A Hawk In Silver Part 14

"You're nothing to do with them! They're not even-"

"-human? I thought you knew better than to say that."

"I do, I do. I didn't mean it like that. You know what I mean. You've got your own life. It's stupid to-well, to take risks where there isn't any need."

He was serious. "If they're fighting I have to be there. Sometimes you have to fight for what you think's right. Anyway, archers rarely get hurt if only one side has 'em. I'll stay a bow-shot away an' pick 'em off."

"Yeah, pick 'em off, shoot, kill! You don't even know what it means, you're just playing, being melodramatic. Silly G.o.dd.a.m.n schoolboy games! You don't know!"

"Don't I?"

"No!"

They were facing each other like enemies, breath clouding the crystal air. Fletcher glared at her-a grey-eyed girl, flushed with anger, glittering with fury. So sure of herself. Then he turned away, going to clear the bench of snow and slump down on it.

"All right then-" it was a boy's voice, choking "-all right, you tell me how I can stay here? Don't you see? He's my father. They're my friends. I'm not human; inside, where it matters, I'm elukoi! I don't remember being human, I've lived in the Hills all my life. Even if it's only for tonight, I've got to go. I can't let them down. Can't. Oh Christ."

His head dipped; his hands covered his face but only for a second. When he looked up he was shaking. He said quietly, "I thought you'd understand."

Holly had leant back against the pond-rail, gripping it tightly. Her palms were frozen; mottled blue and purple.

"Understand?"

Inside her head she had a collection of mental pictures of Fletcher, from the bright sunlight of Highrock to the feel of his arm light across her shoulders at the autumn fair. Now there was another, a boy in the snow, and she thought suddenly this might be the last.

She thought, He's right. You can't let people down. If he asks me, I'll go.

"I do understand. Look, Fletch-"

He interrupted: "Never mind. I know all your arguments. They're very good. Very logical." He had learned enough of human ways to be angry that she had seen him show emotion. "Except I can't be logical when my friends are in trouble. It must be very convenient for you, that logic."

"Convenient, is it?"

"It must keep you out of a good many fights."

"You-! I didn't know you thought that about me."

"Thought what?"

"That I'm a coward."

"Did I say that? I didn't say that. You must have a guilty conscience."

"Guilty conscience!"

"Well, you said it, I didn't."

"For someone brought up in a village of savages you learn human arguments very quickly."

"They are not savages!"

"True. True. You can civilise savages."

"You're a liar as well as a coward."

It was as if he'd struck her. A white flame of anger blossomed. Her hands clenched to fists.

"If that's all you've got to say there's no point in me carry-ing on with this conversation. Excuse me."

"That's right. Run away. You do a lot of it, don't you? But you can't keep running forever."

"You go to h.e.l.l!" She walked away quickly, snow clogging her feet, leaving him. standing under the trees. Almost ran.

Turned round to shout, throat hoa.r.s.e: "To h.e.l.l! You can go to b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l !"

Her voice rang flatly in the snow. He did not answer. She ran on through the Park.

It had clouded over, Holly couldn't see what time the sun set. By two, it was pitch dark. By six, when she came home, she was being driven crazy by the church bell. She mentioned it to her mother.

"Bell, dear? I can't say I can hear a bell but then your young ears are sharper than mine. I know it's very oppressive today.

I've had a headache since I woke up."

"Me too." Sharp ears? was her mental query. You couldn't miss it unless you were stone deaf. b.l.o.o.d.y mournful thing; clang... clang...

clang... you'd think it was a funeral. And she can't hear it?

She realised then; as easily as if she'd known it all along. The sea-bells of Ys. The challenge for midnight, tonight, on the beach.

"I had a phone call from Ted Malory," her mother con-tinued. "I expected you'd have been into the gallery to see him?"

Holly shook her head, only half listening. She had spent hours just wandering round the town centre. It had been a darkday, the sun low in the south; a few cars creasing lines in the slush, tyres hissing. She had had no heart for the windows full of bright lights and colours; Christmas trees, Christmas carols, Santa Claus, cribs-not even the Christmas pop music. Every roof and ledge had an icing of snow, rounding the harsh edges and making the town look clean; she had let the slow cold numb her body and her mind, not wanting to think.

"I never went along that way. What'd he want?"

"He says he's sold that painting of yours-the one of the apple tree. To a friend of his from Manchester. He says you can look in and collect your money any time-less his percentage."

"That's Ted Malory, OK!" Holly laughed for the first time that day. "Sold it, has he? Jesus-oh, sorry, Mum. But think- somebody liked it enough to pay money for it!"

Her mother laughed, echoing her pleasure. "You'd better get painting, I can always do with extra housekeeping."

"You'll be lucky!" She raced to the arctic regions of her bedroom, anxious to see if she had anything else that might be saleable She drew the curtains and shut out the ghost-white world under its cold street lamps. It gave an illusion of cosiness, though her breath smoked in the air. She heaved an armful of paper and board canvases on to the bed.

My G.o.d, what rubbish. It'll have to go. I just haven't got room. She hugged herself. There was a wild triumph burning under her ribs, she wanted very much to shout, and to dance. But then she stopped, sobered, and picked up one sheaf of papers fallen from a folder.

They were pencil sketches, and not very good. Silverleaf from the back; a waterfall of hair and a wild-animal stance.

Brancaer from a distance; and the interior of the Great Hall. One of Elathan, torn through. Three of the Harper; one in firelight with the Harp, one head-and-shoulders from memory, and one three-quarter profile she had doodled absently on that winter afternoon when he called.

There were dozens of Fletcher; sitting, standing, leaning, bending over his books. Most she had done from memory, she had never dared ask him to sit for her; but some (the best) she had done while teaching him his letters down in the stable-shed.

Suddenly restless, she went back down into the sitting-room and turned the television up. Ys. Drowned Caer Ys. The bells of Ys, swinging slow and deep in fathom on fathom of icy sea; drowned in magic so deep they came to no human ears-except those who, by their nature, are spell-breakers.

'Popchart' was on; all the special Christmas recordings of Davy Starren, corn-blond, unspeakably arrogant; the rest of the group well in the background while he came on hot and heavy with 'Bethlehem Star'. Holly couldn't see him- only his uncanny resemblance to Fletcher.

He doesn't care, she thought, self-pityingly. He doesn't care at all. He's never said. Not a word. Doesn't know how I feel...

She looked up, caught her own woebegone expression in the mirror-and suddenly grinned.

My G.o.d, girl, you're ridiculous. How should he know? You've never said anything to him. It was all in your own head. She admitted to herself what she had known for a long time: I'll go. Try and get through it; hope nothing happens to any of us. But I can't just stand by and do nothing.

The rending crash of wood woke her. She shot to the window. There was a dark jagged hole where the door to Wrecker's stable had been. She picked up the clock.

Eleven forty-five p.m.

The alarm k.n.o.b was down; she had silenced it in her sleep as she often did. The last bus to cross the marshes had gone long ago. Her eyes stung, but she had no time to cry over lost opportunities.

All right, I'll walk if I have to! She reached for her jeans, but another crash brought her back to the window.

The doors of Fletcher's shed were beaten in. Snow flurried down the field, out of sight.

Fletcher! (Heart in mouth.) Has he gone yet? The elukoi move fast, he might not go till the last minute-is he down there, hurt?

She dressed hurriedly, thinking, I'll be late anyway. I must just check first, and find out if he's gone. Oh d.a.m.n that b.l.o.o.d.y Wrecker!

More snow had fallen, it was over her ankles. She pushed through the thin hedge into the field, wiping the wet snow from her face and neck. Flying hooves scattered a blizzard. The Wrecker was down the field, then, and beyond her view.

The moon had risen full. She saw plainly by its light, and picked her way to the shed and peered in.

Place is tidy, stuff's gone. Yes... so's he, obviously. Thank the Lord for that.

A ringing neigh. She swung round. The Wrecker bulleted across the bottom of the field, snaking from shadow to shadow.

That horse is wild! I'd better s.h.i.+ft. She could see no light in any house in Stonegate Street, including her own. I've wasted enough time. I've got to go while I can.

Ragged grey clouds patched the sky. The stars burned brighter. A chill wind brought sounds of geese calling in the Park and a train far down in the town station. Numb with cold, Holly felt herself wide awake in nightmare.

Up the track to the road, she decided. From there I can walk to Hallows Hill, via the Junction. Then down to the sea road. It's gonna take best part of an hour. If I can get out of here without that horse seeing me...

The snow dragged at her feet. They hurt with the cold. Half running, half walking, she made for the gate.

Bright moonlight. Too bright! A thunder of hooves and a horse-scream and Holly panicked. She threw herself towards the gate as the Wrecker came up behind her.

Nothing should move that fast! Then her leg twisted, she came cras.h.i.+ng stunned and brittle to earth, and the razor-sharp hooves came flailing down...18 Midwinter Nothing hurt.

Holly couldn't believe it. She uncurled, flat on her back in the wet snow, and opened her eyes.

To either side, a hoof; cloven and swathed in white hair like a s.h.i.+re-horse's. The Wrecker straddled her. Looking up she saw, not the bared teeth of a vicious horse, but a single jutting horn.

She was cold-and recognised it. At midsummer she had heard a name and felt this same biting coldness, and the name had been-Fyraire, Lord of Stars.

The horn was spiralled, sword-straight and sharp, and it hovered by her throat. On her face was the warm animal breath of the Unicorn; and the night stars were blotted out by the beast towering over her. It fell into place in a second: Strawberry's foal, born midsummer day, the day the Harp of Math called him.

"Fyraire!"

He reared up and back, horn raking the darkness; hooves thudding into the slush. Holly caught her breath-he shone like the moon. She lifted herself on her elbows, not caring for the moment if he trampled her or not, so long as she could look.

He quieted; lowered his head and sniffed at her.

Inside her head was a sudden burning and flowering of images; darkness, silver, cold, and an awesome immensity, in-tolerably bright. It became less intense; her mind could not hold it. She realised then that it came from him; and be-cause she could not comprehend him, she was translating that full flood into a tiny trickle of words.

You call me by name, and you have a smell of magic about you... where are my people? I have come the only way open to me to find them, but I do not know this land.

Aware that she was wet and cold, Holly sat up and pulled her legs under her, and got unsteadily to her feet. It all fitted.

Dodo's Wrecker, sick, deformed, split-hooved, misshapen in head and body-or the Unicorn, cloven-hooved, newly honied, not a horse at all, thicker at the shoulder, leaner hipped, and more n.o.ble of carriage than any equine beast. Mane and tail whipped about him; a storm of light.

"I'd better go. Magic has no effect on me; I break spells. You might get hurt..." It sounded absurd when she said it.

He came closer, his breath warm and cloudy in the frosty night. I am real. Here or in Faerie, I am real. Lord of Stars, Master of Tongues; above magic and science both. Yet I am lost... human, where are my people? You have been with them, I read signs of that.

"The elukoi-" she stopped. This was the Unicorn, Mathurin had called him. But what had he called? Nothing that could be controlled. Hooves like razors, and a murderous horn; and brilliant pictures in her head...

She thought, Chris stops magic but she couldn't stop him. n.o.body could.

"I'm not going to tell you where the elukoi are until you tell me why you want them." She backed up a step without meaning to, feeling small and defenceless. He dipped his head and looked directly into her eyes. His were a gold-flecked sea-green, mesmeric, and faintly humorous.

Listen, human. I was called here by the Harp and I came; but for what I do not know. Only those of Faerie could play Math's Harp so.

But elu-k'oi... in their tongue that is beast-friend. Who are they?

"You don't know?"

I came here the only way I could, bom mortal, for the Silver Wood was closed to me then. It is not an hour since that I became myself and knew that I was Fyraire. Of this world I know naught since the fall of Caer Ys.

"Jesus Christ...!" Absently Holly brushed caked snow from her. "I'll have to tell you. I trust you."

She told him as quickly as she could: South Street and Orione and the Hills. She felt his mind moving with hers, was sure at the end that he knew all that she did.

"Now what?" she said.

Find them.

"And then?"

The horn rested for a moment on her shoulder, rea.s.suring her. She forgot the cold that s.h.i.+vered through her and froze hands and feet; forgot the iron-bitter wind.

Courage. If anything is to be salvaged from this sorry mess, we are the ones to do it. Time is wasting.