiver in the cave’s chill. He pulled on his clothes and lay down with his head on the pack. It was then he remembered Garit’s note and pulled it from his pocket. He held it close to the flame, but the words were only rows of marks. He picked out his own name, nothing more. What if his life were to depend on his ability to read such a message?

He was nearly asleep when he thought he should blow out the candle, but knew he could not sleep in the pitch dark that night, even if fire ate air. Besides, there were small open portals in the caves higher up, and all these caves were connected. He turned over, sprawling on the cold stone floor, and gave in at last to sleep.

He did not know he was watched, and had been watched since well before he climbed off his horse onto the boulders.

When they were sure the boy slept deeply, the foxes slipped into the cave, wary only of the burning lamp, and stood watching him and drinking in his scent. Twelve pale foxes.

They had started following Garit’s band when first the six riders came up off the meadow onto the stony ridge, followed and observed and listened. They knew everything Garit had said, both to the group and to Teb alone. They understood quite well who Teb was, son of the King of Auric, but to make sure they crowded close, now, around him and nosed softly at his arm until, in sleep, he turned it, so they could see the mark.

It was there, yes. The mark of the dragon. They were pleased, and awed.

“He is shivering,” said Pixen. “He has no fur to warm him.”

The foxes stared at Pixen, then began to turn around in little circles, close to Teb. They lay down, one then another, close all around him and over him, across his legs, his stomach, his chest, their bushy tails curled around him. And so they warmed him. One vixen, small and young, nuzzled her nose into the hollow of his neck. Soon he slept quietly, sprawled and abandoned in pure warmth. They sniffed at him with their thin foxy noses and watched him with humor and curiosity, then slept themselves, lightly, alert for noises in the tunnels, guarding as well as warming the prince. But then near dawn they all slipped away, and he was quite alone when he woke.

*

He had no notion how long he had slept or what time of day it might be. It was absolutely dark, for the candle had burned down and gone out. He fumbled in the pack for another, all the time frowning and trying to remember something. A dream? A warm dream, wonderfully cozy, as he used to feel when he was small and his mother cuddled him. But what the dream had been, exactly, he could not remember.

He thought the cave smelled different, a pungent, sharp scent. Was there some creature in here with him? He struck flint and lit the candle quickly. But the cave was empty. He dug out the old candle butt and placed the new one in the holder.

He made a meal of cold mutton and boiled roots. There was also jerky in the pack, and bread and cheese. And eight more candles, he saw with relief. He mustn’t burn one tonight though—he must make everything last as long as he could. I will be out by tonight, he thought, on the coast. He could almost smell the salt of the bay. He felt rested now and eager to get on.

He would have to go back through the narrow tunnels, start at the great cave, and go through the hall of pillars in order to get to the western gate. But first he would go to the high caves and have a look at Sivich’s camp. It seemed much longer than one night since he had sat chained to the oak sapling and drunk from its roots. Where were Garit and Pakkna now? Had they gotten away? Were Sivich’s men following them? Or had they come to the caves?

He did up the pack, shouldered it, slung on the waterskin, then left the little cave to find the spiral tunnel that led to the upper caves. The walls were not carved here but rough, of a reddish stone and wet where springs leaked down, reflecting the lamplight.

When he stood at last in the highest cave, looking out its thin slit of window, the sun hung half up the eastern sky, at midmorning. Below and to the north lay the site of Sivich’s camp, empty now, the circle of grass darker where it had been trampled into the wet earth, a black scar in the center where the campfire had burned. Three dark thin lines led away, the tracery of muddied trails across the clear green grass. One was their own trail, going off toward the ridge. A second followed beside it, as if the trackers had kept the first trail clear, for the jackals to scent along.

The widest trail led away north toward Baylentha, just as Garit had expected. As Teb stood watching the land, he heard a soft noise behind him in the passage, and whirled to look. He saw nothing. Maybe rats, he thought. It came again, a brushing sound very like the wings of a jackal.

He slipped the knife out of the pack and backed into a shadowed corner where the light from the slit window was dimmest. He watched the twisting corridor and the cluster of small arches for a long time, but nothing moved there, and the sound did not come again. Probably only rats. Jackals would already have attacked.

Then when he returned to the wriggling tunnel at last, to make his way back toward the entry and the great cave, his nerve failed him. If he were trapped in there by the jackals attacking from behind him or at his face, there would be no way to fight them.

But they couldn’t have come through; it was too narrow for them.

He took off his clothes and stowed them in the pack, tied the chain tightly around his leg, tied pack and waterskin to the cord and the other end around his waist. Then, knife in one hand and lamp in the other, he lay down and slid into the tunnel.

He wriggled through faster this time. Soon he was out of it, the ordeal behind him, and no sight or sound of the jackals. Only the crawling tunnel remained ahead, and already he could see daylight filtering in. He dressed and went on.

He reached the great cave again, and again held his lamp up. There was power here that drew him, and again in the flicking light all the animals seemed to come alive, the unicorn and foxes, the great wolves and the big cats, the badger hermits and the winging owls and the laughing, gamboling otters. He had no notion how long he had stood looking when he heard again a small shuffling, then a stone dislodged behind him somewhere near Nison-Serth’s entrance. He spun just in time to catch the flash of a small pale shape vanishing beyond the cave door.

It was too small to frighten him, but far bigger than any rat. He followed it, skirting the tall boulders that made the passage wall, then stood staring down the passage and into the four caves he could see. Nothing moved. He started to turn away, and then quite suddenly there were pale creatures all around him come out of the caves like magic, come out of the shadows—foxes, kit foxes crowding all around him, standing on their hind legs to touch him and stare at him. “Tebriel,” they barked. “You are Tebriel.” He fell to his knees and put out his arms, and they crowded close—pale silver foxes, their faces narrow and jaunty and sly, their sharp little mouths open with laughter, their bushy tails waving, a dozen kit foxes as innocent and laughing and welcome as anything a boy could have dreamed. “We welcome you, Tebriel, Tebriel of Auric,” barked the largest dog fox, who surely was their leader. He nuzzled Teb, and stood laughing.

“Yes, I am Tebriel. How did you know?” He hugged and petted them. They were warm and sleek, silky and soft. They licked his face and hands, their teeth as white as new snow, their dark eyes so filled with merriment that Teb laughed out loud and drank in their sharp, foxy smell.

While he crouched there with them, laughing with them for no reason and for every reason, for the sheer delight of their meeting, another fox appeared alone at the portal, a silhouette against the morning sky, a lone sentinel. She yapped once, then ran to them.

“The riders come along the ridge,” she panted. “They have jackals! Stinking jackals!” She went directly to sit before the big dog fox. “The riders follow the boy, as you said they would, Pixen.”

Pixen reared and stood looking around him. “Quickly, into the tunnel of pillars, into the southern den.”

The foxes leaped and pushed at Teb. He ran with them, the light from his lantern swinging in arcs along the cave walls until Pixen barked, “Put the light out.” Teb stopped and blew out the candle. He could see nothing, and was propelled ahead, stumbling, by the foxes pressing and urging him on.

“Left!” Pixen cried. “Left, and duck. Crawl through, Tebriel, quickly. Squeeze through; it’s not far.”

He did as he was told, crouched, then found he must go on his belly. He pushed pack and lamp and waterskin in first, could feel the foxes behind him pressing him on. The stone scraped his back, and he thought he would be terrified again; then, as suddenly as it had started, the crawl was ended.

“Stand up, Tebriel. You can stand. But do not light the lamp. We will lead you.”

The foxes pressed against his legs and pushed him forward like a tide. Though Pixen said he could walk upright, he kept feeling above him for the cave’s roof, for the way was narrow and close, a long, twisting way before the cave began to grow lighter. Then they pushed through a small arch, with light ahead of them, and stood in the huge, light, echoing hall of pillars, though they had come by a different route from the one Teb knew. Pointed pillars of stone grew from the ceiling and from the floor, awash in light from the slitted windows along a high ledge.

“We are safe,” Pixen said. “They can’t get in—the larger entry is blocked with boulders, has been for nearly a year. Sivich will not find us here.”

“How did you know about Sivich? How did you know my name?”

“Everyone knows about Sivich, and about Quazelzeg and his plans for Tirror. And as for you, Tebriel, we knew you by your scent.

“You and the queen and king, and Camery, used to picnic in the caves. We watched you often from the shadows, and followed when you explored.

“Last night when your little band of six passed close to us in the dark, we knew your scent, and Pakkna’s scent, and we followed you.

“We heard Garit’s instructions. Both sets of them,” Pixen said, grinning.

“Why didn’t you speak to us, when we came on picnics?”

“We saw no need to. We thought it best to remain . . . shy.” Pixen turned from Teb and began to pace, his bushy tail flicking with heavy grace each time he turned. His shining coat was the color of wood ashes, very long and thick, with little silver guard hairs mixed in. His throat and chest were snowy white. The insides of his ears, when he stood against the light, shone pale pink. The only dark thing about him was his eyes—they were almost black and filled with a devilish, challenging, and complicated gleam.

“Even if we had not recognized your scent, Tebriel, there would still be the mark to tell us.”

“You have sharp eyes. And what . . . ?”

“We saw the mark last night,” Pixen interrupted. “While you slept.”

Teb stared.

Pixen was filled with laughter. “Were you cold last night, Tebriel? Did you sleep soundly?”

“I don’t think I was cold. No, I was so tired . . .” Teb paused. “No, not cold at all. Warm. I was . . .” Then he realized that it was their strong foxy scent that he had smelled in the cave when he woke. He stared at the foxes, for they were all laughing now. “It was you there! All of you—keeping me warm last night!” Now he could remember very well the feel of warm fur covering him, and he was laughing, too. “But why did you go away?” That only made them laugh harder, a soft, yapping laughter.

“Now,” said Pixen at last, “you must tell us the rest of the story. There is much we do not understand. If we are to help you, we must know what the trouble is about.”

“It—it started with the birthmark,” Teb said. “Well, with the dragon, really.”

“The dragon?” the foxes breathed, looking at him with wonder. “What kind of dragon?” said one. “Is there a dragon?” said another. The foxes gathered around him just as he and Camery used to settle to hear their mother tell a tale.

As he told them about the night in the hall when Sivich learned of the dragon, and how Sivich meant to snare it, their expressions grew serious, then angry, and Pixen said, “The dark raiders must be stopped. The dragon must not be harmed; no trap must touch the goddess, and there is little time.”

“The goddess?” Teb said.

“The dragon they saw is female,” Pixen said. “By her color, she is female. The male is dark. She is a goddess, Teb, to us all.”

“But goddesses aren’t . . . They’re just in stories. Folk don’t believe in—”

“We call her goddess,” Pixen said, “even though she is mortal. The dragons guarded the freedom of the old times, Tebriel. Through their songs, they helped folk relive the lives of their ancestors. When a dragon and bard came into a city, crowds would gather to hear them. Their songs made Time seem like a river, carrying scenes bright with the lives of those who had lived before. It was by dragon magic that one knew how wars had been fought, and men conquered and then freed. It was by dragonsong that folk were helped to understand the nature of evil, and so to understand goodness, too. But you . . .” The kit fox broke off, and studied Teb. “What is your age, Tebriel?”

“I am twelve.”

“And you have been alone for four years?”

“My mother has been dead for five years. My father the king for four. Sivich murdered him. Camery—Camery is captive, in the tower.”

“And you have lived as the slave of Sivich?”

Teb nodded.

“And your mother told you nothing of the dragons? Nor did your father?”

“I—my mother said they were filled with wonder and power. She thought there weren’t any singing dragons left on Tirror, and that made her angry and . . . I don’t know. Sad, I guess.”

“She told you nothing more?”

“No. She—”

But Pixen had turned away as a noise and stirring at the entrance distracted them all, and two foxes leaped in through the tunnel.

“They have come into Nison-Serth,” said the smaller, a young vixen. “The jackals are horrible. Nosing everywhere and snuffling, and flapping . . . disgusting.”

“I want four messengers,” Pixen said, “to go quickly down into Ratnisbon, to Ebis the Black, to carry a message for his ears alone. Mixet, Brux, Faxel. . . and yes, you may go, Luex. I would not send Faxel without you. Now come, let me give you the message.

“You are to tell Ebis the Black that Sivich builds a huge trap on the coast of Baylentha, to capture the singing dragon. You will tell him that Sivich means either to hold her captive or to kill her. Sivich must be stopped, and Ebis is the only one who can stop him. You will not say you have seen Tebriel or know where—” He stopped speaking and cocked his ears. They all could hear it. Hoofbeats above their heads, across stone, as searchers rode over the great stone spine of the mountain.