The Barbed Coil

by J. V. Jones

  Planting her feet well apart, Tessa spun back in the direction she had been headed. Looking into the darkness, she realized there was no way of knowing for sure if Bellhaven lay ahead. In the madness of the chase she had run without any thought. She didn’t even know on what side of the abbey her cell was located: the window may have faced straight out to sea.

  Tessa ran her hand along her aching temples. She had no choice but to try to make it back to the abbey.

  Carefully tracking the degree of her turn, trying to recall the exact angle she had used earlier when changing course, Tessa spun around once more. The water level reached past her knees now, and the skirt of her dress dragged behind, making it difficult to step clear of the waves. It had to come off. Bending, she grabbed a fistful of fabric and yanked it away from her body. The creature’s claws had torn the dress to shreds, and a great portion of the skirt came away in her hand. Just as well, thought Tessa, bunching the skirt in her fist, as Ravis wasn’t here this time to cut it away with his knife.

  Flinging the skirt into the water, Tessa fought the desire to collapse into a small, defeated ball. A tendon in her throat began to quiver. Ravis. Why hadn’t he spoken up to warn her in the inn? Why had his first thought been for Violante?

  A wave broke against her hip. Sea foam splashed as high as her cheek. Below the surface, bands of cold, fast-moving water began to move in with the undertow. Tessa shivered. She wouldn’t be able to keep her feet on the bottom for much longer. She had to find her way back to the abbey.

  Thinking about Ravis, wishing for something she could never have, was a waste of energy. She couldn’t let herself get distracted. She had to be tough, focused: more like the old Tessa McCamfrey. She had to think of herself.

  Wind sliced across the rising tide, cutting the waves into lines and driving sea spray into her open wounds. As she leaned into the wind to keep herself steady, Tessa’s thoughts turned to Emith and his mother: they would both blame themselves if anything happened to her. She shook her head violently, trying to dispel a sudden tightness in her chest. She didn’t want to think about them being hurt.

  The ringing in her ears altered pitch, becoming softer, deeper, more urgent. Time was running out.

  Looking out over the darkness, Tessa searched for anything that would indicate the direction of the abbey. The sky and the horizon were perfectly black. The only variance in light was provided by the wave crests, which flashed a dull, barely luminous gray as they rolled together over the sand. Tessa watched the waves for a moment, studying the shapes they formed before disappearing into the dark swell of the sea.

  As she watched the wave crests flashing then fading, something began to shift in Tessa’s brain. Forms and lines caught her eye. Threads of light would disappear, only to be replaced by similar ones seconds later. The skin on her scalp slowly pulled tight, making her hair bristle at its roots. There was a pattern in the waves.

  The point at which the breakers met, where the sea closed in from both sides over the causeway, a crude spiral pattern had formed. Waves hitting each other from opposite directions bounced back into the oncoming swell and were driven outward once more before rippling back into the join. The center of the causeway was marked by a flashing gray interlace of waves. Tessa followed the weave of light with her eye, tracking its course back into the darkness, seeing it as a roadway leading straight to the abbey.

  Chest aching from too many hard breaths, thoughts full of all the people and places she missed, Tessa took her first step back toward the Anointed Isle. Pulling her foot from the bottom, she forced her leg through bands of jarring currents and columns of swirling foam, moving her entire body into the center of the swell. The pattern would lead her back.

  Each step was a fight against the current and the rising water level. The water temperature was colder than the air, and as the level rose to waist height, Tessa could feel a chill settling against her bones. She was so very tired. All the energy she had left—what little she could pull from her muscles, lungs, and heart—she focused on moving forward against the crosscurrents. Eyes staring straight ahead at the shifting, repeating patterns of the waves, Tessa let her mind drift away.

  She worried about Mother Emith, about her legs and her health, and Emith and their safety, and about how bad they would feel if she never came back. She tried not to think of Ravis, but her mind seemed to grow numb along with her body, and it was as difficult to switch her thoughts from subject to subject as it was to force her feet onto the bottom with every new step.

  Water rose. Wind dropped. Rain came in ever-decreasing bursts. Tessa’s body cooled so slowly, she was hardly aware of the change. Limbs became heavy and liquid like the water itself, and she began losing sensation in her feet. The ringing in her ears sounded far away now . . . not really like ringing at all, more like a mild hypnotic buzz. The patterns shimmered before her eyes, showing her the way.

  By the time the water reached shoulder height, Tessa could no longer keep her feet on the bottom. Spreading out her arms on the surface, she concentrated on keeping her head above water. Swimming was out of the question: she didn’t have the strength to fight the waves.

  Bitter, salty sea water washed in and out of her mouth. A deep cold gripped her chest, and the only breaths she could manage were shallow. The current tugged her back and forth as if she were as weightless and insubstantial as the seaweed that twined around her ankles and wrist. Only the flashing wave crests kept her on track. Floating through the darkness felt like being nowhere at all. She was completely and utterly alone.

  Tessa hugged the surface of the water as if it were a living, breathing thing. The sea no longer seemed cold: it was the exact same temperature as her body, and it brought comfort as it pressed against her chest. In the black, edgeless night, it was all she had left.

  She missed Emith and his mother and their warm, golden kitchen. She missed Ravis and his softly mocking voice.

  Too tired to hold her chin up any longer, Tessa rested her head against the surface and let the motion of the waves ease her neck. Slowly, against her will and her very best efforts, her eyelids began to close. The ringing in her ears faded to a mosquito’s hum, and the sea rocked her body back and forth. Strange how she felt the emptiness inside much more than she did the cold.

  “Gerta. Gerta. Please, please, please, wake up.” Angeline was too frightened of hurting Gerta to shake her, so she squeezed her arm instead. Snowy made an odd whining noise from his position at the base of the camp bed. Angeline could tell he wanted to jump on the bed and lick Gerta’s face, but no-good dog’s remorse kept him from it.

  Snowy’s sorry for not being brave.

  Angeline smiled a small, relieved smile. She wasn’t the slightest bit sorry Snowy wasn’t brave. Izgard was brave. Gerta was brave. Being brave meant you either did bad things to others or got bad things done to you. Angeline didn’t think she could stand it if bad things happened to Snowy. Bending, she reached out and ruffled the fur under the little dog’s chin. Snowy was so pleased to be touched, his tail thumped against the floor double time.

  No-good dog. No-good dog.

  “I know Snowy,” said Angeline, very softly. “I love you and I know.”

  “M’lady . . .”

  Spinning around, Angeline looked up in time to see Gerta’s eyes open. A milky film ran over her irises, and even when she blinked, it didn’t quite go away.

  Angeline squeezed her arm a fraction harder. “You’re in the surgeon’s tent, Gerta. Izgard had you moved. He ordered his best surgeon to stitch you up.”

  Gerta made a small movement that might have been a nod.

  “I’m sorry, Gerta. Truly. I should never have said anything to Izgard. I’m so sorry.” Aware that her voice was rising, Angeline forced herself to calm down. She took a breath. “The surgeon says you were lucky. He said you have a skull like a horse. No broken bones, just a split head. It took a dozen stitches to fix you up.”

  Gerta licked her lips. They were pale and looked v
ery dry. “Did he hurt you?”

  Angeline shook her head for a very long time. It pained her to see this woman, whose strength and sense of purpose she had always envied, in such a weakened state. It wasn’t right. Speaking in a rush to stop her voice from breaking, Angeline said, “Izgard was just worried about the battle, that was all. It was my fault he—” Her words came to an abrupt halt as she realized that what she was about to say might be considered disloyal to her husband. It was hard sometimes to remember things like that. “Anyway. The good thing is you won’t have to go home now.”

  “Is that what the king said?”

  “No.” Angeline was confused by the question. “He didn’t say that. But you can’t cross the mountains until you’re well. You just can’t.”

  “I see she’s awake.” The surgeon strode into the tent, forcing Angeline to step aside so he could reach Gerta’s pallet. Angeline didn’t like the surgeon. If it wasn’t for the fact she was his queen, she felt sure he would never have remembered her name. He had neither love nor patience for women. The long dark apron he always wore was dry now, and Gerta’s blood, which had wetted it earlier, was no longer visible. That was, Angeline supposed, the reason why surgeons wore black.

  Suddenly feeling cold, Angeline went to pet Snowy. The little dog was already off, sniffing out dust and rat droppings and hairballs. His hind legs protruded from under a nearby pallet and his tail was suspended at half-mast, meaning he was on the hunt of some large hairy spider or poised to battle with ants. Angeline immediately felt better for seeing him. Some things never changed.

  She turned around to see the surgeon grabbing hold of Gerta by the shoulders.

  “What are you doing?” she cried. “You can’t take Gerta out of bed.”

  The surgeon did not stop as he replied, “There’s a cart and an escort of two armed men outside, waiting to take her from the camp.”

  “But . . . but . . .” Angeline was so surprised, she could find no words.

  “Ssh, m’lady. Ssh,” murmured Gerta. “The king gave an order. He cannot take it back.”

  “But . . .”

  “The woman will be fine,” the surgeon said, speaking as if Gerta weren’t even in the room, let alone in his arms. “She’s old, but I’ve given her tonic, pulled the splinters from her wounds. She’s lucky the king thought well enough of her to send for me.”

  Angeline surprised herself by thinking of a nasty reply, then lost her nerve and didn’t say it. “Please leave us a moment,” she said. “I would like to speak to my servant alone.”

  The surgeon continued dragging Gerta from the tent, not even bothering to acknowledge Angeline’s words.

  “I said leave us!”

  The surgeon stopped in midstep. Gerta drew in a thin breath. Snowy backed out from the pallet and cocked his head.

  Angeline covered her mouth in shock. In all her life she had never spoken so harshly to anyone. What was the matter with her? Her first instinct was to apologize, to make an excuse about being tired and irritable, but as she formed the sentence in her head, she saw the surgeon begin lowering Gerta, very carefully, onto the floor.

  Angeline felt a warm wave roll over her body. She felt dizzy with triumph. Standing a little straighter, forcing her shoulders back, and tilting up her chin, she said to the surgeon, “Get a pillow for Gerta’s neck. Bring me a flask of honey and almond-milk tea and then leave.”

  “Yes, Your Highness.” The surgeon’s voice was different now. For the first time, Angeline noticed how small he was. Strange, how he had always seemed so tall before.

  Watching him struggling to pull a pillow from the pallet with one hand while cupping Gerta’s head in the other, Angeline was tempted to help out. She even stepped forward, but Snowy growled: Stay.

  So she did.

  The surgeon didn’t only bring a flask of honey and almond-milk tea, he poured two cups to the brim with the pale, milky fluid. Angeline, frightened that if she spoke she might lose her resolution and start apologizing, acknowledged his services with a nod. The moment he stepped from the tent, Snowy came bounding up, yelping and jumping and demanding to be taken into her arms.

  “Bad Snowy,” Angeline said, laughing as she bent to pet him. How could a night manage to be so very bad and yet good all the same? “Bad, bad Snowy.”

  “M’lady . . .” Gerta’s voice was weak. It immediately brought Angeline down to earth. “You must make the king find another woman to tend you.”

  “But I don’t want anyone beside you, Gerta. I’m sorry I never listened. Sorry I was always bad.” As she spoke, Angeline remembered how she had tricked Gerta into letting her come to the camp. A guilty flush spread across her cheeks. Without realizing it, her hand came up to rest upon her stomach. “Sorry for everything.”

  Gerta was very pale. Her skin looked heavy yet transparent, like wet linen hung to dry on a line. The milky film floated across her pupils as her gaze flicked from Angeline’s face to her stomach. “You must take care of yourself when I’m gone. Eat right. Sleep properly.”

  Angeline frowned. First Ederius and now Gerta. Why did everyone warn her to take care of herself? “I’ll be fine, Gerta. Honestly. It’s getting you safely across the mountains that I’m worried about.”

  Gerta blinked slowly. She made a small motion with her wrist. Angeline, taking it to mean she wanted to be touched, grasped Gerta’s hand in hers. The coolness of Gerta’s fingers was a shock, but she tried her best not to show it.

  “I’ll be fine, m’lady,” Gerta said. “It’s high summer, I’m mountain born, and the king has cleared the passes of brigands. There’s nothing for you to worry about. See?”

  Even though she wasn’t convinced, Angeline nodded—she knew that was what Gerta wanted.

  A cough sounded behind. It was the surgeon. He waited for Angeline’s attention before he spoke. “Your Highness, it’s best if your servant leaves now. Dawn is only two hours away, and already some of the troops are moving to the east. Her party must clear the camp perimeter before daylight.” He waited for Angeline to say something, and when she made no effort to reply he added, “It is what the king advises.”

  Angeline rubbed her aching wrist. She was tired of pretending to be strong, worried about Gerta, exhausted down to her bones. “Very well. You may take her.” The surgeon took a step forward. “But,” she said, halting him, “call someone else to help carry her. I will not have her dragged across the ground like a sack of grain.” It wasn’t much, but it was all she could do. Gerta was right: Izgard would never change his mind and let her stay.

  Gerta’s cool fingers pressed against hers as the surgeon slipped out of the tent. “You be strong like that every day,” she said. “Be strong for yourself and the baby.”

  Angeline looked into Gerta’s eyes without blinking. She didn’t trust herself to speak.

  Gerta spoke softly into the silence. “Do you think I didn’t notice, my little one? An old maid like me?”

  In all the time she had known her, Angeline had never heard Gerta speak with such gentleness. It made her heart ache. Leaning forward, she pressed her lips against Gerta’s cheek.

  Gerta smiled as she withdrew. “As soon as I figured it out, I started sending Snowy better scraps.”

  “You knew all along I ate them?” Angeline brushed a stray hair from Gerta’s face. She was relieved Gerta knew. It meant she could stop being a liar.

  “Not even a clever dog like Snowy could tear the meat right off a bone, while leaving all the fat.” Gerta patted Angeline’s hand. “Then there was the morning sickness and the redness around your neck and chest. Babies and the business of making them is my trade. I don’t know many things, but I know when a woman’s with child.”

  Angeline didn’t like the way Gerta’s voice grew weaker as she spoke, but even though she knew it was best to let Gerta rest, she had to ask one question. “Why didn’t you tell Izgard? Wasn’t your job to watch over me for him?”

  Gerta closed her eyes. It took a few breaths befor
e she was able to speak. “I know what my job was—and no one loves their country as much as me. No one. But you and that no-good dog of yours wheedled your way into my heart. I didn’t mean to love you, but there it is.”

  Snowy issued a low howl. Padding over the floor, he came and rested his head on Gerta’s ankle and stared up at her face. Angeline swallowed hard. She had gotten all three of them into such trouble.

  “Right. There she is. Be careful with her.” The surgeon entered the tent flanked by two other men. After a quick glance toward Angeline to check that it was all right to do so, he began moving Gerta out of the tent. Angeline and Snowy followed behind.

  It was pitch black outside. The air was choked with smoke as campfires were extinguished one by one. Soft noises pierced the darkness: the catch of metal fastening to metal, the skim of leather hooked through a clasp, the blowing of nervous horses, and the clicking of bones as men straightened legs after six long hours of crouching. The ground beneath Angeline’s feet trembled. Izgard’s army was on the move.

  Looking over toward the horizon, she caught sight of a line of troops cresting the rise. The harras. Even in the darkness, she could tell they moved too fluidly for men. Blacker than the night itself, they seemed to bleed from the shadows like juices from a roast. Angeline heard them call to each other, then told herself she hadn’t. Men didn’t sound like that. Wolves did.

  Shivering, she turned back to the surgeon. He was directing the laying of Gerta’s body in the covered cart. Angeline looked over the two men who would escort Gerta back across the mountains. They looked restless, gazes darting across the camp, hands twisting around their horses’ reins. Like all Izgard’s men, they wanted to fight.

  “Take care of this woman for me,” Angeline said, surprising even herself when she spoke. “I will count it as a great personal favor if she arrives at Sern Fortress in good health.” Normally when she spoke to men, Angeline averted her eyes downward, preferring not to meet their gaze. But this time she looked both guards squarely in the face. And didn’t look away until they answered.