Hush

by Dylan Farrow

  I am sitting in my bed, shaking, covered in sweat. I look around my room, so fine and lovely. Now I can’t help feeling the walls tightening around me.

  “It was only a dream,” I whisper, trying desperately to calm my nerves and slow my racing heartbeat.

  It is little use. I can still hear screaming and thunder ringing in my ears. I rub my eyes, trying to shake the numbness of sleep off, and that’s when I hear it. Piercing screams coming from the outside.

  I throw my covers off and rush to pull my uniform and boots on and open the door.

  Some of the other Bards have emerged curiously from their bedrooms, listening in the hall. I’ve seen two of them before: the one with the red tattoo and the older woman with beads in her white hair. I catch sight of Kennan, whose pale eyes are narrowed at the entrance to the hall.

  “What’s happening?” she says. She looks scared. There are dark rings beneath her eyes.

  The mountain quivers with a final aftershock and is still. Kennan has already broken into a run down the hall. Before I can think better of it, I find myself chasing her.

  My breath is heaving in my chest as I try to keep pace, but Kennan is almost unnaturally fast. She must be performing a Telling to allow herself to move so quickly. I try to do the same, but my thoughts are too scattered and I’m too out of breath. It’s all I can do to keep her slender figure in my sights as I barrel down the halls and skid around corners. She flings the door to the training grounds wide open and disappears outside. It nearly smacks me in the face as it slams shut, but I push through before it can.

  I stumble into the light of the full moon and lean on my knees to catch my breath. When I look up, the air I finally managed to recoup is shot from my lungs like a blast.

  I’ve never seen the training grounds so packed. Every Bard in High House must be out here. They are all facing the castle proper with varying looks of alarm and shock.

  “The Civilian’s Tower…” I hear a voice in the crowd gasp.

  Another intones, “A tragedy…”

  “The families of our servants…”

  I spin around and stare, an overwhelming terror descending over me. An entire wing of the castle has collapsed. Like a massive, invisible giant stepped on it.

  “Everyone, fan out and look for survivors!”

  I can’t move.

  My nightmare is fresh in my mind. This is the consequence of allowing my emotions to get the better of me.

  I made this happen.

  This is my fault. If Cathal’s belief in my power is real, so is this.

  The devastation in the fields yesterday comes back to me. This is what Ravod was trying to warn me about.

  I do the only thing I can think of. I run for my life.

  20

  The world goes silent as I take off running, shutting everything else out. The only coherent thought I’m capable of is that I need to get as far away from here as possible. I don’t even know where I’m headed, I can only trust my feet to get me where I need to go. Doing reckless things without thinking first … That, at least, I’m good at.

  I feel hot breath on the back of my neck as I run, stumbling through the gilded halls back the way I first came in. I don’t even see my surroundings, only the path ahead. When I glance over my shoulder, figures are behind me, impossible to make out in the darkness. It’s as if I’m being chased by the specters of the people who were in the tower when it collapsed. The families of the servants. Maybe even little Imogen’s family. I can see her face in my mind, her open, friendly sweetness morphing into grief and accusation. I can’t bear it. I never meant to hurt her, or anyone. Fiona was right. I’m putting everyone around me in danger.

  The voices calling after me have become nothing more than dull echoes by the time I reach the main courtyard.

  Everyone is scrambling. Yelling. Maybe they’re shouting at me, or are just swept up in the chaos of the collapsed tower. Everything beyond my own body feels dark and stagnant, shrouded in death. All I can do is rush forward and hope to escape it.

  The wrought-iron gate of the main entrance lies ahead, locking me in. I don’t have the dexterity to climb over.

  But I do have the Telling.

  My body grows warm as I focus. I have just enough awareness of the world around me to channel my fear at the barrier ahead.

  “Vanish!” I cry out.

  The gate blinks out of reality, and I pass through onto the road. I don’t need to look behind me to know that it’s there again as soon as I clear the threshold.

  The thought of going down the mountain to the wasteland only exacerbates my panic. I can’t go back there. I run in the opposite direction instead, up the mountain. The air becomes rapidly colder the smaller High House gets in the distance. A few flakes of snow brush my skin as I ascend higher into the frigid mountaintops. I’m nearly free.

  It’s a short-lived victory. I trip over a loose rock in the road where the cement gives way to dirt. Panic is all I feel as I lurch forward, losing control of my body.

  I tumble head over feet, off the road entirely, where it bends down the mountainside.

  The ground slams against my body as I somersault down a ledge. The haze of emotions takes the edge off the pain I would normally feel at being battered like this.

  I wonder if I will die at the bottom.

  A blast of dark cold envelops me.

  * * *

  I’ve stopped moving. The world still feels unsteady, but I can lift my neck and see that I’ve fallen into a snowbank, not dead after all.

  The rocks are icy, stabbing into me through my clothes, and the air stings against my skin like brittle glass. I’m higher in the mountains here. The wastelands are far below; I can no longer see them around the jagged peaks.

  I don’t remember losing consciousness, but I must have; the sun is cresting the mountaintops that encircle me. It could be the next day or any number of days later. Time feels fuzzy and difficult to gauge.

  Perched in the snow before me are three white vultures. They observe me with vague disappointment before they fly off in search of a better meal.

  I trace their path with my eyes until they disappear into the distance. Lowering my gaze, I make out a smaller path winding through the mountains.

  My muscles throb as I push myself up out of the snow. The cold has seeped into my clothes, down to my very bones, muting the worst of my pain, but I still feel as if I fell off the side of a mountain.

  For a few minutes, all I can do is sit and wait for the world to stop lurching unevenly around me. Behind me is the sheer cliffside I rolled down. A dark smattering of blood remains on one of the nearest rocks, and I touch my temple, grimacing. The tips of my fingers are bloody when I pull them away. Luckily the wound has started to scab, and a little snow is all I need to clean it.

  I look around. Going back the way I came is not an option. I couldn’t scale a slope like that without equipment, even if I did feel physically matched to the task.

  Perhaps it’s for the best, I think. They have probably deduced by now that I was the one who caused the collapse. They would have expected me to head in the familiar direction of the wasteland. They’ll search for me there. I have a better chance of escaping if I go deeper into the mountains.

  The small burst of clarity helps ease my nerves. Even so, it takes a couple of deep, steadying breaths to muster enough resolve to get to my feet. My head is pounding, and my body isn’t holding together much better.

  I gingerly pick my way over the snowbank and onto the narrow mountain road. When I was younger and more travelers passed through Aster, I remember hearing about paths such as these, so treacherous that sometimes only the sure-footed mountain goats that populate the region could traverse them. Back then, it seemed almost as improbable as the existence of Gondal.

  I clear my head of thoughts to focus on the path before me. At best, the smallest misstep would send me face-first onto the ground; at worst, I would fall into a chasm between the mountains. The distracti
on is far from pleasant, but more bearable than the dark, murky void of my mind.

  Keeping my head down, I put one foot in front of the other. Some steps are easier than others. I nearly slip on the dark ice several times.

  When I pause to catch my breath, I find myself looking back, against my better judgment. The shock wave of heat nearly thaws my frozen body on its own. The cold is getting to me.

  High House is clear in the distance, pristine and white against the clear blue sky and golden rays of sunshine. The shining beacon of hope and order it always was.

  I can even see the tower that collapsed last night, standing as if nothing happened. My jaw trembles, my teeth chattering, but not from the cold.

  The tower flickers into rubble, a cloud of dust and death rising over castle spires, and back into existence. I blink once … twice … but it doesn’t change.

  This is it. This is the madness I was always fated to succumb to. It’s finally happening.

  One thing is certain, I need to get away from High House more than ever. Before it claims me completely. Before I can hurt anyone else.

  Before Ravod finds out and loses what little respect he has left for me.

  Before Cathal realizes that his faith in me was misplaced.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and turn back to the road. All I can do is lower my head and continue on.

  I don’t know if minutes or hours have passed when I finally see movement ahead.

  Black-cloaked Bards patrol the road. One is on horseback barking orders to another two on foot, but the rest—I count six—are positioned at varying heights up the cliff. They watch in both directions, almost as if they are looking for something.

  Or someone.

  I shiver involuntarily, picking my way quietly up the path, staying out of sight behind a rocky outcropping. Shielded from the leader’s gaze atop his horse, I press my back against the frigid stone and try to hear what they are saying.

  “—been mostly quiet out here. Not many caravans this time of year,” a Bard on foot reports.

  “Let’s keep it that way,” the leader responds, “at least until the situation is resolved.”

  Situation? I mouth the word silently. Are they talking about the tower? Are these men here to find me? Will they bring me back to High House? Or will they kill me here and leave my corpse for the vultures?

  The ground beneath me wobbles a little. With effort, I plant my feet and rest my head back against the rock, trying to remain calm.

  “Word from the village says Crowell’s squad has things mostly under control. If we keep traffic to a minimum, they’ll only need a day, maybe two to wrap up,” another Bard pipes up.

  I exhale the breath I’ve been holding. They’re only monitoring traffic. Perhaps there’s a chance I can slip by unnoticed. I have to act fast.

  Stepping out from the outcropping, I arrange my features into what I hope is a perfectly neutral expression. The Bards finally notice me as I draw closer, but their glances grow dismissive when they see the training uniform I’m wearing.

  “State your business,” the Bard on horseback orders, gazing coldly down at me.

  I clear my throat, adopting the terse tone I’ve noticed among Bards on duty.

  “I was sent with a message for Crowell,” I say, sounding more confident than I feel.

  “He’s up the road overseeing operations at the village. Tread carefully.” The Bard nods me past.

  I maintain a smooth gait as I pass the others, trying to ignore my heart pounding fearfully in my chest. When the road curves around the cliff and out of sight, I nearly fall to my knees from the exertion of the charade.

  If I stop quickly at the village up ahead, I might be able to blend in with the Bards again and scrounge up some supplies.

  I lose track of time again as the path winds around the mountains; it narrows dangerously when I least expect. I’m shivering violently by the time I round yet another corner and finally see the village ahead.

  The burst of color is unexpected. Bright banners and flags of all shapes and sizes wave at me in the wind. The stone houses, built into the rocks of the mountain, are painted in colorful trimming, and the narrow streets below are busy with a bustling marketplace.

  Most tempting of all is the smoke billowing happily from the chimneys, the promise of warmth.

  With renewed energy, I trek closer, eager to find shelter where I can stop shivering and collect my scattered thoughts. My empty stomach reminds me loudly that food is also a necessity.

  A blast of frigid wind hits me when I approach the outskirts of the town, carrying with it a foul stench that sends me reeling back. I cover my nose and mouth with my hand, trying to wave it away as I make my way through the main gates.

  I remember that smell. It was in my home when I found Ma on the floor.

  Death has a very distinctive odor.

  The colorful banners still wave overhead, but when I swivel toward the narrow dirt road that led into town, I have to blink several times. The festive outcropping of trees and banners and lanterns has vanished.

  When I turn again to walk forward, everything looks different. As if I’ve passed through an illusion and now I’m in the real village. It’s frightening. Far worse even than Aster. Groups of filthy people huddle around meager fires or in makeshift tents. Some are injured beyond repair. A few enter and exit a dilapidated building that looks ready to slide right off the side of the cliff. A faded cloth sign hanging outside bears a woven icon of a keg of beer and mugs, proclaiming itself a tavern. Standing vigilantly at either side of the door is a pair of Bards. They seem to be guarding the building, but their eyes flick watchfully over the people out front.

  I didn’t see this from the road. Could I have overlooked it in my eagerness to find shelter?

  Something is very wrong here.

  Or else, something is very wrong with me.

  I shake the thought away, willing myself to focus.

  I know better than to ask questions of the nearby Bards and potentially blow my cover. Instead, I stride purposefully up to the door. They permit my entrance with a tight nod each.

  My joy at the heat inside is short-lived. Even as I feel sensation creep back into my body through my thawing skin, my throat tightens with renewed trepidation.

  The tavern appears to have been repurposed as a base of operations for the Bards. The shutters are closed and bolted. The only natural light comes from the narrow slits in the uneven wood that reflects the motes of dust in the air. If not for the faint glow of a few candles, the room would be cast almost completely in darkness.

  Several Bards strategize over a table littered with maps. Another group is gearing up for what looks like a shift change.

  Refugees have clustered in nervous knots throughout the room. One larger group uses the bar to perform surgery on a young man who looks like he was struck with a bolt through his shoulder. He howls in pain as he’s held down. His cries drown out the hushed whispers around the room. Hardly anyone dares acknowledge the Bards’ presence. The Bards seem happy to return the favor.

  With everyone’s focus on their respective tasks and struggles, I easily slip into a shadowy corner.

  My body stinging with much needed warmth, I keep an eye on the tavern. That doesn’t stop it from tilting side to side like it’s floating out at sea. The movement is slow, just enough to make me sick to my stomach.

  I close my eyes, bracing myself against the wall. The splintery wood digs into my palms, grounding me.

  The tilting stops. I open my eyes, hopeful that I’ve staved off the worst of the madness.

  As usual, I’m wrong.

  Confusion is quickly replaced by cold, biting fear as I see the tavern again. All the shutters are open, casting the space in warm, bright sunlight. Banners hang from the rafters in every imaginable color. Customers chat at tables while a pretty, dark-haired woman bustles about serving food and drinks. The bar is packed with patrons, singing and toasting together.

  This isn’t re
al, is it?

  I open and close my eyes several times, as if trying to awaken from a dream—or a nightmare—but the room only changes back and forth rapidly between the two scenes. One moment it’s filled with horror and the next with laughter.

  Shaking, I trace the wall back to the door and waste no time throwing it open and dashing outside into a blast of frigid mountain air.

  I shield my eyes with my arm. I don’t want to see anything as I take to the road, running as fast as my body will allow. I have to get away. Somewhere far from here, from the Bards, from High House. I can feel my mind unraveling with every rushed, terrified step I take.

  That smell again. The stench of death. I can feel it seeping into my clothes, my hair, my lungs. It’s choking the breath from me.

  My arm is forced from my eyes when something barrels into my side, knocking me to the ground. When I look up, there’s nothing there.

  I’m splayed in the middle of the street of the pristine mountain village. No one in the busy marketplace seems to notice me as they go about their lives. Above, colorful banners wave cheerfully in the breeze … The breeze that reeks of decay. Now it’s laced with smoke but there’s no fire.

  I get to my feet, rubbing my shoulder where I was hit. It still stings from the impact, but is it real?

  My boot crunches as I take a step forward. Looking down, I see broken glass from a window I was passing. I look up to see the window, intact, with a small box of little blue and yellow flowers on the sill. When I glance down, the glass is gone.

  I look back to the window. The flowers are nothing but withered black stalks. The windowpane is shattered, dark blood crusted on the edges of the broken glass.

  The noises of the market are replaced by screams and panic. The busy shopkeepers and their patrons become mobs of filthy, starving beggars rioting in the street. Fires blaze in the distance. Smoke curls in the air. Bodies lie in the road, stripped of their meager valuables.

  Is this where the smell of death was coming from before? Now, I can only smell incense and freshly baked bread.

  There’s an undercurrent to all of it, the faint sound of monotonous chanting. Black cloaks dart around the corners of my eyes, slipping behind buildings or patrolling rooftops, visible for only a split second before they slide out of sight.