The Dragon-Charmer. Jan Siegel

to manipulate, to control. And down the ages he has grown close to them, learning too well their follies and weaknesses, becoming their god and their devil, their genius and nemesis. Learned but never wise, he has remade himself in their image: the dark side of Man. Revenge gnaws him, but power motivates him. And Fern … Fern has power. How much, I do not know. In Atlantis, he must have seen more than we. In the years when the loss he had suffered there drained him like a slow-healing wound he may still have dreamed of using her, turning her Gift into his weapon. The Old Spirits have sought before now to corrupt witchkind and force them into their service, though such bargains have usually achieved little for either partner in the end. Remember Alimond. Still, it is said that the Fellangels, his most potent servants, were numbered among Prospero’s Children, until both their souls and their Gift were warped into the form of his purpose. Fern would not listen to the whispers of the Old Spirit – at the moment, she listens to no one – but … she might be subjugated through those she loves. Or so he may calculate. I think …’

      ‘You mean us?’ Will interrupted.

      ‘You, and others. You two seem to be the most readily available. You will have to be careful.’

      ‘You aren’t very reassuring,’ said Gaynor. ‘I thought I was scared before, but now … I suppose I could decide not to believe in any of this: it might be more comfortable.’

      ‘Is it comfortable,’ Ragginbone enquired, ‘to be afraid of something you don’t believe in?’

      Gaynor did not attempt to respond, relapsing into a nervous habit of childhood, restless fingers plaiting and unplaiting a few strands of her hair. Presently, she broke into Will’s murmur of speculation, addressing the old man: ‘Why did you say “them” all the time?’ Ragginbone frowned, baffled. ‘When you talked about mankind, you said “them”, not “us”. I was wondering why.’

      ‘I wasn’t aware of it,’ Ragginbone admitted. ‘You are very acute. Little things betray us … I was born into the dregs of humanity, my Gift raised me higher than the highest – or so I thought at the time – and when I lost it I felt I was neither wizard nor man. The human kernel was gone: all that remained was the husk of experience. I became a Watcher on the periphery of the game, standing at the elbow of this player or that, giving advice, keeping the score. The advice usually goes unheeded and the score, at least on this last hand, was evidently wrong.’

      Will grinned. ‘That’s how it goes.’

      ‘You’re an outsider,’ said Gaynor. ‘I thought so on the way here. Outside life, outside humanity, perhaps even outside time. Are there – are there others like you?’

      ‘Some that I know of. Probably some that I do not. We are the invigilators: events unfold before us, and occasionally we may try to give them a nudge in the right direction, or what we hope is the right direction. Our task is neither to lead nor to follow, only to be there. I have been an onlooker for so long it is hard to remember I was once part of the action. The human race … that is a club from which I was blackballed centuries ago.’

      ‘But –’ Gaynor broke off, gathering her courage for the question she was suddenly afraid to ask.

      ‘But?’ Ragginbone repeated gently.

      ‘Who appointed you?’ asked Gaynor. ‘There must be someone – Someone you work for, Someone who gives you orders …’

      ‘There are no orders,’ said Ragginbone. ‘No one tells us if we have succeeded or failed, if we have done right or wrong. We work for everyone. All we can do is all anyone can do: listen to the voice of the heart, and hope. I should like to think that we too are watched, and by friendly eyes.’

      ‘You will never get a straight answer from him,’ Will said. ‘Only twisted ones. He could find curves in a plumb-line. Ragginbone, Bradachin said the thing that came out of the mirror was not Alison but a tannasgeal. What did he mean?’

      ‘They are the spirits of those who died but feared to pass the Gate. They have long forgotten who they were or why they stayed; only the shreds of their earthly emotions linger, like a wasting disease. Hatred, greed, bitterness: these are the passions that bind them here. They loathe the living, and lust after them, but alone they have little power. However, the Oldest has often used such tools.’

      ‘How could it look like Alison?’ Will demanded.

      ‘People – and events – leave an impression on the atmosphere. Such creatures are parasites: they batten onto the memories of others, taking their shape. No doubt the tannasgeal saw her in the mirror.’

      ‘Mirrors remember,’ said Gaynor.

      ‘Exactly.’

      They were silent for a while, leaning against the rock where once, long before, Ragginbone had shown Will and Fern the Gate of Death. Every so often there was the rumour of a passing car on the distant road, but nearer and clearer were the tiny sounds of insects, the call of an ascending skylark. The colours of the landscape were dulled beneath the cloud-cover; the wind was chill.

      ‘What can we do to protect Fern?’ Gaynor said eventually, shivering now from cold rather than the recollection of horror.

      ‘I don’t know,’ said Ragginbone.

      ‘I thought you were supposed to advise us?’ Gaynor protested indignantly.

      Will laughed.

      ‘Advice is a dangerous thing,’ the Watcher responded. ‘It should be given only rarely and cautiously, and taken in small doses, with scepticism. What can I say? Keep your nerve. Use your wits. Premonition is an unchancy guide to action, but there is a shadow lying ahead of you, through which I cannot see. Remember: the Old Spirit is not the only evil in the world. There are others, less ancient maybe, less strong – as the tempest is milder than the earthquake, the tsunami cooler than the volcano – but not less deadly. And mortality gives the Gifted an edge that the undying cannot match. Your dream about the owl puzzles me, Gaynor. Of all the things you have told me, that is the one that does not fit. There is something about it that I ought to recognise, a fragment that eludes me. Tread carefully. The shadow ahead of you is black.’