Hush

by Dylan Farrow

  “Wonderful.” Cathal seems relieved. “My curiosity can be off-putting to some.”

  “In my experience, curiosity and trouble often go hand in hand.” I allow myself a chuckle, thinking back on the mishaps that led me here.

  “Indulge me, then,” Cathal says. “Start from the beginning.”

  I take a deep breath, and before I know it, I’m sharing everything from my upbringing in Aster, the accidental Tellings I performed with my embroidery, my assumption I was cursed, to the Telling I snuck out to see. From there, I describe Ma’s murder and the strange cover-up. I disclose again my suspicions that a Bard must be involved. I go on to describe how I left Aster and my journey. Cathal listens with rapt attention to all of it.

  When I finish, his eyes are wide, twinkling with attentiveness. “So … Do you believe me?” I ask.

  There’s an expression I can’t quite read on his face. His dark brows are furrowed, his lips pressed to a thin line.

  “Every word.” His statement is slow, deliberate. Sincere.

  I breathe a sigh of relief. The air in my lungs feels lighter. My indignation from when I talked to Constable Dunne and Fiona about Ma’s death fades. It doesn’t matter that they chose to think I’m crazy. Cathal is the one I needed to convince. His opinion on this is the only one that matters. And he believes me.

  I feel a sting at the corners of my eyes. This time, I don’t blink them away. For so long I’d been keeping everything bottled up and secret because I was afraid. I was so afraid …

  Cathal gets up when my hands rise to wipe my tears away. He steps elegantly around the table and kneels in front of me, gently taking my hands. His aristocratic fingers are soft and warm as he rubs his thumbs over my knuckles.

  Pa used to hold my hands like this, when I was a little girl. If I scraped my knee playing or got in a fight with Kieran. The hands are different, but the feeling is the same.

  “Cry if you need to, Shae,” Cathal says softly. “You have been through a lot.”

  I sniff as a tear falls onto my lap. “Thank you,” I whisper.

  Once my breath steadies, he releases my hands and gets to his feet. He begins to slowly pace the room, rubbing the dark silver stubble on his chin, deep in thought.

  “There are hundreds of Bards,” he says. “Each would be capable of hiding what they have done. But there is a way to discover the truth and bring about the justice you seek. However, it will take patience. And I will need your help to do it.”

  A flood of gratitude rushes through me. He holds my gaze, unblinking, for a long while before his eyes flick away.

  “Why me though?” Surely there must be someone more experienced he can put his faith in.

  “I have a bit of a gift for spotting talent.” He quirks his head. “What you did at the waterfall is, shall we say, different. Inspired. Same as the day you first arrived. There is something very special about you, Shae. And our task requires someone special.”

  I think it’s a compliment, but can’t help fearing Cathal is misled in believing in my talent. I have hardly proven myself. But if Kennan really has been holding me back, there’s a chance I don’t know my own strength, as Cathal says.

  “What do I need to do?”

  When he speaks again, his voice is barely above a whisper. “You will need to find the Book of Days,” he says. “And I will teach you how to read it, understand it, and use it.”

  18

  The quiet, pale dawn heralds a new day. A fresh start. Bathed in the pinkish gray glow of morning, I almost feel like yesterday was a dream.

  The Book of Days.

  I recall Cathal’s intense gaze. The conviction in his voice. It is the repository of all truth, brought to our land by the First Rider. In its pages is the record of everything we know. The fabric upon which all reality is shaped.

  A shudder had gone through me at his words. Of course I’d heard of the Book. Who hasn’t? It’s part of nearly every legend. All of history. All the future. It is existence itself. A product of Telling so great, it is beyond human comprehension.

  But no one has ever laid eyes on such a book. It is as fantastical as Gondal.

  When I said as much, Cathal simply smirked. “It is safer,” he said, “for the world to believe the Book is not real, than to realize that such power, such greatness, exists. It is our responsibility to protect it. The people cannot always be trusted with the truth. We would have raids. Riots. The poor and hungry masses trying to get their hands on the Book, to destroy it, or worse, to use it. Imagine if the entire reality of Montane landed in the wrong hands.”

  It was a terrifying thought. Could it be true? Why would he make something like that up? This was the ruler of Montane, the leader of the Bards of High House. And he believed in me. Wanted to help me.

  The truth about your mother is waiting on the pages of that book, he said.

  According to Cathal, the Book of Days lives somewhere beneath High House, in a labyrinth protected by an ancient power. Only an incredibly gifted Bard can navigate through the spells of protection, to its heart.

  “I have done all I can on my own,” he told me. “The Tellings placed upon the labyrinth are unlike anything we currently understand. My last attempt to solve it nearly killed me. I realized during my lengthy convalescence that this is not something I can do myself. I have to place my trust in someone else. Someone who is daring enough to face these obstacles and clever enough to overcome them. Someone extraordinarily gifted. Someone like you.”

  I scan the grounds, searching for my new trainer, and reeling at the idea that I am, right this very moment, perched above such a profound source of power and truth. Try as I might to focus on anything else, my mind wanders back to yesterday.

  Could this book really be my answer? I spent most of the night unable to sleep, trying to imagine such a thing.

  Books are evil. Writing is dangerous.

  “You’re still here.” A voice startles me from my thoughts. I whirl around.

  Ravod. A tightness in my chest forms, squeezing the breath from my lungs.

  “So I am.” I clear my throat. “My condolences on losing your bet.”

  “A shame.” Ravod shakes his head. “I was planning to spend the money on something silly and frivolous. I hope you’re pleased that your sanity has cost me the fancy hat of my dreams.”

  “What happened to ‘eradicating your sense of humor,’ Ravod?” I ask, narrowing my eyes at him with a laugh.

  “Who says I’m joking?” The corner of his mouth quirks up and his dark eyes shimmer. Even the barest hint of a smile on his face makes the air feel warmer. Yet before I can relax into the camaraderie, he waves his hand and turns on his heel. “But today we have a different task at hand.” Ravod looks over his shoulder, beckoning me. “Ready?”

  “Ready?” I repeat, confused. “I’m supposed to be meeting my new instructor.”

  Ravod nods. “And here I am.”

  “Wait.” My breath hitches. I shake my head, starting over. “You’re my new trainer?”

  “Don’t sound too disappointed,” Ravod says. “Cathal thought you might be more comfortable with someone familiar to you. He’s taken quite an interest in you.”

  “He approached me, for your information.” I don’t understand why I feel the need to explain myself to Ravod.

  “Spare me the details. I’m familiar with your capacity to follow instructions,” he says. “Cathal suggested a change of pace for your next lesson.” How much did Cathal relay to him? I wonder.

  “Where are we going?” I ask, realizing we’re not headed toward the training grounds at all.

  “You’ll see.” He gestures me to follow him back into the Bards’ Wing.

  Ravod is quiet as we walk along multiple passages through the underbelly of the mountain, much like the ones that led to the waterfall cavern. I can hear the distant roar of crashing water.

  Our journey concludes before a gate at the back of the main courtyard. The sun has started to crest the mounta
intops, bathing the marble in golden light.

  “I’ve requisitioned horses,” Ravod says. He comes to a halt near the center of the courtyard. “To take us out to the wasteland by the lake.”

  “We’re leaving High House?” I stop close to his side. Panic grips me. Bandits are out there. What if I lose sight of Ravod and wind up alone and in danger again? It’s irrational, but fear overpowers my senses anyway.

  The courtyard, while beautiful, begins to feel as if it’s closing in on me. The shrubbery looms large and ominous. The empty gazes of numerous elegant statues fill every space, leaving no room to breathe. I gasp, choking for air, convinced my chest is an instant away from bursting.

  “Take a deep, slow breath.” Ravod’s voice is gentle. His kindness is hard to absorb after my ordeal with Kennan. “It’s okay to be overwhelmed. And it’s okay to take some time to breathe when you are.”

  It takes a second to remember how to let air in. My heart slows. Air leaves my mouth and the courtyard expands.

  “Thanks,” I mutter, pushing back sweaty strands of my hair. “It was like everything just hit me at once…”

  Ravod’s eyes linger on mine and I freeze. His expression is open and warm. It almost makes me lose my breath all over again.

  The sound of hooves turns my head as two stable hands approach, each leading a beautiful horse. Instantly, Ravod’s cold mask slips back in place. He strides toward a large black mare, the same one from when we met in Aster. She whinnies happily when she sees him.

  I mount the other horse, a bay gelding. Ravod takes an apple piece from his pocket and feeds it to his mare before he mounts with effortless grace.

  “Shall we?” he asks, taking the lead toward the main gate. I watch him, before heaving a sigh and following.

  * * *

  The trip down the mountain takes less time than I remember, but perhaps it’s only the shift in my nerves. Ravod and I have slipped into silence; the only sounds are the wind whistling against the mountainside and the clapping of horseshoes against the road.

  The sun has reached its peak by the time we fully descend into the plains. I expect them to be much the way I left them: dry and dusty. But I stifle a gasp at what lies before me.

  Brown grass and dull rocks scatter the path ahead, uninterrupted but for a few gray, skeletal trees. The emptiness is somehow even more chilling than it was from the training grounds high above.

  Ravod turns his horse off the road, and I follow. I watch him intently as he takes a deep, quiet breath and exhales. The deathly expanse doesn’t seem to bother him. I begin to wonder if his idea to leave High House was more for his benefit or mine.

  Ravod halts and dismounts, and I copy him. My legs ache as I hit the ground.

  I had nearly forgotten how vast the plains are. But oddly, High House looks larger than ever from here, shrouded in the clouds above us. Its grandeur in the distance makes for a stark contrast.

  “What happened here? Does Cathal know?” Surely if he did, he would have commissioned Bards to come and work their Tellings to make it better. This stretch of land is so close to High House, I’m surprised I didn’t see it when I first came. I’m even more surprised that Cathal—or anyone—would be okay with these conditions. It’s completely uninhabitable, as if a massive weapon detonated here long ago, withering the roots of anything that tried to grow. It is worse, even, than the desiccated portions of our pastures in Aster. And everyone knows we have one of the poorest villages in Montane. We are a blight upon our great nation.

  Or so we were told. What I see now is that this desolation is Montane.

  “Cathal is aware,” Ravod answers, and I struggle to interpret the hardness of his tone.

  “How can you stand it?” Anger coils inside me as my horse sniffs the ground timidly, looking for something to eat. But there is nothing but dust. “To live in such luxury while knowing that places like this exist?”

  “We’re not here to discuss me,” Ravod says, a frown tugging at his mouth.

  “Well, I know how much you enjoy being aloof and mysterious, but do you mind explaining to me what we’re doing out here, then?” I ask, facing him.

  Ravod’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

  “Mysterious? Really?”

  “You’re not going to contest that you’re aloof?” I raise an eyebrow in turn.

  Ravod rolls his eyes. “I can be sociable when the situation calls for it.”

  “So, never?” I can’t stop the corner of my mouth turning up as I tease him. For the first time in a long while, something feels comfortable. Fun, even.

  There’s even a ghost of a smile playing at the corners of Ravod’s delicate mouth, just enough to cause the dimples on his cheeks to reappear. The sight is a tiny burst of lightning in my chest.

  “I wasn’t always a Bard. I wasn’t even always in Montane…” He trails off, his amusement vanishing as his eyes turn distant. He gazes across the ruined landscape into a different time and place, his expression shifting between faint vestiges of thoughtfulness and longing. I watch him silently, wondering where he’s gone and wishing I could go wherever he is.

  “Ravod?” I step closer. “Hello?”

  He shakes his head as he comes back to the present. “Sorry about that,” he says.

  I have to ask. “Where did you go just now?”

  “I was thinking about my…” He clears his throat. “About the place where I grew up.”

  “Where did you grow up?”

  Definitely the wrong question. His face snaps back into his usual steel trap of expressionlessness.

  “We should focus on the task at hand,” Ravod says. “I want to see what comes to you naturally, without prompting from me.”

  “I can perform any Telling I want?” I ask.

  “As long as it accomplishes what I ask, yes,” Ravod replies. “Let’s see you turn the wasteland into a meadow.”

  “A meadow?” I take a hesitant step forward. The glare of the sun blurs the plains. “But how? There’s nothing here.” Kennan always had me manipulate or draw from what was already in place. Is it even possible to create something new?

  I close my eyes, feeling the world around me as it is. I think back, summoning all the lessons I learned over the last week to tap into my ability to alter reality.

  Starting the Telling feels a bit simpler now that Kennan isn’t interfering with Counter-Tellings. The sensation of wading through a murky swamp to find my focus is gone; my thoughts crystallize with greater ease.

  The seeds of doubt she planted are less easy to be rid of, however. I start to feel the telltale warmth in my fingers, but nothing more. I can’t draw it out further. I’m almost afraid to try, worried that I’m only setting myself up for another failure. I flex my fingers, shifting my weight back and forth between my legs.

  What Ravod is asking seems even more advanced and spectacular than parting the water back in the cavern. It makes Kennan seem downright reasonable.

  “Focus on what you’re trying to accomplish.” I hear Ravod’s voice and open my eyes. “If you want a meadow, try thinking about something that reminds you of meadows.”

  “That doesn’t seem a little roundabout? Why not just think of a meadow?”

  “Too literal.” Ravod shakes his head. “That kind of thinking conjures illusions, nothing more. Spoken Tellings are impermanent, but still alter the truth of what’s around us. Tethering the Telling to something real will lend it a basis in reality.”

  I consider his words and close my eyes again. My breath slows; my heartbeat shifts and syncs with the current of everything around me. I listen to wind in the dead grass and feel the ground beneath my boots. I anchor myself in the moment before I reach out within my mind for something to tie it all together.

  I need to think of something that reminds me of meadows. Living in Montane my whole life, I’ve never even seen one. The only reason I even know about them is from stories Ma and Pa used to tell.

  They used to describe verdant fields, pep
pered with colorful wildflowers, where birds soared overhead and gallant nobles courted beautiful maidens. Maybe the stories themselves were too whimsical to have a basis in reality, but the memory causes the tips of my fingers to grow warm again.

  Then it stops, like before. I growl at myself, frustrated.

  “Try again.” Ravod’s voice is calm and patient. “You can do this.”

  His gentle encouragement is a welcome change from Kennan’s brusque approach. With a little effort, I manage to push aside my irritation at myself and try yet again.

  Ravod says I need to think of something that reminds me of a meadow. I wrack my brain, turning the statement over again and again.

  A meadow. Sunshine. Warmth. Beauty.

  An image appears in my mind’s eye. I recall effortless grace and an infectious smile and the sound of laughter like tinkling bells.

  Fiona.

  A wave of warmth crashes through me, starting in my fingertips. I open my eyes.

  I’m startled when the dull colors around me explode into vibrant green. Flowers of all shapes and varieties burst into bloom at my feet and spread out from me in a circle. Overhead a flock of doves soars through the air.

  I had hoped to summon a small patch of green grass and flowers, but new life has nearly stretched to the road. I gasp, turning to Ravod with an exultant grin.

  Ravod’s eyes are wide, meeting mine unblinking. The wind gently moves his hair back, flicking delicate black wisps over his forehead.

  And he smiles.

  Joy launches upward into my chest. He is effortlessly beautiful, more so even than the vibrant field newly cascading over the land. There is an ache that penetrates deep into my core.

  Feelings rush through me, reckless and chaotic, like jumping down into a ravine without looking. I could spontaneously start dancing but also feel a breath away from bursting into tears. The thought awakens every nerve in my body with an icy touch. The longer I look at him, the deeper the ache in my chest penetrates. There’s something uniquely special about him. It is an unsettling energy, unlike anything I felt for Mads.