Will knit his brows over the suggestion. ‘I don’t think he would ever be that foolhardy.’
‘Hmmm. It would depend on how desperate he became.’
Here, east of the Slaver road, the air was cleaner and the grass greener. At their backs a slim crescent moon was following the sun down over the western horizon. Their camp was made on a rise close by the manor of Swell. Once again Gwydion had avoided the villages and farms that nestled nearby. He chose the best ground and then carefully cut away the turf to make a fire pit and piled up enough dry sticks to give them good cheer until they should fall asleep. Will was very hungry, and glad of old dry bread and a delicious soup of dried roots and morels that Gwydion cooked up from ingredients he took from his crane bag.
Will’s eyes drooped as, with a full belly, he listened to the crackle of burning wood and the calls of night creatures. The ground was hard under his elbow and hip bone. He smelled the drowsy perfume of cow parsley and meadowsweet and bruised grass, and felt pleased to be back in the wider world.
‘My First in the West shall Marry…’ he said, stirring himself to recite the riddle that had appeared in the skin of the Dragon Stone.
‘My first in the West shall marry,
My second a king shall be.
My third upon a bridge lies dead.
My fourth far in the East shall wed.
My fifth over the seas shall send.
My sixth in wine shall meet his end.
My seventh, whom none now fears,
Shall be reviled five hundred years.’
‘What are we to make of that?’ Gwydion asked.
Will looked into the night. ‘If the Black Book said there were many battlestones, maybe it’s the Dragon Stone’s way of giving clues about its brothers. Maybe one of the stones is fated to be reunited with its sister-stone in the West – that might fit with the piece you sailed over to your friend Cormac in the Blessed Isle. Or maybe that’s the second stone mentioned, because it stood in the shadow of the King’s Stone. It could be that the third will be found, or drained, on a bridge. Or maybe it lies near a place called Deadbridge – oh, you know better than I how riddles go.’
Gwydion settled back, watching the last rosy blink of moonset. He said distantly, ‘It may be that the Dragon Stone is more important than we have so far supposed.’
‘Why did you choose to lodge it with Duke Richard?’ Will asked, unable to keep the criticism from his voice.
‘You think that was a mistake. In truth, it was no choice of mine, but a course forced on me by events. There was nowhere better to lodge a battlestone at the time. Do you know that time itself has a most curious character? I have discussed it much with the loremaster who lives at the Castle of Sundials. Though he speaks of “time’s arrow”, its nature, he says, is not straight so much as turning ever and again upon itself – wheels within wheels, like the cogs that turn within his confounded engines. As the rede of time says, “History repeateth.” Thus, if we are wise, we may learn from the past—’
‘Gwydion,’ Will knew when he was being distracted, ‘what are we going to do?’
The wizard stirred restlessly. ‘Rather than return to Foderingham, let us find out first if it has been put back in its original resting place. That is my greatest fear. And in any case we must go by Nadderstone if we would go to Foderingham by the shortest way.’
‘Who would want to re-bury the stone at Nadderstone?’
‘Who do you think? If it has come to Maskull’s notice, and if he is making it his business to tamper with the lorc, then we should know about that.’
‘What if we find it’s been put back?’
‘Then the time will have come for me to drain it. For, whatever the other merits of your midnight visit to the Dragon Stone, you have certainly given us a great advantage by discovering its true name.’
‘Oh, no, Gwydion,’ Will said, feeling dismay blow through him. ‘Please promise me you won’t try another draining.’
‘I must do what I must do,’ Gwydion said, then added with a note of finality, ‘Do not worry about it yet. It may never come to that.’
Will blew out a long breath. He watched the flames of their little camp fire and wished himself back at the Blazing, but the coils of intrigue seemed to have wound themselves more tightly about him than any serpent. He said doggedly, ‘Gwydion, before I set off anywhere else, I must get a message to Willow.’
‘As a matter of fact, Willand,’ the wizard said archly, ‘I have already sent word to her explaining your absence. Good night.’
After three days’ walk along highways and byways they came at last to the village of Eiton. There were many harvest carts about the lanes and straw was blowing everywhere along the dusty road that led to the Plough Inn. Gwydion looked for signs that the Sightless Ones were out overseeing the tithe, but he saw nothing.
The Plough was a much-praised alehouse and inn, and one that Will knew well. It was a long, low building set to the side of the road, with a walled yard, a great spreading thatch and a big square sign swinging between two stout posts. It glowed now in the mellow golden light of an August evening. A straw cockerel stood guard on the rooftree and seemed to tell the world that all were welcome, except troublemakers.
The inn was frequented by travellers and local folk alike. It was far bigger and busier than the Green Man, and had not changed at all since Will had come here last. A dozen churlish folk were slaking harvest thirsts in the homely, rush-scattered room.
The man who kept house was called Dimmet. He was a big man, very busy and jolly, the sort who folk took care not to upset. When he looked up his welcome could not have been warmer. ‘Now then, if it ain’t my lucky day! Master Gwydion! How nice! How nice!’ He roared with delight as he came to greet them. ‘Duffred! Come down here and see who’s paid us the honour of yet another visit!’
The innkeeper’s grown son poked his curly, ginger head in at the door and grinned broadly. ‘Hey-ho, Master Gwydion! How goes it with you?’
‘He looks like a man what’s footsore and road-weary to me. And properly in need of a drop of my best ale – if you’ll take the hint, my son.’
‘That is very kind,’ Gwydion said.
‘And a jar of ale for the young feller too, I’d guess?’
The Plough’s big, black mastiff dog came out to see what the excitement was. Being fond of dogs, Will put out an open palm to help it decide he was more friend than foe. It sniffed at his feet, then began to lick his toes.
‘It’s a big, old dog you have here,’ Will said. ‘Maybe you should put some water out for him.’
‘Pack that up, Bolt!’ Duffred called, pulling on the dog’s iron collar. ‘Out in the yard with you. Go on, now.’
Will grinned and shook Dimmet’s huge, freckled hand.
‘Glad to meet you.’
‘They call me Will.’
‘Do they now? Then, we shall have to do the same.’
‘He don’t recall you,’ Duffred said impishly from the taps. ‘Cider still more to your taste than ale, is it?’
Will nodded vigorously, pleased to be recognized after so long.
‘I never forgets a face!’ Dimmet touched a finger to his chin. ‘Wait a bit! Are you not the young lad who came here that time Master Gwydion led our horse, Bessie, off on some business or another up by Nadderstone?’
‘That’s it.’
‘You see! I never do forget a face. Though