Page 63 of Salt Magic, Skin Magic
Chapter Thirteen
John turned back tothe stable yard. The rangy-looking bay Warren had been riding stood at the far end, still saddled and bridled, the old stable-hand holding its head. John ran up to them.
“Sir, what’s going on? His lordship’ll kill Lord Thornby. He don’t let no one ride Pendragon. Where is Lord Dalton? All these horses—no riders—what’s going on?”
“Give me that horse.” John mounted. He’d had lessons at the Institute, but seldom ridden since.
“Watch her, sir. She drops her shoulder,” the old man called.
She jinked left, shaking her head. John’s heart was thundering in his chest. He knew no magic for horses. He’d have to do this the ordinary way. She shot out of the stable yard sideways, trying to drop her shoulder like the old man had said. He sent her at a gallop the way Soren had gone, and she went, grudgingly, shaking her head and trying all the time to veer left and circle back to the house. This part of the park was heavily wooded, and he cursed the trees and the gracefully curving paths that hid Soren from view. But here and there he saw a fresh hoof-print, carved deep into the wet grass, and sometimes a divot that had flung free.
In any case, he thought he could guess where Soren was going.
The moors.
There was something about the moors that sang of freedom—the great skies above, the distances stretching out, the gentle rises and endless horizons. John thought that if he’d been stuck at Raskelf for over a year, the moors would have called to him, too. Soon, he saw the pine spinney near the place he’d grabbed Soren’s elbow—was it really only a week ago? He looked around, heart falling, realising he’d been half expecting Soren to wait for him here.
He found a sheep trail that led east and went along it at a brisk trot. It led over the brow of the hill, and a huge grey-green vista opened out, relieved here and there by a black and twisted thorn-bush. And there was Soren—heading north-east, apparently making for a cairn about a mile away. John adjusted his heading. Perhaps Soren would wait for him at the cairn.
But he did not.
Nor did he wait at the brow of the next hill, nor the next, nor any of the places where one man might reasonably wait for another. Yet he stayed within sight, and John began to feel he was doing so deliberately. At one point the hills folded in such a way that he lost sight of Soren for what felt like an age. He was beginning to think he would stop and make a sigil and look for the tracker stone, when he saw horse and rider silhouetted against the skyline ahead, not quarter of a mile away. But the moment he saw them, they disappeared again over the brow of the hill.
And so the day wore on. Soren set a spanking pace, and didn’t wait for him again—if indeed he’d waited at all—but the moorland was truly open here, and John didn’t lose sight of him for long. And John still didn’t know for sure where Soren was going.
Though the further they went to the east, the more an idea was growing in his mind. All the clues the magic had given him—the shells, the barnacles, the octopus. And Dalton’s obsession with coastal Scotland and Ireland. John was beginning to think the whole business with seaweed was just that—a bit of business to disguise what Dalton really wanted; to be near the sea. And to be near those things that come from it.
The more he thought about the pelt he’d taken from the mausoleum, the more he was sure it was not from any kind of dog, or cat, or from any animal that goes about on four legs. And, it seemed clear, it was not an ordinary token; it was more fundamental to Soren than that. He was, after all, not quite human.
Perhaps, despite everything, Soren did not trust that John would let him keep it. The idea gnawed at him. It was so unfair. And yet, he was so tired he began to wonder, after a while, if in fact hewaschasing Soren. Not just to be with him, but indeed to take the pelt and keep him. Forever.Mine.
And have Soren hate him? What a hellish forever it would be. Just tired, he thought. Just so tired. Too much magic. The mind played tricks.
About the middle of the afternoon, they started to descend for the last time. In the distance was a leaden gleam, like a slab of pewter under the dove-grey sky. The sea. John reached a cairn marking the end of the way across the moors. And, hanging from a protruding stone, was a ripped black tailcoat, streaked with salt dust and spattered with blood. John reached up and took it down.
He could almost imagine it was still warm. He rode on. The sough of the sea was getting louder. Gulls were mewling like juvenile demons in the sky. It set his teeth on edge and he had to keep reminding himself they were harmless birds. Then the world seemed to open out and he was on the edge of it, with the sea close below and the sea-wind on his face.
His horse stopped abruptly, goggling at a black shirt flapping like a downed crow on the coarse grass. He dismounted and picked it up. The ground in front of him sloped so steeply he left the horse. He stumbled down the slope, half running, half sliding.
And there, just ahead of him, perhaps twenty yards further down, stood Soren, the pelt waving in his hand like a flag. He was standing at a place where the grass became rock and the rock fell away to the sea. His breeches, stockings, and shoes lay on the rock behind him. He stood naked, looking down into the tumult of the waves, sea spray flying around him, hair wild. He glanced back to where John had come to a halt on the slope. One quick glance. John thought he saw a white flash of teeth. A smile? A snarl?
Then Soren leapt from the rock, the pelt spreading up his arm and enveloping him, changing him in a fluid, impossible way. And a moment later a seal breached the surface, looked around, and then vanished beneath the waves.
John scrambled down and knelt at the edge, calling. The vast muscles of the sea heaved, rising and falling. Sea foam lay in lacy patterns on the surface, impeding his view of the depths. Icy spray got in his eyes, and he wiped his face frantically. He noticed a dark shape, sinuous, moving, and his heart leapt. But it moved again, in exactly the same way and in exactly the same place, and he realised it was his own reflection.
He’d shouted himself hoarse. He was wet with sea-water. His hands, clinging to the edge of the rock, stung from where he’d scraped them and the sea salt had got in. Then a larger wave came over the edge, wetting him to the elbows, taking his breath away with its cold, sucking at him as it withdrew. He lost his grip, grabbed at an outcrop to save himself from falling. He couldn’t swim. If he fell, he would be dashed against the rocks and drowned. He found a different rock he could grip properly, but a few minutes later, that was underwater too. The tide was coming in.
He backed away from the edge. Another wave wet his feet. As it withdrew, it tumbled something black along with it. He darted forward and grabbed it; a pair of sodden black silk breeches. If Soren came back, he would want them.
If he came back.
If.
John scoured the rocky shelf and the grassy slope for Soren’s clothes. He knelt and bowed his head to catch the scent of them. Once it was gone, no perfumier could bring it back; no musk could ignite the blood, no wood or ambergris delight in the same way.
