"True it is, little thrush," said Urrt. "Birds talk with any who will listen." One of the lanterns just above Urrt's head swung gently, sending his huge, warty shadow to and fro.
Cymbril watched the play of pinkish light and darkness over the glistening boards. "Then couldn't the birds tell Loric's family where he is?"
"Oh, his people know where he is, songbird," Arrbha said. "The birds have never stopped watching where his steps have led."
"Will they come for him, then? His family?" She imagined a host of gray-cloaked riders thundering out of the night, climbing the Rake's sides on silver ropes. Would they do battle with Rombol's soldiers—or would there be negotiations in the ramp chamber, the Sidhe paying a ransom with gold or bright jewels? Cymbril gazed at her stone and hairpin, her heart fluttering. She longed for a chance to see them, the Fey who would come to take Loric home.
But Urrt's answer disappointed her.
"They will not come," said Urrt. "The doors of the Rake are closed to the Sidhe. There is powerful magic here, of a different sort from theirs."
Cymbril remembered—Brigit had spoken of protective spells upon the wagon city. She took a long breath. So Loric was alone, then, beyond the help of his people.
"Rivers flow and the sky turns," Arrbha said helpfully. "All things in time. These walls are good at keeping things out, but not nearly so good at keeping things in. You needn't worry much about the Fey boy."
"I'm not worried about him," Cymbril said quickly. "He's rather arrogant, if you ask me." To change the subject, she told them what had happened the night before and about the hallway Rombol had never seen before.
"The books in that storeroom are marked with an R," she finished, scooting over to avoid a new drip from the ceiling. "I always thought it stood for Rombol, but now I don't think so."
Urrt's bumpy forehead wrinkled, and he conversed with Arrbha in the language of the Urrmsh. At last he turned the full moons of his eyes back to Cymbril. "Nightingale," he said seriously, "in the time of the Rake's first Master, there was a sorcerer onboard. He advised Master Tycho in many ways. They built this place together, and enchantments are twined through every board and nail like the roots of ivy. For a while, the sorcerer had a tower on the aft castle, where the horse barns are now. But it had a way of attracting bolts of lightning—even out of a clear sky. He tore it down and built his quarters deep in the hold, on a secret half-deck."
"None of us knew exactly where," Arrbha said. "We could hear the echoes of pounding and crackling, or a rushing like wind—and sometimes that wild laughter of his—but I never figured out the location."
Cymbril rose to her knees, clutching a pillar leg of the rowing bench as she looked from Urrt to Arrbha.
"That talking skull you showed us," said Arrbha, lowering his voice and checking first to see if Wiltwain was in the chamber—"that was his work. The books would be his, too. I wasn't sorry to see him go. But, truth be told, I'm sorrier now to have those who replaced him."
"His name," said Urrt in a burbly whisper, "was Ranunculus."
Cymbril leaned forward. "What happened to him?"
Urrt shook his head. "No tale of men or song of birds has the answer. We were in the witching country when he disappeared, out at the edge of the Groag Swamp. Some say a spell of his went wrong and consumed him. Some believe he perished in battle with an enemy more terrible than himself. Or perhaps he simply felt the end of his long life to be near and went into the swamp to find his grave."
Cymbril sat back on her heels, trying to understand. "But why have I always seen that hallway? Why me, and no one else?"
The bench-mates could only shrug. Finally Urrt said, "I think you have very good eyes, skylark."
Chapter 7
The War Goes On
Corin's Corners was no more than a scattering of huts, shops, and a granary around a crossroads. Rombol stopped there mostly because the village was a night's journey from Highcircle, a point halfway to the city of Panoply—and the chance to sell a bag of salt, a copper kettle or two, to the farm wives was better than nothing. So few people lived at the Corners that the Rake's merchants didn't bother to take their wares outdoors. Instead, the ramp was lowered, and the villagers came aboard to a market set up in the grand bailey of the Rake's entrance chamber.
For such indoor markets, Jonas the carpenter had built Cymbril a perch on the second-level balcony, a semicircular projection of the floor with its own ornate railing. She stood there to sing, her voice soaring into the lantern-hung heights above, while vendors and buyers conducted business on the wide floor below. The high place was a welcome change. Here Cymbril was away from those who stared and prodded. A rare customer might be admitted up to the second floor, strictly by arrangement—some traveling noble who wished to be shown the delicate dining sets from the Isles, the silks, tapestries, rugs, and vases that cost more than common folk earned in a year.
The bad part of indoor markets was that the bejeweled ladies from the teabunks tended the extravagant second-level booths. Having nothing to do all day, they gossiped and brewed exotic tea in silver pots. They played horses-and-spindles, a game on a polished board. And always they murmured catty things about Cymbril as if she weren't there listening. Cymbril never felt comfortable turning her back to them, especially not at the balcony rail. Even when she sang, she tried to keep her ears open for the pad of slippers.
Scattered applause followed Cymbril's rendition of "Blue Were Her Eyes." Leaning on the rail to rest and study the crowds, she started at a whispery thump just behind her. She whirled with a gasp. Back in the shadows under the loggia, two ancient women were crossing the balcony, hobbling on their gnarled walking sticks—and hopping just ahead of them was the fat frog, which they treated as a pet. When the frog wasn't lurking in dim corners and staring as if delivering an accusation, he was hurrying as with some purpose. Cymbril wondered if he did errands for the old women.
The crones sold charms and medicines from a tent that always seemed murky, even outdoors at noon. The women—sisters, Cymbril guessed—had three eyes between the two of them, and she could have sworn that the missing eye switched at times from one woman to the other. For that reason, she thought of them as the Eye Women. It was rare to see them outside the gloom of their shop, indoors or out.
Cymbril looked quickly away, but the two had stopped and were gazing at her. One pointed with her stick. They wore scarves of an ugly yellow, the color of dead stalks in autumn. Though they were far away and conversing in their husky voices, Cymbril was sure she heard one of the women say, "She's the one as found it."
A chill spread through Cymbril. I'm the one? What did I find? She glanced around, but there was no one else the pair might be talking about. Beyond the rail was only the market bailey itself, one story below.
She felt a wave of dizziness and wiped her clammy forehead on her cuff. As the Eye Women hunched along, vanishing through a shadowy doorway, her head cleared. Probably she'd misinterpreted the words—at that distance, the crone might have muttered anything. "She's the one as found it" made no sense at all. Maybe the woman had been pointing at the cloudy sky outside a window hatch and said, "See, the sun's not out yet."
Just then Wiltwain emerged from a stairwell and turned his steps toward Cymbril.
"Find your lunch," he told her. "Grosnin fed you yesterday? Go to Ubelard at the second baker's stall—see it there? He'll give you lunch today."
Cymbril curtsied and headed for the nearest crank basket, grateful for the break.
Down in the market, she moved quickly. To dally was to invite a circle of curious admirers. Heads turned to watch her, but her brisk pace gave onlookers every reason to suppose she was carrying out some task. She followed the loggia to where Loric sat on a bench, his chain affixed to a pillar. It was horrible to treat anyone this way, she thought as she drew closer, trying to remain unnoticed behind the row of carts and stalls. It bothered her enough when a dog or donkey was kept on a rope. Loric was not human, to be sure—he wa
s of the Wild and perhaps dangerous. But even so, to see him in the heavy collar made her angry.
She couldn't have said why she took herself to the Fey boy, or why she wanted to see him up close again, or what she had intended to say. Rombol stood at a distance, talking with the commander of the Rake's soldiers. As Cymbril stopped just behind Loric's bench, a woman in a checkered headscarf was tugging her two children away. They went reluctantly, stretching their arms for a last touch of his hair, a final pull on his hand.
Cymbril fingered her sleeve, suddenly nervous. How should she announce her presence? And, for that matter, why should she? What was she doing here?
Loric turned half toward her. "I would ask you to come and sit," he said, "but I'm sure our master would not approve."
He'd spoken so casually that Cymbril searched in all directions to be certain he was talking to her. So he'd seen her stalking closer. Wonderful. What a fool she must seem.
"I hope you will forgive me for misspeaking last night," he said.
He was apologizing!
Cymbril thought carefully and said, "I get angry too easily."
"No. It was wrong of me. If I had thought my suspicions through—"
"How old are you?" Cymbril blurted.
He smiled, perhaps surprised. "Thirteen. And yes, we count the years just as you do. Summer, autumn, winter, spring: nature will not be misunderstood, in your world or in mine."
Cymbril could not suppress a grin. He spoke like someone much older. But then again, because she spent so much time with the Armfolk and inside her own head, so did she.
"They are magical, you know." He glanced back at her before looking away again, across the sparse crowd.
"What do you mean? What is?"
"What you have in your pocket."
Startled, Cymbril dropped her hand to her pocket to feel the bulk of her two treasures. "How can you possibly know what I have in my pocket?"
He chuckled. "An ability my people have. I see two beautiful lights shining in your pocket."
Cymbril drew an astonished breath, but just then Rombol noticed her and scowled. "I have to go," she muttered, and hurried on her way.
The cooks and bakers at the markets took turns giving Cymbril her lunch, for such were Master Rombol's orders. Most did so gladly, since her singing helped to draw the crowds, and the crowds brought their appetites. But a few, such as Ubelard, complained to her every single time. "The smiths don't give you horseshoes, I'll warrant." He pinched a roll between his thumb and finger before slapping it onto a tray. Cymbril was sure he always used her as a chance to clear out whatever was going stale.
"Thank you, Master Ubelard," she said cautiously. She carried the tray out through the back of the stall, avoiding the benches in front where the villagers sat to eat. Settling herself on the floor out of sight, she balanced the lunch on her lap. Ubelard had been unusually generous: two rolls, a biscuit, and a pastry with nuts.
The baker leaned out and handed her a tin cup of water. "The silk dyers don't keep you supplied with handkerchiefs, I'll warrant."
"Thank you, Master Ubelard."
No sooner had she taken a bite of the first roll—which was indeed well on its way to becoming a rock—than something heavy landed in her lap with a crash, sending bread and water flying. Cymbril shrieked and flung her arms over her face.
It was a stout chunk of firewood that had struck her. Catching her breath, Cymbril looked up to see Gerta Curdlebree standing over her, cackling and bouncing on her toes. "Oops!" Gerta said. "One got away from me!" In her arms, she held the rest of a bundle of wood. There were still faint, bluish streaks on her face from the Moonpine dye.
Anger flared in Cymbril, and she sprang to her feet.
Berta appeared on her other side, waggling a finger. "Leave my sister alone, you chicken arms!" She shoved Cymbril back against the wall of the baker's booth.
"Chicken arms!" Gerta taunted, spinning with the load of wood as if it were her dance partner. "Chicken arms!"
"Stop it!" Cymbril said, pushing back at Berta, who didn't seem to realize it was impossible to shove Cymbril farther than the wall.
Cymbril raised her foot, but she stopped herself just short of bringing it down on Berta's mostly healed instep. It seemed too cruel to hurt someone so insufferably stupid. She decided instead to unleash a scream into the girl's ear—but she was still drawing her deep breath when there was a loud crack! and Berta fell to her knees, clutching her head.
Ubelard stood in his rear doorway, wielding a heavy stirring spoon. With another lash of his arm, he used the spoon to whack Gerta on the head. Her firewood clattered to the floor. He delivered a second lick to Berta. By this time, both sisters had gotten the idea. Whimpering, they fled as if from a hailstorm, and Ubelard shouted after them that they'd best not prey on the innocent and that they should leave smaller folk alone. "And if your beldam don't like the knots on your noggins, she can take it up with me!"
Cymbril sagged against the wall, rubbing her arms. Berta's grip would probably leave bruises. Her back stung, too.
"Don't mind the bread, girl," said Ubelard gruffly. "I'll fetch you some more." He held up the spoon meaningfully between them. "The men-at-arms: they don't fight for you with their fine swords and pikes, I'll warrant."
Cymbril looked him in the eye. "Thank you, Master Ubelard." In truth, she felt more sorry than thankful. The seamstress had said that the twins were losing their minds. Whatever was wrong with them, it had turned them into bullies. But whacking them on the head or boxing their ears didn't seem like a good treatment—it hardly seemed fair.
The commotion had not escaped Wiltwain's watchful gaze. He soon had the story from Cymbril and from Ubelard. Ordering Cymbril to rest until he returned, he strode away to see the twins and their mother.
Cymbril curled up on a second-floor bench—well away from the teabunk ladies—and closed her eyes. She'd seen Loric watching her as she recrossed the market floor. All she could feel for the Curdlebree twins was pity. Their ridiculous hatred for her was like a poisonous weed that Cymbril was determined to uproot and toss into a fire. Problems such as this couldn't be left unfixed. The solution wasn't revenge. It was finding some way to help the sisters.
"'Chicken arms'?" she repeated to herself, critically examining her own skinny arms and wondering if, in the clouded world of Berta's and Gerta's minds, chickens had arms.
Once, in the dusty soil at the end of a market day, Cymbril had found a child's bracelet of glass beads. She'd shown it to Wiltwain, who told her to keep it. Now, having been lying in wait for Runa outside the kitchens, Cymbril offered it to the dark-eyed girl in exchange for the chance to carry Loric's tray to him—and, more importantly, for Runa's promise of silence.
"It's ugly," Runa said, holding the bracelet up to a lamp. But she stuffed it into her skirt pocket and handed over the tray.
At Loric's room, before she'd even greeted him, Cymbril launched into her question: "What do you mean my treasures are magical?" Of course they were enchanted to glow as they did. But she hoped he could tell her more.
Loric's eyes twinkled. "If you will lend me the smaller one, I'll show you."
She hesitated, still unnerved by the fact that he could see the treasures inside her pocket. She'd never given the hairpin to another person, even to hold. But what harm could there be? Loric was chained to the wall. Slowly, she drew the pin out and placed it into his palm.
"It's exquisite," he said. Then, with a mysterious wink, he held it up between them, turning it between his thumb and middle finger. The light of the stone brightened, and Cymbril held her breath.
Lowering it, Loric touched the pronged end to the center of his tray. Cymbril covered her mouth as the three biscuits slid across the wood, moving by themselves. When they bumped to a stop against the pin's shank, Loric wiggled the fingers of his other hand. The firelit stone flashed in response, and the biscuits slid away again, each moving to a different corner of the tray. One circled the cream bowl on its way
.
Then the cream rose in tendrils, stretching out of the bowl, following Loric's free hand. It stood on end like a tower of white clouds, leaving most of the bowl empty, until he let it settle again—and it was once more a rippling liquid.
Cymbril clapped her hands in wonder and took the pin back, trying the tricks herself. But nothing she did made the stone glow any brighter. The biscuits didn't move, and the cream stayed in the bowl.
"It takes time and practice," Loric said. "My mother would scold me for playing with food."
While he ate and drank, Cymbril found herself telling him the story of what had happened behind Ubelard's. Then, in response to his polite urging, she recounted everything that had passed between her and the two sisters. Only on this telling, she was also honest about what had prompted her to scream at Hysthia Giltfeather.
Loric smiled, his lustrous brown eyes searching her eyes. She looked away with a fire in her cheeks and neck that was becoming familiar lately.
"My parents," he said, "teach that compassion can do much to unravel the tangles of life. And this is a tangled knot."
"But I tried," Cymbril said, "with Byrni—"
"You tried to show kindness," Loric answered, "but it was misunderstood. Perhaps if you try again, more carefully—if we look for a way together..."
Cymbril hung her head, thinking.
"What's wrong?" he asked, resting his chin in his palms.
She massaged her arms, which had developed a dull ache from Berta's attack. Why do I keep wanting to talk to you? she wondered. Why do I think of you all the time? Aloud, she asked, "Am I under a Fey spell?"
He laughed softly. "Now it would be my turn to go away angry, if I were not chained to the wall."
Cymbril cocked her head.
Loric continued. "You're suspicious of me, aren't you? You've been taught that the Fey kidnap humans."
"Don't they, ever?"
He shrugged. "The Dusk Folk might. I know from experience that humans capture Fey. But think about it: if I had put you under a spell, you would be dancing with your head full of moonlight and pale flowers—not worrying whether you were under a spell."
The Star Shard Page 6
