Ottilie Colter and the Withering World

by Rhiannon Williams

  Seeing it marked on the wall stirred up some of Ottilie’s most horrific memories and deepest fears. It was a reminder, too, that Whistler still had Bill, and there was nothing she could do about it. The thought made her feel like someone was trying to tug out her guts with a fish hook.

  ‘This is no time for celebration,’ Captain Lyre said through gritted teeth.

  Ottilie was surprised to hear him speak so bluntly to the king.

  ‘You of all people know the value of lifting spirits,’ said the king. ‘I thought you loved parties. Or have you changed? Do I not know you anymore? It has been several years since I saw you last.’ He gestured towards the rankings. ‘You’ve been so busy here, with your games.’

  ‘Watching over them,’ snapped Captain Lyre. ‘Trying to give them some semblance of a life after you condemned them to this!’

  ‘You didn’t put a stop to it, though, did you?’ mocked the king. ‘You didn’t rise up. You were always a coward.’

  ‘We’ve been over this, Varrio,’ said Captain Lyre, swinging his cane in frustration. ‘I didn’t know any of this nonsense about a hex … not until Whistler rendered our western fort a ruin so she could give a speech about how much she loathes you!’ He thumped the cane on the paving. ‘Yes, I discovered the rule of innocence was false years ago, but I trust you remember how you silenced me?’

  The king grunted. ‘Of course. You should be thankful I did not go back on my word, after this debacle with the clawed witch. How you could not recogn–’

  ‘Whist– Fennix was set up here as the head bone singer long before I ever came to the Narroway, as you well know! If you had ever dared to travel further west than Wikric you could have recognised her yourself.’ Captain Lyre smoothed his pointed beard, his brow so low it cast shadows over his eyes. ‘How could I have known? As I understand it, Fennix Sol went by another name when she was your mystic – and I never even met her when she lived in All Kings’ Hill. How could I possibly have guessed? For all I knew she’d look like an old woman now. She’s nearly a century old!’

  ‘She’s a witch,’ spat the king. ‘Of course she has not aged.’

  ‘Whistler is no sleepless witch.’

  He was right. If Ned’s dreams were accurate, then there had only ever been one sleepless witch – and that distorted thing, whatever had become of it, would not be able to pass as a human. Whistler must have slowed her ageing by other means.

  ‘Speaking of witches,’ said the king. His gaze snapped to where Ottilie crouched, and her heart leapt into her throat. Had he seen her? His eyes slid over the stone wings to her left. Ottilie nearly jumped out of her skin when Ramona walked past. She had been so absorbed in the conversation, she hadn’t heard her approach.

  Captain Lyre’s back straightened. Ottilie thought his fingers twitched on his cane.

  Ramona inclined her head – it was not a bow.

  ‘Ramona, how delightful,’ said the king. ‘We were just speaking of you.’

  Ottilie was confused. When had Ramona been mentioned? Or was he just saying that to unsettle her somehow?

  A grin split his face. ‘Tell me, one of you. Why is a girl’s name marked on this wall?’

  Ottilie flinched as the king unsheathed his massive sword and leant the tip against her name.

  Neither answered.

  ‘I did notice, in our little assembly yesterday, a handful of girls sitting with the huntsmen. At first I wondered if you’d gone soft and allowed the custodians to sit down during Hunt gatherings, but now I fear you have actually allowed women to join my Narroway Hunt.’

  ‘They earned their positions,’ said Captain Lyre carefully.

  ‘They have more right to it than any boy you kidnapped and forced to join. They volunteered,’ said Ramona, her face a mask of grim calm.

  The king’s expression grew thunderous. ‘It is an abomination!’

  Ramona snorted.

  Ottilie swallowed her cry of horror as the king lunged and grabbed Ramona by the throat.

  So quick she might have missed it, Captain Lyre unsheathed his secret blade. Metal glinted in the sun and then slid back. The cane was just a cane again. Captain Lyre gripped the bird head handle, stepped forwards and said, ‘Please, Varrio!’

  ‘Please, my king,’ he snarled, the tip of his nose brushing Ramona’s cheek.

  ‘Please, my king,’ said Captain Lyre immediately.

  ‘Not you,’ said the king. ‘Her.’

  Ramona looked like she was about to spit in his face.

  Still holding her by the throat, the king lifted a hand and ran a thumb over her eyepatch. ‘Do you want to know why we do not allow women to hold such positions?’ He ripped the eyepatch away, revealing the knotted, sewn-over socket where her right eye should be. ‘Because they are incompetent,’ he hissed, tossing the crocodile skin eyepatch to the ground. ‘You will discharge these girls from the Narroway Hunt.’

  ‘This is no time to make your army smaller,’ said Captain Lyre, his eyes fixed on Ramona.

  The king finally released her. Whatever his decision about the girls, he didn’t say. Instead, he took a step, crushing the eyepatch beneath his heel. Turning his back on Captain Lyre and Ramona, he said, ‘Announce my banquet, Captain, and see to it that Ramona puts the patch back on. If she doesn’t, run her through with that blade in your cane – not wearing it is an offence punishable by death.’

  Without another word, the king stalked out of the courtyard.

  Ramona forced a deep breath and bent to pick up the eyepatch, but Captain Lyre got there first. He brushed it off carefully on his blue coat and passed it to her. Ramona placed it back over her missing eye. A strand of her fiery hair was caught in the strap. Captain Lyre stepped close and freed it, his eyes fixed on hers.

  11

  Trapped

  Ottilie was so late for her shift she barely had time to absorb what she had heard. Not much had made sense to her, but this wasn’t the time to riddle it out. A distant mind was a death wish beyond the boundary walls.

  Nox flew southeast, following the flow of the Sol River. Ottilie glanced at her left glove. There was a fresh scab beneath it. She wondered about dipping it into the river, just to check, but didn’t think she could face the disappointment. The healing spring could be anywhere and river water was in constant flow – happening upon the right spot would be almost impossible.

  Raging from recent rain, the waterfall ahead was so loud she could hear little else. But something caught her eye, just below: two mounts bolting through the scattered peaking-pines. Ottilie recognised the horses immediately. The towering velvet brown was Warship, although Preddy preferred to call him John, and just ahead was Skip riding her spindly black-and-white, Echo.

  Leo would be waiting, but Ottilie couldn’t resist hovering so that she could help if she had to. Following overhead, she watched Echo leap over a fallen branch and weave through the trees. Ottilie knew Ramona had taught Skip how to ride, but had never imagined she could be this good.

  Their pursuer was just a fat shadow on their tail. Preddy and Skip shot out of the woodland into a stretch of misery moss, named for its bluish tinge. They curled in opposite directions, hooking back and closing in on what Ottilie had thought was one dredretch, but was in fact three horrahogs. These porcine terrors had midnight fur that dripped with violet oil. They emitted a smell that reminded Ottilie of the time she and Gully had hidden a rotting lungfish inside their neighbour Gurt’s already stinky old boot.

  The horrahogs split apart in the confusion, but Preddy and Skip circled, keeping them surrounded. Preddy shot one through the head with an arrow. Skip fired and missed. Even from high above, Ottilie could read her frustration.

  Skip leapt from the saddle, spear in hand. The horrahogs charged, coming at her from both sides. Skip twirled, spinning her spear as a horrahog hurtled past, and lunged low to pierce its middle.

  She released the spear, rolling out of the other beast’s path. Pulling a cutlass from across her back, she na
rrowly avoided the horrahog’s razor-sharp tusks and dragged the blade down its side.

  With both dredretches reduced to their festering bones, Skip looked up at the sky. Cupping her hands to her mouth, she hollered, ‘Enjoying the show?’

  It was astonishing how talented Skip was. Ottilie had barely been able to tackle a jivvie in her early fledgling days. Of course, Skip had trained with the sculkie squad and fought at Richter. These days she put more hours into training than anyone Ottilie knew – even Leo – but it was still impressive. Ottilie would never admit it, but she was jealous of how seamlessly Skip had slid into this role.

  Preddy waved and Ottilie considered landing, but Nox tensed. Ottilie strained her ears. She couldn’t hear anything beyond the now-distant roar of the waterfall. Nox tilted and swerved in a sharp circle, shooting back over the trees towards the Dawn Cliffs.

  Something was wrong. Was it Leo?

  Nox dipped below the edge of the towering cliffs. Cool vapour wafted from the falls and flecks of water sprayed her face as they swooped lower. Finally, she heard it – Maestro’s distressed cry.

  Her muscles curled and bunched. She hated that sound. Why was she so late? Why had she spied on the king and lingered to watch Skip hunt?

  Don’t be Whistler. Don’t be Gracie. Don’t be anything!

  Swinging left, Nox swooped over the top of a wiry thicket. Jagged shadows carved up the sunlight and blooming vines cast an eerie violet glow. Ottilie could see them – Maestro and Leo had been backed in deep by a pack of lycoats. The trees were too thick and Maestro couldn’t take off.

  Nox landed in the clearest glade. Ottilie jumped down, bow in hand. Twigs and thorns tearing at her clothes, she waded through the scrub.

  With sickly yellow fur and wrappings of shell-like armour, lycoats looked like blunt-nosed dogs dragged from the grave. Ahead, Maestro knocked one aside with his massive paw. Leo shot another, managing to pierce a sliver of flesh. Viper quick, he released more arrows, and by the time Ottilie was near enough to get a clean shot, he had knocked the last one down.

  He looked over, a triumphant grin on his face, and said, ‘You’re late.’

  A disgruntled Maestro beat his wings, tossing his head skyward.

  Ottilie gestured to the tangle of branches. ‘Did they chase you in?’

  ‘No.’ Leo laughed. ‘We followed them. Maestro made a fuss.’ He gave the wingerslink a rough pat. Maestro rumbled and tried to shake him off. ‘Doesn’t like small spaces.’

  Ottilie patted his pale fur. ‘Me neither,’ she whispered.

  Maestro curled his head down and pressed his face against her side.

  ‘All right, enough of that,’ said Leo.

  Maestro tensed. Ottilie was about to say, ‘Don’t be jealous,’ but was interrupted by the beating of wings and a bloodcurdling squawk.

  ‘Squail,’ muttered Leo. ‘Where is it?’

  The call of a squail could render a person unconscious in a matter of minutes. Nothing could stop it – only felling the beast. Ottilie’s skin prickled all over as another call joined the first, then another and another.

  Leo swore as innumerable red-and-black birds, like half-roasted owls, swooped into the thicket, alighting on every tree limb in sight.

  He and Ottilie began firing and the squails fell, but there were more and more of them and Ottilie was growing dizzy. Something drew her eyes up: the biggest one, paler than the others, amber and grey, with fuller feathers. Some bone singer’s bloodbeast was high in the trees.

  It was their only way out. If she shot that one, the usually solitary squails might scatter. Ottilie didn’t think about the bone singer bound to its life. This was about survival. She aimed high. Her vision reeled and snapped back. She released the arrow with a shaking hand and it flew low, to the left. The bloodbeast fixed its shadowed sockets in her direction. Could it even see her through those things? Could the bone singer?

  Her blood drained to her toes. She fell to her knees, a sharp rock digging into her shin. Her arrow supply was nearly used up.

  Leo swayed on Maestro’s back, his eyes sliding shut.

  ‘Leo!’ It was like trying to shout in a dream.

  Tossing her bow aside and wrapping her scarf over her ears, Ottilie crawled over to Maestro, who was standing frozen so that Leo wouldn’t fall. He was only half-conscious, gripping the saddle.

  Ottilie drunkenly guided Maestro to tip sideways so that Leo slid off. She caught him as best she could, but his slack muscles were heavy as sacks of grain. Free of Leo, Maestro lunged and attacked any squail within reach, his beautiful wings catching on the thicket, violet vines tangling in his claws. He thumped and snapped and swiped, but the squails retreated into the knot of branches.

  They couldn’t fight, couldn’t escape. Distantly, Ottilie could hear Nox roaring, crashing through the scrub. She would not be able to save them. There was only one thing that might. Shielding Leo with her body, Ottilie did the only thing she could think of. She knew the risk. It was a direct link to Whistler, but it was the only way. Ottilie drew the bone necklace from her pocket and slipped it over her head.

  12

  Captive

  The world dissolved, but somehow Ottilie remembered to breathe. Something nudged her shoulder. A huff of hot breath – Nox had reached them. The thicket reassembled. Ottilie didn’t know if the squails were still squawking. Her head was crowded with an unworldly song.

  She clutched Leo’s arm, pulling him closer. The bone necklace was supposed to make dredretches stop attacking. That was what Gracie had told her at Richter. She only hoped Leo’s proximity to her would keep him safe as well.

  She blinked. The song hushed, sinking lower, mingling with her pulse. The squails stilled. Their squawking ceased, but they didn’t fly away. She looked higher – it seemed even the bloodbeast would not attack them now.

  She felt Leo stir. They were both out of arrows. His eyes twitched open. He was white as salt. ‘What’s happening?’

  Before Ottilie could explain, a voice spoke inside her head. ‘Tea?’

  ‘What?’ said Ottilie out loud.

  ‘Ott?’ Leo leaned away from her.

  She grabbed him and muttered, ‘Stay close.’

  ‘What? Why?’

  ‘I would like you to join me for tea,’ said the voice, and this time Ottilie recognised the speaker.

  ‘Why would I do that?’ It was absurd.

  ‘Who are you talking to?’ said Leo, pulling away again.

  Ottilie wrenched him back, her eyes darting up to the trees. The squails had stopped screeching, but they could still attack him with their deadly talons.

  ‘Because,’ said Whistler. ‘If you grace me with your presence … I will give you the goedl.’

  Ottilie nearly jumped to her feet. ‘Bill? Why?’

  ‘The canyon caves. Tomorrow, at midnight. You know the spot. Come alone, and leave the old cat outside.’

  ‘Is he all right?’

  The voice disappeared.

  ‘Whistler!’

  ‘Ott!’ His eyes narrowed, Leo grabbed the necklace. Ottilie tried to pry his fingers open, but he held fast and began lifting it over her head.

  ‘No, Leo, stop! They’ll start again if you take it off me!’

  He paused, but didn’t release his grip. ‘Why can Whistler talk in your head?’ he demanded.

  ‘Because of this,’ she said, her fingernails digging into his hand. ‘Just this! But I have to keep it on so we can get away.’

  His nostrils flared. ‘No, I don’t like it!’

  ‘Then let’s get away from here and I can take it off!’ Ottilie moved towards Nox. ‘Stay close,’ she said, scanning the branches for any sign that the squails might attack.

  In silence, they squeezed into Nox’s single saddle. The wingerslinks didn’t know what to make of dredretches that weren’t attacking. Tail flicking and ears flat to her skull, Nox slunk through the trees and Maestro walked tentatively behind. The squails watched them go but didn’t follow
. Breaking the tree line, Ottilie didn’t dare take off the necklace. Behind them, the flock of squails spiralled out of the thicket and swept northward until they were just specks of dirt marring the perfect sky.

  Leo was furious with Ottilie. She had never told him about the bone necklace; she didn’t really know why she still had it. She had planned to show it to Maeve, thinking it might be a useful weapon against dredretches. But she had never actually handed it over.

  Did it really matter? Ottilie had no doubt that if she hadn’t used it yesterday afternoon, she and Leo would not have survived. That was the truth, and now Whistler was offering her a chance to get Bill back. Knowing that her friends would make a huge fuss, Ottilie had begged Leo not to tell anyone about it. He had lasted a day so far. But with everyone so busy, that didn’t mean much. Now it was raining, so all shifts beyond the boundary walls were cancelled. Most of her friends had the night off – and, as per the king’s orders, Captain Lyre had arranged a banquet in his honour. With nothing to do but talk and eat, Ottilie didn’t know what Leo might say.

  Wet weather keeping them from the uncovered Moon Court, the huntsmen gathered instead in Fiory’s grandest hall. Ottilie had not been inside it since her first day at the fort. She still remembered Captain Lyre standing in front of the arched windows holding a birdcage aloft.

  Tonight was uncommonly warm and windless. They had opened the windows, filling the room with the sound of falling rain. Ottilie was horrified to see that the bone singers had been dragged up from their cells and caged in the corner of the room. They sat, looking as dishevelled as ever, playing their instruments as the huntsmen feasted.

  Gully was tense beside Ottilie, regarding the cages with narrowed eyes. ‘How can they expect us to have a party now’ – he nodded towards the bone singers – ‘like this?’

  ‘It’s all because of the king,’ said Ottilie. She noticed Captain Lyre’s face was lined and grim, but Conductor Edderfed was happily devouring a turkey leg as if there were no prisoners in the room. Wrangler Voilies and Director Yaist were growing steadily drunker and offering the king simpering smiles. Wrangler Furdles kept throwing his chicken bones through the bars, sniggering when he hit a bone singer, until Wrangler Morse moved to stand sentinel beside the cage.