The Overseer sighed. "The Armfolk won't like it. They say—"
"The Armfolk aren't known for ingenuity or ambition. That's why they row all night, and we sleep in soft beds and count our coins." A smile crept into Rombol's voice. "Have I been wrong before?"
"No, Master and friend—that you have not."
"Nor am I wrong about Weepwallow. The Lady will keep us safer in her land than the King ever has in his. See to the preparations."
Cymbril heard them thump each other's shoulders, and the wagon jerked again. Wiltwain's quick tread hurried away, followed a moment later by Rombol's ponderous steps.
Weepwallow. Urrt and the other Strongarms always fell oddly silent at the mention of its name. Cymbril felt a prickle of dread, but also a thrill of excitement. A part of her was eager to know what lurked among those shadowy trees. Brigit had said: "My Lady of the Wild grants you favor." With the Urrmsh rowing and Loric on the bow, Cymbril didn't see how the Thunder Rake could come to harm.
She also knew, Loric's warning aside, danger or not, that she wasn't going to stay put in her bunk.
Chapter 14
Weepwallow
Throughout the afternoon, Cymbril's gaze strayed toward the drab valley spreading below, the air above it crossed at times by heavy-looking crows. Some of the dead trees at the nearer edge had hardened and whitened in the sun, resembling stacks of bones. As the sun sank lower, a weird chorus drifted up from the swamp—the dusky, warbling croaks of uncountable frogs. Sometimes a bird shrieked, and once Cymbril thought she heard the yowl of what must be a large feral cat. Several people in the market took notice of the sound, glancing toward the trees. Cymbril didn't see the fat frog that afternoon, but she imagined him crouched among the boulders somewhere nearby, puffing himself up and smiling broadly. To him, such a place must feel like home.
By evening her flower garland had begun to wilt, sooner than she'd hoped. She'd watched crafters press flowers in frames or inside books, later arranging them into pictures made entirely of dried, flattened blooms. Cymbril could try that if she had even one book of her own. But she had no possessions—now that she'd given Runa her two incidentals—except for the two treasures. Her clothes, comb, brush, and even her tooth rag belonged to Rombol (though she doubted he'd ever ask for the tooth rag back). Having no baggage would make it easier to escape. She would wear her plainest homespun dress when she left the Rake. The Master could have his brocaded finery and all the puffed sleeves.
Supper was a rich rabbit stew. Cymbril hardly heard what the other maidservants said over the steaming bowls. She was daydreaming of Gorhyv Glyn and of the noisome dark of Weepwallow.
After helping with her share of the washing up, Cymbril dressed in the clothes she wore for workdays inside the Rake—a soft white blouse and a durable gray skirt with a bodice and shoulder straps. The skirt had three pockets that buttoned closed. Cymbril tucked her treasures into her top pocket and fastened it.
She waited in her windowless chamber, the candle glowing beside her. At last the deck shuddered, and the Rake began to roll. Her hand trembled as she picked up the candle. She had just turned toward the door when someone knocked.
"Who is it?" she asked, her voice a surprised quaver.
The door opened, and Wiltwain peered at her down his long, sharp nose. Mistress Ilda, the head of the maidservants' gallery, stood a few steps behind him.
"Go to sleep now, Cymbril," Wiltwain told her. "We are passing through a dangerous region. Master Rombol has ordered a curfew. No one is to leave quarters tonight—especially not you."
Cymbril felt as if the air had been squeezed out of her. "But—"
"No prowling tonight." Wiltwain searched through the jingling keys at his belt.
He meant to lock her in. In desperation, Cymbril remembered one of Loric's tactics. "But what if I have to go to the relief closet?"
The Overseer hesitated, glancing from Cymbril to Mistress Ilda. Then he snapped open the ring that held the keys and shook one loose. "I'll leave this with you, Ilda," he said.
Mistress Ilda blinked to show that she'd heard him. She rarely spoke or wasted a single movement of her wrinkled hands or face.
"Into bed now," said Wiltwain. "Busy day tomorrow. Call Mistress if you need anything." He pulled the door shut.
Cymbril sank onto the edge of the bed as the key grated in the lock. Click. A silent scream rose inside her, and she threw her pillow against the wall. Outside, the footsteps receded.
Chin in her hands, Cymbril tried to think. She was sure calling Mistress Ilda would get no results. The old woman was selectively deaf. She heard what she wanted to hear and no more. There was no way out of the bunk, and Cymbril would miss the entire journey through Weepwallow. Even worse, if they made a habit of locking her in at night, how could she and Loric ever escape?
She was about to change into her nightdress when a thought struck her. After the lock's click, she hadn't heard the key slide out again. She crossed to the door and peeped into the keyhole.
Blackness. The key was still in the lock. That was Mistress Ilda's efficiency—no wasted movement of pocketing the key. In the keyhole, it wouldn't get lost.
Crouching beside the door, Cymbril set down the candle and listened for a long time. There were no sounds in the hallway. She hurried to her trunk and took out her dark hooded rain cloak. Carefully she unfolded it and, starting with a corner, slid the hem through the crack under her door. The stiff cloth went smoothly, and she pushed it with her fingers, little by little, until more than half of it lay spread across the planks outside her chamber. Then she unbuttoned her pocket and withdrew the jeweled hairpin. Holding her breath, she pushed the long, skinny end into the keyhole—a perfect fit. When it touched something hard, something that blocked its progress, she gently wiggled it and pushed a little harder.
Clunk!
The key fell onto the cloak outside. Now, if only it had not bounced away ... if only it would fit beneath the door. Slowly, she pulled the cloak back—and the key came with it!
Cymbril whirled to the trunk again. She gathered an armload of dresses and arranged them under the bedcovers in a shape that looked like her. Putting on the cloak, she tucked her hair away, pulling the hood low around her face. Then she used the key to unlock the door.
She opened it a crack. No one was in the hall, but the night lantern flickered at the bend, giving enough light to see by. Cymbril put her candle onto the bedside stand and blew it out. When she had eased into the corridor, she locked the door and left the key in the lock.
As quietly as her leather slippers would carry her, she made her way into the Rake's deep darkness.
At the mouth of the Ferny Way on the top deck, she almost blundered in front of an armored guard who stood like a statue, leaning on his halberd. The hallways and decks were deserted. Doors normally left open were closed. More torches than usual burned on poles along the deck, driving back shadows. Cymbril had to change her route three times and wriggle behind a row of potted rosebushes.
A few cats were about tonight, slinking around corners and under hedges. Cymbril stopped to pet the friendlier ones. She saw no sign of Miwa.
Overhead, a ceiling of limbs closed across the thin moon. Cymbril had never seen trees taller than the Rake. In fact, she'd wondered where its builders had found even the trunks for the craft's arms, which would only reach from the ground to the lowest rail if stood on end. What had looked like dwarf trees from Ardle's ridge were unthinkably enormous when seen from the swamp itself, black towers that leaned over the passing city wagon like nosy giants.
Cymbril didn't hurry toward the bow. She edged among horse barns to the left rail, where the torches were widely spaced. She liked the scent of the horses, their gentle sighs, the occasional soft stamp of a hoof, and the contented munching from one still awake. She had always marveled at the way horses slept standing up. That was true readiness, it seemed to her.
Below the rail, the Rake's claws rammed through clumps of bushes. Somet
hing black and glistening flew in circles around a torch, wings beating with a thwick-thwick-thwick. Though the Rake followed the driest ground, it also had to avoid the trees. Often a wheel sagged into a squishy hole and the decks tilted so steeply that cargo rumbled in the holds.
Crouching beneath a windlass at the rail, Cymbril listened to a guard's footsteps passing on a balcony above. Out across the swamp, balls of eerie fire rose from the water near and far, pale pink, green, and yellow. She watched the fiery globes floating among the roots, bobbing, appearing to spin. They seemed almost alive, fairies or sprites of Weepwallow.
As her gaze swept across a hillock between far-off trunks, Cymbril gasped. When she blinked, the image was gone—but for the briefest instant, she was certain she'd seen someone on horseback, a rider watching from the swamp, cloaked and still in the half-light. The rider's long hair draped her shoulders, unbound and shimmering. Wildhair. Cymbril's pulse thudded in her throat. The Lady is watching. The glimpse brought a thrill that was more excitement than dread.
Cymbril couldn't reach the crank basket down to her secret hatchway in the prow—too many guards. Why were the soldiers out? Hadn't Rombol said that the Rake would be safe in Wildhair's country? Did the Master expect a battle with the trees? The thought wasn't funny. It was easy to imagine grotesque faces on the mossy trunks.
From the winery's roof, she'd have a perfect view. When the Rake began to splash through shallow water, Cymbril climbed a lattice grape arbor. Wriggling up onto the gambrel, she wondered if perhaps she'd carried this idea too far. Vines from the swamp's trees dragged past her, dropping moldy leaves and tiny multi-legged shapes that skittered in all directions. Alone on the roof, she felt unprotected beneath the rotting, breathing ceiling of Weepwallow. Just a look around, and then she'd go down to a safer hiding place.
A raised middle section of the roof screened her from the view of anyone in the higher wheelhouse. She rolled to one side, letting a vine slither past, and then crawled forward. Pairs of eyes glinted from forks and holes in the trees. Aside from the cold-looking marsh fires, all the rest was blackness. Loric must be busy indeed tonight.
Could the Huntress see in the dark, like a Fey? Could she see Cymbril crawling on the roof?
Cymbril saw Loric first, dressed in the patched tunic and trousers. As her chin cleared the roof's edge, she spied Rombol, Wiltwain, and about ten men-at-arms. She pulled her head back quickly before any of them looked up.
Sliding the stone from her pocket, she cupped it in both hands to hide its light and touched it to her forehead. Loric? Can you hear me?
I hear you, Cymbril.
Cymbril felt a surge of happiness just to hear his voice again. The strength of the emotion surprised her.
You shouldn't be here, he said. Especially not on the open roof. There are things in the trees. Things everywhere. Rombol shouldn't have brought us this way. There's danger—He interrupted himself to call a direction to the pilot about a deadfall of limbs and trunks ahead concealing what might be a deep hole under the water. The Rake circled it on the left, trundling off an earth bank at such a pitch that Cymbril flattened herself to keep from sliding. The men yelled and grabbed the rails. In a draft, the torches flared sideways.
Things in the trees. Breathing shakily, Cymbril shot her gaze from one leafy hollow to the next, flinching at each hint of sound, each furtive movement. A wayward strand of hair kept falling across her eyes, blocking her view.
When she could raise her hands to her brow again, she asked, What danger?
All this noise we make, he said. Wheels turning, claws gouging. Old and terrible things sleep here, things that ought not to be disturbed.
"The ground is too soft," Wiltwain said. "The claws are sifting it, not pulling us forward."
"We need momentum," said Rombol. "Tell the Armfolk to row harder."
Wiltwain blew a signal on his shell trumpet, its tone ringing away among the trees. The Rake's arms cycled faster.
"No," said Loric, sounding afraid.
Cymbril raised her head. He was speaking aloud the same words he was thinking, his voice shrill. It was unsettling to hear the same words with her ears and in her mind. But she kept the Star Shard against her forehead, fearful of missing any thought.
"The night's ear hears us," Loric gasped, backing as far from the bow as his chain would stretch. "The night's eye sees us. We're like field mice to a hawk."
"Keep your eyes open, boy!" Rombol shoved him forward.
Leaves shivered, the laughter, the whispers of the trees. Gnarled and burled, the trees loomed more densely, pressing closer. And between their slick, fungous trunks, darkness swirled. Even the wet leaves of the undergrowth, reflecting the Rake's lamps, faded from view. It was as if the darkness were more than an absence of light. Rather, it seemed a heavy coldness that swallowed light, pulling all shapes into oblivion.
"Something's coming." Loric dropped to his knees, his arms up to shield his head. "It's coming! It's HERE!"
Rombol bellowed an order, but his words were drowned by a shriek that pierced Cymbril like an icy wind.
Her heart hammered. Clutching the Star Shard against her, she whipped around, looking for what had screamed. It had been louder than any human voice.
The cry echoed again, and with it came a slow flapping of wings. A shape swooped over the Rake, much too large to be a bird. The dismal screech tore from it as it passed, and Cymbril caught a foul smell, worse than waste pits.
Men raised pole arms or drew swords. Loric cringed against the rail, his ears covered, knees pulled to his chin. In the barns behind the winery, the horses whinnied in terror, thumping their plank walls.
Cymbril pushed the stone into her pocket and squirmed for a clearer view.
"Get under cover!" Loric yelled.
The flying thing perched on a tree limb, its wings flung wide. Torch light shone on brown feathers mottled with black. The body was as broad as a bull's, its sharp talons as large as an Armfolk's hand. When Cymbril saw the face, she could not hold back a whimper.
The head was not a bird's, but that of an ancient woman. Gray hair jutted in filthy spikes. A cruel mouth turned down at the corners. Lips peeled back from jagged teeth in black gums, and the hag-monster shrieked again, its eyes fixed on Cymbril.
"A harpy!" shouted Wiltwain, cuffing the shoulders of the guards. "Stand ready!"
Cymbril had heard tales of harpies, but no words had prepared her.
The harpy ignored the knot of men. Wings pumping the night air, it launched itself toward Cymbril. The eyes bored into hers, and Cymbril felt frozen in place.
"Cymbril!"
Loric's cry pulled her gaze away from the monster's, breaking its spell. As the claws uncurled, reaching for her, Cymbril threw herself to the right. The talons narrowly missed her, tearing instead into the boards, planing up ribbons of wood. Banking left over the aft towers, the harpy screamed in anger.
Cymbril heard the wing beats returning. The harpy would not miss a second time. It swooped above the orchards, above the dining hall, gaining speed.
Loric leaped to his feet. "Cymbril," he cried, "jump!"
Cymbril sensed the hideous face behind her, the yellow teeth. She snatched a double handful of her skirt to free her ankles and lurched forward, barely staying upright. As she sprinted to the roof's edge, harsh screams shook the planks.
It was a long fall to the bow, but she couldn't hesitate. She picked the biggest target—Rombol—and dove into space.
Chapter 15
The Nightmare
The guards tipped their halberds aside as she flew toward them. She felt a tug at her neck and the ripping of cloth. Rombol caught and spun her, lessening the impact. Her face sank into his bristly beard.
Rombol dropped with her to the deck. The harpy soared so close above that tail feathers brushed their backs. Its claws had shredded Cymbril's cloak down to the hem.
The beast made a lunge for Loric.
He threw himself flat.
T
he harpy pulled up to avoid the rail, and its grasp missed Loric. But one talon closed on the chain that held him, just where the manacle encircled the post. The rail shattered, and the post jerked free. Still clutching the chain, the harpy crowed in triumph and winged upward.
Loric had the presence of mind to grab the chain in both hands, taking the snap of force in his arms when the chain sprang taut. He was snatched off the deck and swung through the air below the flapping creature.
Rombol roared.
The harpy, eyes forward again, saw a mighty tree looming just ahead and rolled wildly to the left. But the arcing chain looped across the bark, yanking the shackle from the monster's grip. Loric passed the tree on the right.
He circled behind the trunk as the chain wrapped around it like a Maypole ribbon. Loric smacked against the tree and went limp.
Beyond, the harpy swooped among shadowy limbs, circling back.
The deck tipped forward. Guards staggered.
No one had told the helmsman to turn. No one had told the Armfolk to stop rowing. The Rake nosed over the brink of a steep incline.
"Stop! Stop!" men shouted. Wiltwain fumbled for his trumpet shell. The Rake's arms clawed at empty air. Groaning, the craft rode its axle.
Cymbril tumbled to the rail and searched for Loric.
He hung against the tree, head lolling. His chain loosened, unwinding, and he was sliding slowly down the bark. Too slowly—the Rake's bow plunged, driven by the weight of the decks and all their cargo. When it hit the tree, it would smash Loric.
Again Cymbril had no time to think. She couldn't see the ground or the harpy. All she saw was Loric, stunned, hanging from his iron collar.
Rombol bounded toward her, but he caught no more than a tatter of her cloak as she vaulted over the rail.
She hadn't far to jump. The inclining bow had almost reached the tree. With Wiltwain's horn sounding in her ears, Cymbril caught Loric, her knees scraping painfully against the trunk. Arms around him, she rolled on her left shoulder, following the chain.
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