The Blood of a Dragon

Chapter Nineteen

Teneria turned and studied the bank again. “Do you think we’re getting close?” she asked.

“Don’t know,” the spriggan said. “Don’t care. Like you better.”

“To Sardiron of the Waters, or to the barge?” the boat’s owner asked.

“The barge,” Teneria replied.

“I doubt it,” the boatman said. “Those cattle barges are usually sylph-propelled; they can really move along.”

Teneria glanced at him, worried. “They can?”

“Oh, yes. I told you when I picked you up that we weren’t likely to catch him this side of Sardiron-the city, not the country, we’rein the Baronies. But it’s still a good long way to the city, and we probably won’t catch up, not unless you use magic.”

“AndI toldyou that I don’thave any magic that can move a boat any faster than you can row it or pole it.”

The boatman shrugged. “Well, then,” he said, “I’d say you aren’t going to catch this fellow, not so long as he’s on that barge.”

“I wonder,” Teneria said, “if heis still on the barge.” An odd uneasiness touched her as she thought about it, and she had learned early in her apprenticeship to pay attention to such things.

She stared at the spriggan for a moment, soaking in its memories of Dumery-such as they were; spriggans, she had discovered, weren’t much on remembering things. Then she turned to the bank, raised her spread fingers to her forehead, closed her eyes, and worked a locating spell Sella had taught her years ago, using the spriggan as her familiar.

Her eyes flew open.

“He’s there!” she shouted. “He went ashore at the inn! Take us back, to that inn we just passed, quickly!” She pointed desperately, jabbing at the air in her excitement.

How perverse of the boy, she thought, to go ashore without warning, instead of continuing on to Sardiron of the Waters as he had said he would! Teneria was beginning to dislike Dumery without ever having met him.

“What?” The boatman stared at her as if she had gone mad, but already he was backing water with one oar. “How do you know?”

“I just know,” Teneria said.

“Magic? Is it magic? You’re a wizard?” His voice was both eager and apprehensive.

“I’m a witch,” Teneria corrected him. Then she corrected herself. “An apprentice, anyway. If I find the boy I’ll make journeyman.”

“But you said you didn’t have any magic...”

“I said I didn’t have any magic that could move the boat faster than you can. I don’t. Witchcraft doesn’t work that way.”

“But you say you know... I mean, if you can do one kind of magic...”

Teneria decided to just ignore the boatman’s questions, and after a moment they trailed away into silence as he concentrated on bringing the boat safely up to the dock.

Teneria fished in her purse and found the silver bits she had promised. She handed them over, tossed the spriggan gently up onto the dock, then climbed up after it.

“Thank you,” she called back.

The boatman just nodded as he pushed off. “Crazy witch,” he muttered a moment later, clearly unaware that witches were known for their remarkable hearing.

Teneria heard the remark, but paid no attention. She was scanning the area, looking for psychic traces.

There, behind that bush-someone had crouched there for at least an hour, probably much more, yesterday morning. It was a boy, about twelve.

It was Dumery. No doubt at all, it was Dumery. She had found his trail.

From here, it would be easy. The traces weren’t as fresh as they might be, but there were no crowds, no conflicting signals, up here in the wilds of Sardiron. The traces were there; all she had to do was follow them.

How difficult could it be?

With a smile on her lips and the spriggan perched unsteadily on her shoulder, she marched up the trail into the forest.

By nightfall it had begun to sink in that Dumery still had a good, solid lead on her, and she wasn’t gaining much on him. Oh, she was gaining, but only very slowly; she estimated the traces to be only a day or so old, where she had started a good two days behind.

But she still had a lot of catching up to do.

She passed the spot where Dumery had slept, curled up beside the path, and noted it, even in the darkness. She wasn’t about to stop there herself; this was her chance to gain a little ground.

Besides, there was an inn ahead, she could sense it, no more than a mile away.

She forged on, finding her way by moonlight and witch-sight. The spriggan, half asleep, tottered and almost fell from her shoulder; she put a hand up to steady it.

Her legs dragged with weariness, but she kept moving.

After a time she paused to catch her breath. The inn was just over the ridge, she knew that; she was almost there.

Then the night was torn open by a blaze of orange light from above, light that spilled in sharp-edged blades through the dark trees, turning the forest into a jagged maze of bright color and black shadow. She heard the sound of a man’s scream, thin with distance, and she looked up, seeking the source of the light.

A man was hanging unsupported in the night sky, perhaps a hundred yards up and two hundred yards to the north, and the light came from his body, burning like a miniature sun.

He was screaming, and appeared to be struggling with the empty air, as if something were pulling at him, dragging him somewhere he didn’t want to go.

Then his head jerked, the light went out, the screaming stopped, and he fell.

Teneria stood frozen in astonishment for a moment, listening to the sound of branches snapping beneath the fallen magician’s weight-for anyone who flew about glowing like that was clearly a magician.

Then she heard the dull thud of the body hitting the ground, and she came to her senses.

The spriggan, wide awake now, whimpered. She petted it once, quickly, then turned her attention back to the fallen man.

Witchlight was tiring, and she was already very tired indeed, but she managed a small, pale glow from one palm, enough to find an old tree limb; setting it afire at one end also used up more energy than she could really afford, but was not as taxing as maintaining a witchlight would have been.

Once the wood was burning steadily she picked it up and began to pick her way through the forest underbrush by the light of this impromptu torch.

At first she almost walked right past the man because she was expecting to see an orange cloak. Without the magical glow, though, his cloak was black, and she took it for a shadow until the torch’s illumination failed to dispel it.

He was lying face-down atop a pile of dead leaves and broken branches, and she was unsure whether he was alive or dead until she heard his breath rustling the leaves. She stooped and pushed at his shoulder, as the spriggan clung precariously.

There was no response; he was at least dazed, more likely unconscious.

In fact, hewas unconscious, she realized; had she not been so weary she would have seen it immediately. His aura was dim but steady, and she could not sense any thought at all.

He was hurt, as well; she worked a quick diagnostic spell and discovered that the fall had broken two of his ribs and cracked the bone in his left wrist.

It was a very good thing, she thought, that he was unconscious, because if she had looked as a witch upon anyone that badly injured while the person was awake,both of them would probably have passed out from the pain. This man was seriously damaged.

He needed attention, and slow healing, and she was in no condition to provide it here in the middle of the forest, alone in the dark.

Just a quarter of a mile away, however, was an inn. The fallen man was tall and broad, but he had clearly not eaten well lately, and his skin was stretched tight on his bones, with little muscle left-she could move him.

Carrying him a quarter-mile, though, through the woods in the dark, without even the trail for much of the way...

Well, did she really have any choice? She couldn’tleave him here!

She plucked the spriggan from her shoulder and placed it gently on the ground; the little creature started to protest, but she hushed it. Then she bent down and picked the unconscious magician up, using a levitation spell to help when her grip was not strong enough or the man’s body started to flop in the wrong direction, and got him hoisted up across her shoulders.

She got a look at his face as she lifted him; he was in his thirties, she judged, but his features were lined and troubled, even in his unconscious state.

When he was secure, she started walking-or rather, staggering-toward the inn, the spriggan following in her footsteps, making unhappy little worried noises.

As she walked, she used little pushes of witchcraft to steady her, and a lifting spell whenever her burden started to shift or slide, but she fought the temptation to just levitate him entirely. That was too risky. She could kill herself that way-or so Sella had always warned her.

“Levitation drains just as much from you as lifting with your hands and legs,”

Sella had insisted. “It’s just that when you use your muscles, they’ll protest when they’re overworked, they’ll tell you when you’re tired, when you’re doing too much. They’ll ache and twinge and not hold. It’s your body’s natural warning system. But witchcraft isn’t natural, and your body isn’t made for it-thereare no warnings. In trance, you can keep up a spell until your body has no life left in it at all, hasn’t got the energy remaining to keep your heart pumping. A witch can keel over and die, just like that, if she tries to do too much.”

Teneria had taken Sella’s word for it; she had seen how she could feel fine and alert during a spell, and exhausted the moment she released her concentration, and had never cared to test the theory any further.

But now, after a long and strenuous day, instead of eating her supper and getting a good night’s rest she had worked a whole series of little spells, and in addition she was carrying a weight of at least a hundred and fifty pounds. She could hardly have much of an energy reserve left; if she tried any more spells shemight keel over and die.

She stumbled at the very thought, and almost went headlong, catching herself at the last instant.

When she saw the lights of the inn through the trees she let out her breath in a great sigh of relief-but she wasn’t there yet, and she didn’t have the energy to shout. She staggered on.

After what seemed like days she dropped her torch, lowered the inert man to the ground, fell heavily against the door of the inn, and managed a weak pounding with one fist.

Someone answered her knock, and she actually got herself inside and into a chair before, amid mutters and exclamations in Sardironese, she passed out.