Ottilie Colter and the Withering World

by Rhiannon Williams

  Ottilie squinted through the dense air – Leo could ward without a ring, but she wondered how he could breathe here without feeling even a hint of the sickness.

  There was a crack and a crunch, like a boot on burnt bark. Then it came, as if birthed from the rotting tree. It was shaped like a bear, with sickly yellow fur and two sharp bones, like shoulder blades hooked into horns. A mord.

  Ottilie was entranced, her eyes wide with horror. She looked at Leo – he had paled, his mouth gaping. This couldn’t be a beast resurrected by the bone singers. Some had fled to join Whistler before the rest were imprisoned, but even if they had crept out here to perform the ritual, why would the bones have been in the heart of a rotting tree? It was too strange. No. This was a fresh dredretch. It had been summoned. Called. And she knew who did the calling …

  Ottilie tore her eyes away, searching for any sign of the witch that haunted her nightmares.

  Skin prickled. She turned her head.

  Bright eyes in the branches.

  Behind her, the mord bellowed and Ottilie heard the ancient trunk cracking apart as the beast rent itself free.

  ‘Shoot it, Leo. Before it’s out.’

  There was a whoosh and sticky thud as his arrow met its mark. She couldn’t turn back to look, but as she aimed through the trees, Ottilie heard the splitting and sizzling of the mord coming to pieces, barely free of its birthplace.

  ‘Whistler,’ she said, and beside her Maestro swung around.

  There was a terrible shriek. They loosed their arrows. A winged creature swooped through the shadows, its storm-painted feathers stirring up the hot air. It was all angles, like a wolf dunked in water, or a bird scrunched and then twisted back into shape. Its beak was hooked, its scaly talons peeling, leaking shadow. Its feathers seemed stiff and sharp enough to slice skin. With a crack and flash, Whistler stood in its place, a dangerous smile on her birdlike face, and in an instant their arrows turned to ash at her feet.

  Her silver eyes fixed on Ottilie, she said, ‘A pleasure, as always,’ before jerking into a lopsided bow.

  Leo drew his cutlass. Ottilie considered doing the same, but if arrows were no good against Whistler, a blade wouldn’t be much better. Her heart was pounding and her fingers shook on her bow.

  ‘Did you like my gift?’ said Whistler.

  ‘What gift?’ said Leo.

  Ottilie couldn’t think. She couldn’t see past her rage. Whistler had turned Scoot to stone. Angry tears welled.

  ‘It wasn’t for you.’ Whistler waved her purple sleeves at him.

  Leo shifted in the saddle. Ottilie could feel his confusion.

  ‘My girl likes to know things, to understand things, don’t you, dear?’ said Whistler with a somewhat awkward wink.

  My girl …

  Ottilie imagined bitemarks breaking skin and felt a burning sensation along her arm. She pictured Gracie’s smile and a glinting blade. She refused to meet Whistler’s gaze.

  Whistler shambled forwards and flapped her arms in the direction of the hollow tree. ‘My gift … this is very special – letting you in on a secret.’ She lifted a sleeve-shrouded finger to her lips, then pressed her hand to a branch. ‘This is the heart of the Withering Wood. The first dredretch I ever summoned came through this opening.’ Her voice was almost wistful, but it was a cover. Ottilie caught the danger lurking just beneath – like a crocodile’s eyes breaking the surface of calm waters.

  ‘Opening?’ said Ottilie.

  ‘Think of it as a gate at the top of a deep stairway,’ said Whistler.

  A stairway from the underworld? The hellish place far below where only the worst creatures belonged?

  ‘Why would you show her that?’ said Leo.

  But Ottilie was too caught in her thoughts to wait for the answer. ‘That’s why the withering sickness spreads from here,’ she said, scanning the tree. She remembered hearing something about a philowood tree at the centre of the Withering Wood. This must have been it. ‘You poisoned this land when you opened that gate! And every time you summon a new dredretch, the sickness spreads.’

  ‘It was already poisoned,’ Whistler snapped. ‘Otherwise there could never have been a stairway, let alone a gate.’

  Already poisoned? Ottilie knew bad things could imprint the land like they could a person.

  ‘Poisoned by what?’ said Leo.

  Whistler’s face had turned thunderous, and Leo leaned back in the saddle. Ottilie had sensed this before. When Maeve felt something deeply, Ottilie could feel her mood like a change in the weather. Whatever Whistler’s memory of this place was, it was something so horrible that even an experienced witch like her could not contain her emotions.

  Whistler was glaring at Leo, and Ottilie grew, if possible, even more afraid. A vision of grey stone crusting over his gingery hair flashed in her mind. She had to distract Whistler.

  ‘But what about the other patches we’ve found,’ said Ottilie. They had been popping up here and there – little stretches of the sickness, far from the Withering Wood. ‘What are those? More gates?’

  Whistler’s eyes lit up. ‘I used to have to raise the dredretches here. Every single one. But as the years passed, the Narroway weakened … so many lies, so much violence. It takes its toll. Now I can summon one wherever I like. One day this land will be as fertile for dredretches as the Laklands. And then no-one will have to summon them. They’ll sniff out the way on their own. It’s been a long game.’ Her lips curled. ‘But worth it.’

  Ottilie leaned forwards. She wanted to understand it all. Whistler had said fertile, but Ottilie was sure she meant damaged, wrecked, infected. She needed to know why Whistler was doing it. Why the philowood tree? Why punish the king? What had he done? What had happened in this place?

  Without really knowing why, Ottilie shifted to dismount.

  ‘Ott,’ Leo muttered.

  So many questions. She couldn’t help herself. The one she wanted answered most of all burst from her lips. ‘Where’s Bill?’ she demanded. ‘What are you doing with him?’

  ‘Never you mind what I’m doing with him,’ said Whistler, stomping in an impatient circle.

  Ottilie freed her feet from the stirrups. She wanted to get near Whistler, to make her talk.

  ‘Ott!’

  It was infuriating. The Hunt was searching for Whistler, and here she was, but there was nothing they could do! They couldn’t overpower her and drag her back to Fiory. They couldn’t do anything but listen to what she decided she wanted them to know. No, not them. Ottilie.

  Whistler laughed. ‘Enjoy my gifts. While you can. There’s a dry storm brewing.’ With a swish of violet sleeves and a flash of black, she spiralled into the air.

  Ottilie wanted to chase after her, to claw at her feathers and yank her back. Whistler had just wanted to taunt them – to show she could flit in and out of their notice, unharmed. She hadn’t told them anything useful. They had no way to stop her. All they could do was brace for impact.

  Ottilie could feel Leo’s glare. She turned. There was fear in his face.

  ‘It’s all right. I don’t think she’ll come back.’

  He narrowed his eyes, and she realised that wasn’t what he was afraid of.

  ‘She likes you too much.’

  She looked away. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Just what I said.’

  But he didn’t know the half of it. He didn’t know what Bonnie had said about the words on the ring – that Whistler had not given up on her yet.

  And, my girl … What did she mean by it?

  ‘What was she talking about – gifts?’ said Leo. ‘I thought she said the mord was the gift. Do you think that means there are more around?’ He scanned the trees.

  Ottilie considered it. ‘I think she meant clues. The mord was a clue, see, so she must have dropped more of them, just then, when she was talking to us. She likes giving out clues. I think she finds it fun. She’s done it before.’

  Ottilie remembered the book about the royals t
hat Whistler had given her, Alba and Skip months ago. A hint that the Sol family was at the heart of all this. Later, after Whistler had revealed herself and fled Fiory, the directorate burned her entire collection – every book and scroll – all except those that Alba, Skip and Ottilie managed to swipe from the pile in Director Yaist’s chambers, just in time.

  ‘I think she wants me to figure something out,’ said Ottilie with a confused squirming inside. Whistler collected people, and Ottilie refused to be one of them. But if Whistler was providing answers, Ottilie wanted to hear them.

  She racked her brains, trying to remember every word Whistler had just said. It was no good. Her nerves had made a muddle of her memory.

  5

  Dreamwalking

  It was as if they were frozen in the middle of a deep breath. Whistler’s presence had only ever heralded disaster. If she had decided to show herself, it must mean tragedy was imminent. There had been no word from Captain Lyre. Was the king sending his men? When were the reinforcements coming? Every day, the number of dredretches seemed to grow closer to what it had been before the battle. And, with at least three bloodbeasts out there, organised, intelligent attacks made up for any losses.

  Every morning Ottilie wondered if this was the day that everything was going to change. No-one could guess what Whistler’s next move would be. She had failed to take Richter; would she try again? It was in the prime position for her to build her army with the Lakland dredretches. Wondering about it was keeping Ottilie from sleep.

  One such night, there came a soft tapping on the shutters. Curiosity defeating fear, Ottilie unlatched the window and let the cool breeze waft inside. The moon spilled into the room, carrying a dark shape in the stream of light.

  A black owl landed softly on Ottilie’s bed. She smiled. ‘You’re out late.’

  After a series of prickly snaps and an action like a magical sneeze, the feathers quivered, then seemed to suck inward and explode out in the shape of Maeve Moth. Ottilie had seen it before, but it was a marvel every time.

  ‘Quick!’ said Maeve, leaping up. ‘It’s Ned.’ Her distress chilled the air.

  ‘What happened? Is he all right?’ Terror gripped her. This was what she had been waiting for – something terrible, something wrong.

  Maeve didn’t even pause for Ottilie to put on shoes. She leapt across the room and threw the door open, beckoning for Ottilie to follow.

  Heart hammering, Ottilie grabbed a vial of water from her shelf and scrambled for her glow sticks. Greenish light sputtered to life as she and Maeve rushed along the dark corridor.

  ‘I didn’t know who else to tell, after everything that happened with Gracie …’

  ‘What has this got to do with Gracie?’

  The green lights bobbed and bounced along the narrow walls, pricking Ottilie’s nerves. She remembered Skip’s words: it’s Gracie Moravec all over again …

  ‘Something’s wrong with him,’ said Maeve, her voice thin. ‘I saw him out by Floodwood. He’s not himself. He’s in some sort of trance!’

  They sprinted out into the grounds, too breathless to shape words. Ottilie took the lead, heading for Floodwood, hopping and skipping as her bare feet crunched on sticks and prickles. Leaping over a patch of whiskerweed, she caught sight of something moving ahead.

  It took her a moment to identify the lanky shape. Then she realised it must be a shepherd – one of the dusky wild dogs that guarded the grounds – but it was smaller than the others, perhaps younger, only half grown. And just ahead, weaving through the trees, was Ned.

  He was in his nightclothes, and barefoot, like her. But unlike her, he took no care where he stepped. His path was strange. It wasn’t leading him anywhere, but it didn’t seem aimless.

  The shepherd was stalking Ned, snarling. The dog knew something wasn’t right.

  Ottilie hurried up to him. ‘Ned?’

  He didn’t seem to hear.

  She reached out as if approaching a panicked horse, but found she was afraid to touch him. Circling to face him, Ottilie held the glow sticks aloft. Gracie’s eyes burned red when she was in a trance – commanding the wylers or seeing through her bloodbeast’s eyes. Ottilie saw it all too often in her dreams. But Ned’s eyes weren’t glowing, and Ottilie puffed a breath of relief. Something was wrong with him, though. He didn’t see her, but he was seeing something.

  She forced her jaw to unlock. ‘Do you think you can get inside his head?’ Maeve had shared Bill’s thoughts and memories with Ottilie before.

  ‘I didn’t think of that!’ said Maeve. ‘Yes! Here.’ She grabbed Ottilie’s hand and carefully reached for Ned.

  The sounds came first. Angry voices. The crackle of flame. Then, like water settling, the canyon caves smoothed into view.

  Ottilie gasped, her eyes darting, immediately looking for Bill. But she knew he wasn’t there. Maeve had said the caves were abandoned, and … It took Ottilie a moment or two to remember she was not really there. This was Ned’s dream, and these were not the canyon caves as she knew them.

  Grand staircases zigzagged up the walls. Ornate arches were carved into the entrances to tunnels, and the well, a crumbled ruin when Ottilie had seen it, was smooth and sturdy. Her eyes swept the stone, searching for Seika Devil-Slayer’s mark – and there it was, clearer than she remembered it, a simple duck carved into the side of the well.

  Just beside it lay a long iron box. A coffin. Open.

  Twelve figures stood in a circle around a pit of fire. Their clothes were strange, ancient. Both men and women wore their hair braided into intricate swirls, like crowns. Only one let hers hang loose.

  When was this? Ottilie was sure they had fallen into the deep and distant past. She searched the figures, seeking any clue as to who they might be. The firelight licked at their faces, revealing expressions ranging from revulsion to rage to deepest sorrow.

  She followed their focus and jerked backwards. She had taken it for shadow and smoke, but there was a person chained up, standing in the pit of fire. No. Not a person – a creature. Its whole body was covered in grey scales. She didn’t know if it could see, because dark sockets gaped in place of its eyes. It stood unmoving, unbothered by the flame.

  One of the twelve was speaking. ‘… you are found guilty by your coven of a crime so unspeakable that we will not utter it here in this sacred place.’

  Coven? Ottilie knew that word. These people were witches.

  The scaled creature’s mouth curved into a horrifying smile, revealing rotting gums and fangs whittled down like the thinnest arrowhead at the tip.

  ‘You have stripped yourself of humanity. You are no witch. You are no human. You are hereby made nameless. There has never been another of your kind, and there will be no other. You have lived as this sleepless beast for one day – and it will be your final day.’

  ‘You cannot kill me,’ the creature hissed in a voice like a whip shredding flesh.

  Ottilie shivered. So, it was a sleepless witch: a witch that would never grow old, that could never die.

  Her heart hammered. That meant it was out there somewhere now – still alive. It had to be. No matter how long ago this was, how many centuries had passed …

  The crime they spoke of … she knew the rumours. To become sleepless, a witch had to consume their own newborn baby. It was horrifying. Unthinkable. Those very rumours had sparked the witch purge that wiped out countless innocent women during the Roving Empire’s occupation of the Usklers. Whether this creature had been a man or a woman Ottilie could not tell. It occurred to her for the first time that the ritual could probably have been performed by either parent. Why had she never considered that before? Why had no-one? They had only buried women.

  A man spoke from the circle. ‘It is true, your spirit is tied to this plane evermore. We cannot undo this. Your soul will live on, locked inside your immortal bones, but this will be your prison – buried, eternally alone.’

  The first speaker spoke again. ‘You will not walk, or talk, or see.
You will not act. You will only feel.’

  ‘You cannot touch me,’ said the creature.

  The witch with loose hair stepped forward. She was tall, but undoubtedly the youngest of the circle, and somehow familiar. Ottilie wasn’t sure why. Did she remind her of Whistler? No, that wasn’t it …

  ‘You underestimate us,’ she said.

  The circle of witches clasped hands and the cavern seemed to yawn awake. Hot air lifted, swayed, then swirled, and the flames around the creature spiralled into a whirlwind. It laughed, rattling the iron chains until they snapped like dried vines.

  Facing Ottilie, it stepped out of the wildfire.

  Panicked, she stumbled backwards, losing her grip on Maeve’s hand and dropping her glow sticks. The vial shattered and the green light winked out. Ottilie’s heart was pounding. She was drowning in darkness.

  A twig cracked, the shepherd growled, and someone grabbed her from behind.

  6

  A Sinister Secret

  ‘Maeve!’

  ‘Ottilie?’ said Maeve, from a few feet away.

  Hands gripped her. It wasn’t Maeve. ‘Ned?’ she whispered.

  Ned didn’t answer, but his hold loosened a little.

  ‘Maeve, can you make some sort of light?’

  ‘I can try.’

  For a moment nothing happened. Then it was as if the air had lifted off like a blanket. She felt breathless until the world settled and countless tiny embers popped into existence, casting a glow mightier than reason.