by Hanna Howard
Vaulting over the stile, I stumbled upon landing and threw my momentum toward the scrubby weeds beside the wall. I fell with a crunch and pressed myself as close to the cold stone as I could. Golden light seeped from my skin, and I heaved it back inside with a monumental effort.
In moments the cacophony of hooves was level with my hiding spot—twenty or thirty horses at least, by the sound—and my heartbeat matched their pace. But they did not so much as pause, and after another few moments lying trembling with my face in the weeds, they had gone. I lay in the silence a long time, then finally, still shaking, pushed myself up. Sitting with my back to the wall, I breathed in and out as steadily as I could.
Coward, I thought, shame trickling in as my fear ebbed away. I knew it was not foolish to hide, since even disguised as a boy I might be stopped and questioned, but none of those rational thoughts had driven me to fling myself over a wall and lie quivering in the dirt. That had been pure, raw fear, controlling me like a puppet. The light was proof of that.
I thought of what Elegy had said that day in the forest: Being afraid doesn’t make you a coward. It’s how you react that makes you a coward.
I could not—would not—be ruled by my fear. I could use it, I could heed its advice, I could even let it fuel me . . . but I could not allow it to control me.
I would be brave, like my mother.
I sucked in several more deep breaths, and then swallowed hard.
After triple-checking to make sure no one was in sight on the road or in the fields, I sat down again, closed my eyes, and allowed my thoughts to drift upward through the gray fog, to the ever-present force that hung like a shroud between me and the sun. Anxiety bloomed in my chest, making my hands shake, but I reminded myself there was no one around I could hurt. This was safe.
As Yarrow had told me, and as I had sensed, the Darkness was not a solid wall; rather, it was like layers of netting, shifting and sliding over each other to let in hints of sunlight that kept the world from dying. I probed the weak points with my mind, surprised to find how natural the impulse felt, and as the Darkness shifted I sought my way through the gaps. After a few moments’ focus, I felt my consciousness unfurl on the other side.
Though I could not see it, I felt the sunlight with the tendril of my thought that had wriggled through the Darkness, and as I let myself rest there, a glorious image of light and endless, golden sky bloomed in my imagination. It was unlike anything I had ever seen with my physical eyes, brighter than any light I knew of. Far from overwhelming me, though, it filled me with a powerful, startling joy. I wanted to stay sitting against this stone wall, pouring my mind into the sun for the rest of my life.
I opened my eyes and gasped. My skin was blazing once more, illuminating half the cornfield in front of me. Panic exploded—the heat in my palms flared—and I gave a cry, jerking them up, but too late. The weeds beneath them were smoking, burned to cinders. Trembling, I severed my connection to the sun and jerked all the light back into my body.
Dismay battered me, but I took long, deep breaths until I felt steady again. Then I looked down at the charred weeds. I had to learn to control this. Yarrow had said I could help existing plants grow—perhaps I could repair the damage myself. Lack of practical experience notwithstanding, I knew a lot of theory. The basic idea, I recalled, was to use my emotions instead of letting them use me.
I gave a hollow laugh. That was difficult even in theory.
A quick check to make sure the road was still empty, and I placed my palms back over the spots they had burned. I loosened my careful grip on my fear and horror and felt the rush of sun energy swirl and bubble inside me like water coming quickly back to the boil. Instead of letting it run wild, I tried to focus that whirl of power and draw it under my control.
My first attempt failed miserably. So did my second. But on the third try, I finally got the knack of catching hold of the energy with my thoughts, and I gathered it carefully to the center of me, making sure I did not glow. Then I imagined the little blackened, prickly stalks becoming green again, growing taller, sprouting seed heads, then sent the energy slowly, carefully, down my arms to my hands.
Something tickled my left palm, and I lifted it to find three little stalks of grass wavering up out of the charred ground. Unexpected tears pricked my eyes. It was a long way from perfect, and my right hand still lay upon ruined earth, but even so, I had done it.
I had made something good.
An idea sprang up in me as suddenly as the weeds had grown in the earth.
I knew how to leave clues for Yarrow and Linden.
32
CHAPTER
At six years old, I had decided it was not fair for Linden and Yarrow to be named after plants when I was saddled with a name that had once belonged to a cantankerous great aunt.
“Give me a plant name,” I demanded of the pair of them, who were busy tilling the barren earth in Phipps and Milla’s garden. “I want to be named after this one.”
And I yanked up the only thing that would easily grow in what little light the shadowy moor offered: a thick, spiny stalk with papery leaves and a prickly white blossom on top I thought rather pretty.
“That’s starthistle, Siria,” said Yarrow, glancing back with a hint of a smile. “It’s a weed.” “So? Name me after it.”
“You want to be a weed, Weedy?” giggled Linden.
“No. Starthistle. I’ll be Starthistle.”
“Certainly, Weedy,” Yarrow chuckled.
Much as I protested, the name had stuck—especially when my height surpassed Linden’s for a few months during my early adolescence.
And though I had not been called Starthistle once, I knew Yarrow and Linden would spot the significance—though I doubted anyone else would. I therefore set to work as I walked, using my newfound skill to draw up starthistle blossoms every twenty paces or so. Their stalks were abundant along the road, and although it was too early for them to bloom, it was not difficult for me to encourage premature flowering. I knew Linden at least paid enough attention to local plant life to notice if something new appeared.
If he’s still alive to notice anything, a small voice whispered in the back of my mind.
While I drew up starthistle blooms, I tried my hand at another unobtrusive skill Yarrow claimed I possessed: healing. The wound in my upper right arm was still sensitive enough that it hurt to even clench my fist, so I began sending sun energy to that spot and imagining it knitting the tissues back together, healing. This was more complex work than growing weeds, however, and required more concentration. By the end of my third day on the Queen’s Road, I could not feel much difference—and for all I knew, the progress I’d made was my body’s natural healing.
At night I snuck into sheds or livestock pens to sleep, and during the day I spoke to no one—though most of the people I saw were also dreary, downtrodden foot travelers. When I had to pass through towns or villages, I always waited to go through with a crowd, trying to look inconspicuous as I walked past Iyzabel’s soldiers. So far, I had not encountered any guards from Umbraz; these men were all rural patrol soldiers, stationed in the outlying towns to oversee production and shipment of the kingdom’s food. I wondered if our being discovered in the forest had drawn most of the Royal Guard to search there.
But on the fifth day since I’d left Bronya and Roark, I came around a bend and spotted the silver-and-black livery I had come to fear almost as much as the queen herself. Stifling a gasp, I ducked beneath the shadow of a stand of hemlock trees, relieved to see that the four soldiers—all standing on the road beside gleaming black mounts—had not noticed me. Their attention was fixed on a lumpy pile of something at their feet, just off the dirt track. As I watched, the pile stirred feebly, and I heard a voice that was too high and thin to possibly belong to any of the soldiers.
It was not a pile of anything. It was a person.
My impulse was to run farther into the trees and hide until the soldiers had gone, but I balled my fists and cr
ept closer to the soldiers while remaining in the trees’ shade. I could at least get near enough to hear what they said.
“You saw someone,” barked one of the soldiers. “On the road—this road—you said you saw someone yesterday.” He kicked the heap, and I heard a yelp of pain.
It seemed to be an old man, I thought while squinting at the colorless tunic, knobby legs, and wispy white hair. Even from this distance, I could see that he was emaciated—either ill or starving. Or both.
“Oh yes!” said the wavering, weak voice. It was not the frightened sound I expected to hear, but eager and desperate. “Oh yes, I did! But please . . . I don’t know where she went. I would have followed her if I’d known it would help. Please, I want to help! My queen . . . I want to help my—”
But he broke off on another cry as the first soldier kicked him again, this time landing his boot squarely in the man’s face.
I turned away, but not fast enough to avoid the sight or sound of the impact: blood sprayed from his lips, and there was a horrible crunch. I felt sick, and realized my hands were shaking. I directed some of my attention to controlling the light within me.
“Oh please,” said the old man, his words now slurred and muffled by whatever damage had been done to his mouth. I looked back to see him raise a trembling arm, as if he wanted to be helped up. “Oh please, take me to her! I love my benevolent queen . . . I wish to gaze upon her! You’ve seen her . . . haven’t you? What is she like? Tell her—when you see her, tell her that I love—”
This sentence, too, was cut off abruptly as another soldier kicked him in the stomach. Furious tears burned in my eyes, and I took an unconscious step forward.
“Useless,” said the soldier, sounding exasperated. “Shall we kill him?”
“Why bother?” said the first man in disgust. “He’ll be dead soon anyway. Look at him.”
The four soldiers swung into their saddles and cantered off up the road heading north, eventually disappearing around another bend. I ducked out of the trees and hurried across the road to the old man.
Tears were spilling down my cheeks before I was halfway to him. As I knelt, I saw that his breath came in labored wheezes, and he seemed to be weeping silently. His jaw looked wrong; there was blood pooling around his head, staining his thin white hair and making mud of the dirt. I choked on a sob as I laid a hand on his bony shoulder, afraid to turn his head. His eyes rolled, struggling to find who was touching him, and at last swiveled up to look at me.
“They wouldn’t . . .” he slurred, voice weak. “They wouldn’t take . . . me to her . . .”
I shook my head, appalled to find that his adoration for Queen Iyzabel was genuine. It was just as Bronya had said: many of the people toiling under her dominion were still overcome by the power of the Darkness. This man had been so swayed that he longed for the favor of the very woman responsible for his starvation and pain. Was the delusion more powerful because he was physically weak?
“It’s okay,” I heard myself saying in a cracking voice as I stroked his skin-and-bone shoulder. “It’s going to be okay. I’m going to help.”
“My queen?” he said, eyes widening.
“No,” I said. “A friend.”
His eyelids fluttered and he began to choke. I was crying so hard I could barely see him now, and by the time I had blinked the tears away, his coughing had stopped. He had gone still, his eyes glassy and wide, staring up toward the cold gray sky and the Darkness above.
I shook as I rose to my feet, hearing my own promise echoing in my ears. It’s going to be okay. I’m going to help.
I never could have done anything for him, of course. I had known it was an empty promise. But the words burned in my mind.
I’m going to help.
I could help. Not him, but others like him. Others who could not resist the lure of the Darkness in their hearts, others who labored and starved for a queen who thought they were disposable, who only cared about their ability to produce her food and resources.
Yarrow said I had the power to stop this tyranny. This Darkness.
I looked upward, hating the curse that hung over this kingdom—my kingdom—and felt resolve harden like steel inside me. For the first time, and with an equally new sense of responsibility for the country I lived in, I was glad to have a power that was strong and dangerous.
Because the Darkness was strong and dangerous too, and I needed to be a match for it.
33
CHAPTER
The old man’s death fused something inside me, uniting at last the conflicting parts of myself that had kept me from accepting my gift. Everything was now in accord, focused by a growing obsession with reaching the Northern Wilds, meeting my brother, and seeing the sun with my own eyes. There was a new ache inside me too; it had been there since the day I sat at the edge of the cornfield and reached through the Darkness for the sunlight. I ached, in a way that surpassed even my childhood infatuation with Yarrow’s stories, for the presence of the sun in my world. I practiced using my gift constantly, in every way I could think of that didn’t involve actually showing my light. And though I paid for it in increased exhaustion, I also saw small improvements day by day. When I was sure I was alone, I even tried to let the sun draw me up off the ground, like it had done in Umbraz. It never worked, but I still tried.
On my ninth day of travel since leaving the Dells’ farm, I came upon a garish, bright purple caravan trundling along the road ahead of me, pulled by an ancient-looking carthorse whose pace was slower than mine by at least half.
I soon caught up to them, and a window in the side of the caravan swung open. A black-haired boy about my own age leaned out of it, grinning.
“Hallo, traveler,” he said cheerily. “Need a lift?”
I glanced at the plodding carthorse. “That’s all right,” I said, pitching my voice lower to match my now filthy boy disguise.
“Where you headed?” asked the boy, leaning on his forearms as if he frequently conducted conversations through the window of his moving caravan.
I gestured vaguely ahead.
“Polter?” he said in surprise. “Don’t take kindly to common folk there, they don’t.”
“Even less kindly to actors,” muttered the stout woman on the driver’s bench, flicking her whip in a routine sort of way.
“Aye. We avoid the place. Too many soldiers, and soldiers never pay nothing. Plus,” the boy added, raising his eyebrows meaningfully, “dangerous times, if you know what I mean, what with everyone looking for that escaped sunchild girl. Dangerous. Not that I’d mind meeting her, o’ course. They’re meant to be a sight to see.” A dreamy look came over his face.
My cheeks were hot beneath the scarf.
“Hear about them other travelers they tried to get in Slaye, though?” put in the woman driving. “Escaped, but it was a near thing. Strange times.”
I stumbled. Other travelers?
“Where was this?” I asked, trying to sound casual rather than desperate. “Who were these people?”
The woman glanced back at me. “Slaye, like I said. Last town back from Polter. Only last night too.”
“I heard it was nymphs,” said the black-haired boy in an impressive tone. “Wild nymphs. Two men and two women. They’ll be setting up checkpoints next, you mark my words.”
I could barely breathe, but I forced my voice to sound indifferent. “Right,” I said, with a shrug. “Well, you can’t always trust gossip. Best of luck to you.”
I strode on, outpacing them easily, and hurried toward Polter while hope unfurled, wild and giddy, in my chest.
As I entered the village, I was alarmed to see a few of the broadsheets Bronya had mentioned nailed to the gates: Two of me—reasonably accurate, but much fiercer-looking than I was—and one that claimed to be Yarrow, though the illustration showed a man at least twenty years younger than the mage I knew. Both read, “Wanted by the Queen: Dead or Alive.” I pulled my hood low and adjusted my scarf more securely.
The
streets were crowded and loud, full of traders, travelers, and soldiers, though I didn’t see any workers—or indeed, anyone who looked like they had missed a meal in the last year. Feeling uncomfortable, and thinking of the actors’ warning about Polter, I hugged the side of the road and tried to affect a careless, boyish shuffle, letting my eyes dart around for familiar faces.
I saw none.
For the rest of the afternoon, I wandered the streets, giving soldiers a wide berth, but otherwise letting the crowd sweep me along in its current. Once I felt someone trying to pickpocket me, and when I jerked around to confront the thief, I found it was a young man about my own age. His eyes met mine with a malicious expression that first widened and then narrowed in suspicion before he disappeared into the crowd. I felt jumpy after that and pulled my scarf up all the way to my eyes.
Evening fell, and the vendors began to pack up their wares. I passed a bread merchant, and the sweet smell of yeast made my stomach ache with hunger. But Polter—and the traveling players’ warning about it—was making me edgy, and I was afraid to stop and talk to anyone, even if only to buy bread. I supposed I would just have to leave and hope I met Yarrow and the others in the next town.
But how?
I veered down an alley, hoping to cut through to the far gates, but found a dead end. I turned back, ducked down another street, and hurried past merchants who were beginning to look curiously after me. Panic rose in my chest. What would I do if I couldn’t find my way out?
Three more streets, and the dim buildings were all starting to look the same. I couldn’t even find the gate I had come through that morning. I turned abruptly to retrace my steps, hurried around a corner—and ran hard into someone on the other side.
Panic mushroomed in my veins, and I gasped an apology as I looked up into the face of the lean man I had plowed into, now grasping at my shoulders to steady himself.
