The Knight

“Maybe you’re real both ways. I know you want to talk about you, but I’m going to talk about Garsecg some more, because I don’t understand you and I never have. But I think I’m beginning to understand him better than I did at first. You got him to heal me. Did you like him?”

“Nope. Not much. But they said he could do it.”

“He said he didn’t. He said the sea healed me. But later on, when I was hurt in Sheerwall, Baki did it. You weren’t there then.”

“Nope.”

“I bit her and drank her blood. It sounds horrible when I say it like that.”

“Not to me,” Gylf declared.

“Well, it does to me. Only when we did it, it wasn’t really horrible at all. It was nice, and I understood the Aelf better afterward. Maybe Garsecg couldn’t have come up here at all if his father hadn’t been human. Was it the Kelpies who told you to find Garsecg? It must have been.”

“Yep.”

“Maybe they bit him, when they were hurt. Did I ever tell you about the dragon? I mean, about Garsecg’s turning into one?”

Gylf looked up in surprise. “Wow!”

“Yes, it jolted me, too. But when I had time to think about it more, which wasn’t ’til we separated, it surprised me a lot more. We were on a really narrow staircase, and the Khimairas were diving down at us to knock us off, Uri and Baki and a bunch of others.”

Gylf grunted to show he appreciated the seriousness of that situation.

“Dragons can fly. There were pictures in Sheerwall, one on one of those embroidered wall hangings they had and one on a big flagon that Duke Marder drank out of at dinner. They had wings, both of them.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Besides, I know Setr can. I’ve seen him do it. So if Garsecg could turn into a dragon, which he did, why not a big dragon with wings? He could have chased the Khimairas. You can’t change yourself like that, can you? Besides getting a lot bigger and fiercer the way I’ve seen?”

“Nope.” Gylf stopped, one forefoot up, to point with his nose at the enormous steeple-roofed house of rough boards we were headed for. “Maybe we should go ’round.”

I thought, then shook my head.

Chapter 67. You Lose Track

The interior of the barn was as black as pitch, but Gylf’s nose found corn for the white stallion, and the stallion, almost as quickly, found a water trough for himself; I removed his saddlebags, saddle, and bridle. And while I was searching for a place to put them, by sheer good luck I bumped into the ladder to the hayloft. Moonlight crept in there, so that after the blind dark below it seemed bright enough to read in. I forked down half a cartload of hay for Gylf and the stallion, took off my boots, and fell asleep as soon as I lay down.

Thunder woke me up—thunder, lightning, and driving rain that came through every crack in the roof of the barn. I sat up, afraid and not knowing what had happened, and the next time the lightning flashed I was looking squarely into the ugly face of the Frost Giant I had seen years ago beside the Griffin—the giant whose face and towering stature had sent me running back to

Bold Berthold’s to warn him.

“Thought I wouldn’t see your horse’s tracks.”

The giant’s voice was deep and rough, and would have been terrifying if heard thus suddenly on a sunny summer day. It suffered now in comparison to the thunder. “Thought the rain’d wash ’em out, didn’t you?”

I shook my head, yawned, and stretched. He wanted to talk before he fought, and that was fine with me. “I didn’t know it was going to rain, and didn’t care whether you saw my horse’s hoofprints or not. Why should I?”

“Sneaking. Hiding.”

“Not me.” I rose and dusted off the hay in which I had slept, wondering all the while where Gylf was. “Traveling late is what you mean. I’ve got urgent business with King Gilling, and I rode ’til my horse was fit to drop. If you had been awake, I’d have begged food and accommodation from you, but your lights were out. I came in here and did what I could. Can you spare a bite of breakfast?”

The lightning flashed again, and I realized with a sort of sick relief that his head was not severed and standing on the floor before me, but thrust up the hatch in the floor.

“Knight, ain’t you?”

“That’s right. I’m Sir Able of the High Heart, and your hospitality has earned my gratitude.”

Another lightning flash showed a hand coming at me. I drew Sword Breaker and struck at the darkness where that hand had been; the sickening crack of breaking bone was followed by a bellow of pain from the giant.

The whole barn shook when he crashed into some part of it. For a second I could hear the thudding of his footsteps through the rattle of the rain. A distant door slammed.

He would doctor his hand, I decided, and perhaps fetch some weapon; the question was whether he had barred his door as well as slamming it.

No, I decided as I climbed down the ladder, there were really two questions. The other one was could I beat him?

Bold Berthold was outside, between the house and the barn, feeling his way through the driving rain with a stick and hugging something wrapped in rags to his chest.