by N. D. Wilson
Bobbing, treading water with near-useless limbs, sinking and surging and swallowing and spitting, Henry turned and looked across the harbor toward the city walls and the dock. It was a long way off, and the water, though less angry than the open ocean, was still far from calm.
His head was ringing with the ache of what he'd done in the wood and the breathlessness of nearly drowning, but he managed to kick off his shoes and start a slow crawl across the water, making for the rigging of the closer ruined ship.
The waves grew as Henry left the shelter of the cliff behind. He struggled more and more to stay on course and keep his head above water. In his previous life, he'd never been allowed to swim without a life vest. He'd hated it, but now he would have given just about anything for something large and orange and puffy with an embarrassing strap through the crotch. But he only had his sweatshirt, and it was bogging him down. He would have tried to get it off, but as exhausted as he was, he knew he would only get tangled up and sink.
A dozen times he told himself that his arms could no longer move, that his legs were going to cramp, that he should just stop and rest. But there was no place to stop, and the only kind of rest was permanent. If he tried to float, the waves pushed him where they wanted, and they wanted him down.
From the water, he couldn't see what was happening on the plain in front of the city, but he could still see arrows tailing through the wind. As he watched, his hand rubbed against something in the water. It wasn't alive, so he gripped it, spat out a mouthful of harbor, and looked at what he'd found.
It was a rope. He looked up at the ship's mast, still many yards away, and then at the rope in his hand. He pulled on it. It wasn't taut, and at first he was only straightening out a lot of slack, but it still moved him forward. And then the slack was gone, and he slid through the water toward the mast. When he reached it, he grabbed on to the leaning timber and let his limbs go limp in the water. He looked back at the cliff and at the city dock. He was more than halfway there. The other ruined ship was farther out toward the harbor mouth. From where he was now, he couldn't stop until the long dock.
Above the city, lightning flashed. Henry felt a tingle in the water as the jagged bolts fell and the thunder rumbled beneath the water's surface.
If lightning struck anywhere in the harbor, he could easily be dead. If it was at all close, he would be.
Wrapping his legs around the mast, he managed to struggle off his sweatshirt. Then he braced himself against it and pushed off with all the strength he had left in his legs.
Without the sweatshirt, his arms felt free, strong again, but only briefly. His muscles stopped working with oxygen and began to work with acid. His stomach was tightening into a knot, as much with fear as exhaustion.
Henry closed his eyes, breathed as evenly as he could, and kept his arms moving. If lightning struck the water, he might never notice.
He winced with the thunder.
Henry opened his eyes and saw that he had drifted off course, but he was closer to the dock than he had expected. He shifted, releveled his breathing, and set out again.
When Henry reached the dock, he scanned the cliff on the other side of the harbor for any sign of life.
Three men in black stood on the cliffs edge, their robes gusting with the wind.
Henry tried to pull himself onto the dock, but the platform was too high, and his arms had lost all function.
Instead, he moved from pylon to pylon, toward the sharp bank that grew up into the city wall. When he reached it, he managed to find a handhold and foothold and struggled up out of the water, scrabbling at the heavy, planked surface. He rolled onto the dock and lay on his back, panting, his eyes shut against the rain and his ears ringing with thunder.
If he'd been watching, he would have seen lightning strike the water.
After a moment, he rolled onto his stomach and clambered onto his knees and then up onto his bare feet. He teetered in the wind as he moved along the dock toward a short set of stairs that led to a black door recessed into the wall.
He fully intended to knock.
The wall was made of smooth stone, and Henry could see no mortar. It was tall. He reached the stairs and put his hands down in front of him to climb.
“Stand!” a voice yelled. Henry pushed back up and stood. He looked around for the speaker. There were slits in the ceiling above the door. Henry saw the tip of an arrow.
“Watchword?” the voice asked.
“Um,” Henry said. He was feeling wobbly again. “I— I just need to see Hyacinth.” The name tasted strange on his tongue.
“The city is under siege. We'll not open the door without the watchword.”
Thunder boomed, and the door rattled on its hinges.
“I just swam the harbor. I need to see her.” He swallowed. “I'm her son.”
“Which one?” the voice asked. “I don't know you.”
“Henry. I've been missing.”
“Missing? Since when?”
Henry thought about this. “Since forever,” he said, and he lay down on the steps.
Behind him, the door opened.
opened his eyes and looked into a face spattered with blood. A low, stone ceiling arched above him. An open door and slit windows let in the daylight, such as it was. He was out of the rain, but he could still feel the wind. The face smiled at him, a wide smile set into a strong jaw. It reminded him of Henrietta's.
“I'm your uncle Caleb,” the face said. “You have been long awaited.”
Henry struggled to sit up, but the man pushed him back down. Two other men stood behind him. He looked at them.
“He swam the harbor?” he asked. They both nodded.
He looked back into Henry's eyes. He looked inside them. “You've struggled to death's brink today. Well done.”
Then he stood up and moved toward the door.
“Take him to his mother's house. He needs nothing but sleep, and his cousins can attend him. Other reunions must wait out the day, but send a message to his mother where she hospitals.”
The men threw a cloak over Henry, propped him up on either side, and led him out through the doorway and into the swirling rain. They descended one flight of stone stairs, crossed under an arched walkway, and entered the streets. Henry's bare feet slapped on the cobblestones and splashed in rivers of rainwater.
The roofs of the buildings were rounded, and most of the walls were of stone. The streets were narrow and winding. Most of the buildings' windows were smashed and shattered, even where assembled from small panes. And many of the buildings themselves were crumbled and charred. Some still smoked in their ruins, steaming rain.
“Henry,” one of the men said. “I'm afraid we cannot be spared for long. And we are exposed in the street. We must go more quickly.”
“I can't,” Henry said.
“Right.”
Arms wrapped around him, and he was folding over someone's shoulder. He watched their heels as the running water parted around cobblestones. He watched until his eyes closed, and then he was looking into Frank Fat-Faerie's dark eyes. Small, thick fingers were hooked into his lower jaw, and the faerie was alternating between slapping his face and kissing his head.
Rouse your father.
When Henry woke, he was facedown in a soft bed. And he wasn't wet.
The room was dark, and the sound of thunder was muffled. He could hear glass rattling. There was some light in the room. Behind him.
He rolled over.
At the foot of the bed, there was a small table holding a lamp. Beside it sat Henrietta.
She smiled. “That wasn't that bad,” she said. “They thought you would sleep all day. It's only two in the afternoon.”
Henry squinted. “Henrietta?”
She nodded.
“Did you get the tuna?”
“What?”
“I left you two cans like your dad said.”
“You're not making sense,” she said. “Do you know where you are?”
Henry
slid back in the bed and looked around.
“Hylfing?” he asked. “How did you get here?”
“It's a long story. I went through FitzFaeren.” She thought for a moment. “Do you know why it's ruined?” She didn't wait for an answer. “Because Grandfather took some things from them that they'd always used against Endor.”
Henry rubbed his eyes. “Right,” he said. “He used them to make the cupboards work.”
She cocked her head. “You know about the arrow?”
“The arrow?” he asked. “What arrow?”
“Some special arrow. I can't make it sound as cool as Uncle Caleb, so I won't even try. There was a sword hilt and a stone, too. He stole all three. How did you know what he did with them?”
“I read something about it in his journal.”
“Where are the journals?” she asked.
He looked around the room. “In my backpack.”
“Where's your backpack?”
Henry blinked and rubbed the corners of his eyes, thinking. “It's in the harbor.”
Henrietta sat perfectly still. “And the journals are inside?”
Henry nodded.
For a moment, the two of them looked at each other, thinking about what that meant.
Henrietta slipped a hand to her face, tucking hair behind her ear. She smiled with tight lips. “It's good to see you again, Henry. For a while, I didn't think I would see anyone again. Ever.”
Henry pulled in a deep breath. “It's good to see you, too.”
“It's not really a good time to be here,” Henrietta said. “We're not even allowed out of the house. Henry—” She sat up, slapped her hands on her knees, and leaned forward. “You can see! When did your eyes come back?”
Henry's mind moved back through the blur of the last few days. “In Byzanthamum,” he said. He opened his mouth to say more, but shut it again. He didn't know where to begin, and he didn't want to tell his story. Not until he had finished it.
The door opened, and Henrietta jumped to her feet. “He's awake,” she said, and slipped quickly out of the room. The door shut behind her.
“Good morning,” a woman said. Her voice was soft. She walked behind Henrietta's little lamp and moved toward a dark wall, gathered up curtains, and threw them back.
Three big windows, each made of thick, circle-swirling, blown-glass panes, let in the gray storm-light. Water ran down the outer surface, following the swirls.
The woman turned and looked at him. She was tall. Her hair was nearly black through, with soft streaks of gray. She was wearing a heavy apron, spattered with what could have been blood. Henry didn't care what she was wearing. He didn't want to look away from her face and her eyes. They were very gray eyes.
“I had thought to watch you sleep,” she said, and her voice sounded almost sad. “Others can tend the fallen for a while.”
She drew a chair to the side of his bed and sat down. She was beautiful and tired. Her eyes were deep, her voice, her motion, deep with a slow, terrible joy. A joy despite sadness. A joy built on sadness.
She stretched out a slender arm and pushed Henry's hair up off his forehead to stare in his eyes. Her touch was cool.
“Do you know who I am?” she asked.
Henry nodded, opened his mouth, and then swallowed.
The light in her eyes answered him, and her hand slid down to his jaw. A finger felt his burns. Henry saw pain flash across her face, but she didn't flinch away. Her cool fingers were still, and he felt nervousness and fear fade from inside him, replaced with something else, something he didn't recognize.
He watched tears pool slowly in his mother's eyes. They built and fell, and she didn't bother to wipe them away. His own eyes grew hot in imitation.
“When you left,” she said, “you had no name. Your father took you to prepare for one that we had chosen. It was to shape you.”
Henry wiped his cheeks. “What was it?”
He listened to her slow breath and watched her watching him. Her brows lowered a fraction on her face, and she shook her head.
“I will never speak it,” she said. “To tell it to you now would be a lie. I will not gift you with something stillborn and buried long ago. We could not know what you were meant to be. We held only a kicking child, full of laughter, who jumped, even in the womb, at the voice of his father and cried at the kissings of his sisters.”
She took his right hand in hers and looked at his palm. After a moment, she looked up and smiled.
“Your blood is all green and gold,” she said, “with the strength of dandelions.” She stood up. “And their strength is in their laughter, for they fear nothing.”
“That's not me,” Henry said.
Hyacinth bent down, wrapped her arms tight around her son, and he knew they had never let go.
“That is you,” she said, “to those with eyes to see.”
She kissed him on one cheek and then the other before she straightened.
“I must go, but I will come back to you soon. Your sisters are nervous to meet you.”
“Now?” he asked.
Hyacinth smiled again, but Henry could feel her sadness. “There may be no other time.”
She reached the door and looked back at him.
“How do you know for sure?” Henry asked quickly. “I mean, how do you know I'm your son?”
“Because I am your mother,” she said. “And you have your father's soul.”
She opened the door. “And his nose,” she added.
“Am I going to be christened?” Henry asked.
She stood still, surprised. “Now?”
He didn't answer.
Her eyes brightened. “Yes,” she said. “Tonight, even if the sea climbs the walls and wizards are the guests, I will set a christening feast for my son. We shall have some dandelion laughter.”
When she had gone, Henry swung his legs out of bed, blinked at the linen pants that he hadn't been expecting, and stretched his body cautiously.
He hadn't come to Hylfing to lie in bed. That's not why Tate and Roland had died. At least he hoped not. He had to do something. Fat Frank had told him to get christened. Why that was important, he didn't know. The other faeries, Radulf and Braithwait and Rip, had talked about it in his dream. They hadn't wanted him to be christened. What had Rip said? They couldn't risk it.
This is what Ron and Nella had seen and talked about. Why Ron had caught him when he fell. Darius was here. This was where Henry needed to stand. Maybe, this was where he needed to die.
Henry looked around the floor for shoes. There weren't any. As he crouched to look under the bed, he heard laughter outside his room, and the door opened.
Girls poured in. Girls and Richard.
Penelope hugged him before he could say anything. Anastasia joined in while Richard stood on one leg, and then the other, smiling and picking at his dirty blue cast.
Henrietta stood back with her arms crossed, clearly pleased with herself. Beside her stood two other girls, one who was taller than Penelope and had long, straight auburn hair, and the other Henrietta's size with hair like Hyacinth. They were both smiling, but looked worried.
“You've got sisters!” Anastasia yelled.
“And brothers,” Penelope said. “But you'll meet them later.”
Richard stepped in and stuck out his casted hand. Henry laughed and shook it. Then he stepped in front of the two new girls and tried to look less nervous than he felt.
“Hi,” he said.
“I'm Una,” said the tall one, and she hugged him. “I remember when you and father left.”
“I'm Isa,” the smaller one said, and hugged him around the ribs. “You look like James.”
“He looks like all of them,” Una said.
“But like James the most.”
“Who is James?” Henry asked.
“He's the youngest,” Una said, and she tucked her hair behind her ears exactly how Henrietta did. “The youngest besides you at least. He's a sailor.”
�
��He's small,” said Isa.
“James is?”
“You are.”
“You're smaller,” Henry said.
“I'm a girl, and I'm still older than you. I was almost two when you left.”
“Oh.” Henry didn't know what else to say. Five girls were all standing around looking at him. Plus Richard.
“Zeke's here as well,” Richard said suddenly.
“What?” Henry asked. “How?”
“And a policeman,” Anastasia said. “I don't remember his name.”
“Do you really want the whole story?” Henrietta asked.
Henry shook his head. “Sometime. But right now, I just want to go look at what's happening.”
“We're not allowed outside,” Anastasia said.
“Is Zeke outside?” Henry asked. He knew the answer, but he still waited for his cousins to nod. “Then I'm allowed outside.”
All around them came the sound of great bells ringing.
“I wouldn't go out,” Una said. “Uncle Caleb said the bells would only ring if the wall was broken. We should stay here.”
Henry looked around at all of them. “I need to go,” he said. “I'm supposed to.” His voice wavered.
“Are you afraid?” Una asked.
Henry swallowed hard. “I haven't thrown up yet,” he said, and he left the room.
Darius's head was dipped to his chest. The seventy-seventh wizard had fallen, killed by someone outside the walls. It was a strong number. Sharp around its edges. Darius would stir the anthill.
Looking up, he stared blindly across the plain. He had no need of his eyes anymore. Hylfing had seen lightning since its birth. It had been built and strengthened and preserved by men with a loathing for wizards and wizardry. With every strike, the walls almost grew stronger, though many houses and buildings had been burned inside.
With a groan, he released strength. It trickled from his fingers, but quickly grew to a rush, and then a torrent, peeling the skin on his hand back to the bone. With a struggle, he resealed the dam inside him. His skin re-closed. The pulse ran through the ground, racing through rock and earth, and as it reached the city wall, he called it up with strange tones, speaking an ancient earth-rape he had never before heard.