The Waking Land

by Callie Bates

  He grabs me in a hug. “I don’t know whether to kiss you or shake you, El.”

  “Don’t kiss her,” Sophy and Jahan both say at once.

  Alistar laughs, and then I laugh, and it’s all right—I’m back among my friends, back with the people I trust most in the world. I throw out my arms and breathe in the scent of the pines, feel their roots combing through the earth below me, saying, Alive, alive, alive.

  “Fancy another night ride?” Alistar asks.

  “Really,” I say, “we must stop meeting this way, Master Connell.”

  Horses have been brought from behind the trees. We mount up. The night is clear and sharp, and our pursuit is far behind yet. Jahan nudges his mount up beside mine, and I reach out to squeeze his hand. Alistar calls the order out. We ride.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  “Look what they’ve done to you.” The doctor clucks her tongue, scooping salve by the handful onto my ribs and stomach. “Riding all night after you’ve been beaten by the Ereni! You’re a sight stronger than I, Lady El.”

  “Just more desperate.” I try not to wince as she applies the salve.

  The rebels have made new headquarters here, at Taich-na-Ivaugh, in a crumbling old castle that’s been partly turned into a country estate. It sits on a hill over a sleepy valley, which I can see from the window—along with the lines of tents and the smoke rising from campfires.

  The people of Caeris are assembling. They’ve come from the sea and the hills, the moorlands near the border and the towns of Barrody and Threve. For the first time, looking out at the tents, I think maybe we stand a chance.

  Though perhaps Jahan and I should have trussed the Butcher, too, while we were at it. I’m not sure I believe my mother’s claims about him.

  I tug up the front of my chemise and lower the back so the doctor can examine the damage there.

  “You’re like a hero of old,” she says drily. “All your wounds are on the front.”

  A cough from the doorway. I look around and jump to my feet, heedless of my ribs and the chemise flapping around my back.

  It’s Hugh. He hugs me hard, pressing a cheek against my head. “You wonderful, foolish girl.”

  “You’re alive!” I say.

  He looks at me soberly. “And so are you. Better by far if it had been me on the executioner’s block.”

  “We will never agree on that. But we’re both here now. And you’ve raised an army.”

  The doctor goes out. While I lace myself up—my bruises are still too fresh for stays—Hugh paces to the window, his hands behind his back. The hair at his temples seems to have grayed even more since I last saw him, and a new scar cuts a line down his cheek, beside his nose.

  “It’s not enough,” he says. “We need the mountain lords.” A wry look at me. “Or a miracle. Both, probably.”

  “They still haven’t agreed to help? Has Rhia gone back?”

  “No, she’s still here. Something about a bargain.”

  I’d almost forgotten. But surely, after all this, she can’t expect me to go north with her. It’s the first week of Artemenion—almost the Day of the Dying Year; almost winter—and I simply cannot abandon my friends again. I am the steward of the land; my responsibility lies here.

  “Some bargains simply cannot be fulfilled,” I say.

  Hugh leans against the embrasure, looking at me, and he seems so easy there, so trustworthy, that I find myself saying, “Hugh, did the Butcher of Novarre ever support our cause?”

  He startles; his hands clench the windowsill. “Your mother told you?”

  “She said it was why she invited him to Cerid Aven—she thought he might help.”

  Hugh is shaking his head. “Teofila still believes in that bastard?” He looks at me and sighs. “Yes, Gilbert once supported King Euan. He was one of the most fervent among us—such people usually are. But he was also in love with your mother, even though it was plain to anyone that she loved your father and regarded Gilbert simply as a friend. Most men would have turned their affections elsewhere, but not him. When your parents married, he took against us.”

  “He betrayed you?” I ask.

  “Not then—not until you were five years old.” Hugh’s disgust is evident. “He really seemed to think he might yet win your mother over. It was absurd! I remember, when we went to Laon for the Harvest Feast and coronation, a few days before you were taken hostage, he came to the house. I had to throw him out before Ruadan caught wind of him being there. He loitered in the garden for an hour, even so.”

  I stare at Hugh. Of course the Butcher loitered in the garden. He called himself Nobody, and he asked me questions. But Hugh didn’t see us. Were we in a different part of the garden, hidden from the house’s windows? I don’t know.

  But the Butcher came there for my mother. Not to steal information, not to betray us. Maybe he wished to make amends, for all I know. But Hugh threw him out. And when he got information instead of my mother’s regard, from a child who didn’t know any better, he made the choice to give us away.

  Hugh folds his arms. “King Antoine knew Gilbert was a sympathizer. That’s why he always asked him to be inhuman toward his enemies, so the king knew he could trust him.” He snorts. “The Eyrlais have always had a twisted idea of trust.”

  I rub my palms over my eyes. My mother and the Butcher of Novarre. I try to imagine them as youthful friends, colluding to rebel against the Eyrlais, and fail.

  “Mother still thinks he might come back to our side,” I say. “That’s why she stayed in Barrody.”

  “Hmm.” Hugh seems noncommittal. “Well, if anyone could push him to it, it’s the new duke. Still, I’ll believe it when I see it, myself. But how far anyone will trust him is another issue entirely. Many Caerisians hate him for the crimes he’s committed, and he knows it.”

  I know it, too. But I think of the Butcher’s frustration with Denis; his strange, occasional almost-kindnesses toward me. And I wonder.

  —

  WE TALK ABOUT other things for a time—mostly the preparations for war being made here at Taich-na-Ivaugh. At last Hugh looks at me and says, “You haven’t seen Finn yet.”

  “No.”

  “He’s mentioned your betrothal.”

  Finn. Marriage. I realize I am frantically twisting my seal ring around and around on my finger. I force my hands into my pockets.

  Hugh is watching me. “A wedding would be good for morale—the prince and the Caveadear. Give the message that we have hope for the future. Give us all a little joy.”

  I frown at the floor. “Surely someone else could get married. Sophy, for instance, and Alistar Connell.”

  Hugh flashes a smile, but his countenance remains serious. “You know it wouldn’t have the same effect.”

  I swallow. I do know it. But I cannot marry Finn.

  “I don’t love him,” I begin.

  “You don’t have to, El. It’s a dynastic marriage. You both know that. But I don’t think he would be entirely displeasing.”

  “No, but I…” But I kissed Jahan. “I could marry someone else.”

  Hugh raises his brows.

  “Someone…politically important.”

  Hugh holds up his hands. “This is between you and Finn—but don’t forget that your position makes you responsible for our kingdom’s welfare. You must consider the needs of Caeris as well as your own. One might say, before your own.”

  I scowl over his shoulder. It’s strange. When I was captured at Barrody, I felt willing to do anything for Caeris. I would have died for her, if I had to. But marrying someone I don’t love? That I can’t do.

  At last I say, “You want me to sacrifice my happiness for Caeris’s sake? I don’t think it works that way, Hugh. Unhappiness in one place doesn’t breed happiness elsewhere. It just breeds more unhappiness.”

  He shakes his head. “You are so young.”

  My irritation flares. “I’ll think about it.” I move past him to the door, out into the corridor—and stop short
. “Finn.”

  How long has he been standing here, his head lowered, hands in his pockets?

  “El.” He straightens up to embrace me. He looks so tired. Did he overhear our conversation? But then he forces a smile, leaning his forehead toward mine so that we bump together. “You don’t know how worried I’ve been.”

  “You…You look well, Finn. I’m sorry I left the way I did.” Tears spring into my eyes. I remember how I clung to the image of him in Denis’s study, in the castle where perhaps, one day, he will be king. If the gods are kind. The sight of him now, in the flesh, gives me a kind of terrible hope.

  He looks past me. “You did what you thought was right.” Then he focuses on me again. “I wish I’d had the courage.”

  I reach out and squeeze his hand. “It was mostly stupidity.” But at least I saved Hugh.

  His gaze drops to our joined hands. I shouldn’t have touched him; it was a foolish, sentimental instinct. But now he leans over to kiss my cheek. “Maybe someday soon we will not be apart.”

  “Yes.” I feel myself flush. “Perhaps.” I start to move away from him.

  He stops my forward motion, holding up a hand. “I’m truly glad you’re back. I—I feared the worst, El.” His eyes are moist.

  “I know.” I swallow. Our eyes meet, and I think he sees a little of what I’ve endured.

  “If you hadn’t come back,” he begins, “I don’t know if I—” His throat works.

  I look at him. In Barrody Castle, I told myself that Finn was still free, that Caeris still stood a chance against Denis and the Butcher. But maybe I was deceiving myself. Maybe they need me more than I knew. Maybe Finn needs me more than I knew.

  They need their steward of the land. They need my magic.

  “Well,” I say, my own voice tight with the effort of holding in my tears. “I won’t be going anywhere now. I’m in this with you, you know. For the duration.”

  Finn’s eyes crinkle, though they’re still too bright. “No matter how many regiments Loyce Eyrlai sends against us?”

  “No matter if the only ones left standing are you, me, and Rhia Knoll,” I say.

  It’s a terrible joke, but we both snicker. Finn manages a grin. He says, his tone light, “You’ll take part in the festivities tomorrow night, I hope? The Day of the Dying Year. We need the steward of the land to honor Caeris and the memory of her dead.”

  “Of course I will,” I begin. I stop. Rhia was insistent that we arrive in the mountains before the Day of the Dying Year. Now it’s tomorrow, and there is no possible way we will. She’ll be angry—but it’s too late to change things. I smile at Finn. “We’ll dance together around the bonfires.”

  —

  I FIND JAHAN outside, sparring in the yard with Alistar Connell. I have rarely seen gentlemen fight with anything but blunt-tipped foils, but they’re using short wooden sticks to whack at each other. On the ride here from Barrody, Alistar was suspicious of Jahan until Jahan revealed that Denis had killed the king. Then they started joking about ways to punish Denis, each method more absurd than the last. It seemed to forge a tentative respect between them. But now, one of the Hounds informs me cheerfully, Alistar has invited Jahan to try to best him in a feat of strength. “It’s traditional to use the sticks,” he says.

  I roll my eyes; only men would think this is a logical way to prove trust. They’re both stripped down to their shirts. Alistar is grinning like a maniac and spitting out taunts, while Jahan remains focused and intent, moving with a silent grace. They seem well matched. I wonder if it will go better for Jahan to win or lose, or maybe the idea is to analyze his form and whether or not he cheats.

  I’m about to leave them to it, but a woman in breeches and a waistcoat comes up beside me, sweat shining on her brow. Rhia has evidently been sparring, too.

  “Our bargain still holds,” she says. No greeting, no pleasantries.

  “Tomorrow is the Day of the Dying Year,” I say. “You wanted to arrive in the mountains before it. I’m sorry. And now…”

  Rhia folds her arms. “Yes, you should have gotten yourself out of Barrody faster. But we can still go.”

  I remember Hugh’s remark that we need the mountain lords’ help if we hope to win our war. We need their numbers, and their ferocity. And their knowledge of the land. If I went to the mountains, perhaps I would finally learn how to use my magic as steward of the land—really use it, as Jahan does. Perhaps then I could do what I need to do, to save my people.

  But how can I leave now, after everything that’s just happened? Denis and the Butcher have just proven to me, more than ever, the importance of our revolution. We have no choice except to fight against them and win Caeris’s freedom. I can’t risk leaving Finn and the others to fight without the power of my magic, even for a few weeks.

  Rhia surveys me with that lowering scowl of hers. “If you want my father’s help, you don’t have a choice.”

  “Can’t your father come here?”

  “No.”

  She stares at me, and then she grins. It is vulpine and unexpected. I almost back away. She leans close—I smell her sweat—and whispers in my ear, “If you do, you won’t have to marry the prince.”

  “Rhia Knoll!” I exclaim. “You—”

  Damn it, she’s right; it is tempting. And she knows it. “It’s good you’re back,” she says. “I didn’t want to have to break into that castle to free you.”

  I hold up my hands. “You know I can’t go to the mountains with you. Not now. I’m needed here. I won’t abandon everyone again.”

  Her grin fades, and then she’s angry once more, her jaw bunched. “How do you expect to learn what you need to learn? You don’t need to marry Finn Dromahair. And you can’t win without my people and our knowledge.”

  “That may be so. But I can’t go now.”

  “Then you’ve already lost!” she snaps. “And you don’t deserve the title of Caveadear.”

  Her words ring out so loudly that several people around us fall silent; Rhia’s cheeks turn red, as if she’s aware she’s making a spectacle. We stare at each other for a long moment, accompanied only by the clatter of Jahan and Alistar’s sticks against each other. I struggle to suppress the urge to reach for the power of the land, to make the ground tremble and show her I do deserve my title.

  But before I can do something foolish, Rhia turns and strides away across the yard, her chin held high.

  I turn the opposite way, walking briskly between the outbuildings that separate the castle yard from the forest and farmland surrounding it. I’ve done the right thing; I’ve given her the only responsible answer I can give. So it shouldn’t feel so much like I might be wrong.

  Rhia is right about one thing, though. Finn. I’ll fight for him. I’ll learn to wield my magic for him; I’ll wake the land for him. But I don’t see how I can marry him.

  —

  I DO MY best to lose myself in the forest. Needles crunch under my feet, and there are mushrooms growing here that I’ve never seen before. Plus new species of ferns, even different trees. I didn’t bring a notebook, so I settle for breaking off leaves and fiddleheads and a single lavender mushroom cap.

  The forest seems aware of my presence, but though I still can’t do what Hugh’s stories claimed Wildegarde could do—look through the eyes of trees, birds, brooks, stones—I wonder if it’s possible. But maybe I’m glad to be separate. Maybe if I came to be one with the land, it would be too much.

  And yet…what would it feel like, to be aware of so much, to feel the land living within my own skin?

  I slide the witch stone from my pocket. The sound it makes still resonates in my bones, but if I were being fanciful, I would say it’s making my song now.

  Footsteps crunch in the woods behind me. I look around, expecting to find a deer or a hare, but instead I find Jahan, his collar loose and his hair sticking up in all directions. He hasn’t seen me yet. I wait, watching him. I love the way he moves—swift and spry and almost wary. A faint sheen of persp
iration lingers on his forehead.

  “Did you win?” I call.

  He sees me now and grins, threading through the undergrowth to me. “I disarmed Alistar, and then he punched me. But that disqualified him, because we were only supposed to use the sticks. So I suppose I won.”

  “Clever.”

  “Not really, it just happened.” He seems satisfied, though, as he comes up beside me. “I knew I’d find you looking at bushes.”

  “These are fungi, you ignoramus,” I say, “and this is a fid—”

  He leans down and kisses me, and I forget about plants. When we pull apart, I’m breathless; I put my hand to his chest. He’s watching me intently, and now he takes my hand and begins to kiss each finger.

  I close my eyes. “You are so distracting.”

  He pretends to bite one of my fingertips. “It’s one of my best qualities.”

  “Well, you’re trying to eat one of mine.”

  He’s examining my palm with his lips. I sigh, but finally I say, “Jahan. Do you intend to marry?” It comes out more bluntly than I’d intended. “That is, I’ve never heard you’re engaged.”

  His lips stop moving. In the silence, I hear the land thumping beneath us—or maybe it’s the racket of my own heartbeat. I open my eyes as Jahan straightens, dropping my hand. The line of his mouth has the weight of a sentence. What have I done?

  I wet my lips. It strikes me how unknowable another person is, how you can think you understand them, and still you don’t. We haven’t even known each other that long. Jahan is staring at a tree, his arms folded and his head lowered.

  I’ve said the wrong thing, though he doesn’t seem angry exactly. Ashamed? Perhaps he is engaged.

  Well, so am I. I knew it, and it didn’t stop me from kissing him, or from wanting more.

  Hugh told me I must put Caeris first. Perhaps even this—my body, my unborn children—must be sacrificed for the freedom of my kingdom.

  I stoop to gather my plant samples; Jahan still hasn’t spoken. I suppose I should ask him what’s wrong, but it’s hard to think outside the struggle in my own head.

  He finally looks at me. He doesn’t seem angry. Or even ashamed. There’s a sort of grief in his eyes.