by Dylan Farrow
“You promise you’ll tell me everything when you get back?” Fiona asks, driving the knife farther into my chest.
“I promise.” I don’t meet her gaze. “Here, let me show you what to do with the flock while I’m gone.”
Fiona obediently follows me around the weathered old barn toward the gate. Like the house, the wood siding has grayed with age, along with the shabby, thatched roof. It’s impressive that it’s still standing, if barely, let alone that it manages to keep predators and thieves out.
The flock bleat and shuffle around happily as I unlock and open the door. They waste no time trotting outside to the pasture. Mercifully, they seem to be cooperative today and stick together as they file out into the valley. Only Imogen is a little slow, but I forgive her for it. She’s due to give birth within the week. Giving us another lamb is worth the extra time it takes to wait for her to catch up.
We lead the sheep to the hilltop east of the valley, which can’t be seen from the house, before I turn and take Fiona’s hands.
“What?” she asks with a confused look.
“I almost forgot. I have something for you.” I reach into my pocket and produce my latest project, a handkerchief dyed red with a mix of beetroot and petals, stitched with dark flowers that look like eyes. Another one of my strange dreams, though this one can’t possibly come true.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispers.
That’s another thing about Fiona. She loves everything I sew, even the odd and disturbing images. Sometimes, I think maybe she sees the world the same way I do. Other times, I think she loves what I make precisely because she does not.
Because to her, the world appears simple. To her, the sun is merely light, not a scourge. To her, the night is a blanket of stars, not a swath of fear and silence. What I cannot say to her—what I cannot even understand myself—is that sometimes, I fear the dark will swallow me whole.
2
Most travelers have to navigate a treacherous pass to reach town, but from our house, it’s only an hour’s walk north along the shore of what used to be a pond. The walk is easy enough, if a little dreary. Without rain, the dusty countryside is all the same dull, washed-out brown. The pond dried up long ago and is simply a dark crater in the middle of the valley—a scar on the skin of the earth, reminding us of what once was there.
Nausea and dizziness roll in my gut the nearer I draw to the village, my vision spotting as if I am stricken by sun fever. The tall watchtowers loom ever closer, ominous and unmoving in the distance. Stepping toward their shadows only adds to my unease.
Even if I do speak with the Bards, what are the chances they won’t simply execute me for my impertinence? What if they do find a trace of the Indigo Death in me and banish us? Burn our home for a second time? A cold chill rolls over me in waves as I recall tales of the Bards’ past punishments. Fiona’s mother once saw a Bard seal a woman’s mouth shut by whispering in her ear.
To calm my racing heart, I try to remember the sound of Ma’s voice. If I concentrate, I can hear the warm tremor of it: deep and gentle, like the summer wind echoing in a well. Before she went silent, she used to spin bedtime stories for Kiernan and me—stories of a place beyond the cloud-capped mountaintops, where we will all one day rest. Stories of Gondal, a land of magic and beauty, where flowers grow twice the height of man, where birds speak and spiders hum, where trees thick as houses burst toward the sky.
Kieran and I would listen attentively in the matching beds Pa built for us. Mine had a little heart carved into the headboard and Kieran’s had a star. Ma would sit on a stool between us, her face illuminated by a flickering golden candle as she told us about the Bards of Montane. By Telling, the Bards can lure luck into being. Their words can whisper away your heartbeat and show your deepest secrets to the world.
It was a happy time, before the myth of Gondal was deemed profane. Before the Bards began the raids, removing any stories or iconography of Gondal from homes and gathering places, and the very word was banned.
Gondal is nothing more than a fairy tale, albeit a dangerous one. As a child, I might not have understood that fully, but I do now. Such tales are treacherous and have no place amidst reality.
She never should have told us those stories, I think angrily. If she hadn’t, Kieran would be alive.
My fingers itch to take up my sewing to calm myself, but instead, I take a deep breath to dispel the poisonous thoughts from my mind as the village of Aster comes into full view at the other side of the pass.
Of all its citizens, Ma and I live farthest from the village proper. It was deemed necessary by the constable after what happened to Kieran. The day Ma took my hand and we made the trek into the mountain valley where we’ve been ever since is still vivid in my mind. The memory of the constable’s hammer pounding as he nailed a blackened plague marker above our door—the shape of a death mask, its mouth and eyes empty—a constant reminder of what we’d lost. The good people of Aster don’t have to worry about our misfortune infecting them if they stay away. Not that it matters. Ma already hasn’t been the same since Pa’s heart failed him. Since Kieran’s death, she hasn’t strayed from the house, except to tend the land.
From the pass, I can just make out the cluster of rooftops below on the windswept plains. Here, feral horses run in packs, attacking anything foolish enough to draw close. Before the Blot, this barren stretch of countryside was some of the best farmland in the region. Now, the flat, dusty earth stretches for miles, dotted sparsely with long-dead trees. To the west, a dried-up river cuts a jagged line through the ground like a raw, gaping wound. The bridge across was stripped for firewood during a particularly cruel winter, leaving behind a skeletal path of cracked stone and mortar.
The village of Aster is a huddled group of small houses, shrinking every time another band of highwaymen find it. It sits alone on the dusty plains, shadowed from behind by the unforgiving peaks of the mountains. In recent decades, a wall and watchtower were erected, looming over the houses. The investment was sound; Aster became much safer when it stopped being such an easy target.
The simple wood and stone houses were whitewashed after the Blot ended to give the appearance of cleanliness. The paint is graying, peeling off to reveal the dirty material beneath in a drab patchwork. Little bursts of color try valiantly to peek through: a line of shutters once painted a bright red but now ruddy and worn, a wall covered in withered ivy, and window boxes full of dead weeds. You can see how Aster was a beautiful town once, before poverty and plague raced through its narrow dirt streets.
A hundred years ago, when the Blot first ravaged Montane, bloated, blue bodies littered the streets. But the family of High House cured Montane of the worst of it, and for a few decades, the Indigo Death disappeared entirely. Yet people did not heed their rules. They smuggled ink into their towns, invited the Blot inside their homes. And so the sickness returned in waves.
It still could, if we are not careful.
The Bards keep us safe and blessed. Despite the harsh punishments, we owe them our lives. Their Tellings can pull the breath from your lungs if you speak words that might conjure the Indigo Death. But they can also breathe life back into those on the edge of death, if the people are virtuous enough.
Kieran was not so lucky. Many others were not either. There are some things that even High House cannot do. But I would never dare to say it aloud.
The outskirts of town are nearly deserted. As I walk between rows of worn clapboard houses, all I hear is the sound of a howling cat nearby. Everyone must already be gathered in the market.
Music drifts from the center of town, but the lively tune sends a ghostly echo through the empty streets. I follow the hollow sound, wrapping a shawl around my face to hide my features. My teeth clench at the thought of the crowd recognizing me—the glaring eyes, the muttered curses—but still, I pick up my pace toward the market square.
Turning a corner around the abandoned blacksmith’s shop, I see the first signs of the crowd preparing
for the Bards’ arrival—their inspection, though no one dares call it that. Grandfather Quinn is playing his rusted flute, his wife conducting. The town’s children sing along to the music. Directions are shouted over the melody as a group of young men hang thin banners from the windows. The colors are dull with age and the cloths threadbare, looking likely to blow away at the first sign of a stiff breeze.
Beneath the banners, Aster’s most prosperous families have arranged various stalls and booths to showcase the best of their wares. Fiona’s father is among them, tall and fair like his daughter, hastily erecting a weathered canopy over a cluster of modest vegetables, which have been propped upright against an overturned basket to give the appearance of bountifulness. My heart twists with pity—and fear. Even Fiona’s father, the most blessed among us, is struggling to produce food. Soon, all will be loaded onto a cart and sent to High House.
Unless the Bards are displeased.
On the other side of the street, girls my age are hurrying toward the square in their finest clothes, each bearing platters of fruit and pitchers of precious water. My throat aches for it. I recognize a few of them, though I hope they won’t know me. The elders escorting them fuss over their hair and dresses, barking, “stand up straight!” and “be sure to smile!” The prettiest are pushed to the front of the crowd—where they are more likely to catch the Bards’ attention. One of the elders comments loudly about Fiona’s absence, sending a cold shiver up my spine.
The town’s excitement barely masks its desperation. It’s only a shroud to conceal the drought, our lack of offerings for High House. I wonder if it will be enough to fool the Bards.
Keeping my head low, I use my elbows to break through the crowd and inch closer to the square. I pull the shawl tighter around my face, but most of the townspeople are too transfixed by what’s happening to notice me.
The air is tense, people’s faces tight beneath forced smiles. Aster has had a bad run, even before the current drought, but Constable Dunne told us things were looking better this year. According to Fiona, he assured us that this season we’d be granted a Telling. Our woes would be over. The starvation would end.
I dare a glance at my fellow villagers, many in rags, their faces as gaunt and carved-out as my own. The knot in my gut cinches tighter. From the edges of the town square, people are packed so densely that I can’t even see the center.
I frown and try to elbow my way farther in. The crowd is hard to maneuver through; I remain trapped far from where I wish to be. I lurch onto the tips of my toes, barely making out the scene over the shoulders of the man in front of me.
Constable Dunne stands alone at the bottom of the town hall steps, his lean figure stiff with worry. Shingles and oak panels—once fine—have been stripped from the building. Dunne directs his gaze toward the square. Dunne has been Aster’s leader as long as I can remember. He’s tall and strong for a man of his years, but there is a tinge of weariness behind his eyes as he keeps a lookout for the Bards. A few minutes pass before he hurriedly squares his shoulders, smoothing his worn coat and lifting a hand in the air.
The music grows louder and the people in the street grow utterly silent. On the other side of the square, the crowd parts.
The Bards have arrived.
My heart leaps, and it takes me a moment to find the word for the feeling that floods my chest. Hope.
Three imposing figures enter as a hush falls over the crowd. Their long black coats are accented with gold, the colors of High House, and are tailored perfectly, accenting sharp lines and perfect posture. Upon each of their right upper arms is the crest of High House, a shield and three swords. The finery of their uniforms stands in stark contrast to the rabble surrounding them. From what I can see under their dark hoods, their expressions are fixed and impassive.
Constable Dunne greets them with a deep, reverent bow that the Bards ignore. He rights himself awkwardly and signals again, this time for the procession of girls with their baskets.
The music picks up: shaky at first, but growing steady. A light, festive melody fills the air as the procession files in around the Bards. First the girls, dancing joyfully and tossing pieces of painted fabric that mimic flower petals into the air. They smile tightly at the Bards and fan out, each taking a spot that tactfully conceals anything that might look less than perfect. One moves her thinly slippered foot over a dark stain on the ground. Blood, I realize, spilled during the Bards’ last visit. My stomach lurches.
Next, the merchants and tradespeople push their carefully prepared goods through the square. They form a line, each bowing to the Bards before stepping back. The three figures in black share a look before walking to inspect the town’s offering. The whole town seems to go silent, holding its breath, as the Bards make their way from cart to cart.
After what feels like an eternity, they turn to confer with Constable Dunne while the crowd watches. Dunne’s jaw is set uncomfortably. His broad brow furrows, shining with sweat.
The crowd begins to murmur softly, the sound moving from the front to the back of the crowd like wind over grass.
“Did you hear anything?”
“Perhaps they’ll show mercy…”
“… the lowest-performing village in the region,” I hear a woman nearby say to her aging father. “The Bards will refuse their blessings again.”
Another sobs, handkerchief clutched to her mouth. “We’re not worthy.”
The constable is pleading with the Bards, but they don’t even seem to hear what he says. Desperation is mounting in the crowd with every passing second. It’s strange to see the esteemed Constable Dunne, usually a measured and reliable man, cower so powerlessly.
If the most important man in town can’t get them to listen, what chance do I have?
My frantic thoughts are cut short as one of the Bards, a tall man with shoulders even broader than Dunne’s, steps forward with his hand in the air. A call for silence. The crowd obeys immediately.
“Good people of Aster,” he addresses us. Although his voice is not raised, I hear him clearly—as though he’s standing right beside me. It’s a deep, resonant sound, tinged with a faint, sophisticated accent I’ve never heard before. “As always, High House is humbled by your generosity. It pains us greatly that your tithe is not equal to the spirit in which it is given.”
My insides twist. Another rush of voices begins to rise from the people, but the Bard cuts them off, raising his hand higher. His eyes pinch in anger. “Sadly, this marks yet another visit wherein Aster has disappointed. By the grace of Lord Cathal, High House can only offer as much as you provide us in return.”
He approaches Fiona’s father’s cart and picks up a shriveled turnip. The carefully placed display falls away, revealing the overturned basket beneath that props everything up. Another Bard picks up an apple and turns it over, revealing a bruise that shadows the fruit’s skin. The Bard clicks his tongue and shakes his head. Fiona’s father stands stock-still, his face ashen.
“Where other villages beyond the plains have offered bountiful harvests, here, the crops are meager,” the dark-haired Bard continues, delicately placing the turnip back on the cart. “We want to help you. Truly. But clearly there is something amiss here. Aster will benefit little from a Telling.”
Constable Dunne clears his throat. “It’s the drought. Nothing will—”
“Please show mercy! We’ll never survive without a Telling,” the woman next to me wails, cutting off the constable’s speech. Tears are streaming down her face.
The Bard signals for silence once more, and the crowd complies, the air thick with their unspoken pleas.
“As I said.” The Bard’s voice is firmer. “There is a reason that Aster alone is experiencing such hardship. A responsible party.” He pauses, looking over the gathered faces. I’m certain his eyes meet mine from beneath his hood—and I let out a ragged breath when they sweep past me to continue surveying the crowd. “I encourage anyone with information to step forward. Has someone you know s
poken a forbidden word? Used or kept ink? Withheld banned objects?”
The woman next to me inhales sharply.
Constable Dunne steps forward, nodding weakly. “The time to divulge is now. The fate of Aster depends on it.”
The crowded square falls into silence, but the people of Aster are not looking at the Bards—they are looking at one another. Their eyes are wide and fearful. Cruel, even. I should know; they are the same stares that forced my mother and me from our home. Could they be searching for someone I know?
A frost creeps through my core. Could they be searching for me?
A small boy steps into the center of the square, walking silently toward the Bard. I recognize his mop of dark tangled hair. Grandfather Quinn’s youngest grandchild.
The towering Bard leans down to allow the child to whisper in his ear. A thunderstorm overtakes my mind.
Is he whispering my name?
My heartbeat echoes dully in my ears, growing faster and louder as the Bard stands upright again. He sends the child away with a gentle pat on the shoulder.
“The village elder known as Quinn hereby stands accused of spreading stories of Gondal,” the Bard says, folding his hands neatly behind his back. “Step forward, please.”
My fists unclench. Sounds of a scuffle rise from the back of the crowd, punctuated by pleading as Grandfather Quinn is grabbed roughly by the nearest townspeople and dragged forward. He is deposited with a shove at the Bard’s feet where he cowers, his aged body trembling violently. Bile rises in my throat—but I can’t avert my eyes. I believe it, yet I’m still in shock. At his betrayal. That he could be so foolish. That he would risk us all.
“Please, good Bards…”
“Silence!” The Bard’s voice is edged with anger.
“Do what he says.” I can’t help but wish for it under my breath. Thankfully, the old man falls quiet.
