Ottilie Colter and the Withering World

by Rhiannon Williams

  Whistler gestured for Ottilie to go next, so, throwing one last look back at Gully, Ottilie followed Ned down into the dark.

  25

  Wander No Longer

  Ottilie could feel Whistler’s breath on the back of her neck. Descending into darkness, with a witch behind her and no hands to feel the way, was worse than any nightmare she’d ever had.

  She felt for the next step with her foot. ‘Why is Seika Devil-Slayer’s mark on the hatch?’ she asked, determined to keep Whistler talking.

  ‘Because her coven put the coffin down here,’ said Whistler in a bored voice.

  ‘She had a coven?’ said Ned, from below.

  Whistler snorted.

  ‘Do you mean the witches that imprisoned it?’ said Ottilie.

  Whistler simply clucked. There was something here she was not willing to divulge, which, Ottilie realised, meant it must be important. She tucked it away. It was something she would have to find out if they made it out alive.

  ‘Why is that duck everywhere else?’ Ottilie had wondered about it for so long. ‘It’s on the hatch that leads to the tunnels under Wikric, and on the well in the canyon caves, and I’ve seen it around Fiory, too.’

  ‘They haven’t told you about the origin of the forts?’ said Whistler, with a laugh. ‘Of course they haven’t.’

  ‘What about the forts?’ said Ned.

  ‘The three forts in the Narroway were initially places of worship,’ explained Whistler. ‘Where followers of the Lore came to pay tribute to the Old Gods – Fiory, Richter and Arko. Did you never wonder where the stations got their names?

  ‘People made pilgrimages from all over the Usklers – most of the tunnels you’ve encountered were formed for their use when the fendevil was stomping around, and travelling above ground was too dangerous to risk. The tunnels under Wikric were built for similar reasons – in case the beast ever went on a rampage through the city. People were safe from the sickness underground.

  ‘Oh.’ Ottilie had never much wondered about the tunnels. Coming from the Swamp Hollows, where the entire community lived in tunnels and caves, she just thought they were the usual thing. But of course, the caves and tunnels by the Brakkerswamp were all natural formations. These other tunnels, it seemed, were not.

  ‘Even before Seika Sol defeated the fendevil, she was revered as a living goddess,’ said Whistler. ‘The Narroway was, unofficially, her domain. I’d wager that’s why you’re not taught about any of it. The men in charge wouldn’t want you to know about that sort of thing.

  ‘Covens of witches had been living in the canyon caves for years, experimenting with the healing spring. And after the fendevil didn’t rise again from the sea, it was in the Narroway where witches forged the first salt weapons. It’s also why the coven moved the iron coffin all the way out here. They wanted it out of the hallowed land.’

  ‘Why does no-one know about this?’ said Ned. Ottilie couldn’t even see his outline anymore.

  ‘Because after the witch purge everyone wanted to forget about everything to do with witchcraft, including the legendary princess whose symbol marked the royal house.’

  A faint scuffling interrupted her.

  ‘Try not to break your neck, Ned. I need a functioning key,’ snapped Whistler.

  ‘Bit of light would be nice,’ he muttered.

  Ottilie smiled, impressed by his nerve.

  ‘Oh all right, then.’ Whistler made a puffing sound and a thousand bright embers burst to life around them, floating just above their heads.

  Ottilie exhaled. The stairway seemed to expand and the tightness in her chest slackened with a twitch.

  ‘So, it’s true then?’ said Ottilie, breathlessly. ‘Seika Devil-Slayer was a witch?’

  ‘Why do you think she was considered a goddess?’ said Whistler. ‘She was a fiorn.’

  ‘But –’ Ottilie was so accustomed to the current attitude towards witches, she found it very hard to imagine that Seika gained divine status for the same reason so many others were buried alive centuries later. The fact that she was a fiorn, too … If Maeve were exposed, she would be chained up and carted off to the Laklands.

  ‘Once, fiorns were considered Fiory’s chosen children,’ said Whistler.

  Ottilie was sure she had heard that before.

  ‘It’s a rare gift. In Seika’s lifetime, she was the only known fiorn in the Usklers. She was worshiped by her people, witches in particular, from a very young age. She could change into a duck. That’s why the royal house adopted the image – to honour her gift. The Sol family, at the time, considered it solid proof of their divine right to rule. And people loved to see the mark all around them, because it made them feel protected – it reminded them that they lived in a kingdom loved by the gods.’

  There was something peaceful about the image of a duck. It was comforting. Certainly more comforting than a battleaxe.

  ‘That, of course, was well before the Roving Empire invaded, muddied our faith and withdrew, leaving the Usklers unsure of itself and the Lore a mere collection of myths.’ Whistler sighed. ‘And how gleefully my father changed the symbol when he took the throne. Seika was all but forgotten by then. But we knew. Our family remembered.

  ‘I’m surprised it wasn’t changed before his reign. But my father loathed witchcraft, perhaps more than any who came before him. He was born into a world that had already turned against witches. I believe he would have hated them anyway. He always hated any power he couldn’t take for himself.’

  Ottilie watched an ember float by. She understood the jealousy, but not the rest.

  ‘Witches were peaceful helpers and healers,’ said Whistler. ‘These tunnels are nine centuries old – it was witch magic that fortified them, preserving them in case they were ever needed again. Yet Viago the Vanquisher imagined those powers used against him. Like Varrio, he was a coward.’

  Ottilie was beginning to realise that Whistler saw her father and nephew as one and the same. She wanted to learn more. Talking to Whistler was like getting lost in a fascinating history book – albeit one that might grow teeth and leap for your throat.

  Ahead, the sound of Ned’s footsteps changed. He had reached the bottom of the stairway.

  Ottilie’s pulse quickened. The sleepless witch was somewhere near. Her eyes snapped up from her feet. There was nothing, just a stone wall, but something was carved into the rock. The embers moved to hover in front.

  Daring and sound,

  loved, trusted, and true.

  One key to the lock,

  and he will lead you.

  Light of the sun,

  the peak of the sky.

  Wander no longer,

  here breathing bones lie.

  Ottilie recognised it immediately, and noticed with a shiver that the last line now read here breathing bones lie. In the tunnels under Fiory, she was sure it had said there. But of course it said here. Because they had arrived. They were finally at the very place she could not imagine anyone ever wanting to go.

  Her eyes skimmed the first lines. Daring and sound, loved, trusted and true. One key to the lock, and he will lead you. It was describing the dreamer, the key, the guide – Ned.

  ‘I’d have picked you, Ottilie,’ said Whistler.

  She could feel eyes on the back of her head. Her neck prickled as if a beetle had crawled out from beneath her hair.

  ‘But it does specify a he, and you never know with magic.’ Whistler flicked her wrist and Ned gasped. Behind his back, his sleeve caught fire. The roots shrivelled and fell away. His entire forearm was alight. Ottilie took the last steps at a leap. Heat scalded her skin as she reached him, but she had no hands to help.

  ‘Calm down,’ said Whistler. ‘You’re a key – do what keys do.’

  Ottilie looked frantically for some sort of lock. There was nothing!

  Whistler clicked her tongue and jerked her head at the wall.

  Taking the hint, Ned pressed his palm against the stone.

  Ottilie was
frozen in terrified fascination as, from the star-shaped burns, three streams like molten rock snaked around his arm and slithered into the carved lettering on the wall, making the words wander no longer glow red and gold. With a deafening crack, the rock blackened and spilt apart, crumbling to dust that whipped her skin like a sandstorm. She coughed and blinked. ‘Ned! Are you all right?’

  ‘He’s fine,’ muttered Whistler. ‘Honestly.’ She shoved past Ottilie and entered what must have been a tomb.

  Ned was holding out his arm. For a moment he and Ottilie just stared. His sleeve had burned away and the burns on his forearm were raw as ever, but he was otherwise unmarred.

  Whistler’s back was turned. Snapping out of his shock, Ned ducked behind Ottilie and tried to tear away the roots that still bound her hands.

  ‘Stop trying to free her!’ snapped Whistler, as if they were two misbehaving children. ‘Come and see.’

  Reluctantly, Ned released the roots, but stayed close by her side so that their shoulders touched as they entered the tomb. It was a rough, rounded space, empty but for the same iron coffin Ottilie had seen in Ned’s dream.

  She was so nervous that even walking felt strange, as if she had only just learned how and might topple over at any second. Her breath was coming out in funny little hisses. This was it. It was happening. She couldn’t think of a single way to stop it.

  Whistler ushered them forwards, waved her sleeves, and the lid flew open with bang.

  26

  Blood

  Ottilie braced for calamity. She imagined the grey-scaled creature bursting from the coffin, its pointed teeth bared at her throat.

  Nothing happened.

  Had she died? Was this what happened after death – did time fix at the final beat, like fish in a lake that froze through?

  No. She was still alive. Ned was beside her, breathing. Whistler’s sleeves were twitching. But nothing emerged from the coffin. Ottilie looked at Whistler, to see if she was surprised, but Whistler was watching her. Catching her eye, she gleefully ushered Ottilie forward.

  Ottilie inched closer and peered into the iron coffin. It was empty. Her heart hammered – was the witch already out?

  She looked again. There was something in there. In the belly of the coffin lay a pale pipe.

  A musical instrument, here in the sleepless witch’s coffin? Ottilie looked at Ned. He was frowning, and seemed as confused as she was.

  In the light of the embers she could see bronze metal embedded in the pipe, twisting around it as fine as a spider’s web.

  Whistler plucked out the pipe, tucked it into her belt and made for the stairs, as if she had just done something as ordinary as picking a piece of fruit. She said nothing about it, and seemed perfectly pleased with herself.

  Was this what she’d wanted all along – this pipe? For what? Where was the sleepless witch? Ottilie had thought she understood what was going on – most of it, at least – but she had known nothing.

  She felt as if she had hit her head, as if her memory had been wiped by some spell. She had to keep reminding herself to breathe. She made to follow Whistler, like a dog trailing its master, but the witch stopped in the entrance and whipped around, her eyes stormy.

  Ottilie’s bound hands reached up her back, aching for the cutlass that was just dust.

  ‘You know everything now,’ said Whistler, with no glimmer of mirth. This was serious. She was done playing. ‘You have no excuse. This is your last chance. Join me and survive, or choose your end, here.’

  Ottilie didn’t know what to do. What would happen if she said no? Would Whistler attack her and Ned right there in the tomb? Would she go up and hurt Gully?

  Vying for time, she asked the question that had been haunting her for months. ‘Why does it matter to you so much? Why me?’

  Whistler met her gaze and said, ‘Because you remind me of her. You are what I imagine she would have been, had she lived.’

  It was so simple; such an ordinary thing.

  That couldn’t be all there was to it. Could it? Ottilie’s mind ticked and ticked. What was Whistler trying to say? Ottilie reminded her of Maia … but why? Was this what she had been dreading? Ottilie knew her mother, knew her story, but her father was completely unknown to her. Whoever he was, was he somehow connected to Whistler? To the Sol family?

  Whistler was still watching her, a flicker of amusement returning to her eyes. ‘Don’t get carried away – you have no relation to her by blood.’

  Ottilie’s head spun. She didn’t know if she was relieved or not. To be sure, she was thankful not to be a Sol – as far as she could tell, they were all rotten to the core. But how could she be relieved that Whistler simply liked her for who she was? A blood link was innocent. Beyond her control. But this … what did it say about Ottilie?

  ‘I’ll admit I did wonder for a while,’ said Whistler. ‘You seemed so familiar – there was something in you that touched me. The thought that you might be a lost Sol daughter was a thrilling prospect. Varrio’s second daughter died, but he’s not the only one to carry the name.’

  Perhaps Whistler had thought she could mend a piece of herself if she could save a different Sol. It was probably why she tried to rescue unwanted children. But a Sol daughter … that was about as close as she could come to turning back time and saving Maia.

  Whistler was watching her, and something in her expression made Ottilie wonder if she could read her thoughts. She certainly seemed more agitated as she snapped, ‘I had some time to kill, waiting for my map to cook.’ She flicked her sleeve at Ned. ‘So I looked into your family.’ A smile formed.

  Ottilie felt unstable on her feet.

  ‘But you are a true child of the swamps – you are the daughter of Freda Colter.’ Whistler paused, staring Ottilie right in the eyes. ‘And Odis Igo, the Swamp Hollows keeper.’

  Ottilie’s heart seemed to shrink and stick.

  The keeper was her father. The keeper, who had always favoured Freddie, but still allowed her to rot in their tiny hollow. The keeper, who had sold Gully to the Narroway Hunt. Hot tears gathered behind her eyes. She could have been sick.

  ‘It means nothing,’ said Whistler, her voice softening. ‘Your spirit is kin to Maia’s – to mine. I felt it when you snuck in to the Narroway to save your brother. You have a great sense of what is right and wrong. You loathe injustice. The Usklers have rotted through. You know which is the right side.’

  Ottilie could barely speak. But her thoughts smoothed. The king had sent away the person who mattered most to Whistler, and the keeper had done the same thing to Ottilie. Did Whistler think she wanted revenge?

  She remembered Bonnie saying that Whistler had found her curled up with the goats when her father had been in a rage. Whistler chose people who had been deeply wronged and offered them a chance at vengeance, and – she thought of the bloodbeasts – unimaginable power.

  ‘There is a place for you with me.’ The embers flickered and flared. ‘You can help us right wrongs.’

  Ottilie was speechless. She pictured Gracie, bound to a wyler, her pointed teeth bared and her knives spinning.

  ‘You can take your pick,’ said Whistler. ‘I was going to give you the kappabak. When they found out you were a girl and tried to force you out, they took away all of your power. I thought the most powerful beast was a fair trade. But now I know you better, I’d probably hand you the learies.’

  Like it was a gift. The learies. It was a learie that had savaged Scoot – that would have killed him had Whistler not healed him in time. Ottilie could still see that scaled feline with the scorching tail. She imagined pressing her hand to its lion-like face and, for one bizarre moment, she wondered what colour the binding would turn its dark scales …

  Ned spoke up. ‘You don’t know a thing about her.’

  Whistler’s eyes flashed. She raised a finger to her lips and said, ‘Shhh!’

  With a thump, Ned dropped to the ground.

  Ottilie jumped to his side, smacking her knee
s hard into the stone. Tears of pain sprung, but she hardly noticed. What had Whistler done? She blinked and saw Scoot, grey stone creeping …

  Ottilie wanted to shake Ned awake, to search for a pulse, but her hands were still bound.

  ‘Calm down, he’s just sleeping,’ said Whistler. She almost sounded disappointed.

  Ottilie glared up at her, angry tears spilling. ‘You hate the king because he harms innocents. You’re mad,’ she snarled. ‘You stopped being human when you started messing with dredretches!’

  Something flickered in Whistler’s eyes, but quickly faded. She answered coldly, ‘I have told you, I will save anyone who wants to be saved.’

  Whistler stepped towards her and it took all of Ottilie’s strength not to scuttle backwards across the floor.

  ‘Now here it is,’ said Whistler. ‘The last chance. You won’t get another.’

  She made no threats. She simply offered, holding out her hand.

  Ottilie’s heart was pounding in her ears. Ned was asleep on the ground, maybe forever. Maeve was missing. Something had happened to Leo and Skip. Gully was half swallowed by the ground. Scoot was stone and they had no way to fix him. She didn’t know where the sleepless witch was, and the keeper … the keeper was her father.

  She was suffocating in a tangle of anger and fear. She could hardly summon her voice.

  ‘No.’

  She wasn’t sure if she actually spoke the word, but Whistler’s face darkened and more than half of the embers snapped into blackness.

  ‘That is your choice,’ she said, backing away from the entrance.

  Between them, the dust gathered into stones, and the stones tumbled and rolled, piling one on top of the other. The wall was rebuilding itself.

  ‘I will spare you the death that awaits you in war,’ said Whistler, her voice less human than Ottilie had ever heard it.

  Ottilie tried to nudge Ned awake with her knee, but he slept on. Whistler was going back up the stairs – and Gully was out there! Ottilie wanted to leap up and over the wall. She nearly did it. She moved in her mind, but her body stayed put. She couldn’t leave Ned, unconscious, sealed in. She knew Gully would have done the same thing.