Page 30 of The Neverfear

‘Just two more! We’ll be home with Irian in a week! And then this will be over and we’ll be safe! We’re going to do it!’

Anya’s optimism was contagious. She had pulled him through the giants’ forest. She had the giants’ candyfloss tangled in her hair and bramble scratches on her face, and even so she was laughing.

He laughed too. ‘Onwards, as Nighthand would say. For Irian!’

A great wave of light came over him: they had already done so much. They could do anything that was to follow.

Irian, Caged

The cage on the beach was ten feet by twenty, with bars three inches apart. The bars were of obsidian alloy, and they were wet with seawater.

Irian regained consciousness on the floor of the cage. Her whole body ached and there was blood on the back of her head. The first thing she did was push back her jacket and put a hand into the inside pocket. There was a furious peeping, and a small black bird emerged.

‘Koo!’ She checked him over, uncurling his silver claws, testing his black wings. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Bad,’ croaked Koo. ‘Bad.’

‘I agree.’

The cage was set in the middle of a desolate grey beach. There was nothing else within sight: to the left and right, only grey sand and grey stone. Behind them a dark mountain rose up, and before them the churning ocean. There was nothing alive – no trees, no people, no way to guess where they might be.

The tide was rising, uncomfortably close. Already, the waves were lapping against the edge of the cage floor, running in over the metal base. Irian shook at the barred cage door, but without hope.

‘Not.’ Koo pecked her. ‘Good.’

‘We’re going to have to teach you some new words.’

‘Slow.’

‘Well, it’s time to speed up.’

‘Up!’ he said. ‘Up!’

Irian crossed to the bars and looked up. High above, a stymphalian was circling: on its back rode a woman, long dark hair flying behind her.

Irian held Koo in both hands. ‘Be quiet,’ she said. ‘I don’t want anyone to know you’re with me.’

‘Quiet,’ he repeated. ‘Hush.’

She tucked him back into her jacket as the stymphalian bird gave a cry and landed on the stones.

The woman dismounted from the bronze bird and came to stand by the cage, alone on the great expanse of windswept beach. Irian noted the woman’s extraordinary beauty – the thick hair, the sharp angles of her cheeks and jaw, the full mouth – and the snake on her wrist.

‘Irian Guinne,’ said the woman. ‘We haven’t been introduced. But perhaps you’ve heard of me, from a mutual friend of ours? I am Carla Venasque.’

She looked intently at Irian’s face, but Irian shook her head. ‘I’ve never heard of you. Who are you? Where are the children? Why have you brought me here?’

‘You’ve never heard my name?’ Her face was suddenly whiter than it had been, and her lip curled. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Never. Are you planning to kill me?’

‘No,’ said Carla soothingly. ‘No, no.’

That was a lie, Irian thought.

‘At least,’ said Carla, ‘not immediately.’

And that seemed true.