by N. D. Wilson
As they were dragged through the courtyard, Frank looked back over his shoulder at his wife and his daughter, at the wagon and the arched gate beyond it. An iron portcullis had been dropped, and men in red lined the street. Huge wooden doors were closing from the outside.
The soldiers dragged them up stairs, down corridors, and up again.
Black doors were thrown open, and a crowd of terrified, pale-faced courtiers scrambled to clear a path.
Frank’s eyes hardened, and he forced his mind to calm. Nimiane sat on the emperor’s throne in a blaze of scarlet. A drooling old man sat in front of her. Frank straightened and managed to get his feet beneath him, trying to walk tall between the soldiers.
“Francis,” the witch said, and her laughter was sweet. “And Dorothy. Again we meet.” Her eyes lifted. “Lady Hyacinth,” she said. “Lovely Hyacinth. Has your bloom faded?”
The crowd of courtiers was shifting, moving back toward the doors. With a crack that rattled the windows and stirred ash on the floor, the doors slammed.
“Nobles and ladies,” Nimiane said. She leaned back and shut her eyes. “You shall not leave. I prepare an entertainment for you. Before your eyes, an ancient line shall be expunged. A tree felled, the root pulled, the ground plowed and salted. Are you not accustomed to seeing beasts encaged?” She waved her hand, and the soldiers dragged Frank toward the wall and a row of iron cages.
His daughter Henrietta, with a filthy face and lopsided curls, was standing at the door of the closest one. A battered Zeke sat with his back against the wall behind her.
“Henrietta!” Dotty tried to pull forward, but the soldiers held her back. “Henrietta!”
“Queen,” one of the courtiers yelled. “The city burns!”
“Does it?” Nimiane asked. Noise died. A cage closed, and Frank was wrapped in a spell of silence. Monmouth breathed softly beside him.
Leaning against the bars, he stared at the witch-queen and the motion of her laughter—noiseless to him. She did not turn her head, but his eyes were drawn down into the eyes of a cat. He pulled back and watched Dots and Penelope hold hands with his missing daughter between metal bars.
She was alive. Even in all this darkness, that spark brought him hope. Henrietta looked up, and he smiled at her, the little girl he’d raised in the Kansas wheat.
Penelope cried, but Henrietta smiled back at her father. She’d gone into the fire and come out alive. The blaze was bigger this time, and they all were in it.
“Dots,” Frank whispered to himself. “My beauty. Now, this is the worst trouble we’ve seen. Death’s brink might just come and go.”
Frank Willis sat down to watch his daughters and his wife. He felt heavy, ripe. A field of memories was ready for harvest.
The canals were crowded with barges making for the eastern harbor and the sea. The streets alongside them once again bustled with citizens, families, and merchants, come up from their cellars and down from their attics to make one last attempt to flee the city.
Coradin could see them from where he stood in the hilltop street outside the palace. They looked like ants dragging eggs from a ruined nest. Smoke filled his lungs, and faintly, muffled by the storm inside him, he could feel his eyes burning. He wanted to help them, to bring some order to their exodus or command the eastern sea gate raised. Why must the city burn? Why flames?
It shall be remade. The fire cleanses.
His two finger-brothers had moved ahead, pacing the wall around the palace. The Hylfing riders had been pulled down, struggling to reach the passing wagon. Five horses and three bodies. The green and the archer had escaped.
They will come.
Coradin knew this already. They would not stop coming, not while breath remained. His sword was drawn while he walked, and his eyes roamed the walls and roofs around him, studying every haze-clouded street. The wind should have lifted the smoke and cleared the air, but it didn’t. It was pushing it down, trapping it low to the ground. Smoke. Fire. Grief. An ache inside him grew. He reached for it, a memory, but another mind, his queen’s, forced it away from him.
When he comes, leave him to me. He knows what he must face.
Coradin reached the palace gate and stopped beside his two brothers, in front of the red-shirt ranks, crowded in formation with their backs to the gate and the empty street in front of them. The men seemed nervous, like animals stirring in a barn.
Smoke. Fire. They watched their city burn. They listened to the bells.
“Fingerling!” The voice echoed in the street, climbing palace walls. Coradin turned and saw the archer standing in an alley mouth, leaning on his bow. The man was tall and wore no armor. A short sword hung at his belt, and feathered flocks of arrows stood out above his shoulders.
“Am I expected?” he asked. “Do these bells peal for my arrival, or shall I knock on the door?”
Coradin stepped forward. “Where is your brother?”
“My brother?” Caleb laughed. “Must I always bring my brother? Am I not welcome alone?”
Coradin turned, scanning the walls on both sides of the street. He opened his mouth to speak but said nothing. Something else, an overwhelming presence, grabbed at his senses. The boy had come. The tie between them, thin and distant, suddenly thundered into place.
“Fingerling?” Caleb asked.
The boy was nearing.
Stone cracked and rumbled, and the soldiers leapt out of ranks. Vines as thick as thighs rose slowly up from the cobbles beneath them, and a thousand curling tendrils gripped the palace walls and climbed the wooden gate. The gate sprouted its own vines, leaves spread, grapes exploded in bunches, and planks popped and splintered.
As the soldiers ran, the gate and arch fell into the street.
Sweating and pale, but with anger in his eyes, Mordecai stepped out of the alley beside his brother, a short sword in his hand. The wind, dressed in smoke, roared down around them, and blind arrows rattled on the cobbles.
In the dust and the smoke, the brothers ran forward. Phedon, the emperor’s son, and one hundred former red-shirts poured out of the alley behind them.
The faeren moved easily around Henry while they ran. Pairs ducked into side streets or buildings, slipping through doors or leaping in and out of windows. Breathing hard, but not as hard as Richard, Henry felt like he was surrounded by a flock of birds, darting and bobbing and circling and weaving, but always returning. Even Beo seemed to struggle with their pace, and the raggant, bleating angrily, had been forced to fly. The sun was high and blazing red, a bloody pearl beyond the smoke. The same smoke burned in Henry’s lungs, and sweat rolled down his back beneath his hoodie. There hadn’t been time to take it off.
Most of the buildings were empty, and they’d found no soldiers—no living soldiers. About halfway up the long street, there had been plenty of dead. Wolves, horses, red-shirts, and wizards. Henry’s heart had stopped when he’d seen his uncle’s horse, and then farther up, his father’s, but there had been no fallen uncle and no fallen father. More than that, he could still feel the wind changing, the wind being changed. And a moment ago, the ground had shaken. His father was alive and stretching himself, perhaps too far.
Jacques, well ahead, turned back and whistled at the mouth of a large cross street.
“Come on now, Henry York.” Fat Frank loped beside him. “Grow some legs, lad. I’d forgotten how slow the tortoise runs.”
Frank jumped in front of him, ran backward for a moment, and then turned and wound quickly up to Jacques.
When Henry reached them, both faeries pointed the knobbed heads of their maces up the sloping cross street. They had reached the highest elevation in the city. One hundred yards from where they stood, the imperial palace loomed. Its gate was gone, as were great slabs of wall on either side. Through the haze, Henry could see thick tangles of broad-leafed vines around the gap. There were no soldiers to be seen. The bells were louder here, drifting up from the eastern slope of the city. In the west, the peals had faded.
�
�That’s your father’s work,” Frank said. “And worthy of the Old King himself.”
Jacques looked at Henry. The faerie’s eye wasn’t even bloodshot from the smoke. Henry’s eyes were dumping tears onto his cheeks, mixing with his sweat. Beo stood in the center of the street, with his nose on the ground. The raggant settled heavily beside Henry.
“You have your father’s strength?” Jacques asked.
Henry shook his head and held up his forefinger and thumb an inch apart. “A little.”
Fat Frank laughed. “Henry’s strength is Henry’s own. You’ll see it blazing soon enough.”
“Do we just go in?” Henry looked down the cobbled hill, down at the canals. The streets there were crowded. Here, only faeries jumped and twisted and hopped on windowsills.
“Was there another plan?” Jacques asked. “Or did planning have no part in this?” The troop of faeren had already moved forward, and Beo with them.
Henry didn’t answer. He began to jog up the final slope, between high walls and through shadows thrown by spires. Fat Frank glided beside him, and the raggant’s shadow led the way. Henry had seen this palace before, but in moonlight, and from the eastern side. Maybe. He remembered the witch-queen’s hanging garden more than the palace. Squinting up while he ran, he couldn’t pick it out anywhere in the groves of thick-trunked towers. In his dream, he’d followed the gray blood strand. He hadn’t needed to see it.
“Tell them all to wait,” Henry said to Frank. “Stay in the street. I go through first.”
Fat Frank shot ahead, and when Henry reached the gap, all the faeries had gathered in a secretive mob, perched on the rubble and pressed against the wall. Even Thorn had beaten him, wheezing in the front. Two faeries propped up Richard between them. A few in the back were picking grapes from Mordecai’s vines while they waited.
Henry stopped and put his hands on his hips while he caught his breath. “Right,” he said. The faeren stared at him from beneath their spiny helmets. “From here we go as fast as we can.” The back row began to snicker. Henry held up his hands. “Okay. From here we go as fast as I can. Inside, there will be fingerlings, five of them, I think.” The faeren quieted. “And there are probably a lot of soldiers, and I don’t know how many witch-dogs.”
“We’ll count them after,” Jacques said, and Fat Frank grinned.
Henry continued. “And my family is in there, too. And the witch-queen.” The ground shook, and more rubble tumbled into the street. Henry tried to ignore it. “Jacques and Frank,” he said. “You find my family, wherever they are, and when you find them, you get them out. You don’t stay one minute longer unless Mordecai or Caleb tells you to.”
Jacques scrunched his lips and poked a finger into his helmet to scratch his mustache. “With all respect due to the necklace the little greenling wears, we came to a war, not to play at paddy grabbing.” He turned to the mob behind him. “Lower mound!” he yelled. “Flax, command.” A stout faerie lifted up his mace. “You get the family out.” He looked back at Henry. “As for the rest, we stay to the finish.”
“Fine,” Henry said. “Once my family is free and Flax gets them out, the rest of you can fight where you will or go home.” He pointed at Fat Frank. “Make sure they find my family.”
“No, lad,” Frank said, shaking his head. “That’s for Jacques and his chestnut mob. I stay with you. We find the witch and pluck her beard.”
“Frank,” Henry said. “I don’t even—”
“Hush yourself,” Frank said. “Listen to those lions roaring in your blood. Even I can hear them. I know this wager. I know the odds, and I know the stakes.” He pointed up. “By the time this bleeding sun has bubbled in the sea, the game will be played and the tale told. Where your feet stand when the sun has set, there will be mine. If your blood pools, it won’t be pooling alone, and if there’s nought left but a pile of ash, it will be the ash of Henry Maccabee and Fat Frank Once-a-Faerie.” He thumped his green mace against Henry’s breastplate. “We’ve stood the storm before, son of Mordecai. Now draw that faerie sword and let’s to war. Your father labors.”
Blowing out a long breath, Henry nodded and climbed onto the ruined gate. He stood surrounded by his father’s vines as he stared into the courtyard spotted with bodies, more in red than not. He shoved his right hand down his shirt and gripped his father’s necklace. With his left, he drew his sword. Heat flowed into him. Strength came to him through every sense and climbed up through his feet. His lungs and eyes forgot their burning—no fire fears the smoke—and he looked up past his father’s leaves, up at the towers, up at the sun. He felt like he had at Badon Hill, first seeing the roar and glory of life. Beyond the sun, he felt darkness, and cold, and further light, worlds spinning, constellations laughing, galaxies whipping around their poles. Behind him, in front of him, the seas rocked in their beds. He could feel their vibrations; he could touch their strength. They offered it. He was an island in a storm. He could feel the witch drawing on his strength, digging in his jaw. He looked across the courtyard at the palace in front of him. He could see two storms warring inside. One building and growing and pounding, the other a great hurricane of gray, swallowing it all.
This world was not the witch’s. She did not own the stars; she had not shaped the seas. Her storm could break. Somehow. It had to. Henry stepped down off the gate and into the courtyard battlefield. Beo ran ahead, and the faeren, shouting, chanting the war songs of their fathers, poured in after. Scanning the other side of the courtyard, Henry picked a corridor and turned toward it.
Coradin stepped out from behind the fountain, his blade arcing down.
Henry staggered to the side and threw up his own sword. The blades sparked, and the force of the fingerling’s blow knocked Henry to his back. Two other fingerlings were with him, and already faeries, shimmering in the air, danced around their waists.
Whooping, Fat Frank leapt on Coradin’s back and gripped his helmet by an eyehole, pulling it against the silver chains. The fingerling’s sword flashed, and Frank tumbled, his helmet bald a few spines.
Coradin slashed at the shimmering air while one of his brothers fell behind him. Richard was there, swinging his club while a black helmet was ripped free. A finger was gone. Henry felt the witch’s pain and saw Coradin waver and strengthen again, surrounded by the faeren mob. Two faerie bodies tumbled to the ground, visible and motionless. A cry of anger echoed in the courtyard.
Henry turned and ran. He had a bigger fight. But now men in red were pouring out of corridor mouths. Fat Frank settled into stride beside him.
“Wasps in the anthill, that’s what we are,” Frank said. Grabbing Henry’s arm, he veered. Henry almost matched his pace, and they reached the side of the courtyard before the wave of red reached them. Jumping through a small door into a long hall, Frank slammed it shut and slapped his hand on the wood. Henry watched the grain harden and root its strength into the stone around it.
“Wizards’d walk through, but not these dullards,” Frank said. “Up now, and over, I’d say.”
Henry nodded. Jogging down the corridor with his sword in front of him, he looked in every door until he found stairs. They were wide, and he and the faerie began to climb side by side.
One floor up, the stairs ended. A window overlooked the war in the courtyard, and a broad corridor ran in both directions. As they turned to run, Henry jerked and fell, his sword clattering on the floor.
Needle-sharp cold shot into his head.
Pauper son, your father waits for you. Your mother waits for you. I wait for you. Why won’t you come?
Henry forced himself onto all fours.
Come. I will not drink you here.
“Henry!” Frank yelled.
Blinking, Henry looked up. Soldiers were running down the corridor toward them. He pushed against the cold. He squeezed his heat around it. It lessened. It was leaving.
I will lead you.
She was gone from his head. He’d pushed her out. Or she’d left. Henry managed to
stand and look down the corridor. The soldiers had all crumpled to the floor for some reason. Fat Frank was nudging them with his foot.
“What happened there, Henry?” he asked. “You yowl like a kicked kitten, and then this lot drops over dead.” While Henry walked toward him, Frank bent over and flicked a soldier’s cheek. “All dried out, too.”
Henry stopped and looked down at the soldiers. Six of them. What had happened to their world, their lives? Had they been cruel, kind, before the witch came? Frank reached up and slapped at Henry’s jaw. A cloud of ash drifted down.
“Can’t say I care for that,” Frank said. “But hop along now, Henry. Split the lickety, and we might still help your father.”
“She’s got him,” Henry said. “She’s got all of them.”
Glass shattered behind them, and the raggant tumbled to the floor, snorting back to his feet.
Henry looked at the stubborn animal and then back at Frank, just as stubborn, just as strange.
“Onward, Henry,” Frank said, and Henry nodded.
The two trotted down the corridor, with the raggant puffing behind. Henry didn’t need to look for doors or stairs. There was a hook in his jaw and a line to reel him in. He could see it now and feel it tug, harder than it had in his dream.
Henrietta stood. She was no longer kicking the cage door or shaking the bars. Everyone had been standing, even Zeke. Her father had Monmouth propped up, the wizard’s arm over his shoulder. But now most had slumped back to the floor.
