They rode for three days, stopping only to eat and to allow Caewen and the boy to catch what small snatches of sleep were possible during these brief stops. Otherwise, they had to take turns sleeping in the saddle. Dapplegrim–being not a little unnatural in his blood–was near-tireless… but near-tireless is still only near-tireless. By the third day, he was noticeably slower.
His hooves churned the dirt and sod more ponderously.
Late in that third day, two great shapes appeared in the sky: the leathern-winged draig that the boy had been expecting and dreading. They quickly closed the distance and swooped low enough for it to be possible to see they were both fitted with black and silver harness. In each saddle sat a knight in dull grey armour, bundled up with furs as proof against the cold high winds. The boy ducked his head low and wondered what would happen, but he draig-riders didn’t attack. They circled, watchfully, and finally turned back to the horsemen behind.
“They’re running us to ground,” said Caewen, looking back over her shoulder. A distant dust cloud hinting at pursuit still marred the northern skyline.
“Couldn’t you cast a spell at them?” asked the boy, “Or something?”
“I might throw a fey-stroke at one of them,” said Caewen.
As she spoke, the little shadowy shape stirred under the flap of the bag she carried. It hissed and said, “Tssch, Tssh, Tss…” The tone was admonishing.
Caewen shook her head. “I know. I know. I’d only be able to draw on enough to maybe… maybe… kill one of those beasts. The effort would come close to killing me, and Fetch into the bargain. There’s only so much power that a little shadow-creature can draw from.”
He looked ahead and upward, at the skies and mountains. “No sign of Fleat yet, neither.”
Behind him, Caewen shrugged. “It was always a small chance. He may not be able to convince the others of the urgency. He might not make it in time.” After a pause, she added, more darkly, “He might be intercepted between here and there. It was a risk sending him. He knew that.” She drew in a great breath then, and let it out as a sigh. “We’ll ride up into the mountains a way, and hope to lose the winged riders there. There’s pines and other cover. But–“
He turned his head and looked at her.
Her voice was full of reluctance. “But. But. We might not escape them. We might have to stand and fight. And if that happens, I need to know that you will go on.”
“What?” He didn’t understand.
“Someone will have to distract the Sorthelanders: and I’m afraid that will be Dapplegrim and me. And someone will have to take the Old Great Spell to safety. I’m afraid that will have to be you. Make your way to Brae, if you can. A friend is supposed to meet us there. His name is Samakarantha. He’s a good man. You can trust him. He is of sun-kissed skin, and hails from far away south. You won’t mistake him for anyone else in Brae. He will help you. If you find him.”
He was quiet for a long time before he asked, “And if I don’t?”
“Let’s hope it does not come to that.”
“Sam-a-ka-ran-tha,” murmured the boy under his breath, by way of committing the foreign name to memory.
Meanwhile, Caewen spoke in her own murmurous and softly sing-song voice: as if she were repeating some old rhyme rather than delving into thought. “The Old Great Spell is too dangerous and too powerful a thing to be allowed to slip back into the hands of anyone who might use it for war, be they nightfolk or dayfolk. It must be kept out of the hands of warriors and kings and warlords. Someone will have to carry it through the mountains. Someone will have to keep it safe and hidden.” She continued only after a span of thoughtful moments. “And find the lost fragment of the spell. If possible.”
“But I wouldn’t be able to do that. You need to do that. You’re a great fighter and magician. I’m just… well… I’m just me. I’m not even very brave. I’ve been afraid this whole time.”
She answer him in kinder than his own inner voice allowed. “You hide it well. Here’s a thing I’ve learned: bravery isn’t feeling nothing inside. That’s deadness and hollowness. Bravery is feeling fear and doing what is right anyway. You’re braver than most. You’ve faced monsters and murderers and and eerie magic, and you faced it all well.”
“I don’t feel brave,” he said softly.
“No one ever does,” she replied. “No one ever does.”
“Really?”
“Really.”