91

Dawn Watch

The sun rose silent and golden over the battle stained valleys of the Western Reaches. A charred mess of bone and wood littered the fell. Crushed piles of stone were all that were left of the Necromancer Queen's army, along with the occasional smear of imp. The light reached the remains of the original Lochlanach settlement at Sterlester, the buildings wiped from existence –destroyed as the mountain giant flexed his long disused muscles. Bits of debris bobbed in Adamant Bay. To everyone's relief the Old Man of Sterlester had returned to his rest, exhausted by his brief period of rage and exertion. His anger assuaged by the Necromancer's death, he had laid his head on the beach at Balyow, the sandstone and granite lumps of his body remaking the skyline of the peninsula.

Candle sat on an upturned stone and watched the progress of the dawn light as it flooded across the mountains, turning them first a dark bruised purple and then finally the familiar green and tan of full daylight. The last of the evening stars winked out, one by one.

She was weary to her bones, and while not exactly happy, she was content. In the days that followed she knew she would have time to process the events of the night, to mourn Asher's death, and all those countless others. There would be time for tears and sleep and for the countless crossing ceremonies that would be needed to guide the souls of the dead. There would be time for prayer and reflection. But for now, she was home. She was home and surrounded by her friends and loved ones. Havi was safe. The Necromancer Queen was gone and the Night Nation dragons reduced to an invasion of one.

Zebulon was sitting over to one side, his head buried in his hands, and his shoulders shaking. Candle had tried to comfort him, but what could she do? Nothing she could say or do would bring back his brothers and cousins, or erase the choices that had led them here. She had always liked Zeb. Hopefully, his presence would not prove problematic in the long run.

The last act of the Old Man of Sterlester before returning to his sleep had been to smash the Gate in Jotham's cave. The way to the Night Nation was closed. Candle shifted uneasily on her rock, trying not to look at Zeb. The existence of the other gates was a secret that Candle fully intended to take to the Night with her. She and Jotham had not had a chance to discuss it but Candle was fairly sure he would agree the risk of returning Zeb to the land of his birth was not one worth taking. As much as she wanted Zeb's happiness it was impossible to sit surrounded by the carnage and chaos of that battlefield and think otherwise. He had made his own choices after all. Candle brightened. Perhaps he would learn to like it here. It would be fun to learn dragon magic from a dragon who wasn't Jotham. She glanced guiltily at Jotham who was the only one still resting in his scales. He seemed to be taking a nap, but as she watched one golden eye swivelled and winked at her.

Candle whispered a small prayer to her Ancestors and felt the soft whisper of their approval. Somehow, everyone had come through the battle alive. Battered and injured, yes, but more or less in one piece. Carantok was sporting a large bandage on his head and Delen's arm was still in a sling from where one of the lightning birds had sliced through the membrane of her wing. Candle or Jotham were both too tired and drained to heal anyone, but it could wait.

Zephi was fast asleep at Candle's feet, snoring gently and completely relaxed after the exertion of the night. The others sat or lay scattered about, too tired to talk. Those who were awake looked a little shocked, or thoughtful, as everyone tried their best to process the events of the last few hours. The moongate hummed and lit up and Ansel arrived from the Hammett bothy with steaming mugs of hot, sweet tea, which he passed around to grateful hands. That job done, the barbarian in Ancestors Own colours seated himself crossed legged and stared out at the mess of the Lochlanach settlement at Sterlester, his face haunted. Candle remembered with a jolt that he must once have lived there, had probably known people who had died when the giant woke.

"Makes me feel very strange," said Carantok, breaking the silence. Everyone turned to him in surprise. He was staring out across the isthmus, his mug almost at his lips. "Just to think that he was resting there that whole time. Sterlester. To think we have been mining his living skeleton for moonsilver for generations." There was a collective shudder.

At Candle's feet, Zephi sat up, touching a protective hand to the silver of her horns that protruded from the thicket of her red hair.

"And not just him," said Delen. "There are moon-silver deposits in other places. Does that mean they are all sleeping giants?"

"Some of them," said Jotham, the deep rumble of his voice making everyone jump. He stretched his wings out to catch the sun, clearly enjoying the warmth of the day. "Some of them are truly dead. Some of them are other things."

"How do we know which is which?" Locryn asked. "Dead or sleeping?"

"Other things?" asked Candle

Jotham shrugged, grinning a little. The expression was bizarrely human despite the number of teeth on display.

"You could ask, I suppose. I'm sure Zephi could teach you how to wake them."

"No, thank you," said Delen, firmly. "I think we should let them sleep."

Jotham snorted and a curl of flame licked the edge of his snout. He put his head down and closed his eyes.

"Hang on!" said Candle, sitting bolt upright and spilling the last of her tea. "Where's Pasco? Pasco’s missing. Is he alright?"

"He's fine," said Delen, her voice tired. She slumped against Locryn's legs. Locryn was fighting off a yawn. "He's just...sitting there."

"Where?" demanded Candle.

"At the bottom of the valley."

Candle set off at a run. It didn't take her long to find him. Pasco sat, crossed-legged on the valley floor, the wind ruffling his hair and his eyes closed. He was surrounded by spirits.

Clearly visible, even in the morning light, the small ones flowed around him like weeds in the sea. They flitted over his naked wrists and wove caressing his cheeks. Three demons, ink-black and terrible, crowded at his back, whispering in his ear, jostling to rest their hands on his shoulders. Candle slowed down, her face pale, and drew her iron dagger out of her belt. At least she meant to draw it, but she had lost it somewhere in the battle. The demon's faces swam with maggots and rancid streaks of decaying energy slipped and slid across their hungry limbs. Atramentous shadows bled from every movement, turning the air around Pasco dark and fetid.

He ignored them all, his face serene.

"Pasco, are you alright?" asked Candle, in a panic. Of course, Delen and the others could not see the spirits. To them, it would just look as though Pasco was sitting alone on the hillside. One of the demons looked up at her and hissed, and her mind flashed back to that dreadful scene in the tombs beneath Fordh Dhall. Her fists tightened. "Pasco!" she cried.

"I am fine, Candle," said Pasco, without opening his eyes. His voice was calm and unruffled. "I am merely meditating. Do not trouble yourself. They will lose interest in time."

"Are - are you sure?"

"Yes, child. I will not succumb."

"He will be fine."

The voice was a woman's – deep and authoritative. Candle jumped as the Mester stepped up beside her. Tall and impeccably dressed as always the Mester regarded the man seated before them, before turning her attention to Candle. "Pasco knows what he is doing," she said. "He has danced with demons before. Many times. Welcome back, Lady Enys. Life is never dull with you around. I go to sort out a problem with the tribes over the border for two days. And I come back to chaos." Her voice was level as she spoke but her eyes were as hard as agate. "I come back to chaos and carnage," she repeated, "and apparently half of the Own can now turn into dragons or some nonsense. I would be much obliged if you could fill me in on the details."

Candle tensed. The last time she and the Mester had spoken the conversation had ended with Jotham blowing out the wall of the castle dining hall and them escaping over the rubble. And she still had a small scar on her hand from where the Mester had cut open her palm to bind her to a blood oath never to mention her demon. The same demon that hulked at the woman's back at this very moment, glaring at Candle with baleful intent. She swallowed. On the other hand, the Mester's demon was able to tell her the truth of things. All Candle had to do was talk.

"Any time," said the Mester, a smile on her lips. "Moloch and I are listening."

There was a whoosh of air and Jotham landed on the hard earth. A moment later he transformed into his human form. He strode across the charred earth, positively oozing casualness, a feral light in his eyes.

"Hello, Eisheth," he said. "Long time since we've had the pleasure."

The Mester hissed through her teeth.

"You!" she spat, rounding on him. "You should know better! I knew letting you roam free was a mistake–"

"Letting me roam free?" Jotham bit off every syllable. He straightened, his fists bunching. Candle laid a discreet hand on his arm.

"It's fine," she said. Then she spoke louder because the two adults were glaring at each other with so much feral intensity she felt the earth might crack beneath her feet. "It's fine. I killed my demon. Belias is gone. The Gate is closed, the invasion is over."

The Mester turned towards her, her face draining of colour.

"You what?"

"I killed him," Candle repeated. And then speaking slowly and clearly she relayed the events of her journey to the Night Nation, leaving out one or two details. Well, leaving out quite a few details that neither Jotham nor the Mester had any business knowing.

When she got to the part where she saw Hezekiah's gallery Jotham's eyes widened.

"We never got on," he said evenly. "She was a rubbish big sister."

Candle could see he was fighting to keep back the emotions. She twisted the material of her sleeve in her hand, knowing the next part would be difficult for him to hear.

"I met Jowanet. Your other sister. I mean, her spirit, I met her spirit."

"You met Jowanet?" he said. He sat down hard, then stood up again immediately."What happened to her? She was dead?"

"I'm so sorry," said Candle, swallowing. "Hezekiah killed her. I don't know the details. They fought and it went badly for Jowanet. I freed her spirit and burned the place down."

"Good girl," said Jotham, weakly, his eyes gleaming with unshed tears.

"She asked me to tell you that she loved you and was proud of you."

The tears escaped and ran freely over Jotham's cheeks. Candle put a tentative arm around his waist and he sobbed, pulling her into a bear hug and crying into her hair.

"I mean, I knew," he said, after a while, sniffing loudly. "It's been over five hundred years since I saw her. I had just hoped. And for it to end this way. Hezekiah–"

"Vengeance can wait," said the Mester. "Finish your tale, child."

Candle extracted herself and did so, ending with a detailed description of the battle, and the raising of the Old Man of Sterlester. Once she was done she looked from one to the other. Jotham was frowning, his eyes on the distant horizon. The Mester too was silent, but her expression was calculating.

"If I had not seen the evidence with my own eyes," she said, at last, shaking her head. They all turned to look at the unfamiliar profile of the somnolent mountain giant. "Moloch, Moloch can this possibly be true?"

The shadowy monstrosity nodded his head, stirring restlessly at the Mester's back. Her face had turned thoughtful.

"Dragon blood, you say? Most of Havi? Possibly everyone?"

"My great-nieces and nephews," said Jotham, putting his hand proudly on Candle's shoulder and smiling down at her.

"Interesting," said the Mester. "This will require...much thought. The Lochlanach have had the upper hand these last few years. This will make the barbarians think twice about invading our lands."

Her head snapped back towards Candle.

"What will you do?"

"What do you mean?" asked Candle, startled.

"Will you resume your place in the Ancestors Own? In the circumstances," the Mester's lip twisted a little as if it cost her a lot to deliver the apology. "I hope you can forgive our past... misunderstandings. If you would like to come home to us, you are more than welcome."

The question hung in the air.

"I would need to think about it," said Candle, at last. "I have responsibilities. And I need to look after Zephi and Zeb. And Jotham." Jotham's nostrils flared in amusement. "And Murmux."

"I understand," said the Mester. "But please consider the possibilities."

Candle's eyes widened.

"Where is Murmux?"

"Probably where you left him," said Jotham, folding his arms, and letting out a bark of laughter. Candle turned and ran. Jotham shouted after her retreating back. "And from what I've heard under a rock is the best place for him!"

Candle made haste across the fell, guilt gnawing at her innards. In less than five minutes she arrived at the bothy, hot, flustered and out of breath.

"What?" said Delen, sitting up in alarm. "What is it?"

"Murmux," she explained hurriedly, diving through the stones, and working her way across the debris to the shelter that had so recently been a refuge from the battle.

Murmux was indeed where she had left him, wedged awkwardly under the overhanging rock and secreted deep in the shadows. Someone had stuffed a sock into his mouth. He mumbled when he saw her, wriggling in his bonds and thrashing about like a landed fish.

She removed the sock and cut the rope that bound him, working as fast as she could, fearing his reaction at being forgotten and neglected for so long. Instead of anger, he leapt up, his eyes dancing and a smile like the sun coming up. Murmux threw his arms around her, leaning forward to plant a deep and passionate kiss on her lips. His mouth was warm and he tasted like clouds and toast. Candle’s hands tangled in his hair and for a breathless moment there was nothing but that kiss.

"Candle!" he said when they drew apart for air several minutes later. "Candle, I'm free! And I still love you! Okay," he pulled back. "I don’t know if I love you or not. Not really. It’s probably just the dead witch still in my head. But you taste nice.” He cocked his head on one side, searching her face. “I should probably hate you.” He leaned in and kissed her again.

“Hmm, thanks,” Candle mumbled into his mouth.

His laughter was so infectious she couldn't help but giggle, drunk on emotion. Almost, she was unable to hear him, so loud was the buzzing in her ears. But she knew she was happy, and he was happy and that was all that mattered.

"Look!" he cried, thrusting his arms out in front of him. She looked down at them, a silly grin on her face, not understanding what she was meant to be looking at. "Look!" he said again, waggling them at her. Then the realisation took her and she gasped.

"Your tattoos!" she said, grabbing him by the elbow and peering closely at the rather dirty skin. "Your tattoos are gone!"

He picked her up, and swung her around, laughing. She clung to him feeling dizzy, her legs swinging wild and unable to catch her breath from all the joy that bubbled up her throat.

"Gone!" he shouted, in her ear, "they are gone!"