Bras stops as if he’s heard me.
“Okay,” says Cray. “I’ll wait here.” He slides his spear out of its loop beneath our legs. What does he need that for? I’m suddenly regretting my suggestion to go alone. Well, I’ve said it now. I jump down from the bull into a receding wave and start to wade toward the islet. The frigid water rises almost to my waist before I’m close enough to clamber up the islet’s steep sides.
The hut doesn’t look at all sturdy; whoever made it was no expert. Boulders on either side make up its walls, so it’s really just a front, a back, and a roof, made of driftwood and withered leaves. There are no visible windows, just a door, which is open a crack. I creep over to it and knock three times. The dull clunks are answered by nothing but the soft lapping of the waves. The only other sound is my blood pulsing in my ears. I creak the door open.
“What do we have here?” says a voice from within the darkness.
There’s a man sitting on the floor in front of me. It’s him, it has to be. I think I’ve found him.
The Badhbh.
Swear to the high sky, the farther north I go, the colder it gets. I’m freezin my kog off here, despite the extra clothes Lady Beatrice put in the horse bags for me. She was right that leavin the palace grounds would be easy. Well, the leavin part was. The gettin up on the horse and makin it move part was trickier. I recognized the mare Lady Beatrice’d got ready for me; it’s her one, the one she rode on the hunt. It’s a beauty of a horse: all shiny black, with white hair bright as a mountaintop and a white stripe gushin down from its forehead to its nose. It was patient with me and didn’t move none while I heaved myself up — which took me six tries cuz it’s hek bulkin. Once I was on, I couldn’t make it move for war nor peace, and in the end I had to kick it on its sides. I didn’t like doin it, but it seemed to know that meant time for movin, and out we went.
I did what Lady Beatrice told me and left through the same gate we used for the hunt. There weren’t no guards, just like she said, and before I could sniff twice, I was away from the palace and stompin hooves. The stars winked above me and the wind whipped at my hair and I knew that I’d done it: I’d escaped; I was free.
When we got to the edge of the forest, I turned the horse toward the buildins where all the people live. Rows and rows of tall shacks, all squished next to each other, lookin ready to slip over. The knock knockin of the horse’s hooves was hek loud as we clopped through the streets. I couldn’t go fast cuz the ways were all scraggin and uneven. All I knew was I had to go north, and the Bright Star was peepin through the clouds just enough to show me the way. As we got farther from the palace, the streets got more skittin. I swear I nearly gagged on the reek of them. Then there were less buildins and less still until it wasn’t nothin but fields and we could go proper fast after that.
We’ve passed a hek lot of settlements, big ones and small ones, but I don’t slow down for nothin, like what the Lady Beatrice told me. We go tramplin right past them all, past what I reckon musta been Oxenford and then Waringham. I only saw the map of Ingland and Scotia once, when King Edmund put it out on the table, but it’s in my head clear as chickenspit. Lucky it is and all, cuz Lady Beatrice didn’t give me no maps in the saddlebags. Maybe she couldn’t find one, or maybe she knew I didn’t need it.
I’ve called the horse Eydis. I didn’t like her not havin no name. Not when I’m bein so mean to her, really, makin her go so fast the whole time. I rode her hard all through the night and the whole of yesterday, with only short stops for eatin and drinkin. When dark dropped, I stopped for us to have a few blinks nappin, but I didn’t dare sleep for long cuz I think we’re bein followed. I can’t be certain, but I got this twistgut feelin. Two times yesterday I thought I spotted someone a long ways behind me. Someone ridin a big white animal, and ridin it fast. A dip in the hills and then it’d be gone.
I’ve been tryin my best to lose them: changin direction all in a sudden, goin through rivers to cover my tracks, pushin Eydis to go faster and faster. I haven’t seen no sign of them today so I’m hopin they finally lost my trail.
It makes sense that Konge Grímr would’ve sent someone to hunt me down. He woulda woke up and found me gone, and — from the file marks on the chain — realized it was me what’d done it. He would’ve got hek fiery at that and demanded I be found. He won’t want me makin him look no fool. Also, I know too much. Even though I pretended I couldn’t understood his meetins with King Edmund, he had plenty of conversations with Bolverk and the other wreckers what he knows I overheard. And then there’s the confessions he made when he was turned sour with slosh. As long as I’m alive, there’s a thousand reasons he’d want me not to be. If I ever get caught, he’ll punish me rotten in fronta evryone and no mistakin — make an example of me; that’s how he works.
“Sorry, girl,” I keep sayin to Eydis, strokin her hair and pattin her neck. “I’m sorry, but we gotta keep goin.”
As we tromp norther, I watch the land get more and more harsk. The fields were bright greens and deep yellows in the south, but up here they’re moth brown and decayin. The settlements are more harsk, too, and the few people we pass ogle at us in a way I don’t like one speck. There’s somethin not right about them, somethin about how they look: pale faces, hollow eyes, sunken cheeks.
“This sure is a wreckmess of a place,” I say to Eydis. Talkin to her helps keep me awake and focused and makes me feel less alone. “Reckon we need to start avoidin anywhere we might find people, like what Lady Beatrice told us, don’t you think? We’ll rest again soon. You must be tired. So am I, and my backside’s killin. Sorry to be the one to tell you, but you’re not as comfy as what you look. Anyways, just a little bit longer and we’ll find somewhere safe for stoppin.”
It’s gettin dark. I’ve been findin my way by what I saw on the map, and by readin the sun like what Granpa Halvor taught me, but what little sun there was has gone now. The sky’s hek cloudy, so it doesn’t look like I’m gunna be able to read the stars neither. It starts to rain. Time to find somewhere to rest. We could do with some food and all; the handgrab I stole from Konge Grímr’s table didn’t last long, and neither did the bits what Lady Beatrice put in the saddlebags, even though I was hek stingy with the eatin of them.
Fwihsss!
What in hell thunder was that? Somethin just shot past my face, fast as lightning.
Fwihsss!
And another. Someone’s shootin skittin darts at me!
“Faster, Eydis, faster.” I kick her flanks, hatin myself for doin it, but if we don’t get away soon, both of us are gunna be dead. She strides forward a little, but I’ve been pushin her hard for the past two days and she hasn’t got much left in her. I can feel her body weakenin beneath me. Another dart flies past us, so close it nips the top of one of Eydis’s ears. She whinnies and shakes her head. Her eyes are wild, rovin round and round all over. I kick her again. We gotta go faster.
The next dart falls short. We’re gettin away. I kick again. Faster. Gotta be sure. I don’t hear no more darts, but whoever was firin them could still be followin. Kick again, just a little bit farther. Come on, Eydis, just a little bit farther, gotta get away, gotta be sure —
Her front leg goes first, then her whole body follows as she trips. She twists her head up to the sky, brayin with throatsick fear. For a moment I’m weightless, then I’m fallin too. The ground, my face, the two collidin.
A crash shriek sigh.
Blackness.
“Where is horse?” I ask.
“I keep telling yer, there wunt no horse.”
I don’t know if I believe her. I don’t know if I believe a single word she’s said. She told me she found me unconscious on the ground, but that she didn’t see my horse. She brought me back here, to her shack, which is fallin down and skittin as hell. I woke up on the floor with a thin blanket round me. The woman gave me water and bandaged my head, so I spose she can’t be that bad. But I gotta find Eydis — all my supplies were in the saddlebags, and I’m hek
hopeless without her.
There’s a small fire in the corner, with a person huddled next to it, arms wrapped around his twigbone legs. He looks too old to be the woman’s kidlin but too young to be her husband. I’m cold and I wanna go join him, but somethin stops me. He’s starin at me with deep, sunken eyes. He looks kinda wild.
“My brother,” ses the woman when she sees me lookin.
“Person shoot me,” I say in my cowcrap foreign tongue. “Dart.”
“I dunt know anything about that,” ses the woman. She speaks soft, like her words are wrapped in leaves. “But yer safe here. Trust me. Try and get some rest.” The way she talks the foreign tongue is diffrunt from King Edmund and evryone else in the palace, but I can just about understand her.
Truth bein told, I wanna do exactly what she ses to do. Sleep. But it don’t feel right doin it in this strange, harsk shack with that weird brother of hers watchin and this woman who I don’t know nothin about. And course there’s Lady Beatrice’s warnin goin round my head that I shouldn’t trust no one I meet up here.
The woman puts a cold hand on my forehead. There’s no tellin how old she is. She’s so scrawny it’s like all the flesh has been sucked out of her and all that’s left is bones wrapped up tight.
“Where’d yer come from?” She looks at my ink — at the neck-snapped raven — then down at the chain what’s still clingin to my wrist. “How’d yer end up in these parts?” I don’t know if I should tell her or not. My gut ses I shouldn’t tell her nothin. I shake my head and keep my tongue still. “Fair enoughs if yer dunt wanna say, but wherever yer came from, I suggest yer turn right around and go straight back there. Int nothing good round here.”
I’d worked that much out for myself.
“Water?” I ask. It sounds like beggin, which I hate, but my throat is dry as sand.
“Of course,” ses the woman. She picks up a bowl what’s by her side and tilts it against my lips. Whatever the liquid is, it sure as the moon isn’t no water. It’s got a bitter edge what lingers at the back of my mouth. “Drink up, petal,” ses the woman, tippin the rest of the liquid down my throat. “I’d offer yer something to eat, but I’ve got nowt to give yer. I wish I did, but times are harder than hard.” A single tear dribbles outta the corner of her eye. She wipes it away before it reaches her cheek.
“I go,” I say, startin to get up.
“No,” she ses, puttin a hand on my shoulder. “Yer tired, and it’s dark out. Int no point leaving now. Rest some. I’ll get yer on yer way tomorrow.”
I let her push me back down. I really am tired. I haven’t napped proper for days, and even before then I was sleepin on a cold floor, so not no proper buried sleep at all. My eyes are shuttin before I even know what’s happenin. What if the person what was followin me . . . ? Gotta keep goin . . . Warn the Skye people . . . She’s strokin my hair now. So tired. Just a quick sleep. Only a quick one.
I wake up and straightaways I know somethin’s not right. It’s still dark out, but I know I slept too long. That’s not the worst of it, though; it was a noise what woke me — one that’s got me panicked — but I can’t hear it no more, nor remember what it was neither. Maybe a scream or a shout or people arguin. I’m still in the shack, still on the floor, but the woman and her brother are gone. The fire in the corner is burnin bigger, and there’s a pot over it now with somethin bubblin. My arm’s gone dead from sleepin on it funny. I try to move it, but — Why can’t I — ? My hands won’t move. They’re tied behind my back, hek tight. I try to stand up, but my legs are tied and all. What the skit? That lyin sneaksnake has gone and tied me up. But why? What’s she done that for?
I flip myself over onto my stomach, which bangs my chin, and then up onto my knees. I need somethin to cut through the ropes, but there isn’t hardly nothin in this whole skittin place.
The door creaks, and she’s there, stood in the doorway. Pale face, thin hair, hollow eyes. The same woman from before. And in her hand, a knife.
“Ye’re not supposed to be awake yet,” she ses. What in Øden’s name is that sposed to mean? “I’m sorry. . . . We haven’t got a choice.”
It’s not a very long knife, nor a very sharp one by the lookin of it, but I’m sure she can still do some hurtin with it if she tries hard enough. She’s walkin toward me now, the knife held out in front of her.
“No!” I say. “Stop! Why?” I’m throwin words at her, but they land soft as snowflicks and melt into nothin.
“I weren’t going to, I swear. But I have to.” She’s closer now, and I’m surprised to see she’s cryin. Proper harsk streamin-down-her-face cryin.
“No,” I say. “Please.”
“My brother . . . I have to for my brother.” What’s she wailin on? I never did nothin to her scraggin brother. The hand with the knife in is shakin. “I’ve tried. I’ve tried so hard. But there’s nothing. That bastard King Edmund. He’s to blame, for all of this. The dead land, the no food. The whole north has fallen, but he dunt care one bit for us, sitting down there in his fancy palace with his fancy foods and fancy ways.” There’s black anger in her now, talkin about the king is gettin her teeth grindin. “The things people’ve started doing . . . I made a promise to myself that I never would, even when others did, but there’s nothing left. There hasn’t been anything for weeks.”
Then it all comes clear in my head. The words she’s sayin, the pot on the fire, the way her brother was lookin on at me earlier . . . It’s the same look what this kerl’s givin me now.
Hungry.
The Badhbh and I stare at each other for a long time — if that’s who the person in front of me is. He’s sitting cross-legged on the floor with his palms resting on his knees. There are no windows in the hut, but the crude manner in which it’s been constructed has left large gaps through which stark sea light streams in. Slices of daylight slash across his face.
“You’re the Badhbh?” It comes out as a hoarse question, not nearly as assertive as I was aiming for.
“I was once known by that name.” He has the richest voice I have ever heard, a voice that demands instant respect. He speaks slowly, giving reverence to each individual word. I knew he’d be old, since he was middle-aged at the time of the plague, and that was over forty years ago, but I’m still taken aback by how aged he looks. His jowls hang limp from his cheekbones as if they’ve melted in the sun, and a peppery white beard clings to his jawline. The hair on his head is long and gray and twisted into thick, greasy locks. Yellow toenails curl out from beneath his weathered feet.
“And now? What name do you go by now?” I ask.
“Now I have no name.”
“Then what should I call you?”
“Why call me anything at all?” He raises two overgrown eyebrows, which burst from his forehead like the wings of a bird.
Is he expecting me to answer that question? He hasn’t moved once since I entered the hut.
“We need your help,” I say.
“No, you don’t.”
His reply knocks me off guard. “We do — my clan — we need — ”
“Need does not exist,” he interrupts me. There’s a piercing intelligence in his eyes.
“What?” I say, my forehead creasing.
“There is nothing we truly need.”
What game is he playing? “Of course we need things,” I say. “What about food? Or water? Air?”
He shakes his head as if pitying a dying animal. “You require these things to live, true, but what need does the world have for your survival?”
Now I’m really confused.
“You may seek my help,” he continues. “Or want my help. Or request my help, even. But you do not need my help.”
“Okay . . .” I start again. “Then I’m here to request your help.”
“Better. I refuse. You may now leave.”
“But . . . I haven’t . . .” This isn’t going well at all. “It’s the sgàilean,” I try. His face gives away nothing upon hearing the word. He doesn’t move or r
espond, but he doesn’t throw me out either, so I keep talking. “They were contained in the onyx amulet, but they broke free. Now they’re all over the Isle of Skye, where my clan live, and they’re trying to kill us. We need you to make them go back inside the amulet. I mean, we want you to. We hope that you will.”
The Badhbh does not reply for a long time. Then he opens his mouth and utters a single, resonant word.
“No.”
“What do you mean ‘no’?” I don’t care that he’s old, or that this is his home, or that he’s some sort of powerful mage; right now, he’s really starting to boil my blood. “You created them. It’s because of you that they exist. And now they’re killing people. Innocent people. Not the Inglish, not your enemy, but innocent Scotian people. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”
“It does not.”
I’m about to speak again, but he silences me with the most minimal of hand gestures.
“I prefer my home silent,” he says. “It is time for you to leave.” An edge of hostility has sharpened his voice, warning me that I should obey him, but I can’t leave now, not when I’ve come all this way. I have one more idea.
“Nathara is dead,” I say.
The Badhbh’s perfectly composed body betrays him with a flicker of a reaction: his shoulders slump a fraction and a glimpse of emotion wanders across his eyes. Surprise? Sadness? Regret? A beat later, whatever it was disappears and he is impassive once again.
He doesn’t speak, as if waiting for me to say more.
“Nathara, the princess, the little girl you left in the tower. Don’t pretend you don’t remember her.”
It was all in his diary: how the plague killed everybody in Dunnottar Castle except for him and Nathara and how — even though she was only a child at the time — he left her behind, locked in the highest tower, all on her own.
His lips are pursed. He swallows.
“What happened to her?” he asks.
The Broken Raven Page 18