by Paul Durham
As the time drew near and the castle grew quiet, she looked down to the courtyard, where a large group of soldiers had gathered. The walls were again lined with archers, and soldiers stood guard at every corner. Leatherleaf had gone eerily quiet. The gates creaked open as the soldiers marched out, then quickly closed shut behind them. Torch lights twinkled in the village far away. Rye couldn’t be certain, but she suspected those soldiers were on their way to the Dead Fish Inn.
Rye couldn’t wait any longer. She threw her hood over her head and set out into the Keep. It wasn’t as quiet as the previous night. She could hear the sounds of heavy boots and the calling of guards, but the darkness was her friend as she made her way to another tower. At the top was the Chamber of the Lost Lady. Truitt had told her about it the night before. It had once been Lady Rory’s room. Rye remembered the rhyme about Lady Rory.
Rory came third and seemed just right,
she snuck away after just one night.
Lady Rory had a little secret, Truitt said. One that had been shared with the other Ladies Longchance who followed her. As Rye reached the top of the tower, she saw that the door was ajar. She stopped at the unmistakable sound of arguing voices.
Rye approached the door and carefully opened it more fully. A large four-poster bed fit for a queen had been pushed aside to reveal a crude opening chiseled in the stone wall. It was just large enough for a small person to fit through. The small but sturdy door that must have sealed the space was standing open. Truitt stood at the entrance to the opening, as Rye expected. But she hadn’t counted on finding Malydia there too, blocking her brother’s way. And Rye’s own.
“Sister,” Truitt pleaded, “please let her go.”
Malydia turned and glared at Rye. She then looked back to her brother.
“What shall become of me?” Malydia said. “Who’s going to protect me?”
“You have the Earl and his army at your disposal,” Truitt said.
Malydia clenched her fists and reset herself more squarely in front of the door. “He sacrificed our mother to the Bog Noblins rather than fight them himself!”
Malydia’s words seemed to draw the air from the room and the color from Truitt’s face. Rye was stunned.
“Please, Malydia,” Truitt said. “Let her go. For me.”
Malydia looked at each of them again but didn’t budge. She was silent for a long time.
“Sister,” Truitt implored, “she has done you no harm.”
Malydia’s eyes flared, then softened. Finally, her shoulders sunk as if relenting to a great weight, and Malydia stepped aside.
Truitt waved Rye forward. “Come, Rye. We must go.”
Rye ran to the opening in the wall. It led to darkness beyond.
Truitt climbed through first.
Rye hesitated, then stepped into the opening.
“Good luck, Riley,” Malydia whispered, a glint in her eye.
“Thank you,” Rye said, forcing a slight smile in return.
“You’ll need it,” Malydia hissed, and grabbed Rye’s neck. She pulled Rye’s choker free and gave her a hard kick in the back, knocking her through the hole in the wall.
Before Rye knew what was happening, Malydia slammed the door shut and Rye could hear it being locked and barred behind them.
Rye clutched her neck where the choker had once been. She and Truitt were now alone in the dark.
23
House Rule Number Five
“What is wrong with your sister?” Rye fumed.
“Careful,” Truitt said. “It gets a little steep here.”
“I can’t see anything.”
“Me either,” Truitt said, chuckling. “Just keep hold of my shirt and take small steps.”
The steps—if you could call them that—felt jagged and uneven beneath Rye’s feet. They were slippery with moss. Rye’s narrow shoulders barely squeezed through the walls of the passageway she could not see. She got the hang of it, though, and they had begun making good progress when Rye’s heel slipped off a step that was smoother than the others. She crashed into Truitt, sending them both down a flight of invisible stairs so steep they felt like a slide.
As they tumbled, their surroundings lightened around them. When they landed, it was no longer dark, just dim. Torches smoldered on the walls and the passageway’s construction was more familiar. They were in the Spoke.
“She’s awful. Just plain awful,” Rye said, her ears still hot with fury. “I’ve never met a more confounding person in my entire life.”
Truitt shook his head and lowered his eyes toward the ground. “I’m very sorry for what she has done. At times she’s pulled by voices only she can hear.”
Rye saw the pain in Truitt’s face. She didn’t think it was from the fall down the stairs.
“Don’t worry, Truitt,” Rye said, softening. “You may be twins, but you’re not alike.”
Rye touched her knees gingerly. Smashed up again.
“Will you be able to find your way?” Truitt asked.
“I have my map,” Rye said. “Let’s hope luck is on my side.”
“I’d join you, Rye, but I must return to the link children. They are more vulnerable than ever and the Earl’s left them to fend for themselves. I suspect it will be some time before we will see each other again.”
“Good-bye, Truitt,” Rye said, gently touching his face the way he had once touched hers. “Thank you for all that you’ve done. I’ll do everything I can to make sure that someday you have a village to come back out to.”
“Rye, wait,” Truitt said. He reached up and removed Harmless’s necklace. “Take this. You’ll need it more than me.”
He held it out but nobody took it from his hands.
“Rye? Are you still there?”
She was, but she said nothing. Harmless had told her that he’d done many things he wasn’t proud of, but he’d never broken a deal. She wasn’t about to make him start. Rye slipped off, without a sound, deeper into the Spoke. She hoped that someday she would see Truitt again.
When she reached a fork in the passage, Rye stopped and caught her breath. She knew she had only minutes to make a decision. Harmless’s instructions had been clear. She was to unlock the forest door, light the Luck Cauldrons, and retreat to the Dead Fish Inn, in that order. Any deviation could be disastrous. But Harmless could not have known that Longchance was sending a small army of soldiers to the Dead Fish at this very moment. Wouldn’t that have changed the plan? Over the past few weeks, everything Rye knew had been turned upside down. She found herself focusing on the principles that had been hammered into her memory since she could walk. The House Rules.
HOUSE RULE NUMBER 1: Don’t stop, talk, or questions ask, beware of men wearing masks.
She’d discovered her own father was the High Chieftain of the Luck Uglies—an infamous secret society known for wearing masks. She’d even donned one herself—with miserable results.
HOUSE RULE NUMBER 2: He may run and he may hide, but Shady must never go outside.
She had already broken that one too, and look at what had happened.
HOUSE RULE NUMBER 3: Lock your door with the Black Moon’s rise, don’t come out until morning shines.
Clearly there was a pattern here.
HOUSE RULE NUMBER 4: Worn under sun and under moon, never remove the O’Chanters’ rune.
Thanks to Malydia, she had now broken that one too.
There was one other House Rule that Rye rarely thought about. Her mother hardly mentioned it, because if you were thinking about House Rule Number Five, it meant you were already in trouble. Still, it was a House Rule nonetheless.
HOUSE RULE NUMBER 5: If four fails and the bogs again crawl, don’t break one, break them all.
It was the first time Rye had really considered all the House Rules together. When you combined them, the House Rules weren’t just rules, they were a riddle. The O’Chanters’ runes were gone. That meant she had broken House Rule Number Four. But were the bogs crawling? Was that th
e return of the Bog Noblins? Was she now supposed to break them all? And did it mean to break just the House Rules, or could it mean the Laws of Longchance? Any rules? Whichever were necessary? That last idea put a smile on her face.
Rye pulled her map from her pocket. She couldn’t be certain of anything anymore. All she could do was take her best guess.
Rye worked her way through the Spoke as fast as she could. The tunnels looked familiar, but she still feared she had taken a wrong turn. When she came to the flimsy rope bridge over the underground river, she knew she was in the right place. Rye hesitated, watching it sway over the black water rushing below. She thought about Truitt navigating his way through life in darkness. She swallowed her fear, gripped the guide ropes tight until the fibers bit into her palms, and nimbly climbed across the rope bridge without looking down.
Rye had to use all of her strength to push aside the heavy crates barricading the entrance to the wine cellar. As they finally gave way, she fell forward onto her stomach. A small body looked up from scratching itself in the corner. Its two beady eyes and hairy black face seemed just as surprised to see Rye as she was to see it.
Rye gasped. Shortstraw screeched and spun in a circle.
“Wait,” Rye hissed. “Quiet.”
The monkey screeched louder and bared its sharp little teeth. It then clambered up the stairs on all fours.
Heavy footsteps returned. Rye was alarmed to see that they belonged to Bramble. His milky blue eyes fixed themselves on her. He pushed his black hair behind an ear and crouched down. Rye scrambled to her feet.
“Thank heavens you’re all right,” Bramble said. “Everyone has been out of their minds with worry. Come upstairs where it’s warm.”
Rye didn’t budge. Bramble must have recognized her concern.
“It’s safe, Riley. I’m a friend,” Bramble said. “Just come.”
He knew her name? She didn’t have much choice but to follow as he hurried up the stairs.
“Come quickly,” he said, holding the door at the top.
There were no festivities at the inn tonight. The main floor was empty save for a small band of heavily armed men. They sat close to the fire and, although they didn’t speak, Rye thought she saw warmth flood their eyes when they saw her. Rye didn’t see her mother or any of Folly’s family.
“Where are the Floods?” she asked.
“Most are at the bridge. The little blond-headed firestarter’s around here somewhere, I think. They’re quite the herd to keep track of.”
Rye didn’t know whether she should deliver Harmless’s message to just anyone, but she didn’t have a minute to spare.
“Wait,” she said. “It’s Jonah. You must stop Jonah.”
Rye explained everything she had seen and heard at the Keep and told him of Harmless’s plan.
Bramble set his jaw. “I can’t say I’m surprised your father’s run off half-cocked and gotten himself into another stew. Abby’s been sick to her stomach over all this.”
Rye looked at Bramble in alarm. What was she missing?
“Where’s Jonah?” Bramble demanded of the group.
As he said it, Rye and Bramble noticed Jonah at the back of the inn. He whistled as he wiped down the same table over and over again. Rye thought he seemed nervous. When he heard Bramble, the whistling stopped. Now he seemed panicked.
“Take him,” Bramble commanded.
Two of the armed men moved forward and did just that.
“Grab the bows and some boiling pots,” Bramble ordered. “Head for the third floor windows. Step lively now. I hope the Earl’s men have packed for bad weather. Tonight they’ll be surprised to find it raining bolts and scalding oil.”
Bramble turned to Rye as three more men ran up the stairs with heavy buckets of oil, steam trailing behind them.
“You’ve done well, child,” he said, softening, taking her by the hand. His grip was warm and his fingers gently pressed something into her palm. “Your ancestors smile with pride today.”
“You still haven’t told me how you know me.”
“My apologies that we have not been formally introduced,” he said with a bow. “Last time we truly met you were still crawling around your mother’s cottage. But she tells me all about you when she writes. Of course, I’ve also had a chance to admire you and your delightful scamp of a sister around here as of late.”
Bramble must have noticed the blank look on Rye’s face.
“I’m Bramble Cutty from the Isle of Pest. Where Abby was born.”
Rye just shook her head. “Oh.”
“We were practically raised together. I can be a bit—protective sometimes.” Bramble let her hand go and turned for the stairs. “Your mother’s up on the roof with the others. She’s gone mad with worry—been organizing a party to go out and find you herself tonight. We’ll be much better served with her here.” He looked back and winked. “She’s still as fine a shot with her crossbow as anyone from Pest.”
“My mother shoots crossbows?” Nothing surprised her anymore.
“Go to her, Riley,” he said.
“Wait,” Rye said. “What about the Luck Cauldrons? We need to light them.”
“Little good it will do us if we don’t fend off the soldiers first,” Bramble said, taking the stairs two at a time. “The rest of the men are out at the bridge now. We’ll send a runner over there as soon as we can.”
“Wait, what? No, it can’t wait,” Rye was saying.
But she was too late. Bramble was gone.
Rye opened her palm and noticed the swatch of black material he’d left with her. She unfolded it carefully. The fabric was cut into the shape of a ragged four-leaf clover as black as a shark’s eye.
“Rye!” someone yelled. It was Folly, rushing down the stairs in the opposite direction. She nearly knocked Bramble over as she passed.
Folly’s hug almost knocked Rye over too.
“They said you were back,” Folly said, without letting go.
“Folly, where is everyone?” Rye said.
“My father and the twins are out on the bridge. Some of the others are with them. They’re setting up some sort of blockade in case the Bog Noblins try to cross,” Folly said, eyes wide. “The rest of us are up on the roof keeping watch. Come on.”
Instead, Rye ran toward the massive doors of the Dead Fish Inn. Not only were the locks bolted and latched, but the doors had been barricaded and nailed shut from the inside.
“Where are you going?” Folly asked.
“The bridge.”
Rye checked the windows. They were shuttered and sealed just as tight. There was no getting in or out this way anytime soon.
“Are you crazy? Why?” Folly said.
“Because someone needs to light the Luck Cauldrons,” Rye said, and explained—as best as she could before stopping for breath—what was going on.
“Rye, those Bog Noblins scare me. They’re like nothing I’ve ever seen.”
“You don’t have to come, Folly, but you can’t stop me,” Rye said. “What do you have that I can use to light a fire?”
Folly bit her lip. “Wait, Rye. I’m coming. Let me get my stuff.”
They rushed upstairs to Folly’s room. Folly examined the contents of her shelves and threw an assortment of supplies into her pack while Rye readied the rope ladder for the window. They both stopped when Fifer, Fowler, and Fallow barged into the room.
“Where do you two think you’re off to?” Fifer demanded.
“To the bridge,” Folly said.
“You can’t,” Fowler said.
“We have to,” Folly said. “Someone needs to light the Luck Cauldrons.”
“What are Luck Cauldrons?” Fowler asked.
“We’ll explain later,” Folly said.
“Then we’re coming too,” Fifer said.
“I’m telling Mum,” Fallow said.
Folly looked like she might punch him.
“You decide who stays or goes,” Rye said, pushing past them. “I�
��ll be back in one minute and then we’re leaving.” This time, she hadn’t even blushed around Fifer.
Rye tiptoed into a dark room down the hall. A small body was nestled in the bed’s blankets. A raggedy pink hobgoblin lay alone on the floor. Rye picked up Mona Monster and carefully placed the doll back on the pillow. The small figure stirred.
Rye found Lottie’s big eyes watching her, blinking away sleep.
“Rye,” Lottie said, “you came home?”
“Yes,” Rye whispered, and put her hand on Lottie’s forehead. She gave her a kiss. “Sleep tight, Lottie.”
“No let the Bog Noblin bite,” Lottie said.
Rye smiled. Lottie reached up and gave Rye a great hug around her neck.
“Of you,” Lottie said in her ear.
“Love you, too, Lottie.”
Rye desperately wanted to see her mother, who she knew must be tearing apart the place searching for her at this very moment. But if Abby found her, she would never let her leave the Dead Fish Inn. Abby would never be able to let Rye finish what Harmless needed done.
“Do they look like cauldrons to you?” Rye asked, craning her neck to see.
“I suppose so,” Fifer said.
“They sure are awfully high,” Folly said.
Rye, Folly, and Folly’s brothers had climbed out her window just as the first buckets of boiling water and crossbow bolts rained down on the Earl’s soldiers in the alleyway. With all the commotion, neither Bramble’s men in the Dead Fish windows nor the screaming soldiers noticed the five children slip around the corner and onto Little Water Street.
Now they stood where the end of the dirt street met the banks of the River Drowning, looking up at the bridge overhead. Drowning wasn’t known for its impressive architecture. Its twisted, timber-framed buildings and narrow streets weren’t much to look at. But the bridge itself loomed over the Shambles, its three stone archways spanning the river at its narrowest point. The bridge was taller than the four-story Dead Fish Inn, and on its best days was lined with vendors and their stalls. There were two round, decorative features on either side of the bridge nearest to the village that looked a lot like cauldrons.
