The Fatal Child

by John Dickinson

  He leaned on his staff, and looked at her. ‘By witchcraft, I suppose?’ he said.

  ‘You may call it that. I have to tell you that you are near the end of your journey. But you will not get what you want by it.’

  There was nothing harsh or forbidding about her tone. She sounded a little sorry for him.

  ‘Is she close?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Guarded?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He pulled himself upright and gripped his staff.

  ‘By many?’ he insisted.

  ‘She is guarded by Lomba, brother to the princes Talifer and Rolfe. Lomba has only recently come out from the pit, although we spent a year calling him. He is much more a monster than either of his brothers, with a monster’s pitilessness and strength. You would not prevail against him.’

  ‘That has yet to be tested,’ Padry said.

  She took a step closer. Her eyes looked up into his. ‘What poison is it, sir, that drives the brain to madness? This pretty thing with her delusions of a throne! Would you of all people risk a bloody death for her?’

  ‘Poison! She is not poison to me!’

  ‘No, my Lord Chancellor? How is it then that you stand here? She had barely set foot in my house before she had warned me that you might follow. And you have.’

  Angrily he struck his staff on the stones of the mountain. ‘May I not simply care for her? How is it poison to want to save a child from the wilderness?’

  ‘If you wish, I will show you.’

  In her hands there was a large stone cup, with a stem like a goblet. The stone was roughly carved, and winding around its rim was the vague form of something like a snake, or a long-bodied dragon. The bowl was half full of dark water. Where had it come from? She could not have been carrying it beneath her cloak like that, water and all, surely?

  But undeniably it was there.

  ‘Look,’ she said.

  He looked at the water and … Well, it was water, with the sky reflected at one level and the brown, pitted bowl showing through at another. He glanced up at her, perplexed, and down at the water once more.

  ‘I don’t—’ he began.

  ‘Look,’ she said again.

  There was something in the water – floating? A scrap of waste or cloth? Or was it another reflection? All these thoughts chased through his mind in a moment. Then the thing wavered and turned, and it was a ship.

  It was a ship: a big, two-masted cog such as the merchants of Velis used. The image of it floated there on the surface of the water, seeming to grow as he looked. It was moving gently out of a bay. Its sails were set, curving to catch the light and the wind. There were banners flying from the masts, long, floating banners, and even at this distance he could guess at the device, the great sun of Tuscolo.

  Gueronius.

  ‘He has gone, you see,’ she murmured. ‘Without you, they could not hold him. He has left his throne and judgement hall empty. And where now is all the work you have done, since the day that Develin fell?

  ‘The mind deceives itself, Padry. Even as it blunders into darkness, gratifying its desires, it will tell itself that it is on the true Path. Yes, you did a good thing when you saved her from the sack. Perhaps it was wise, too, to have placed her under the convent mothers, so that should you be tempted you could at least not act on your temptation. Still she was there, under your window every day, for your eyes and thoughts to dwell upon. Why did you remain in Tuscolo when Gueronius returned to Velis? What good-seeming reasons did you find, to mask the one in your heart? You hid it well – well enough at least that you never needed to admit it to yourself.

  ‘But your eyes betrayed you. When you let them rest on her, that beautiful little thing, she guessed. She knew your heart better than you did. You never saw how she shuddered. And then you spoke to her, and said that you might take her from the convent and into your care. You have thought that saving her might be the one good thing you had done in your life. If she has done one good thing in hers, Padry, it may be that she saved you by fleeing from you. But she could not save your duty. And many people will pay the price.’

  Padry’s eyes were fixed on the ship. He could see it so clearly that he felt he could almost call to it. But no, even if he had stood on the shores of the bay itself, surely it would have been too far. He watched it heel as the wind took it, drawing it gently beyond all reach, out into the ocean. As it began to diminish, he looked up.

  ‘He will – he will have made provision for the Kingdom,’ he said. ‘There will be regents. When I return to Tuscolo, I can—’ He stopped.

  ‘Will you return?’

  ‘I … Of course.’ He gripped his staff. ‘But I must see Atti.’

  ‘You cannot take her with you.’

  ‘I will take her if she will come.’

  ‘She will not. Understand me. It is you that has driven her here. She will not go with you. And if you would save yourself you will make her dead to you in your thoughts, return to Tuscolo, and see what can be remade from what has been broken.’

  Padry looked at his hand, at the uneven colours of his ageing skin. He seemed to see it very clearly, as her words sank slowly into his heart. Anger, a horrible weak anger, rose in him. It was unfair! Lies! It was a trick to keep him from her. It should not be like this!

  And wrapped in his anger was the fear that it might be true.

  Atti, looking away from him. Atti, not seeing him, determinedly. Each time he had stood there on the hilltop she had not seen him. Even in the convent garden, even when he had taken her hand and stroked it soothingly, her face would have been turned away, looking among the bell towers or the shadowed cloisters. Only the curve of her cheek, like the crescent of the new moon. Atti …

  He almost stamped in his frustration. Day after day on the roads, and his duty in ruins – for nothing? ‘I must see her! I can’t help it – I must see her!’

  ‘Very well,’ said the woman at last. ‘Follow the path to the ridge. You will find a house. She is there. You may speak to her if she will listen. Do not attempt to touch her, even if she seems to be alone.’

  She turned, still holding the cup, and seemed to walk into the hillside. In an instant she had vanished. Padry was by himself, high in the mountain valley.

  He reached the ridge at sunset, when the valleys were lakes of deep shadow and the ridges, yellow in the last light, were like islands in a rising sea. Before him, across a great gulf of air, was a high, snow-covered peak, wreathed in cloud. The air was chilly. He shivered.

  At his feet the path ran on, downhill now, along the very crest of the ridge. There at the end of it, where the ground fell steeply on three sides, was the house. It was a strange sight to see here in the mountains, with a little squat-towered gatehouse, roofs and terraces clustered on the sharp spine of the rock. It was not big, and yet he had seen nothing more than the mean, circular huts of the hill folk since passing the ruined keep at Hayley. On that huge arm of rock the scale of it seemed all wrong.

  Voices came distantly to his ears – the voices of girls from within those solemn walls. He heard one of them laugh. There was something chilling about that laughter – about the thought that a girl could be happy without him, not even knowing that he was close. With a growing feeling of dread in his heart he limped down the path to the gate.

  The doors were ajar. The gate-tunnel was deep in shadow. He did not call. He did not dare risk raising his voice. He slipped through the open leaf of the door and crept inwards.

  On the far side was a small courtyard, bounded on three sides by buildings and on the fourth, to his left, by a low wall that looked out over the valley. There was no one there. The voices came from beyond an archway opposite. He recognized Atti’s, speaking in a low, serious tone.

  He stole across the open space and stood in the shadow of the second arch.

  He was looking through a colonnade, like the cloisters of a convent, or— No, it was more like the columns around the garden at Velis where he
had first set eyes on her in the middle of the smoke and battle. There were no plants or pots or pathways here – just a simple paved space – but there in the middle of it was the bowl of a fountain, exactly like the one he remembered. Beyond it was something like a throne on a raised platform. Between the fountain and the throne stood the two girls.

  They were playing a game. One of them was the gawky peasant girl he had seen on the hilltop at Aclete. She had a cup and ball in her hand. She was trying to catch the ball in the cup. She was not very good at it. Atti, standing with her, was saying, ‘You must keep your eye on it. No, not like that. Let me …’ and she took it, and showed the other girl how to catch it one-two-three, with easy flicks of her wrist that saw the ball landing neatly in the cup again and again. She gave it back to the other girl and watched while her companion tried and tried and failed. The peasant girl laughed again. Atti did not laugh. She never did.

  Padry stood in the shadows and watched. It was so long since he had seen her! He wanted to rush forward, to have her eyes on him, to see her smile in joy as he would smile in joy. And yet…

  And yet he did not want to move. He did not dare to break the moment that he saw, two girls together. He was afraid of what would follow if he did. He was trying to imagine Atti smiling at him, and could not. He could not remember ever having seen her smile. Even now, as the other girl giggled at her own clumsiness, her face (as much as he could see of it) was solemn, watching. She was calm, but…

  Why could he not see more of her face?

  Atti, dear Atti – turn and look at me! Do not make me come bumbling out of the shadow to you. Turn and show me that – that at least you are pleased that I am here?

  She did not turn. But as he watched he saw the other girl’s eyes fall on him and the laughter drop from her lips. She said something in a low tone to Atti. Atti answered. Two words – he did not catch them, but they might have been I know.

  She did not look round.

  She knew he was there. She would not look at him. She stood just as she had stood in the garden at Velis, looking away, very, very still – still as a statue, while he pleaded to her back. Oh, Atti!

  There was no gate, no bars here. He could step into the courtyard. He could walk across and take her by the arm, look her in the eyes: Atti, do you see how you wrong me?

  But the shadows were deep in the colonnades. The girls seemed to be alone, yet in the darkness close by something was watching him.

  It was forbidden. And now even his own soul forbade it.

  He let himself cast one more look, one long look, down her. His eyes traced her cheek, pale as the sickle moon; the subtlest curves of her young breast and hip, just showing under her gown: the woman swelling within the child’s frame. He knew his own corruption.

  He knew it at last and knew that it had always been with him.

  He caressed it once in his mind. Then he turned and shuffled back into the outer courtyard.

  Phaedra was standing by the low wall. She said nothing as he approached. He said nothing either but walked slowly with his head bowed. He could not help it that his eyes screwed up, hot and moist and burning, or that his throat seemed to block and choke as if he had swallowed sweet embers. And the Path was lost, lost long ago. And every word he had spoken was a lie.

  He reached the wall and stood beside her.

  ‘You see,’ she said to him.

  He could not speak.

  In a moment, he supposed, she would tell him where he might sleep, and whether he might eat, and how he might begin his journey home. He did not want to think about that. He thought that he might even jump from the wall, if he could find the will.

  She must have read his thought, for he felt her hand gently grip his arm. He shook his head, meaning I’m not going to be that silly. He did not want to look at her, although she must know very well that he was weeping.

  He looked out and down, into the cold shadows of the valley. The hillside sloped away, a long, barren plunge of rock and thorn. His eyes blurred as he stared at it. He wondered if it had a bottom at all. The wall between him and the gulf was little more than waist-high. So little, and the fall beyond so very deep.

  He was back, back in the Abyss where nothing had meaning any more. At his belt hung the carved wooden figures: the Lantern, the Leaf and the Dragon. But his fingers seemed to be numb. He did not touch them.

  Behind him the peasant child laughed as the girls resumed their game.

  PART II

  THE LEAF

  X

  Night Talk

  he dream was of the safe place, the girl’s childhood home, the great house filled with sunlight. There were tall windows and high rooms and brilliant, beautiful, smiling people who passed her and spoke to her with love.

  She had dreamed it many times before.

  A face swam by, a face she remembered, one of the hill people who were servants in the house. She tried to speak to the face and could not. Another came, a beautiful woman in pale silks with long brown hair who smiled and spoke. She knew that the woman was dead. She had dreamed all this before. She knew what was coming. She knew it because this was the safe place and the safe place was not safe. Very soon it would not be safe for any of them and they would all be dead. She tried to speak to the faces that passed her. She tried to tell them what would happen. But her tongue was that of a child so little that she could not say the words. The people smiled at her as they passed. Their faces were already darkening.

  The colours were changing. The rooms were not bright but a purple haze in which black shapes of people moved, hurrying now. She could hear the voices crying aloud. She cried aloud, too. She cried to them not to forget her, not to leave her, but she could not say the words. Father stalked by, angry in his black armour, and it was too late.

  Now the shapes and faces and cries gathered into one. And she knew that there had only ever been one – one shape, only one, close, all the time, just beyond the curtain. The curtain was behind her. She could not turn. She could not face it. Now it was drawn aside, slowly. She could not face it but she knew that it was drawing aside.

  The killer entered and all the voices became a single scream.

  ‘Atti! Atti!’

  The cries had stopped but Melissa’s ears were still ringing. In the darkness she fumbled for the body that writhed and kicked like an animal beside her.

  ‘Atti – you’re having a nightmare! Can you hear me? Atti!’ She found the shoulders, gripped them and tried to shake them.

  ‘Get away from me!’ Something hit Melissa hard in the mouth. She lost her hold.

  ‘Get away!’ Atti screamed. She still had not woken.

  ‘Atti – it’s Melissa! You’re all right – it’s just a nightmare!’ (Just? She was thrashing in the darkness and shrieking like a rabbit in a snare. What was happening to her?) ‘Atti! Can’t you hear me? Atti!’

  Atti’s breath was coming in long, shaking gasps. Gently Melissa reached out and risked putting a hand on her arm again.

  ‘Atti? Are you awake now?’

  Atti groaned.

  ‘You poor thing,’ whispered Melissa. ‘What was it?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘It’s all right! It’s all right…’ Melissa fumbled around, found the blanket and dragged it up over their knees. Then she put an arm round Atti’s shoulders and they sat together with their backs to the rough, chilly wall of the sleeping chamber. The only light came from the open square of window, which showed a patch of night sky decked with stars. The moon must be down. It was somewhere beyond midnight.

  Her lip throbbed where Atti had struck it.

  ‘Cold, isn’t it?’ she said at last, and as cheerfully as she could. ‘Getting colder, too. I suppose when winter comes we should sleep in the kitchen after all.’

  Atti had not wanted to sleep in the kitchen. People like her did not sleep in kitchens. But it was the only working hearth in that strange stone house, and it drew the warmth into its walls. Melissa already knew that winter in t
he mountains was going to be far colder than either of them were used to. She was beginning to worry about how they would cope with it. Even now the night air chilled her neck and shoulders.

  Sleep dragged at her brain. She wanted them both to snuggle down under the blanket and sink back into warmth and darkness. But Atti wasn’t going to sleep. Not yet, anyway.

  ‘It’s back,’ she said.

  ‘What is?’

  ‘The dream.’

  ‘You’ve had it before?’

  Atti did not seem to hear the question.

  ‘Someone’s going to kill me,’ she said quietly. ‘That’s what it means.’

  Melissa was astonished. ‘No one wants to kill you, Atti!’

  Atti drew breath. Then she let it out again in a long sigh.

  ‘I’ve had it ever since Velis,’ she said. ‘I’m remembering things – things that happened when I was little. And then I’m seeing something that’s going to happen. Something … I don’t know if they’re going to kill me, or just kill everyone else and destroy everything and leave me there. But that’s what it means. And it’s … I always think it’s—’ She stopped.

  Then, quietly, deliberately, she said, ‘I think it’s someone I know.’

  Melissa, dazed with weariness, didn’t believe a word of it. Her fingers tested her lip and found it was swelling up fast.

  It was just a dream, Atti …

  But she didn’t think it would help if she said that.

  ‘Maybe you should talk to Phaedra,’ she mumbled.

  Atti stiffened. ‘Why should I?’

  ‘Because she’s supposed to help us.’

  ‘I shall do nothing of the sort.’

  ‘But she might—’

  ‘No!’

  Suddenly Atti was beginning to shake again. More astonished than ever, Melissa tightened her hold around her shoulders. ‘Atti! What’s the matter?’

  ‘She’s a witch!’ Atti hissed. ‘Hadn’t you noticed?’

  ‘No, Atti!’

  ‘She doesn’t sleep, she doesn’t eat, she’s there when you can’t see her! She doesn’t even need to open the door when she comes into a room. And she ought to be much older than she is!’