A Necklace of Souls

by R. L. Stedman

  I didn’t realize the attack had been personal. ‘I thought that I was the target because I could see them.’

  She shook her head. ‘You were the target because you are the heir.’

  Alden, my brother, was the Crown Prince. ‘What about Alden?’

  She waved her hand. ‘The prince won’t interest them. You do. Don’t you understand? You’re the only one in the world who has the power to use this thing.’

  ‘You have the power too,’ I said. ‘And you know what you’re doing.’

  She nodded. ‘Aye. But you’re vulnerable. And I’m old. Without you …’

  ‘The Kingdom has no hope,’ I whispered.

  She nodded again.

  I had to distract her from the necklace. She needed to live a good long life; I had no wish to live up here permanently. ‘Who is this enemy?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘You don’t know?’

  ‘That’s not what I said.’ She frowned. ‘I have an idea. But I’m not certain it’s right.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  She sighed. ‘There are always people looking for us, of course; the legends are too strong not to attract some interest. But more recently there’s been more of a sense of organization behind the searchers.’ She frowned. ‘I had a sense of hostility. But I could never be sure. Not until the attack on you.’

  ‘What about the voice I heard?’

  She reached back into the box. ‘Have you met him yet?’

  ‘Maybe. I had a strange dream.’

  ‘Ah,’ she said. ‘Now, that is what I hoped. He’s an old trickster, that Rinpoche.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  She smiled, looking out the window towards the straits. ‘Rinpoche is the eldest. And, I think, the wisest.’

  ‘Do you mean,’ I was thinking this out loud, so I spoke slowly, ‘that each bead is a person?’

  She smiled obliquely. ‘Rinpoche will help you.’ She paused. ‘He’s already helped you. In truth, I did not realize just how powerful he was. It is a good thing you were wearing his circlet on your finger.’

  She lifted the bright gems.

  ‘Please,’ I said, ‘don’t!’

  She didn’t listen, of course. Instead she lifted her arms over her head and bent her neck forwards. Her movements were awkward, her joints stiff. She seemed so old.

  ‘No!’ I cried as she settled the gems over her head. Like a snake seeking heat, the great ruby seemed to move of its own volition, trembling over her chest, until it reached the wound over her heart, where it settled. Rosa gasped, bending forwards. I reached out to stop the thing from touching her.

  She grabbed my wrist before I could touch it. ‘Not yet, child,’ she said. Her grip was firm, stronger than I would have believed possible. Her voice was deep, melodious. It echoed, as though a chorus of people were speaking.

  They told me Will was mending, although he still complained of headaches.

  ‘He needs rest,’ said N’tombe, ‘and sleep. Leave him, Princess. He’ll come back to you when he’s able.’

  I missed his company. Unless one counted my governesses, I had spent most of my days alone. I’d not had anyone to confide in, or retell my day to, save Daddy, and he was often busy running the Kingdom and dreaming of crops. Until I’d met N’tombe and Will. Will could be downright mean, dumping me on my belly or twisting my arm behind my back. So why did I miss him? His smile, the warm scent of his sweat, the feeling of his strong arms even when I struggled to free myself; I craved all this. But mostly I missed his teasing.

  N’tombe and I practised our archery each morning. She said the discipline was good for me. She made me complete my exercises each day too, though some days I begged her to let me off — oh to have a lie-in.

  I kept the copper circlet on my finger and the rotund figure of Rinpoche visited me often in my dreams. He showed me how to propel myself through the sky using my breath by blowing out slowly.

  Together we floated over my homeland, this little island that lay between the sea and the great mountains. Drifting through the sky, I watched the clouds spin from the great tides of air that flowed around the world, like the sea passing around the land.

  The dreams were so engrossing that dreaming became reality, the waking world a dream.

  Then I had a different dream.

  I fell down a black shaft, passing into a dimly lit room. Two figures, hooded and cloaked, talked beside a fire. Their voices were familiar, but the echoes of the room disrupted my sleep-fuddled brain too much for me to tell who they were.

  ‘I need eyes and ears in the world. I’d like them to be you.’

  ‘Me?’

  The smaller figure nodded. ‘I’m worried.’

  ‘You? Worried?’

  ‘Someone is coming. And they mean us harm.’ The voice was low.

  ‘What does the Guardian say?’

  It was Will. How could I not have known him straight away? And the other speaker was N’tombe. Why were they whispering?

  ‘She feels it too.’ She paused. ‘Do you know what a spotlight is?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘It’s when you train a bright light onto something, light it up, but the surrounding area is dark.’

  ‘Like a lantern?’

  ‘Yes, but brighter. When I followed Rosa’s call to the Kingdom, I felt there was someone else, someone searching. But his search was undirected. A little like a flaming torch — the light falls where it will. But now it feels as though the light is directed. And we fear it is targeted at the princess.’

  ‘You want me to find out what this, this spotlight is.’

  Behind them, I mouthed the word. It was a good descriptor.

  ‘I need you to find who it is, what it wants of us.’

  ‘Why me?’

  ‘I trust you, Will Baker.’ I heard the smile in her voice. ‘And, there’s the small matter that you don’t have the accent of the Kingdom in your speech and can fight like the fiends of hell.’ She put her hand on his knee. ‘I know you care for the princess, Will. This is for her protection.’

  He bowed his head.

  ‘Will, you must watch for questions about the Kingdom. About where it is, who lives there. The people who seek us are attacking us. They will want to know about its defences.’

  ‘The Guardian?’

  ‘Tell them nothing about her.’

  He nodded. Below his hood I saw his mouth harden. Was he thinking of me? But he said nothing.

  ‘Now,’ she said briskly. ‘I have arranged a guide for you. He understands the politics of this world better than me. He will meet you at the Crossing.’ She unrolled a scroll, setting it out on the floor in front of the fire so the light fell on it. Will put a stone on each corner so it didn’t curl back up again. Bending forward over the map, N’tombe spoke quietly.

  Huddled into the doorway, I could neither hear what was being said nor see what she was pointing to. Where was she sending him?

  She took the stones from the corner of the scroll and rolled the map up again. ‘Here,’ she said, handing it to Will. ‘It may be useful.’

  They continued conferring — where to go, how to get there and how to communicate. As though they were planning a campaign.

  ‘In an emergency you can call to the birds.’ She pointed to the roof. Above it the crows came and went from the Guardian’s tower. Birds that were so familiar they were effectively unseen.

  ‘Just call? That’s it?’

  N’tombe smiled. ‘I’ve told them to watch out for you. I’ll arrange a horse, supplies. Weapons. Shall we say, tomorrow morn?’

  ‘First light?’ he asked.

  I knew why he wanted to leave so early. It was so he wouldn’t have to say farewell.

  For the first time I took control of a dream, propelling myself away from that room, tumbling out of sleep as though I was falling down the stairs. He was not going away from me.

  The drawbridge wouldn’t be lowered until the sunrise lauds bell. T
he eastern sky was tinged with pink, but from the forest and the pleasure wood the birds were silent. There was still time.

  I tore across the courtyard, my nightgown trailing behind me. Bare foot, I made no noise on the rough cobbles. The sentry standing guard at the base of my parents’ tower watched me pass, his mouth agape. He didn’t say anything. Maybe he thought I was a ghost. Or mad. I probably looked insane, with my bed-roughened hair tumbled like a haystack.

  Two horses waited at the gate house. One, a packhorse, its silhouette bulky against the lightening sky. The other was bridled and saddled with a travelling saddle. A hooded figure held the reins. The hem of its cloak was cut short above the tops of its boots. N’tombe. So my dream was true.

  The door to the gate house creaked open, rumbling a little in the morning stillness.

  ‘Well, lad,’ said Sergeant Ryngell’s deep voice. ‘I’ll be sorry to see you go. As will Cook. No doubt I’ll have her bashing her ladle about my ears.’

  A lighter, gentler voice spoke softly.

  ‘No, no, lad,’ said the sergeant. Used to drilling the guards, he seemed incapable of speaking quietly. ‘You must do what’s right.’

  I hovered in the shadow of the gateway as Will and the sergeant passed by. I must have made a sound for Will turned, staring. ‘Princess!’

  ‘Hello, Will,’ I said, and tried to smile, but it was a pathetic attempt; my mouth was shaking. ‘They told me you were ill.’

  ‘Lady, you should not have come,’ he said. He stepped towards me and grasped my fingers.

  ‘You were just going to leave? Without saying goodbye?’

  He said nothing, but his eyes scanned my face, as though itemizing it. Behind us the windlass creaked as the guards dropped the drawbridge. It fell into position, thudding through my bare feet.

  ‘I didn’t want to tell you,’ he whispered.

  I wanted to smile at that, but for some reason my mouth wouldn’t turn upwards. My eyes stung, but he held my hands so I couldn’t wipe them. ‘Did you think I wouldn’t know?’

  His lips quirked. ‘I should have guessed you’d find out.’

  ‘Are you well enough to travel?’ Such a domestic question. I wanted to shout, Don’t go. But looking at him now, it was plain he didn’t want to leave. Why make it harder for him?

  He shrugged. ‘The headache’s gone. I should be alright.’ In the dawn’s light his skin was rosy-pink, the hollows of his face outlined.

  I stood on tiptoes, put my hands to his temples. ‘You must look after yourself, Will.’

  ‘Whatever you say, Princess.’

  ‘For,’ I said, and this time my mouth did smile, which was strange because I felt warm tears fall from my eyes, ‘I can’t be there to keep an eye on you all the time.’

  He grinned at that, and I pulled his face down towards mine. Our lips met and we kissed. My mouth was wet with tears but his was dry and warm.

  ‘I’ll come back, Princess,’ he whispered.

  He reached out and took my hands from his head, then with a swirl of his cloak turned towards the horses. My hand reached to him but too slowly; he’d already pulled himself up into the saddle.

  ‘Take care of her,’ he said to N’tombe. Hooves clattered on the cobbles and the sound grew duller, echoed on the woodwork of the drawbridge. Then fainter, as he passed under the arches of the gate house. Soon I couldn’t hear them at all.

  24

  Crossing the Straits

  The afternoon sun was low in the sky by the time Will reached the Ferryman’s cottage, perched on a rocky ridge beside the strait. Grey-blue water swirled around the rickety jetty; the flat-bottomed ferry bobbed on the rising tide. The Ferryman, swinging his cloak around his shoulders, grumbled his way down to the boat.

  ‘Ain’t got no call to be leaving the Kingdom, lad. Lots of people want to come here; my job’s to keep them out. Yet here I am, taking you away. Don’t make no sense.’

  ‘I won’t be long,’ said Will, hopefully. He lifted his fingers to his lips, shaking his head, thinking of her clear skin, speckled with freckles, the red hair that, no matter how she plaited and clipped it, always came loose, framing her face like a halo. He shook his head. She was doubly beyond him, a princess and the next Guardian, and what was he? A guardsman with a gift for baking. He could hear her now: Think more of yourself, Will Baker. He could think all he liked, but he still wasn’t a match for a princess.

  ‘Aah,’ grunted the old man, pulling on the rope line swung from one bank to the next. ‘So you say. You’ll be a good while yet, I wager.’

  Will must have been lucky with the tide, for the trip was calm and for a change the straits were kind to the small boat, smoothing the voyage with a gentle ripple around the great rocks that marked the borders of the mainland. The Ferryman coasted the boat onto the muddy bank of the landing stage with the ease of long practice. Standing in the stern, the mare put her ears back, but clopped off the boat willingly enough. The packhorse, named ‘Stupid’, baulked.

  ‘Ha ha. Won’t get far at that rate,’ muttered the Ferryman. ‘I dunno, still wet behind the ears, that’s what you are.’ He cleared his throat and, in suddenly ferocious tones, ‘Get along with you!’ He brought his hand down flat on Stupid’s rump and the startled animal stepped forward onto the muddy bank.

  ‘Um, thank you,’ said Will.

  The Crossing hadn’t changed much since he’d last been there getting pots and pans repaired for Cook. The tiny stream that trickled from the hills above had shifted, but the willows remained, thick trunks interspersed by long grass. The tinkers’ camp was still here, although the individual caravans may have changed.

  With summer nearing, the Crossing was beginning to fill with travelling players. A tightrope walker, his rope a fine twist of white yarn that shimmered in the low afternoon light, staggered in midair. The breeze tossed narrow willow leaves around him, so he looked as though he was walking through a cloud of green moths.

  Above the flood line, marked by piles of wood and weed, a red tent with two peaks was set up. At its entrance sat an enormous woman, braiding her blonde hair as the open tent flap waved behind her, snapping like a flag in the wind. As tall as Sergeant Ryngell and twice as wide, her height increased when, finishing her braids, she set a horned helmet on her head.

  A rangy man with a weather-beaten face prodded a stick at a fire. A long sword in a battered leather scabbard hung at his belt. His horse, hairy and unhobbled, grazed the thick grass at the base of the willows. Probably a messenger or a courier like the one who’d brought him here. He had a look of self-sufficiency.

  West, towards the mouth of the strait, an old man and woman clad in grey-white rags heaved leather bags towards their fire. Their scraggly locks hid their faces. Six small horses with richly ornamented saddles stood patiently behind them. Strange, to see old people voyaging on horseback. Travelling to the Crossing was never an easy journey, even at this time of year. Two men came out from behind the willowbrake.

  He was staring, he knew, but couldn’t help it, because even among this strange assortment of humanity, these men were out of place. An older one with unkempt hair and dirty clothes seemed to be in charge, for he barked an order to the ones with the leather bags. When he lifted his hand, Will saw that his nails were long, nearly as long as his fingers, and tipped with bronze. They looked like claws.

  The other man turned and noticed Will staring. My dream, thought Will. The men with the arrows, the villagers running. Narrow eyes, aslant in his face, black hair in a long plait that hung to his waist, the stance of a warrior; here was a man to be feared. He came towards Will, wading through the long grass. His legs were wide, the knees turned out; a man used to horseback. The old ones stopped their chattering and turned, watching. The warrior smiled at Will, then bowed, bending from his waist. Will relaxed, only now aware that he’d been holding his breath.

  ‘Greetings.’ The man’s voice was strangely high, his speech strongly accented, the vowels nasal.

  �
�Good afternoon,’ said Will, bowing in return.

  ‘Please,’ said the stranger, gesturing to his fire. ‘You, join us?’

  Will shrugged. N’tombe had said to find out who was searching for them. That probably meant he’d have to talk with strangers. And it would be good to talk about the road ahead. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Please,’ said the man again. ‘Sit.’

  He gestured to the ground around the campfire and spoke with one of the old ones in a strange tongue. It bowed, smiling from toothless gums. Was it female? It was hard to tell from the shapeless garment. She appeared to be cast as translator, for she spoke following the warrior’s words. Her harsh voice was strangely accented but easy enough to understand.

  ‘My master asks if you would like some refreshment before you set off on your travels.’

  Best not to offend, thought Will, eyeing the quivers of arrows. So he nodded and tried not to shudder when Fingernail Man squatted down beside him. The old woman bent to the metal kettle on the fire and poured Will a cup of dark brown tea, adding a generous helping of yellow-white milk. Will took one sip and choked. It smelt like rancid butter, unsalted from the look of it. He inhaled the steam. Yes, definitely butter. Awkwardly, he cradled the cup. How to dispose of this without offence? The warrior muttered something to the long-nailed fellow and they both cackled.

  ‘My master realizes that this drink is unfamiliar to you.’

  Will smiled politely. This was an understatement. ‘I have never had a drink like this.’

  ‘We have brought our own milk,’ said the woman. ‘Our yak has nearly run dry; I saved this last for guests.’

  ‘Yak?’ said Will. Two new words. Spotlight, now yak.

  ‘Is like a cow,’ said the woman and waved a hand at the hairy animal grazing the riverbank. ‘Very hardy. Gives good milk.’ She grinned at them. ‘If you like that sort of thing. Personally, I think it tastes like shit.’

  In relief and surprise he laughed, splattering the grass with the foul smelling stuff while his translator cackled at him. The warrior smiled at their laughter, with the empty smile that suggests the listener doesn’t understand. He barked a question at the old woman, who stopped her chuckling to reply.