by Jo Spurrier
‘Yeah?’
‘When Gyssha came to you, did you have any doubts?’
‘Doubts? Nope. Not one. I told you, didn’t I? I was in prison when she came for me. Not much of a choice between escaping or waiting to get your hand cut off. At the time I was thinking I’d just bolt for it as soon as we were free and clear, but then I saw what she did to the guards to make them let us leave . . . by the time the gates closed behind us I’d decided that maybe it was worth sticking around for a bit. But, of course, it was all carrot early on. She didn’t show me the stick until later.’
I thought about what it would be like, being locked in a dungeon, waiting for the axe. ‘I’m not scrappy, like you. If I ended up in jail like that I think I’d just sit and bawl like a lost calf.’
‘Oh, there was plenty of bawling, Dee, let me tell you. And what do you mean you’re not scrappy? The way you’ve handled yourself out here, you could have fooled me.’ Aleida made a small noise in the back of her throat then, and nudged me with her elbow. ‘There’s one. Look, can you see it?’ She pointed into the underbrush to our left.
She was pointing at a clump of ferns growing under the shelter of a fallen tree. There was nothing remarkable about it at all, as far as I could see. ‘I can’t see anything.’
‘Look closely. There’s a kind of mist hanging over it, a little plume of green. Can you see it?’
I squinted, tilting my head this way and that. How ridiculous was it, to be looking for a green haze against the lush greenery of these mountains? But then . . . ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Yes. Yes, I can see it! Wait—’ She’d made no move to stop the horse. ‘Aren’t we going to stop?’
‘No, that’s just a little one. I told you, Gyssha must have buried hundreds of constructs or trinkets around these hills, thousands maybe. I’m looking for something bigger. But now you know what to look for.’ She nudged the horse on into a trot, and then, thankfully, into a canter. There might be girls out there who can comfortably ride a trotting horse bareback, but I am definitely not one of them.
We followed the stream for a ways, the ground steadily rising, but after just a few minutes Aleida slowed the horse to a walk. ‘Ah. Now we’re talking.’
This time I could see it clearly, a plume of sickly green, like smoke, that rose up from the ground. She guided the horse over to it and halted to hold her hand over the murky haze. ‘Hmm. Another earthbeast, I think. We’ll keep going.’
While she was investigating the plume, I’d been looking up, at the tops of the trees on the mountain ahead. ‘Look,’ I said, ‘up there. Is that another one? It looks like a big one.’ There was a murky green haze rising up above the trees. The plume on the one beside us was about as tall as a person standing, so this one seemed much, much bigger.
She squinted at the trees up ahead. ‘Yeah. Looks promising. Let’s go.’
We found it after just a few minutes, and this time when Aleida reined in she swung a leg over the horse’s neck and slipped to the ground. ‘You come down too, Dee.’
‘What is this?’ The ground had flattened out, and we were under a thick cover of trees, the canopy so dense that not even ferns grew underneath. There was just a damp, mouldering carpet of fallen leaves, and in the middle of it, an oddly smooth, pointed stone jutting up out of the ground, veined with some black mineral that glittered, even in the darkness.
‘Not sure,’ Aleida said, studying the stone. ‘A power-store, maybe?’ She shrugged. ‘I’ll soon find out. Stay close, now. Don’t wander off.’ She settled down, sitting cross-legged to face the stone, and fell utterly still.
Minutes passed.
Well, I told myself. She did say this would be boring. The horse was even less impressed than I was, being asked to wait patiently when there wasn’t even any grass to keep him occupied. I was too tired to have any tolerance for his antics, so I tethered him to a low branch and left him there to stamp and fuss.
My belly grumbled. A cup of spiced milk was nice as a treat, but hardly a substitute for a real breakfast. After last night’s misadventures I could have used something much more substantial — I felt drained and weak, and I was tempted to settle onto the damp leaves beside Aleida and close my eyes, just for a few moments.
But then I remembered that Gyssha was out here somewhere, watching us, and all thought of sleep swiftly left my mind. Instead I turned on my heel, surveying the trees around us, the green–gold canopy above. Was she here already, waiting for an opportunity to strike? I clenched my fists, digging fingernails into my palms. She must be here, I’d bet money on it. In fact, I’d bet she’d been watching us constantly, and we never even knew.
I turned back to Aleida then, watching her sitting motionless with her head bowed and her fingertips pressed to the stone. It seemed somehow absurd that she’d ever offer to train me. Boring, dull little Elodie, who’d spent all her life cleaning and cooking and wiping dirty faces and bottoms . . .
And yet. And yet that letter had come from somewhere.
Magic, she’d said, peering at the runestones. It was magic that brought you here.
Something drifted through my field of vision then, something pale and fluttering. My head snapped up, my thoughts shoved aside as I tried to focus, but the thing was so strange that my weary mind could make no sense of it. There were pale feathers and gleaming, golden wire . . .
And then I realised it was heading straight for Aleida’s unprotected back.
With a shout of warning I started forward. Her head lifted at my cry and she twisted around — only to stop short with a gasp, clamping an arm down on her injured ribs.
The little fluttering thing was moving faster than I’d realised. Much faster. As I closed the gap I could see it more clearly; the feathers were wings, the body and legs made from twisted wire.
It landed on Aleida’s back, and I saw her stiffen with a hiss of pain, reaching over her shoulder for it, only for her injured ribs to bring her up short again.
I reached her then, and yanked the thing away.
It was a wasp — a wasp the size of a sparrow, made of wire and glass and glittering beads. Its body was a glass vial, streaked with traces of something brown and oily. Its stinger was a snake’s fang, smeared with blood.
Aleida turned and snatched it from me, its feathery wings still beating against my palm, wire legs writhing and twitching. She gave it a single glance — and then smashed it against the stone with a chink of shattering glass.
I grabbed her by the shoulder with shaking hands. ‘I’m sorry! I’m sorry, I should have been watching, I should—’
She lifted her head, and gave me such a withering look that the words died in my mouth. ‘Dee,’ she said. ‘Do you think I brought you here to stand between me and Gyssha? Your only job is to stay alive.’ Then she glanced down at her hand. Blood flowed freely from a gash in her palm, and there was a smear of the dark, oily stuff from the vial, too. She raised it to her mouth, tasting it with a quick touch of her tongue, and then immediately spat it out again.
‘Poison?’ I said.
‘Belladonna,’ she said with a grimace. ‘It causes delirium, confusion and hallucinations. All right, Dee, this is about to get interesting. Stay close.’ She seized my hand in hers — the injured one was nearest, and I soon felt the blood seep into the bandages wrapped around my palm. ‘Stay right here, Dee. Right here. No matter what, don’t let her lead you away. Got it?’
But before I could reply, in the blink of an eye, with a single thud of my heart, the forest and the mountains and everything around me was swept away.
I was in a ballroom, full of colour and noise and candlelight. I wore a beautiful rose-hued gown, stiff with embroidery and glittering with jewels. Before me, hundreds of lords and ladies danced, spinning and circling in a dizzying display while music filled the room. Above me the roof beams were picked out in gold, while the ceiling was painted to look like a blue sky studded with perfect, fluffy clouds. Colourful, exotic birds were painted flying overhead or perched on the bea
ms to look down at us, enthralled. Chandeliers the size of wagon wheels illuminated the room, and they too were covered in gold and dripping with crystals. Mirrors lined the walls between each candelabra, reflecting the candlelight and the dazzling display of coloured silks and glowing jewels, the women in gorgeous gowns, the men in crisp uniforms with sabres at their sides or else in long jackets every bit as colourful as the ladies’ dresses.
I shrank back, fingers buried in the crisp silk of my skirts. Where was I? Who was I? I didn’t belong here, I was sure of that. I’m not supposed to be here. But my rose-coloured gown was as fine as any other in the room. My hands were clad in spotless white gloves that reached past my elbows and were bedecked with rings and bracelets, resplendent in the candlelight. Cautiously, I raised my hands to my head and found my hair piled artfully atop my head, held in place with jewelled pins and decorated with long, delicate feathers that danced and swayed with every movement.
I started to push my way around the edge of the room, confused and verging on panic. This was wrong, this was all wrong. I wasn’t supposed to be here. I needed to be somewhere else. Someone else.
At the far end of the room was a dais where two people sat — a man and a woman, dressed in white and gold and loaded with jewels that put the rest of the room to shame. The man was handsome, the woman beautiful, with gleaming blonde hair that matched the gold on her dress, and I knew without a moment’s thought that they were wearing bridal clothes, and this was their wedding night. But they didn’t look happy — not at all. The man held himself as stiff as a sword, staring straight ahead; his face blank and his lips pale, as though he was clenching them tight to keep from speaking. The bride looked pale and fearful, and there, by her side, was another woman, a lass with gleaming black hair and golden skin, clad in a sapphire-blue gown. She leaned in close, whispering in the bride’s ear, and I saw their eyes following one of the couples on the dance-floor, and I saw the bride smile, her stiff posture soften and a blush of pink cross her porcelain cheeks.
Then, in the blink of an eye, everything changed. Now I was outside on rain-washed streets strung with bunting and garlands of flowers. I was crowded cheek-by-jowl with other folk and straining to see an open carriage driving past, drawn by six white horses and gleaming with gold. Inside sat the blonde woman from before, and riding with her, arm linked through hers, was the same girl with golden skin and black hair, a wicked gleam in her eyes and a sly smile on her lips.
I know her, I thought, as the carriage rumbled past and the crowd surged into the streets after them, cheering and calling out blessings and praise. I know her.
Then, another blink, and the vision changed once again. I was still in the street, but everything had changed — the buntings in tatters, the flowers rotting and mouldered. Shutters were broken, doors splintered and torn from their hinges. The cobblestones were streaked with filth, and great patches of them had been torn up to litter the streets elsewhere, as though levered out to be hurled as weapons. Plumes of smoke rose over the city, and the street was deserted. The side-streets were cluttered with splintered, broken furniture — folk had built barricades, and then had them smashed apart. In the distance I could see bodies, crumpled and sprawled and left to rot.
Another blink, and I was back in the ballroom — only this time, everything was aflame and the air was full of choking smoke. The candles were out, the candle-stands toppled, the mirrors smashed while the painted ceiling smouldered, raining ash and cinders. Through the crackle and roar of the fire I heard distant screams and shouts and the ring of metal. Something snagged my foot and I tripped, falling on my hands and knees, only to find that I’d stumbled over the body of a man in one of those beautiful embroidered coats, his throat cut from ear to ear. When I looked down, I realised my own dress was streaked with blood, torn and charred at the hem, and in my hand was a bloody knife.
There were dozens of bodies under the choking smoke, and here and there I could see fallen figures stirring, dragging themselves over the ballroom floor, leaving streaks of blood behind. Overhead, the ceiling groaned and cracked, and a massive chunk of it sagged, shedding a waterfall of sparks and cinders. Slowly, as though time had turned to honey, the roof fell, crashing down onto those crawling figures . . .
The moment it hit, I was somewhere else — an elegant chamber with tapestries on the walls and carpets on the floor, gilded couches upholstered with creamy silk — all of it splattered with blood. Lying half on the couch, half slid to the floor, was the golden, beautiful bride. There was a sword driven right through her chest, pinning her to the couch while she coughed and gasped, plucking at the blade with bloody hands. On the floor by her feet was a dead man, half-undressed, his hands and chest rent with great, bloody wounds. His face, slack and still, was that of the man she’d smiled at on the dance-floor, the one who’d sparked the blush on the bride’s cheeks. Behind them, the bridegroom was striding around the room, tearing at his hair with both hands, his fine clothing all splattered with blood.
There came a noise from outside and I whirled, just as he did — in time to see two men charging through the door, both of them bloodied, with swords in their hands, both of them with the same golden hair as the dying bride. Once again, I knew without thinking that they were her kin, come to save her, or avenge her.
And at the back of the room, half hidden in shadow, was the black-haired woman in the blue gown, pressed against the wall with her hand to her mouth in a gesture of horror. Beside her . . . beside her was a smaller figure, an old woman, all in black, though her dress glittered like the stars on a clear night. She clutched the younger woman’s arm with fingers that looked like talons, and on her face was a vicious smile, eyes sparkling with delight as the bride’s kin fell upon the unarmed groom, hacking him to pieces, while on the blood-soaked couch the bride gasped her last breath and fell still.
I stood frozen, overcome with the horror of the scene, the smell of blood and the stink of death. This isn’t right, I told myself. This isn’t real. This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening.
In that frozen moment, I felt someone — something — take hold of my hand. I wanted to jump out of my skin, but I couldn’t move. I couldn’t do anything, even as I felt the unseen figure reach for my other hand. There was something wrapped around it, something holding on to me, gripping tight, and as I felt the other hand pull mine away I didn’t know if I should panic or feel relieved. I couldn’t talk, I couldn’t think, my head was full of horror, of dread and of the smell of blood and fear and smoke.
Then I felt an arm wrapped around my shoulders, and a voice whispered in my ear. ‘Come on, Dee. Come on, come with me. It’ll be all right, I’ll get you out of here, just come with me.’
I couldn’t resist. The gentle words might as well have been a command set in stone. The arm at my back propelled me forward, and the vision, the gold and blood and candlelight, all melted away.
CHAPTER 13
I tried to pull back. Something inside me knew it was wrong to let myself be drawn away. I had to stay here. It was important, but I couldn’t remember why. There was a blank spot inside my mind, like the spots that dance before your eyes after staring into a bright light. I could see, but what I saw made no sense — it was just a blur of green and blue and brown.
But no matter how I pulled back, no matter how I tried to resist, the owner of those hands kept pulling me away, pushing me onwards; whispering soft words like you’d use to soothe a frightened beast.
The forest, I realised. I’m back in the forest.
Where’s the city? Where’s the ball? Whose clothes are these? I had a dream, I know it was a dream. I had a dream about a witch in a cottage and monsters in the woods and a boy with soft hands and tangled curls and freckles across his cheeks.
‘Kian,’ I said. ‘It wasn’t a dream. Kian.’
‘You’re all right, Dee. I’ve got you. I’ll take you somewhere safe.’
I blinked, my eyes clearing. I understood now that the green and b
rown shapes were trees, the blue was the sky between them. Ahead of us was a river, flowing fast over rocks, and the air was full of noise, a rushing, roaring sound. My wits felt dull, I couldn’t make sense of it. I just wished it would stop. ‘Kian? What are you doing here?’
I pulled back to see his face, and he gave me an easy grin, the same sort of grin he’d given me the day before when I’d called after him on the forest trail, but at the same time he kept propelling me forward. Yesterday I’d been relieved to see that smile, but today . . . . Today something about it put me on edge.
‘I saw you,’ he said. ‘I saw you both, heading along the river. And then, well, it looked to me like you were in trouble. Like something was wrong.’
Something was wrong. He was wrong. Kian hated witches, he was frightened of Aleida. Would he really creep up under her nose to drag me away, when she could open her eyes at any moment? Maybe. Maybe he would. Maybe, if he really did care about me. But he didn’t look like a lad who’d just braved his worst fear for a girl he really liked. If he had, he’d be wide-eyed and flushed, breathing hard. Not watching me with a little half-smile, almost a smirk, on his lips, as calm and collected as . . . as Aleida was when we set out that morning.
I wiped my free hand on my skirts, feeling the bandage thick against my palm. He hadn’t asked about the bandages. I hadn’t been wearing them yesterday. What kind of person wouldn’t comment on something like that? A dark thought was unfolding inside me, a dark and terrifying thought, and I fervently hoped I was wrong.
I tried to stop. He had an arm across my shoulders, and when I pushed back he braced against me, driving me forward, until I grabbed for his hand and tried to spin out of his grip. It worked, for a moment, but then my feet tangled with his and I fell. Before I’d even hit the ground, he was behind me again, hands wrapping around my wrists. ‘What’s the matter, Dee? What’s wrong? Don’t you trust me?’
