Icefire (8 page)

13
T
HE
Q
UICKENED
E
GG

 

T
he next morning began with an argument.

“Henry’s?! You want me to move in with
Henry?”

“Just for a day or two,” said Liz.

Lucy, stomping past in her coat and boots, said, “Serves him right, for bringing
her
here. I’m going in the garden to look for Spikey.”

The back door banged. Liz winced and shut it.

“I am not living with Henry,” said David. “I’d rather sleep in Bonnington’s basket!”

“That’s a point. Have you seen Bonnington this morning?”

“No. Can we get back to the important subject, please?”

Liz moved forward and held his forearms. “Look, I
really need this from you. Lucy’s room is too small for Aunty Gwyneth — she likes to have space … to spread out her things.”

“What things? That case was as light as a feather.”

Liz counted a moment, then tried again. “Please, you’ll be doing me a huge favor. You can still eat here. None of that changes. I just need your room, that’s all.”

“Liz, I’m not going to Henry’s, end of discussion. You know we’re like oil and vinegar.”

“Water,” she corrected. “The expression is water.”

“Vinegar, water … whatever. We’re
different.
We don’t get along. I can’t believe you even thought of it!”

“David, it was
his
idea. He offered — to help me out of a scrape. Say yes, and I’ll forget about the rent you owe. A whole two weeks? That’s got to be worth considering, hasn’t it?”

David chewed it over. Rent debt removed? That
was
tempting. But living with
Henry?
He took a deep breath. “Make it three and it’s a deal.”

“Good boy.” Liz smiled and pinched his cheek.

“Best of all, Henry says you can stay for free — as long as you keep to his rules, that is.”

“Rules? What rules?”

“He has rules, David, all landlords do: Thou shalt not put the dragon in the bread box, hmm?”

David glanced at the bread box and grimaced. “You know that dragon of Aunty Gwyneth’s?”

“Yes,” said Liz, looking slightly curious.

“I dreamed last night that it asked me to leave.”

“Really?” said Liz, whipping up a false smile. “Well, that’ll be your writer’s imagination at work, won’t it? Which reminds me, have you phoned Dilys thingy?” She tapped the letter from Apple Tree Publishing, which was still on the countertop, in front of the microwave.

“Left a message on her voice mail,” David replied, just as the outside door swung open and Lucy raised her shoulders in a bit of a huff. “Mom, I can’t find Spikey.”

Liz groaned with motherly frustration. “Well, that’s
hardly surprising, isn’t it? Hedgehogs are nocturnal. They only come out at night.”

“And he won’t like being disturbed,” added David. “You’ve probably scared him off.”

“Or your
witch
has.”

“Oh, pack it in, you two,” Liz scolded. “Things are difficult enough without the pair of you bickering like a couple of sparrows. Lucy, stop calling — Zanna, is it? — a witch. I’m sure under all that makeup and metal she’s a very nice girl. You certainly know how to pick them, David. She’s got a gorgeous figure.”

“Eh?”

“Don’t pretend you haven’t
looked,”
said Lucy. She turned again to her mom. “What shall I do?”

“What about?”

“Spikey.”

Liz batted a hand. “I agree with David. If Spikey’s got any sense he’ll have gone next door for some peace and quiet.”

Lucy dropped her shoulders and sighed.

“Anyway, have you seen Bonnington this morning?”

“No.” Lucy switched her gaze to the tenant. “If I say I’ll talk nicely to you again, will you look for Spikey when you go next door?”

“No, I’m busy.”

“But you promised
ages
ago that you’d help me look after any animal that came to our garden.”

David opened the door to the hall. “I’m
busy,”
he repeated. “I’ll go and make some space in my room,” he said to Liz, “then I’ll pop next door and see what’s what.” He shot Lucy a withering glance. “Oh, all right. When I get a chance I’ll root around Henry’s garden, OK?”

“Yes,” she smiled, balling her fists. “Spikey’s important. You ask Gadzooks.”

“Yeah, yeah,” David yawned, and he drifted away.

It took about fifteen sweaty minutes to rearrange half his room into a corner and pack some loose things away into his wardrobe. He even dragged his desk into the opposite alcove to give Aunty Gwyneth as much
space as possible. The last thing he did was move Gadzooks. “You don’t want to go to Henry’s, do you?” he asked. Gadzooks offered no opinion either way. David tickled his snout and took him to the wardrobe. “Brought you a friend,” he said to Grace, and slid Gadzooks into place beside her. Grace stared frostily back.

“Try and look a bit more grateful,” said David, and hurriedly closed the wardrobe door.

In the hall, on his way out, he bumped into Aunty Gwyneth. She was dressed in a watery, lilac-colored suit that looked to be a replica of the one she’d arrived in. “Leaving?” she enquired with a faint air of triumph. “You appear to have forgotten your bag.”

“I’m coming back to pack, after I’ve spoken to Henry.”

“Make it short,” she said, and sailed into the kitchen.

What nerve!
thought David, sticking out his tongue. He went to the front door and opened it. But on the
step, he teetered and changed his mind. Maybe the weird old lady was right. Pack now. Get it over with. Grab some things. Go.

He banged the door shut and returned to his room.

He was reaching underneath his bed for his gym bag (and having a strange bout of déjà vu) when a pair of eyes glittered like sequins in the darkness and he realized Bonnington was under there, too. “I wouldn’t stay there if I were you, Bonners. Aunty Gwyneth is moving in. I don’t think you’ll be allowed to share the blanket with her.”

Bonnington didn’t budge. “Come out,” David whispered, scratching the mattress. Still Bonnington wouldn’t move. Frowning, David stretched out a hand and grabbed the loose skin at the back of the cat’s neck, dragging him forcefully into the open. Bonnington gave out a pitiful
meow,
jumped into the gym bag, and huddled in the bottom. “What’s the matter?” David sighed and hauled him out, spreading the cat longways against his shoulder. Bonnington flattened his big brown ears and dug his claws into the
tenant’s chest. Mystified, David bounced him like a baby till the faint swell of purring was rippling through the air. “Come on, let’s get you some
Truffgood,”
he said, and carried the cat into the hall. He was about to shoulder his way into the kitchen when Aunty Gwyneth’s gritty voice floated out.

“I understand my accommodation is settled at last?”

“Yes,” said Liz, moving around the kitchen doing clattering little tasks that seemed to reflect a shortness of temper. “So no more repeats of last night’s incident.”

A brittle laugh escaped Aunty Gwyneth’s throat. “You disappoint me, Elizabeth. I thought free-spirited dragons were your specialty. Gretel was made by your hand, after all.”

The fridge rattled open. In a tone that could have been cooled by it, Liz said, “When Gretel left this house her auma was untainted. Whatever ‘tricks’ she performs are due to you.”

“Ah, yes, the auma,” her aunt said drily, as if she
had swallowed a piece of cotton. “You’ve been rather busy in that department, haven’t you? A special dragon here; a special dragon there. All with the very special Pennykettle spark. Why is it that you have so much ‘spark’ at your disposal? I never have managed to work that out.”

“I’ve told you before, I don’t know,” said Liz, and the bitterness in her voice was almost feudal. It was clear that her feelings about her “aunt” ran deeper than mere annoyance at the imposition of having to house an uninvited relative. “Is that why you’re here? To audit me?”

“I was called,” said Aunty Gwyneth, “by a wishing dragon.”

“What?”
There was shock in Liz’s voice now. In the hall David’s heart began to beat so hard it was almost throwing Bonnington into the air. He switched the cat to his opposite shoulder and put his eye to the crack of the door.

Liz was frowning in disbelief. “Called? By G’reth? That’s impossible. Lucy can’t be advanced enough to
make a true wisher. Besides, David wouldn’t know what to say.”

Aunty Gwyneth put her fingertips on Liz’s shoulders and pressed her gently into a chair. “Be calm, my dear. Perhaps you underestimate your daughter’s talent? She has clearly inherited something of your … gift. As for your dreary tenant, he was curious — about the tear of Gawain.”

“Oh, and that would bring you running,” seared Liz.

“Do not mock me,” Aunty Gwyneth hit back. “We need each other; it’s always been the way.” She picked up an apple and turned it in her fingers. David blinked and looked at it twice. He could have sworn it had just changed color: from a pale pinky red to a soft yellow green.

“I am intrigued,” said Aunty Gwyneth, her voice floating again, “to find myself drawn by this dragon’s call. It remains to be seen, of course, what part I have to play in attempting to grant your tenant’s wish.”

“No.” Liz shook her head fast and hard. “This is
nonsense. There’s been a mistake. If we were meant to know where the tear is hidden, you would have found out long before now. Go back. There’s nothing for you here, Gw —”

Aunty Gwyneth stopped her with a finger to her lips. “Oh, but my dear, you must not be so hasty. The universe has strange ways, does it not?” She let her hand drift sideways, catching the curls of Liz’s red hair. “So beautiful. So like Guinevere herself.” She dropped her hand and stared Liz in the eye. “The boy has done you a surprising service. You will be thankful of my presence before the full moon rises.”

From the doorway, David saw Liz start. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Aunty Gwyneth’s voice came circling like a hawk, low and steady, cold and bewitching. “I sent Gretel into your den last night. And before you think of it, she quickly subdued the foolish little dragon you employ to stand guard. Among your trinkets, she found an egg.”

“It’s just a bronze,” said Liz.

“It’s been quickened,” said her aunt, “and claimed by your dragon.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. That can’t happen.”

“It can,” said Aunty Gwyneth with a whip of her tongue. “The girl your tenant brought into this house has the quickening gift. You must have sensed it.”

“She …?” Liz faltered and lowered her head. “I thought I felt something in her aura. But it’s been so long. I wasn’t sure —”

“Then let me remind you,” Aunty Gwyneth cut in. Slowly she opened her hands. In the cup of her palms was the bronze-colored egg that Zanna had jealously protected in the den. David eased his position to get a better look, all the while keeping a tight hold of Bonnington. The egg appeared to be gently glowing, but its shell, or something just below the shell, was in constant movement, like clouds circling the surface of a planet.

“The change has begun,” Aunty Gwyneth said. “In four days’ time the egg will be kindled. You must be prepared for the transfer of auma.”

Liz shook her head. “This can’t be possible. I wasn’t trying for a child. I —”

“Trying is meaningless,” Aunty Gwyneth snapped. “You know as well as I do the child does the choosing, not the parent.” She lowered the egg into Liz’s hands. “You should count my coming as providence, my dear. Gretel has reported a high proliferation of egglike sculptures in your den. This would indicate broodiness, would it not?”

Liz looked away, troubled. “But this is so sudden. What am I going to say to Lucy?”

“You will tell her the truth. The girl will be charmed.”

“And David? Don’t tell me to send him away. Lucy adores him. He’s like one of the family. I can’t just throw him out.”

Aunty Gwyneth stood back, drumming her fingers. “The boy does present slightly more of a problem. But I will find a way to deal with him. Look into the egg, now, tell me what you see.”

Liz breathed deeply and held it to the light. “Oh, Gawain …” she gasped.

In the hall, David’s eye almost leaped from its socket. In the center of the egg, where one would expect the yolk to be, was a small dark form.

“A boy,” Liz breathed.

“The first in nine hundred years,” said Aunty Gwyneth.

Liz sighed in wonder and held the egg close. “A boy,” she whispered, and shed a light tear.

Aunty Gwyneth caught it at once and smeared it over the surface of the egg. A ray of soft purple light enveloped it. Aunty Gwyneth stood back, pleased. “Now you are joined to him in water,” she said. “During the kindling, the fire will follow. The boy has chosen you as his kin. You cannot refuse; he has touched your auma.”

David closed his eyes and fell back against the wall. This couldn’t be happening. Liz, having a
baby?
From an egg made of clay? He risked another look.
From this cramped position, he was only able to make out the crudest of shapes in the egg. He didn’t doubt Liz’s word: It was a boy, for sure. But what kind of boy? What creature were they hatching? For the shape as he saw it had legs and hands and a well-pronounced forehead.

And at the base of its spine, a dragon’s tail.

14
F
LIGHT

 

W
ith clinical bluntness, Aunty Gwyneth took the egg back and somehow secreted it out of sight. “Of course, the tail will recede,” she said.

“And the eyes?” asked Liz, sounding anxious.

“Oval in the early years. Oval and amber. He will be feared. You must do what you can to avoid attention. There must be no interference — from the tenant, his girl … or the bear, of course.”

The mention of bears took David by surprise. The shock wave continued on to Bonnington, who dug in a claw and faintly spat. David put him down and raised a finger to his lips. As the cat scuttled quietly up the stairs, David turned and listened in again. Aunty Gwyneth was talking about Lorel.

“You are aware, of course, of the Teller’s presence? I could taste his stinking seal-stained breath in every foul draft of wind along the crescent.”

“Lorel is no enemy of mine,” said Liz.

Aunty Gwyneth let out a scathing hiss. “Romantic nonsense! The ice bears are charlatans, not to be trusted. The time has long since passed when they might have been considered to be guardians of the tear.”

Guardians?
thought David.
Bears? How?
He saw Liz shaking her head.

“Why do you insist on peddling that? The bears have always kept the secret of the tear. You distrust them because they won’t give it up.”

“Their kingdom is in total disarray,” said Aunty Gwyneth. “Their dynasties were finished millennia ago. All that exists of their Nanukapiks now are scraps of legend, fed to them by their storytelling phantom. How can they guard the tear? They can barely protect their precious ice. Every year more of it ebbs away. How long can it be before their stupid, lumbering kind
is at an end? You and I should be the true custodians of the fire. You know it every time you roll the clay. Every time you put a spark into one of your dragons you wish for more of the essence of Gawain. You are a daughter of Guinevere. How can you deny what is yours by right? Now, speak to me about the Teller. What does the narrow-eyed snow-slinger want?”

“I don’t know.”

“You expect me to believe he has made no contact?”

“Not with me, no.”

“With the dragons?”

“With David. He knew of Lorel’s presence before I did.”

“Impossible,” Aunty Gwyneth snapped. “Where was your listening dragon? Asleep?”

David squinted at the dragon on the top of the fridge. It may have been the wacky thermostat, but he could swear that the little creature was trembling.

“David’s … sensitive,” Liz replied edgily. “He has a special dragon he named Gadzooks. A writing dragon.
Their auma is high. It was Gadzooks who found the name Lorel.”

“A
writing
dragon?” Aunty Gwyneth’s tone became deeply nasal. She picked up the dragon book and leafed through its pages, dropping it again with a disapproving snort. “A writing dragon and a storytelling bear? Are you saying that your tenant
drew
the Teller here?”

“I don’t know,” said Liz, sounding flustered. “It’s hard to know what David’s capable of. He’s inquisitive; that leads him into mischief sometimes. But he’s confused about the dragons, and that includes Gadzooks. He doesn’t know what he has.”

“He knows about Gawain,” Aunty Gwyneth said coldly.

“I told him the legend; it’s a fairy story to him.”

“Then why is the boy in pursuit of the tear?”

“He’s not,” Liz insisted, touching a tired hand to her forehead, “at least, not in the way you think. He’s doing an essay, for college. He wants to write about the fire so he can win a competition.”

“And the prize?”

Liz paused and her breath became a sigh. “A field trip — to the Arctic.”

“North?”
Aunty Gwyneth wheeled around. “He wants to travel to the land of the bears and the Teller of Ways is on his doorstep?”

“I agree, it’s odd,” Liz said, becoming gritty. “But I’m telling you, all David has are half-truths and fantasies. He’s a geography student working on a project. It’s nothing more sinister than that. Neither he nor Gadzooks could have brought Lorel here.”

“But something did,” Aunty Gwyneth said in a voice fortified with dark suspicions. “This must be addressed. The boy must be watched and the dragon tested. Removed if necessary. Returned to the clay.”

Tested?
thought David, jerking back.
Zookie? Returned to the clay?

“No,” said Liz. “I won’t let that happen.”

“You have no choice, I — wait, what was that?”

In the hall, Bonnington had suddenly come thundering down the stairs. He had skidded around the
newel post, careered into a plant stand (spilling the pot, which had broken on the floor), and continued his breakneck flight into the living room. He was either having one of his “wild half hours” or he was trying to escape from something. David didn’t hang around to find out what. The thought of being caught eavesdropping by Aunty Gwyneth filled his heart with a sinister dread. At the moment the kitchen door whooshed open he was carefully dropping the latch on his. Heart thumping, he dashed to the wardrobe, opened it quickly, and grabbed Gadzooks. “I’ll come back for you,” he promised Grace. Then snatching his overcoat off the bed, he rolled Gadzooks up in it and raced across the room. Within seconds he was out of the window. Lucy, hunkering by the brambles at the top of the garden, was too preoccupied to hear him touching down. Crouching low, David hurried across the slippery gray patio. With the mildest of creaks, he was through the gate and running — to the only immediate sanctuary he could think of. The house at 40 Wayward Crescent. The home of Henry Bacon.