“Shall I close the shutters?” I asked.
“No,” she said absently, inspecting the pages closely. “I like to leave them open. That way my crows can come and go.”
She only ever wore that white robe, open at the neck. How could she stand it? I had on a woolen dress and cloak and I was cold.
She looked up. “I don’t feel the cold.”
“Oh,” I tried to keep my thoughts to myself.
“Here,” pointing with a gnarled finger to a densely worded paragraph.
The language was archaic. I read it slowly.
“How to Create a Seekinge Speare.
First set a chafing dish full of Charcoal well lighted. If your foe is very strong, use a Pound of rolled Golde, if weake, Half a Pound.
Incante the following spelles:
The Spelle of Seekinge,
The Spelle of Bloode,
The Spelle of Hidinge.
For what Good wille it availe if the Enemy can see the Speare?”
“What is this?”
“It’s instructions for the spears you saw,” she said. “Only you shouldn’t have seen them.” She closed the book with a thud. “They were supposed to pierce your heart and draw your soul back to their maker. Interesting. I’ve not come across them before. Now. Tell me what happened.”
Interesting? Someone had been trying to steal my soul. “Don’t you know?”
She shook her head. “I’m not omniscient, child. My crows told me that something was happening, but they couldn’t tell me what.” She smiled wryly. “They’re not very good communicators.”
I told Rosa what had happened, adding about the strange voice. Or was it just my voice, sounding different under stress?
“Well,” she said. “You did do well. And it seems that I did well too. I thought he’d be useful.” She frowned. “But I didn’t see this coming.” She pulled down on the table, her knuckles whitening as she pushed her chair back and tried to stand.
“No, child,” she said, as I went to help. “I can manage.” She limped awkwardly to the leather case that held the necklace. “It seems I’ll have to become used to you.”
“What?”
“I’m not talking to you.” She reached into the box and picked up the beautiful thing. The stones seemed to shift under her hand, writhing in her grip.
“It’s alive!”
She grunted. “It has awareness, of a sort.”
“Please,” I said, “don’t do this.”
“I have to. Can’t you see? There is an enemy.”
I stared at her.
“I thought you would understand. He is seeking you.”
“Me?”
“Did you not say that the spears moved, following you?”
I didn’t realize the attack had been personal. “I thought that I was the target because I could see them.”
She shook her head. “You were the target because you are the heir.”
“Me?” But Alden, my brother, was the Crown Prince.
She waved her hand. “The Prince won’t interest them. You’re the only one with the power to use this thing.”
“You have the power too,” I said. “And you know what you’re doing.”
She nodded. “Aye. But you’re vulnerable. And I’m old. Without you ...”
“The Kingdom has no hope,” I whispered.
She nodded again.
Rosa needed to live a good long life; I had no wish to live up here permanently. “Who is this enemy?”
“I’m not sure.”
“You don’t know?”
“I have an idea. But I’m not certain it’s right. There are always people looking for us, of course; the legends are too strong not to attract some interest. But more recently there’s been more of a sense of organization behind the searchers.” She frowned. “But I could never be sure. Not until the attack on you.”
“What about the voice I heard?”
“Ah. He spoke to you?” She reached back into the box.
“I had a strange dream.”
“What did he tell you? He’s an old trickster, that Rinpoche.”
“Who is he?”
She looked out the window toward the straits. The eldest. And, I think, the wisest.”
“Do you mean,” I spoke slowly, “that each bead is a person?”
She smiled obliquely. “Rinpoche will help you.” She paused. “Actually, he has already helped you. It is a good thing you were wearing his circlet on your finger.”
She lifted the bright gems from their box, and the room erupted into all the colors of the rainbow, radiant, sparkling; gloriously triumphant.
“Please,” I said, “don’t!”
She didn’t listen, of course. Instead she lifted her arms over her head and bent her neck forwards. Her movements were awkward, her joints stiff. She seemed so old.
“No!”
Too late. The gems settled over her head. Like a snake seeking heat, the great ruby seemed to move of its own volition, trembling across her chest, until it reached the bandages over her heart, where it settled. Rosa gasped, bending forwards. I reached out to stop the thing from touching her.
She grabbed my wrist. “Not yet, child.” Her grip was firm, stronger than I would have believed possible and her voice was deep, melodious. It echoed as though a chorus of people were speaking.
* * *
The Sergeant told me Will was mending, although he still complained of headaches.
“He needs rest,” said N’tombe, “and sleep. Leave him, Princess. He’ll come back to you when he’s able.”
I missed his company. Unless one counted my governesses, I had spent most of my time alone. I’d not had anyone to confide in, save Daddy, and he was often distracted; thinking of the Kingdom or dreaming of crops. Now, though, I had N’tombe and Will.
But Will could be downright mean, dumping me on my belly or twisting my arm behind my back. So why did I miss him? His smile, the warm scent of his sweat, the feeling of his strong arms about me as I struggled to free myself; I craved all this. But mostly I missed his teasing.
N’tombe and I practiced our archery each morning. She said the discipline was good for me. And she made me complete my exercises each day too, though some days I begged her to let me off – oh, to have a lie-in!
I kept the copper circlet on my finger and the rotund figure of Rinpoche often visited my dreams. He showed me how to propel myself through the sky using my breath by blowing out slowly. Together we floated over my homeland, this little island that lay between the sea and the great mountains. Drifting through the sky, I watched the clouds spin from the great tides of air that flowed around the world, like the sea passing around the land.
The dreams were so engrossing that dreaming became reality and my waking world a dream. Spring grew slowly into summer, and summer turned to gold.
Then I had a different dream.
I fell down a black shaft, passing into a dimly lit room. Two figures, hooded and cloaked, talked beside a fire. Their voices were familiar, but the echoes of the room disrupted my sleep-fuddled brain too much for me to tell who they were.
“I need eyes and ears in the world. I’d like them to be you.”
“Me?”
The smaller figure nodded. “I’m worried. Someone is coming. And they mean us harm.”
“What does the Guardian say?” It was Will. How could I not have known him straight away?
And the other speaker was N’tombe. Why were they whispering?
“She feels it too.” She paused. “Do you know what a spotlight is?”
He shook his head.
“It’s when you train a bright light onto something, light it up, but the surrounding area is dark.”
“Like a lantern?”
“Yes, but brighter. When I followed Rosa’s call to the Kingdom, I felt there was someone else, someone searching. But his search was undirected. A little like a flaming torch – the light falls where it will. But now it feels as though the light i
s directed. And we fear it is targeted at the Princess.”
“You want me to find out what this, this spotlight is.”
Behind them, I mouthed the word. It was a good descriptor. “I need you to find who it is, what it wants of us.”
“Why me?”
“I trust you, Will Baker.” I heard the smile in her voice. “And, there’s the small matter that you don’t have the accent of the Kingdom in your speech and can fight like the fiends of hell.” She put her hand on his knee. “I know you care for the Princess, Will. This is for her protection.”
He bowed his head.
“Will, you must watch for questions about the Kingdom. About where it is, who lives there. The people who seek us are attacking us. They will want to know about its defenses.”
“The Guardian?”
“Tell them nothing about her.”
Below his hood I saw his mouth harden. Was he thinking of me? But he said nothing.
“Now,” she said briskly. “I have arranged a guide for you. He understands the politics of this world better than I. He will meet you at the Crossing.” She unrolled a scroll, setting it out on the floor in front of the fire so the light fell on it and placed a stone on each corner so it didn’t curl back up again. Bending forward over the map, N’tombe spoke quietly.
Huddled into the doorway, I could neither hear what was being said nor see what she was pointing to. Where was she sending him? She took the stones from the corner of the scroll and rolled the map up again.
“Here,” she said, handing it to Will. “It may be useful.”
They continued conferring – where to go, how to get there and how to communicate. As though they were planning a campaign.
“In an emergency you can call to the birds.” She pointed to the roof. Above it the crows came and went from the Guardian’s tower. Birds that were so familiar they were effectively unseen.
“Just call? That’s it?”
N’tombe smiled. “I’ve told them to watch out for you. I’ll arrange a horse, supplies. Weapons. Shall we say, tomorrow morn?”
“First light?” he asked.
I knew why he wanted to leave so early. It was so he wouldn’t have to say farewell.
For the first time I took control of a dream, pushing myself away from that room, tumbling out of sleep as though I was falling down the stairs. He was not going away from me.
The eastern sky was tinged with pink, but from the forest and the pleasure wood the birds were silent. There was still time; the drawbridge wouldn’t be lowered until the sunrise bell.
I tore across the courtyard, my nightgown trailing behind me. Barefoot, I made no noise on the rough cobbles. The sentry standing guard at the base of my parents’ tower watched me pass, his mouth agape. He didn’t say anything. Maybe he thought I was a ghost. Or mad. I probably looked insane, with my bed-roughened hair tumbled like a haystack.
Two horses waited at the gatehouse. One, a packhorse, its silhouette bulky against the lightening sky. The other was bridled and saddled with a traveling saddle. A hooded figure held the reins. The hem of its cloak was cut short above the tops of its boots. N’tombe. So my dream was true.
The door to the gatehouse creaked open, rumbling a little in the morning stillness.
“Well, lad,” said the Sergeant’s deep voice. “I’ll be sorry to see you go. As will Cook. No doubt I’ll have her bashing her ladle about my ears.”
A lighter, gentler voice spoke softly.
“No, no, lad,” said the Sergeant. Used to drilling the guards, he seemed incapable of speaking quietly. “You must do what’s right.”
I hovered in the shadow of the gateway as Will and the Sergeant passed by. I must have made a sound for Will turned, staring. “Princess!”
“Hello, Will,” I said, and tried to smile, but it was a pathetic attempt; my mouth was shaking. “They told me you were ill.”
“Lady, you should not have come.” He stepped toward me, took my hand.
“You were just going to leave? Without saying goodbye?”
He said nothing, but his eyes scanned my face as though itemizing it. Behind us the windlass creaked as the guards dropped the drawbridge. It fell into position, thudding through my bare feet.
“I didn’t want to tell you,” he whispered.
I wanted to smile, but for some reason my lips wouldn’t move. My eyes stung, but he held my hands so I couldn’t wipe them. “Did you think I wouldn’t know?”
His lips quirked. “I should have guessed you’d find out.”
“Are sure you are well enough to travel?” Such a domestic question. I wanted to shout, Don’t go! But looking at him now, it was plain he didn’t want to leave. Why make it harder for him?
He shrugged. “My headache’s gone. I think I can manage.” In the dawn’s light his skin was rosy-pink, the hollows of his face outlined.
I stood on tiptoes, put my hands to his temples. “You must look after yourself, Will.”
“Whatever you say, Princess.”
“For,” I said, and this time my mouth did smile, which was strange because I felt warm tears fall from my eyes, “I can’t be there to keep an eye on you all the time.”
He grinned at that, and I pulled his face down toward mine. Our lips met and we kissed. My mouth was wet with tears but his was dry and warm.
“I’ll come back, Princess,” he whispered.
He reached out and took my hands from his head, then with a swirl of his cloak turned toward the horses. My hand reached to him but too slowly; he’d already pulled himself up into the saddle.
“Take care of her,” he said to N’tombe. Hooves clattered on the cobbles and the sound grew duller, echoed on the woodwork of the drawbridge. Then fainter, as he passed under the arches of the gate-house. Soon I couldn’t hear them at all.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Crossing the Straits
The afternoon sun was low in the sky by the time Will reached the Ferryman’s cottage, perched on a rocky ridge beside the strait. The road had been hard going; crowded with folk on their way to the fields, and slippery with mud. Taken near on a day to reach the coast.
Gray-blue water swirled around the rickety jetty; the flat-bottomed ferry bobbed on the rising tide. The Ferryman, swinging his cloak around his shoulders, grumbled his way down to the boat.
“Ain’t got no call to be leaving the Kingdom, lad. Lots of people want to come here; my job’s to keep them out. Yet here I am, taking you away. Don’t make no sense.”
“I won’t be long,” said Will, hopefully. He lifted his fingers to his lips, shaking his head, thinking of her clear skin, speckled with freckles, the red hair that, no matter how she plaited it back, always came loose, framing her face like a halo.
He shook his head. She was doubly beyond him, a princess and the next Guardian, and what was he? A guardsman with a gift for baking. He could hear her now: Think more of yourself, Will Baker. Well, he could think all he liked, but he still wasn’t a match for a princess.
“Aah,” grunted the old man, pulling on the rope line swung from one bank to the next. “So you say. You’ll be a good while yet, I wager.”
They must have been lucky with the tide, for the trip was calm and for a change the straits were kind to the small boat, smoothing the voyage with a gentle ripple around the great rocks that marked the borders of the mainland. The Ferryman coasted the boat onto the muddy bank of the landing stage with the ease of long practice. Standing in the stern, the mare put her ears back, but clopped off the boat willingly enough. The packhorse, named “Stupid”, baulked.
“Ha ha. Won’t get far at that rate,” muttered the Ferryman. “I dunno, still wet behind the ears, that’s what you are.” He cleared his throat and, in suddenly ferocious tones, “Get along with you!” He brought his hand down flat on Stupid’s rump and the startled animal stepped forward onto the muddy bank.
“Um, thank you,” said Will.
The Crossing hadn’t changed much since he’d last bee
n there getting pots and pans repaired for Cook. The tiny stream that trickled from the hills above had shifted, but the willows remained, thick trunks interspersed by long grass. The tinkers’ camp was still here, although the individual caravans were probably different.
With summer nearing, the Crossing was beginning to fill with traveling players. A tightrope walker, his rope a fine twist of white yarn that shimmered in the low afternoon light, staggered in midair. The breeze tossed narrow willow leaves around him, so he looked as though he was walking through moths.
Above the flood line, marked by piles of wood and weed, a red tent with two peaks was set up. At its entrance sat an enormous woman, braiding her blonde hair as the open tent flap waved behind her, snapping like a flag in the wind. As tall as Sergeant Ryngell and twice as wide, her height increased when, finishing her braids, she set a horned helmet on her head.
A rangy man with a weather-beaten face prodded a stick at a fire. A long sword in a battered leather scabbard hung at his belt. His horse, hairy and unhobbled, grazed the thick grass at the base of the willows. Probably a messenger or a courier like the one who’d brought him here. He had a look of self-sufficiency.
Over at the mouth of the strait an old man and woman heaved leather bags toward their fire. Their scraggly locks hid their faces. Six small horses with richly ornamented saddles stood patiently behind them. Strange, to see old people voyaging on horseback. Traveling to the Crossing was never an easy journey, even at this time of year.
Two men came out from behind the willowbrake. Will was staring, he knew, but he couldn’t help it; even among this strange assortment of humanity, these men looked out of place.
The older one, with unkempt hair and dirty clothes, seemed to be in charge, for he barked an order to the old folk. When he lifted his hand, Will saw that his nails were nearly as long as his fingers, and tipped with bronze. They looked like claws.
Then the other man turned and looked at Will. My dream, thought Will. The men with the arrows, the villagers running. Narrow eyes, aslant in his face, black hair in a long plait that hung to his waist, the stance of a warrior; here stood a man to be feared. He came toward Will, wading through the long grass. His legs were wide, the knees turned out; a man used to horseback.
The SoulNecklace Stories Page 19
