The Moorchild Read Online Free Page A

trouble, have we?” He addressed the elder, but his gaze fastened on Moql, who shrank a little under it, feeling much smaller and more uncertain thanusual, with no youngling beside her to touch elbows with, or indeed, anywhere around. She had never come face to face with the Prince before.
    “Aye, a bit of trouble—about this size,” Pittittiskin answered with a jerk of his head at Moql.
    “Big trouble can come in little parcels,” the Prince remarked. “What’s your name, m’dear?”
    “Moql’nkkn,” Moql quavered.
    “She can’t hide,” Pittittiskin added baldly.
    “Yes I can! It was just—I just—”
    “Ssssst.” She was silenced by a yank on her arm, which Pittittiskin still held fast. He informed the Prince, in a few blunt sentences, of the morning’s events. She’d stumbled over the ewe, caught the shepherd’s eye, mucked up a color change, failed to wink out, left shelter and run straight into the man’s hands. She’d been caught, asked a lot of questions, luckily been too scared to answer. Finally minded her of the gold trick and managed to pull it off.
    He made her sound a blunderhead, indeed. But she could not find any actual lie.
    The Prince looked at her thoughtfully and went straight to the heart of the matter. “You can’t wink out?”
    “Aye, I can! Leastways, I thought I—,” Moql faltered. She’d played at it, along with the other younglings, catching her breath, holding it until she had to giggle and let go. Nobody had ever told her she hadn’t gone transparent like the others. Nobody had ever told her she had. “Maybe I—muddled it,” she said in a small voice.
    “No way to muddle it,” the Prince told her. “You can do it or you can’t. Let’s see you try.”
    She swallowed. “Right now?”
    “Right now.”
    She gasped in a big breath and held it hard, her eyes squeezed shut.
    “See that?” remarked Pittittiskin. “And you can tell she’s trying.”
    Moql deflated with a rush, opened her eyes in dismay to find herself being studied by two speculative pairs of eyes.
    “What d’you think?” said Pittittiskin—but not to her.
    Instead of answering, the Prince said, “Try a shape change, little one.”
    I’ll change to a dragon, then you’ll be sorry! thought Moql. She tried, but she knew she had never yet managed a real shape change—only small alterations in her own shape and color. She’d always thought she’d pick it up—grow into it, like. Plainly she was wrong. The Prince was chewing meditatively on the tip of his beard, gazing past her—or through her—into some thought of his own. He wore a red jewel on a chain around his neck. It glowed like a drop of blood against his worn green weskit.
    He spoke suddenly to Pittittiskin. “D’you recollect—it was a time ago—somebody coaxed one o’ Them into the Mound? Great towerin’ fella with hair like a horse’s mane.”
    Pittittiskin gave a curt nod. “I recollect. Not sure who coaxed him in. But I’ve kept an eye on the little ones comin’ out’n the Nursery.” He glanced at Moql. “It’s no surprise.”
    “What isn’t?” Moql ventured. She was ignored.
    “Jinka, was it?” the Prince said.
    “Talabar, I think. I’ll fetch her.” Pittittiskin loosed Moql’sarm, made a floating leap down to the floor of the Gathering, and became one red cap among many. The Prince lounged back on his cushions. It seemed to Moql they had suddenly forgotten all about her. Relieved, she turned to follow Pittittiskin.
    “You stay here, m’dear,” the Prince said without opening his eyes.
    The relief vanished like bog mist. For a moment she gazed mournfully down at the Folk moving about below her, for whom this day was free and untroubled, like any other. Then she dropped onto a low stone and hugged her knees.
    “A fisherman he was, I think,” the Prince said—to himself or her, she couldn’t tell. “Brawny young lad. She coaxed him to follow her, see—the Folk will do it, now and again—well,