At last he spoke, purring his words. “I will wait until the moot is done then. It is only a matter of hours. When the moot is done, you will not be protected, little heartbeat.”
She shook her head at him. “I doubt that very much, Aslaug, most wonderful of dragons. You have come this vast distance just to retrieve one small plate of gold. Only great need and pain and could you to such a journey. You ask me? Every passing moment must be a torment for you, or else, why cross forests and mountains and hills, just to fetch a trivial little trinket?” She drew a breath. “In stories, dragons can go mad if even a piece of their treasure is taken from them. What will it do to you, to be so near your treasure and unable to take it?” She narrowed her eyes and looked at him, squinting through her lashes. “Won’t it?”
He puffed up, and spines that lined his throat and neck stuck out at all angles. “It is a missing piece of my pride and joy. It is needed to make the whole of it, whole again. Do you withold it from me then? Do not insult me and my dear beloved joy?”
“Now you are puffing yourself up to make for false insult. I am not preventing you from stepping forward and taking your little gold plate. It here here, for you, and the goddess can see it. You must know that. She won’t be tricked by a false wounded pride.”
He settled himself angrily, like a cat that was watching a mouse that was cowering just out of reach. “What then do you propose, little heartbeat?”
“No more or less than what I have already proposed. Simply step forward. The little piece of lost treasure is yours. I leave it for you freely and without any lien. But in so doing you must obey the rules of the moot. You cannot deal me harm, nor anyone else here.”
“What of the thief? Has the thief been punished?” A note of hopefulness entered his voice. Aslaug clearly wanted some manner of revenge.
“Of the man who took the plate, I do not know for certain,” she admitted, “but he was snatched away by a cloud of his master’s angry magic. Honestly, I doubt he lives.” She squared her shoulders. “As for the master, the one who ordered that your treasure be stolen, so that you might be danced and jerked about, like some puppet on strings–he is not long for life. The Goddess of the Tor is destroying him slowly, inch-by-inch, even as we speak.”
Aslaug seemed to consider this. “What do you mean, dance like a puppet?”
Perhaps he was looking for another thing to be insulted by, but Caewen saw a way into his motivations through his pride. “Fafmuir the Dawn Magician was manipulating you. He wanted you to come here, enraged and full of hot flames so that you would destroy the whole moot. He intended that you undo an enemy of his, an enemy who is here.”
“I know of Famfuir.” A derisive snort came out with a billow of embers. “He is a fool yes, but a kindly old sap of a fool. You are as full of lies, I see, as I suspected.”
“Maybe he was kind, and maybe a corner of his heart still is, in its way. But he is sunk deep in madness. He would have pointed you at his enemy like some… some.. flaming arrow dipped in pitch.”
There did seem to be a growing calmness now in Aslaug’s voice. “Is this so?” He looked up then, past Caewen’s shoulder. “Perhaps we ought to ask him personally, little heartbeat. Ho there, Fafmuir. Is this the truth? Or may I rend this arrogant little creature limb-from-limb for her lies?” He did sound hopeful.
Caewen started, and spun on her feet. Fafmuir was limping towards them, over the night-dark grass. His face was strained and stretched into a mask of pain. But there was resignation in his expression too. “Wotcha there, Aslaug. And to you, Caewen, I suppose.” He did not sound pleased with her. With a wave a hand, he added, “She speaks the truth. It was my plan, old Aslaug, belly-crawler, worm-of-the-dirt, foul eater-of-corpses.”
Aslaug’s eyes widened, but then he did a strange thing. He laughed. And the noise of it echoed and shook everything from grass to sky to Caewen’s bones. “A trick upon me, old Fafmuir. But this little heartbeat is right. I can scent death all through you. Your body is a stench of rot. Your flesh is dissolving. Relentless and painful is your end, I think.” After a moment’s reflection, the dragon asked, “Why seek to belittle me so? Were we not on friendly terms, once, you and I?”
“The Winter King is here. I meant you to destroy him, and me too, and all these fools.”
“I might have done that if you had asked me directly. I have no love for the cold, nor the blizzard, nor the king of winter with his cold, cold songs. Such things are discomforting to me.”
“You could not attack the moot without cause. And you could not hope to destroy him in his stronghold of power, away north. How he comes hither and thither, I do not rightly know. What form he wears, I do not know. So, you could not ambush him outside the moot, either. A justified attack, here, upon the moot was what was required.” He cast a sidelong look at Caewen. “But that is squandered now. Our young hero here has saved everyone. Hurrah. How very wonderful.”
“You two know one another?” said Caewen.
“Are you so dim, little heartbeat? The great and the powerful all know each other. We must, for how else may we keep an eye on that which may be of trouble to us?”
“Huh.”
“I hope you don’t feel too much pleased with yourself,” said Fafmuir. He squinted, angrily. “You hare averted some few deaths here, yes, but you have assured the whole world to war. Every baby who dies crying for a mother who is herself bleeding and screaming. Every boy dressed up in soldier’s foolery and sent to die like a man. Every old fellow who’s throat is cooly slit, because elderly captives are no use for labour. Every house burned. Every village left full of ghosts and well-fed rats and wolves and crows. Every poor soul idly tortured to death because some petty band of soldiers are bored. All of that suffering. All of that pain. All of that human misery. All of it is on you. You are so deep in the red blood of suffering, your soul will never be washed clean. You are accursed Caewen. What to call you? Caewen the ill-fated. Caewen the bleak-raven. Caewen the fool. These are your names. This is the bounty of your heroism.”
Caewen had nothing to say to that. Deep inside she nursed a terrible squirming worry that he was right. When neither of the other two seemed much inclined to say anything, Caewen ventured to say, “Well, what now then? Aslaugh, will you take you returned piece of treasure and be gone?”
“What an arrogant little heartbeat.” But he thrummed thoughtfully deep in his throat. “I might still have revenge on Fafmuir. It is my right.” He looked at the old magician, shivering where he stood. “But to bathe you with fire would be to give you a quick death. And I will not eat you. You smell of rancid flesh. I do not eat rotting flesh. I am not some grubbing tunnel-wurum, snapping rotting old bones to get rotting old marrow.” He turned his eyes on Caewen then, and she felt the force of them pin her. She felt his thoughts rummage about in her head before she was able to desperately block him out. “As for you, I have right to be insulted. You have spoken to me as an equal, and we are clearly not equal.” A pause. “However, you have done me a good turn, and you have right to expect fair treatment in return. The moot binds me.” He seemed to turn over his options, then said, “Add just one single gold coin to the plate, and I will take that as payment that excuses your unpleasant impolitenesses.”
With a wan smile, she said, “I don’t know if I own a gold coin. I’ll look, but I’m pretty sure I don’t. Will a silver penny do?”
“Curse me with paupers for brood-mates. Not even a piece of gold to your name? You are playing in waters that are vastly over your head, little heartbeat. Very well, put a silver on the plate.” He rolled his magnificent gold-lit eyes. “The things that I must make do with in life.”