and observed and listened. They knew everything Garit had
said, both to the group and to Teb alone. They understood quite
well who Teb was, son of the King of Auric, but to make sure they
crowded close, now, around him and nosed softly at his arm until,
in sleep, he turned it, so they could see the mark.
It was there, yes. The mark of the dragon.
They were pleased, and awed.
“He is shivering,” said Pixen. “He has no
fur to warm him.”
The foxes stared at Pixen, then began to
turn around in little circles, close to Teb. They lay down, one
then another, close all around him and over him, across his legs,
his stomach, his chest, their bushy tails curled around him. And so
they warmed him. One vixen, small and young, nuzzled her nose into
the hollow of his neck. Soon he slept quietly, sprawled and
abandoned in pure warmth. They sniffed at him with their thin foxy
noses and watched him with humor and curiosity, then slept
themselves, lightly, alert for noises in the tunnels, guarding as
well as warming the prince. But then near dawn they all slipped
away, and he was quite alone when he woke.
*
He had no notion how long he had slept or
what time of day it might be. It was absolutely dark, for the
candle had burned down and gone out. He fumbled in the pack for
another, all the time frowning and trying to remember something. A
dream? A warm dream, wonderfully cozy, as he used to feel when he
was small and his mother cuddled him. But what the dream had been,
exactly, he could not remember.
He thought the cave smelled different, a
pungent, sharp scent. Was there some creature in here with him? He
struck flint and lit the candle quickly. But the cave was empty. He
dug out the old candle butt and placed the new one in the
holder.
He made a meal of cold mutton and boiled
roots. There was also jerky in the pack, and bread and cheese. And
eight more candles, he saw with relief. He mustn’t burn one tonight
though—he must make everything last as long as he could. I will be
out by tonight, he thought, on the coast. He could almost smell the
salt of the bay. He felt rested now and eager to get on.
He would have to go back through the narrow
tunnels, start at the great cave, and go through the hall of
pillars in order to get to the western gate. But first he would go
to the high caves and have a look at Sivich’s camp. It seemed much
longer than one night since he had sat chained to the oak sapling
and drunk from its roots. Where were Garit and Pakkna now? Had they
gotten away? Were Sivich’s men following them? Or had they come to
the caves?
He did up the pack, shouldered it, slung on
the waterskin, then left the little cave to find the spiral tunnel
that led to the upper caves. The walls were not carved here but
rough, of a reddish stone and wet where springs leaked down,
reflecting the lamplight.
When he stood at last in the highest cave,
looking out its thin slit of window, the sun hung half up the
eastern sky, at midmorning. Below and to the north lay the site of
Sivich’s camp, empty now, the circle of grass darker where it had
been trampled into the wet earth, a black scar in the center where
the campfire had burned. Three dark thin lines led away, the
tracery of muddied trails across the clear green grass. One was
their own trail, going off toward the ridge. A second followed
beside it, as if the trackers had kept the first trail clear, for
the jackals to scent along.
The widest trail led away north toward
Baylentha, just as Garit had expected. As Teb stood watching the
land, he heard a soft noise behind him in the passage, and whirled
to look. He saw nothing. Maybe rats, he thought. It came again, a
brushing sound very like the wings of a jackal.
He slipped the knife out of the pack and
backed into a shadowed corner where the light from the slit window
was dimmest. He watched the twisting corridor and the cluster of
small arches for a long time, but nothing moved there, and the
sound did not come again. Probably
said, both to the group and to Teb alone. They understood quite
well who Teb was, son of the King of Auric, but to make sure they
crowded close, now, around him and nosed softly at his arm until,
in sleep, he turned it, so they could see the mark.
It was there, yes. The mark of the dragon.
They were pleased, and awed.
“He is shivering,” said Pixen. “He has no
fur to warm him.”
The foxes stared at Pixen, then began to
turn around in little circles, close to Teb. They lay down, one
then another, close all around him and over him, across his legs,
his stomach, his chest, their bushy tails curled around him. And so
they warmed him. One vixen, small and young, nuzzled her nose into
the hollow of his neck. Soon he slept quietly, sprawled and
abandoned in pure warmth. They sniffed at him with their thin foxy
noses and watched him with humor and curiosity, then slept
themselves, lightly, alert for noises in the tunnels, guarding as
well as warming the prince. But then near dawn they all slipped
away, and he was quite alone when he woke.
*
He had no notion how long he had slept or
what time of day it might be. It was absolutely dark, for the
candle had burned down and gone out. He fumbled in the pack for
another, all the time frowning and trying to remember something. A
dream? A warm dream, wonderfully cozy, as he used to feel when he
was small and his mother cuddled him. But what the dream had been,
exactly, he could not remember.
He thought the cave smelled different, a
pungent, sharp scent. Was there some creature in here with him? He
struck flint and lit the candle quickly. But the cave was empty. He
dug out the old candle butt and placed the new one in the
holder.
He made a meal of cold mutton and boiled
roots. There was also jerky in the pack, and bread and cheese. And
eight more candles, he saw with relief. He mustn’t burn one tonight
though—he must make everything last as long as he could. I will be
out by tonight, he thought, on the coast. He could almost smell the
salt of the bay. He felt rested now and eager to get on.
He would have to go back through the narrow
tunnels, start at the great cave, and go through the hall of
pillars in order to get to the western gate. But first he would go
to the high caves and have a look at Sivich’s camp. It seemed much
longer than one night since he had sat chained to the oak sapling
and drunk from its roots. Where were Garit and Pakkna now? Had they
gotten away? Were Sivich’s men following them? Or had they come to
the caves?
He did up the pack, shouldered it, slung on
the waterskin, then left the little cave to find the spiral tunnel
that led to the upper caves. The walls were not carved here but
rough, of a reddish stone and wet where springs leaked down,
reflecting the lamplight.
When he stood at last in the highest cave,
looking out its thin slit of window, the sun hung half up the
eastern sky, at midmorning. Below and to the north lay the site of
Sivich’s camp, empty now, the circle of grass darker where it had
been trampled into the wet earth, a black scar in the center where
the campfire had burned. Three dark thin lines led away, the
tracery of muddied trails across the clear green grass. One was
their own trail, going off toward the ridge. A second followed
beside it, as if the trackers had kept the first trail clear, for
the jackals to scent along.
The widest trail led away north toward
Baylentha, just as Garit had expected. As Teb stood watching the
land, he heard a soft noise behind him in the passage, and whirled
to look. He saw nothing. Maybe rats, he thought. It came again, a
brushing sound very like the wings of a jackal.
He slipped the knife out of the pack and
backed into a shadowed corner where the light from the slit window
was dimmest. He watched the twisting corridor and the cluster of
small arches for a long time, but nothing moved there, and the
sound did not come again. Probably
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