Hush

by Dylan Farrow

  It is not wolves, but men.

  I cower in the shadows, the key tight in my fist, as the door bursts open.

  “What! What!” The old man at the table startles awake at last. “What is this?”

  Three burly men in dusty, disheveled clothes and patchwork armor have sauntered in, the first carrying a swaying lantern in his giant fist. Each one is heavily armed with a startlingly vast array of blades and crossbows. At their heels are a pair of massive, snarling dogs much bigger than even Constable Dunne’s back home. They look practically feral.

  “Settle down, sir,” the second one says with a laugh. He plants a meaty hand on the old man’s shoulder and grips.

  The man struggles, and before I know what is happening, the traveler has brandished a rusty-looking knife, slashing it across the old man’s throat. The innkeeper chokes, body shuddering, a glassy, surprised look on his face. A spray of blood arcs from the wound, and he topples forward onto the table with a sickening thud.

  I let out a scream. Time slows, and they all grin nearly in unison. Their teeth are various shades of the same murky yellow. My skin wants to crawl off my body and run away without the rest of me.

  I’d only heard stories and rumors about the bandits and thieves that prowl the open roads. I never thought I’d come face-to-face with any, and I certainly never imagined they would be this truly terrifying.

  Run! You need to run! I think, but my feet are rooted to the floor.

  “Well, look here, boys!” the man in the middle who seems to be the leader drawls. “Maybe we’ll have some fun in this little backwater town after all!”

  “Who are you? What do you want here?” I ask, trying to sound braver than I feel, which is not at all.

  The leader chuckles, a drawn-out, terrible sound from deep in his throat. “Who, us? We’re humble tax collectors.” He leans menacingly toward me; a grin nearly splits his grimy face. “And your old pa here’s behind on his payments, you see. Can’t have that, can we?”

  They know I’m scared. They know they have the upper hand. I look around frantically, and my gaze falls on a small wooden lockbox tucked under a tufted old chair in the corner.

  If they take the money, they’ll leave. My heart thunders as I gesture to the chair.

  “There. That’s where he keeps it,” I say, hoping I’m right. “Take it and go.”

  “Smart girl,” the leader says, easily finding the lockbox and handing it to the lackey on his right. “Nice doing business with you.”

  I feel a wave of relief wash over me as they turn and head for the door. Feeling begins to creep back into my fingertips. I release the breath I was holding.

  Then they stop at the door. The leader grins at me over his shoulder.

  “Burn it down, boys.”

  Bright flames lick the torch, lighting up the cruel joy on their faces. Without a second glance, the one holding it drops the flame onto the carpet. It ignites instantly and covers the floor in red heat. The men disappear out the door, lost behind the rising wall of fire, and I think, The stories were wrong. There is something that travels faster than the wind, faster even than the First Rider. And that is flame.

  I cover my nose and mouth with my arm as the smoke starts billowing toward me. I move deeper into the room, my eyes stinging as I rush away from the flames, and discover a second door. I throw myself shoulder first against the sturdy door. It doesn’t budge.

  I center myself and channel all my weight into my leg. My foot connects with the door, just beside the handle, and the latch bursts open.

  The fire engulfs the space I was standing in only seconds before I make it into a kitchen. There’s a resounding crash as the roof collapses over the main room. I hurry to the back of the kitchen where a small back door deposits me out into the rubble and dirt.

  The cold night air outside stings my face, and I gasp it in desperately, falling to my knees, taking huge gulping breaths.

  But beneath the crunching sound of the inn burning and beginning to collapse, I still hear the sound of the dogs barking and howling.

  My blood runs cold. Shapes shift in the dark nearby. I can make out the silhouette of a man with a crossbow.

  My legs trip over themselves as I turn to run. Up ahead, I see the first hint of gray morning light on the horizon. I push myself in that direction, my heart slamming against the wall of my chest.

  “There you are.”

  There’s a sharp, shooting sensation in my scalp, and the horizon retreats in front of me. Someone has grabbed my hair, pulling me backward. My feet slide out from under me as I wince in pain. My head is twisted roughly. I’m brought face-to-face with the leader. He sneers at me. Sour liquor lingers on his breath.

  “Willful one, aren’t you? I like that.” He laughs.

  I grit my teeth and struggle, using every last ounce of strength I possess to free myself from his iron grip. I twist in every direction my body will allow. He continues to laugh at me, like he’s a cat playing with a mouse.

  He grabs my jaw. With a quick toss of my head, my teeth sink into his hand, into the sensitive flesh between his thumb and forefinger. The coppery taste of blood fills my mouth. His hand wrenches away, and in that one, sweet second, I use my elbow to bash in his face and he screams, but still he hangs on to me with one meaty arm.

  Something sharp pokes my hip, and I remember I have my embroidery needles in my pocket, nestled into a small ball of wool.

  With a free hand, I manage to loose one, gripping it in my fist. I thrash upward, sending the needle’s point directly into his shoulder.

  He screams again, calling me a word I have never heard but can only assume is forbidden. He loses his grip on me, and without stopping to think, I run.

  11

  They say the First Rider brought light and meaning into a world of chaos and darkness. I wish he could have made it a little less treacherous.

  I travel the better part of the day, getting lost in a forest and finally stumbling across a narrow mountain creek, where I frantically collapse to my knees, splashing the cool water on my face and thirstily drinking.

  I fight back the thought that Fiona was right as I double over with sudden hunger. If I had stayed, I would not be starving and alone.

  I follow the creek, unsure how far I’ve strayed from the road. Panic rises in my throat, but I rein it in, remembering that the road holds just as many dangers as the wild, possibly more.

  It is late afternoon when I catch a flash of movement not too far off—a trio of crows dart from some branches, cawing, and I hear it: the rumble of wagon wheels. I take off running toward the sound, tall dry grass scratching my legs through my torn skirt.

  I stop short and duck behind a tree. I’ve hit upon a narrow country road. Three black horses round the corner, their golden tack shining in the afternoon light. The two in front bear crimson banners, and the third pulls an elegant wagon overflowing with food, fabric, and valuables.

  Bards bearing a tithe caravan. My heart races.

  I doubt I could rely on their charity to simply give me a lift to High House. I’m a peasant, and one who may carry the curse of the Blot at that. But if I’m swift and very careful, the wagon they’re escorting seems roomy enough for one impertinent stowaway.

  I crouch in the underbrush, not even daring to breathe, until the horses draw level with me. None of them cut a familiar figure. They are not the same Bards I saw in town.

  Once again, I’m overtaken by the beauty of the horses and their riders, like I was that day in Aster. It feels so long ago now. Their black uniforms are accented with the most beautiful golden thread embroidering their hoods, collars, and wrists. Their posture is regal, commanding, and somehow effortless. A hum of power seems to hover in the air around them; it penetrates deep into my bones.

  Mercifully, they don’t notice me. I swallow the nervous lump in my throat. The horses pass; the massive cart follows.

  As soon as the back wheels turn past me, I slip onto the road and run. I reach forwar
d, my fingers finding purchase on the locked handlebars at its back, and before the wagon can begin to drag me, I push off with both feet, pulling myself upward. The momentum is just enough to send me over the top of the wagon walls, tumbling inside.

  My fall is caught by a soft bed of hay at the bottom.

  I manage to squeeze behind a large barrel at the back, right before the Bard driving the wagon glances behind him.

  “Is something wrong?” I hear one of the riders up front ask.

  “I thought I heard something,” the driver replies.

  “Must have hit a rock. The damn roads out here are rubbish.”

  I quietly exhale.

  The rocking of the wagon steadies my nerves somewhat, but the feeling that the journey isn’t over gnaws at me. With any luck, these Bards will be heading straight to High House.

  Which means I’ll have to figure out the next step from there. How to stay alive. How to find the truth.

  I close my eyes and think of Ma. Her hand on my shoulder, the way a single touch could communicate in so many different ways. Be patient, or be strong, or be still.

  Ma, who is dead and gone. Killed in secret, her death buried by a landslide of lies.

  Who did it? And why? The need to know is a cold fire burning in my chest. I will find the person who took Ma from me. I will look them in the eyes and make sure they know they won’t get away with what they’ve done. And I’ll demand to know why.

  That person is at High House. I feel surer of that than ever. With every turn of the wagon wheels, I’m getting closer, and an invisible thread is pulling tighter inside me.

  And yet—despite my fear, and even the thrill of knowing I’m on my way to answers—the exhaustion of the journey has finally hit me. My lungs still ache from the thick smoke of the burning inn. My legs are weak, the soles of my feet numb. Evening is coming on; the sky above has gone from a litter of gold and blue between the leaves of the trees overhead to dusty lavender. The air is cooler. The jarring bumps in the road can’t even prevent me from succumbing to exhaustion.

  * * *

  I don’t know how long I’ve slept but I wake when the wagon jolts roughly. The ride is significantly smoother after. I listen quietly, but the Bards escorting the caravan do not remark on the change.

  I venture a peek over the top of the barrel, shivering at the apparent temperature drop. The late afternoon sun is waning, and the altitude is making it colder. The route ahead is paved with silvery stone leading up into a mountain range taller twice over than the one bordering Aster. The white line draws my eye up a winding path through green pine trees that become dusted with white as the road leads upward and the snow-capped summit comes into view.

  At first glance, the sweeping spires and glittering parapets look to be floating high above me, as though perched among the clouds. It’s only when the wind changes that I see the mountain and the castle are one and the same. The structure is cut directly from the white rock, more blinding than the sun itself, and accented with exquisite shining gold, most of the upper structure almost lost in the sky. I keep blinking, uncertain how what I’m seeing could possibly be real.

  Bridges span between the towers, arcing gracefully over one another. Toward the base, the castle diverts a massive, roaring waterfall in two; it spills over the side of the rock. The closer we get, the more details come into view; statues and engravings and flying buttresses catch the eye, glistening in the dying sunlight.

  Something lurches in my chest, and I want to throw myself to the ground and cry. I grew up hearing the stories, but I never imagined anything so magnificent could truly exist.

  But it’s real. It’s here, right before me.

  The sheer beauty stirs something deep at the core of my being and my eyes burn with tears.

  High House.

  And my mother’s killer may be waiting inside it.

  * * *

  As the wagon draws ever nearer to its destination, I find a more suitable hiding place underneath the reams of cloth near the back. Running my fingers over the fabric, I wonder what village this might have come from. It’s certainly finer than any of the coarse wool produced by Aster.

  “Halt, in the name of High House!” calls a deep voice.

  The wagon rolls to a stop. I huddle deeper into the fabric, covering my mouth with my hand so no sound escapes me. I can’t afford to get caught. Not when I’m so close.

  “Is this the tithe from Taranton?” another voice asks.

  “Valmorn.” I hear the driver speak up. “Can’t you tell by all this wretched scrap?”

  A few of the men chuckle. Even their laughter manages to sound pompous. But I frown, confused.

  It takes a second for it to sink in as I look around me at fabric that is finer than any I’ve seen in my lifetime. My indignation and surprise are quickly replaced with relief—it does not appear they will be personally inspecting the tithe.

  “Well, you know how much Lord Cathal enjoys dressing up his little trophies,” a voice chimes in. “Soon you Bards will be outnumbered by seamstresses.”

  “Pretty women, more likely,” the driver scoffs. “Not that I’m complaining.”

  “It’s a shame that ladies can’t handle the Telling better,” another interjects. “It would be nice to have more of them in the ranks.”

  The men continue to banter as I bite down on my hand, stifling a gasp. I’ve only heard the very faintest whispers over the years of Cathal, the powerful and enigmatic master of High House, and by extension, all of Montane. It’s strange to hear him discussed so casually. He sounds more like a real person than a mythical figure.

  The conversation ends on a light note, one of the Bard escorts making a joke about the tithe from Taranton getting lost. I’m still processing what I’ve heard—the dismissive, sarcastic way the Bards talk to one another. I would have expected something more elevated. My thoughts are lost as the wagon jerks forward again.

  The enormous gates to High House are made of wrought gold and slide open without so much as a whisper. I grip the bolt of fabric that conceals me tightly, until my knuckles are as white as the stone of the castle. I don’t have much time before the cart is unloaded and I’m discovered. My heart thunders nervously in my chest.

  I venture another look out of the wagon, and the finery of my surroundings is dizzying. My head spins and this is merely the entryway. The courtyard alone is the size of Aster, paved with an intricate, colorful mosaic. Two elegant semicircles of topiary in every shape imaginable line the sides, and beyond are arches and stairways leading to luxurious balconies overlooking the waterfalls.

  Along the upper walls of the castle, rows and rows of dashing black-clad figures march in succession.

  The Bards.

  To see so many at once sends a dagger of apprehension and awe through my gut. I thought three Bards were intimidating, but the air of eminence they possess seems only to multiply by their numbers. My chest clenches a little when I recall the delicate features of the Bard I spoke to in Aster. Ravod, with his striking raven-black hair.

  With no time to waste, I quickly throw the cloth off me, shivering from the cold wind, and dart over the side of the wagon as it passes under the shadow of an elegant archway. Landing sloppily on my knees and scrambling into the shadows, I throw my back against a curved wall of cool, white limestone. I glance around frantically—I need a spot to wait out the daylight. There’s a door on the other side of the archway; I take a quick breath and hurry toward it. Thankfully, it opens at my touch, depositing me into a vestibule, where I have to blink to adjust to the darkness within.

  I make my way gingerly inside, careful to step lightly. The vestibule leads to a large, circular chamber. I blink rapidly several times, disoriented. From my glimpses of the castle as we approached, it had seemed far more massive than it does from the inside. It’s much darker than I expected, too. lit only by a few iron sconces, without the splash of sunlight against the falling water and glimmering gilt railings. Still—clearly there a
re rooms upon rooms, and I just don’t understand yet how they are all connected. Rooms where a killer may hide behind their daily life.

  Two staircases wind around the perimeter of the room, meeting at a large landing at the top. As much as it terrifies me, I force another deep breath, steadying myself.

  I must find Lord Cathal and appeal to him directly. He’ll help. He has to. He’s the only one who can.

  Frozen and overwhelmed, I let myself think that maybe there’s a chance I can someday return home to Mads and Fiona. Not as a pariah, but as someone who inspired the leader of the Bards to remove a danger to his people and restore safety and justice to our land. I have to try.

  Swift but quiet, I move up the stairs—I swear more appear with each step I take. I try the golden handle at the top landing, and it yields, but a considerable amount of weight is needed to push open the heavy oaken door.

  On the other side, I gasp. I’ve somehow found myself in the guards’ barracks and seventeen armored men are staring directly at me.

  12

  “Stop! Let me go! Get your hands off me!” I shriek in vain as two strong men drag me squirming back toward the gate.

  I try everything in my power to slow them down. I drop my weight, dig my heels into the ground, twist and struggle and kick … and still they pull me along with barely any effort. Other Bards have paused their business, looking curiously on at the commotion. They look at me in my simple, tattered clothes like I’m a rat rather than a human girl.

  “I demand to speak with Lord Cathal!” I finally shout, and the guards look over their shoulders at me as if I told a fantastic joke.

  “Oh, of course. We’ll get right on that for you, my lady,” one says between bursts of laughter.

  I growl, twisting my body to the side and hooking my leg around the guard’s, causing him to stumble. The brief interruption allows me the chance to wiggle free and scramble backward toward the castle, my feet slipping on the cold stone floor.

  I fall to my knees, crawling on all fours, but a gloved hand latches on my ankle while another pushes me flat to the ground. The sharp ends of my needles, coming loose from their ball of wool in my pocket, dig into my hip. My hands are pinned roughly behind my back and my head forced down. The floor is cold against my cheek, and I cry out in pain.