The Scarecrow Queen

by Melinda Salisbury

  The second dog releases Merek’s leg and lunges at me, trying to aid its brother, but the first dog snarls and snaps at it. In response, the second dog launches itself at its den mate, knocking it from Merek’s back.

  That’s all I need to grab Merek and pull him into the water with me.

  As the two beasts roll and scrap on the bank, and as more join them, instantly throwing themselves into the fray while their human masters are so far behind, I tuck my arm under Merek’s neck and allow the current to take us away.

  Please, I beg the night. Don’t let him take control now.

  The water behind us is threaded with his blood, and out of nowhere I think of pike lurking beneath us in the shadows, and hope they’re not tempted—I’m all out of fight. I can’t even feel the cold anymore. Then I think of how easily we could be followed by men on foot, a trail of blood, not bread crumbs, to lead them to us. It prompts me to kick a little, but Merek moans softly at the motion so I stop, concentrating on keeping us afloat. His eyes are closed, and his face is pale.

  “Merek?”

  His eyes flutter open. “Sorry. I’m all right.” He rolls away from me, onto his front, his head immediately going under. Before I can reach for him, he surfaces again, gasping and grabbing for my hand, keeping us together. “I’m all right. Just … We need to get out.”

  I nod, treading water. We both look around.

  “Where’s safe?” I ask. I don’t think we’re far enough away to get out on the side we were on but have no idea what might await on the opposite bank.

  He shakes his head. “Nowhere. Lake Baha has to be the closest place. We haven’t passed it. This flows into it, as well as on to the estuary.”

  His voice sounds weak, and in the water I squeeze his fingers. He squeezes back.

  “What’s at the lake?”

  “More water. It’s a saltwater lake. Lake Baha. There are—were, I don’t know anymore—salt farms there. Shelter.”

  “Maybe we’d be better off staying in the water for a bit. It’s not that cold anymore.”

  “That’s why we need to get out,” he says. “It’s far too cold for us. If we can’t feel it, we’re in trouble.” He starts to kick, one hand still holding mine, and I do the same.

  “There aren’t any waterfalls on this stretch, are there?” I gasp.

  “No,” he calls back. Then: “Branch. Ahead. Get ready.” I twist in the water to see it, low and hanging over the river. “We’ll have to let go of each other.”

  “All right.”

  “Ready? One … Two …”

  On three he lets go of my hand and pushes up, out of the water, and I do the same. I manage to hook my elbow over the branch, leaving my lower body in the water.

  The chill morning air hits me so hard it’s a physical blow.

  “Gods …” Merek groans, and I don’t know if it’s his leg or the temperature that pains him.

  He begins to inch along the branch, hand over hand, and I do the same, heading for the bank opposite the one from which we entered the water. He scrambles up the bank, dragging his injured leg though the mud and making me wince.

  “We have to get to this Lake Baha,” I tell him when I collapse beside him, my clothes bleeding river water into the ground beneath me. I immediately start to shiver, my teeth juddering together as the cold air slices away the false warmth of the water.

  He nods, rolling onto his back. I do the same and raise my hands to my face. At first they won’t move, too heavy, too stiff, as though I left all my strength in the water. There’s a moment when I almost stop trying. A voice in the back of my head tells me to rest, to close my eyes. I want to obey it. Instead, I force myself to sit up, inch by inch, whimpering as water from my hair sluices down my back.

  We have nothing, I realize then, hopelessness filling me. We’ve lost our cloaks, our food. I have no boots, and when I look over at Merek, I see the only one he has is the shredded remains of the one on his left leg. We’ve lost everything. Including—

  “Oak’s sake. The recipe,” I start, the words turning to a cough.

  Merek sits up, too, slowly, as I did, patting down his pockets clumsily like a drunk. He pulls out the piece of parchment, tearing it a little, and I gasp.

  “Did it survive?” I ask, even though I know it can’t have.

  To my astonishment, Merek sniffs it, then grins, holding it up to me.

  Aside from the tear he just made, it’s perfect.

  He offers it to me and I take it. It leaves a residue on my hands, one I know, and I raise them to my nose.

  “Pig fat,” I say, and Merek nods.

  “Clever Margot.” He tucks it back into his pocket, and moves onto his knees and then his feet. He winces as he puts his left leg down, and a muscle twitches in his jaw. “We need to find sh-shelter … and warmth … soon. We’re s-soaked, and it’s midwinter … and it’ll start getting dark in a few hours. We have to be inside by then.” The words are decisive, but his voice isn’t, slurring and halting, and a spasm of worry fans out across my chest. We’re both in a lot of danger, and we’re both pretending otherwise.

  I haul myself upward, leaden limbed, trying to sound stronger than I feel. “Just watch me. I’m not to be trusted, remember. If I do anything, you have to knock me out.”

  He almost smiles. “Promise. C’mon.”

  * * *

  We’ve barely gone a few feet before it becomes apparent his injured leg won’t take his weight, and I worry we might not make it up into the mountains to the convent, even if we do find shelter and get warm first. But I keep my thoughts to myself, concentrating on the next part of the journey, telling myself if we can get some rest he might improve. It’s all I can do.

  I put an arm around him and allow him to lean on me as we move slowly downriver, one ear cocked for the sound of yips and howls coming toward us. After a while I stop shaking, and feel that Merek has, too, and I point out to him that it must mean we’re warming up, even as I hear the lie in the words.

  He doesn’t reply, leaning on me heavily, and when I look at him, his eyes are closed and his lips are blue. The stab of fear that should follow is faint, like a ghost of pain, and I know that should worry me, too, but I can’t feel anything, numb inside and out. My head droops, and I see my feet and focus on them, one in front of the other. Bare feet. No boots. One, then the other. Just concentrate.

  We stay by the bank, moving inch by inch, Merek gray-faced with effort, or cold, and me desperate to rest, to sit down. To sleep. I don’t do any of this, somehow moving forward, keeping him upright. I think wildly that I should thank Aurek for forcing me to eat; if I were any weaker, I don’t think I’d have made it this far. My clothes don’t dry but stick to my skin, heavy and damp, seeming to weigh more by the moment, so that every step is a battle.

  “I need to take some clothes off,” I say. “We’ll go faster.”

  “No,” he growls through gritted teeth.

  “They’re too heavy.”

  “You’ll die. And so will I. Just keep moving.”

  “Merek—”

  “I said move.”

  I don’t have it in me to snap back, as if there’s a glass wall between his words and me. Instead, I keep moving. After what feels like decades, we see the vast expanse of Lake Baha in the distance, and tiny blocks scattered around it that I hope are houses.

  I look up at Merek to see he’s walking with his eyes closed again. It spurs me on, and I move faster, pulling him with me. We’re so close.

  We reach the first house and I lower him to the ground and pound the door with my fist. The only thing I can think is that we have to get inside. It doesn’t matter who’s inside. We have to get inside this house. When no one answers, I slam into it with my shoulder, only to cry out when it doesn’t budge.

  “I’m going to have to break in,” I say, looking at Merek. His eyes are closed. “Merek,” I shout, and he nods faintly, lolling to the side. There’s a burst of panic in my belly that drives me around the
house, until I see a horn window—just like the ones in Almwyk—and push it inward, shattering the slats. I poke as many of the shards away as I can, and then haul myself inside.

  It’s a few degrees warmer, until the wind rushes through the hole I’ve made, and I pull the woolen curtains over it, tutting when they wave about like flags.

  I lurch through the house and unbolt the door. He sits where I left him, and when I touch his shoulder, his eyes are glazed, as though newly woken.

  “Come on,” I say. I hold my hand out to him, and he takes it, his skin clammy to the touch. I haul him up and guide him inside, taking him straight through to a bedroom, a carved four-poster bed in the center. “Get those wet clothes off and get under the blankets,” I say. “All of your clothes. I’m going to see what I can find.”

  I leave him, hoping he obeys me—and that he’s alive when I return—and begin to search the house, shedding my own clothes as I go. I move past a wide, blackened range that takes up one whole wall, copper pots still hung on hooks around the edges. There’s a small pantry in a recess, and I see bottles and jars there, which lifts my spirits. There’s a bureau, elegantly carved, and a dresser still full of crockery and tableware. In the center of the room is a table with four chairs around it, also carved with flowers and lions and serpents tangling together; and in front of the range is a second, low table between two ornate rocking chairs. There are no rushes on the floor, but no rugs, either, and my bare feet make no sound on the floor. The whole house reeks of love and pride and care; the curtains at the window are red gingham, almost unbearably bright and lovely after everything that’s happened.

  The final room yields a small, screened indoor privy and a washroom, complete with a large chest, and a huge tin cauldron they must have used for bathing. The idea of sinking into a hot bath makes me shiver with longing.

  When I open the chest I almost start to weep at the sight of the thick, plush towels piled inside, and I pull them all out, wrapping one around my hair, another around my body, and making a cloak of a third. I can barely feel the fabric against my skin, which is bone white and mottled with blue veins. The urge to lie down engulfs me again, and I slap my cheeks before taking the rest of the towels through to the bedroom.

  Merek lies on the bed, one of the blankets pulled over him, his clothes on the floor. His eyes are closed and there’s a terrible moment when I can’t tell if he’s breathing. I drop the towels on his stomach, relieved when he looks at me. “Dry yourself, and get under the covers. I’ll be back in a moment,” I say. I pick up his clothes and collect mine, too, taking them back to the bathroom and draping them over the sides of the cauldron. I don’t hold out much hope for them drying without a fire, but what choice is there?

  Back in the parlor, I raid the chest, and find nothing useful. But in the drawer in the dresser, I find a small saltcellar and a bottle of something labeled Dawn Water, which smells like plain old water to me when I uncork it, so I take it, relieved I won’t have to go back outside. In the pantry, I find my much-longed-for willow bark, already made into a paste, catch the astringent tang of lemonbalm in it when I smell it. I pick through the rest of the basic apothecary kit and feel myself smile.

  If the owners of the cottage came back now, I’d kiss them. There’s no food, or water, but I don’t care. This is everything I need.

  Merek has copied me when I go back to him, one of the towels around his shoulders like a cloak, another wrapped around him, tucked under his armpits. He sits up, the blankets pulled back to expose the bites in his leg.

  The wounds are deep but haven’t reached bone, and are surprisingly clean; I’d expected more tearing. The blood has clotted well and I’m pleased with the way it looks. I sit at his feet and tear up one of the smaller towels, dipping it in the Dawn Water and beginning to wash the wound. Merek swears violently and tries to jerk his leg away, making the wound begin to bleed again, and I scowl at him.

  “It hurts,” he says needlessly.

  “It’s Dawn Water.”

  “Really?” He sounds lively for the first time since we fled from the dogs.

  “What is that?”

  “Holy water. Supposedly blessed by Daunen.”

  “Twylla blessed this?”

  “No, I doubt it. It’s most likely just river water, bottled and sold to believers.”

  I continue to clean, until all of the river muck and mud from the way here is gone. I wash my hands with the Dawn Water, then dip my fingers in the balm and work it gently into Merek’s wounds. I cover the whole thing with another torn-up towel, tying it off.

  “There,” I say. “You can chew on some of the willow bark if you’re in pain.”

  Merek says nothing, leaning forward and taking the rags, the balm, and the water from between my knees.

  “What are you—”

  He takes my hands and begins to clean them, doing exactly as I did to him, gently dabbing and patting, then smearing the balm into them. Then he binds them with bandages, too.

  “You need to tie me up,” I say. “We’re lucky nothing has happened yet.”

  “I expect Lief came through on his promise.”

  I say nothing, leaning down instead to put the ointment and the water on the floor. Merek catches my wrist.

  “I don’t understand him,” he says, his eyes on mine. “He has killed for Aurek. Taken land for him. But he’s helping us.”

  I shrug helplessly. “I don’t know. I don’t know what to believe.” He saved Twylla, but damned me. He knew what Aurek was doing—to the children, to the towns, even to me—but did nothing, even bringing Mama to the castle. But he gave us the recipe, protected Merek, and helped us escape.

  I can feel Merek watching me, and I meet his gaze. “I can’t figure it out. But until we know for certain, I’m too much of a risk, free.” I hold out the last strip of towel to him.

  Merek sighs, and silently binds my wrists with it, and then lies back, nestling into the pillows. “Let’s go to bed.” He colors instantly the moment the words have left his mouth. “I mean, we’ll be warmer next to each other, not …”

  “I know what you meant. And you’re right. Without a fire, body heat is our best bet.”

  He pushes the blankets aside and I climb in, lying on my back next to him. I close my eyes, but all of the tiredness I felt has inexplicably vanished. The bed is hard, and the blankets smell of other people. Then I feel his hand, his fingers twining through mine. My eyes fly open and I turn to him.

  “Thank you,” he says. “You saved my life.”

  “You saved mine.”

  “You tended my wounds.”

  “You tended mine.”

  He squeezes gently. “When all this is over, I’m going to make you a bloody duchess.”

  “Can’t I be the Royal Apothecary?”

  He chews his lip as he considers. “Only if you let me help.”

  “Done. But in my kitchen, I wear the crown. Remember that.”

  He almost-smiles. “Naturally.” He squeezes my fingers one more time and releases me, rolling onto his side, his back to me. His towel cloak shifts and I see his skin, bare compared to the tattoos along Silas’s spine.

  Then I roll away, too, transitioning from conscious to asleep in the space of a heartbeat.

  * * *

  I can tell he has a fever the moment I wake up; he’s far too warm, and it’s a nasty kind of warm, the white burn of flame as opposed to the caress of the summer sun. I sit up and look at him, still asleep, his breathing shallow, high spots of red on pallid cheeks, and I think, Not again.

  I rip the blankets away and descend on his leg, ignoring his stirrings as I pull at the bandages.

  The wounds are clean, smelling faintly of lemonbalm, and not inflamed. Not inflamed.

  He has a chill. Not the lockjaw. Just a chill.

  “What are you doing?” he asks. “Gods, I feel terrible.”

  “You have a chill,” I say. “From being in the river, I expect.”

  “So why—
Oh.” He nods at me. “The wound’s all right, then?”

  “Clean. Healthy as it can be.”

  He sighs in relief, then looks around.

  Daylight is streaming in through the small window, golden through the horn-covered window, and again it reminds me of Almwyk. From nowhere I feel a pang of nostalgia for the filthy, frightening place. It was a different kind of frightening there, though. As long as you played by the rules and kept your head down, you’d be all right.

  I cannot believe I’m reminiscing about Almwyk.

  “How long did we sleep?” he asks.

  The moment he says it, I realize my throat is parched, a dull throb in my head from dehydration, and my stomach gives an angry growl. I look out the window at the shadows on the ground.

  “I’m guessing close to a whole day. Perhaps even more.”

  “A whole day? How?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know. I suppose we needed it.” My bladder announces then that it, too, has needs, and I swing out of bed, struggling with my bound hands to keep my towel in place. “I’ll be back.”

  My clothes aren’t fully dry, the hems and seams still damp, but they will have to do, and I pull them on, stiff and reeking, after I’m finished, cursing my limited movement the whole time.

  When I return, he leaves, taking coltish steps, and returns fully dressed, too, smelling just as horrendous as I do.

  “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I need water,” Merek says. “And boots.”

  We both look down at our bare feet. “Maybe some of the other houses have supplies.”

  With no other option, he nods his agreement, and we cautiously leave our small sanctuary. We scan the surroundings, relieved to see no other signs of life, save a tern aloft on a draft on the far side of the lake.

  “Perhaps they think we’ve drowned,” I say.

  Merek doesn’t look convinced. “I don’t think he’d believe that without a body.”

  We find a water barrel behind one of the houses, and though the water tastes stale, we spend half an hour taking gulps of it—slowly, so we don’t make ourselves sick. In one house we find a pair of boots with the sole half flapping off like a tongue. They’re too big for Merek, never mind for me, but he stuffs rags into the toes and pulls them on anyway. I find a pair of suede slippers in another, and take those; thin as they are, they’re still some protection from the ground. We find a dented tin jug with a lid that we fill with water to take with us, and then return to the house we slept in to get more towels—fashioning the largest into cloaks—and the small medicinal kit.