The rock broke in two rather than dislodging itself completely.
She sighed.
“My lady…” Mrs. Cook said. Her tone sank in, and Libuse jerked her head up, a strand of hair falling across her eyes.
Gypsies were coming through the streets toward them.
They were ragged, torn, some bloody.
“No,” Libuse said. “Please no.”
Surely it had not started again—the persecution that the Ploughman had nearly given everything to stop. She could not handle it without him.
Libuse recognized the woman who led the fugitives with a baby in her arms and a little boy clinging to her brown neck. Marja, Nicolas Fisher’s wife. She carried herself like another sort of queen, leading her Gypsies, past the farmers who stopped to stare and whisper among themselves, straight up to Libuse.
Marja bowed her head. The little boy on her back stared wide-eyed at Libuse. “My lady,” Marja said. “We bring evil tidings. And beg shelter.”
“You have shelter,” Libuse said. “And we must have your tidings.”
Marja looked pointedly around, unwilling to speak in front of the men and women who now strained to hear everything she said. Libuse dropped her hoe. “Mrs. Cook,” she said, “please take our guests to the castle where they can wash and dress their wounds, if need be. The rest of you, disperse, please. Ready yourselves for council in two hours’ time.” As the little boy on Marja’s back squirmed out of her shawl to go after a beetle in the dirt, Mrs. Cook called out for the Gypsies to follow her. Marja stood her ground. The princess recognized the desperate look in the young woman’s eyes.
Marja was stricken with fear for one she loved.
“What happened?” Libuse asked.
“Nicolas has been taken by High Police,” Marja said. “They ambushed us as we were traveling through the mountains. They killed others—they killed the Major. I had to flee for the sake of the children.”
Libuse laid her hand on the young woman’s shoulder. “You did the right thing,” she said. “But—High Police, here?”
“They are all through the mountains. They are watching everything you do,” Marja said. “We were coming to tell you before they attacked us. They are armed; war camps everywhere.”
Libuse tried to steel herself even as she thought through the implications. “But—the Ploughman—”
“I know of his mission.” Marja swallowed as though she was keeping back other words it was more tactful not to say. “But it seems you have been betrayed. I thank you for sheltering us, my lady. But you had best prepare for battle.”
“There is so little we can do.”
“Fortify your gates. Make the most of these walls. If you leave you are doomed. And help me get Nicolas back.”
The princess met the Gypsy’s eyes in surprise. “Do what?”
“Help me rescue Nicolas,” Marja said again, setting her jaw. “He is blessed of the King. He is Gifted. You will need him as much—” She choked on her words.
“No,” Libuse said. “We could never need him as much as you do. But for our sakes, and for your sake, we’ll do what we can to help you. Do you have a plan?”
Marja shook her dark head. “My plan was to reach you and see my children safe. Then to go out alone to find him if I had to.”
Libuse shook her head. “In two hours all the men of the city will gather for council. We will find someone to help you then. And make plans of our own.” She grew quiet and looked down at the earth beneath her feet, a street in torn heaps and furrows. “I wish with all my heart that the Ploughman were here.”
* * *
Chapter 8: A Broken Song
Virginia and Rehtse made camp beneath a copse of birch trees. They did not light a fire. They had left their cloaks in the Gypsy wagons and shivered now in the night air, but they sat back to back and did what they could to share warmth. Rehtse’s long braids fell around her face like a curtain as she slept, head on her knees.
Virginia did not know when she passed into the dream world, but soon the laird was there once more, older now and hollowed with horror, his eyes sunken and needy. He held out his hands. “Help me,” he said.
She was again on the hilltop in the darkness, where hordes of demons laughed, and a great howling Blackness swept all around. In the center of it all she saw the laird holding a large, flat blue stone, and his eyes bored into her—intense, desperate, full of hatred and of fear and of terrible, terrible longing. Before her he became more than the laird, more than a single man. He was all men, he was every traitor, he was even herself. And he was without hope.
She wanted to weep for him.
She could hear singing, a man’s voice, off key and far away.
The night air was cold against her cheek. She blinked and felt dew on her lashes.
She could still hear the voice singing snatches of words, a broken song sung to no one.
Virginia was stiff as she moved away from Rehtse. The priestess did not stir. Virginia rose and followed the voice. Water flowing mingled with its strains. She pushed branches aside with a light touch of her hand, moving cautiously toward the rushing brook.
The man’s voice spoke—to himself or another, she did not know. No one answered. She stood still and let her senses tell her what lay before her: a last tangle of branches, a clearing, a stream. And a man standing in it with water flowing around him.
The man began to sing again, and startled, Virginia recognized the song. It was a low dirge, one of the old laments of Angslie that she knew from childhood. Mingling with the rush of water, it faded in and out, a dying song from a man whose connections to his old life were likewise tenuous.
She caught her breath. It was him. Here—and so Evelyn had to be near also. For a moment fear threatened to rise up and overcome her. But then she saw him again as she had seen him in the dream. She heard the words, “Help me.”
And the other dream, the one in which the King had been pulled down by darkness, came to her memory again and said something new. She feared still that it meant he might be defeated—that he could be defeated. But the dream now told her that, like her, the King knew suffering in this battle. And that, for the sake of a world drowning in lies and darkness, he was willing to suffer.
Her heart moved in worship. And equally in compassion for the man before her. He had so long wanted to experience the true powers of the world. Evelyn had drawn him into torment and darkness. Could he now come away?
The laird hummed, stopped, and picked up the song again. One thing Virginia was certain of: if he was making music, he was alone.
She groped out her way, moving more branches aside, feeling herself step into clear air and onto the rocky ground around the brook. The night air was deepening all around her, still and cold, and she knew things were nearly as dark to others as they were to her. But there would be a moon, reflecting on water. He would see her if only he turned. She could make out the sounds of water splashing against something—he was washing clothes on a washboard perhaps, or a tool or something flat and hard. She could hear him moving against the current. His back was to her.
The humming grew louder as he turned, and then it faltered and died away. He did not move.
“Laird,” she said, her voice as quiet and steady as she could make it. She was shaking, she realized, but she held out her hand and stepped forward, fighting to control herself.
“Go back,” he said in a voice that was all low, graveled threat.
“I want to help you,” she said.
“And why would I need your help?” he said. His voice raised, suddenly accusing. “You were never willing to help me before.”
Memories assailed her at the sound of his voice. Before—in Angslie, on the journey to Pravik, on the way to the defining horror of her life—before, he had always tried to wrench from her something she could not give. Meaning, understanding, contact with the supernatural world. And in the end he had simply tried to take it from her, giving her over to the Order of the Spider to u
se as they would.
Suddenly, in the forest darkness by the rushing stream, the pain of it was raw and real. And yet, he too was in need.
“I could not give you what you wanted,” she said, swallowing hard. “I could not give you what you took from me. But now—”
“Nothing has changed,” he said. “You cannot give me what I want now. So what help can you be to me? You should not be here. Be gone before the Blackness claims you again.”
Virginia shook her head, hating her own feet for the way they stayed rooted to the ground, hating her mouth for all it could not say. “It is you who are in danger. I want to help you. I cannot offer you what you want, but perhaps I can offer you what you need. I am going to seek the King, laird. Come with me.”
“You’ve heard of moths drawn to flame,” Lord Robert said. “It seems you have no more wisdom than they. Evelyn is near; you must know that. She still wants you. Why do you linger?”
“Because I cannot leave you in the darkness,” Virginia said. “I want to forgive you. Help me. Tell me you will live again if you’re given the chance.”
“Live again? Do you think him dead now?” a woman’s voice said.
Virginia closed her eyes as the voice hit her like a blow from behind. “Do you call him living?” she returned.
“He stands with his feet in the shallows of power you cannot even imagine,” Evelyn said. “And he will know its depths before we are through.”
“Much good it may do him,” Virginia said, “when the power is all darkness and death and ashes. What you offer is no life.”
“You are a very fool to come here,” Evelyn said. “Surely you know that.”
Virginia smiled faintly. “There may be some wisdom in foolishness.”
“Is there wisdom in suffering?” Evelyn asked, a cruel smile in her voice.
“Some things are worth suffering for,” Virginia answered quietly.
As Lord Robert watched, Evelyn raised one hand, palm up, so her black sleeve fell away. Something black and writhing hovered above her hand. The blue stone began to glow. It was as though Evelyn had gathered the darkness out of the very air, and now it swirled in her palm. She spread out her fingers, and the darkness dripped from them and formed itself into tendrils in the air. They moved on a breeze that did not exist and began to play around Virginia, through her hair and over her skin, pricking her with pain that shot lightly over her skin. The blind girl shuddered.
“The Spider has had you before,” Evelyn said. “And has been hungry ever since. Are you so eager to be possessed again that you come seeking the darkness out? And you speak of light!”
Virginia opened her eyes. Lord Robert started at the change: her green eyes were suddenly alive, burning with a deep fire. She turned her head to face Evelyn.
“Do you even remember light?” Virginia asked.
Evelyn took a step back. “Link,” she snapped, and Lord Robert answered the name she had given him.
It only took a single blow to drop Virginia to the damp earth.
* * *
Night had fallen over the camp of the High Police, so the soldiers did not see the figures that moved like shadows through the trees—the first scouts of a rescue party, fleet-footed and silent Gypsies who took the lay of the camp and reported back to the waiting soldiers of Pravik who bore swords under Marja’s command. She wore leather armour under a dark shirt and a long dark skirt, and tarnished silver bands gleamed on her arms. She carried a sword and wore silver earrings in her ears. Her long black hair was tied back in a purple scarf. She was beautiful and foreign and, thought the Eastern soldiers who waited admiringly for her to give the word, terrifying.
The reports confirmed what earlier scouts had already said: there were close to two hundred High Police in this camp. One daring young Gypsy had dressed himself as a servant and made his way through the tents and watch fires, discovering that Nicolas lay captive and senseless—drugged, he guessed—in a tent in the center of the camp.
There were not more than three hundred fighting men in all of Pravik, and they had nowhere near the arms or the experience of the High Police. In a battle they would certainly be defeated.
So this would not be a battle. It would be the swoop of a bird upon the unsuspecting—a beat of wings, a flash of claws, and a swift leave-taking. Twenty of Pravik’s best and a handful of Gypsies against a full camp of High Police: a game of distraction and speed.
Marja looked to the treetops as she waited for the last scouts to return. An owl floated through layers of shadow. She prayed the blessing of the birds upon herself, the ancient blessing of her clan.
Footsteps were fast approaching. She turned, frowning. The scout was coming too fast, too loudly—didn’t the fool know to be quiet?
His scream reached her in a moment, the sound of hooves hard behind it, and with it the knowledge that they had failed before the attack had even begun.
“Marja! We are known!”
The scout did not reach them. Marja heard the sound of a spear and the crash of his body in the underbrush. In the next moment the High Police burst through the trees. Marja sang out a war cry as her men leaped to meet the trained soldiers of Athrom. Two on horseback crashed through the trees and rode them down. Marja whirled to meet them and staggered to her knees against every effort to stay standing.
Kneeling in the dirt, she looked down at the blood darkening her shirt. A convulsion ripped through her and she dropped her sword, unwillingly, fighting for her voice, for clarity of mind, for a way to leap up again and press past the fight, past the soldiers, through the forest, and reach Nicolas.
Somehow, by some miracle, to reach Nicolas and bring him out.
She fell forward with a low grunt. She thought she could feel it now—the blade in her ribs, the alien thing that had brought her down. Another convulsion ran through her, and her fingers tightened into fists.
How had they known?
The sounds of battle were faint in her ears; she could not see.
A boot wedged itself under her shoulder and pushed. She rolled onto her side, fingers still tight. She looked up at the man whose face she could just make out in the moonlight. The face of the enemy.
“She was lovely,” he said. “Pity she’s dead.”
“She was a demon,” said a voice from seemingly far off. “Have you never heard of the Gypsies who hunted our men? This is one of them. But yes, it’s a pity she’s dead—the emperor might have rewarded us for bringing her to him.”
The first man was still looking at her. “I’m surprised that Gypsy scout found it in him to betray such a beauty.”
“For enough gold,” the second man said, his voice still very far, “men will do anything.”
Marja heard nothing more.
* * *
Rehtse woke with a gasp, suddenly aware that Virginia was gone. She jumped to her feet.
“Virginia?” she called.
There was no answer.
After a few frantic moments of looking around the moonlit copse, Rehtse fell to her knees and searched the darkness for footprints. She found a slight impression in the damp earth and followed it to another, crawling until the impressions disappeared in a thicket. But now there were a few snapped branches, things Rehtse noticed as though some power drew her attention to them, and she stumbled after the signs until she reached a brook.
No one was there. But there were more footprints here, and damper patches where someone wet had stood, and one bloody spot that made Rehtse’s heart leap into her throat.
The ground was stony beyond the brook. She could find no more signs.
Hours later, Rehtse fell by a stream deep in the forest, letting the spray wash her scratched, smudged face. Her hands were bleeding from pushing through underbrush. She rolled onto her back and stared up at the sky, where dawn was just beginning to light.
She was sure that Virginia was not dead. She could not be dead, for if she was, all this journey had been meaningless. Rehtse’s eyes were heavy, and s
he slept for a little while. When she awoke, her muscles were cramping from the night’s hard searching, and new-birthed sunlight was sparkling on the water. It was beautiful, and empty. For a moment she wanted to cry. She had so long dreamed of this world—but never of being lost in it. She waded into the water beneath a green canopy. Around the stream, ferns and blue flowers grew in abundance. The water was cold as melted ice.
Birds stirred in the high treetops. She watched their flurries in distracted fascination. Unexpectedly, memories came to her of sitting at Divad’s feet as a child. The pictures carved into the stone walls of the Darkworld had illustrated his stories of creatures and spirits in service to the King, and of the rebels against him. He had taught the young priests the whole history of the Great War and of man’s betrayal, and of the Darkworld’s desire to repent and serve the King again—of their determination to wait for his return. Rehtse had made that desire, that determination, entirely her own.
She left the water, the bottom of her skirt dripping and heavy, and kept pushing through the forest. She stepped into a circle of moss-covered, ancient trees, the tallest she had yet seen, silent sentinels around a still clearing where tiny purple flowers grew. Mist hung around their wide trunks and over the flower patches.
Her breath caught as the beauty of it broke over her. Suddenly, the world seemed a hundred times more alive than it had a moment ago. The earth beneath her lived; the moss was alive; she was aware of the flowers, of birds in the trees, of the lingering aftereffects of rain, of the very air. Her skin tingled with the secrets bursting all around her.
What had Divad taught them? That the world was once full of majestic and mysterious beings, that the woods were full of the King’s creatures, that all creation served the King and abhorred the Blackness.
A wild idea was coming to her. Not that wild, she told herself. Not wild at all, if the stories were real, which they were.
Rehtse thought of Virginia, embraced the knowledge that she could not possibly find the Seer on her own, and cleared her throat.
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