Ottilie Colter and the Master of Monsters

by Rhiannon Williams

  She pulled the glow sticks from her pocket, washing the circular room in greenish light. By a triangular hearth there were benches and shelves with pots and jars full of all manner of strange plants and powders. The room smelled of rotting parchment and dried herbs, and a thick layer of dust rested on every surface.

  Skip turned to Ottilie. ‘You think someone let that wyler inside?’

  ‘Don’t you?’ said Ottilie.

  Skip considered it for a moment.

  ‘It could have been by accident,’ said Alba.

  ‘I think it was a witch,’ said Ottilie.

  ‘There are no witches anymore,’ said Skip with a snort.

  Ottilie opened her mouth to argue, but Alba got in first. ‘That’s why we’re here – to find answers.’ Gesturing to the room, she added, ‘Come on, we don’t have much time.’

  The walls were lined with books of varying thickness and states of decay. Ottilie guessed that at least as many books were piled up on the floor, some open, some closed, some just covers with all their pages ripped out. Here and there a scroll peeked up through a mound, and by a spiral staircase Ottilie saw a bolted chest with loose sheets sticking out.

  ‘I think we can take as many as we want,’ said Skip with a grin. ‘I don’t think she’ll notice they’re gone.’

  Alba had already begun to go through them, running her fingers along spines and flicking hungrily through their pages. Ottilie settled on a mildewed rug to do the same.

  It didn’t take long for Alba to gather a fairly extensive collection. Ottilie was having less luck. Many of the books didn’t have titles and the writing was small and difficult to read.

  ‘Look at this!’ said Skip. She was holding up a medium-sized book with a dark, greenish cover. Its pages looked like they had been soaked in the blackest tea.

  ‘What’s it called?’ said Ottilie, forgetting for a moment that Skip couldn’t read very well.

  Skip ran her fingers over the cover. ‘There’s no words on the front. But it’s creepy – and so heavy! Feel it.’ She tossed it to Ottilie.

  Skip was right. The book was smaller than many of the others but it seemed to weigh three times more than it should. She opened it to the middle and saw a drawing of what looked like a woman being shoved into a coffin by a host of bodiless arms. She snapped it shut and passed it to Alba.

  Alba had a quick look through, her eyes growing wider by the second. ‘It’s about witches!’ she said, adding it to the pile of books she had collected.

  Ottilie felt jittery with excitement. This might be just the book they needed!

  There was a ghastly screech somewhere far off and the gentle night-bells tolled.

  ‘That’s the shift change,’ she said. ‘We have to go.’

  Alba gathered the pile in her arms.

  Ottilie turned for the door, but something froze her in place. In the darkened spiral stairway was the outline of a figure, sitting, watching them in silence, the whites of her eyes unnaturally bright in the dark.

  15

  Whistler

  Ottilie gasped, shock locking her bones.

  ‘Ottilie, what?’ Skip spun around and jumped a foot in the air.

  Alba didn’t make a noise. She simply shuffled closer to Ottilie’s side.

  The bright-eyed shadow rose from her perch on the stairs and stepped into the light. She was not a graceful figure. She was bony, her shoulders seemed a little lopsided, and she made rather a lot of noise as she walked.

  Ottilie had never seen her before. She seemed to be in her middle years, but it was difficult to place. Her hair was silver and her eyes were a stormy grey to match. Her face was sharp and angled, and there was something birdlike about her eyes.

  ‘Ottilie Colter.’ Her voice was sharp, but amused, and her face unreadable. ‘I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.’

  Who was this? Ottilie glanced questioningly at Skip, who inclined her head in response. Ottilie understood – Whistler. It didn’t surprise her that Whistler knew who she was. Everyone knew who she was. But Whistler was supposed to be at Richter. Where had she come from? How long had she been in the room?

  ‘Here to steal my books, I see,’ she said, waving her purple sleeves in Alba’s direction.

  Alba immediately dropped the stack of books she was holding. One of them bounced and hit Ottilie in the foot. Ottilie smothered a cry and hopped sideways, keeping her eyes on Whistler.

  They were done for. Surely Whistler would report them to the directorate. What was going to happen now? Would all three of them be spending the night in the burrows?

  Whistler just stood there, gazing at them. Stationary, she seemed elegant for a moment – only a moment.

  ‘Drinks?’ she said abruptly, swinging one arm in an exaggerated gesture of offer.

  Ottilie didn’t know what to say. Alba seemed incapable of speech. But somewhere to her left Ottilie heard Skip say, ‘Yes, please.’

  Whistler sprang into action. With much clattering and clunking, she gathered four dusty cups and a pitcher from the shelves by the hearth. ‘Sit, sit,’ she demanded, waving her arms about.

  Ottilie and Alba squished into a single armchair. Beside them, Skip carefully removed the assortment of oddments from the ottoman and settled on it.

  ‘Lillywater,’ Whistler muttered, placing the tray down. ‘Acceptable?’

  ‘Yes,’ squeaked Alba, surprising Ottilie.

  She looked warily at the pitcher.

  ‘Not the poison kind,’ said Whistler, with a half-smile. As she began to pour, Ottilie noticed that she did not pull back the long purple sleeves that covered her hands. She seemed well-practised at handling objects through the fabric, and it did not appear to hinder her movement.

  Whistler passed Ottilie a cup.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, without lifting it to her lips. It didn’t seem wise to accept a drink from a stranger, and a strange stranger at that. But Whistler was an important member of the Hunt. She was the head bone singer. Even so, Ottilie didn’t drink.

  ‘So, who else have I caught in my web?’ Whistler wrung her hands. ‘Isla Skipper, sculkie, and Alba Kit, kitchenhand and daughter of third cook, Montie Kit, wearer of fine scarves.’

  Alba and Skip both seemed surprised that Whistler knew who they were. Ottilie wondered if there was anyone in the Narroway that Whistler didn’t know.

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ Whistler said, ducking her head in an odd sort of bow. ‘They call me Whistler.’ She sat down in the remaining armchair, not bothering to clear the objects it held. ‘So you’re here for my books. Why? What do you want to know?’

  None of them answered.

  ‘Let’s be lions not mice,’ she said, loudly.

  Ottilie didn’t know what to do. Could they tell her the truth? She couldn’t think of a single lie.

  ‘Parrots at least. Come on, girls, speak.’

  Ottilie glanced at Skip. Her jaw was shut tight.

  ‘We want to know more about this place,’ said Alba, her words almost inaudible. ‘Why there are dredretches here.’

  Ottilie settled with a silent sigh. It wasn’t a lie. It just wasn’t the whole truth.

  Whistler smiled. ‘Knowledge seekers. No need to break in and rob me, girls. Although I appreciate the effort. But in the future, just ask.’ She shrugged. ‘The dredretches are here because of the Laklands.’

  ‘We know that bit,’ said Ottilie impatiently. Captain Lyre had told them that much on their first day at Fiory. ‘Why are they even in the Laklands? Where did they come from? Is it something to do with the war?’ By all accounts, the dredretch presence in the far west seemed to originate sometime after the war between the Usklers and the Laklands a hundred years ago.

  Whistler seemed amused by Ottilie’s curtness. She straightened up in her chair. ‘The dredretches are in the Laklands because of the broken promise.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Alba, her eyes wide.

  ‘What?’ said Skip, looking between Alba and Whistler.

&
nbsp; ‘Go on, then,’ said Whistler. ‘You know the story?’

  ‘It’s complicated …’ Alba began. Her words seemed to shiver with nerves. She glanced at Whistler, who gestured for her to continue.

  Ottilie thought she knew what Alba was going to say. She gave her an encouraging smile, and Alba quickly recounted the story she had told Ottilie a while ago, about how the Usklerians had broken their promise never to attack the Laklands.

  ‘But what’s that got to do with dredretches?’ said Skip.

  Alba didn’t seem to know. She looked to Whistler for help.

  ‘They feed on death and human wickedness,’ said Ottilie. Where had she heard that before? Old Moss, back in the Swamp Hollows, perhaps.

  ‘Have you ever heard the tale of the Vanquisher’s bane?’ said Whistler.

  ‘No,’ said Alba.

  ‘They like to keep it quiet,’ said Whistler. ‘But still, the story is known by some. They say that when the Usklerian king – Viago the Vanquisher, history named him ...’ At this, her voice grew very cold. ‘They say when he broke that promise and invaded the Laklands, he was punished. The land that he had conquered became uninhabitable and, like the land, his wife was condemned to birthing only monsters.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Ottilie leaned in, eager to hear more.

  ‘Why do you think the land was uninhabitable? Because dredretches started sprouting from the soil,’ said Whistler coolly. ‘There weren’t many at first, but no-one knew how to fight them. People were dropping to the ground left, right and centre, some without ever laying eyes on the monsters. Before long the entire kingdom was abandoned.’

  ‘But what do you mean, the queen gave birth to monsters?’ said Ottilie, still thinking of dredretches.

  ‘For a while the queen was considered barren,’ said Whistler. ‘Then finally, ten years after the end of the Lakland war, she fell pregnant. But it was a girl – who, of course, could not be an heir to the throne.’

  ‘But that’s not a monster!’ said Skip.

  ‘Agreed,’ said Whistler, with a wry smile. ‘But they say she was unnatural somehow. Nothing on dredretches, but it wasn’t the ideal result of a long-awaited royal pregnancy. Most considered it further proof of punishment. Of course, then a perfectly healthy son followed some years later – and the bane was linked evermore with daughters of the royal line.’

  ‘When you say unnatural, do you mean she was a witch?’ said Ottilie.

  Whistler smiled. ‘They had many names for her; the clawed witch was one.’

  ‘Clawed?’ said Alba, frowning. ‘Why?’

  ‘A number of reasons …’ said Whistler. ‘Some say she was a fiorn.’

  Ottilie remembered the cave paintings in the Swamp Hollows of the monstrous creatures with gaping mouths and feathery crowns – halfway between a bird and a human.

  ‘Others said it was because she was a twisted, cruel thing that Viago the Vanquisher would set upon his prisoners.’

  ‘But what was true?’ asked Alba.

  Whistler’s eyes flashed. ‘Truth is subjective. In the years since the witch purge, many females have been named as such, particularly the undesirable or feared. Few, if any, were true witches.’

  Ottilie had so many more questions. She wanted to ask about the rule of innocence, but she was wary. Asking this was admitting to distrusting the Hunt. That didn’t seem like a good idea, considering Whistler’s position within it.

  ‘Why are there more dredretches now?’ said Skip. ‘Why is the Withering Wood spreading?’

  ‘They’ve been growing in numbers since the beginning,’ said Whistler.

  ‘They’re saying it’s quicker now,’ said Ottilie, carefully. ‘There are new ones the Hunt’s never seen, and the others are acting strange.’ She pictured the dead driftdog and tensed in her seat. ‘The wylers have made a pack and …’ She was unsure if she should mention that she thought someone had let the wyler inside.

  ‘This is all true,’ said Whistler, offering no explanation.

  Ottilie couldn’t resist. ‘Could a witch be controlling the dredretches? Gathering them together and making them attack?’

  Whistler fixed her eyes upon Ottilie. ‘Let me give you some advice. These are good questions, but dangerous. If the Hunt begins to suspect witchcraft is involved, every female in the Narroway will be in grave danger. Historically, witch hunts do not result in the punishment of the guilty. I advise you to keep those questions to yourself for the good of every girl at Fiory.’

  Ottilie swallowed. She had always been hesitant about asking questions and sharing information with the Hunt. But she had not realised how dangerous the word ‘witch’ could be.

  ‘Enough,’ said Whistler. ‘It’s late, and I have things to do.’

  Ottilie wanted to press her for more, but it didn’t seem wise. They had been caught breaking into her tower, after all, and it appeared they were not going to be punished for it – she didn’t want to push her luck.

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t let you leave with all of those.’ Whistler gestured to the big pile of books Alba had dropped on the floor.

  Ottilie’s eyes flicked to the green witch book, disappointment burning up her insides.

  ‘However, I will allow you to take one.’ Whistler riffled through the volumes on her shelf. ‘This one should quench your knowledge thirst.’ She dropped the book into Alba’s lap and ushered them up, wading through the mess over to the pale blue door. There was no bolt or handle on the inside either. She knocked jerkily with her elbow. There was a clicking sound and the door swung open with a creak.

  She herded them through and pulled it mostly closed. ‘Watch out for the big cat.’ A purple sleeve swung out through the gap in the door, pointing in the direction of the haunted stables. ‘She’s finished her fish.’

  The door clicked shut and Ottilie thought she saw a faint mist puff out from under it – that or a cloud of dust.

  Alba held the book under the torchlight. Ottilie squinted at the faded lettering.

  ‘What does it say?’ said Skip.

  ‘Sol,’ said Ottilie.

  ‘The royal family?’ Skip asked.

  Sol was the royal family’s name – their current king was Varrio Sol. ‘Maybe it’s got information about the hex?’ said Ottilie, her hope rekindling.

  Alba frowned, flipping through it. ‘We didn’t ask her about the hex, and I doubt it will be in here. It’s just a family tree and facts.’

  Ottilie’s shoulders slumped. ‘She must have just given you the most harmless book she had.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ Skip whispered, patting her jacket.

  ‘What did you do?’ A smile crept onto Ottilie’s face.

  Skip opened her jacket, revealing the top of an old greenish book. ‘I stole the one about witches.’

  16

  The Flaming Tapestry

  For the next week Ottilie barely laid eyes on Alba. She had locked herself away with the two books, determined to find answers. Ottilie returned her own focus to hunting. She was now sitting in fifty-first place. It wasn’t enough!

  She was determined to do better. Not just to improve her ranking, but for other, more dire reasons. Not only had she and Leo found another isolated patch of the withering sickness – this time further east, not far from the Arko zone – but that morning they had flown over the Withering Wood, and the growth was clear. If the sickness began to spread from other spots too, the Narroway would be a festering, blackened waste in no time.

  Ottilie couldn’t help feeling that their work was achieving nothing. The whole situation put her in a hopeless mood, which was somewhat lifted when Ned knocked on her door that afternoon. He had the petition in his hand. The room brightened.

  ‘It was less than I hoped,’ he said, holding out the parchment for her to see. Including Ned, only six elites had signed. ‘You know, I think a lot of them agreed with me, they just –’

  ‘Didn’t want their name on it.’ Ottilie frowned. If taken badly, this would essenti
ally be a list of troublemakers – rebels. She knew the elites must be scared the Hunt would react negatively and they would fall out of favour with the directorate. But it was so much safer for the boys than the girls. They were unlikely to throw huntsmen in the burrows or banish them from the Narroway just for marking their name.

  The boys probably feared that they would be docked points, consigned permanently to wall watch and singer duty or, worse, the shovelies. She also understood, from personal experience, that those things were not as trivial as they seemed.

  The elites had been at Fiory a lot longer than she had. The Narroway Hunt was their family, their whole life. Scoring points was the driving force behind their day’s work – it was how they marked their achievements.

  But this was so much bigger than that. It was worth the risk; how could they not see? The more huntsmen

  that signed, the more likely the directorate would agree, and the less likely they would all be punished.

  Ottilie didn’t know how she felt. Six was better than nothing, and six elites at that. Her friends signed it that afternoon. Scoot, possibly trying to make up for their fight, was overly enthusiastic and smudged the ink across the page, covering Gully and Preddy’s names, so they both had to sign again.

  Ottilie tried once more with Leo. She found him napping in his room. They weren’t ideal circumstances. Not only was he annoyed at being interrupted, but he seemed embarrassed to have been caught resting. He liked to maintain the illusion of invulnerability. Predictably, he refused once again, and the whole thing ended with Leo throwing a pillow hard at her face and Ottilie calling him spineless and slamming the door.

  Skip had far better luck with the custodians. After the wyler attack, many of them were enthusiastic about learning to defend themselves against the dredretches, and willing to risk the consequences of marking their name.

  Ottilie was not an elite – she couldn’t just ask for an audience with the directorate. Her plan was to pass the petition to Wrangler Morse, the wrangler she trusted most, and ask him to take it higher. She was hoping to catch him in the training yards and was just cutting through the grove when Gracie and Maeve appeared. A mouldy dustplum squelched beneath her boot. Ottilie stiffened and stopped. This could not be good.