“Fade,” she said in a rush. “Was there another once? An eighth Djinn?”
He snorted. “There have only ever been seven Djinn!”
Magpie chewed her lip, ashamed to have voiced such blither. The idea had seemed to simply spin into her mind on a curl of light.
Fade spoke again, more quietly. He said, “The eighth was not a Djinn.”
And Magpie and Bellatrix stared at him, dumbstruck.
“In the time before time there were seven sparks . . . and one wind.”
“A wind . . . ,” breathed Magpie.
“The Astaroth, the world-shaping wind. He was the bellows to the Djinns’ fire, tirelessly feeding their flames so they could burn bright as suns and pour their dreams forth in unbroken threads. He was their ally and equal. Pure power, an unfathomable force, and without him the Tapestry could not have been woven.
“He had no dreams of his own, but he shared theirs. When the time came to shape the Tapestry into a sphere and bind closed its seams, he chose to remain and witness the burgeoning of the world he had helped forge. This was the mistake that has shaped everything.”
“How?” Magpie asked, her head spinning.
“He was a creature of infinite space. He had never yet known boundary. The Tapestry had seemed vast laid open in the emptiness, but once sewn closed, it was . . . small. The work of world-making went on, the Djinn gathered dreaming, the Astaroth fed them, and the world bloomed, but a time came when he was no longer needed, and it became a cage to him.”
“The Djinn couldn’t . . . let him out?” asked Bellatrix, as confounded as Magpie.
“Not without letting the nothingness in and obliterating everything. He had made his choice, but he couldn’t live with it. The confines of the world warped him. He tried to free himself, even at the expense of all else. He gathered his full force and tried to blast his way through the Tapestry to freedom, but it was strong—he’d helped make it so—and he couldn’t breach it. Again and again he tried, hurling himself against it, but all he succeeded in doing was mangling it, twisting its perfect threads. Making devils.”
“Ah . . . ,” Magpie whispered, understanding at last.
“Abominations,” continued the dragon. “What the Djinn dreamed pure, he turned monstrous. And when he saw what he had done he went to work at it even harder, believing he was at last creating something of his own. Hundreds upon hundreds of creatures were thus warped. The Djinn knew something had to be done. He’d been their ally, but they had to choose between the Astaroth and the world. . . .”
“What did they do?” the faeries both asked, breathless.
“They chose the world,” said Fade simply, and heaved a deep sulfurous sigh. “It was a terrible choice, and it diminished them. They erased all memory of him—”
“But for the eighth column in all the temples,” said Magpie.
He looked at her closely. “Aye, faerie. Those they left as symbols of their shame. They never again burned so bright as they had in the harmony of eight, with the Astaroth’s strength on their side. Faeries never knew the Djinns’ full glory. By the time you came to be, that was all memory.”
“This all happened before the days of faeries?” Bellatrix asked.
“Aye,” said Fade, with the grim ghost of a smile on his reptilian face. “Of course. The Djinn had to create a race to rid the world of devils. That race was faeries.”
Magpie stood very still. She felt a sickness in the pit of her stomach. She saw the same feelings written on Bellatrix’s face. They just looked at each other and felt the force of the dragon’s words. Faeries had been dreamed into being to rid the world of devils. Faeries, who had always believed themselves to be the light and color and soul of the world, they were just the solution to a wretched problem, like vultures who had been dreamed to devour the dead.
“Now you know,” said Fade.
Magpie blinked, and the stunned look on her face was replaced slowly by ferocity. “Well, then,” she said, “if he dreamed us up as hunters he’d best let us do our job, neh? This Blackbringer. What the skive is he, dragon?”
“The Astaroth’s final plague,” said Fade. “And his worst.”
TWENTY-NINE
Again came a soft touch like the flutter of wings as Magpie visioned the glyphs Snoshti taught her, holding Rathersting Castle clear in her mind. When she opened her eyes she found herself in Nettle’s room and released her held breath with relief.
It was quiet under the drum of rain. Bertram was asleep in the rocking chair with his peg leg propped up on the bed. She thought at first he was the only one in the room, but then she saw the Rathersting lad in the window. He was sitting looking out and hadn’t heard her arrive. She remembered their last meeting, how she hadn’t had time to explain to him about Skuldraig, and a flush of shame rose on her cheeks. How ungrateful he must think her! She held still, knowing as soon as she was noticed the questions would begin, and she couldn’t begin to imagine how she would answer them.
Then Snoshti glimmered in beside her and silence was no longer an issue. “Well done, pet!” cried the imp. Instantly Bertram leapt awake and Talon swung round in the window. His eyes were full of suspicion.
“What happened?” he demanded. “Where did you go?”
Calypso hopped in. “My ‘Pie!” he cried, sweeping her up in his wings. “Heard ye had a bit of a vanish!” He held her face with his feathertips and looked into her eyes. “How are ye, pet?”
Though his voice was jovial, Magpie knew what he was asking. “I’m fine now, feather,” she said, meeting his searching stare.
“Does me good to see a gleam in yer eye. But ye look awful tired.”
“Aye, exhausted, since you mention it. Feel like I haven’t slept in ten years.”
“Bet ye’re hungry too, Mags,” said Pup from the doorway as the rest of the crows crowded in.
She put her hands over her belly and realized she was. “About to start gawping like a baby bird!”
“There’s biscuits and pumpkin soup left from lunch, full of ginger to bring your strength up,” offered Orchidspike, elbowing her way through the throng of black feathers. “Back in bed and rest, lass, from . . . wherever you’ve been. I’ll fetch you some.”
“Neh, Lady,” said Talon. “Let me.” As he passed Magpie, his hard eyes seemed to ask, Who are you?
Magpie allowed herself to be fussed back into bed. Orchidspike bent to examine her wings and Magpie’s elaborate braid caught her eye. “Whose handiwork is this, now?” she asked.