After I have reviewed these conversations and kindnesses, lying on my patch of straw, Falada asleep nearby, after I have worried away at the importance of writing and the use of speech, the creation of Horses and Fair Folk, then the darkness begins to fill with shadows I cannot keep at bay any longer. I lie on my back, staring open-eyed at the stall, and I cannot calm the beating of my heart, cannot blot out the words and cruelties of my brother, the daily memories of Corbé, the feel of wood in my hands.
Eventually I venture back to the temple in the company of Falada. I scan the streets as we walk, wondering if I will see the large-eyed street urchin who had spied on me in the temple, or if he was only a figment of my illness. As we near the temple, I spy a trio of boys playing in the shadow of a building. One of them spots me and nudges his friend; he looks up and I see the same peak-faced child. He stares, and then scrabbles to his feet, sprinting down a narrow passage between buildings, his friends at his heels. I watch them, wondering if their departure will herald the arrival of the scar-faced man at the temple for a visit.
I have prayed often: through the long chill afternoons watching the geese, Falada always but a pace away; in the warm darkness of the stable at night when I wake from liquid dreams that shift and swirl and lose their form, but hold always within them the glint of eyes and the gleam of teeth in a smiling mouth. Now, in the temple, I remember how I had prayed the night the boy was chased by the soldiers. I wonder if he had been sent to me, if had been given chance to help him—or to choose between helping him or the soldiers. Had I made a mistake in helping him? For surely the soldiers would not have chased an innocent.
I rub my hands together to warm them, wrapping them in the ends of my cloak. The boy’s friends had not been particularly peaceful, friendly citizens; but then there was the scar-faced man who had helped me to the stables when I lay resting in the temple. They had discovered me, known exactly where I lived, and had helped me in return. I have never mentioned the scar-faced man to Falada, just as he has not spoken again of the boy we saved. I wonder what he thinks of the incident; if my actions proved me more or less deserving of the title ‘hope for humanity.’ I grin to myself in the darkness of the temple, rest my chin upon my knees.
I let these thoughts fade away, listening to the sounds of the night around me. I shift, kneeling, and whisper my prayers again, praying for all the things I have known and learned and felt: for the look in Corbé’s eyes and for his father’s abandonment, for the prince and his hopeless struggle against the Lady, and for the Lady herself and the emptiness in her eyes, and again and again for myself, and for the feel of wood in my hands, and the stretch of a smile across my face as Corbé bled.
Outside, I hear Falada give a warning snort, one hoof scraping against the temple wall. I go to the doorway, knowing whom I will find: the scar-faced man watches Falada from a few paces away.
He inclines his head to me. “Peace, lady.”
“Peace, sir.” I stand by Falada’s head. I doubt Falada recognizes him, for Falada only saw him in the darkness of the alley that night.
“A friend of ours has asked that you meet him. He waits for you at the Clever Fox.” I glance at Falada. “There is a stable there for your horse.”
“Where is it?”
He approaches, talking to me as he kneels to pull off his boots. He does not face me, speaking quietly to the temple doorway, describing the turns I must make. I pull my own boots on, listening. When he is done, he steps past me into the temple. “Will you remember the way?”
“Yes.”
“He is waiting.”
I follow the alley towards the backstreets, Falada at my side. Tension radiates from him like heat. “Remember the boy we helped?” I ask, stepping over a discolored puddle, my boots sliding in the mud. “That was his friend who opened the door that night.”
Falada lets out his breath with a huff, unappeased. I pat his shoulder. “I’d be more worried meeting Kestrin than this man. Don’t worry.”
Falada tosses his head in disgust.
The stable hands expect us, waving me over and pointing out the stall for Falada. “You’ll want to take that back stairway up, miss. Old Timi said you’d be by and there’s a room she kept for you up on the second floor,” one of them tells me as I swing Falada’s stall door shut.
Upstairs, a serving boy scrubs the floor. He backs out of the way, watching as I walk to the third door on the right and knock. A man opens the door, his beard and hooked nose visible even in the shadow of his hood. I step back in confusion, but he gives me a slight bow.
“Please come in, lady.” He opens the door wider, gesturing for me to enter. I cross the threshold hesitantly, wondering if I’ve made a mistake. I wish desperately that Falada had been able to accompany me—but the man leaves, shutting the door behind him. I hear the faint snick of the lock turning.
On the far side of the room a pair of wooden benches flank a stone fireplace; towards the middle huddle a collection of mismatched seats facing each other. It is an odd attempt at a sitting room, and I wonder if it was cobbled together for the occasion or is actually used by the inn. It is a moment before I realize that a man sits motionless in one of the high-backed chairs. Like his friend, he wears his hood up. I look away from him, as if surveying the room further. He does not speak. I cross the room, coming to a stop before a chair, grateful to have something between us.
Before I lose my courage I say, “What do you wish of me?”
“Two things,” the man replies. “First, I would settle my debt with you.” He gestures to a pouch that sits on the little table beside my chair.
I glance down at it. “What debt?”
With his left hand the man draws up his right sleeve, letting his cloak fall away from his arm. A still-new scar runs the length of his forearm, the skin stretched pink and tight over the closed wound.
“Oh,” I say stupidly, staring. The wound looks even more wicked in the light of day. I had suspected it was him, but the sight of the arcing gash not yet fully healed steals my presence of mind. And I had thought of him as a boy always before. But his bearing, his height, suggest he is more man than boy.
“I would thank you for your help,” he reiterates, straightening his sleeve.
“I don’t want money.”
“I have nothing else to give you,” he tells me. “And I would not be in your debt.”
I peer at the hooded darkness of his face. “You have already repaid me. Your men helped me home when I was ill.”
The man inclines his head. “That is the second matter I would speak with you about.” He leans back, tilting his face to watch me. The light from the window outlines the barest details of his features: a smooth-shaved chin, slender nose, deep-set eyes. A young man, not yet in his prime but no longer a boy. “It is not wise for you to walk alone at night. Even during the day, you must be aware of where you are.”
“I was ill,” I explain, flushing.
“All the more reason to be careful,” he observes. “Your horse is a peculiar protection to you; I have seen dogs trained to protect, but not horses. He has a mystery about him that keeps you safe when you are with him. Alone, it will only take one drunk, one lout, to destroy your honor.”
I nod mutely.
“Good. Do you understand further you were a fool to come here today?”
Fear makes my palms damp. I rest them on the back of the armchair and say as easily as I can, “I recognized the man, and the boy in the street. I knew they were friends of yours.”
“You have no reason to trust me.”
“Your men helped me home.”
“You are alone with me here,” he points out coldly. “You are locked in, away from any who know you. I could easily overpower you.” I shake my head, backing away from the chair. I glance towards the door: solid oak, thick and ungiving. The window is the only other route out, and the man might easily catch me before I reach it.
“You see the danger,” he observes, satisfaction warming his
voice. “You are safe here, but do not be so reckless in the future.”
I dare not take my eyes from him.
“So you caught sight of Tarkit as well?”
When I do not answer he clarifies, “The boy you saw. I assume it was Tarkit.”
I swallow to ease the dryness of my throat. “He came into the temple that day. He must have eight or nine years.”
“He is eleven. Children who are not fed well do not grow well.” I clasp my hands before me, aware that they are just barely trembling. The man gives no indication if he notices. He stretches out his legs, his eyes on my face. “Tarkit is useful but too honest for the streets. He also lacks the necessary discretion: he was not to let you see him. I will have to put him somewhere else.”
I struggle with the implications. “You were having me watched?”
“I owe you a debt. I also considered it likely that you would need protection given the circumstances under which you helped me.”
“You’ve repaid your debt,” I say, grateful to shift the subject.
He laughs and I look at him in surprise. I had not expected this man to laugh much; he seemed too somber, too grim for that. “What you did for me that night can hardly be repaid by walking you home when you were not in danger.”
“I was unwell.”
“But not directly threatened.”
“I don’t want your money. I did not help you for a reward.”
“Yes.” He pauses. “Why did you help me?”
I walk around the grouping of chairs to sit next to the man so that we face the room together. I do not want him to see my face. More than that, I want to show him that I trust him. My eyes wander over the scuffed wood floor, the worn furniture. “I don’t know,” I tell him. “You were slowed by us; I couldn’t let that mean your capture.”
“Then you could have misdirected the soldiers and left me.” I lean my head back against the chair, look up at the ceiling. Soot darkens the beams, wiping away detail. In the far corner a dusty spider web hangs abandoned.
“You needed help.”
“I see,” he says.
After a breath, I ask, “What will you do with Tarkit?”
“He should be apprenticed to an honest trade, but I cannot apprentice every boy who needs it. I will see about him.”
“What does he want to do?”
“He wants to be a baker. I believe he thinks that then he’ll never go hungry.” I hear the amusement in the man’s voice, and a hint of sadness.
“How do you know?”
“I take a personal interest in each of the young boys and girls who run my errands. He is the only son of a widow; she can use the extra coppers he earns from me.”
I consider this, remember the boy’s angular face. “How much does an apprenticeship cost?”
“Ten silvers a year; he will need two years before he will be offered wages.”
I think of Valka’s trunks, of the wealth within, and feel a curious sense of lightness as I say, “I will pay for it."
The man tilts his head as if in thought. “You are very idealistic for a servant. You will end up hungry and on the street if you are not careful.”
“When I do, it will be my idealism that will send an escort to keep me from harm.” The man laughs. I smile, turning toward the sound. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, eyes studying the ground. “And when I am cold and hungry, I will remember that I have helped a young man learn a trade that will keep him warm the rest of his life.”
He turns his head to look at me. The very keenness of his regard frightens me. “You are not what any of us thought,” he murmurs.
“What do you mean?”
“You are neither goose girl nor lady, but something better than them both.”
“You are mistaken,” I say, the words bitter on my tongue. “I am nothing.”
He considers me, shakes his head. “I hope you do not believe that.”
I study my hands, the dry and cracking skin, the ragged nails. Calluses have formed on my palms, replacing the first blisters that developed when I began to clean the barn. They are working hands now. He was right the first time around; I am nothing more than a naïve fool of a serving girl. I shake my head. “How will I get the payment to you?”
“I will send Tarkit to your temple; he’ll tell you where to meet one of my men. I am afraid it would not be wise for me to meet with you again.”
Elsewhere in the inn, the sound of men laughing drifts up to us. The man remains silent; I am not sure if he watches me or only sits forward, so I keep my eyes on my hands. I wonder what I have done in helping a man who has others he can order to guard or meet me, who is informed by a network of street children and beggars. Did I obstruct the path of the king’s justice? But if he is a criminal, why would he not beware of me? Surely he knows of my visits to the palace?
“Why would you trust me enough to send Tarkit to me?” I ask abruptly.
“You have just offered to apprentice the boy.”
“I could be trying to lure you into a trap.”
“Even if you tortured him, Tarkit wouldn’t know where to find me. Nor would you.”
“You’ve spoken to him twice, and will speak to him again,” I point out.
“You assume I speak to him directly, rather than through my men,” he says, amused. “I am careful whom I meet and how often, especially when the boy is as indiscreet as young Tarkit.”
“You have many enemies.”
“Enough,” he agrees.
I moisten my lips. “Will you tell me who you are?”
He does not answer at once. When he speaks, his voice is quiet, emotionless, “Go back to the stables and ask the hostlers there who Red Hawk is; they will tell you. As for the debt I owe you, I will clear it with you soon. I prefer not to owe debts.”
I shake my head. “Your debt is repaid.”
He chuckles. “It is not repaid, though if I had no sense of honor you would have long since convinced me that I have repaid it ten times over.”
“You have trusted me with your name, guarded me when I was alone, and are helping me to do what I wish. Surely you are free of your imagined debt.”
He eyes me with disbelief. “Imagined? Had those soldiers caught me, as they surely would have even if I had not stumbled into your horse, I would be dead by now. Instead I am alive and well. My sending men to walk you home when nothing threatens you, or helping you to apprentice one of my own street boys—for that is all you ask—hardly equates.”
“Then I don’t know how you will get yourself free,” I tell him. “I can’t think what else you can do.”
“We will just have to wait and see.”
Chapter 19
Falada and I walk out to the snow-buried meadows together; there is something in that part of my day I do not want lost. The road has been traversed by both horses and wagons; their passing has churned the snow to mud. It is the Plains that steal my breath. Here is the reality of white plains running out till they blend with the gray horizon. The wind whistles in my ears, catching at the hood of my battered cloak and slicing through me to numb my bones. Only a few trees grow here, small copses at the corner of meadows or a straggling line along a pasture wall; they greet me like old friends, their branches laden with snowscapes and icicles. Strangely, I find my eyes growing blurry, tears running in icy tracks down my cheeks.
We return from our walk just past noon. I rub Falada down, the work bringing warmth back to me, needling my fingers and toes. Hooves picked and horse blanket draped, Falada follows me into his stall. I settle on the straw, watching him watch me, and can’t think what to do.
“Bored?”
I throw a handful of straw at him. “It isn’t funny. I’ve a whole winter ahead of me.”
“Then you’d better find something to do.”
“Yes, well,” I grumble and trail off, having nothing else to say. Falada huffs softly and turns to put his head over the door, his ears swiveling to catch the sound of a conversation from
the common room. I look at him, then at the opposite wall, then at my stained and ragged skirt. What was it I used to do every day for the first fifteen years of my life? I loved to go for walks or rides, but it is too cold for that. I used to read what books I could find, but here I have none. What else? Surely I did more than read and walk?
I close my eyes and breathe in the damp horse smell of the barn. I suppose I used to watch people—during receptions and hearings and meals, and in the laundry room and kitchen, and even in the village. Read and walk and watch. They are not even enough to count off on one hand.
But for all my watching, I had never dreamt that my mother dabbled in sorcery. Nor had the court, I expect, or I would have heard it mentioned among the servants.
“Falada?” He flicks an ear towards me. “When I left home my mother cast a spell on me. Have I told you that?”
Falada swings around. From the look in his eye, it is clear I have not; I had assumed he had seen the pouch—and understood what was in it—that day at the stream. So I’d never thought to mention it. Falada stamps his hoof, waiting.
“My mother called me into her room the morning of our departure. She … pricked her finger with a needle and recited a spell while the blood fell on a napkin. Three drops. One was for her love of me, one for her knowledge, and the last … it had to do with strength. I’m not sure if it was hers or mine that she bound to the blood.”
“What happened to the cloth?”
“I lost it.”
“Lost it?”
“At the river.”
“The Lady has it,” he murmurs.
I nod.
Falada lifts his head and pokes his nose out, looking about carefully, then turns back to me. “It is of no great concern, I expect.”
I swallow a laugh. “That’s a change of heart! I thought you were going to kick me.”
“Your mother put all that she cared for you into that cloth. Had you let Valka write those letters in your stead, I doubt your mother would have noticed. She gave up her knowledge of you.” He hesitates. “It was for the prince, wasn’t it?”
Thorn Page 15
