Black Dawn

by L. J. Smith

  And if he was really as evil as Jeanne seemed to think—if it was true that he’d killed Miles . . . well, then she had a different job.

  She had to do whatever was necessary to stop him. Distant and impossible as it seemed, she would have to kill him if that was what it took.

  “Come on,” she said to the other girls. “Cady, do you think you can climb down now? And, Jeanne, do you know a way into the castle?”

  • • •

  The moat stank.

  Maggie had been glad to find Jeanne knew a way into the castle. That was before she discovered that it involved swimming through stagnant water and climbing up what Jeanne called a garderobe but what was all too obviously the shaft of an old latrine.

  “Just kill me, somebody,” Maggie whispered halfway up. She was soaking wet and daubed with unthinkable slime. She couldn’t remember ever being quite this dirty.

  The next moment she forgot about it in her worry about Cady. Cady had managed the swim, still doing everything she was told as if she were in a trance. But now she was getting shaky. Maggie wondered seriously whether this sort of activity was helpful to somebody who’d been poisoned.

  When they were finally at the top of the shaft, Maggie looked around and saw a small room that seemed to be built directly into the castle wall. Everything was made of dark stone, with a cold and echoing feel to it.

  “Don’t make any noise,” Jeanne whispered. She bent close to Maggie, who was helping support Cady. “We need to go down a passage and through the kitchen, okay? It’s all right if slaves see us, but we have to watch out for them.”

  “We’ve got to get Cady to a healing woman—”

  “I know! That’s where I’m trying to take you.” Jeanne clamped a hand on P.J.’s shoulder and steered her into a corridor.

  More stone. More echoes. Maggie tried to walk without her shoes squishing or smacking. She was dimly impressed with the castle itself—it was grand and cold and so huge that she felt like an insect making her way through the passage.

  After what seemed like an endless walk, they emerged in a small entryway partitioned off by wooden screens. Maggie could hear activity behind the screens, and as Jeanne led them stealthily forward, she caught a glimpse of people moving on the other side. They were spreading white tablecloths over long wooden tables in a room that seemed bigger than Maggie’s entire house.

  Another doorway. Another passage. And finally the kitchen, which was full of bustling people. They were stirring huge iron cauldrons and turning meat on spits. The smell of a dozen different kinds of food hit Maggie and made her feel faint. She was so hungry that her knees wobbled and she had to swallow hard.

  But even more than hungry, she was scared. They were in plain sight of dozens of people.

  “Slaves,” Jeanne said shortly. “They won’t tell on us. Grab a sack to wrap around you and come on. And, P.J., take off that ridiculous hat.”

  Slaves, Maggie thought, staring. They were all dressed identically, in loose-fitting pants and tops that were like short tunics. Jeanne was wearing the same thing—it had looked enough like clothes from Outside that Maggie hadn’t really focused on it before. What struck her now was that everybody looked so . . . un-ironed. There were no sharp creases. And no real color. All the clothes were an indeterminate shade of beige-brown, and all the faces seemed just as dull and faded. They were like drones.

  What would it be like to live that way? she wondered as she threw a rough sack around her shoulders to hide the dark blue of her jacket. Without any choice in what you do, and any hope for the future?

  It would be terrible, she decided. And it might just drive you crazy.

  I wonder if any of them ever . . . snap?

  But she couldn’t look around anymore. Jeanne was hustling through a doorway into the open air. There was a kind of garden here just outside the kitchen, with scraggly fruit trees and what looked like herbs. Then there was a courtyard and finally a row of huts nestled against the high black wall that surrounded the castle.

  “This is the really dangerous part,” Jeanne whispered harshly. “It’s the back, but if one of them looks out and sees us, we’re in trouble. Keep your head down—and walk like this. Like a slave.” She led them at a shuffling run toward a hut.

  This place is like a city, Maggie thought. A city inside a wall, with the castle in the middle.

  They reached the shack. Jeanne pulled the door open and bustled them inside. Then she shut the door again and sagged.

  “I think we actually made it.” She sounded surprised.

  Maggie was looking around. The tiny room was dim, but she could see crude furniture and piles of what looked like laundry. “This is it? We’re safe?”

  “Nowhere is safe,” Jeanne said sharply. “But we can get some slave clothes for you here, and we can rest. And I’ll go get the healing woman,” she added as Maggie opened her mouth.

  While she was gone, Maggie turned to Cady and P.J. They were both shivering. She made Cady lie down and had P.J. help her go through one of the piles of laundry.

  “Get your wet things off,” Maggie said. She pulled off her own hightops and shrugged out of her sodden jacket. Then she knelt to get Cady’s shoes off. The blind girl was lying motionless on a thin pallet, and didn’t respond to Maggie’s touch. Maggie was worried about her.

  Behind her, the door opened and Jeanne came in with two people. One was a gaunt and handsome woman, with dark hair pulled untidily back and an apron over her tunic and pants. The other was a young girl who looked frightened.

  “This is Laundress.” The way Jeanne said it, it was clearly a proper name. “She’s a healer, and the girl’s her helper.”

  Relief washed through Maggie. “This is Cady,” she said. And then, since nobody moved and Cady couldn’t speak for herself, she went on, “She’s from Outside, and she was poisoned by the slave traders. I’m not sure how long ago that was—at least a couple of days. She’s been running a high fever and most of the time she’s just sort of sleepwalking—”

  “What is this?” The gaunt woman took a step toward Cady, but her expression was anything but welcoming. Then she turned on Jeanne angrily, “How could you bring this—thing—in here?”

  Maggie froze where she was by Cady’s feet. “What are you talking about? She’s sick—”

  “She’s one of them!” The woman’s eyes were burning darkly at Jeanne. “And don’t tell me you didn’t notice. It’s perfectly plain!”

  “What’s perfectly plain?” Maggie’s fists were clenched. “Jeanne, what’s she talking about?”

  The woman’s burning eyes turned on her. “This girl is a witch.”

  Maggie went still.

  Part of her was amazed and disbelieving. A witch? Like Sylvia? A Night Person?

  Cady wasn’t at all like that. She wasn’t evil. She was normal, a nice, ordinary, gentle girl. She couldn’t be anything supernatural. . . .

  But another part of Maggie wasn’t even startled. It was saying that at some deep level she had known all along.

  Her mind was bringing up pictures. Cady in the hollow tree, when she and Maggie were hiding from Bern and Gavin. Cady’s lips moving—and Gavin saying I can’t feel them at all.

  The hound today had said the same thing. I can’t follow their life force anymore.

  She was blocking them from sensing us, Maggie thought. And she was the one who told us to climb the tree. She’s blind, but she can see things.

  It’s true.

  She turned slowly to look at the girl lying on the pallet.

  Cady was almost perfectly still, her breathing barely lifting her chest. Her hair was coiled around her head like damp snakes, her face was smudged and dirty, her lashes spiky on her cheeks. But somehow she hadn’t lost any of her serene beauty. It remained untouched, whatever happened to her body.

  I don’t care, Maggie thought. She may be a witch, but she’s not like Sylvia. I know she’s not evil.

  She turned back to Laundress, and spoke carefully
and deliberately.

  “Look, I understand that you don’t like witches. But this girl has been with us for two days, and all she’s done is help us. And, I mean, look at her!” Maggie lost her reasonable tone. “They were bringing her here as a slave! She wasn’t getting any special treatment. She’s not on their side!”

  “Too bad for her,” Laundress said. Her voice was flat and . . . plain. The voice of a woman who saw things in black and white and didn’t like arguments.

  And who knew how to back up her beliefs. One big gaunt hand went beneath her apron, into a hidden pocket. When it came out again, it was gripping a kitchen knife.

  “Wait a minute,” Jeanne said.

  Laundress didn’t look at her. “Friends of witches are no friends of ours,” she said in her plain, heavy way. “And that includes you.”

  With one motion, Jeanne wheeled away from her and into a fighting stance. “You’re right. I knew what she was. I hated her, too, at first. But it’s like Maggie told you. She’s not going to hurt us!”

  “I’m not going to miss a chance to kill one of them,” Laundress said. “And if you try to stop me, you’ll be sorry.”

  Maggie’s heart was pounding. She looked back and forth from the tall woman, who was holding the knife menacingly, to Jeanne, who was crouched with her teeth bared and her eyes narrowed. They were ready to fight.

  Maggie found herself in the middle of the room, in a triangle formed by Cady and Jeanne and the knife. She was too angry to be frightened.

  “You put that down,” she said to Laundress fiercely, forgetting that she was speaking to an adult. “You’re not going to do anything with that. How can you even try?”

  Vaguely, she noticed movement behind the woman. The frightened young girl who hadn’t said anything so far was stepping forward. She was staring at Maggie, pointing at Maggie. Her eyes and mouth were wide open, but her voice was an indrawn breath.

  “The Deliverer!”

  Maggie hardly heard the gasped words. She was rushing on. “If you people don’t stick together, what kind of chance do you have? How can you ever get free—”

  “It’s her!” This time the girl shrieked it, and nobody could help but hear. She clutched at Laundress’s arm wildly. “You heard what she said, Laundress. She’s come to free us.”

  “What are you talking a—?” Jeanne broke off, looking at Maggie with her eyebrows drawn together. Suddenly the eyebrows flew up and she straightened slightly from her crouch, “Hmm.”

  Maggie stared back. Then she followed all their eyes and looked down at herself in bewilderment.

  For the first time since she’d arrived in the Dark Kingdom she wasn’t wearing her jacket and her shoes. She was wearing exactly what she’d been wearing when her mother’s screams woke her three days before—her flowered pajama top, wrinkled jeans, and mismatched socks.

  “ ‘She will come clothed in flowers, shod in blue and scarlet,’ ” the girl was saying. She was still pointing at Maggie, but now it was with something like reverence. “ ‘And she will speak of freedom.’ You heard her, Laundress! It’s her. She’s the one!”

  The knife trembled slightly. Maggie stared at the red knuckles of the hand holding it, then looked up at Laundress’s face.

  The blotchy features were grim and skeptical—but there was an odd gleam of half-stifled hope in the eyes. “Is she the one?” she said harshly to Jeanne. “Is this idiot Soaker right? Did she say she’s come to deliver us?”

  Jeanne opened her mouth, then shut it again. She looked helplessly at Maggie.

  And, unexpectedly, P.J. spoke up. “She told us she had to get the slaves free before Hunter Redfern had them all killed,” she said in her light, strong child’s voice. She was standing straight, her slender body drawn to its fullest height. Her blond hair shone pale above her small earnest face. Her words had the unmistakable ring of truth.

  Something flashed in Jeanne’s eyes. Her lip quirked, then she bit it. “She sure did. And I told her she was crazy.”

  “And in the beginning, when Jeanne showed her what they do to escaped slaves here, Maggie said it had to stop.” P.J.’s voice was still clear and confident. “She said she couldn’t let them do things like that to people.”

  “She said we couldn’t let them do things like that,” Jeanne corrected. “And she was crazy again. There’s no way to stop them.”

  Laundress stared at her for a moment, then turned her burning gaze on Maggie. Her eyes were so fierce that Maggie was afraid she was going to attack. Then, all at once, she thrust the knife back in her pocket.

  “Blasphemer!” she said harshly to Jeanne. “Don’t talk about the Deliverer that way! Do you want to take away our only hope?”

  Jeanne raised an eyebrow. “You were the one about to take it away,” she pointed out.

  Laundress glared at her. Then she turned to Maggie and a change came over her gaunt features. It wasn’t much; they still remained as severe and grim as ever, but there was something like a bleak smile twisting her mouth.

  “If you are the Deliverer,” she said, “you’ve got your work cut out for you.”

  “Just everybody hang on one second,” Maggie said.

  Her head was whirling. She understood what was going on—sort of. These people believed she was some legendary figure come to save them. Because of a prophecy—they seemed to have a lot of prophecies around here.

  But she couldn’t really be their Deliverer. She knew that. She was just an ordinary girl. And hadn’t anybody else ever worn a flowered top in this place?

  Well—maybe not. Not a slave anyway. Maggie looked at Laundress’s clothes again with new eyes. If they all wore this sort of thing, hand sewn and plain as a burlap sack, maybe a machine-made top with bright colors and a little wilted lace would look like something from a legend.

  And I bet nobody wears red and blue socks, she thought and almost smiled. Especially at once.

  She remembered how Sylvia had looked at them. Normally she would have been terribly embarrassed by that, perfect Sylvia looking at her imperfections. But the socks had been what started her on this whole journey by convincing her that Sylvia was lying. And just now they’d saved her life. If Laundress had attacked Jeanne or Cady, Maggie would have had to fight her.

  But I’m still not the Deliverer, she thought. I have to explain that to them. . . .

  “And since she’s the Deliverer, you’re going to help us, right?” Jeanne was saying. “You’re going to heal Cady and feed us and hide us and everything? And help Maggie find out what happened to her brother?”

  Maggie blinked, then grimaced. She could see Jeanne looking at her meaningfully. She shut her mouth.

  “I’ll help you any way I can,” Laundress said. “But you’d better do your part. Do you have a plan, Deliverer?”

  Maggie rubbed her forehead. Things were happening very fast—but even if she wasn’t the Deliverer, she had come to help the slaves get free. Maybe it didn’t matter what they called her.

  She looked at Cady again, then at Jeanne, and at P.J., who was staring at her with shining confidence in her young eyes. Then she looked at the girl named Soaker, who was wearing the same expression.

  Finally she looked into the gaunt, hard-bitten face of Laundress. There was no easy confidence here, but there was that half-stifled look of hope deep in the burning gaze.

  “I don’t have a plan yet,” she said. “But I’ll come up with one. And I don’t know if I can really help you people. But I’ll try.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Maggie woke up slowly and almost luxuriously. She wasn’t freezing. She wasn’t aching or weak with hunger. And she had an unreasonable feeling of safety.

  Then she sat up and the safe feeling disappeared.

  She was in Laundress’s hut of earth bricks. Jeanne and P.J. were there, but Cady had been taken to another hut to be treated. Laundress had stayed all night with her, and Maggie had no idea if she was getting better or not. The frightened girl called Soaker brought the
m breakfast, but could only say that Cady was still asleep.

  Breakfast was the same as dinner last night had been: a sort of thick oatmeal sweetened with huckleberries. Maggie ate it gratefully. It was good—at least to somebody as hungry as she was.

  “We’re lucky to have it,” Jeanne said, stretching. She and P.J. were sitting opposite Maggie on the bare earth of the floor, eating with their fingers. They all were wearing the coarse, scratchy tunics and loose leggings of slaves, and Maggie kept going into spasms of twitching when the material made her itch somewhere she couldn’t reach. Maggie’s clothes, including her precious socks, were hidden at the back of the hut.

  “They don’t grow much grain or vegetable stuff,” Jeanne was saying. “And of course slaves don’t get to eat any meat. Only the vampires and the shapeshifters get to eat blood or flesh.”

  P.J. shivered, hunching up her thin shoulders. “When you say it like that, it makes me not want to eat it.”

  Jeanne gave a sharp-toothed grin. “They’re afraid it would make the slaves too strong. Everything here’s designed for that. Maybe you noticed, there’s not much in the slave quarters made of wood.”

  Maggie blinked. She had noticed that vaguely, at the back of her mind. The huts were made of bricks, with hard-packed dirt floors. And there were no wooden tools like rakes or brooms lying around.

  “But what do they burn?” she asked, looking at the small stone hearth built right on the floor of the hut. There was a hole in the roof above to let smoke out.

  “Charcoaled wood, cut in little pieces. They make it out in the forest in charcoal pits, and it’s strictly regulated. Everybody only gets so much. If they find a slave with extra wood, they execute ’em.”

  “Because wood kills vampires,” Maggie said.

  Jeanne nodded. “And silver kills shapeshifters. Slaves are forbidden to have silver, too—not that any of them are likely to get hold of any.”

  P.J. was looking out the small window of the hut. There was no glass in it, and last night it had been stuffed with sacking against the cold air. “If slaves can’t eat meat, what are those?” she asked.