Hush

by Dylan Farrow

  “First, I’ll prepare the hurdles,” Kennan says. The corner of her mouth twitches in a devious smirk as she looks me up and down. “We’ll start with level five.”

  A nervous laugh escapes me before I can stop it. “Any reason we’re doing away with levels one through four?”

  Kennan narrows her eyes, clearly not amused. “You have one week to convince me you’re worth keeping around. And you don’t want to know what we do with those deemed unworthy to stay. I suggest you adjust your tone appropriately.”

  “Sorry,” I mumble, terror streaking through me. What does happen to those deemed unworthy? Those exposed to the Bards’ secrets, only to be cast out … It can’t be good.

  Kennan looks out over the training grounds as if addressing an invisible audience. “Over the course of the week, you will be tested physically and spiritually to determine your worthiness of the title.”

  “How do I prove worthy?” My voice is a timid squeak.

  “Perform a Telling on command,” Kennan answers, waving one of her hands as if it were nothing, and I’m caught by the elegance of her movements, the way her white-gloved hand flutters like a dove.

  “The purpose of my assessments is not to teach you,” Kennan goes on. “It’s to determine if you’re worth teaching. The tests will recondition you. Establish the baseline.”

  I try unsuccessfully to swallow. Kennan has already turned her attention to the field. She pulls a small, white piece of marble out of a satchel she wears over one shoulder, and places it on the ground. I stare at her in confusion—is this some sort of ritual? But her brow is furrowed and she is mumbling below her breath. I lean in, and it sounds like she is saying the word “part.” The ground trembles, as if vibrations are radiating out from the stone.

  “What are you doing?” I ask. She turns to look at me.

  “That,” she says, gesturing for me to turn around.

  The ground has literally split apart, leaving a shallow chasm. She has parted the earth.

  By Telling it to.

  I’m so stunned, I don’t notice when she pulls something else out of her satchel: a pair of shining golden cuffs. She hands them to me.

  “You will wear these around your ankles.”

  I look from the cuffs to Kennan and back before taking them from her hands. They’re solid gold and much heavier than they look.

  “I—”

  “Now,” she instructs.

  I grunt, latching them around my boots at the ankles. “Now what?”

  “Now—leap,” she says. It takes me a second to realize what she is asking—she wants me to leap across the gap in the earth, weighted down at the ankles. It seems impossible, even as it is slowly dawning on me that when she meant hurdles, she meant literal hurdles.

  As if to explain herself, she adds, “Telling is a combination of physical and mental mastery of the body and its surroundings. Only when your mind is in sync with your physical form can you begin to commune beyond your body, with the earth. Eventually, if strong enough, your Telling will connect to the energy of the air, the sky, and all things.”

  I stare at her in awe. “I thought you weren’t going to teach me anything.”

  A venomous glare is her reply. A servant appears and hands her a steaming cup of tea from a tray. She gingerly takes a sip before speaking, ignoring my question altogether.

  “We begin with physical tasks just beyond your body’s current natural limits,” she says. “You’re building strength of body and mind. A Bard requires both to reach into the realm of possibility and alter it.”

  I honestly have no idea what she’s talking about, but from the sharp look of her gaze, I have no other choice than to do what she says. Kennan watches me over the rim of her teacup. Her eyes sparkle with brutal amusement.

  I take a breath and turn toward the chasm, which seems to yawn even wider than when I last looked. And with a step backward for momentum, I try to run, to leap, to levitate …

  * * *

  It’s only been two days, and I can’t take much more. I threw myself into an ever-increasingly deep ditch about seventy-five times yesterday.

  Training is less a test and more of a method of torture. I’m halfway convinced Kennan is just trying to kill me. I’m covered in bruises, and my legs sing with pain, more so when I slipped into my bath last night. She even blindfolded me, apparently to help me focus inward, saying something about how our power comes from our self-control. But the panic in my throat as I slogged forward blindly was worse—I’m sure my screams and groans could be heard all through High House.

  Even still, no one came to my rescue all afternoon. I kept hoping, despite the humiliation of the morning, that Ravod would appear and command Kennan to go easy on me, but I didn’t catch a glimpse of him all day. We finally quit the test when I was half sobbing and beaten down.

  “I give up,” I panted, crawling on my bleeding knees, my new black pants ruined. Kennan bent to inspect me, and I instinctively grabbed onto her hands. She looked down at her gloves, covered in dirt, and fumed, instantly dismissing me.

  Today, I woke up to new and equally awful challenges. Learning to hold a staff for the first time—which would have been thrilling had she not blindfolded me again, demanding I “listen to the movement of the air” around me. All I heard was Kennan’s staff thrashing in large arcs around me until I dropped my weapon and crumpled to the ground with my arms over my head, whimpering.

  This is not going well.

  And worst of all, I’m so busy training that I’ve had no time, nor any will, to investigate. I’ve found out nothing more about Niall, who by this point has probably commissioned a new dagger and I’ll never know if he was missing his in the first place.

  I don’t want to bring Cathal into it before I have evidence, but I will if I have to. He said he would help. I just have to prove myself worthy.

  But it seems like a lot to perform a Telling on command. To say Kennan is a harsh taskmaster is a blistering understatement. It’s as if all the hatred for me that exists in the world has been distilled into one person.

  And she really, really hates me.

  Which is why, tonight, even if all I want to do is fall into a dark, endless, dreamless sleep, I don’t. After my bath, I pull out my embroidery needles and get to work. My fingers ache and sting, rubbed raw from wielding the staff and from falling on them all day yesterday. The familiarity of the thread through my fingertips relaxes me. I try to envision a pattern that Fiona would like. I think of roses.

  By dawn, I have made a delicate pair of gloves, in exactly Kennan’s size. Vines of delicate roses twist around the fingers. Despite my skill, I’m not sure I’ve ever made something quite as beautiful. I can only hope that a small act of kindness will soften her.

  Perhaps she will take pity on me; perhaps, as a woman, she will understand how badly I need a friend here. How we must help each other, when no one else will.

  * * *

  I wait for Kennan near the balcony overlooking the cliffside, with all of Montane sprawled below. Even the mountains that bordered the wasteland back home did not reach this far into the sky—I can nearly see them in the distance. More likely, homesickness has led me to seek out something familiar to latch on to.

  Montane is very brown. Not the dark, rich color of soil but withered and dusty. Low hills are dotted with spindly trees, bisected by winding roads that seem to lead nowhere.

  If Gondal existed, which direction would it lie in? Beyond the stark, cold mountains to the west? Or across the desolate sprawl of wasteland to the north? In the stories, it was supposed to be green and verdant. The way all of Montane would be, if we had not allowed the Indigo Death to ravage us. It’s hard to imagine such a place.

  I should not be imagining Gondal at all. I take a deep breath, in and out, to purge my thoughts.

  The cold morning breeze whips up the side of the mountain across the training grounds as Kennan approaches. She halts in front of me and signals for a servant.

&nbs
p; “Five days left, peasant,” she states, and the air around us grows colder. “Unless you plan to put me out of my misery and give up. As riveting as it’s been to watch you fail, I’m eager for more important work.”

  I take a deep breath, readying the words I memorized the night before.

  “Kennan, I think we got off on the wrong foot,” I say, pulling the embroidered gloves from behind my back and presenting them to her with a small flourish. “These are for you. Would you consider it a peace offering?”

  Kennan’s eyes widen and narrow in quick succession as she takes a step closer to me and gingerly picks up the gloves.

  “These are for me?” she asks.

  I nod eagerly. “I did all the embroidery myself. It’s a bit of a hobby…”

  I trail off mid-sentence as Kennan turns them over in her hands. Like all Bards, she is impossible to read.

  She takes a step closer to me, and I think maybe she is going to embrace me, though it would be so out of character that I merely stand there frozen as she approaches.

  She flicks the gloves with a lightning-fast motion in her wrist, using them to strike me hard across the face. I stagger back in shock, tears springing to my eyes. One hand comes up to my cheek, tender and probably bruised.

  “Sometimes soft things can hurt more than hard things.” The strangest part is that beyond the fury in her eyes I see something almost like pain, as she goes on, “The sting is worse when you don’t expect it.”

  Without another word, she tosses the gloves over the balcony, the sting on my cheek returning momentarily as they disappear down the mountainside.

  Swiftly she turns and makes her way toward a winding outdoor staircase that leads across several more terraces before descending into the training field. I trip along after her, feeling helplessly humiliated, angry, and betrayed.

  Which is, perhaps, exactly her point.

  “Today, we’re going to test your focus in the shooting range,” she says, as if I’d never offered the gloves in the first place. I watch, stunned, as she strolls to the far side of the lawn.

  “That’s all you’re going to say?” The hours I fought off sleep to prepare those gloves burrow a hole in my gut.

  Kennan turns to face me, glaring. “I’m not going to apologize for your bootlicking. My time is valuable. Stop wasting it.”

  “I wasn’t…” I stop as Kennan marches farther away. I try to force it down, but I can’t help the twinge of hatred in my chest.

  I won’t let myself become like Kennan.

  I think of Ma. Of her gentle hands and patient smile. It brings me back to myself enough not to fall out of step.

  A staircase in the mountain face winds down from the training grounds to an alcove directly below. I look for a banister or something to hold on to, but there isn’t one. I try not to think about the dizzying fall. The staircase is broad and probably perfectly safe. Kennan glides down it with ease.

  An archery range is set up here, tucked safely into the rock with a barrier of stone erected to deter the howling mountain winds. Kennan signals to the servants attending the range. They disperse in a hurry.

  My jaw tightens, wondering what torture she’s concocted today.

  Before long the black-and-white-clad servants return, one carrying a crossbow, another holding a quiver of bolts. A third and fourth are pushing an enormous, ornate mirror.

  “The previous tests were a measure of your endurance and willpower.” Kennan breaks the silence, her voice echoing harshly against the stone walls. “Today we’re testing your focus. Your task is to hit the bull’s-eye.” She nods to the mirror, which has been placed in the center of the range, blocking the target. “You must do so without disturbing the glass.”

  The servant quickly sets a bolt in place and hefts the crossbow into my arms. It’s heavier than it looks. I’ve never held one before, but Mads and I used to watch the militia’s target practice from the hilltop behind the mill. I fumble a little until I manage to more or less replicate the stance I remember. The servant silently adjusts my form before stepping back.

  “I didn’t know Bards used crossbows,” I say.

  “Bards are trained to wield a variety of weaponry,” Kennan replies. “Versatility is essential in the field.”

  “Like knives?” I ask, trying to sound conversational.

  I watch Kennan’s face carefully, but her only reaction is a fractional furrow of her brow. “We’re trained for short-range and long-range combat,” she says.

  “Why?” The question slips out before I can think better of it.

  “There are many ways a land like ours can be threatened, both from inside and out,” Kennan states. “As Bards, we have to be prepared to face any threat and prevail.”

  “Like invasions? Uprisings?”

  Kennan’s glare turns icy. “Does this inane line of questioning have a point?”

  “I just noticed that all the Bards have golden daggers.” I shrug, hoping it looks casual. “I guess I assumed it was the weapon of choice.”

  “An audacious assumption.” Kennan’s voice is darkly patronizing.

  I’m pressing my luck. I might be able to get in one last question, but only if I weigh my words carefully.

  “Why carry them at all, then?”

  Kennan rolls her eyes. “The daggers are ceremonial. Cathal presents them to us upon completion of our training, when we’re formally inducted into the ranks. If you want one so badly, I suggest you complete your test.”

  I nod obediently and shift my grip on the crossbow, letting it dip toward the ground briefly. The action affords me a momentary glance at Kennan’s boots. The ceremonial golden dagger is conspicuously absent.

  That could be coincidence, I reason, hefting the crossbow upward to aim it. Something twists up inside me. Maybe I was wrong about Niall—maybe wearing the dagger isn’t a requirement after all—and I have no lead, and I’m spinning aimlessly. Ma’s killer could just as easily have been Kennan—or Ravod. Or someone else entirely that the three of them are protecting.

  My breath turns heavy as I try to angle the crossbow. The image of Ravod driving the golden dagger into my mother’s chest flashes through my mind. My hands tremble. I don’t understand why the possibility of him being the culprit bothers me so much.

  The inadvertent action causes the crossbow to fire accidentally, and I gasp, squeezing my eyes shut as the bolt flies free at an alarming velocity. When I open them, the bolt is sticking out of the dirt a few feet away.

  “I suppose it was too hopeful of me to think you might hit something.” Kennan sneers and signals the servant to reload the crossbow.

  I want to explain that the crossbow is too heavy. My arms have started to grow tired simply from holding the wood and metal apparatus upright. A glance toward Kennan makes it clear this would not be a good idea. I swallow my words as the servant retrieves the bolt and rearms the crossbow for me.

  I heft the weapon to eye level. The muscles in my arms strain under the weight bearing on them, making it difficult to keep steady.

  A Telling. I need to do a Telling, somehow moving the mirror for a clear shot at the target. Or am I supposed to make the bolt fly around it? I bite my lip, trying to fight back my uncertainty before my hands start shaking more furiously than they already are.

  I pull the trigger.

  The bolt flies faster than my thoughts. I have no time to figure out what to do before it ricochets off the mirror’s ornate silver frame and spins harmlessly off to the side of the range. The servant dutifully hurries to fetch it.

  I lower the crossbow. My aching arms are grateful, but I grimace. Maybe it’s not the power of Telling that drives people mad, but the training.

  Hours pass. My arms and legs are numb. Bolt after bolt is expended. Most miss. One cracks the mirror near the top left corner. Kennan sips her tea, brought by another servant.

  I take a moment of respite between reloading to stretch my neck a bit. A flash of red hair strikes the corner of my eye. My pulse
quickens as I shift my gaze, careful not to turn my head and risk Kennan seeing I’m distracted.

  Niall is walking to the back of the range and disappears quickly behind a door that’s nearly lost in shadows.

  As the servant reloads the crossbow for the hundredth time, I lower my voice to a whisper. “Where does that door go?” I tilt my head.

  “That’s the men’s barracks, my lady,” the servant replies in the same hushed tone.

  The men’s barracks. If I want more information on Niall, that’s where I’m most likely to find it. My mind races, puzzling how to get Kennan to free me for the day.

  I risk a glance in her direction. Kennan lowers her teacup onto its saucer, glaring venomously. “You’re not done until I say so.” Her voice splits the quiet like the crack of a whip. I breathe in hard through my teeth and pull up the crossbow. The ache in my arms renews itself.

  Perhaps I could just make a run for it and hope for the best …

  You never think things through, Fiona’s voice whispers in my head. I nod imperceptibly. I’m at High House. Impulsive antics will not serve me here. I can’t afford to take chances.

  If I’m to sneak into the men’s barracks, I need a plan.

  16

  I pull my old white shirt over my training gear and tuck my hair into the collar. It’s a rudimentary disguise, but enough to pass for a servant out of the corner of someone’s eye. The servants may as well be invisible to the Bards. If they regard them at all, it is in much the same way they look at all commoners, with cold detachment.

  The sun has not yet risen as I make my way through the dark halls. Torches have burned low; sentries are switching shifts. The few people I see are too mired in the early morning haze to notice anything amiss with an errant servant. And it’s a good thing, because I find myself turned around in the darkened corridors, passing the same sconces and closed doors I passed only minutes ago.

  When Ravod guided me to my rooms, the layout seemed vast, but logical. But now, alone and in the dusty quiet of early morning, the walls seem to waver and shift around me, and worry begins to tremble in my gut. Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea. Underneath it all is the hum of chanting—certain guards must never rest, because when all else is silent, you can hear their chants no matter the hour.