by E. E. Holmes
What little color the moonlight had not leeched from Ileana’s complexion now left it.
“And the child?”
I leaned in close to her so that my lips nearly brushed her ear as I replied, “She is a Sentinel now.”
Ileana closed her eyes for a moment. She seemed to be gathering something up within herself—strength, perhaps, or resolve. Then she stepped away from me and spoke to the gathered Travelers, her voice rich with authority. “No one is to touch the child. She is within the grip of the Geatgrima. Dragos, you will organize a watch over her. She is to be guarded, day and night. I will leave in the morning. I must seek consultation on how to proceed.”
All of the Travelers stared in shock. Evidently “seeking consultation” was not a thing that the Travelers did very often. Fierce independence from “Settler” clans had long kept them nearly entirely separate from the rest of the Durupinen world.
A very old woman broke away from the crowd, hobbling forward until she stood only a few feet away from Naomi. She looked so frail, so ancient, that it was a wonder she had even managed to follow the group through the forest to the clearing at all. No one put out a hand to stop her. No one spoke. No one even moved. Even Ileana stepped back from the woman with a kind of deference that could only be reserved for an elder—a matriarch.
The woman took the knobbly stick with which she walked and dug its tip into the bare, mossy ground. Next, she slowly traversed the clearing, dragging the stick behind her, so that when she arrived back where she had started, she had created a near-perfect circle within which we all now stood, waiting silently. The woman sank to her knees before the child, placing one gnarled hand upon the ground at her feet and raising the other as though in supplication to the sky. Then, she began to sing.
“Sing” did not do justice to the depth or primality of the noise that reverberated around the space, enveloping it in a blanket of sound that at once warmed me and sent shivers up my spine and into the roots of my hair, but I could think of no other word for it. The melody was full of strange, unexpected intervals woven together in a heart wrenching minor key, rendered all the more haunting in the old woman’s ancient husk of a voice.
And then, from the furthest shadows of the group, a mournful fiddle began to play. We all turned to see Laini sawing away on her violin, her back pressed to a tree, her eyes closed as though in prayer. And then the music swept up the other Travelers, and they spread around the clearing and dropped to their knees, creating a second living circle within the first that had been etched into the earth. One by one, they caught up the tune, adding their voices until the music swelled to a full chorus. Annabelle sank to her knees as well, and though she did not know the words or the tune, she clasped her hand around her Auntie Zina’s and swayed along. I looked around and realize that only Lucida, Catriona, and I remained standing, intruders in this show of solemnity.
“The song is a promise,” came a voice from behind me, and I realized that Ileana had risen from the circle and appeared at my side. “The child protects them, and so they will protect the child. That is the deepest promise of blood.”
“But how does the old woman know that the child is protecting them?”
Ileana shrugged. “How do we know anything? Sometimes what we seek to hide reveals itself in ways we do not anticipate. Sometimes the truth, it sings to us.”
I did not know what to say, so I turned back to the girl and made my own promise. I would not rest until Agnes’ message had been delivered. And if it was within my power, though we shared no Traveler blood, I too, would promise to protect this girl—and Savvy, and any other Durupinen who might fall under the Geatgrima’s spell.
I would find a way to sing the truth, too.
13
A Bit of Shine
IT WAS A STRANGE and somewhat hostile group that piled into the Tracker SUV the next morning at dawn. The tension in the car, once the doors were closed, was almost overwhelming. Catriona sat in the driver’s seat, her eyes, hidden behind giant sunglasses, fixed firmly on the road. Beside her, in the passenger’s seat, Lucida sat with her knees pulled up to her chin, looking bleary-eyed and exhausted—her face had still not lost the sharp, hollow look that Skye Príosún had given it. On my right, and as far from Lucida as the tight quarters would possibly allow, was Annabelle, arms and legs crossed tightly into tense knots. On my left was Ileana, who looked as out of place in a car as a fish on a bicycle. She was clutching her many shawls and scarves tightly around her body, as though trying to protect herself from the indignity of modern Settler convenience. And stuck in the middle, trying to keep all occupants of the car at bay from each other, was me, sleep-deprived, skittish, and feeling like the kid who drew the short straw on the most dysfunctional family road trip ever.
It was a trip that almost didn’t happen at all. The Traveler Council spent most of the rest of the night in session, anxious to understand what was happening to little Naomi, dragging the Scribes from the vigil in the Geatgrima’s clearing into their wagons to begin what was sure to be days upon days of feverish research. When it became clear that Ileana was determined to leave the camp, the fight began over how she should travel and who should accompany her. The fight became all the more fierce when they realized that she had absolutely no intention of telling them where she was going or from whom she was seeking consultation, and that she was determined that no other Traveler accompany her. The protest was particularly strong amongst Dragos and his Caomhnóir contingent, who had a sworn duty to protect their High Priestess and could not fathom allowing her to simply vanish with neither companion nor protection. When it was revealed that she would have both companions and protection, but that it was Northern Settlers, not Travelers, who would be providing them, the ensuing uproar was enormous. Or at least, that was the report that was relayed to us around the fire by Jeta, who had crept round the Council tent and gotten the full story from Fennix, who was standing guard at the entrance. Traveler Council meetings were typically raucous, crowded affairs, open to every Traveler, and generally well-attended, but with nearly the entire camp still gathered in vigil around Naomi, only a handful of people had slipped away in order to find out what was going on and inform the others.
“I can’t imagine what would be so cataclysmic that the High Priestess would put her life in Settler hands to keep it secret,” Jeta murmured, looking at the four of us with a mixture of awe and fear.
None of us answered, which only confirmed, I suppose, just how right she was. She couldn’t imagine. None of us could.
The drive from the Traveler grove in Cambridgeshire to the village of Pluckley in Ashford, Kent was only about two and a half hours, but it seemed an eternity trapped in that horribly silent car. I had a hundred questions to ask Ileana about where we were going and who we would be meeting when we got there, but the expression on her face was so fiercely closed off that I didn’t dare break the silence. Even Catriona, with whom I was expecting to spend the entire drive assembling facts and formulating detailed plans, didn’t dare to take charge in that way, though I could see her biting the inside of her cheek now and then to stop herself from blurting out whatever inner monologue she was carrying on. My only solace during the trip was using the connection to check in with Hannah and Milo.
When I relayed to them what had happened with Naomi, my head started to buzz like a beehive at the onslaught of collective fear, shock, and sadness.
“That poor little girl. That’s so terrible, Jess.” Hannah’s thought was like a long tremulous note played on a violin.
“I know,” I agreed. “It sounds from what her mother said like she’s been getting out at night. They all thought it was sleepwalking, of course.”
“It’s just starting, isn’t it,” Milo said, and there was no question in his words. “It’s spreading.”
“It may already be happening,” I pointed out. “There’s a chance that Savvy isn’t even the first. If other clans are keeping the word from spreading, like Celeste is, who knows
how many Sentinels there are, locked into connection with Geatgrimas right now all over the world.”
We all shared in the cold shiver of horror at the thought.
“Finn is on his way down,” Hannah told me, when we’d all recovered. “He left about an hour ago. I promised him I’d let you know. When are you going to be able to use a phone again?”
“When we get there, I expect,” I replied.
Catriona had demanded that all of us turn over our cell phones to her (except for Ileana, who had never possessed such a contraption and looked vaguely nauseous at the very thought). She had turned them off, removed the batteries, and locked them in the glove compartment. Annabelle was extremely hesitant to do so, until Catriona explained about the ways cell phones could be tracked using GPS data and cell towers. She showed us all a large ziplock bag full of burner phones, which was apparently a normal thing to have in your possession when you were on the run.
“We can use these as necessary, both to keep in touch with each other, or to make any other calls we might deem necessary. They’re not for a cozy catch-up with your mum, they’re to be used sparingly, and disposed of before we move on,” Catriona said.
At long last, we pulled into the village of Pluckley. On any other day, I would have “ooh-ed and “ahh-ed” at its quintessential English country quaintness, but today was not that day. Ileana instructed us to pull through the center of town, past the pub and the little half-timbered hotel and the shopfronts, and directed us into an alley so narrow that it could hardly have been meant for tiny European cars, let alone our massive SUV. I held my breath as Catriona inched our way down the road, coming out along a row of thatched semi-detached cottages that appeared to be private homes, all except one, which had a small, rather grimy sign hanging above the door that read, “Milkweed Teahouse and Lodgings.”
“Stop here,” Ileana barked, and Catriona grudgingly obliged, pulling around a corner into a wider lane so that we’d actually be able to get the car doors open. Catriona killed the engine and made to exit the car, but Ileana held up a hand. “Stay here, all of you. I’ll need to speak to the proprietress first.”
Regally, like she was descending a royal coach instead of a comically large vehicle, Ileana lowered herself to the cobblestones and approached the plank front door of the Milkweed Teahouse. We all watched silently as she rapped three times sharply on the wood.
A tiny panel slid open on the top of the door almost instantly, revealing the dark shape of a face peering out into the early morning sunshine. Ileana leaned in close to the door and began talking quietly to whoever was on the other side of the door. After a brief, terse exchange, the little window slid shut and the door opened. Ileana motioned for us to wait where we were, then disappeared behind it.
“I know that woman is a High Priestess, but she is not my High Priestess and if she talks to me like she’s addressing a servant one more time, I’m going to throttle her with one of those bloody scarves,” Catriona growled, pulling off her sunglasses and tossing them onto the dashboard in disgust.
“Well, you did commit a fair few crimes she’s not prosecuting you for, so I’d grin and bear it, mate,” Lucida suggested from the passenger seat.
“I don’t suppose she’s told you why we’re stopping here?” Catriona asked, fixing me with her piercing glare in the rearview mirror.
“Nope,” I said. “She hasn’t felt the need to tell me anything, actually. I’m just along for the ride, like you. Which is ironic, given that I never invited any of you except for Annabelle to come along on this exercise in absurdity.”
“Lovely. Well, I hope we’re not expected to eat here,” Catriona said, scrunching up her face at the thought. “This place looks like it hasn’t seen a health inspector since the heyday of William bloody Shakespeare.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, were you expecting five-star accommodations while on the run?” I asked politely, pulling out the burner phone and holding it up. “I’m going to text Finn now to let him know where we are. Is that okay?”
Catriona nodded sourly. I sent off a quick message with the location of the place and pocketed the phone again. Then I looked up at Catriona. “How much did you tell her last night?” I asked, indicating Lucida with a jerk of my head.
“Everything you told me,” Catriona replied promptly.
“So, we all know why we’re here, at least, right?” I asked.
All three heads around me nodded.
“I don’t know anything about the Keeper of the Elementals,” I said. “All I knew was that I somehow had to get a message to her. Ileana seems to know all about her, or enough to get us to her, anyway. She’s only just restraining herself from having us all arrested for crimes against the Traveler Clans, so I’m trying not to piss her off or ask too many questions because we still need her right now. I know she’s basically a nightmare, but we all just need to grin and bear it for now. Unless, of course, any of you want off this crazy train. I’m the only one who actually needs to do this, so seriously, now’s the time. I have no idea what’s waiting for us in those woods. My only request, if you do decide to cut and run, is that you don’t tell anyone about what I’m doing.”
“I’ve told you already, I’m with you,” Annabelle said at once.
Catriona looked at Lucida, who nodded. “We’re not going anywhere. You’re going to need all the bloody help you can get.”
Annabelle snorted dismissively, but no one responded. We had just spotted Ileana poking her head out of the door of the Milkweed Teahouse. She beckoned us to join her, then slipped back inside. Exchanging wary looks, we all unbuckled our seatbelts, clambered out of the car, and followed her.
Stepping inside the Milkweed Teahouse was like stepping back in time. The interior was so dark that it seemed hard to believe that bright sunlight filled the street outside. Thick purple velvet curtains were drawn over all of the windows, and the only light came from little oil lamps set along the walls and candles upon the tables. The front door opened into a kind of sitting room, which was crowded with small round tables draped in dingy, lacy tablecloths and mismatched chairs of every size and description. On the far wall, a fire crackled in the beehive brick fireplace, and three heavy black kettles hung on an iron pole over the flames. Above our heads, dangling so low that we had to duck under them, were hundreds of bunches of dried herbs and flowers, tied together at the stems with lengths of black ribbon hung from antique nails driven into the beams. The walls were almost entirely covered in wooden shelves, crammed with tattered books and hundreds of china teacups and saucers. I let out a yelp as something furry brushed past my leg, but it was only a tabby cat who had come to investigate the intruders.
As my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I saw that Ileana was standing by the fireplace, conversing with a woman who was bent low, poking at the embers with a fireiron. The woman was wearing a long, patchwork dress and her head was covered in a red kerchief, from which wisps of white hair were escaping. When she stood up, I had to suppress a gasp, for she had the strangest eyes I’d ever seen. They were such a pale milky blue color as to be nearly white, and my first thought was that she must be blind. But then she hobbled forward and fixed each of us one by one with a piercing glare, and it was clear that she could see us just fine. Beside me, Annabelle reached out and clutched my arm in alarm.
The woman surveyed us each like she was trying to get a fair price for us, then turned to Ileana, and asked, in a dry, reedy husk of a voice, “And they’re Durupinen, all?”
“All but that one, the Dormant,” Ileana replied, pointing a dismissive finger at Annabelle. “But she’s of the bloodline, and a sensitive at that.”
The woman gave a nod of approval and held out her knobbly little claw of a hand. Ileana dropped several large gold coins into it and waited patiently while the woman held each of them up to examine them and then bit them with what few, decayed teeth remained in her mouth. Then she smacked her lips together in a satisfied sort of way, dropped the coins into the pocket of her gr
easy apron, and rubbed her hands together. “Let us begin, then!” she crowed delightedly.
She started toward us with surprising speed and we all leapt away from her involuntarily. Catriona, whose leap had put several small tables between herself and the strange little woman, cried out, “Excuse me, but who the bloody hell is this woman and where are we and begin what, precisely? I’m all for winging it, but I’ve got my limits.”
Ileana, her arms crossed truculently, looked for a moment like she wasn’t going to answer. But then she heaved a great sigh and gave in. “This is Abigail Blackwood. She is the proprietress of this fine establishment and the only person who can get us safely into the Dering Woods.”
“Is she a Durupinen?” I asked, trying to hide the skepticism in my voice.
“Yes. She’s several generations removed from the Gateway, of course, but she continues to do this work for the Durupinen.”
“And what work is that, if I’m allowed to ask?” Catriona pressed.
“She’s the Shepherd.”
“The what, now?” I asked, wondering how we’d somehow arrived at sheep.
“The Shepherd for the Keeper of the Elementals,” Ileana replied, as though this was somehow self-explanatory.
“Yes, but what does that mean?” Catriona asked through her teeth, clearly frustrated that she had to work so hard for the tiniest detail.
“It means I keeps the riffraff far away from the truth at the heart of the forest, and I shepherds in them what needs to see the Keeper,” Abigail replied, thrusting out her chest proudly.
“Are… are there a lot of people trying to get into the woods out here?” I asked with a slight smirk. Crowd control didn’t really seem like it would be an issue in a tiny country village like this.
“Oh, yes. There’s lots what come to explore the Screaming Woods,” Abigail said with a solemn nod.
“The… the what woods?” Annabelle asked, going a bit pale.