“Mama?” Janner breathed.
Nia’s breath caught in her throat, and a hand went to her mouth.
A moment later the two of them rushed forward—a boy wrapped in animal skins, wounded and sore, skinny as a tree branch, and the Queen of Anniera, wrapped in gold and light. They embraced, and Janner all but melted with joy.
55
The Surrender of Artham Wingfeather
For days Artham drifted in and out of sanity. He lay on his back in the cage with a shine of drool slipping toward his ear from the corner of his mouth. He stared at the stone ceiling and gibbered words that had no meaning. But at times he sat bolt upright as if he had just awoken from a nightmare, and he knew himself and where he was.
All the while he ached to abandon himself, to agree to the Stone Keeper’s offer and allow her to turn him into a winged beast. It would be so easy to sing the song and know no more. He had much he wanted to forget. He had broken his deepest oath, and even in his sanest moments he was unable to think on that fact without trembling.
I left him!
His mind had screamed these words so many times over the years that they were burned into his core. No matter how he tried, he could not escape that one fact, that one decision that had haunted him all these years. No matter how he ran, no matter how he fought to protect the jewels, Peet’s deepest heart was rotten and dying from those three brutal words.
All he had to do was give up and it would all be over. He could wave at the Grey Fang in the window, and the Stone Keeper would take his hand and trade his sorrow for the mindless nothing of the iron box. The red light would flash, and all that was left of Artham Wingfeather would disappear.
For days the Grey Fangs delivered more of the frightened children to the Stone Keeper, and she calmed them and welcomed them and killed them.
That’s right, thought Artham, killed them. She took away their lives. Still, he felt a stab of guilt for the Fangs he had slain—had they been children like these?
No, these Fangs were no more men than an ax handle was a tree. It was Gnag who had done the killing. He had killed the living thing and made something different from it, given it a half-life. That was why the Fangs turned to dust and blew away when they died.
Artham was so tired and lonely and full of regret that all he wanted in the world was to turn to dust and blow away.
On the fifth day in the cage, he gave up.
He could no longer bear the ghostly gaze of the Stone Keeper, or the sickening excitement of the Skreean volunteers as they entered the box, or most of all the tears of the children. So many children, pulled from the Black Carriage or marched in from the dungeon, helpless in a place no child should ever see. He doubted the Fangs would keep their word and set the children free. He hoped they would.
But worse than the horror of the world he lived in was the world within him. He could not stop remembering. He hung in a birdcage above this dungeon so much like the one from which he had escaped, and the voices in his head and the bitter remembrance of all that had happened in the Deeps of Throg gnawed at his spirit. It was a greater torture than even what he had endured from Gnag.
When the Grey Fang with the meat pulled the cage close, Artham said, “I’m finished.”
“What’s that?” said the Fang.
“If it’s true the Stone Keeper will free the children, then she can have me. Do with me what she will.”
The Fang stared at Artham, nodded, then disappeared from the window.
Artham sat in the cage with his head hung low, twirling a lock of his white hair around one of his talons. A few minutes later the cage lurched, then lowered a click at a time to the dungeon floor. A door on the far wall opened, and a host of Grey Fangs poured from it. They surrounded the cage with swords drawn.
Artham stared at the floor. The voices roared in his mind. He heard the old, familiar one screaming, I left him, but now there were more.
Coward, they said. Weakling.
Artham sat with his eyes closed and shut himself off to everything.
“It’s almost over,” he mumbled again and again. “It’s almost over.”
The Fangs stepped aside. The Stone Keeper entered the room. She approached the cage, a tall, slender, hooded figure in a flowing black robe. Artham opened one eye, then the other, and peered up at her. Her face was invisible in the cowl, but he sensed none of the hatred or evil he expected.
“It’s almost over,” he said again.
“Yes,” she said, in a voice so beautiful that Artham stopped trembling. “Everything will be fine, Artham Wingfeather. You have nothing to fear.”
She bent close to the cage and removed her hood.
Her face was pale, her hair black as raven feathers. Her eyes were dark jewels in a field of snow. She was beautiful, but it was a terrible beauty. Artham was afraid to look away; neither did he want to. At once he understood why the children calmed when she spoke to them. He felt that he would do whatever she asked, no matter how wrong it might be.
“Poor Artham. How long have you been running? Nine years? And now,” she said, her voice as quiet as a purr, “you can rest. The Black Carriage is coming with more of the broken, more who are tired like you. But I will set them free if you will sing the song. Is that what you want?”
Artham nodded.
“All right. But first, they’re going to watch you. I’ll let them see the magnificent thing you’ve become when you step back through the door. And then I’ll let them choose. If they want to go free, I’ll set them free. I’ll turn them out into the wilds of Skree, powerless and alone, as you wish—or they can give themselves to Gnag’s service. I can make them strong and give them an army of comrades.” She straightened and raised her voice to the Fangs. “Can I not?”
They howled and barked and snapped their teeth.
From deep in the tunnel came the rattle and squeak of the Black Carriage. Artham saw the lantern swaying to and fro, larger and brighter every second. The four black horses appeared, and the crows, the robed driver, then the thing itself—a graveyard on wheels.
The Stone Keeper replaced her hood and stood on the dais.
The driver opened the coffins, and the children climbed out, blinking and frail.
“Line them up!” said the Stone Keeper.
The Grey Fangs stood the children in a line at the foot of the dais. All of them trembled and cowered at the sight of the walking wolves.
All but one.
One of the children didn’t tremble. He only stared at the ground.
He was skinny as a rake, with sandy brown hair. The look on his bruised and swollen face was not one of fear but shame. He merely glanced at the Fangs, the children, and the iron box, and sighed. Then he hung his head and closed his eyes—much as Artham had done when he gave up all hope.
As soon as Artham laid eyes on the boy, he leapt to his feet. His head smashed into the top of the cage, but he didn’t care. He squawked and flapped and screamed, trying with all that was in him to cry the name, “Tink!”
Before Artham could catch Tink’s eye, the Grey Fangs closed in and blocked his view.
56
Two Kinds of Shame
Seconds after Nia wrapped her arms around Janner, guilt bubbled in his stomach and weakened his knees. He dreaded the question he knew would come. He dreaded it so much that he felt the world around him buck like a pony, and his head spun. As if from a great distance he heard Nia’s sniffles, the tiny, warm sound of her kisses on his forehead, the rustle of her clothes against his furs, and, at last, the words that caused him to black out completely: “Janner, where’s Tink? Where’s your brother?”
While he slept, Janner dreamed of the Black Carriage and of the Overseer and at last of the box where he had spent so many days alone with his thoughts. In the dream, he lay in the deep dark of the box for days before he realized some wicked thing was inside with him, watching him in the blackness. Again he heard the sea dragon’s voice in his head. “He is near you. Beware.”
He lay in a bed of soft white fur. The covers were fur, too, but nothing like the smelly, stiff wolf skins he and Maraly had scavenged. These were soft as feathers and warm. Someone had replaced his clothes with a nightgown made of a downy fabric. The floor was cobbled stone, but the walls were glassy and white, and it wasn’t until he touched them that Janner realized they were made of ice. His finger stuck to the wall, and when he pulled it away, a little wisp of steam evaporated as his fingerprint disappeared.
Someone knocked on the door.
“Come in,” he said, and the wooden door swung open to reveal a girl on a crutch. She wore a simple white dress, and her hair was pulled back in a long braid.
“Leeli!” Janner cried, and he swept her up in a tight hug.
“It’s a good thing you fainted,” she giggled. “They had to sew up your shoulder.”
He had forgotten about his snickbuzzard wound. Janner pulled back the collar of his nightgown and was surprised to see a bandage wrapped around his upper arm.
“It doesn’t hurt,” he said, moving his shoulder in circles.
“They put garp oil on it,” she said. “It’s a kind of fish—which is what we eat around here, mostly. It doesn’t speed up the healing, but it takes the pain away for a while.”
“How long have you been here?” Janner asked as he sat at the foot of the bed.
“We got here ten days ago.” Leeli looked at the floor. “I’m sorry we left you. I didn’t want to. None of us did. But the Fangs—”
“Hush,” Janner said. “It’s all right. I had a lot of time to think about it, and I understand. It was the only thing that could be done to keep you safe. Where’s Maraly—the Strander girl?”
“She’s with Gammon. I don’t think she wanted to get cleaned up, but Mama made her. You know how she is.”
“What about Grandpa and Oskar?”
Leeli rolled her eyes. “They got tired of waiting for you to wake up, so they’re in the tavern playing cards. That’s where Grandpa’s spent most of his time.”
“There’s a tavern? Underground?”
“Sort of. We’re not actually underground. We’re under snow. Deep snow. After a while, it seems like an ordinary town, with streets and houses and places to play. What’s wrong?”
Janner hung his head, thinking of his little brother and how much he would have loved Kimera. Janner couldn’t bear to say his name.
“It’s not your fault,” said Leeli. She limped across the room and sat beside Janner on the bed. “Nobody thinks it’s your fault.”
“But I’m a Throne Warden!” Janner snapped. “My one job in the world is to protect him, and I couldn’t do it!”
Leeli was silent.
Janner felt a sob rising in his throat. He had spent days and days on the run. He had thought about Tink many times, but always, at the front of his mind, was his quest to reach the Ice Prairies. He had dreamed of his mother’s embrace. He had dreamed of rest and food and safety. Lurking underneath it all was the stark, awful image of Tink in the Black Carriage, eyes wide and full of terror. All that time, Janner had been able to push the guilt away because he wasn’t sure he was much better off.
But now that he was in a soft bed in a warm room with his family so near, it felt unfair. He didn’t deserve such comfort when his brother was—wherever he was. Janner wanted to tear off the soft nightgown, wrap himself in wolf skins again, and trudge back through the Stony Mountains to Dugtown. He would march right up to the nearest Fang and turn himself over. The Black Carriage seemed a better fate than this unbearable guilt.
“Aha!” said a raspy voice.
Podo burst into the room. He looked like Podo always looked, with his bushy white eyebrows and his wild white hair, but one of his arms hung in a sling. Janner remembered that on the night they were separated, when Podo had broken down the door to Ronchy McHiggins’s tavern, he had heard the crunch of bones. But if Podo’s wound hurt, it didn’t show. He rushed forward and tackled Janner onto the bed. He smelled of pipe smoke and ale. He poked Janner’s ribs with his gnarled old fingers and laughed, but Janner only lay on his back, motionless.
Podo’s mirth vanished. He plopped down on the bed beside Leeli with a heavy sigh and placed a hand on Janner’s leg. Nia and Oskar appeared in the doorway and took in the situation at once. Oskar’s cheeks were rosy, his swath of hair was neatly pressed to the top of his head, and his folded hands rested atop his belly. Nia wore a different gown, but she looked no less regal.
Without a word they crossed the room and sat on the bed so that Janner found himself enclosed by his family. He was in a nest, the walls made of those who loved him. They were silent. Janner stared at the ceiling.
“We love you,” Nia said at last, placing a hand on Janner’s face.
The sob rose in his throat and spilled out.
“I lost him,” he wailed. “I tried to find him, but he was gone. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Tears streamed down his face. He cried so hard he could barely breathe. Over and over again he said, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” And over and over again, Nia said, “We love you, we love you.”
When Janner’s tears finally ebbed, Podo gathered him in his big arms and held him close. Janner’s eyes closed. He felt his mother’s hand in his hair, Leeli’s head resting on his arm, and Oskar’s hand on his foot.
Then the silence broke. Leeli prayed aloud to the Maker for protection for Kalmar Wingfeather. When she finished, Janner’s well was dry. He had no more tears to cry, and his best hope was that the Maker indeed heard the name Kalmar Wing-feather and would stoop to Aerwiar to help him.
Leeli raised her whistleharp to her lips and played. It was a new melody, something she was improvising, much as she had when she played Nugget’s song over the waters of the Dark Sea. Janner’s eyes were closed, but within seconds the blackness swirled and took shape, and he could see things far, far away.
“Keep playing!” Janner said, leaping to the floor. The adults watched him with concern, but he didn’t care. Leeli looked confused, but she kept playing. Janner turned slowly with his hand outstretched, willing the images in his mind to solidify. He didn’t know it, but when he stopped turning, he faced south and east, and if he had been a bird flying that direction, he could have soared over the Ice Prairies, across the waters of a narrow strait, and to a rocky island where Peet the Sock Man struggled in a cage.
But Janner saw none of that. He saw only blurry images and darkness.
But then he realized the darkness was what he was supposed to see, and that the blurry images weren’t blurry at all. They were beams of light slipping through cracks. His head swirled with Leeli’s melody, and finally he saw what he was looking for: two specks of light, deep in the shadows, and the outline of a dirty, swollen face.
A red light exploded in the darkness, and Tink’s face filled Janner’s vision. His lips moved. His eyes were hollow and profoundly sad. When the light was brightest, Tink’s eyes fell wearily shut, and he vanished.
Janner’s heart pounded so hard that he put a hand to his chest. “I saw him!” he cried. “He’s alive!”
“Silence him,” said the Stone Keeper, waving a hand toward Artham. “He’s frightening the children.”
“Quiet, birdman,” growled one of the Grey Fangs, “or we’ll run you through.”
Artham knew they wouldn’t, not after all the trouble they’d gone through to bring him there, so he screeched even louder.
“I said silence him!” the Stone Keeper commanded.
Two of the Fangs took hold of his talons and jerked his arms through the cage. His face slammed into the bars and they pinned him the
re. One of the Fangs put his paw over Artham’s face, which didn’t stop the screeching, but muffled it. Try as he might to see Tink, it was no use; Fangs surrounded the cage.
Artham realized that neither the Stone Keeper nor the Fangs understood the High King of Anniera was in their grasp. They thought he was just another boy. Artham stopped struggling. Perhaps it was better if they didn’t know who Tink was. But if they knew—if they knew, then maybe they wouldn’t send him into the box.
“Which is it, then? First you say you’ll comply, and now you struggle,” said the Stone Keeper to Artham. “You value yourself more than these children? Fine. We’ll make you watch. Bring a wolf !”
Through the cluster of Fangs, Artham caught a glimpse of the Stone Keeper extending her hand.
“You, little boy,” she said in a soothing voice. “Come nearer.”
He heard each footstep as Tink climbed the stairs.
“Tmmmmk!” Artham sobbed into the Fang’s paw. “Tmmmmmk!” The Fang punched Artham in the face so hard that his vision blurred.
“Don’t pay any attention to them, child,” he heard the Stone Keeper say. “Keep your eyes on me.”
“All right,” Tink said.
“What’s your name, child?” asked the Stone Keeper.
Artham froze. He wondered what the woman would do when Tink told her his name. Would she recognize him?
“Uh, Weaver,” Tink said in a small voice.
“Where are you from, Weaver?” asked the woman. Tink was silent. Artham heard the skritch of the Fang beside the dais writing Tink’s answers in the book. “It’s all right. It’s been a terrible journey, hasn’t it, boy? But the journey is over. You will soon have a new home, and a new name, and great strength. Would that please you?”
North! Or Be Eaten Page 32
