Hush

by Dylan Farrow

  “For the crime of uttering forbidden language, you are hereby sentenced to a silencing. Your tongue shall pay the debt owed to High House.”

  The expression on his face unreadable, Dunne nods to the group who brought Quinn forward. They hesitate, throwing glances at one another—until the broadest of the group pounces on Quinn. The motion reminds me of a cat digging its claws into a mouse. Quinn throws a watery smile at his grandson over his shoulder, but remains quiet as they drag him toward the decrepit town hall.

  It isn’t until he disappears into the shadows of the building that his scream pierces the silence.

  Constable Dunne rushes to close the doors. With a bang, they separate Quinn from the crowd as firmly as a sharp blade slices meat from the bone.

  Eventually, Constable Dunne turns to the Bards, hands pressed together tightly. “Surely, noble Bards, the removal of this stain will be enough to lift the blight from our town and earn back the favor of High House?”

  The Bard regards Dunne impassively. “Aster has shown impressive loyalty to High House today,” he replies. “It took great bravery for one so young to come forward. For your efforts, we shall grant a Telling.”

  This news is enough to completely transform the tension in the air. A cheer surges from the crowd, along with promises of abundant harvests, breathtaking festivals—and vows to root out traitors. The Bard nods briefly in approval before stepping back to prepare the Telling.

  I draw a deep breath into my lungs, rising up on my toes to see them—and to stop myself from fainting in the close press of bodies.

  There’s a charge that moves through the air as my eyes linger on the Bards. The three black-and-gold figures stand facing one another, their fingers tented in front of their chests. They are so still that they look as though they could be made of stone. But their lips move wordlessly in unison, raw energy corralling in the space between them, pulling toward them through their voiceless chant. The wind tightens around us. It feels as if the fabric of the world is being drawn closer with every passing second. The pull grows stronger as their lips move faster.

  A booming clap of thunder issues from overhead. Hundreds of awed faces look up at once, their mouths open in wonder at a dark cloud newly overhead.

  Then, a precious drop of water, gleaming like a jewel, falls on the village of Aster. In the span of a breath, the drop is followed by another, and another, and another.

  Rain.

  3

  The crowd erupts into joyful cheers. We stare up into the sky, letting the blessed rain pour down on our cheeks. I feel as if I am weeping—perhaps I am. I’ve known the greatness of the Bards’ powers all my life, yet I have never seen it like this. So pure, so life-bringing.

  The townspeople start to dance, their skin glistening with new rainfall, and I exhale an awed breath, hope flooding me. With the crowd distracted by the rain, I may have a chance at an audience with the Bards once the Telling is complete.

  Suddenly, a hand yanks away my covering. “You.”

  The heat of being recognized moves through me in a wave of nausea.

  My old neighbor—a kind man who once pressed a basket of strawberries into my hand—glares at me. Heads turn, mouths falling open as the villagers register who I am. The girl touched by the Blot. “How dare you show your face here? Just when we’ve finally earned a Telling?”

  A younger man glares at me venomously. “They ought to drag you off with Grandfather Quinn!”

  “Scourge,” a woman hisses.

  Someone shoves me hard onto my knees in the wet dirt. Another spits at me. Before I can fully pick myself up, a storm of limbs, hisses, and taunts pushes me back, away from the Bards. It’s all I can do to scramble over the street and out of the way.

  Despite my trembling, I manage to stumble to my feet, pull the shawl over my head, and flee, trying hard not to release my tears.

  I want to run home, curl up beside my mother, and dream of her singing me a lullaby. Dream, even, of Gondal, that beautiful toxic lie. The myth my brother and I lived by, and the one that, in the end, might have killed him …

  That cost Grandfather Quinn his tongue.

  But there is no going back—not when the darkness is waiting for me every night, the ever-growing certainty that something is consuming me: the curse, the Blot, the mark of one who is doomed, or doomed to hurt others.

  Finally, I emerge at the edge of the crowd, panting. In the chaos, no one has followed. They are too distracted by the rain. I grit my teeth and brush the mud from my clothes. My heart is pounding, and the lump in my throat feels as if it’s choking me.

  Breathe. Breathe, I remind myself. There has to be something I can do to get the Bards’ attention.

  I cast my gaze toward the wall of people, still cheering and celebrating, mercifully oblivious to me now.

  A flash of light down a small path between houses catches my eye. Then another. Squinting in the direction of the distraction, I see it: a grand horse tossing its head, causing light to glint off its golden bridle.

  My breath catches. Suddenly, I’m eleven years old again, weaving Kieran’s death ribbons into tree branches.

  The Bards’ horses paw the ground impatiently, like they’ve just stepped out of my memory.

  I slink away as quickly as possible until I reach the edge of the square where I can skirt the side of the building toward the horses. Their owners will have to come back to them at some point.

  The three elegant creatures are not even tied to a hitching post; they simply wait for their masters obediently where they were left. They are black mares, almost fearsome in their beauty, nothing like the old nags I’ve seen in town or on the farms. Their dark, intelligent eyes watch me as I approach, almost as if they are assessing me.

  The closest one even cocks her head, curious.

  “Hello there,” I whisper, and the horse bobs her head, as though in greeting. A wave of calm washes over me, and for the first time since leaving the pasture—since lying to Fiona—I can breathe evenly. The light catches the mare’s golden bridle, and the motion tosses her mane from her forehead, revealing a small white star.

  I place the basket of wool I’ve been clutching tightly the whole time between my feet and slowly hold out my hand. After a curious sniff, the mare lets me run my fingers over the marking on her forehead and down her ebony face to her soft muzzle. She whinnies, lowering her head to allow me to scratch behind her ear.

  Up close, the incredible detail in her bridle is striking; it shimmers in the rainfall. The gold brow band and nose strap are engraved with a delicate filigree of shapes that I don’t recognize, and set with small, white gems of some kind. I don’t need to know what they’re called to understand that just one of those sparkling stones is worth more than the entire town of Aster twice over. My free hand runs its fingers over the engraving and jewels, half-expecting such finery to vanish at my touch.

  A firm, gloved hand suddenly circles my wrist and pulls me back. Spinning around, I choke on my breath as a storm of black and gold takes over my vision. Shaking, I find myself face-to-face with a Bard of High House.

  He is no longer expressionless—fire seems to dance against the dark of his eyes, making them flash beneath his hood. His voice is low and dangerous when he whispers, “Hands off, thief.”

  When feeling returns to my limbs after my initial shock, there is a dull pain in my wrist from the Bard’s grip. Not enough to leave a mark, but enough to remind me that it could get worse if I try anything foolish. My gaze falls automatically to the wet cobblestones.

  He releases me. “Well? Nothing to say for yourself?”

  His voice leaves a charge in the air between us. It’s deep and resonant, but there is a strange, otherworldly reverberation that carries beneath the surface, a separate sound woven into his words, that keeps me rooted to the spot. I remember clinging to Ma’s skirts as Claire, the baker, sang in the market at dusk, her husband playing a stringed instrument I never learned the name of. Now, it’s as if the B
ard’s voice creates its own accompaniment. With each word, I can feel prickling heat on the skin of my face and neck, the air around us tightening and growing heavy like a storm is about to break.

  The sensation dissipates as soon as he stops speaking, and I am left cold and wanting more.

  I try not to wince as my gaze trails up from the finely polished leather boots standing in front of me. The gold trim on his uniform leads from elegant pants beneath his black cloak to a pristine jacket of the same color, adorned with two rows of shining golden buttons on either side of his chest. He stands unnaturally still, staring into my eyes without blinking, even as the rain sprinkles his face. Up close, he seems even more powerful, more extraordinary—and far more dangerous—than I imagined.

  “I…” Now that an actual Bard is in front of me, I seem to have forgotten my senses. I swallow hard and try once more. “S-Sir…” Is he a sir? Sir Bard? Or do I say lord? In my haste, I never even accounted for how to properly address a Bard. Humiliation washes over me.

  The Bard makes a noise that is half groan, half sigh of annoyance. He pulls me out of his way easily, as if drawing back a curtain—as if I were invisible— fixing his attention on the mare.

  “And what have I told you about letting strangers near?” He strokes the creature’s neck. “You are far too trusting.” A softness has crept into his stern voice.

  I feel my face flush as a flurry of mixed emotions tangle up in my chest—first mortification at my own clumsiness, then outrage that he would value an animal over the human beside him, and finally fury at myself for lacking the words to say what I need to.

  The Bard sweeps back his cloak, reaching for the saddle to swing into it. He doesn’t even glance in my direction.

  All my emotions harden into one: determination. My opportunity is rapidly slipping away.

  “Wait—” The word falls from my mouth, blunt and awkward. “I’m—I’m not a thief.” Before I can think better of it, I reach out in desperation to grasp the hem of his cloak right as he pulls himself astride the horse.

  The movement makes his hood fall to his shoulders, revealing his look of surprise and affront. It doesn’t help my racing heart to see the Bard is actually quite handsome. His thick, raven-black hair is striking, swept neatly back from his forehead. His skin is pale, and his features are soft, offset by high, angular cheekbones and a square jaw.

  His mouth twitches, and I think of the words stored in his throat, how they are like snake venom—each with the power to cure or kill.

  There’s a sickening tightness in my gut, but I push on. “I’m sorry, but I must ask a favor—”

  “A favor?” He repeats the question back at me with deliberate slowness, as if he is not sure I understand what I have asked.

  Help me, I want to say. But the look on the Bard’s face makes it painfully clear: I’m nothing. How foolish was I to imagine that the towering figure before me would lower himself to help a peasant like me? That he would care?

  I think of Grandfather Quinn being dragged into the shadows of town hall, the sting of the blade as it pressed against his tongue. If I am sick—cursed—I must fix it. Before anyone else gets hurt. It’s the right thing to do.

  “I’m … I believe I’m cursed by the plague,” I whisper. “I humbly ask your blessing for a cure.”

  The Bard’s expression remains the same, as his eyes move downward to where my fist still clutches the tail of his coat. I quickly release it.

  To my surprise, he dismounts with an irritated sigh. Turning from his horse, he reaches for me, this time taking my arm in his gloved hands. He turns my wrist over so that my palm is facing the sky, pushes back my sleeve, and begins to trace his eyes over my skin. Looking for the Blot? I wonder. With his teeth, he tears the glove from his hand, shoving it into a pocket within his cloak. His bare fingers gently press against my flesh. The warmth of it shocks me. I swallow thickly.

  “And precisely why,” he asks quietly, eyes searing into my skin, “do you think that you’re cursed by the Indigo Death? Have you been sharing forbidden stories? In possession of ink?”

  “No, sir.” My heart falters before racing faster than I thought possible. I wonder if he can feel the pulse in my wrist. “But my brother—” I stop abruptly when a voice cuts in from around the corner.

  “Ravod!” I can only watch, slack-jawed, as the other two Bards appear and stride toward their companion. The Bard drops my arm and takes a step back. It takes me a few long seconds to realize that Ravod is the handsome, dark-haired Bard’s name. “Should have known you’d gone off to find some young thing to chat up.”

  The speaker takes down his hood, revealing a man slightly older than Ravod, with a tangle of bright red hair and stubble on his white cheeks. He has a weathered look about him, like some shepherds who walk the earth with their flocks—this Bard has probably seen all of Montane. He was the one who addressed the crowd.

  The third Bard does not take down his hood. But as he approaches, I gasp.

  For he is not a he at all, but a she. A young woman, perhaps only a few years my elder, with dark skin and hair. Brilliantly pale, with amber eyes glowing beneath the shadow of her hood.

  I have never heard of a female Bard before, let alone seen one. It is rare for women to possess the gift, they say, and rarer still for a woman to be able to control it. She must be particularly powerful. But before I have time to parse what this means—the awe and confusion of it—her hand moves in warning to her belt, where her knife glints.

  Ravod leans in toward me. “Don’t come to us again,” he whispers.

  My thoughts scatter at his nearness. He’s easily more attractive than any of the boys in Aster. Including Mads, I think guiltily. He’s looking right into my eyes, and up this close, I detect the faint scent of cedar on his uniform.

  “But—”

  “I said go,” he hisses before mounting his horse once more in a single, swift motion.

  The horse rears, and I stumble back, confused, but I know better than to press my luck.

  The three Bards unite and exchange a few more words before turning their backs on me and galloping away in a blur. I look around, blinking, dazed, and filled with more emotions than I have names for. They are gone. The spot where Ravod was standing is vacant, the earth undisturbed, as if he were never even there.

  Even the rain has stopped. The blessing granted to us by the Bards has departed with them, leaving me alone in the street with no answers, and nothing to show for my efforts. With no proof that the Bards had ever arrived in Aster at all, save the damp clothes clinging to my skin.

  4

  Ma is at her spinning wheel, her back to me, hands moving dexterously over the fibers she’s working while I prepare dinner. On any other night, this would feel comfortable. The sounds of her wheel turning, the steady chopping of my knife on the cutting board, and the wind against the walls of the house would slide together into a natural rhythm. But this evening, the spinning wheel creaks too loudly. Ma’s silence cries out even louder.

  Does she know where I went today? Did one of the villagers inform her? Am I just imagining things?

  Maybe it’s only the rain. Now that it’s gone, we don’t know when, or if, it will return. Many others in town are probably wondering the same thing.

  Over the years, I’ve come to realize Ma’s silence speaks its own language. I wince, hoping Grandfather Quinn’s family figures out the same. But now my mother’s body is saying something I can’t decipher. There’s only the heaviness in her shoulders and an agitation in the way she taps the treadle. Her long fingers have slipped three times tonight. She never slips.

  I worry that she senses what’s happening to me too.

  Time passes in this stiff, punctuated silence: the creaking of the wheel, the chopping of the vegetables, and the wind on the wooden walls of our home. The silence keeps my thoughts returning to the Bards. To High House. To Ravod’s dark hair, the softness with which he spoke to his horse, and how abruptly he changed, ha
rshly making me go. Confusion floods me, pierced only by anger—the Bards are meant to protect us. He should have helped me.

  No matter how many times I remind myself not to, I wonder if the answer is waiting for me to find it, somewhere far from here. Maybe I am not meant to stay. Not if I could bring the plague back to our village. Or end up like Grandfather Quinn.

  I glance over and the hunch in Ma’s back reminds me that she cannot manage the farm on her own. We struggle enough together.

  Back to work, Shae. I pick up the chopped carrots and carry them to the big black pot bubbling over the fire. With a practiced toss, I launch them in and avoid splashing myself with boiling broth. At least I can make a decent stew.

  As I stir, I watch Ma, her attention fixed entirely on her spinning. The sight is an added weight on my heart. I taste the stew to see if it’s done. Bland and watery, as usual.

  I crouch to search one of the lower cabinets, hiding my face to brush the tears away while I look for the salt sack, which is near empty. We can’t afford more. If we run out, we’ll have to go through next winter without any dried meat; there will be no salt to preserve it.

  Then—a familiar hand on my shoulder. A gentle squeeze. I love you.

  I turn around and face Ma, who is cupping a pinch of salt in her palm, a tiny, familiar smile tugging the corner of her mouth.

  I sometimes forget that Ma can understand me the same way I understand her. She hears what I don’t say. What I want to say.

  She wraps me in her arms, and I let go of a sob—short and fierce—muffled against her chest. After a tight squeeze, she pulls away. Her free hand brushes a wisp of sandy brown hair from my forehead, her fingers lingering lovingly on my freckles. She thinks they’re beautiful, but we agree to disagree.

  “I know, I know.” I can’t help smiling, repeating what she always told me as a little girl. “They’re kisses from the fairies.”

  Ma gestures for me to follow her back to the wooden chairs by the fire. She sits, motioning for me to do the same.