As they approached, Caewen leaned forward, and said at a whisper in Dapple’s ear. “Stop. Stay here.” She swung herself down then, landing lightly on the grey and moor-damp turf. She left them, and crossed the last few hundred paces on her own. Wetness oozed in her footsteps, welling up from the soaked ground. It made a trail of little glistening puddles behind her.
As he sat and watched, the boy was feeling an uncomfortable recognition: it welled up just as darkly and silently as the earth-stained water.
“Is that–?”
Dapplegrim ruffled an ear. A fen-fly was bothering him. “Don’t ask me. Smells of faer-magic. But also… not. I don’t know what it is. A faer-creature? A ghost? A spirit of a living far-walker?” His voice rumbled. “It’s dangerous, whatever it is.”
Caewen was standing before the being now: and she was bathed in light as if she were before a pillar of twisting white fire. They were talking.
“Can you hear them?”
“Yes,” replied Dapple.
“What are they saying?”
But he just shook his head. His lank mane swayed. “No. It’s private. I wouldn’t be eavesdropping, but I can’t help it. I can’t close up my ears.” He leaned around and he black-red eyes pinned the boy’s own gaze. “No hands.”
The boy thought about this. “If Caewen needs us to know, she’ll tell us.”
“Yes.”
“I think that’s the sleeping queen.” His voice was full of inner musings. “The one in the tomb, I mean. I didn’t realise she could leave that place. But why has she come out this way? What are they discussing?”
“Hurm,” murmured Dapplegrim. He peered back, past the boy now. His eyes sought the horizon. “The knights of Sorthe are still following us. They are a long way back, but they are following still. And I can clearly see beasts in the air now too. Great winged monstrosities. I can out-run any mortal horse. But I can’t outpace things that fly. The wing-mounted knights will be upon us soon enough.”
The boy glanced over his shoulder. He saw nothing but grey moors, and hills, a ragged horizon and a sky of unpleasant clouds hanging above it all.
At last, the conversation on the hill seemed to come to some close.
Caewen bowed–very much as if she were in the court of some regal lord or lady–then retraced her steps back down the hill, and over the spongey ground.
The woman on the hill watched her go, but did not make any movement towards leaving herself.
“Well?” said Dapplegrim, as Caewen approached.
“We discussed some things. Athairdrost. The death of Athairdrost. The Old Great Spell. Other things.”
“I know all that. Hur. I could hear you. What I mean is: Well? What are you thinking? That’s a dangerous suggestion.”
“It seems only fair. And it may come to nothing. It would require agreement by all involved.”
He snorted. “Still. Dangerous.”
She pulled herself back up onto Dapplegrim. She did her best to smile, but largely failed. “We cannot fight a mass of knights, let alone hope to fend off men mounted on winged and fang-toothed draig. We need friends. And allies.”
Dapplegrim did not seem convinced. “You’ve become grim in your mind, Caewen. You’re not the happy-go-lucky daughter of a turnip grower I once met.”
She shifted, uncomfortable. “Well, that was a long time ago. Before hardships. Before losses. These days, I worry that I’ve forgotten how to be anything other than grim, as you put it.”
Dapplegrim produced enough of a smile for both of them. “You’ll remember well enough, given the chance. Shall we?” He nodded, indicating the way ahead.
“No point in delaying.”
They were off again.
As they left the little hillock behind, the boy noticed that the queen in her garments of subtle-glowing and drifting gauzes had not moved from her place. She looked now to the north. Very much as if there was something that was consuming her attention.