by Paul Durham
“The man who came here,” Rye said. “Did he harm you?”
“We spoke for a long while. He has quite a temper, that boy.” She clucked her tongue. “There’s a rage in him that has yet to cool. But no, he did no real harm.”
“He came seeking treasure—” Rye began, but her voice failed her. Slinister’s words suddenly ran through her head. His answer when she had first asked him what Harmless had taken from him:
Something I have never seen nor touched but that made me who I am. Something that remains mine and only mine, whether I live or die, and that even the High Chieftain cannot deny.
Slinister had been speaking about his own mother.
“Black Annis,” Rye whispered.
“None of my friends call me that, duckling. Just Annis will do.”
Rye shook her head. “When Slinister spoke of treasure . . . I thought he meant gold, or riches.”
Annis raised a fold of skin where an eyebrow once was. “And yet, don’t our greatest treasures shine brighter than any coins or jewels?”
Waldron’s story of Black Annis’s curse flooded back to Rye, and she pushed herself up in alarm. The startled gulls fluttered their wings.
“Are you a witch?” Rye asked, her voice rising.
“Don’t get your knees in a wobble, young lady,” Annis said firmly, but not unkindly. “And no name-calling please—I assure you I know far uglier slurs than you. I am no witch.”
She pressed her colorless lips into a thread of a smile. “I was but a simple island girl with the clarity of Sight. I wasn’t the only one—perhaps I was just more outspoken than most.”
“Sight?” Rye repeated. She had heard Slinister speak of it in the Wailing Cave.
“Longsight. Intuition. Perception. Call it what you will. You’ve got a touch of it yourself. Someone in your line was a Low Islander, I can see it around your eyes.” Annis swirled her finger in the air, gesturing at Rye’s face. “Your gram, or great-grammy. The gift has been known to skip a generation.”
Rye thought of Padge, her distant cousin with the uncanny knack for divining information from her dreams.
Annis let out a long and deep sigh. “But Slinister’s Sight flowed directly from me. It’s strong in him—undiluted. Sight can be a cruel gift. Unfiltered, it can drive one to madness.”
Rye’s confusion grew. “I don’t understand. You were banished . . . do you live here in the Bellwether?”
“I have for a short while, yes. Ten years. Twelve. Maybe fifteen. A blink of an eye, really.”
“That doesn’t sound like a short while,” Rye said. “How old are you?”
“That’s an impolite question to ask a lady,” Annis said with a scowl. “Even a withered old relic like me.”
Rye’s face fell, ashamed at her bad manners. Annis chuckled.
“Pigshanks, child, I’m just pulling your braids. I’m as old as the sea . . . but that doesn’t make me nearly as interesting as you seem to think.” She leaned forward, her keen eyes flickering green, then blue, as they dug into Rye. “I’m here because your father, that young fellow you call Harmless, brought me here.”
Rye swallowed hard. “You’re his prisoner?”
Annis snickered and slapped her hands on the bony thighs beneath her frock. “Don’t be pigeon-headed,” she said. “The Bellwether’s door locks from my side, not his. He brought me here to honor a bargain made long ago.”
“A bargain with who?”
A fond looked passed over Annis’s face, and Rye saw a glimpse of the young woman she must have once been.
“He called himself the Sea Rover King. He was my treasure, and I his. He had many enemies, some of whom might find a way to seek vengeance upon him even after he’d hoisted his final sail. If anything happened to him, Harmless agreed to watch out for me . . . as if I needed the help.”
She waved her hand, shooing away a memory like a fly. “Alas, men like that never live long enough. I wasn’t at all happy when your father took me from my little isle. I was perfectly content sitting by the water and dreaming. But he meant well, and I suppose he thought he was protecting Pest, too, by keeping my whereabouts secret from my boy.” Annis’s eyes flickered green with mischief. “After all, you can never be too careful when it comes to curses.” She let out a girlish chuckle. “I’ll get around to forgiving him . . . one of these days.”
Rye bit her lip. Annis might forgive Harmless, but she doubted Slinister ever would.
“Slinister means to do great harm to my father,” she said. “I overheard some of what he told you. Did he say any more about his plans?”
Annis sucked her gums. She opened palms that looked as fragile as late-autumn leaves. “Some things must remain private between a mother and son, even if they are merely strangers to each other. But I will share this much, for you to do with as you choose. Slinister has persuaded your father to meet him this evening at nightfall.” Her hard gaze now held Rye’s. “But with him, he brings a storm.”
“Where?” Rye asked urgently.
“At the farthest edge of the Shale. At the place where the forest meets the bogs.”
Rye was relieved—that wasn’t far from Mud Puddle Lane. She could make it if she hurried. But an important question still lingered.
“You didn’t leave with Slinister,” Rye said. “Will you not join your own son after all these years?”
Annis smiled sadly. “That I shall sleep on, and see what my dreams tell me.” She shook her head, tangled white knots of hair now darkening her face. “A cruel gift indeed,” she muttered to herself.
There was a noise below them. Both Rye and Annis turned toward the stairs.
“Riley!” a man’s voice called.
Rye made for the door. “Harmless?”
“Wait,” Annis said.
“I have to warn him.”
“Child, be careful. All is not what it may first seem.”
But Rye wasn’t listening. She ran from the Bellwether and rushed down the steps. She tore into the main room. A cloaked man had his back to her.
“Harmless!” Rye cried.
The man spun around, a grin spreading across his face.
“Bramble?”
Bramble stepped forward and put his hands on her shoulders. “Aye, my fair niece. Long time no see.”
Bramble seemed tired, frayed. He was even more unshaven than usual.
“How did you find me here?”
“Frothy told me where you were headed,” he said.
“Folly.”
“I was at the Dead Fish Inn when your friends and Knockmany arrived. She was able to give me an idea of how to get here. Fortunately, I caught sight of you when you started for that shoal—you really need to look over your shoulder more often, by the way. In any event, it was lucky I did, otherwise I might never have found this place.”
Bramble stepped away from her and wandered around the room, examining the sprawling views.
“It’s quite the hideaway your father has here,” he commented with an impressed nod.
“Have you seen him?” Rye asked. “He’s in danger. Slinister has lured him into a trap.”
“I know, Riley,” he said gravely. “He most certainly is in danger. I wish you had stayed on Pest.”
Bramble stopped and placed both palms against the glass of a window. He stared out at the shoreline. There was a rustling behind Rye and she turned to see Shortstraw ambling down one of the flights of stairs.
“So you must know about Slinister?” Rye asked, turning back to Bramble. “He’s pretending to be the Constable. I mean, they are one and the same.”
Bramble nodded. “So I discovered while you were all away. Slinister sheds his skin more deftly than an adder.”
“He just left here. Did you see him on the shoal?”
Bramble gritted his teeth as he scanned the water. “He may have come by boat. I’ve always known Slinister to be an expert seaman—and I’ve known him longer than most.”
He dropped himself into a cha
ir, as if a great weight rested on his shoulders.
“He’s planning a meeting tonight and—” Rye caught herself and raised an eyebrow. “Wait, you’ve known him longer than most?”
Bramble nodded. “Since I was just a boy on Pest.”
“You knew him on High Isle?”
Bramble waved his fingers in the air and sighed. “It’s a long and winding story,” he said, and his eyes caught sight of the cup and kettle on the table. “Probably best told over tea.”
He picked up the cup Rye had poured and pressed it to his lips.
“Bramble!” Rye yelled. “That’s midnight sea urchin!”
Bramble’s face looked stricken and he jumped to his feet. Shortstraw jolted. Bramble spat the liquid into the fireplace. He coughed and sputtered, trying to get every drop of saliva out of his mouth. He stuck out his tongue as far as he could and wiped it with the folds of his cloak, then spit again to get rid of the lint.
When he was satisfied that he had expelled the toxins from his mouth, he wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and slumped against the wall.
“That certainly wouldn’t have been the most glorious way to pawn the clogs,” he said, flashing Rye a relieved grin.
Rye’s mouth was dry now too. All the color had drained from her face.
“Don’t worry, I’m none the worse for wear . . .” Bramble began to say, but caught himself when he realized what had actually caused her alarm.
Rye took a step back.
She had seen Bramble’s tongue.
It was split down the middle and forked like a snake’s.
30
A Fork-Tongue Charmer
“Riley,” Bramble said urgently, “allow me to explain.”
“You’re a Fork-Tongue Charmer!” she cried.
“Riley,” he said, taking a step closer. “Please wait.”
Rye backed against the far wall. Bramble stood between her and the stairway.
“Stay back,” she said.
“Riley,” he said, more sternly, “you must listen to me.”
“I’m leaving,” she said. “You keep away.”
“You can’t,” he said, closer now. There were only inches between them.
Rye tried to dart around him, but his fingers bit into her shoulder.
“Stop!” he demanded.
Rye’s hand found her cudgel. Before she realized what she was doing, it was free from its sling, and without thinking, she swung it. The blow was straight and true—like Waldron had taught her—and it found its mark in the fleshy muscle just above Bramble’s knee. He broke his grip and crumpled to the floor.
Rye ran past him. Shortstraw screeched in protest, but she glared and pointed her cudgel at him, too. The monkey whimpered and retreated to a corner.
“Don’t leave here,” Bramble said, his face masked with pain as he reached out for her.
“Don’t you come any closer,” Rye said, shaking the cudgel. But Bramble was in no position to pursue her.
Rye rushed down the stairs, ignoring his further pleas. She made her away across the shoal as quickly as she dared. This time she looked over her shoulder frequently, but neither Bramble nor Shortstraw followed. Rye’s ears burned hotter than ever before. How could her own uncle be an enemy of her father? How could he have turned his back on them?
And yet, now it all seemed clear. Harmless and Bramble had always been cold to each other. Her mother herself had told Rye that her departure from Pest was the start of a rift between the two that had never been mended. If Bramble had known Slinister since he was a boy, it made sense he’d become a Fork-Tongue Charmer.
Rye made it back to the stable behind the fisherman’s shanty. She set out quickly on the pony she’d ridden from the Shambles, making her way toward the village along the beach but cutting a wide swath around Drowning itself.
It was dusk when she paused at the far end of Mud Puddle Lane. She could see lanterns flickering in cottage windows and smell smoke from their chimneys. She wondered if Quinn was sitting down to a long overdue supper with his father. Amid the cluster of cottages, she noticed that one house remained dark, its chimney cold. The O’Chanters’ cottage hadn’t been warmed in a long time. So close to her home, and yet Rye felt more lost than ever before. Her mother and sister were across the sea, her uncle had betrayed them, and her father seemed to harbor a knot of secrets she might never untangle.
She turned the pony and headed for the forest, its hooves splashing through the damp turf. Here the edges of the bogs had poisoned what was once forest floor, and the dead husks of needleless pine trees rose around her like looming skeletons. The pony carefully stepped over the fallen branches and jagged trunks that now littered the ground.
Rye stopped when they neared a dense wall of towering trees stretching north as far as her eye could see. The bogs were quiet. So were the shadows of Beyond the Shale, which spread across the ground like pools of spilled ink. She’d hoped to spot Harmless coming by way of Mud Puddle Lane so that she might warn him before he wandered into Slinister’s trap. Better yet, maybe he wouldn’t come at all. But her journey from Grabstone had taken longer than she’d expected, and she feared he had already made his way to their meeting spot.
She climbed down from the pony, giving him a pat and encouraging him to find his way back to the village.
Something caught her eye. Her choker was glowing. The blue was just a pale flicker, but its light unmistakable. If Spidercreep was near, that meant Slinister would be too. And Harmless couldn’t be far behind.
My choker will lead me to him, Rye told herself.
When she reached the edge of Beyond the Shale, she could do little more than crane her neck and gawk. The pines towered above her. The lowest branches had long since died and shed their needles. Now the jagged remains of the limbs had been carved into spikes as sharp as spears, forming an impenetrable barrier. Rye couldn’t tell if they were designed to keep the forest’s denizens in or the villagers out.
She checked her choker. The glow was stronger.
Rye took a deep breath. She had never ventured into Beyond the Shale. Not even at its edges. With her thumb, she tested the razor-sharp tip of a branch that jutted out at eye level. There was only one way to get through. Carefully.
She made her way methodically through the dense maze of jagged limbs, stepping over one lethal spike, ducking her head under another, contorting herself to slip between two tightly packed trunks. For once, being small and lean was an advantage. After traveling some distance, Rye stepped through a ridge of trees and was able to stand at normal height. The spiked branches still surrounded her, but she found herself in a narrow, branchless corridor that wended through the forest.
“It is a maze,” Rye whispered. “And I’ve found a path.”
Her choker grew brighter as she hurried carefully but quickly now, unobstructed by the meddlesome limbs. The leaves and debris crunched under her feet, and as Rye’s runestones began to glow with even greater intensity, she spotted shimmering lights in a clearing ahead. Before she could rush forward, a hand clutched her arm.
The boy named Hyde glared at her menacingly with his narrow-set eyes, the enormous mottled dog by his side.
Even if Rye thought she could outrun Hyde, she knew the dog would catch her before she got far. Their struggle was brief. Hyde took her cudgel, bound her wrists behind her, and gagged her with leather straps that tasted like they’d been cut from an old saddle. If nothing else, she was confident he would take her to Slinister . . . and Harmless. But instead, he dragged Rye to the edge of the circular clearing and deposited her out of sight at the base of several thick pines. Hyde watched her carefully. The dog sat on its haunches and eyed her too.
From her seat in the shadows, she saw that dozens of lanterns hung in varying heights from the jagged branches that ringed the clearing. The area itself was dotted with enormous stumps—remnants of the huge old trees that must have been felled by hand to create the open space.
Slinister str
ode from the trees in his leather helmet and full constable attire. He led Spidercreep on a length of chain, the Bog Noblin’s jaws encased in an elaborate iron muzzle. It must have been the same device Spidercreep had worn when she’d encountered him in the Spoke.
On a stump, someone was waiting. A man sat with his elbows on his knees, eyes on Slinister. His eyelids were heavy, but they betrayed no alarm.
Harmless!
Rye squirmed on the ground helplessly. Hyde nudged her still with a boot.
“Good evening, High Chieftain,” Slinister said, taking one end of Spidercreep’s chain and fastening it to a thick iron post nailed into one of the other stumps.
“If I’d known you’d taken a bride, I would have sent a gift,” Harmless said. He eyed Spidercreep with a look that conveyed more pity than anger.
Rye noticed that Harmless’s own choker was glowing bright in Spidercreep’s presence.
The two men regarded each other in silence.
“So, Valant is it now?” Harmless said finally. “It has a rather regal ring to it.”
“I’m glad you approve.”
“It’s much nicer than Slinister—about time you finally let go of childhood taunts.”
“It’s not easy recasting oneself,” Slinister said. “But we are who we say we are.”
He removed his battered leather helmet and placed it on a stump at his side. The deep, shiny scar on his head reflected the lantern light. Again, without the ornamental trappings, his whole persona seemed to change.
“For ten years I have been reinventing myself as a lawman. An enforcer of rules and order, by any means necessary.” He flashed a smile and ran a palm down his thick braid that now fell loose. “It helps to look the part.”
“You look like death,” Harmless said.
“You should know. Last time you saw me, I believe you introduced me to your axe.”
