by Mindy Klasky
Reade could not catch his breath. He could not fill his lungs. He could not tell High Priest Zeketh that he needed to escape, needed to get away from the dog. Dogs killed people! Dogs tore at bodies on the beach! Dogs were unclean! Even Da was afraid of dogs. Reade clutched his woodstar against his chest. It wasn’t fair! They were trying to fool him! They were trying to get him to give up his woodstar—for a dog!
Duke Coren smiled and reached inside the casket. He lifted out the dog carefully, turning it around so that its head was toward the twins. He held it out toward Reade.
The dog was actually very small. It barely filled the duke’s hand. With its mouth closed, the thing was not nearly as frightening. Duke Coren held out the ball of fur, and his lips curved into a smile. “He belongs to you, Sun-lord. You can touch him.”
“No!” Reade exclaimed.
“The first Sun-lord and Sun-lady had a hound named Greatheart who stood by them through fire and flame.” Duke Coren’s voice was calm and gentle. Da had sounded like that when he first showed Reade how to take a fish off an iron hook. Reade had been scared of the fish, scared of its teeth and its glassy staring eyes. But he had been even more afraid of losing the precious iron hook, of disappointing Da and all the other fishermen.
“Just touch the puppy, little man. After all, you have the power of the Sun-lord!” Reade could remember sitting in front of Duke Coren, could remember the comforting feel of the man’s arm around his belly, holding him on the horse, keeping him safe and secure. The power of the Sun-lord, the faith of the Sun-lady, the strength of Culain. Reade was not afraid. Reade was a brave boy. Reade could do anything. Duke Coren stretched his arm toward Reade, reaching out through the incense fog and the smoke. “Touch him!”
Reade could not stop his shaking. He felt as though he’d just been fished out of the ocean, like he stood on the beach in the middle of winter with a full gale blowing. Still, he swallowed hard and forced himself to take a breath. He made himself lean forward. His hand looked as if it belonged to someone else, to another boy, a brave boy. One trembling finger brushed against the puppy’s fur.
The animal did not move at all. Reade caught another breath and found the courage to touch the dog again, this time with three fingers. Duke Coren smiled and nodded, beaming down with pride. Relief crashed over Reade, like a wave breaking on the beach.
Duke Coren was proud of him. The duke would keep him safe. Duke Coren would not let him be hurt. This was a puppy after all, not a grown dog. Swallowing hard, Reade started to reach out with both hands.
He’d forgotten, though, that he still held his woodstar. The bavin swung around, came dangerously close to swatting the puppy across its nose. Reade caught the bavin awkwardly and looked up at the two men, embarrassed by his clumsiness.
High Priest Zeketh stepped forward and put his hand on Reade’s shoulder. “Here, Sun-lord. Give me that bauble. In fact, why don’t you put it here, in this box?” He gestured toward the casket that had held the puppy.
Reade hesitated for a moment. He had promised, though. And the woodstar’s white light had completely faded away. It even seemed that the bavin had shrunk. It didn’t want him. It didn’t want him to own it.
What did a woodstar matter, anyway? It was just a piece of wood. A piece of dead old wood. Duke Coren was giving Reade something much better. Duke Coren was giving Reade a living, breathing puppy.
Reade felt the animal squirm beneath his palm. He had not even realized that his fingers had been stroking the puppy’s back, rubbing against its soft, soft fur. The puppy yawned again, and then it wrapped its warm tongue around one of Reade’s thumbs. He laughed out loud, squirming a bit because the tongue tickled.
What did it matter if Reade wore some stupid piece of carved wood? Shifting his hands to pick up his puppy, Reade dropped his bavin into High Priest Zeketh’s wooden casket.
13
Alana shoved her precious iron knife to the bottom of her rucksack before glancing around the cottage. She had little to take on the road. Her patchwork cloak belonged here, with the People. For the next woodsinger, if she did not return.
She sighed and kicked ashes over the last embers on her hearth, then turned to the doorway. “Ai!” she exclaimed, jumping before she recognized Goody Glenna’s shadow across the floor. “You frightened me near to death!”
“You’ll be nearer, soon enough. What do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m riding to Smithcourt.” Alana’s chin jutted defiantly.
“So much for relying on the power of the Tree, eh?”
“It’s no use! Reade’s lost to me now. Now that he’s given up his bavin, I can’t even try to help him make the right choices.” Alana heard the rising panic in her voice, and she swallowed hard. “Maybe if Sarira had taught me, maybe if she’d introduced me to the Tree, to the other woodsingers, while she still had her power…. Goody, Reade chose a dog over me.”
Alana’s next breath threatened to turn into a sob, and she tried to distract herself by gesturing toward her own new-sung woodstar. Its sharp points still pulsed against her flesh, prickling through her bodice. The voices of her sister woodsingers prickled as well, sharper even than Goody Glenna’s silent gaze.
“Going off and leaving us, you are.” Alana could not identify the individual speaker in her thoughts, but the voice was only one in a swirl of agreement.
“Afraid to work through the Tree, hmm, like a proper woodsinger? Afraid to rely on your sisters?”
“Oh, she’s not afraid of us,” complained another voice. “It’s just that she thinks she’s better than we are!”
“Not better, sister,” crooned a peacemaker. “She’s young, and the blood still beats hot in her veins. She can ride, and so she will.”
“Aye, she can ride, but does that make it right to do so? She can throw herself off the Headland to swim with the sharks, but does she think that will save the children?”
“Stop it!” Alana cried aloud, and she was surprised that the other woodsingers fell silent. Alana flushed beneath Goody Glenna’s scrutiny. “Goody, I’ve sung myself a bavin so that the Tree can follow me. When…if the Councils choose a new woodsinger, she’ll be able to find out what happened to me. The other woodsingers will know.”
“You’ve become so wise,” Goody Glenna said dryly. “And to think you’ve only been a woodsinger for two seasons.”
“Don’t laugh at me, Goody! I’m doing the best I can!”
“Laugh at you? I’m not laughing, girl.” The old woman sighed. “Have you spoken to Sartain yet? Which horse are you taking?”
“I-I don’t know. The bay, I suppose. The bay mare.”
“Very well.” Goody Glenna nodded, as if she were crossing items off a list. “I’ve brought you some herbs.”
Reflexively, Alana reached out for the packets, raising each leaf-bound bundle to her face and breathing deeply.
Chamomile, for sweet dreamless sleep.
Redshell, for wakefulness along the road.
Mint, for clear vision.
Heartswell.
“I don’t need these, Goody Glenna.” She did not need the heartswell. The other woodsingers began to chatter in her mind, reminding her of her embarrassment when she had last consumed the herb. Alana gritted her teeth.
The old woman snorted. “You don’t know what you need. Take them. If you never use them, so much the better. I won’t be able to sleep nights, knowing you have nothing to help you on your journey.”
“Nothing!” exclaimed one of the woodsingers, but Alana thrust down the voice, saying instead: “You knew all along that I was going!”
“I knew that what you were trying here wasn’t working.” Glenna snorted with an old woman’s disdain. “Finish closing up your cottage. I’ll fetch the mare for you.”
Alana nodded, not trusting herself to speak, and then she was alone in her home, alone but for the sisters who prowled beneath her thoughts. Who was she, a woodsinger, to ride across the country, as if she could help th
e People’s best warrior and tracker and healer? Who was she, a woman from the People, a young woman at that, to think that she could stride into Smithcourt and change things? Who was she, to try to succeed where three trained rescuers had already failed?
Taking a deep breath, Alana settled her fingers over her bavin. “I’ll leave you here,” she warned. “If I must, I’ll leave this bavin behind. I’m riding after Reade and Maida. I’m trying to save Maddock, and Landon and Jobina. You won’t stop me.” The woodsingers in her mind fell silent.
The sisters must have finally heard the iron in her voice, the tempered metal that was stronger than wood, stronger than the heart of the Tree. For just an instant, there was a flurry of surprised whispers; then the woodsingers settled into watchful silence. Clasping her bavin, Alana could feel the Tree’s power beat through the woodstar, shining with an ancient force that warmed her against her sudden chilling fear.
Smiling grimly, she trailed her fingers across her folded patchwork cloak, bidding the garment farewell. Then, she reached out with her mind, stretching through her bavin to another woodstar.
For just an instant, she feared that she would not be able to cross the double bridge, that she could not span the gap from her bavin to the Tree, and from the Tree to Maddock’s woodstar. Before she could falter, though, she felt the assembled woodsingers shift, felt their minds fall into neat, orderly place beside hers.
Her sisters were prepared to bolster her power, to give her the strength that she needed for this new feat. Alana could use the double trail of bavins. She could track and ride and reach Smithcourt in good time. And all the while, she could watch Maddock, see what impossible hurdles awaited her in the distant city. She would watch with her sisters, and she would have a plan by the time she arrived in Smithcourt.
Maddock woke slowly, blinking and trying to remember where he was. The walls were whitewashed, and cold sunlight leaked through a glazed window. Maddock’s eyes fell on a small table. A golden pitcher glinted dully, partnered by a matching goblet. Memory began to seep back
Maddock recalled the guard selecting him at the postern gate, flicking cold eyes toward him without a glint of recognition. Before Maddock could even be sure that the soldier was Bringham’s man, he was hustled through the gate and dragged across a white sand courtyard. Coren’s men forced him into hallways so cursed dark that he navigated them better with his eyes shut. He’d finally been thrust into a dingy chamber, a room that backed against a kitchen, if the heat and mouth-watering smells were any hint.
His suspicions had been confirmed when a new guard kicked open the door, swaggering in with a heavy platter. Starving after his encounter with Bringham’s men and determined to have his full strength as he faced whatever Coren planned for him, Maddock had grabbed a capon leg and stuffed it into his mouth, washing the bird down with warm ale. Only as he bolted half a loaf of bread had he noticed that both the platter and the pitcher were gilded.
All of Maddock’s wariness surged to the front of his mind, and he stood to examine the metal in the meager light from the hallway. When he swallowed again, he could taste a metallic tang at the back of his throat. He sniffed at the ale left in the golden pitcher, and there was a heavy note beneath the drink, a sharp taste that made him swallow hard and fight to bring up the food he had downed. He stumbled to his knees, trying to clench his belly, but he was struck by a wave of dizziness. The disorientation was strong, worse than any wave he’d battled as a fisherman. The golden platter and pitcher clattered onto the floor, and he remembered nothing else, nothing before waking in this strange, white room.
Curse Bringham’s men for getting him into this mess! If only they had let him eat the roasted bone that he had gleaned from Coren’s leavings! Better yet, if they had fed him, given him the meanest sustenance before sending him to work their labors in Coren’s palace! Bogs and breakers! Would it have been so much for them to give him a cup of water?
Maddock dared not drink from the pitcher in this prison room, even if he were able to command his drugged body to reach for the gilded ewer. Who knew what potion awaited him beneath the golden surface?
He’d had such strange dreams while he slept—visions of Alana Woodsinger on horseback, bent low across a bay mare’s neck. Once, he thought he’d glimpsed Reade and Maida in some sort of ceremonial hall, surrounded by mist. That vision must have been a dream—a nightmare—for Maddock had seen Reade touching a puppy, petting a dog as if it were a tame, loving beast.
Sharks and fins! If he’d dreamed such visions, had he cried out? Had he betrayed himself and let Coren’s men hear his Land’s End accent? As Maddock’s heart raced with new adrenaline, he realized that he must have kept silent; otherwise, he’d be in a dungeon. Or worse. He raised a hand to wipe sweat from his upper lip and realized for the first time that his wrists were covered with loops of golden chain, links that glinted as balefully as the pitcher on the side table. A massive lock rested above his hands, heavy and ominous with its empty, keyless mouth.
A quick tug confirmed that the chain was looped around his waist. Staring down, Maddock found that he was wrapped in yards of clean, white samite. Wrapped like a sacrifice to the Guardians. Like an offering for the altar in the Sacred Grove. With an effort, he managed to climb to his feet, staggering a few steps and shaking his head to clear away the fog. Tossing his head made him overbalance, though, and he crashed to the floor.
The chains about his wrists kept him from breaking his fall, and he was forced to absorb most of the impact with his chest. That was when he learned that he still wore his bavin. The woodstar’s spikes dug into his flesh, sharp as tiny knives. He started to curse, but bit back the words when the door to his chamber crashed open.
A finger of chilly sunlight picked out the dripping red knives that were embroidered across both guards’ chests. Maddock snarled deep in his throat, scarcely remembering that he was supposed to be mute. He tried to pull himself into a fighter’s crouch, but only managed to tangle himself in his robes. His determination was rewarded by a harsh laugh, like a boat scraping across a rocky beach.
“Who do you think you’re going to fight, sewer scum?” Maddock could only glare as the older man spat on him. “Let’s go, boy.” The younger guard wrestled Maddock to his feet and prodded him into the hallway.
Bogs and breakers! Maddock was as awkward as a fish on land, flopping against the corridor walls as a length of chain snagged between his feet, and his robes caught between his legs. Grimacing as he slammed his shoulder against a stone wall, he swallowed an angry retort. Soon, the guards had herded him to a tower. They wound down endless spiral stairs, round and round, deeper into the palace walls.
A series of narrow windows informed Maddock that he was closer to the ground, then at the ground, then under the earth. The stone steps were slick with water, as if rain had blown in the unglazed slashes and then flowed down the stairs. Pits had been dug in the rock by the passage of countless feet.
One of the guards kept pushing at Maddock’s back, prodding with his short sword whenever the outlander hesitated. Maddock’s head reeled, as if he’d been wrapping fishing nets around an endless spool. He tried to lean into the stairs’ stony spine, but the guards kept him moving too quickly, stepping too fast.
At last, just as Maddock concluded that the spiral stairs were some endless torture, the men reached the end of the steps. Now they were far below ground, and as Maddock panted to catch his breath, he could smell the damp. Patches of lichen flaked off the walls, scaly yellow and green beneath flickering torches. The colors reminded him of bruises.
Before his head stopped reeling, the guards pushed him toward an ornately carved doorway. Sea shapes writhed above his head, and he reflexively looked for fish that he could recognize. Even as he picked out a carved squid, tentacles waving through the stone like poisoned streamers, the senior soldier set a heavy hand between his shoulders and shoved him through the doorway. “On your knees before High Priest Zeketh!”
Maddo
ck could not keep from grunting as his knees crashed against the stone floor.
“I thought you said this one was mute.” A voice hissed from the darkness on the far side of the small chamber.
“Aye, my lord.” Even as Maddock’s heart pounded in his ears, he heard naked fear in the guard’s voice. “He’s got lungs in his chest and cords in his throat, but he doesn’t say words.”
“He’s a mess! I’ve told you to bathe the prisoners before you bring them here!”
The soldier stammered, “I—I’m sorry, Your Grace. He was late coming to us. We thought that if he wore the robes and the chains, that would be enough.”
“You thought!” Zeketh raged. “Did you stop to think that this man is here to honor the Seven Gods?”
“N-no, Your Grace.”
“Do you think the Seven Gods should be defiled by your incompetence?”
“No, Your Grace.”
“I haven’t time for this foolishness. Get him to his feet! Hand him to me.”
Maddock had to bite his tongue to keep from exclaiming as the younger guard tugged hard on his golden bonds, knocking the breath from his lungs. His legs were trembling from the endless stairs, and he looked as if he were quaking when the soldier handed a length of chain to the priest.
“Very well,” Zeketh said to the guards. “You may wait by the stairs. Do I need to remind you that no one—no one—must know that I am here?”
“No, Your Grace,” the senior guard said, even as he and his fellow backed toward the stairwell. The soldiers closed the door behind them, and Maddock wondered how he could already miss their presence, how he could have found the brutes a comfort. Silently, he shivered and reminded himself that he was a warrior. He repeated that admonition more desperately as the high priest unlocked a shadowed door and dragged him into another, larger room.
A fire raged in a pit at the far side of this new chamber, sending waves of heat across the room. The crumbling flue did not draft well, though, and smoke seeped into the room. The walls were blackened to either side of the fireplace, and the floor was dull with soot.