A few moments passed before Caewen’s was able to settle her thoughts sufficiently to make any sense out of what she had seen in the flames. Of course, she tried to explain it all at once, but the words came out jumbled and wrong. She got the times and places mixed up. Her sense of the days and hours was all churned up inside, until , in exasperation she accepted that she needed to let the visions dwindle away a little, let them fade.
She slumped down on the floor, sitting cross-legged, and stared at the shadows until the red-hot after-images of the burning coals went out of her eyes.
At last, her breathing calmer, her head clearer, she was able to array the flickering images into some sort of sensible order. Meanwhile Dapplegrim had found some water and other refreshments, apparently put aside and forgotten on a side-table. She took a drink of the water from a silver ewer. While she was at it, she took an apple, a small sweet bready treat and two scones studded with currants. She hadn’t eaten in hours, after all. And she had been doing a lot of flitting this way and that through time and space. That sort of thing was bound to build up an appetite. Chewing her way through the first scone, she said, “I think I can explain it all now.”
“Well?” he asked.
“The Winter King is here.”
“What?” said Dapplegrim, looking around. “In the tent?”
“No. At the moot.”
“Really? Who is he then? What does he look like? You’d think we’d have noticed some icy god-thing wandering around. Are you sure he’s here?”
“Yes. I’m sure. And Fafmuir was sure too. He saw it as well.”
“Does Fafmuir know then?” asked Dapple. “Does Fafmuir know where the Winter King is hiding?”
She shook her head. “No. Fafmuir doesn’t know either, else he would have only gone after the Winter King himself. It’s not knowing that has driven Fafmuir to madness. The Winter King is in disguise–or is concealed in some other way. I only saw him as a frost-hemmed shadow, lurking. But he is here. He is definitely here, somewhere. I suppose even elder powers might have their reasons for attending a meeting of the magi?”
“They would.” Dapplegrim paused to consider. “It can’t be that grey frost-bearded old man, could it? What was he called? Warren who rules the Horrens, or something.”
“It was Hwala who rules the Woerns. It seems a bit on the nose, doesn’t it? I mean, maybe, but you’d think he’d disguise himself better than that.”
“You’d think… but sometimes the best disguise is to sit out in the open and let everyone fail to notice you. Sometimes the best place to hide a murdered body is on a battlefield. Did you have any sense of his motives? Was the young witchling girl right? The one who died in the snow.”
“Tamsin.”
“Yeah. Her. Is there a war coming?”
“Yes. But it may not matter. What is important, here, now, is that Fafmuir had a vision of the war to come, the armies massing, and the Winter King at the heart of it all. He saw also that the Winter King would be at the moot, and so he saw a chance.” She lightly licked a thin sugary crust from her lips. “These are really good,” she said, abstractedly.
“Caewen…”
“Yes. Sorry. So. You’re Fafmuir.”
“No I’m not,” said Dapplegrim. “Or, at least, I’m reasonably sure I’m not Fafmuir. He is a magician though, and magicians are tricksy shapeshifters.” He seemed struck by this. “What if I am Fafmuir?”
“Dapplegrim.”
“Sorry.”
“I mean, pretend yourself to be Famfuir.”
“Oh, right. I see. Hur. Hurm. Hurr. Let me get in character. Oh, I’m so jolly, and friendly. Look at my cheery smile. Ho ho ho. Everyone loves my rosy cheeks. Wotcha.”
“Dapplegrim–be serious.”
“Wotcha,” he said again, but more seriously.
“Alright. Fine. You’re Fafmuir.”
“Wotcha.”
“You have a vision of a war to bring down the empires of mortal men. A war that might well see Old Night and Chaos return her hand to the sunlit earth. Bloody. Terrible. Cities burned. Hundreds upon thousands put to the sword, starved, driven from their homes.”
“Wotcha. I find myself upset by this.”
“You are. And you can see no way that the whole of the armies of the southlands, the knights and the heroes, the warriors and the magi of the sunlit lands: they can do nothing to stop it. You are quite sure of this. There are monsters coming. Monsters the like of which have not been seen south of the Snowy Mountains in an age.”
Dapplegrim sounded worried. He snorted. “Worse than me, then?”
“Much worse than you.” She took a breath. “But what was it that archi-mage said? The man in the robes of stars: nothing but the hottest fires of earth-demons or dragons could kill the Winter King. Or something to that meaning.”
“Oh,” said Dapplegrim. “I’ve a sense I know where this is going. Fafmuir didn’t chose death-by-earth-demon though, did he?”
A sober nod. “You have a cloak that would let a person go about unseen by charmed things, spirits, gods, demons… dragons. Now, you need a way to conceal something. It doesn’t have to be large. Any old piece of the treasure will do. Maybe Fafmuir snuck himself into the carven halls of the Nibelung’s. Maybe he sent his white-haired assassin. Either way, they stole a concealing box. Just like that merchant’s cloth, but more potent. It’s valuable though. That’s why the Nibelung have been looking for it. They want it back. But once he had his strongbox for concealing, maybe Fafmuir went into the lair of Aslaug the Vainglorious himself. Again, maybe he just sent his assassin. It doesn’t matter.” She pondered this for a moment. They were both silent, then Caewen said, “Dapple?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s imagine you had a stolen piece of a dragon’s treasure hidden in a concealing box. You open the box. The treasure is suddenly no longer concealed. Over what distances can a dragon sense a piece of its stolen treasure?”
“It’s not something that gets tested a great deal. I mean, usually, a thief doesn’t run very far. Do they?”
“But, just taking a stab? Would there be any limit?”
“Dragons do love their treasures. And they are uncanny strange beasts. It’s all a bit of an unhealthy relationship, too, you ask me. Dragon. Gold. Dragon. Gold.” He thrummed his voice softly, thoughtfully. “I don’t suppose there would be any limit.”
“And Aslaug would already be enraged, because he knows his little piece of treasure has been stolen. He can’t find it though. He doesn’t know where it is.”
“Oh, he would be like a soaking wet cat, if you were also throwing things at the cat. Like live rats. He would be that sort of enraged.”
“So,” said Caewen, “if you were able to sneak away a piece of treasure, bring it to the moot in a box. Put it in with the other treasures to be gifted. Open the box…”
Dapplegrim started pacing. Oh. Oh. Hurm. Hur. That would be bad. Very bad. Very angry dragon. Very, very angry dragon. I imagine the fiery rage would be indiscriminate. Seems like a good way to kill everyone for a dozen miles around a place.”
A stark realisation came to her. “Of course it could all go wrong if there was a magician who had the talent for talking to dragons. If there was someone who could charm Aslaug with words.”
“I see,” said Dapplegrim. “You’d probably want to murder everyone who had a talent for talking to worms, serpents, drakes, draig and so forth too. Just to be sure. Hurm.”
“And Aslaug is the greatest dragon of the age? Didn’t Fafmuir say that? Back at the start of the moot, when he was pretending to be the rumour-monger?”
“Yeah. You know… Caewen… I have a new plan. We charge out of the tent, I knock down anyone who gets in our way, and we gallop as fast as I can carry you in any direction.”
“How long might it take a dragon to fly across the Deepwode Glaelds? Give or take.”
“A day?” said Dapplegrim. “We’re dealing with a lot of unknowns. Hurm. Maybe longer. Maybe less. But, how do you like my plan that involves running away like scared mice?”
She smiled at him, if a little sadly. “No, Dapple. We both know that’s not going to happen. We have to save the moot.”