Free Dragonwitch by Anne Elisabeth Stengl

boulder to boulder, surefooted even as the fur on his spine stood up like a crest for dread of the rushing water beneath him.
    On the far side, nearly hidden behind a stone, was a cave entrance.
    The cat slipped inside easily enough; his golden eyes flared with their own bright light, like two small suns in the damp darkness. Water from the river ran into the cave, not deep but still freezing. A convenient ledge provided the cat with a dry route for the first stretch of this journey, however, and only near the end was he obliged to spring down into the water.
    A stone stairway rose into the darkness, cut from the cliff itself. Up this the cat ran, higher and higher until he left the cold of underground behind and entered the cold of man-laid stone. His sensitive nose caught the many smells of mortals going about their daily lives within the castle, unaware of his presence within the secret passage behind the walls.
    It always surprised him how strongly mortals smelled of oncoming death. How strange it must be to live governed by so short a span of existence! But this stink of death was stronger than expected, and a suspicion began to form in the cat’s mind.
    He came at last to the top of the stair and faced a heavy, locked door. Not an iron lock, thank the Lights Above! He could not manipulate iron. But brass would bow to his will.
    The cat took a different form and worked on the lock such influence as Faeries have. He heard the catch give way and carefully pushed the door aside.
    The smell of near death nearly overwhelmed him.
    A fire burned in the darkened room, casting all in reddish glow, for little daylight found its way through the east windows this late in the day. On the wall hung a heavy tapestry depicting a scene from the Legend of the Brothers Ashiun, complete with the House of Lights and the swirling fires of the dragon, though the dragon itself had been omitted. Equally heavy curtains embellished with flowers and vines and fantastical creatures surrounded an enormous, four-poster bed.
    Behind the bed-curtains someone breathed raw, unwilling breaths.
    The tapestry on the wall shifted, and the cat slinked out from behind it. The clunk of a door shutting was muffled by the heavy fabric, and no one was listening for it in any case. The cat crept quietly up to the bed, his pink nose delicately sniffing out the scents of mastery, of lordship, of strength swiftly slipping.
    The lord of the castle was dying.
    â€œInteresting,” the cat whispered.
    But it wasn’t a complete explanation for what he sensed, so he hastened on his way, slipping quietly from Earl Ferox’s sick chamber into the passage beyond. He moved through Gaheris as though he owned it, and neither servants nor members of the household questioned his right to be there. A lady in rich garments drew back her skirts a little at the sight of him but otherwise left him to his business.
    He followed his nose, which was as good a guide as any, sniffing out anything atypical. In pursuit of one such scent he approached the door of what proved to be a library and glanced inside. He beheld the castle chronicler—a short fellow recognizable by his ink stains—sitting on a high stool drawn up beside the table, speaking guidance in a low voice to a pupil. A female pupil, the cat noted with some surprise.
    He regarded the tableau a moment, his nose hard at work. He smelled anger on the Chronicler, which puzzled him a little. Still more puzzling was the other scent, a strong emotion closely akin to sorrow. Given time, it might very well overwhelm the anger. The cat smelled it, and he saw more in the Chronicler’s stance: The care with which he guided his pupil, care that was nearer to fear than affection.
    Then the cat caught a glance (so swift none but a cat’s eyes would have seen it) the girl gave the Chronicler beside her. That glance told him all he needed to know about that little scene.
    But none of this answered his question, so he