Chapter 12 #2
“It was an immense kingdom that lay between Land’s End and the Scilly Isles, full of riches and beautiful buildings. Then one night there was a great storm, and now all of that is lost from the surface. Underneath this sea are woods and fields, churches and houses.”
“Oh my god, I remember that. Didn’t the king escape galloping ahead of the giant waves?”
He rolls his eyes. “More’s the pity for his horse. The king was a drunk. The horse should have been knighted after that night.”
“Legend says he’ll return one day and the bells will ring again.”
“Mayhap that may be so, but he will not find the same well-stocked cellars, so it’s unlikely.”
I laugh and watch as he retreats to the end of the large rock. “Remember, Cary,” he calls. I nod and watch the sparks move faster and faster, flaming up into the night sky and dying out. I blink and there he is—my dragon.
He perches on the rock’s edge, his large head proudly tilted. He lifts a claw and scratches his snout, and I could swear he’s posing. Repressing a smile, I walk towards him and scramble on as he lowers for me.
Ready? His growly dragon voice fills me with affection, and I pat his head as I get settled.
“Yes. Let’s go.”
I will fly over Lyonesse, and you might be lucky enough to see the lights of that country. Then I will set course for Lamorna.
He lifts smoothly, and I crouch low on his body as he beats his enormous wings. The night is cool, but I’m warm, and eagerly observe the ocean below. The moon’s reflection on the waves is so big it seems like I could reach down and pluck it from the water.
There's a flash of scarlet ahead, and I see a bulky object. When we come closer, I realise it’s a big ship. “What is that?”
It is the Sevenstones Lightship. It is moored near the reef to stop ships from wrecking on the rocks. They cannot build a proper lighthouse there, as these rocks are only exposed at half tide.
I pat his head in thanks, and then I gasp out loud in delight as I suddenly see twinkling lights beneath the sea. They spread out, glowing golden in the moonlight. Sigurd swoops lower, so low that sea spray hits my face.
There is a Lyonesse village, Cary.
I look and smile in pleasure as I spot a small village beneath the waves. The windows of the cottages twinkle in the dark water. Then we’re moving on, and the lights disappear. I settle in for the ride.
Are you comfortable? Sigurd asks. I pet his head and he makes a strange noise—like a deep rumble or a purr.
“I’m absolutely fine.”
We fly through the moonlit night, and even if I lived to be a hundred, I will never forget the beauty of this night. The sound of his wings. The feel of his strong, sturdy body. The sleek feel of his scales under my fingers. And the slumbering coastline of Cornwall.
We fly over a pub, its windows lit with Christmas lights and hear the sweetness of Aled Jones singing about walking in the air. It sounds surreal to me as I ride a dragon on this quiet, cold night. And then we’re moving on, passing darkened houses and winding roads.
Finally, Sigurd moves inland, slowly descending over the treetops. I peer ahead, my eyes stinging from the cold wind, and spy a large, open space ahead of us. It’s lit by flaming torches that gutter in the wind, and on the breeze, I hear the sound of a fiddle.
Sigurd lands neatly in a field. Unfortunately, my dismount is more of an ungainly sprawl than a controlled movement.
My legs and fingers are cold now, and I rub my hands briskly, watching as the golden sparks fly into the air. Within seconds, he’s there, and he laughs as I hop up and down, trying to dispel the cold.
“Oh, shut up. My legs are made for the ground. Not being fifty feet in the air.”
He throws his arm over my shoulder as he comes next to me, and I nestle close, loving the heat he gives off.
“It’s like being with a six-foot-five hot water bottle,” I say dreamily, and he snorts.
“Why did I ever settle for the Minack when I could hear such poetry from you?”
“What can I say? It’s a gift.”
I look around. We’ve left the field and are now walking on a grassy path, our way lit by the moonlight and the torches that mark the route. Ahead of us, the fiddle plays, the sound so infectious that my feet long to tap and my fingers tingle with the need to clap.
Sigurd stays me. “I must give you some warnings. This is a place that has been magic for many centuries. It lies on the crossing of ley lines, and as such, it is a wild, unpredictable magic, and you must take care. Do not accept any offerings of food or drink.”
“You never said that with the Mer.”
“They rarely offer.” He rolls his eyes. “They hardly eat, and do not look to others’ comforts in that area.”
I repress a smile at the disgruntlement. He has a hearty appetite.
“Okay. No food or drink offered by anyone. Why? Will I have to stay here forever?”
“No,” he says solemnly. “But this is the stone king’s domain, and although they dance and sing under the full moon, at dawn they return to the stuff of which they are made, and so does their food.
It becomes stone once more even if it is in your belly.
” I gulp, and he nods. “It is a favourite trick of the stone people to offer humans their food, but I do not think they will try this with you as they do with the strangers who cross their path.”
“Why?”
“Because you are with me, and I will rain fire not seen in centuries if one hair on your head is harmed.” The threat is explicit in his voice.
I pat his arm. “Thank you.”
He raises his eyebrows. “You are not angry that I seek to protect you?”
“Not really. I’ve no desire to eat a stone pie by mistake. I can cope with indigestion but not much more.”
He chuckles and then becomes serious again. “And do not dance.” I immediately pout, and he pinches my chin gently. “I see your foot tapping, and I know that the melody is infectious, but it is that for a reason, Cary.”
“What would happen if I danced?”
“You would be condemned to stay with them forever. ’Tis how the court of the stone people has grown so big.”
The sound of the fiddle rises on the air, and I bite my lip. “But what if I dance before I realise? I mean, I’m tapping my feet now, and I didn’t even know it.”
“They will not try anything with you. They know your importance.”
What importance?
“They know the penalties, and although the stone people may be wild, they are not foolish. The king will leave you alone.” He holds out his hand, and I immediately slide mine into it. “Ready?” he asks.
I nod. “I’ll stay close to you.”
“It would make my mind easy if that were so.”
Hand in hand, we walk towards a large opening in the bushes. Sigurd squeezes my hand and guides me through. I find myself standing in a large field that’s on a gentle slope. It’s in a small valley and surrounded by dark, bulky land with no sight of the sea.
The stars above us are so plentiful it’s like someone threw a curtain of fairy lights over the Cornish countryside, and the moon hangs full and swollen. However, most of my attention is on the sight before me.
There must be a hundred people here. Men and women dressed in clothes dyed green and a dun brown mill around the field.
Their skin is grey in the moonlight, their faces discontented, and their movements are oddly stiff.
Their attention is all on the fiddle player who’s situated on a raised grass area that looks like a stage.
He’s a tall, brawny-looking bloke wearing a cap with a piece of holly in it, and he’s accompanied by two other men who are playing pipes.
An area of flattened grass has become an impromptu dance floor, and the female dancers reel and dip with their male partners.
They’re dressed in green with headdresses made of winter flowers, their red hair dancing in the breeze.
When one looks up, I see that her eyes are scarily wild and cruel.
The music rises and falls, and the beat of the dancers’ feet seems like a metronome.
Sigurd guides me around the crowd, and I watch as people do a double take and fall still.
Even the dancers stop and stare, and the music slowly dies away until there’s only the lone sound of the fiddle.
For a second, the tune rises into the night sky, and I gasp as I see golden notes whirling up until they’re lost to sight.
The fiddle player hands his instrument to one of the pipers and steps off the stage. “Dragon,” he calls. His voice is deep and raspy. He pushes his cap back, and I see his eyes are a bright green. “You honour us with your presence.”
To my astonishment, Sigurd bows low. “Your Majesty.”
The fiddle player chuckles and gestures to the pipers. “Play music, fellows,” he calls. The music starts up again, and the dancers whirl once more.
Sigurd turns to me. “Cary, this is King Allan. He rules the stone people. Your Majesty, this is my friend, Cary.”
“Friend, eh?”
I obediently shake the hand he offers me and repress a gasp.
His hand is cold—so cold that it feels like it burns my skin.
He releases me, and I try not to show my relief.
He turns and walks towards a huge stone throne situated near the dancers.
He throws himself into it and gestures to a woman nearby who hastens away and then returns with two chairs.
They’re made of wood and look very spindly.
“So, what brings you here?” the king asks.
Sigurd looks rather doubtfully at the delicate furniture and then, with a resigned sigh, lowers his big body onto a chair.
It creaks ominously, and I hold my breath, releasing it when it shows no sign of collapsing.
When I look up, the king is watching Sigurd.
There’s affection in his green eyes, but also a malicious amusement, and I have a sudden notion that this man is crueller and more capricious than the Mer, if that’s possible.