And now, not only were the tribes joining together, but the fates of key individuals were joining: the fate of the real Tom Hollingsworth, who had already escaped from Siddonie. The fate of Melissa. Of Wylles. The fate of Siddonie herself. And the fate of Braden West.
When, rested, the Harpy exploded suddenly into flight again, she took off with such vigor that her wings scraped the granite cliff and she bumped up against the granite sky. When she recovered from the jolt she set off in a long, powerful flight, heading north straight for Mag and the rebel camp, her shadow winging above her thin and fast. She arrived at the camp in mid-afternoon.
At once, Mag set about preparing a pot of cricket soup for her. “What of the false queen, Harpy? What does your mirror show?”
The Harpy smiled. “Just as we hoped, the street cat has embraced the advances of King Efil. Or,” she said, “she seems to have embraced his proposition. Though in my opinion, the king is a fool to trust her.” She reached, took the ladle from Mag impatiently, and began supping up crickets from it.
“The king was always a fool,” Mag said.
The Harpy nodded, her mouth full. “He thinks the false queen idolizes him. Ah,” she said, smacking a cricket,
“lovely soup.”
Mag said, “It’s hardly cooked yet. I do not like this business of the false queen.”
“Siddonie has trained her well,” the Harpy said glumly.
“And?” said Mag.
“The Catswold have long been without a queen. They may be eager, indeed, to follow this woman.”
“Then tell them she is an imposter—tell them before she comes down the tunnel and into the Catswold nation.”
“No.”
“Well, why not? If you don’t, I will send a messenger to tell them. And I myself will go to fetch Melissa home. The Catswold need their true queen.”
“No,” said the Harpy. “Not yet.”
“I do not understand you. Why are you so stubborn? You will have to tell me where she is. Do you want me to waste time searching for her? She is needed now.”
The Harpy turned away to ladle out more soup, then grew impatient and dipped her bill into the pot, spearing crickets.
“No matter how much you have helped us so far,” Mag said, “if you impede us in this you will destroy us.”
“No, I will not. Do not go after Melissa. Let the fates have their way.”
Mag stared at her. “Then you know what will happen? I thought you couldn’t see the future.”
The Harpy raised her dripping beak, a cricket caught in the side, squirming. She gulped it before she spoke. Her words were far too poetic for her nature. “I do not see the future. But I sense the whisper of fate like a rising wind against the granite sky.”
Mag snorted.
“I sense fate powerfully,” the Harpy said, her little black eyes widening. “If I did not, I would go myself to fetch Melissa.”
She resumed eating.
It was much later, after she had left Mag and was flying alone beneath the dark sky, that the Harpy saw in her little mirror a scene that made her pause in flight, dropping and shivering.
She saw a blackness stirring deep down within the flames of the Hell Pit: a dark, primal evil that, she thought, not even Siddonie’s powers could have roused. She watched it for a long time, shaken. She might sense fate, but she had not sensed this. She did not know how to deal with this cold black essence of the Hell Pit.
Chapter 54
Through the open bedroom window the bay was dark under low clouds. Wind rattled the reeds in the marsh, bringing to Melissa as she woke a memory of running among the reeds. She frowned, thinking some noise had awakened her. She heard nothing now but the wind. She woke fully and stretched, watching Braden sleeping beside her, deliriously aware that she need not sneak away now, that she belonged here, that he would wake soon and hold her and love her. She slid closer to him, fitting herself against him, her desire rising. In sleep his arms went around her and his embrace tightened but he didn’t wake. Hungrily she touched her lips to his face, breathing his scent, wanting him. The noise came again, the noise that had awakened her. She came fully alert, listening to the sliding, metallic scraping.
It came from the studio, the scraping then a click. Puzzled, she slipped out from Braden’s arms, slid off the bed, and pulled on his robe. She went out barefoot, silently padding toward the studio.
The room was unnaturally dark with the draperies closed. The only light was a faint gray pool beneath the skylight, and a dull pallor spilling in through the open front door.
Wind from the open door fingered coldly against her ankles. She looked for whoever had come in. Where she stood in the hall, in Braden’s dark robe, perhaps she had not been seen.
She could see little in the dark room. She breathed a silent spell and changed to cat. The shadows thinned, the room was lighter.
She saw a black figure barely visible in front of the closed draperies. She could hear him breathing now, and she knew his scent. Frightened, she slipped into the blackness behind the stacked canvases.
