“Tell me about these archers,” I said.
They told me the men they had seen were smaller than they, with narrow, dark eyes, and long, straight black hair. Their bows, they said, were shorter, but very accurate and they could shoot them even as they galloped through the Crossing.
I was reminded uncomfortably of a dream – a sword flashing in the morning sun and the villagers’ song fading into silence. Hadn’t they, too, carried bows of an unusual shape?
Rosa was not concerned by these visitors. “I know of them,” she said. “Do not worry; they are no threat.”
I had told her of my dream. “How can you say that?”
“It is the teeth of the serpent I fear,” she said. “These men, they are only its tail. They are to be watched; maybe they will lead us to its head. At the Crossing, well, there I can keep an eye on them. The Ferryman will never bear them over, you know. And without the ferry, they cannot cross.”
* * *
The worst thing about being a year older was Mother, who made me dress in full-length skirts and wear my hair up at parties.
“Don’t eat so much, dear,” she hissed, when I tried to eat the tiny offerings on silver trays. “People will think you’re greedy.”
“I’m hungry,” I said. “I’ve been sparring all day.”
Pinching the top of her nose, she sighed and closed her eyes. “Don’t remind me.”
I felt no different from when I was fourteen, except my practice clothes were tighter across the chest; I had to bind my breasts when I fought. But when Mother looked at me, I felt strange, as though, all unnoticed, I had changed. Or the people around me expected me to change.
* * *
If Will was out traveling a plague-ridden world, it wasn’t too much hardship to wake early. Each morning, wet or fine, I headed down to the pleasure wood to do two sets of diverse yet strangely similar types of exercise: first combat then, sweat-soaked and tired, I sat against a tree and focused my mind. N’tombe no longer had to rouse me from my bed. The lines of energy came easily now, so at odd moments, when my thoughts were serene, I felt the energy radiating from the Castle’s residents. Sometimes when I was lying in bed, drifting toward sleep, the Castle seemed like a glowing sphere.
Rinpoche taught me to focus on these lines, to pull at nexus points within them. I no longer needed to clamber into a tree to spot a squirrel; by following the energy lines, I could feel where he was hiding.
“Is that how you made that shield?” I asked.
He nodded. “One should be cautious how it is used. The energy of living things is a most potent weapon.”
* * *
One fine day in autumn, as the leaves were turning amber, Sergeant Ryngell came to watch our practice. The boys, as I called them, were improving, growing faster, learning balance, so they were harder to throw. They had grown wary of my kicks, so they moved out of range. They hesitated less too, losing the conditioning of never hitting a woman. They were beginning to punch back. But still they were slower than I, less aware of angles and approaches; I could fight three and win. Bruises I received aplenty, of course, but I was able to stagger to my feet and survey the groaning wrecks below me.
The Sergeant said nothing as he watched us spar, just stood with hands across his chest and a stoic expression on his face. He might have been watching the wind blow the clouds for all the interest he seemed to take. Yet, at the end, he said, “And could you kill them?”
“What?”
He pointed at the quivering lumps on the sand. “Those. Could you kill them?”
“I beat them,” I pointed out.
“That’s not the same.”
“Yes it is. They can’t move.”
“Yet.”
“Do you want me to kill them?” How could I do that? I knew these lads. Steven, who loved hens and wanted to be a poultry farmer; Clifford, from the north; Sharvel, a miller’s son who hated wheat so much he joined the guards. There they lay, rubbing heads and knees and sighing.
“A dead enemy,” said the Sergeant seriously, “is a safe enemy.”
I knew what he was trying to say. I had never taken my knife to anything to kill it.
“No,” I shook my head. “I couldn’t.”
“I’ll teach you.”
Did he want me to kill these boys? How could I kill a friend? But no, he meant for me to hunt.
* * *
I went with the gamekeepers. Acting as beater, I learnt to scare the grouse by walking through the long bracken. It was like wading through brown seas, as the birds flew up in whirring flocks before us.
The keepers taught me to pull the neck of the bird so the vertebrae popped and the head twisted right around. Their wives taught me how to dress it and prepare it for the pot. N’tombe refused to eat it. She said it was too bland.
Sergeant Ryngell took me on bigger hunts. Out in the woods for deer, following the hounds at the trail, sighting the quarry, drawing my bow; I did all this. He made me follow a hind I’d wounded, until we found it, curled up like a crumpled skin.
“You do it, Princess,” he took out his knife and passed it to me, handle first.
It felt heavy in my hand, heavier than any knife had a right to be, and the eyes of the hind were more beautiful than any I had ever known. Still, the animal was in pain, which I had caused. My responsibility, so I must end it. I pressed the point of the knife to the pulse in the neck, and ducked, to avoid the spray of blood. Not fast enough; Nurse clucked and scolded when I returned.
After that I traveled out with the hunters, and as often as we could manage I was the one who made the kill.
“Killing a man is like killing a pig,” said the Sergeant, “except men walk on two legs and have weapons.”
“A boar has weapons,” I thought of the tusks of the animal we’d killed yesterday. It had leapt from the thicket, squealing, and gone straight at the hounds, those great dogs with heavy jaws and shoulders.
“Ware, Princess, ware!” shouted the gamekeeper, but I was not listening; I was looking at the quarry. The pig was huge, nearly as tall as I, angry and fast. And clever, you could tell from his eyes, from the way he watched me, judged me. I threw my knives fast, overhand, and he dropped.
The trick to killing is to never hesitate. You may only get one chance.
* * *
Unfortunately I still had spelling and French and grammar to contend with, as well as mathematics and, for some obscure reason, geography.
“Why do I need to know this?” If I was going to be cooped up in a tower all my life, there was no need to know all about the world; I would never see it, would I?
N’tombe was not sympathetic, though, and made me draw maps and view globes and learn names and smatterings of languages I would never speak.
“Knowledge is never wasted.”
Rosa’s tower was always in my thoughts. It loomed over the Castle, a memorial to all those who had lived in it, who had never had their own lives. And now I would be next. It felt as though I was living in a cemetery next to my own gravestone.
“Tomorrow we will visit the Guardian,” N’tombe said one evening in early winter. Despite the chill breeze that blew straight from the snow-capped mountains, she had dragged me up to the ramparts. There was a rare conjunction of the planets, she said, and Venus, the star of evening, was just emerging. I didn’t want to go; every time I saw that star I thought of Will.
“I don’t want to see Rosa,” I said, unthinkingly, still dreaming of Will and hoping he was well.
“I will take you then,” The inference being: I will make you. Her face was almost invisible against the night.
“She’s getting worse. That wound on her chest – it’s huge. She tries to hide it, but when she moves the ruby swings, and I can see it. I can’t bear to watch.”
“I know. I hate to see it, also. But she is greater than you know, and more powerful than you understand.”
“Do I have to go?”
“If you were her, don’t you think y
ou’d want to see someone like you?”
I stared out at the night. “That’s a silly question. I’m not her.”
In the lee of the walls was a weather-teller’s station; the slim silver bells tinkled lightly. I had loved tugging on the lines as a child, thinking this must be how fairies sound. Until the Teller had come to stop me, because I’d made him think a storm was coming.
“Well, silly or no, you must continue to visit her.”
“Why?”
“She has things to teach you and you have things to learn.”
“Learn? I’m sick of learning! I do nothing but study and practice.”
“In my land,” said N’tombe fiercely, “children are desperate to learn. So desperate they will walk for an hour in the heat to get to school. You are fortunate, and you do not even realize it. You spit on opportunities that others can only dream of.”
She whirled, her cloak a brush of air in the darkness, and disappeared. We had been standing on the walls, beside the stairwell. Yet she didn’t go past me and I never saw her go down the stairs. The silver bells hung silent. Sometimes I forgot that N’tombe had powers I didn’t understand. And then she did a little thing like vanishing, and reminded me.
* * *
Each night I set my head on the pillow and told myself to dream of Will. I had odd snippets of dreams, harsh little fragments of him on a horse, or in a bar, or on a boat, but I knew little of where he was and what he was doing, only that he was alive and bore no extra scars save the ones I’d given him. I told myself I should be grateful for these messages, that at least I knew he was well, but it was hard, some nights, to fall asleep.
And then, one night, the dreams changed.
I stood on a dusty track beside a stream at the entrance to a fir wood. The reeds at the riverside were dark green with midsummer growth. Small flies shaped like tiny twigs flitted about my shoulders. Above the rattle of the brook I could hear the lazy thud of horses ambling slowly and deep voices talking. Would they see me? I hid myself in the shade of the pines.
“Don’t know why you need that packhorse, lad.”
“To carry my bags.”
My heart paused, skipped in excitement. Will.
“You’ve a horse, haven’t you? What good’s your horse if he don’t carry your baggage?”
Around the bend in the track came two travelers and three horses. The first man was unfamiliar, riding relaxed in the saddle, the brim of his hat low on his face. And behind him was Will.
The stranger reached backwards, offering his hand to Will. “Jed. Jed Taylor.”
“Will Baker,” said Will. “What were you doing at the Crossing, Jed?”
Slouched in his saddle, the stranger looked back at Will with lazy amusement. “You know a woman? Name of N’tombe?”
Will didn’t sound surprised. “How do you know her?”
“Long story. Few years ago, maybe five, maybe more, I was crossing the plains. Long ways south of here; across the sea, over the mountains. Vast empty spaces.”
They were so close I could reach out and touch them, but I wanted to hear what they were saying; I would not break the dream.
“What were you doing?” Will asked.
“Traveling, lad, just traveling. That’s what I do. I travel. Don’t hold with settling down. Like to see things, new places, different folks.”
I stepped out from my tree, following them like a butterfly, floating in the wake their horses left in the resinous air. Flying! The best thing about dream travel. I bobbed unseen as they talked.
“Was a guard for a time. A merchant going to the east needed an extra sword. ’Tis said that in the east the children play marbles with diamonds and rubies. I took a fancy to see rubies used for playthings. So, here I was, on the outskirts of this band of merchants, breathing in the dust and keeping an eye out for thieves when I see this woman. Walking.”
He slipped a canteen of water off a hook on the front of his saddle and took a sip. “Now, these plains were real empty. Been terrible fighting, armies traveling forwards and back, trampling all the villages and towns along the way. Wolves and wild dogs all over, bodies everywhere. Found a heap of skulls, once. Not a place for females. And here comes this woman, first a speck in the distance, coming out of the plain like she was borne from its dust and sun-shimmer.”
He waved the canteen at Will, who shook his head. “She was walking fast, like she’s following something. Purposeful-like. She wasn’t just ambling along, or hobbling from a massacre. No, she was off.” Jed waved his hand, drawing a line from left to right across his face. “Fast. Well. On that plain, only things what moved was armies or traders or bandits. So me and the other outrider, we took off to see this female. And when we got close we could see she was different.”
“What do you mean?”
“Her skin, for one. Dark, like the night.” He paused, staring into space for a moment, as if imagining the face of a strange woman. “Her eyes was gray-blue, like the sky of an evening.”
“N’tombe. You met N’tombe.”
Jed nodded. “Aye. She traveled with us for a time, but we turned toward the mountains after a while, and she needed to go west. Didn’t see why, not a lot there, but she said she was “following a call” and wouldn’t be dissuaded.” He tipped his hat forwards, settling the brim over his eyes. “Ain’t seen her since. Sometimes I dream of her, though. Something “bout her – those eyes. Her purpose. Something else, too.”
“Her power,” said Will.
“Aye. That’s it.”
“She sent me here.”
“I know. I was expectin’ you. Sort of.” He sighed. “Sounds a mite strange, this. Still. Had a dream the other night; I was off down south in the Brecons, sleeping cozy in a bed by a fire. And here’s this N’tombe telling me to haul myself up off my comfortable mattress and head north to the Crossing. To wait for you.” He snorted. “I told myself: don’t listen, just rubbish, but in the end I had to go.”
“I can take care of myself,” said Will.
“Don’t doubt it. Still, best with company.”
Their horses walked on, pacing silently through the thick pine needles, and I followed, ghostlike, through the sunbeams that fell in dust-streaked bars of light across the track. The men said nothing.
Suddenly I felt a desperate sluggishness, the air thickening about me like treacle. I moved slower, drifting with the breeze as Will walked away from me.
Finally, exhausted, I sank down, spiraling like a sycamore seed to the floor of the forest.
I woke then. Will had a companion! Or he had at midsummer, at any rate. And despite the dirt, he seemed well. But more reassuring than any sight of him was the knowledge that N’tombe was watching out for him.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Festival
Winter came and went, an unending torrent of ice and snow, and N’tombe grew quiet and pale, or as pale as her dark skin allowed, and took early to her bed. But the world still spun and finally the cold and damp passed and spring flowers bloomed. We began riding in the woods, practicing our archery, and N’tombe’s fierceness returned.
I continued visiting Rosa. Her guards seemed pathetically glad to see me, saying how nice it was to have a chance to meet the Guardian ‘before’. I smiled politely, finishing their sentences in my head: “before she becomes crippled”, “before she ages”, “before she staggers under the weight of a homicidal jewel”, “before she changes, irrevocably, into a nightmare-fashioned crone’ (I liked this last phrase the best).
“Not at all, Miss,” said Reg, in offended tones, when I said my thoughts aloud. “We meant, before the burden. Before you become more.”
“More?”
“More than yourself, Miss. Nice to meet you when you are just you.”
“Hush, blabbermouth,” said Greg, coming out of the dark, appearing at Reg’s shoulder. They looked for a moment like a two-headed giant. “Don’t scare the lassie.”
I nearly laughed. I had gone through the fear an
d come out the other side; now I was just trying to cope with each day. I breathed in and out and set one foot in front of another and hoped a miracle would occur.
* * *
The Sergeant changed my sparring partners. “The men need a break, Lady.”
I didn’t recognize the new guards. “We’re based at Ladyshead, Miss,” they said.
This was two days’ ride away. “You’ve come a long way.”
There were many strange guards quartered at the Castle now; the barracks were full and more platoons were expected shortly. Dusty banners were unfurled on battlements and chambermaids seemed to be scurrying everywhere with buckets and mops to hand.
“What’s going on?” I asked Nurse.
She seemed bewildered by my ignorance. “Why, ’tis Festival time, Lady.”
How could I have forgotten the Festival? I must be growing old.
So it shouldn’t have been a surprise when Alden arrived at table. But I had been so caught up in my own internal journeyings that I hadn’t paid attention to events outside. This was a disturbing thought; it seemed a prelude to life in the tower.
Alden was still tall, blonde and handsome. I’m sure his rooms were the cleanest in the Castle, for unlike me, he was popular with the chambermaids.
“Ah, little sister,” he said, and tousled my hair. “When did you become so pretty?”
I curtsied, sweeping my skirts like a proper courtier. “Thank you, brother.”
“And you’re nearly sixteen,” he said. “Has no one claimed your heart?”
I shook my head. One never told Alden anything private. It was too easily blabbed. “What is the purpose of your visit, brother?”
He bowed. “The Festival, of course. And this year it will be especially lively, for we have your birthday celebrations. Sixteen! Ah, what a wonderful age!” He looked into the distance with a lecherous, nostalgic expression on his face
The SoulNecklace Stories Page 21
