Ethshar of the Spices was actually south or maybe southeast of the river’s mouth, because of the way the river and the coastline wiggled about, but it was effectively on the western side all the same.
If he headed west he would eventually come to the Great River, but that would mean cutting directly across all those ridges, and then finding transportation downstream, and Teneria might well catch up to him-there was nothing she feared in the west. On the other hand, if he headed due south he would eventually reach either the Great River-much farther downstream-or the Gulf of the East, or if worst came to worst, the southern edge of the World. And he would be passing too close to the Warlock Stone for Teneria.
He certainly hoped he wouldn’t have to go anything like as far as the edge of the World. It seemed unlikely that he would.
If he arrived at the river he could follow it downstream, either on foot or by boat, and once he reached Azrad’s Bridge he would have no trouble finding his way home.
If he reached the Gulf he could follow the coast west to the river’s mouth, then up to Azrad’s Bridge. If the gods were nasty and he reached the edge of the World, he could head west to the sea, and then take ship home, or follow the coast around to the river’s mouth.
So he would head south, and when due south wasn’t practical he would veer to the west, and sooner or later he would reach civilization, or the Great River, or something else helpful.
Accordingly, he looked up at the sun, which was almost directly overhead now, and then around at the mountains, and estimated which direction must be south.
This was turning out to be far more of an adventure than he had expected when he went up to Westgate Market to seek inspiration. He stepped out boldly, stumbled over an exposed root, fell, picked himself up, and marched on, sighing.
While Dumery made his decision, Teneria had finally gotten everything straightened out. The chaos of the farm family’s efforts to round up the escaped hatchlings and get everything back to normal had confused and delayed her, and she had not worried at first about exactly what had occurred, but only about straightening out the current mess. She had offered to help, but had been turned down-apparently these people did not entirely trust her.
That was not really surprising, under the circumstances. Her unexpected appearance the day before did look as if it might be connected with the night’s disruptions.
And the nature of those disruptions was pretty clear; the reports of the various family members, combined with what her own senses and witchcraft told her, made it all plain.
Dumery had slipped out in the middle of the night, had circled around to the back of the farm, and had then broken into a cage of hatchling dragons.
Kensher assumed that the boy had intended to steal a breeding pair, so as to start his own dragon-farm, and Teneria had to admit that it was a very convincing theory.
However, the watch-dragon, which Dumery hadn’t known about, had caught him and ruined his plans.
When Teneria first heard that she was afraid that the dragon had eaten Dumery, which would not only have been regrettable in itself, but would mean that she had failed in her task of keeping him safe. Fortunately, Kinner the Younger was able to reassure her-the watch-dragon hadn’t eaten anybody. There was no blood anywhere.
Besides, when Teneria stopped and concentrated, she could sense that Dumery was still alive.
After the farmers had rounded up all the dragons they could find and had taken inventory they concluded that only one of the hatchlings was missing, not a breeding pair, and it was entirely possible that that one, a rather feisty black one, had slipped away by itself in the confusion, rather than having been carted off. Spotting a black dragon in the dark would not be easy.
She considered offering to track it down for Kensher, but she was unsure she would be able to deliver. Dragons, especially young dragons, didn’t seem to leave much in the way of psychic traces.
Besides, the dragons weren’t her problem-Dumery was. She was not particularly enamored of the ungrateful little would-be thief, but she was supposed to see him safely home.
Once the eleven hatchlings had been rounded up and secured, and once she had used a little witchcraft to convince Pancha that she was not Dumery’s co-conspirator and that it was safe to let her out of her room and out of the house, Teneria set out on the business of tracking Dumery down.
She followed his trail around the mountain, across the pastures and through the dragon pens, and back out to the flat, stony area behind the boulder.
There she stopped.
The damned fool of a boy hadn’t gone back to the trail. Instead he had set out due south, into the wilderness. She looked down the slope after him, peering into the gloom of the forest, her supernatural senses extended.
Something muttered blackly in the back of her mind, something harsh and alien and almost seductive, something that had drawn Adar away forever.
The Calling.
That wasit, she told herself. That was the pebble that sank the barge. To Hell with Dumery of Shiphaven. To Hell with Sella, if she dared to criticize Teneria for her failure.
She had followed the boy halfway across the World, up the Great River and across most of Aldagmor, but she was not going to walk out into the uncharted wilderness, where escaped dragons roamed free and something apparently ate warlocks alive, something that seemed to intend to eat her alive, as well.
She had had quite enough. She was going home. She was going home by the same route she had come, though without the aerial detour from the Blasted Pine.
And maybe, when she got back home to Ethshar, she could contact some of the local warlocks and see if something couldn’t be done about the Calling.
Chapter Thirty-One
At least, Dumery told himself, it was warmer once he got down off the mountain. And the forest could be very beautiful-the sunlight spilling down through the trees, the branches stirring in the breeze with a whisper like the waves of a distant sea, the squirrels and chipmunks darting about in the treetops and underbrush every so often, like little flickers of fur.
The ground was rougher than he had expected, though. He hadn’t realized just how much difference having a trail, any trail, underfoot actually made. He was sure that he wasn’t making very good time at all.
He had the horrible suspicion, the first night, that he hadn’t gotten more than a league or so from the dragon farm. He wrapped himself tightly in the one thick woolen blanket Pancha had given him, which he had surreptitiously stuffed in his pack, and huddled against a tree, hoping that there were no night-prowling predators in the area. Dragons, he was fairly certain, were basically diurnal, but didn’t wolves hunt at night? He wasn’t sure. And of course, nightwalkers were all of necessity nocturnal, but he had never heard of any of them in the north; they were found in the Small Kingdoms, according to the tales his mother had told him.
Of course, he didn’t know how far they might roam, or even how far he was from the northernmost of the Small Kingdoms.
Something, probably a bird, shrieked weirdly in the distance, and Dumery tried to make himself smaller. He was a city boy; this sort of thing was not his idea of a good time. Going north he had at least been on trails, and usually within a mile or less of some sort of human habitation, but here, for all he knew, there wasn’t another human being for a league or more in every direction.
He lay curled up in a ball, one hand on the hilt of his belt-knife, while he eyed the surrounding trees suspiciously, trying to see by the feeble light of the cloud-smudged moons until exhaustion got the better of him and he fell asleep.