The Eyes of the Dragon

95

Teter began that Sunday as he always did, with his exercises and a prayer.

He had awakened feeling fresh and ready. After a quick look at the sky to gauge the progress of the coming storm, he ate his breakfast.

And, of course, he used his napkin.

By Sunday noon, everyone in Delain had come out of his or her house at least once to look worriedly toward the north. Everyone agreed that the storm, when it came, would be one to tell stories about in later years. The clouds rolling in were a dull gray, the color of wolf pelts. Temperatures rose until the icicles hanging beneath the eaves of the alleys began to drip for the first time in weeks, but the old-timers told each other (and anyone else who would listen) that they were not fooled. The temperature would plummet quickly, and hours later-perhaps two, perhaps four-the snow would begin. And, they said, it might fall for days.

By three o’clock that afternoon, those farmers of the Inner Baronies fortunate enough to still have livestock to watch out for had gotten their animals into the barns. The cows went mooing their displeasure; the snow had melted enough for them to crop last fall’s dry grasses for the first time in months. Yosef, older, grayer, but still lively enough at seventy-two, saw that all the King’s horses were stabled. Presumably there was some-one else to take care of all the King’s men. Wives took advantage of the mild temperatures to attempt to dry sheets which oth-erwise simply would have frozen on the lines, and then took them in as the daylight lowered toward an early, storm-colored dark. They were disappointed; their washing had not dried. There was too much moisture in the air.

Animals were skittish. People were nervous. Wise meadhouse keepers would not open their doors. They had observed the falling mercury in their barometric glasses, and long experience had taught them that low air pressure makes men quick to fight.

Delain battened down for the coming storm, and everyone waited.

Ben and Naomi took turns running beside the sledge. They reached the Peyna farm at two o’clock that Sunday after-noon-at about the same time Dennis was stirring awake on his mattress of royal napkins and Peter was beginning his meager lunch.

Naomi looked beautiful indeed-the flush of her exercise had colored her tanned cheeks the pretty dusky red of autumn roses. As the sledge pulled into Peyna’s yard, the dogs barking wildly, she turned her laughing face to Ben.

“A record run, by the gods!” she cried. “We’ve made it three-no, four!-hours earlier than I would have believed when we left! And not one dog has burst its heart! Aiy, Frisky! Aiy! Good dog!”

Frisky, a huge black-and-white Anduan husky with gray-green eyes, was at the head of the tether. She was jumping in the air, straining against the traces. Naomi unhooked her and danced with her in the snow. It was a curious waltz, both graceful and barbaric. Dog and mistress seemed to laugh at each other in a powerful shared affection. Some of the other dogs were lying down on their sides now, panting hard, obviously exhausted, but neither Frisky nor Naomi seemed even slightly winded.

“Aiy, Frisky! Aiy, my love! Good dog! You’ve led a famous chase!”

“But for what?” Ben asked glumly.

She released Frisky’s paws and turned to him, angry… but the dejection on his face robbed her of her anger. He was looking toward the house. She followed his gaze and understood. They were here, yes, but where was here? An empty farmhouse, that was all. What in the world had they come so far and so fast for? The house would have been just as empty an hour… two hours… four hours from now. Peyna and Arlen were in the north, Dennis somewhere in the depths of the castle. Or in a prison cell or a coffin awaiting burial, if he had been caught.

She went to Ben and put a hesitant hand on his shoulder. “Don’t feel so bad,” she said. “We’ve done all we could do.”

“Have we?” he asked. “I wonder.” He paused, and sighed deeply. He had taken off his knitted cap and his golden hair gleamed mellowly in the dull afternoon light. “I’m sorry, Naomi. I don’t mean to snap at you. You and your dogs have done wonders. It’s just that I feel we’re very far from where we could give any real aid. I feel helpless.”

She looked at him, sighed, and nodded.

“Well,” he said, “let’s go in. Maybe there’ll be some sign of what we’re to do next. We’ll at least be out of the blow when it comes.”

There were no clues inside. It was just a big, drafty, empty farmhouse that had been quit in a hurry. Ben prowled restlessly from room to room and found nothing at all. After an hour, he collapsed unhappily beside Naomi in the sitting room… in the very chair where Anders Peyna had sat when he listened to Dennis’s incredible story.

“If only there was a way to track him,” Ben said.

He looked up to see her staring at him, her eyes bright and round and full of excitement.

“There might be!” she said. “If the snow holds off-”

“What are you talking about?”

“Frisky!” she cried. “Don’t you see? Frisky can track him! She has the keenest nose of any dog I’ve ever known!”

“The scent would be days old,” he said, shaking his head. “Even the greatest tracking dog that ever lived could not…”

“Frisky may be the greatest tracking dog that ever lived,” Naomi replied, laughing. “And tracking in winter’s not like tracking in summer, Ben Staad. In summer, trace dies quickly… it rots, my Da’ says, and there are a hundred other traces to cover the one the dog seeks. Not just of other people and other animals, but of grasses and warm winds, even the smells that come on running water. But in the winter, trace lasts. If we had something that belonged to this Dennis… something that carried his scent…”

“What about the rest of your team?” Ben asked.

“I should open the shed over there”-she pointed at it-"and leave my bedroll in it. If I show them where it is and then free them, they’ll be able to forage for their own food-rabbits and such-and they’ll also know where to come for shelter.”

“They won’t follow us?”

“Not if they’re told not to.”

“You can do that?” He looked at her with some awe.

“No,” Naomi said matter-of-factly. “I don’t speak Dog. Nor does Frisky speak Human, but she understands it. If I tell Frisky, she’ll tell the others. They’ll hunt what they need, but they won’t range far enough to lose the scent of my bedroll, not with the storm coming. And when it starts, they’ll go to shelter. It won’t matter if their bellies are hungry or full.”

“And if we had something that belonged to this boy Dennis, you really believe Frisky could track him?”

“Aye.”

Ben looked at her long and thoughtfully. Dennis had left this farm on Tuesday; it was now Sunday. He didn’t believe any scent could last that long. But there was something in the house which would bear Dennis’s scent, and perhaps even a fool’s errand would be better than only sitting here. It was the pointless sitting more than anything else that grated on him, the hours ahead when things of grave importance might be happening elsewhere, while they sat and twiddled their thumbs here. Under other circumstances, the possibility of being snowbound with a girl as beautiful as Naomi would have delighted him, but not while a kingdom might be won and lost twenty miles to the east… and his best friend might be living or dying with only that confounded butler to help him.

“Well?” she asked eagerly. “What do you think?”

“I think it’s crazy,” he said, “but worth a try.”

She grinned. “Do we have something with his scent strong upon it?”

“We do,” he said, getting up. “Bring your dog in, Naomi, and lead her upstairs. To the attic.”