Another nod from Jannet. “Agreed!” the knight said.
It was done.
Perrotte left the tower, going slowly. She felt dizzy with pent-up grief and anxiety.
Sand took her hand. “What on earth did Agnote do that she’s a prisoner?”
Perrotte shrugged. She had no capacity to speculate on anything.
“We need to get to work,” Sand said.
THEY WORKED TOGETHER IN companionable, urgent silence, as late into the night as they could. Sand wedged four of the biggest anvils together in a tight cluster, and took apart four forges, rebuilding them into one enormous forge.
The first link of their giant chain was bigger around than Sand’s upper arms.
When Sand finally called a break for sleep, Perrotte stretched her back, wiping a hand across her forehead, then shook the kinks and pains out of her hammer arm, before finally rubbing her tong hand. She’d never worked this long at the forge.
They slept. Perrotte slept as long as Sand for a change, but he didn’t sleep as long as usual, either. They got up and went back to work. They brought each other water and food. Sand went and looked at the army periodically, and brought updates; Perrotte would not go. They gave up on sleeping in beds, just making pallets on the floor of the smithy, and slept in snatches.
Days passed. They kept track with hash marks in soot on the wall, afraid they’d miss their deadline.
They forced each other to take breaks for Merlin’s sake, if not their own. They climbed the towers and hunted the falcon, watching the army in the distance. Rain came. Rain went. Sand and Perrotte worked metal side by side at the forge, groaning with fatigue, drowning in chain.
“We’re out of metal,” Perrotte said at last.
“Hardly,” Sand said, and together they went through the kitchen and the rest of the rooms and stole back all the steel and iron implements that Sand had repaired over the weeks he’d been in the castle, and turned those things into chain as well.
“Pretty soon now, we really will run out of metal,” Perrotte said, while they munched on onions roasted at the forge.
“Soon,” he agreed, and swallowed his last bite.
“You never asked me what it was like to be dead,” Perrotte said conversationally as they got back to work.
Sand, too distracted by the trial that lay just ahead, nodded, and was more forthright than she expected. “You are right. It seemed rude. Also—” He shuddered. “It’s frightening, honestly.”
“It wasn’t scary at all, to be dead. Much scarier to die.” Perrotte pumped her bellows fiercely. Sand made an objecting squawk.
She slowed down. Too much air did odd things to the metal and interfered with welding. Sand had told her this several times over the week. “Sorry, I forgot.”
“When I was younger,” Sand said, “I thought it was too much heat that ruined a weld. And Grandpère and my father both let me think it. Oh, they gave me hints. Grandpère wondered aloud how there could be too much heat in a process that required sparkling white metal. So I thought maybe the trouble lay in the metal heating too fast. And they let me think that, for a while. But I started doing everything based on that, and my father reminded me that there are four elements in the world.”
Perrotte pumped the bellows and tried to figure out what Sand was trying to tell her with his story.
“I worried over that comment for days,” he said. “I pumped the bellows slower and slower during heating, and failed all my welds. I thought about the elements over and over. I figured: fire was obviously not the answer. I couldn’t be on the right track with that theory, if my father had to remind me that there were four elements. Earth, well, that was the element from which we draw iron, and perhaps that was the issue, but what about earth? Everything in blacksmithing is about earth! Even more than it’s about fire! Water? No, no—the problem had nothing to do with water, because the quench was long after the welds failed.
“So I pumped the bellows and thought. That’s when it came to me. Air. Air had to be the complicating factor. Certainly, air from the bellows feeds the fire, but air also rushes over our steel as we heat it. I wondered: Could too much air really complicate the issue of welding?
“I asked Papa, who grunted. That always means I’ve finally found the right answer. I asked him: Why didn’t you just tell me? He said, ‘If I tell you, you’ll just forget at some critical point. If you figure it out for yourself, you’ll always remember.’”
Perrotte watched her heating iron. “You think you’ve explained too many things to me, while you’ve taught me smithing? And not let me figure enough things out for myself?”
He shrugged. That meant yes.
She nodded. She agreed. But they hadn’t had the time for her to learn slowly, to figure things out for herself.
“It doesn’t matter—you aren’t planning to be a smith,” he said.
She thought about the work they’d done on the spherical astrolabe. She could see working on things like that for the rest of her life, and she would always be grateful to Sand for what he’d taught her. And for what she hoped he would continue to teach her. And for what they might learn together.
“Well?” Sand asked.
“Well what?”
“What was it like to be dead?” Sand asked, and grinned. “Enough time passed that I thought it would seem spontaneous if I asked now.”
She told him. About a field of lilies, and a woman without a face, and stars in a marsh.
“But what about Heaven?” he asked.
“Well, if I had been in Heaven, I don’t think I could have been brought back to life,” Perrotte said.
“It sounds like a dream.”
“It mostly feels like one too. But now it’s time to weld.”
She lifted the incandescent metal out of the fire and brought it to her anvil, while he swung around the other side to meet her with his sledgehammer. She held the link in her tongs, indicated the spot she wanted with a light tap, and waited while he brought the sledge down.
The spark of welding shot between them, and she sighed.
“What?” Sand asked.
“Whatever happens,” Perrotte said, “I mean, unless our plan fails and Jannet has me executed or locked up for life, which is actually pretty likely if things go wrong—but whatever else happens—will you still be my friend?”
She asked the question in a voice that was trying not to be plaintive, but no matter how brave she tried to sound, she knew he could hear the sadness and fear and loneliness beneath.
Sand regarded her carefully. “I’ll always be your friend, if you’ll allow it. My lady.”
“Ugh,” she groaned. “Please. Never call me that again.” But she smiled.
“I’ll always be your friend, Perrotte,” Sand repeated.
“And I yours, if you allow it,” she replied.
TWO MORE LINKS AND they were done with the chains. Then came the rope making, but eventually, they finished with that, too.
The crossbow bolts came out well enough, with their weird needle-eyes on one end. The arrow tips on the end of the bolts didn’t look as good as they should, but Sand assured her that they would work for his plan.
Sand directed her to tie ropes to each end of their chains: four ropes, two chains. Then they attached the ropes to each of the four crossbow bolts.
Together, they moved the crossbow to where Sand pointed. He aligned and realigned the weapon, sighting this way and that.
Perrotte fidgeted.
“I don’t really know how crossbows work, I guess,” he said.
“You knew enough to repair them.”
“It’s a bit different to shoot.”
“Well, what’s the worst that can happen?” Perrotte asked. “We might have to try again?”
Sand checked one more time, and fired.
The bolt flew out, rope trailing after, and sped into the open window at the top of the tower. Sand’s aim had been good, his planning worthwhile, and his imagination better. Perrot
te waited while Sand ran up the stairs and started hauling up the rope, the chain trailing after. On the other side of the tower, the rope dropped out another window, and Perrotte ran to catch it, and help pull. Her muscles strained, but the chain came up, threading through the tower windows.
Sand did the same thing with the other chain and another tower on the other side of the split keep.
“I can’t believe it worked,” Perrotte said.
“It worked.”
“I can’t believe how much of those chains I forged!”
“You forged a lot of that chain,” Sand agreed.
“And now . . .”
“And now.”
The next step was fiddly. They moved the crossbows into place and staked them there. The plan involved using the winches of the great crossbows to wind the ropes taut, to draw the chains tight around the towers, and, eventually, to pull the towers together, sealing up the crack between them.
The winding was long and arduous, and in the end, Perrotte could not get the winches wound quite as far as Sand could, so he had to take over for her.
“But that’s right and proper,” Perrotte said. “You’re the one with the mending magic.”
Sand shrugged, and kept winding, grunting with effort, while Perrotte watched.
“It shouldn’t work,” Sand muttered. “I don’t think it will.”
“It’s magic,” Perrotte reminded him.
“It is magic. And there’s the other piece.”
“The forgiveness piece.” She sighed. “I could forgive your father, I think. For your sake. But I really don’t know how to forgive Jannet, Sand. When I think of just not hating her, of not being angry . . .”
Sand glanced at her over the edge of the winch, grunting as his muscles strained to turn it. He stopped, bent over with hands on knees, and panted a moment.
She handed him a cup of water, and he drank it down. Sweat dripped into his eyes, and he wiped it away. “Perrotte,” he said.
“You want me to turn the winches with you?”
Sand nodded. “Yes. I want that. But also . . . in regards to forgiveness . . .” He put the cup down, speaking to the ground as he said his next words. “You have an imagination. Use it.”
She didn’t know how to answer that. He moved back to the winding winch, and she moved to the opposite side. They threw their weight against the wooden handles, and continued winding, tightening the ropes and chains around the keep.
“Imagine your life!” Sand cried. “Imagine what it would be like if you forgave her!”
Perrotte closed her eyes, pushing on the handles of the winch, rotating it another few inches. And then another. Her palms ached, as well as her legs and shoulders.
Perrotte directed her thoughts away from the pain in her body. Forgiveness. Forgiving was as hard as turning the windlass, but she supposed . . . she could see how to forgive her own mother for dying. Her father for marrying Jannet. Gilles for being duped. The path to those kinds of forgiveness seemed etched out before her on the floor of the castle in her mind. But where did the path to forgiving Jannet start?
The windlass ground forward. Across from her, Sand grunted unhappily.
What would it be like? To be free of the pain and grief she felt, the anger that welled in her every time she thought about the thing that had happened to her, the death she’d received, the years and people she had lost?
Another few inches.
What would it be like to remember the past without wanting to scream and to cry? Without feeling like a burden rested on her shoulders and her heart?
A few inches more.
Would life feel like it did when she stood shoulder to shoulder with Sand at the forge, creating the spherical astrolabe? Engrossing. Involving. Full of possibility and joy and friendship?
She had thought she was already pushing against the handles as hard as she could, but she found a well of strength in her legs. Thighs burning, she leaned in harder.
“It’s moving! Keep going!” Sand shouted.
With a sudden rush, the windlass moved a full turn. Ropes creaked. Above them, the stones of the keep groaned and shifted, moving back together.
Beneath their feet, the ground shook.
The whole world rumbled and writhed. Perrotte was thrown to her knees. The next few moments were a blur of motion. That dreadful itching inside her head made by the voice of Saint Melor returned. Only this was worse, a hundred times so.
And maybe the Saint was speaking in that moment; she thought that she heard words, words that she couldn’t quite understand, but that nonetheless told a glittering, vivid story that made her giggle, made her weep, made her feel content, even though she would never be able to repeat the story or remember any of the details. The unheard words were like a half-glimpsed world beneath the surface of the sea; the waves parted and showed the lands beneath the deep to her for one long, shining moment. Just as suddenly, the waves crashed together, and the world beneath disappeared.
Perrotte huddled down, hands over her head, and still the earth bucked beneath her like the angriest of horses. The itching went on and on; the Saint’s voice called her name like the clear note of a bell, over and over, and Sand’s name too, and—
It all stopped, the movement and the voice and the rumbling. The only sound now was her own heartbeat in her ears.
Perrotte uncovered her head.
“Sand?” she called, and her voice sounded clear and tiny, as though it came from a thousand miles away but was spoken through a perfect, magic trumpet.
He hadn’t been thrown far. He was looking at her, cheek pressed into the dirt. “Did you do it? Did you forgive her?” Slowly, he got to his feet.
“Not . . . really? No. But. But maybe I started to.” She too climbed to her feet.
He stared over her head. “Look.”
She spun to look at the keep.
The chains had fallen slack. The cracks were gone. The broken castle wall and the rift in the ground were perfectly and completely mended.
33
Sister
ALL WAS SILENCE FROM BEYOND THE CASTLE WALLS.
Perrotte stumbled over to Sand. Hand in hand, they walked like drunkards toward the castle gates, neither of them capable of treading a straight line.
“Not the portcullis,” Perrotte said. “Not until we know.”
Sand just nodded, and together they pulled open the castle’s wooden gates, leaving the metal grating of the portcullis in place.
They looked straight out over the asparagus fields. There were no thorns in sight.
A clump of mounted men rode toward the gates, white flag flying.
Sand glanced at Perrotte. She met his gaze steadily. “Still not lifting the portcullis. But I’m glad the thorns are gone. Also,” Perrotte said, “I just want you to know? I may tell some pretty egregious lies in a moment.”
“What?”
“No one out there knows the limits of your magic—”
“I don’t really know the limits of my magic—”
“—or that we can’t bring the thorns back, so just . . . follow my lead.”
“I don’t think—”
“Sand! It’s life or death. A bluff may be called for.”
“I know it’s life or death! And I don’t want to be burned at the stake! Or tried for witchcraft at all, really, even if I were found innocent.”
“I’m not going to tell them it’s your magic,” Perrotte said.
“That’s not entirely—”
“Shh. Here they come.”
The parley group came within earshot. Agnote, still bound, was pulled along behind. His father followed at a distance. Sand was able to see faces and expressions more clearly now, and read how worried his father and Agnote looked.
Why was Agnote gagged?
The dowager Countess was nowhere in sight. The parley group was led by a young, well-dressed woman. The woman stood in her stirrups and raised her hands. “I am Rivanon,” she announced.
Besi
de him, Perrotte gasped. Sand noted that this Rivanon had Perrotte’s clear, hazel eyes and flossy hair. There was no mistaking that she was Perrotte’s half-sister.
But where was the Countess?
“Have you come to broker a peace?” Perrotte called belligerently, obviously expecting that Rivanon had not.
“Yes,” Princess Rivanon called back. She gestured at Agnote. “My mother took this woman captive, when she came to speak on behalf of her son and you. She said things that my mother . . . did not like.”
Perrotte stared at Sand, who shrugged. Agnote was the kindest person he knew—unless you hurt an animal or a child. Then, she was easily the most frightening person he knew. If the Countess had made threats against either Sand or Perrotte . . . And in fact, the Countess had made a threat against the both of them, when the Countess had fired a cannon at the castle, so it was too late. The Countess had gotten on Agnote’s bad side.
“I am releasing her, as a show of good faith,” Princess Rivanon said, and gestured. Agnote was unbound and ungagged by two soldiers.
Agnote straightened her spine and walked slowly toward Sand. His father embraced her in an eyeblink. The two hugged, then moved to the portcullis together.
Agnote and his father reached for Sand through the bars. Sand gave them his hands. It felt so good to touch his stepmother’s small, cool hands, and his father’s large, warm ones. It wasn’t a hug, but it was close. They smiled wanly at him.
“Sand,” Perrotte said quietly.
He nodded, pulling away. His parents stepped aside.
“Where is your representative from the court of the Duchess?” Perrotte asked Rivanon.
“The Duchess herself, actually,” Rivanon said. “She who is also your queen. Queen Claude.”
The horses parted, and an even more elegantly dressed woman rode forward. Sand swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry, and he sank to his knees there in the castle’s entrance tunnel. The Queen of France! His parents knelt too, and Perrotte beside him.
“This will be an honest peace,” the Queen said after she raised them up again with a gesture. “And honestly kept. By what miracle that young Perrotte lives again, I know not; but my mother counted Perrotte as her friend, and I will protect her friends.”
The Castle Behind Thorns Page 19
