Hush

by Dylan Farrow

  “Unlock,” I mutter quickly as my hands shake, the warm feeling quickly fading. My spool of thread slips from my pocket and clatters to the ground. My voice falters. The Telling fails.

  “Did you hear that?” a voice asks in the distance.

  If I don’t move now, this will all be for nothing. I shiver at the thought of being thrown back into the sanitarium. Or worse. What would be the punishment for a Bard dipping her nose too many times where it doesn’t belong?

  “Unlock!” Nothing.

  I take a few paces away from the gate, clenching my fists and releasing.

  It’s okay to take some time to breathe. Ravod’s voice is gentle and calming against the onslaught of panic.

  My foot catches on the thread, and I wind it up in my hands, clutching it so tightly, my knuckles flash white. I close my eyes and clench my jaw, gripping the latch. I focus on the sting that reminds me of Kennan, the bite of her gloves against my cheek.

  I pull the thread tighter and tighter, imagining the lock is in my hands instead, the metal so bent out of shape that it cannot hold on any longer.

  “Unlock.” The thread snaps into my skin. I clutch my fingers, looking at the thin line of red that seeps through.

  A clank of metal makes my eyes shoot up. The lock is completely mangled, like it was stretched apart. There’s a click behind the latch and the handle swings down. I rush through the gate, closing it silently behind me.

  From the darkness on the other side, I see the lock revert to normal as the Telling fades. By the time the guards arrive, it’s as though I was never even there.

  * * *

  The wreckage of the collapsed tower makes my breath catch in my throat. My every step threatens to weaken the damaged structure.

  Once I’m safely out of the guards’ line of sight, I manage to light one of the torches near the entrance, casting the area in a meager glow. Chunks of debris litter the floor, most of the ceiling is caved in, and a fine layer of dust has settled over everything that is left.

  Still, seeing this for myself does nothing to quell my suspicions. Something is hiding here. It has to be.

  I start gingerly combing through the rubble, trying to spot anything that looks out of the ordinary. Mostly, all I see are personal items. Keepsakes.

  Certainly nothing remotely like the Book of Days. Perhaps that was a long shot to begin with.

  My mind wanders as I continue my search through the sea of rubble. The Telling alone is not enough. Not when there’s so much more out there. Kennan’s words stir unease in my chest. Enough not only to wash these lands clean of the plague, but make it so it never existed. I reached for that, and perhaps I failed once, but I won’t again.

  I think back to Mads and Fiona and Ma and my home in Aster. To the backbreaking work we inflicted upon one another to meet the Bards’ demands, to prove ourselves worthy.

  We were the blight on this great nation. Or so we were reminded at every opportunity.

  I lean haphazardly against a cracked wall. It is not only Aster that is suffering. It is all of Montane.

  Is that why Cathal wants the Book of Days? To fix what has been destroyed?

  It is the fabric upon which all of reality is shaped … Cathal’s voice echoes in my head.

  I turn over half a chair to clear my path, thoughts churning. If all of reality is written on those pages, could it be changed? Could someone write something into reality that wasn’t there before?

  Or write someone back in?

  Ma’s face flashes in my mind, and sudden, unbidden tears sting the corners of my eyes.

  “Stop it, Shae,” I whisper. “One thing at a time. Focus.”

  Cathal only wants to keep it out of the wrong hands. Like Kennan’s. A part of me wants Cathal to show up and set my mind at ease, like he always does.

  But seconds pass in the dark ruins, and I’m still alone.

  I’ve reached the other side of the ruined tower, and my search has turned up nothing. Reflexively I run my hands over my cheeks, like I used to do as a child when I tried to wipe away my freckles. My shoulders slump as a bitter taste fills my mouth.

  There’s nothing here.

  Dejectedly, I pick my way back through the room. Having already cleared a path, the return trip is shorter. It’s a small mercy.

  Sidestepping a fallen beam, light catches my eye. My head tilts as I study it.

  That door wasn’t there before, was it? I rub my eyes, convinced I’m seeing things. But I would have noticed a door like this. It’s simple and wooden, almost like the front door to my house back in Aster … Nothing like the ornate, gilded passages I’ve become accustomed to at High House.

  And I definitely would have noticed the pale blue light issuing from beneath it.

  I step closer, running my hand over the surface of the wood. It’s solid. And it’s still there moments later, so it’s not a Telling. It’s something else entirely.

  I try the doorknob, and it turns easily in my hand. Before I can heed my better judgment, I step through the open door.

  * * *

  The roar of the waterfall greets me.

  This can’t be right. How am I in the cavern with the waterfall? It’s as impossible as the sunlight spilling through the churning water.

  But here it is. Right in front of me.

  I whirl around, reaching for the door, but my fingers only touch rough-hewn stone, blocking my path. The door has completely vanished.

  I am so tired of feeling like I’m going mad. I close my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose.

  But what if my mind isn’t playing tricks on me? What if this is the hidden pathway to the Book of Days after all?

  I regard the waterfall suspiciously before taking half a step closer.

  There are limits to our gift … but beyond those limits exists possibility. Knowledge. Solutions … Power. I hear Kennan’s voice as if she were standing beside me, but when I look around, I am as alone in the cavern as I was before.

  Perhaps Kennan isn’t the one speaking to me.

  I center myself and keep my thoughts from tumbling over one another like the waterfall before me. Whatever power is at work here, it’s different than anything I’ve come across before.

  But maybe it’s just similar enough. I remember the first time I was here—with Kennan. The way she sipped her tea as she sabotaged me with her Counter-Telling. I narrow my eyes and take a step forward. Without any distractions, I channel my focus toward the current. Using my fingers as my guide, I murmur very softly, “Part.”

  A thrill of warmth rushes through me as the water obeys the Telling, splitting in the center like a curtain. But instead of the cliffside, it reveals the rest of the passage.

  I try to keep from gaping as I move toward it. The cavern ends in a series of steps, leading to a replica of the shooting range. A loaded crossbow, a mirror, and a target are set up in a line, as if expecting me.

  My training. Could this be the test’s true purpose? To find someone who could navigate this passage?

  Was Cathal planning this? Is this what he was preparing me for? Kennan must have tried to sabotage me so she could get here first.

  I heft the crossbow into my arms, straining only slightly under the weight. I’m stronger than when I first arrived at High House. I feel a small surge of confidence I was sorely lacking the first time I attempted this challenge.

  I take a deep breath and concentrate on the mirror.

  “Vanish,” I murmur softly as I squeeze the trigger. The bolt flies free and I stumble backward two steps, but keep my gaze locked on my reflection. It flickers out of reality for an instant. Just long enough for the bolt to pass through.

  When the mirror reappears, I hear the satisfying sound of the target behind it being hit.

  I step to the far side of the shooting range to inspect my handiwork. The bolt sticks out of the topmost edge of the target. A hair’s breadth higher and I would have missed.

  Another door, identical to the one in the ruins, has
appeared behind the target.

  Feeling more assured, I push the door open. My stomach clenches when I’m assaulted by an all-too-familiar smell.

  Death. I would know its scent anywhere now.

  High House is gone. I’m standing in my home, back in Aster. At my feet is my mother’s body, broken and bloody. There is no light except the glow of the golden dagger in her chest.

  Ma.

  I shake my head in horror, taking one step back, and another. This can’t be right.

  “This was never part of my training!” I shout, as if denying what I see will make it go away.

  No one answers.

  Every muscle in my body is trembling. Ma is dead. It is impossible for her to be here.

  But every time I blink, there she is, her glassy eyes trained on something above her. I can’t face it. I can’t face her.

  I bolt for the door, but it’s gone.

  I race along the sides of the room, searching for a way out, but all the windows have vanished. No matter which way I turn, the room reorients itself so that I’m facing the body in the center, just as I was in my memory.

  “Stop!” I issue all my rage, frustration, fear, and desperation into a Telling.

  Nothing happens.

  “Door!”

  No response.

  “Anything!” I pound on the walls. My head is spinning. I can’t breathe. All I see are visions of me running, falling down in soft dirt, a landslide covering it all up.

  Little dots drift in the corner of my vision. I’m going to pass out.

  I have to regain control. It’s an impossible task, the smell and the sight and the silence slamming into me at every opportunity. I choke on my own breath, my face drenched with tears.

  “This isn’t real,” I say. “It’s only an illusion.”

  My training required Tellings to overcome the obstacles I was presented with. This place must operate on the same principle.

  I have to keep myself from falling prey to my own weakness.

  I need to try something else.

  Swallowing the lump in my throat, I force myself closer to the body, to Ma, until I’m right in front of her. I slowly lower to my knees.

  I place my hands on the hilt of the dagger and pull it free. My hands are shaking as I toss it aside.

  When I look back at Ma’s face, her eyes are open. She’s alive. I gasp.

  No. It’s still only an illusion.

  She looks at me expectantly. My jaw quivers. I long to touch her, to wrap myself in her embrace. There’s a burning in her eyes, and I know what she wants, but I’m not sure I can bring myself to say it.

  Her hand is in mine. Cold, but firm. I whimper, clutching it tight, pressing her knuckles to my forehead as tears slip through my eyes.

  A small, encouraging smile touches the corner of her mouth, and she nods once to me.

  Say it, her eyes say to me. It’s okay.

  Never looking away from her, I channel my energy into a Telling.

  “Rest,” I whisper. I kiss her head once and lay her gently back down, smoothing her hair so it rests nicely beneath her. “I love you, Ma.” I squeeze her hand as her eyes flutter closed. I hold her as my eyes burn, daring not to blink. I drink in every second of her until she falls limp in my arms, her final embrace her way of saying, Goodbye, Shae, as she slips into the ether.

  When I look up, the front door has reappeared. The house is as I remember it. I get up and look around one last time. My hand pauses on the doorknob.

  Beyond is the Book of Days. I know it. I feel it.

  I take a deep breath and open the door.

  24

  I am back inside the bowels of High House, in the darkness of the caverns. As I close the door to my childhood home and watch it disappear into a wall, I realize everything that came before was half real, half illusion. The work of some ancient Telling placed over the labyrinth.

  I’m getting closer.

  I ascend a tight, winding staircase of stone, lit by flickering torches. Shadows dance on the gray walls, distorting monstrously around every corner.

  The staircase is never-ending, and I find myself wondering what is controlling High House. Is it the Book? Or the castle itself? There is a very strange power at work here.

  My legs ache when I reach the top. An arching doorway lies before me.

  Could this be it? Is the Book here?

  I reach for the door, but it’s locked. I peer around the landing. There is nothing but stillness. This seems too simple. A Telling would easily open the door. Far too easy.

  Could this be another test? I tense at the thought. Whatever it is, I can handle it. I’m not sure if I believe it or am simply trying to reassure myself.

  The door creaks loudly on its hinges, and I jump when it smacks the wall on the other side.

  The space is thick with darkness. It takes me a few blinks to adjust to the absence of light save for the lone streak of moonlight seeping in through the vaulted window. Flecks of dust scatter and fall.

  I risked my life sneaking into the caverns, went through all those tests, suffered through my mother’s death all over again … for a storage room?

  I’m in one of High House’s myriad towers. There are a few tables, strewn with papers and rusted objects I cannot place. Heaviness roots me to the spot when my gaze reaches the shelves lining the walls; they are stacked with equally strange artifacts. A fine layer of dust covers almost everything. It reminds me of Constable Dunne’s office.

  A slick layer of sweat beads along my hairline and neck.

  Get out, my mind urges desperately.

  I whirl back to the door. It’s still there. I hesitate a few inches from the doorknob.

  The door doesn’t disappear.

  It’s letting me leave. Not a test, then.

  Hot anger simmers within me. I am so very tired. Tears fill my eyes. I thought I was doing everything right for once.

  “What do you want from me?” I cry out in rage, kicking the metal table closest to me. Pain flares through my toes and into my ankle. The table shakes, rattling its contents. Dust rises into the air. It clouds up into the beam of light filtering through the window before settling. I cough and pull at the collar of my damp shirt. I’m unusually warm.

  There’s a strange smell in the air. I cough again, trying to identify it. It’s heavy. Smoky. I know this scent from somewhere.

  I narrow my eyes at the table, running a finger over the dust and inspecting it more closely.

  Ash.

  The burning village in the wasteland flashes before me. It’s not real. I squint through the dark and really look at the room. Gritting my teeth, I focus on the floor, forcing the memory back. The flickers of truth push through the illusion.

  I run to grab a torch from the top of the staircase. The flame breathes new life into the illuminated space, bringing clarity.

  Every corner of the room is charred and blackened. Remains of wooden furnishings are scattered. Ugly scorch marks—both old and new—mar the makeshift metal furniture. As I move closer, the light catches and reflects off the strange items I saw before.

  There must have been some sort of fire; perhaps these were rescued from it.

  I step closer to the nearest shelf, where a number of stone tablets sit in a line, etched with letters and stylized creatures. There’s also an odd machine, its clockwork insides ripped out, and a globe encircled by rings set with delicate crystals.

  There is a commonality to all the items: the engravings bear resemblance to one another, and something about them triggers a warning bell inside me. My pulse flutters, and my sleeve brushes against a small stack of papers, which do not seem to be coated in ash like everything else in the room. I pick them up uneasily. They must have been placed here recently.

  The ink markings on the pages look hurried, as if someone was short on time. Cathal told me not to practice reading without him. His warning cuts through the fear of the writing that causes my hands to shake. Like the book he gave me, the
paper feels impossibly heavy.

  If there’s a clue here, though, I have to find it. Determination, and several deep breaths, eventually smothers my fear.

  My skill at reading is still clumsy, and the unfamiliar scrawl on the pages is difficult to decipher. I squint, sounding out the words with my mouth as I go.

  Test … one: The … something unreadable … is prac … tic … ally … in … des … truc … tible …

  Who wrote this? I focus on the pointy, hurried handwriting itself for a long moment, trying to find something familiar and failing. I’ve seen Niall’s handwriting from my misadventures in the men’s barracks, and this is not it. Even Ravod’s letters on the window in the sanitarium were rounder and loopier.

  That just leaves every other Bard or courtier or servant in High House … Or even Cathal. I rifle through the papers, looking for … something.

  Test five … six … seven … all the way through twelve. Whoever this was, they went to great lengths to destroy the contents of this room. Some of their methods were astonishingly creative. I keep skimming the contents, hoping to find something useful.

  Cathal can’t know what I’ve done here …

  So it’s not him.

  I think Ravod suspects …

  Not him either.

  If only Nahra were still here …

  I don’t know who that is.

  I wipe sweat from my brow as I lower the papers.

  Something tiny—a sharp reflection of light within a box—catches my gaze. I cross toward it.

  On the table, there’s a wooden box with bronze hinges and a glimmering clasp. I pop it open. Hidden inside, I find a menagerie of tiny stone animals—a raven, a wolf. They’re lovely, and lovingly carved, no bigger than a child’s toys.

  I freeze. The material and craftsmanship are painfully familiar. I recognize the shimmering veins on the surface of the material.

  My breath catches when, as if from a dream, I see a little stone ox. Like Kieran’s.

  No. This isn’t just like Kieran’s little ox statue, it is the very same. I’m sure of it. The stone feels warm in my hand, as if it recognizes me too.