Still there came no response from Papa.
It looked as if it had failed. Perhaps it only worked in the hands of a conjurer. I was naïve to think I had the power to use it. Of course it wouldn’t respond to me, a simple girl, the daughter of a locksmith no matter what anyone said.
Of a sudden, a thought came to me and I realized what I must do. I unclasped my windrider, kissed it, and held it over Papa. “I give you my sparrow,” I said. “May its flight bring you joy and swift passage into the next world.” I would bury him with the thing I loved most in the world. He had wanted me to give it up, and I would do so as a final gesture of my love. It wouldn’t bring him back, but it was the right thing to do. He’d warned me of its dangers, and perhaps he was right. But more importantly, giving Papa the windrider made me feel as if a part of me would be with him forever.
As I leaned over him to fasten the windrider round his neck, his lip twitched, and before I even had time to react, his entire body went into a spasm. I dropped the amulet.
Papa’s limbs started shaking and I hastened to tighten the blankets around him. I placed my hand under his nose, checking for breath. “Breathe, Papa.” I pressed his chest gently to help him. He opened his mouth and sucked in air.
His eyes snapped open and he stared at me in confusion. Tears of joy streamed down my cheeks. “You're going to be all right,” I said. “You’re going to be all right.” I smoothed back the hair from his temple. His body trembled.
He opened his mouth to speak and what came out was a croak: “Cold.”
“I'll build up the fire. You're going to be all right,” I said.
On my way to fetch another log, I bent and snatched up my windrider. There had been no need for sacrifice after all.
#
It took hours for Papa to warm up but at last he did. I had gotten him to move to a chair by the fire, where he sat with a blanket on his lap, sipping from a cup of hot tea. I stepped up behind him and patted his shoulders. “I have to go out,” I said.
“I don't think you should,” Papa said.
“I must. I won't be long.”
His face contorted in anger. “I'm your father. Obey me.”
My mouth dropped open. I’d never seen such an expression on his face. He’d been a stern father, but never, ever harsh. Has death changed him?
But just as quickly, his face relaxed and he seemed himself again. He didn’t appear to remember what happened only seconds ago. “What were we saying?” he said.
I kissed the side of his head. “Try to get a little sleep.”
He closed his eyes as I let myself out of the house.
I dreaded the task that lay before me, but I knew I must do it. Taking miniature steps to put off the moment for as long as possible, I walked until I came to the graveyard and the little house next to it where Ash’s family lived. At least it had been a family once upon a time. Now it would be nothing but a mother and a father mourning the loss of their two sons for the rest of their lives.
I tapped on the door. Ash’s mother opened it and greeted me warmly. She led me into the kitchen where I sat at a table with three chairs which would become a table for two. Ash’s papa joined us and his mother poured us tea. As we sat together, I told them about Ash’s bravery, and the love for his brother that had driven him to seek revenge. I told them of his fearless stand against the boarman, and how he had charged into a battalion of soldiers at the castle walls. His mother wept quietly through all of it, and his father too, though he covered his face with his handkerchief. At the end, I reached across and held his mother’s hand.
I left out only one thing. I could not bear to tell them Lance had been made into a wraith, and that Ratcher had threatened the same for Ash. There were some things a parent should never be told about their child.
ASH
He woke to find himself flung over Scarface’s shoulder, bouncing against the boarman’s back as he was carried along a wide corridor. His side ached where Ratcher had stabbed him, but he did not think he was in any danger of dying, unless he lost too much blood. She’d bested him and then, to complete his humiliation, she’d given him a flesh wound instead of killing him. His cheeks burned with shame that he’d passed out over something so minor.
He let himself flop against the boarman, careful not to reveal that he’d woken. It was essential for him to act now, while no one else was around. Scarface was careless. He carried his great sword on one side, and a bollock dagger on the other. Ash considered going for the sword, being the more powerful weapon, but he realized it would be too heavy, and by the time he yanked it entirely from its sheath, the boarman would have flipped him over and subdued him. It must be the dagger.
Ash took a deep breath and steeled himself for the pain that movement would cause him. Then, acting with great speed—his one advantage over the beast that carried him—he snatched the dagger from Scarface’s belt, raised it with both his hands, and plunged it into the boarman’s back.
Scarface let out a deep groan and dropped to his knees. Ash didn’t hesitate. He leapt up, pulled back the dagger, bent over the boarman from behind, and slid the deadly edge across his throat. Blood gushed out as the creature fell forward. An instant later he was dead.
Ash heard voices coming from the far end of the corridor; there was no time to spare. He dashed the other way, turning a corner, racing to the end of the hall. He peered out to find a sentry posted along the next passage. Fearing he was trapped, he retraced his steps, past several closed doors, unsure which ones to try. Then he came to the one marked DO NOT ENTER UPON PAIN OF DEATH in red paint.
It must be the nursery; the door was as Tessa had described. Although, for all he knew, the castle could be teeming with rooms that threatened you with death upon entry. But his options were few at the moment. With fumbling hands, he retrieved the key she’d given him, which took precious seconds because he’d stupidly forced it back in his waistband when he should have just stuck it into his pocket.
A shout rang out from around the corner. Someone must have found Scarface’s body.
He shoved the key into the keyhole and turned it, but nothing happened. He dropped down on his knees to look more closely, and jiggled the key in the lock. The bolt still refused to turn. What now?
There were more shouts, closer now, and the sounds of soldiers gathering to begin a search. He breathed deeply to calm himself and drew out the key. He inserted it again, without forcing it this time, carefully feeling for the path of least resistance. He turned it and the lock clicked open. He slipped into the room, glancing back at the same time. There were shadows at the end of the corridor, and the clomp of boots approaching. He shut the door silently behind him, praying he had not been seen. He glanced around; it was indeed the nursery, just as Tessa had described it. Noises grew louder outside the room. Ash turned back and slipped the key in the lock, hoping it would not be heard over the sounds made by the soldiers. This time it turned without difficulty, and he carefully withdrew it from the slot. It would not do for someone to look through the keyhole and see that the door had been locked from inside.
He positioned himself behind the door, still as could be, Scarface’s dagger at the ready. If they came in—and almost certainly they would—he would not go without taking some of them with him. He listened as the soldiers approached, banging on doors, checking each room. Moments later they paused outside his door. The knob began to turn.
“What’re you doing?” one soldier said. “Can’t you read?”
“I know what it says,” said another.
“We can’t go in. Last one who did lost his head.”
“What if he’s there?” the second man said.
The knob rattled as someone tried to open it.
“It’s locked,” the second one said with relief. “He can’t be in there.”
Never underestimate your enemy. But clearly they wished for an excuse to move on past the forbidden room, and a locked door was as good as any. They continued their search do
wn the corridor, and soon enough, the castle grew silent.
Ash exhaled and looked down at his wound. He felt weak from blood loss, but at least it seemed to be an injury of the flesh only. There was a general ache, but no sharp pains as he poked around at it. Getting an idea, he found a relatively unspoiled sheet tucked into the crib, underneath the filthy bed cover. He cut a strip from it with the dagger, then looked about the room for vinegar or anything else to keep his wound from turning foul. There was nothing. He briefly considered lighting a lamp and holding the fireplace poker over it until it was hot enough to cauterize his wound, but the amount of time that would take and the risk of making things worse rather than better, stayed his hand. He also wasn’t certain he could bear a jolt of agonizing pain right now. Instead, he simply bound the strip of cloth around his waist to keep the wound covered.
Exhaustion began to overwhelm him. He knew he ought to move on. The soldiers could easily report that they’d checked all rooms but this one, and others might be sent back to do the job. However, it was equally dangerous for him to go out and wander the castle corridors while the search continued. In the end his need for rest made the decision for him. He folded himself onto the child’s bed and closed his eyes, thinking over all that had happened. He’d failed against Ratcher. He should’ve killed her straightaway, without allowing her to arm herself. She had not shown Lance that level of respect. His death had been an execution, and hers should’ve been the same.
His brother would not have been such a fool. Lance had been the practical, determined one. He had teased Ash for always having his head in a book, which was where he got those old-fashioned, ridiculous ideas about chivalry and honor. Lance was smarter. If he were to fight, he would have made sure the fight was balanced in his favor, even if it meant cheating. His brother believed the means didn’t matter if you achieved your ends. He always won, because he never gave up until he could declare himself the winner.
Still, Ash’s disappointment was balanced by satisfaction in another respect. Scarface had killed Lance, and now Ash had killed Scarface. Because he was following orders, the boarman’s death wasn’t nearly as satisfying as Ratcher’s would be, yet Lance’s murder had clearly given Scarface pleasure, and for that simple reason he had deserved the fate he received at Ash’s hands.
His thoughts drifted to Tessa. She’d been dressed like a princess, but what he remembered most was the determined cast of her face as she worked to free him of his shackles, and the way her eyes softened when he lay on top of her and nearly kissed her. Had she and Calder escaped with the dreadmarrow? Ratcher had revealed nothing. But if his sword fight with her had caused enough of a distraction to allow his friends to get away, then it had been worthwhile. It soothed him to think of his failure like that. There were different ways of winning, and a personal loss might still mean victory for one’s allies.
His goals were the same, to free Lance and kill Ratcher, but whereas once he didn’t care whether he lived or died at the end of it… now he yearned for life with all his heart. He longed to see Tessa again, to hold her in his arms, and if he found the courage, to confess his love for her.
He still had hope. He just needed to sleep and then he would form a plan.
TESSA
I made mutton stew for supper, cooking it over the fire. The meat was an extravagance, but after all we’d been through—Papa facing death itself—it seemed as if we deserved a reward. Papa made no remark on the expense, which wasn’t like him, as he usually questioned every penny spent. His mood had been gloomy and distracted since he revived, and I could only hope a filling meal would soften him, and begin to turn him back to himself.
“Papa, do you feel ready to travel?” We could not expect to remain undetected in Mr. Oliver’s home forever. I needed to bring my father to a place of safety.
He stared at the wall as if he hadn’t heard me.
“Remember how we talked of leaving Sorrenwood? You wanted to move to Blackgrove.”
Papa lifted a bite to his mouth, and chewed on it slowly.
“I’ll pack our things tonight. We can set out on foot before dawn, and hire a coach at the Square.”
I waited for a response. He reached for the bread and tore off a piece.
“Please, Papa. I need to get you somewhere safe. This has been all my fault, that you died, or nearly died.” When I told him what had happened, I stopped short of revealing that he had, truly, been dead.
“I know who I am now, Papa. I understand why you didn’t tell me. Mama must have made you promise not to look for her if she ever went away, because your search might have lead Fellstone to me. I know what he is to me, but it doesn’t matter. You’re my real father.”
Papa lowered his fork, perhaps listening now.
“I know what must have happened sixteen years ago. You passed by the graveyard on your way home. A desperate woman, my mother, tore off her wedding ring and threw it in the dirt. She carried a sword—the one you kept hidden in the cabinet—and was obviously with child. When you asked where her husband was, she begged you to hide her from him. The lord’s men tore apart the town in their search, but you kept her safe. Because you fell in love with her.”
Papa looked at me for the first time since we sat down. “No,” he said. “Not her.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “It was for you.”
“What?” I stared at him in confusion.
“I wanted you. A child. To raise as my own.”
His words shocked me. “Why had you never married? You could have had children.”
He shifted his eyes, but not before I glimpsed the sorrow in them. “Marriage isn’t for some,” he said wistfully.
#
Later as I helped Papa prepare for bed, his sleeve drew back, exposing a festering boil on his lower arm. The last time I’d seen such a mark was on Lord Fellstone’s back. “When did you get this?” I said.
Papa pulled his sleeve to his wrist. “It’s nothing.”
“We need to fix it. I wonder if it will work without the sun.” I fetched the dreadmarrow and brought a lamp to the table by his side.
“What's that?” Papa said.
“It will cure you.” I pushed up his sleeve and tried to catch the light from the flame with the dreadmarrow.
“How does it work?” he said.
“It’s, um, science,” I said, remembering Calder’s answer to me about something nearly as miraculous. However, it was not working at all at the moment.
“Where did you get it?”
“It isn’t important.”
“Tell me!” That angry tone again from Papa.
“What does it matter if it cures you?”
“It seems like magic. Did you get this from Fellstone?”
I didn’t want to tell him, nor did I wish to lie. But my silence made no difference; Papa read the answer in my face. He yanked his arm back. “Get rid of it! I won't use anything that belongs to that demon. No wonder I don't feel myself. I’ve been in a foul mood ever since I woke up.”
“You would've died without it.”
“You should've let me die.”
I lowered my gaze, stung to my core.
He softened his tone. “Some things aren't worth the price that has to be paid for them.”
“Your life?” Surely that was worth any price.
“Even that,” he said. He took my hand. “Death comes to all of us. You must learn to accept it.”
#
After Papa fell asleep, I tucked the blanket around him and brushed my lips against his forehead. I stepped back to gaze at him, my heart swelling with love and concern. A part of me yearned to do nothing more than stay by his side and tend to him for the rest of his natural life. Or must it now be considered an unnatural life?
Another infection had appeared above his ankle. Lord Fellstone had warned me the magic would be too much for him. And now Papa had forbidden me from using the dreadmarrow again. I could do nothing further for him.
But there were others who nee
ded my help. The fates of Mama, Ash and Calder continued to weigh heavily on me. If not for my friends, Papa would be dead. They had acted bravely and selflessly in helping and protecting me, at the same time setting aside their own desires. Now they would never be able to fulfill their goals. I felt certain that if I had been the one to die, they would have carried on, stolen the dreadmarrow, and themselves returned to bring Papa back to life. How could I do any less for them? As the only one left of the three who set out, I needed to pursue their deepest desires as if they were my own.
I had made my decision before Papa drifted off to sleep. I picked up Calder’s bag, with the dreadmarrow protruding out of it. “Find Mama. Restore Calder. Free Lance,” I whispered to myself. I hoped Ash, if he was somehow watching me, would forgive me for not wishing to kill Ratcher. No matter how depraved she was, the idea of taking a life went against my nature, and in any case, it would’ve been foolish to imagine I had a chance against her.
I raised the windrider to my lips.
#
I was relieved to find the window of my bedchamber open, just as I’d left it. I flew in and landed on the floor, scraping my claw to change back into myself. My first task required a search through Calder’s bag. As I combed through it, I was no longer surprised at how long it took him to find items inside it; rather, it seemed a miracle he could locate anything at all. An enormous number of jars, vials, tins, and things that I could not hope to identify, were jumbled together with no apparent organization. In fact, when I looked back at the overall size and shape of the bag, it didn’t seem possible that so many items could have been placed inside it.
Why hadn’t Calder labeled anything? A scribbled description on the cap of a jar would have gone a long way towards speeding up my search. I could only assume that he knew by looking what it all was, and he didn’t wish to leave clues for anyone—like me—who violated his privacy. At last, after a great deal of searching and some amount of trial and error, I found the canister that held the invisibility powder. I sprinkled the tiny bit that remained over the dreadmarrow. It faded until the wand could no longer be seen, and then I hid it on the floor in the back of the wardrobe. I wanted to be certain the dreadmarrow would not be found and returned to Lord Fellstone while I was busy elsewhere.
Dreadmarrow Thief (The Conjurer Fellstone Book 1) Page 16