Ottilie Colter and the Withering World

by Rhiannon Williams

  ‘Get over it, Ottilie. He knew you’d be in less trouble if I was called in too.’

  Ottilie’s mouth fell open and rage simmered deep down. He was right. She had thought it herself, just moments ago, but that had been merely a feeling; now she understood where it came from. They were less likely to punish her because Gully had broken the same rule. They would be lenient with him, and therefore more lenient with her. She felt like kicking a wall.

  ‘Don’t ever do it again,’ said Gully quietly.

  Ottilie didn’t respond. She didn’t know what to say. She would do it again if she had to. She would have done it over and over.

  ‘Don’t go without me,’ he added.

  ‘What?’

  His gaze was steady. He suddenly seemed so much older. ‘Take me with you,’ he said. ‘Don’t leave me behind.’

  She met his eyes. ‘I won’t. I mean, I will – I’ll take you next time. Every time.’

  The anger in the room dimmed on both sides. Ottilie dropped the letter, Gully hopped off the bed, and together they headed for Captain Lyre’s chambers.

  Ottilie knocked on the door and Captain Lyre pulled it open. His expression was unreadable, which put her on edge. When he stepped aside, she realised there was someone else in the room. The king was seated at Captain Lyre’s desk.

  He looked her up and down and then met her gaze with an unbreakable stare. It was the sort of look that Ottilie knew was supposed to intimidate her – and it was working. Her shoulders raised up and her neck tensed, as if someone were standing too close.

  It occurred to her that they were probably supposed to bow. Captain Lyre was saying something, introducing them, but Ottilie hardly heard him. He must have offered them a seat because Gully immediately sat in front of the desk and tugged on her sleeve.

  Captain Lyre perched on a seat beside the desk, looking wary. She got the sense that the king was here uninvited. Captain Lyre opened his mouth to speak, but the king got in first.

  ‘So, you’re the girl?’ He leaned back in his chair.

  Ottilie didn’t know what to say to that. Thankfully, Captain Lyre cut in. ‘Ottilie was our first female recruit,’ he said. ‘And one of our highest scoring huntsmen in the fledg–’

  ‘Hunts-men,’ said the king, with a spiteful smile.

  ‘We didn’t feel the need to change the name,’ said Captain Lyre carefully, pinching the tip of his pointed beard.

  ‘I should think not.’ The king bared his teeth. ‘The Narroway huntsmen have held that name for thirty years. Changing it on account of one little girl seems an extreme action to me.’

  Ottilie clenched her jaw. Was this ever going to stop being an issue? She had never been too bothered by the fact that she was called a huntsman, preferring that to an alternative name that singled her out. Now, for the first time, she wished they were all simply the Narroway hunters.

  But right now, with Whistler preparing to build heartstone bridges and obliterate the Usklers, what did anything else matter? How could the king be focusing on anything other than stopping Whistler?

  Ottilie stared at his face. There was something about it. His eyes, perhaps? Not the expression, but the shape. The way they were set beneath his brow. He had a harsh face, but his eyebrows had a habit of dipping down. It was familiar to her, and his sole softening feature, which was easily cancelled out by his callous gaze. She thought again of Whistler’s interest in her – she couldn’t possibly be linked to this horrible family, could she?

  Captain Lyre seemed eager to get back to the point. ‘Ottilie, Gulliver – we’ve received a report that you exited the grounds in the middle of the night without permission. I’m afraid I will need an explanation.’

  ‘It was my fault,’ said Ottilie, before Gully had the chance to lie for her. ‘I went out, and Gully only followed to bring me back.’

  ‘And why did you go?’ said Captain Lyre.

  Ottilie thought fast. She hadn’t come up with an excuse. She had intended to just refuse to tell them, but now that seemed very foolish. She had to say something, anything …

  ‘Dreams,’ she blurted out.

  Gully stared at her, his eyes wide.

  ‘Sleepwalking – sleepflying,’ she stammered.

  ‘Sleepflying?’ said Captain Lyre, clearly trying to squash his smile.

  ‘I’m a funny sleeper, always have been,’ she said. ‘Gully knows.’ She nudged him with her elbow. ‘He keeps an ear out in case I wander off – don’t you, Gully.’ ‘Y-yes,’ said Gully.

  ‘Indeed?’ said Captain Lyre, the twinkle returning to his eyes.

  Ottilie glanced at the king. He was still staring at her, a cold, amused expression on his face. ‘Sleepflying for half the night?’ he said.

  ‘Gully’s a terrible flyer,’ said Ottilie.

  Gully nodded, frowning in agreement. ‘It took me a long time to find her – I am not good at it.’

  ‘Probation,’ snapped Captain Lyre. Ottilie thought he might be trying to cover a snort. Schooling his features, he added, ‘In the past we would have banned you from hunting, limiting you to guard duty and wall watch. But … considering the times and the fact that the scoring system is no longer in place, I do not see the point in wasting two of our strongest second tiers.’

  His speech seemed to be for the king’s benefit. She remembered Captain Lyre telling him this was not the time to make his army smaller.

  ‘But we will be watching you, and if you break the rules again, you risk dismissal. Do I make myself clear?’ said Captain Lyre.

  ‘Yes,’ they said together.

  The king caught Ottilie’s eye. Cruel amusement played on his lips. Ottilie couldn’t pick any physical resemblance to Whistler, but there was something in that expression that reminded her of the witch. She tore her eyes away and glanced at Captain Lyre. He gave her a look that seemed to say, tread carefully. Ottilie blinked in acknowledgment and he simply said, ‘You may go.’

  17

  Spilt Milk

  Ottilie slipped through the partitions to find Montie laying fresh lullaby cuttings on Scoot’s pillow.

  ‘You’re up bright and early, Ottilie.’

  It was early. The world was still silver and gold. Ottilie’s sleep had been patchy. How could she rest knowing that every night brought Ned more dangerous dreams, every dawn took Scoot further away, and every hour could bring Whistler’s next strike upon them?

  Montie adjusted the golden flowers on the windowsill – Gully’s doing, again.

  Ottilie glanced at Scoot’s fingertips. The pure white reached his wrist, as if he were wearing a single snowy glove.

  Montie lay her hand over his, covering the change. ‘We’ll find a way to help him,’ she said firmly.

  Ottilie nodded, a lump forming in her throat. She looked up into Montie’s face, then quickly down again. Every time she saw Montie’s scars she thought of Gracie. She hadn’t told either Alba or Montie that Gracie had been there the night their house was burned, and that Gracie’s own parents had set the fire. She couldn’t decide if it was important – if it was worth stirring up the memories.

  ‘I’ll send some breakfast down with Alba,’ said Montie, kissing the top of Ottilie’s head and leaving the room.

  Ottilie sat alone for quite a while, her eyes fixed on Scoot’s hand, until something beyond the partitions disturbed her. The door swung open. The patchies were greeting someone, and Ottilie thought she heard the clatter of claws on the tiled floor.

  ‘How did this occur?’ said a patchie.

  ‘Caught it on a brambleberry bush,’ said Ned’s voice.

  It was like breath on embers – little lights flared somewhere deep down.

  The clawed thing made a sighing sound and slumped to the ground.

  ‘It looks fresh. This was last night?’

  ‘Night patrol,’ said Ned, too quickly.

  Ottilie frowned. She knew Ned hadn’t had a night patrol. He was lying. He must have been sleepwalking again and injured himself.r />
  She heard the patchie go into the back room and begin filling something with water. Ottilie slipped around the corner and Ned nearly jumped out of his seat.

  The little lights flared brighter.

  ‘Night patrol?’ she said.

  Penguin raised a sleepy head and sniffed vaguely in her direction. The lanky shepherd was lying in an exhausted heap beside Ned’s feet, no doubt worn out from dogging Ned on his night-time wanderings.

  Ned’s eyes flicked up to meet hers and Ottilie quickly added, ‘Don’t get mad at me.’ She raised her hands in surrender. ‘I’m not saying anything.’ She was in no position to lecture him about his sleepwalking – not when she had gone to meet Whistler in the middle of the night.

  To her surprise, he laughed. She sighed with relief and knelt to look at his hand, which was covered in scratches. Brambleberry thorns were nasty. Like cat’s claws, they hooked in and cut deep.

  ‘It just needs cleaning,’ he said, lowering his good hand to pat Penguin.

  Ottilie sat with him while the patchie fixed up his hand. She felt both glad and guilty that the injury gave her an excuse to stay close. After the bandage was fixed in place, Ned followed her through the partitions to visit Scoot. She settled in her usual chair, but Ned froze at the end of the bed, his eyes fixed on the golden flowers in the jar.

  He paled, and she wondered if he was still breathing.

  ‘What is it?’ She stood up. ‘What’s wrong?’

  He shook his head. The expression was familiar – it was like Bill’s memory face. ‘They locked it in the coffin.’ He turned to her. ‘The … that … witch.’

  Ottilie frowned. She had wondered what happened that night in the canyon caves after they fell out of Ned’s dream – she remembered seeing the creature stepping out of the flames, the coven seemingly powerless to stop it. The fact that it had been imprisoned offered her less comfort than she would have guessed. It still lived, probably buried somewhere, just waiting to be released.

  ‘Is that what you dreamed last night?’

  Ned’s eyes flicked back to the sunnytree flowers. ‘Maybe – I can’t remember. I don’t know where I know it from …’

  Ottilie was so focussed on Ned that she jumped when Alba poked her head through the partitions.

  ‘Morning,’ she said, meeting Ottilie’s eyes with a flat stare.

  Gully had forgiven Ottilie, but her friends were still acting strangely around her. Skip and Leo had been much better after they’d raged at her, but Preddy and Alba were still simmering. They were hurt because Ottilie hadn’t included them in her plans. But how could she have, when she had been forbidden to go?

  ‘Mum told me to bring you some breakf– oh, sorry, Ned,’ said Alba. ‘I didn’t know you were here too. I’ve only got –’

  ‘That’s fine, no problem. I’m off anyway,’ said Ned, his eyes flicking only briefly to her face and then back to the flowers again.

  ‘Do you have a hunt?’ said Ottilie. But he had already headed for the door.

  Alba stared after him, then looked back at Ottilie, and something changed in her expression. ‘Here.’ She held out the tray.

  Ottilie thanked her and took a bite of the warm brambleberry pie. Alba couldn’t be too mad at her, not if she had brought Ottilie’s favourite breakfast. Montie had even included saffi milk to calm her nerves.

  Alba settled on the end of Scoot’s bed, then suddenly lunged forward, leaning over his stone legs.

  ‘What –’ But Ottilie saw it before she finished the question. Tray clattering to the floor, she leapt up and gripped Scoot’s arm. The white was moving. She could see it, creeping up like frost. ‘No, Scoot!’ she said, following it with her hands as if she could tear it back. It flooded his entire arm, spilling onto his neck.

  ‘It’s slowing,’ Alba whispered.

  She was right. The progress slowed, then seemed to pause.

  Ottilie’s heart thundered. They had to find a way to stop it. All of it. Everything. If the healing spring was not an option … ‘Have you found anything, Alba? Anything that could help?’

  Alba placed a hand on her ribs and breathed deeply. ‘I’ve been going over the books we stole. It’s where I first read about the healing spring. I was hoping something would explain why it dried up, or why it existed in the first place. They say it was the site of a selfless heroic deed – a man tackled a crocodile to save a stranger.’

  ‘But something like that has to have happened somewhere else!’ said Ottilie. She was still clutching Scoot’s arm, her fingernails bending against the stone. ‘There must be more healing springs!’

  ‘There might be,’ said Alba, as if she didn’t really think so. ‘But you have to collect the water at the right spot, and unless there’s a legend telling you where to go …’ She shook her head. ‘I wondered if the water might have been able to save Gracie and the bone singers – the bound ones, I mean. Maybe they weren’t bad to begin with.’

  Ottilie opened her mouth, but Alba added, ‘We could try to cure them of the binding, at least, and then see …’

  Ottilie swallowed. Alba had a right to know. ‘There’s something I should tell you. I found out … Gracie told me she was there when those Laklanders set fire to your house. I think it was her parents that did it.’

  Alba froze, and Ottilie worried that she had done the wrong thing. It was in the past, so many years ago … Was it bad to put faces on those people? Was the knowledge a poisonous thing? It certainly was in Whistler’s case. Whatever the king had done, whatever had befallen his eldest daughter, it had led to this – to the havoc Whistler had wrought, with the worst still to come. But that was Whistler, not Alba.

  Ottilie sunk inward and sought a great wrong. She had never been the victim of something so violent and catastrophic, but she had felt something akin to losing a home.

  The keeper from the Swamp Hollows appeared in her mind. Bill had told her he made the pickings list for the Brakkerswamp. He was responsible for Gully’s abduction. He, who had always been friendly with Freddie, had put her son’s name on that list.

  Was it better that Ottilie knew it was him?

  Yes. It gave her a better understanding of her past. For some reason, it made her feel more in control – she had a firmer grip on her own story. Although the picture was not perfectly clear. Why had he done it? She would probably never know.

  Alba made a little coughing sound and twitched her nose. ‘Well, Gracie would only have been five or six, same as me. It’s not her crime –’

  ‘I just mean she’s from bad –’

  ‘It doesn’t matter where someone’s from – Gracie is not her parents.’

  ‘It sort of seems like she is actually –’

  ‘You know you sound like Leo, right?’

  ‘Look, I guess I just mean Gracie’s done bad things on her own. Sounds like even before the binding …’ It was impossible, completely impossible to imagine doing anything to help Gracie.

  ‘I’m not defending her,’ said Alba. ‘I just think that if we can sever the connection to the bloodbeasts they can all be judged fairly.’

  Ottilie didn’t disagree with Alba. Maybe the bone singers were not the same as Gracie – maybe they hadn’t had a choice. Even if they had, perhaps they could be given the opportunity to atone. But after seeing Gracie in the canyon caves, she wasn’t sure there was anything left of the girl she once was, and she could only imagine the others were the same. There was no point in discussing it further, though. The healing spring was gone.

  For a moment they stood in hopeless silence. The sun shifted beyond the window and a ray of golden light spilled across the bed. Ottilie had the strangest desire to close the shutters. Sunlight was too lovely a thing. It didn’t belong here.

  ‘I’ve been reading through Whistler’s books,’ said Alba, finally. ‘I’ve found some bits about Seika Devil-Slayer, but mostly the ink’s really faded or there are pages missing, so it’s hard.

  ‘I want to know how she defeated the
fendevil, all on her own without a ring or salt weapons or anything. I just think there might be something there … not necessarily to help Scoot,’ she added, her eyes drooping. ‘But if Whistler attacks with the dredretches again, well, the more we know, the better. If Seika had some trick – even if it was magic, the way she lured it over the cliff – it might be something Maeve could learn.’

  Ottilie nodded, still staring at the sunlight.

  ‘But so far, I haven’t found anything that makes any sense. One thing keeps coming up – it seems to be connected to Seika … this old rhyme, The Sleepless Stars.’

  Ottilie didn’t know it. ‘Is it important? How does it go?’

  ‘Three circles past … something like, from sleepless stars it cannot hide … I can’t remember it all off the top of my head. It does mention a dreamer though, which made me think of Ned.’

  Ottilie scrunched her eyelids, trying to think it all through. Ned’s dreams might be linked to a rhyme that was linked to Seika Devil-Slayer – an ancient, long-dead princess who felled the first dredretch. Whistler had inflicted the wounds that were linked to his dreaming, and her secret plans had something to do with the sleepless witch that his dreams centred around. The healing spring that might have saved Scoot was located in the cave where that same sleepless witch had been imprisoned. And sometime in the past, the king who was hiding in their fort had done Whistler a great wrong, impelling her to set all of this in motion. It was one huge puzzle and Ottilie didn’t know how to put it together.

  18

  Breathing Bones

  With a deafening crack, the sky seemed to split open and rain flooded the path. Ottilie was drenched in an instant. She’d lost track of how many times she’d circled the grounds. Her patrol wasn’t until the evening, and for once her afternoon off seemed like a punishment rather than a gift. She had tried researching, looking for anything that could help Scoot, but she’d been too anxious to focus. Finally, she had given up and gone out for a run.

  Thick sheets of rain slapped her face as she approached the haunted stables where the sculkies had once trained. They weren’t really haunted, of course, just abandoned because they were too close to the boundary walls. When she finally reached cover she was greeted by Hero, the leopard shepherd, who slunk over and sniffed in her direction.