The Chestnut King

by N. D. Wilson

  “I’m sorry,” he said, and he tucked the pyramid under his arm. “Maybe you weren’t as bad as she made you.” He backed slowly away, down the street toward the city circle he had seen from the bell tower. “Maybe you were.”

  Still holding the torch, Henry turned and ran, his feet softly thudding in the inches of ash and dust in the street. Henrietta and Zeke were safe. At least for now. He looked down at the black cupboard and laughed. Safe under his arm. Adrenaline livened his tired legs. A second fingerling was dead, and he’d escaped Coradin twice. But where could he go now to escape the pack that was hunting him? If he’d stayed in the attic, the fingerlings would have walked right to the little pyramid in the street and followed him through. He had to muddy his tracks, like a fox running in a stream to shake the hounds. He would find someplace hidden, some corner of this city, and then he would go through the cupboard and double-back quickly into Badon Hill. The fingerlings would sense him there, far to the north, but in the same world. They might not be able to find the cupboard then. And if they did, when they’d followed him, he could face them on that northern island, teeming with strength, where his ancestors were buried. And he could call up faeren to help him. If the fingerlings couldn’t find the cupboard, then he could make quick searches out of it—in daylight—until he found his father.

  Light. Why was he carrying a torch? He glanced up at the flame and then back up at the tower. They wouldn’t need his gray threads to track him this way.

  “Stupid,” Henry said out loud, and he hurled it away, through a gaping door.

  A bent and shadowy shape, shorn bald, yelped and ducked suddenly out of the way.

  “Sorry!” Henry yelled, and he pushed his legs harder, past alleys and side streets, past burned-out ruins and palatial buildings, and finally, out into acres of city circle.

  Henry slowed and blinked, looking around. He could see a little better now that he had thrown the torch away. Street mouths spidered out from the circle on all sides. Buildings loomed up black against a graying sky. The sun was coming. Henry jogged toward the center and sneezed as his cloudy wake caught up to him. Across the circle squatted an enormous palace. Stairs rose up to it from the street. Towers rose up from it into the sky.

  Henry quickened his pace and ran directly toward it. The fingerlings would be in the streets soon. He needed to be through the cupboards before they could close any distance on him.

  His adrenaline wore off quickly, and his legs were tight and stiff before he reached the stairs. A stitch was knotting in his side. He pushed himself to the bottom of the stairs and braced himself for the climb.

  Barbs pierced into his shoulder, knocking him forward onto the stairs. And again. Four clusters of gripping needles, and a beating wind, swirling the ash. Yelling, Henry twisted onto his back, swinging his fists. Two huge owls lifted above him, silhouetted against the fast-lightening sky. A sharp whistle from somewhere, and the birds lifted farther, circling slowly. Muffled thunder echoed off the building behind him, and Henry sat up.

  Not thunder. Heavy horses, five of them, feather-feet pounding the dust. And beside them loped an enormous dog.

  Henry staggered to his feet, and he burst into wet-eyed laughter. Fear fell away from him. Let the fingerlings come. Let them bring all the red-shirted soldiers they could find and raise Nimroth and his marble. Wiping his face quickly, he picked up the cupboard and ran forward.

  “Stand!” Caleb’s voice rolled around the circle. Henry stopped. He could see them now, Caleb and his bow, Mordecai beside him.

  “Who rang the bell?” Caleb asked, and the horses slowed, cratering ash with each hoof.

  “I did,” Henry said, and the horses turned sideways, prancing to a stop. The pony-size dog ran to him, knocked him back a step, and licked his face.

  Mordecai leaned forward in his saddle. “Henry?”

  Henry nodded, ran to his father’s stirrup. Mordecai reached down, his palm glowing purple and green. Gripping his son’s arm, he pulled Henry up onto the broad horse behind him.

  “I’ll tell you everything later,” Henry said, and he pointed back across the circle.

  Six figures, five holding torches, stood framed in the tower street.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Frank Willis leaned forward and watched the sweat drip off his nose. In front of him, three hundred slave backs bent over three hundred oars in rhythm, and then, with the unanimous groan of men and timber, those bare backs arched and pulled, knotting and contracting, shining with sweat, squeezing more heat, more stink, into the air of the hold.

  Again, they groaned, and Frank could feel the ship crawl forward beneath him.

  Soldiers with whips in their hands and fleece in their nostrils walked a narrow plank between the tiered oarsmen. The tiers were stacked in a v, the lowest groaning men sat pinched all the way in against the narrow walkway. Those on the top struggled precariously on seats cornered between the hull and the beamed deck above.

  “Those poor men,” Dotty said.

  Frank strained to look back over his shoulder at his wife. Her face glistened red, as did Penelope’s beside her. Hyacinth had her eyes shut, and her face was pale beneath beads of sweat. James and Isa were chained together, one pile of sacks over. Isa had her head on her brother’s shoulder. She winced at every cracking whip. James sat as upright as he could. His jaw was set, and his eyes were angry.

  “Dots,” Frank said. “You hangin’ in there, love? Pen?” Penelope and Dotty both nodded. Dotty looked above Frank’s head, at the dangling kelp sack that held Monmouth.

  “I’m worried about him.”

  “He won’t survive the day,” James said. “Not in the heat belowdecks.”

  Frank cranked his head back and looked up at the bagged wizard. As the slaves groaned and the ship moved forward, the prison hammock rocked on its hooks. The laces bulged beneath Monmouth’s weight.

  “Monmouth,” Frank said. “You still breathin’?” The large sack creaked and swayed and said nothing. Isa sat up. “Is he dead already?” Penelope opened her eyes. “Who’s dead?” “No one,” Frank said. “No one’s dead just yet.” Straining at his chains, he managed to get his legs beneath him and push up into a crouch. The shackles dug into the skin around his wrists, and he pulled harder, trying to reach the sack with his head. A dangling lace tickled his scalp, and grunting with the slaves, he got another inch. He butted the bag.

  “I am alive,” Monmouth said. “And, no matter what James might think, I will be tomorrow.”

  With a rattle of chains, Frank collapsed back down. “Next time we’re guessin’ at your death, try resolving the issue with a little shout. Maybe a whistle.”

  “How did you reach me?” Monmouth asked.

  “With an impressive acrobatic feat,” Frank said. “A meeting of grace and power. Like figure skating.”

  Dotty smiled. Penelope laughed.

  “Figure what?” Isa asked.

  Monmouth coughed, and the bag shook. “Do you have enough grace and power to reach the laces?”

  Frank stared at the bottom of the bag and its bulging seam. He cocked his head, squinting at the loose dangling end that he’d touched.

  “Maybe,” said Frank. “And maybe not.” He shook the chains behind him. “I’ll give it my best Houdini.”

  “Who’s Dini?” Isa asked. James shrugged.

  Frank moved back into his crouch and bit his lip. Pain was all right. He could handle pain, so long as it had a point. But he was glad that he couldn’t see the skin on his wrists. He could already feel blood, warm and sticky, trickling into his palms and thickening between his fingers.

  “Don’t hurt yourself,” Dotty said.

  Frank grinned at her. “That, Dots of mine, is exactly what I am going to do. If I’d hurt myself back in Hylfing, maybe we wouldn’t be in the septic belly of this galley.”

  He jerked up against the shackles and bit his tongue in pain. “Skin,” he said, and his legs shook with his pushing, “grows back.”

&nb
sp; Hyacinth sat up and opened her eyes. “Francis,” she said. “Not now.”

  Frank looked back at her and dropped down. He followed her eyes out to the galley benches.

  As he turned, a great cracking rattled down the left side of the ship. The oars had tangled. Handles bent and snapped and threw slaves against their chain leashes, against the hull, against each other. The oarsmen on the right side all levered their blades out of the water. Soldiers tumbled down the ladders, shouting. Two men stepped back on either side of Frank and stood with crossbows, watching as slaves were unchained and righted on their benches. Broken oars were shoved out through the oarlocks and given to the sea. Broken slaves, unconscious or dead or moaning over bent limbs, were pulled onto the walkway.

  Frank Willis watched with a clenched jaw as five and then six and then seven limp bodies were dragged to the stern and heaved out of a hatch and into the sea. Behind him, Dotty gasped as more followed—the badly injured were knocked unconscious first. A few lucky others, gripping wrists or ribs, were taken abovedecks.

  And then, with whips in hand, watched over by the bowmen, the masters rebalanced the ship. Slaves from the right were shuffled to the left and arranged. New oars were pulled from beneath the walkway and fitted in place, and the hold quieted. Oars were still, and soldiers spaced themselves evenly along the walkway.

  The captain descended. He glanced at Frank and his other prisoners and then positioned himself directly in front of them to survey the balance of oarsmen.

  “How many?” he asked.

  “Captain, fifteen!” yelled the closest master.

  “Fifteen lost.” The captain adjusted the wool in his nose. “Uneven.” He nodded and the man hurried forward, carrying his whip. When he stopped, the captain spoke again. “Add an oarsman to the left. The right is strong by one.”

  “We have no other bodies,” the master said. “But one affects nothing.”

  Frank Willis hung his head. He knew what was coming. He had provoked it. Roderick, who had grown up in the shadow of his family, looked down at him. And then he looked back at James.

  “Unchain him,” he said. “And place him on the left.”

  “He’s Mordecai’s son,” the master said.

  The captain wheeled on him, flushing. He grabbed Frank by the hair. “And this is Mordecai’s brother!” Spit flew from his mouth. “And there sit his daughter and his wife and his niece.” He punched Monmouth’s sack. “And here is Mordecai’s wizard pupil. I will lash them all to oars if need demands! I will feed them to the sea. Mordecai is nothing to me.”

  The soldiers stood motionless. Slaves peered back over their shoulders.

  The captain dropped Frank’s hair. “Now strip the lad and chain him to an oar, or be stripped and chained yourself.”

  Soldiers scrambled past Frank and into the sacks. They unchained James and dragged him out. He stood, with shoulders square and head up, staring at the captain. His shirt was ripped from his back and his trousers from his legs.

  * * *

  Frank watched his broad nephew’s knotted ribs as they rose and fell with long, slow breaths. The captain stepped closer, and the two stood eye to eye.

  “Pride is a brittle bone,” the captain said. “Easily broken.”

  “Envy is a worm,” James said. “Consuming souls.”

  “Envy?” Roderick laughed, and looked from James to Hyacinth to Frank. “What is there to envy about your family?” He nodded to the soldiers, turned, and walked to the ladders. A whip cracked, and James flinched.

  Hyacinth looked away. Isa, now chained to her timber alone, squeezed her eyes tight and tucked her face down into her shoulder.

  James was taken to an empty bench, halfway up the v, and a new oar was fished into place.

  “Mordecai’s son!” a slave jeered. “We’ll see you fed to the gulls!”

  A chorus of anger rose to shout him down, but the whips brought silence with their cracking. Oar blades were lowered to the water, and soon, guided by shouts and lashings, they groaned in time.

  In the heat and the stink and the rhythm of the galley hold, Frank leaned forward. The ship sighed beneath him with each stroke. The slaves groaned and flexed and groaned again, pushing timbers through the sea. With his eyes on the shining, striped back of his brother’s son, Frank slid his wrists against the shackles and swallowed back the pain.

  * * *

  An old crow cocked its head and blinked in the sun. It had been half-asleep, letting its feathers gather warmth before heading out through the wood in search of an early lunch. But something large had just floated by above the ground. The bird sidestepped down the branch into a small patch of shade, leaned forward, and looked again.

  Through the brush and around stone, three bodies floated in a line, each perfectly stiff. The crow knew stiffness. Stiffness meant death, and while the bird preferred pulling soft snails from their shells, it wasn’t about to pass up an easy meal, even if it was drifting well above the ground.

  Croaking loudly—this meal was too big for him alone—the bird spread its wings and dropped off the branch.

  Anastasia opened her eyes and squinted into the sunlight shining down between trees and branches and breeze-fluttered leaves. Squinting was about all that she could do. Jacques had grown impatient with their exhaustion, with their human-girl speed, and now she could open and close her eyes and breathe. No more. At first she’d been able to speak, but the mustachioed faerie had adjusted that after twenty minutes of questions.

  A black shape flicked through the sunlight, gliding beneath branches, and a throaty call told her what it was. A crow. She shut her eyes again. Her face was hot.

  Something landed on her stomach, cawing loudly.

  Blinking, she focused on the bird. It walked slowly up to her chest and turned its head, staring at her with one large, curious brown eye. She tried to blow on it, but her lips wouldn’t pucker. The bird flared its wings and hopped to her shoulder, bent over, and stared off the edge, down at the ground. Straightening, it eyeballed her again, and again bent over, searching for her legs or wings or whatever she was using to move.

  Anastasia tried to laugh, but only managed a motionless snort.

  The bird hopped back to her stomach, startled. Two other crows landed beside the first, both sleeker and gray-eyed. All three flared wings and bobbed, cawing. More circled ahead, descending.

  Anastasia’s heart raced. The faeries had to notice. And they had to notice before she lost an eye or a lip. She managed to grunt, and then inhaling over her limp tongue, she snorted. But no one set her down, and the branches still slid by quickly.

  Leaves parted around her, and she was in shadow. Deep, cool shade. The sun was gone, and an enormous, dense canopy cut off the sky. The sleek crows flapped up, cawing frantically, fighting to retreat through green. The old, brown-eyed bird hopped forward, gave her a last, long, one-eyed stare, bobbed its head, gargling, and followed the others.

  Invisible hands lowered Anastasia to the cool earth. Una, rigid, four feet off the ground, rocked down beside her.

  Jacques’s face appeared above her upside down. Sweat dripped down his bald head, through his bushy eyebrow, and onto the purple eye patch. He smiled.

  “Up, poppy,” he said. “Should have toted you from the first.”

  Anastasia’s body went suddenly limp. She coughed and put her hands to her face, opening and shutting her jaw slowly. Then she sat up.

  They were in a hollow. Moss and bare dark earth spread up the sides of the bowl. Limbs as thick as any tree she had ever seen loomed out over the cool circle, dipping the broad fingers of chestnut leaves down nearly to the ground at the outermost.

  In the center, three enormous trunks rose up separately and then joined together to form a single tree as big around as an old grain silo.

  Una sat up beside Anastasia and looked at the strange canopy. Richard, still stiff, snored quietly.

  “Where’s Fat Frank?” Una asked.

  Jacques, the only visible f
aerie, turned around. “He is being taken. We follow soon.”

  Anastasia looked up into the tree. The branches bulged with green spiked clusters. “Are the chestnuts square?”

  Jacques laughed. “The konkers will hold triplets of any shape the king desires. This is one of the ancient three-maced trees, a gateway to his kingdom.”

  “Konkers,” Anastasia said quietly. She looked down at the faerie. “Are we going into a faerie mound? Henry says the faeren live in mounds.”

  “Stand,” Jacques said. “And follow.”

  Both girls scrambled to their feet. Richard’s stiff body rose off the ground. The broad faerie moved between the girls and gripped their arms above the elbow. Together, they walked toward the triple trunk and stepped easily into its center.

  Jacques turned them to the left, and they walked back out and veered right around the next trunk and stepped back in. Back and forth, they wove in and out of the great tree, twisting and looping and turning while Jacques whispered to himself, concentrating, like he was reciting the pattern.

  Anastasia’s eyes widened as they moved in and out of darkness, circling in the domed green world. Each time they stepped out of the tree, something had changed. The ground was more level, or even sloping down. The moss was taller, yellower. The tree’s canopy was higher, the tree younger, the trunk slighter. Green konkers, ripe and cracked open, lay strewn on the ground. The tree was in bloom, perched high on a hill, and what was that beneath her? A highway? With cars? It was. She knew it was, and she could just hear a horn honking far beneath her as they turned again into the trunk and stepped out beneath bare branches and falling snow.

  Una laughed. The faerie was twisting them in and out of a dozen different trees, winding them around the surface of the world, around the worlds.

  And then they stopped, centered beneath the trunk, with a soft bed of loam and leaves and bark beneath their feet.

  “Shut your eyes,” Jacques said, and squeezing the girls’ arms tight, he pulled them backward into a cool, light, drizzling rain.

  “Turn,” he said.