“I don’t understand,” Virginia said. “If you are a small part of the King’s forces, you must have been a far greater army than men could raise up. How were you ever defeated?”
A palpable silence came over the glen, and Tyrentyllith answered. “We did not only fight men, but the Black Ones as well.”
“They would have fallen beneath our strength!” Gwyrion said.
“Lost were we when our heart was taken,” the wind whispered sadly.
“It is true,” the tree spirit said. “It was not force of strength that won the day against us. We lost the battle when our heart was broken.”
“I’m not sure I understand,” Virginia whispered.
“Traitors! Traitors are men!” the wind said in a sudden cold blast.
“The children of men are loved above all else by our King,” said Tyrentyllith. “When they broke his heart, they broke us. He left the Seventh World of his own choice. For this reason, it is men who must usher in his return. Those who sent the King into exile must open their arms to him again.”
“It has begun,” the wind said, quiet once more.
“It has begun in you, daughter of men,” said the tree spirit. “And there are others. It was the life in you that awakened us, and will awaken the rest of our Brethren. The end of the Blackness is coming.”
“Seeks you, does the Blackness,” whispered the wind. “It desires to use your power.”
“I will never help them,” Virginia said.
“We must be gone,” said the tree spirit. His voice was gentle in response to her words, though he neither confirmed nor denied what she had said. “We have work of our own to do. The earth has lived long without us. It is time the trees felt spirit at work in them again. But I have a gift to give you, daughter of men.”
Virginia felt a small pouch pressed into her hand by a smooth hand large enough to enfold hers entirely. The pouch was woven of rough fibers.
“Seeds,” Tyrentyllith said. “Life itself is in your hands. Use it wisely.”
Suddenly Virginia felt that the tree spirit was gone, though how she knew she could not say. Before she had time to think more on it, Gwyrion’s deep voice was speaking. “The wild calls to me, and my soul rises up to meet the call. I must gather my creatures and teach them again what it means to have a beating heart to guide them! To you, little cousin, I give the strength and eyes of a hawk to watch over you. Heed its call at all times.”
Virginia felt and heard the beating of huge wings lifting high above her, and then she knew that Gwyrion, too, was gone. Far off in the forest she heard a wolf’s howl, long and wild and free.
Last, she felt the wind begin to play around her once more, and the spirit voice whispered to her.
“My name is the gift I give to you,” said the wind. “Llycharath is the name of the wind. In greatest need, call out for me. To ride the skies and hear what I may, I go.”
There was a sound like leaves blowing in the trees, and then, though the breeze continued to blow, Virginia knew that Llycharath also was gone.
Virginia rubbed her fingers over the pouch in her hand, and raised her head up high.
“Farewell, Children of the Burning Light,” she called. When the echo of her voice had died away, exhaustion fell over her. She lay down in the clearing, and with the far-off keening of a hawk in her ears, she fell asleep.
* * *
Late that night, Maggie rose from her bed and dressed quickly. Huss had supplied her with clean clothes, but she shunned them and dressed instead in the worn, stained clothing from the journey. Her coat seemed lighter without the heavy weight of the scroll tucked inside it. It seemed years since she had left the shelter of Mrs. Cook’s home to embark on the journey that had led her so far from everything she had ever known.
A strange joy burned in her, untainted by the gravity and sorrow of the circumstances around her. She had found her path. She knew her enemy now; knew it by name. In the hours of the night she had come to believe it all: in the King, in the Veil, everything. And without fully realizing it, she had committed herself to fighting against Morning Star and his earthly stewards. Thread by thread, she was beginning to see a picture.
Quietly as a cat, Maggie moved down the stairs and into the courtyard. She stayed in the shadows and watched as men began to gather. They wore black and carried swords. Jerome stood in the courtyard near the trapdoor. Each new arrival presented himself by laying his hand on Jerome’s shoulder. Jerome touched each of them and spoke words in a low voice.
At last they were all together, fifteen young men with strong arms and a steady fire in their eyes. Maggie watched as Jerome approached the trapdoor and beat out a rhythm upon it. It swung open and the men began their descent.
As the last man’s cloak disappeared below the ground, Maggie darted out from the shadows and slipped under the trapdoor even as it began to close. It shut behind her with a musty thud, plunging her into deep blackness. Just ahead of her she could see the faint lantern light of the men. She followed as quietly as she could.
The men wound their way through the underground passages, turning at the door where the rebels had gathered only a night before. The new corridor branched off in several directions, with no markings of any kind that Maggie could see to indicate where they would lead. From one, Maggie heard a distant roar. The men paused for a moment, and she heard Jerome’s voice.
“That way leads to the river,” he said. “It is a dangerous escape, especially now, when the river is low. It leads out onto a thin ledge, and from there it is a thirty foot drop to the water.”
They moved on in silence. After a short while they reached a steep stone staircase like the one that descended from Huss’s courtyard, seeming to end in a ceiling of rock. Maggie hung back as the men began the ascent. Jerome put his shoulder to the rock and pushed. It lifted easily. A faint, dusty light came down from the opening. The men extinguished their lanterns and left them in the tunnel as they climbed into the house above.
Maggie waited a while, her heart pounding. At last she bit her lip and climbed the crumbling staircase. She emerged in a wine cellar. The thick cellar door was slightly ajar. She approached it softly and pushed it until she could see outside. The cellar opened into a kitchen, empty but for Jerome and his men. They were creeping silently toward the kitchen door, beyond which a bright light shone. The sound of coarse laughter could be heard from the house.
Maggie waited and watched as the men whispered to one another. In the next instant they burst through the door to the light beyond, and the house filled with shouts and the sounds of clashing steel.
Lightly, Maggie ran to the door and looked out. Jerome’s men were evenly matched. There were at least ten guards in the foyer, guarding the stairs, and more were appearing every minute from rooms above and around. Maggie’s eyes flitted up the stairs to where she knew Libuse’s room must be.
They’ll never make it, Maggie thought. There are too many guards. They’ll never defeat them in time to help Libuse.
The thought was barely gone from her mind before Maggie acted. Fixing her eyes on the staircase, she left the safety of the kitchen and ran into the melee. She darted through the fight and reached the stairs without any trouble. No one even seemed to see her.
As fast as she could, she ran up the stairs. At the top she paused for a moment and looked wildly around her. At the far end of the hall was a door, and someone was pounding on it from the inside.
Libuse.
Maggie raced toward the door, and let out a startled scream when a man in black armour seemed to appear out of nowhere. Her heart pounding wildly, she laughed slightly when she realized that the suit of armour was empty—a piece of art to adorn the hall. But her eyes lighted on the axe in the empty, gloved hand, and she wrested it free and charged at the door.
“Get back!” she shouted, and drove the axe into the door. She hacked around the lock, sending wooden splinters in every direction, and kicked it. It swung open.
Libuse wa
s inside, a spear in her hand raised and pointed at the door. She lowered the spear without a word when she saw Maggie. The princess was dressed like a man in dark clothes. Her long brown hair was twisted into a knot at the nape of her neck.
“We haven’t much time,” Maggie said. An idea occurred to her. “Do you have a cloak with a hood?” she asked. “Anything to cover my hair?”
“Yes,” Libuse said, and flung open a wardrobe. She pulled out a blue cloak and handed it to Maggie. “Will this do?” she asked.
“Perfectly,” Maggie said as she tied the cape around her shoulders and pulled the hood up over her hair.
“Why…?” Libuse asked.
Maggie smiled. “Because Libuse is not a redhead.”
Together the two women cautiously made their way to the top of the stairs. Below, the men were still fighting. A few men, both guards and students, lay wounded or dying on the stairs and the floor, but for the most part little progress seemed to have been made. Both sides were succeeding only in frustrating the other.
“We came up through the cellar,” Maggie said. “Do you know the way?”
“Yes,” Libuse said.
“Then go to the professor,” Maggie said. “Go as fast as you can. No one will follow you.” She put her hand on the princess’s shoulder and pushed her gently. “Go,” she said.
Libuse looked deeply into Maggie’s eyes for only a moment, but Maggie read volumes in the look. Then the princess turned and ran down the stairs, swift as a gazelle, gracefully leaping the steps. Near the bottom she changed course and vaulted over the banister, landing on the ground where no one was fighting. Maggie watched the princess disappear through the kitchen door and breathed a sigh of relief.
Quietly, Maggie descended the stairs, still clutching the old axe in her hands. She followed Libuse’s example and vaulted the banister so that no one saw her land. Softly she made her way to the kitchen, and stepped inside the door to witness a sight that made her heart stop.
A guard stood in front of the cellar doors, pointing a crossbow at Libuse’s throat. The princess held her head high, her whole bearing regal. She was staring death in the face, and she did not look away.
Before Maggie could do anything, the man lowered his crossbow and stepped away from the cellar door. He bowed low as Libuse regarded him.
“Go, my lady,” Maggie heard him say. “May the stars give you speed.”
Tears filled Maggie’s eyes as Libuse entered the cellar and passed beyond vision. A moment later, a shout arose from the foyer.
“The princess is escaped!” a voice bellowed.
Maggie swallowed hard and ran back into the foyer where the guards could see her. Her blood froze as they caught sight of her. She whirled on her heel and ran back into the kitchen, through the cellar doors.
The men were right behind her as Maggie dropped through the trapdoor and raced down the steps into the darkness. She could see nothing—the tunnels were black as midnight, and she had no time to light a lantern. Muttering a prayer under her breath, she stumbled down the black corridor, listening to the echo of footsteps behind her as the guards gave chase. The axe in her hands scraped against the rock walls. She dropped it without regret.
The bobbing light of lanterns danced off the walls behind her and glinted off the water that ran down the tunnel walls, illuminating flecks of gold in the stone. Maggie’s mouth was dry as she ran, and her fingers brushed against the cold, slimy rock.
They were gaining.
She picked up speed, knowing that she had to stay where they could see her; and knowing, too, that she could not afford to be caught. They were shouting for her to stop, and she heard one of them curse as one of his fellows shoved by him, forcing him into the rock wall.
A roaring sound met her ears.
She swerved down the new tunnel. Libuse’s cloak caught on the stone. The men were almost upon her as her cold fingers worked to untie the cloak. At last it came free, and she left it behind her without a moment to spare.
Not far ahead, the river roared.
Someone shouted, “This way!” Lantern light filled the tunnel behind her. Ahead, another sort of light was filtering its way into the darkness. Moonlight.
Maggie’s legs felt as though they would give way beneath her, but she gritted her teeth and forced herself to give it one last burst of energy. She closed her eyes and ran.
She nearly fell over the ledge.
She caught her breath in great gasps as she looked over her toes at the raging water below, storming at the base of a steep drop. Above her to the right, a great bridge cast its shadow over the river. The lights of other bridges illuminated the river in both directions, and waves crashed up against a dark island downstream. The air was piercingly fresh and cold, and the moon shone high above.
The men were coming.
The ledge was just wide enough to stand on, and slippery with spray. Maggie shut her eyes and moved to the right, her back pressed tight against the rock wall. Her hands clutched for something to steady her, but they found only smooth stone. Breathing hard, she inched along the ledge toward the shadow of the bridge.
She looked down at the river and nearly swooned with dizziness. Closing her eyes once more, she forced herself to keep moving. When again she opened her eyes, she focused them on the shadowy bridge overhead.
She heard a scream as someone burst out of the tunnel and stumbled over the edge, plummeting down to the water. The sound was nearly drowned out by the roar of the black river. She thought she could hear voices shouting above the sound of the water, but she couldn’t be sure if they were real or imaginary.
She kept moving along the ledge and did not look back. Her foot nearly slipped on a patch of moss, and she stood against the rock and sobbed through her teeth. As she fought to gain control of herself, she realized that the rock behind her had grown craggy. The bridge was just ahead.
In a few more steps, she reached the shadow of the bridge. She ran her hands along the rock behind her and found that it was pocked enough to scale. The ledge had grown wider, and with a deep, shuddering breath, she began to turn around.
Soon she was facing the wall, and she found hand-holds. Moving slowly, she began the ascent up the rock face toward the bridge.
One step, then another. Her weight pulled at her; her feet moved only with great effort. Once her hand slipped, and she could not move for a moment. She looked down.
The men were directly beneath her, still facing the river. Maggie watched in fearful fascination as the men looked around them, pointing and shouting to each other.
They didn’t know where she was.
She held her breath, afraid that they would hear her over the sound of the crashing river. The helmet of one of the men nearly brushed the bottom of her foot. She clung to the rock with all her strength, the cold and damp of it creeping into her like an illness.
At last they moved on, back to the tunnels. A fog had risen, and it swallowed the guards in grey. Maggie felt numb, chained to the rock without hope of moving again. She was in limbo, lost in the fog and in the darkness, and no one would ever find her. No one.
A voice forced itself through her mind, her own voice. The worst is over… you’ve only got to get to the bridge now. It isn’t much farther. Move!
She obeyed. She lifted one foot and found a new grip for it. In moments she was climbing again, and then she was directly under the bridge.
She caught hold of the iron bridge and climbed slowly up over the side, aware of the long emptiness beneath her that ended in the churning river. She did not look down.
At last she stood on solid ground again. The bridge glowed with street lamps that burned all down its length, even in the fog. She looked over the side and saw nothing but grey. When she looked up, she saw that even the moon had disappeared in the thickness.
Slowly, wearily, she began to walk along the bridge. It was the first time she had been alone since Nicolas had first joined her in Calai, and now the loneliness was nea
rly overwhelming. The fog had swallowed up the whole world and left her the only person in it.
No, she thought, Libuse is out there somewhere. And she’s safe, because of you, Maggie Sheffield.
Thoughts of Londren, Mrs. Cook, and Pat filled her thoughts as she stepped off the bridge and began the weary walk to the professor’s house. But soon, other faces began to fill her mind. She saw Libuse, and Huss, and Jerome. She saw Nicolas, and she remembered the face of the Ploughman. And she remembered the terror and exhilaration of leading the guards after her, away from the princess, down through the tunnels to the river. The terror was already fading into memory, one more thing to look back on and remember in days to come. It almost seemed as if it hadn’t happened.
She wanted Jerome. She wanted him very badly, and she was afraid that something had happened to him. He had gone to war with the High Police to rescue the princess, and who could say if he had survived? She swallowed a lump of fear and kept going.
Deep inside her, an unrest was growing. An unfamiliarity—she thought of the night’s adventures and it seemed that she did not know herself anymore. The old Maggie Sheffield had been lost somewhere on the road to Pravik. It was not likely she would ever come back.
It was for the best, and Maggie knew it. Still, somehow, it hurt.
* * *
Chapter 10
An Unfamiliar Soul
Maggie found her way back to Jarin Huss’s house. The courtyard gates were locked. She rattled them and twisted the lock futilely before exhaustion crept over her and she sank down on the cobblestones and slept.
She awoke to see a tall, dark figure coming through the thinning fog, his broad shoulders stooped with weariness. She struggled to her feet, and her eyes looked up and met his. She started to cry.
Jerome reached out for Maggie. She was wet and her clothes were torn from climbing the rocks. She was shivering with cold, and he drew her close to him. His black cloak folded in around her and enveloped her with warmth. He held her tightly for a long time, and then he stepped back and studied her face again.
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