Hush

by Dylan Farrow

  I try to listen more closely to the rhythm to keep my mind calm, but the quiet sound of sniffling breaks through the chanting. A soft whimper. A cry for help, almost inaudible, as if muffled by a door somewhere far down the hall.

  Kieran. It’s Kieran crying. He’s all alone and he needs me. It’s foolish, but I can’t shake the thought.

  I hurry along the hall and push open the door where the sound is coming from, but no one is there. The sound vanishes, and I’m by myself in an empty vestibule. I have to wonder if I imagined it in my loneliness. My brother. Kieran. Dead nearly five years.

  What is wrong with you, Shae?

  Emotion claws at my throat as I push through another door. I’ve exited out onto one of the terraces overlooking the training grounds. I heave a sigh of relief and grip the balcony railing, trying to gather myself together.

  Below me, the training grounds look like a ghostly, vanished lake at this hour. There are still a few stars flickering in the fading charcoal of the sky.

  I slip down the stairs from the terrace and out onto the training grounds, my legs abruptly screaming in protest when I try to run across the field. My body is too sore and exhausted to manage anything more than a light jog down to the archery range, the stairs leading down the cliffside even more treacherous in the predawn darkness. I feel as if I’m descending into an abyss of smoky mist.

  I take up a spot I scouted earlier behind one of the targets, out of sight, but with a clear view of the door to the barracks. I steady my breathing and wait. The door opens not long after, and the Bards file out, some alone, others casually chatting with one another, on their way to the dining hall for breakfast, giving me just enough time to look around.

  Niall’s red hair is instantly recognizable, if a little mussed from sleep. He yawns.

  “Heading back into the field again?” another Bard asks him.

  “You know me.” Niall chuckles in response, adjusting the bag slung over his shoulder. “Can’t stay still in the castle too long before I go stir-crazy.”

  So he’ll be leaving High House to collect more tithes or recruits. Or do more harm to other innocent victims.

  I chance a peek around the side of the target, angling my head to get a look at Niall’s feet.

  Still no dagger.

  From what I’ve seen, the Bards display the hilt in their boots almost like a badge of honor. That Kennan and Niall both forgo wearing theirs, whatever the reason, is unusual at best—damning at worst.

  I duck back into my hiding spot, waiting for the dining hall rush to die down. After the last few Bards have trickled through the door, I wait a few minutes longer to ensure the coast is clear.

  The door to the barracks is not kept locked. Getting inside was the easy part of the plan. Now I have to find Niall’s quarters, and anything that might suffice as evidence, before someone finds me. Perhaps he keeps trophies from his doings and conquests. Maybe I’ll find a bloodied sleeve, or the Gondalese ox that was taken from our home. Something. Anything.

  The door from the shooting range empties into a large common room of dark stone. Comfortable chairs and a few tables littered with discarded goblets, wine bottles, and card games fill the space. These quarters are far vaster than where the women are housed, which makes sense, as there are so few of us comparatively. The air in here smells of ash and musk. Stuffed heads of various hunting game are mounted on the walls. Deer, coyote, wolves, even a mountain lion. A buffalo’s head is prominently displayed over the mantle of the large stone fireplace.

  A staircase leads to a landing at the far side of the room, and I head up, trying to keep my footsteps quiet in case there’s anyone still present. When I reach the top, I’m led through another door.

  For a second, I’m caught between the immense satisfaction that I managed to reach the barracks and anxious uncertainty as to how I’ll ever find what I’m looking for here—there’s too much to search. The largest corner of the room is reserved for an array of military bunk beds, shelved three by three in wide rows. At the foot of each are footlockers for personal belongings. Farther down are stone cubicles, each with a cloth divider.

  In this instance, I’m glad I’m not a man, I think.

  Shaking away my distraction, I start to wander through the rows of bunks. Nerves and frustration coil tightly in my gut. I’m running out of time before I’m to meet with Kennan.

  At the far end of the barracks is another fireplace. This one is unlit, and there’s a small figure in black and white servant’s clothes leaning over it, sweeping vigorously.

  My heart hitches in my chest and I clutch my needles tightly, willing myself not to breathe. I step back, but in my surprise, the heel of my boot bumps into the nearest bedpost. The sound might as well have been a horn piercing the air, and I stumble backward onto the floor between the bunks.

  I’m too late. The servant is hurrying over. She has a dark smudge of ash on her cheek, but I instantly recognize the younger girl with the dark, curly hair and the gap in her teeth. The one who served my breakfast a short eternity ago on my first day.

  “Are you all right, my lord?” she asks, offering a hand to help me up. I accept reluctantly, letting her haul me to my feet. Despite her slight build, she’s much stronger than she looks.

  “I’m fine,” I grumble. “No worse than the rest of this blasted week…”

  “Oh, my lady! I didn’t recognize you!” Her eyes widen with shock, her brow knitting. “You shouldn’t be in here! It’s not—”

  “Not proper, I know.”

  “I’m only allowed in here to sweep the fireplaces,” she says. “I could get in big trouble if we’re not gone by the time the Lord Bards return.”

  “I need to find Niall’s room,” I say, hoping she proves trustworthy. “I’ll be in and out, I promise.”

  The girl frowns, unsure. “Niall? He’s the older, redheaded one?” I nod. “Oh, you’re in completely the wrong place! But…” She trails off, one brow crooking upward. “Why are you going to his room?”

  I pause, chewing my lip. My heart begins hammering when I think of the seconds passing by. “It’s really important,” I say urgently. “I need you to trust me, all right?”

  The girl stands back on her heels. Her eyes narrow and she scratches the back of her neck near the cluster of dark, wild curls tied there. Seconds feel like they are creeping into hours as she stares me down, taking my measure.

  “Just this once, I suppose,” she says eventually. She doesn’t wait for me to reply before she starts heading back to the front of the barracks, gesturing for me to follow.

  “Wait,” I say. “Thank you. What should I—what is your name?”

  The girl blushes. “I’m…” She hesitates and I wonder if I’ve done something improper by asking for a servant’s name. “Imogen,” she says quietly.

  “I’m Shae.” I give a tentative smile as I walk behind her. “Thank you for trusting me, Imogen.”

  “We’re women—we have to trust each other, right?” She grins over her shoulder, and I feel myself warm to her. It’s exactly the thought I had. “I don’t break the rules very often. It’s a little exciting, isn’t it?”

  “I suppose so,” I have to admit.

  We pass bed after bed, and I realize there’s another thing I would never admit to; the idea of being so close to where Ravod sleeps has me feeling jittery with nervous excitement. Some of the quarters have small personal touches adorning the space, flowers in vases or paintings on the wall. I wonder what Ravod’s room would reveal. Maybe he likes art or collects something odd and obscure. There’s more beneath his proper, dignified surface than he lets on, and I ache to learn what it is.

  I sharply force my gaze forward. I’m not here for Ravod, even if he somehow manages to infiltrate my thoughts at the least convenient of times.

  Imogen has a small spring in her step, and when we’ve reached the front of the room, her curly hair bounces happily against her back as she turns right, leading me toward the larger row of
Bards’ quarters.

  “Only the junior Bards sleep in the bunks. The older ones get their own cubbies here,” she explains, stopping along the second row and pointing to a drawn velvet curtain. “This is Niall’s.”

  “Thank you again,” I say, touching her slim shoulder briefly in hopes that I can project my sincerity through my hand somehow. “You should get out of here in case there’s any trouble.”

  Imogen cocks her head. “But what about you?”

  “I’ll manage. I don’t want you getting punished on my account if something goes wrong.” I can’t help but feel protective of her.

  “I’m nearly thirteen years old, you know. I can take care of myself,” Imogen says, drawing herself to her full height, nearly the same as mine.

  I sigh, but quickly realize I don’t have time to argue. I offer a quick nod and dart behind the curtain.

  The space is dim, and my eyes are slow to adjust. Eventually I see a lamp on the desk and manage to light it, sending shadows flickering across the dark.

  Niall’s quarters are much smaller than mine, with barely enough space for a single bed and a chest of drawers, both immaculately tidy and completely ascetic. They stand in stark contrast to the desk wedged in at the back, cluttered to the point where it’s nearly impossible to know that it’s a desk to begin with.

  I halt in my tracks when I recognize the paraphernalia littering the surface. My breath stops short and my blood runs cold.

  Papers … quills … books … ink.

  I set my jaw, taking a hesitant step forward, remembering what Ravod told me when I arrived.

  This isn’t unusual. Some Bards are taught to read and write.

  With another small step, I’m standing in front of the desk. Spread across the surface of the table is everything I’ve ever been taught to fear and revile. Suddenly I’m glad I skipped breakfast. I’m not sure my stomach would have been able to handle the sight otherwise.

  My hand is trembling as I reach for the pile of paper. I don’t recognize any of the symbols on them, but there are a few diagrams that I can perhaps make sense of.

  The drawings in the first pile provide little insight. Many of them look like cross-sections of various organs and body parts, which does not do much to settle my stomach. Many of the words on these pages are crossed out and corrected, but I can’t understand anything more by the illustrations.

  There’s a second stack, more neatly piled and sorted, tucked into the cover of one of the books. I pull at the loose papers, terrified of touching the book itself. I sigh in relief when the pages come free and nothing happens.

  I’m shaking so much that I have to sit on the bed to steady myself while I look the papers over.

  These are very different, but I recognize what they are immediately: Maps. Delicate symbols cover each page, the detail painstaking, and every landmark carefully labeled. Niall had the look of a traveler about him, but apparently he’s also a passionate cartographer. These are sketches of the places he’s traveled: rock formations, wooded groves, mountain ranges—each rendered with flawless precision, almost lovingly.

  I find myself staring at a picture of a valley ringed by mountains with a dirt road running through it. It reminds me so much of home. If there were only a little house on the path …

  My hands abruptly grip the paper.

  There is a house. My house. The space it takes up in the rest of the drawing is small, but the details are unmistakable. There’s a circle and some words with an arrow pointing right at my home.

  The next piece of paper is another map, this one of Aster. I would know it anywhere. I can follow the road through the gates past the constable’s tower, through the center of town and Fiona’s shop and up the hill to Mads’s family’s mill. To the north is the pass that leads to my home, marked with a cross in red, like a splash of blood.

  Blood pounds in my ears, echoed by the sound of heavy, approaching footsteps. I spring to my feet, folding the papers of my home and pushing them into my pocket and quickly shoving the others back into the book where I found them. I move to the curtain.

  I need to get out of here. Now.

  My hip bumps a small end table as I hasten to leave, toppling an empty brandy bottle. It smashes deafeningly on the stone floor.

  “What was that?” a voice booms out from down the hall. I crouch to hide it, trying first to pick up the pieces, before resorting to pushing the broken glass under the bed, wincing as a sharp edge slices my finger.

  I rush back to the curtain, my heartbeat reverberating in my ears.

  “Good morning, my lord!” Imogen’s voice stops me in my tracks. The sound of footsteps outside ceases. “Back so soon?”

  “I forgot something.” I gulp as I recognize Niall’s voice.

  I look around, desperate for a place to hide. A cold sweat breaks out on my forehead when I see no options. The desk is too small. The bed is too low. The corner is too exposed.

  If only I could perform a Telling. I flex my fingers, trying to force them into feeling the strange sensation that always happened accidentally.

  Nothing. The footsteps are coming closer.

  “Actually, my lord,” Imogen’s voice interrupts, “I saw a mouse in the corridor. Would you help me get rid of it? I promise it won’t take long.”

  The silence that passes threatens to crush me into the floor.

  “Very well.” Niall sighs. “Let’s make this quick.”

  Imogen’s and Niall’s footsteps disappear around the opposite corner and I exhale slowly.

  I slip out of the barracks quickly and quietly. I definitely need to embroider something nice for Imogen.

  * * *

  By the time I approach the training grounds, the sun has finally arisen, and I already feel like I’ve completed a day’s worth of activity from my foray into the men’s barracks. I try to dispel my exhaustion with a deep breath of cold morning air. My stomach rumbles irritably, reminding me that I’ve skipped breakfast.

  I slip my fingers into my pocket, touching the papers I stole from Niall’s room. I’m one step closer, at least.

  I stop at the usual place at the edge of the training grounds where I’ve met Kennan every day this week. I forget if five days have passed or six. They’ve all started to bleed together, and I don’t know if I’m making progress or floundering completely. Kennan is unreadable, and I feel no closer to understanding my own power—if I truly have any.

  “You’re still here?” A deep, melodic voice startles me. I turn to see Ravod standing nearby, his arms crossed over his chest, and an indecipherable smile playing at one side of his mouth. I wonder if he realizes that his words have the opposite of their intended effect. The more he taunts or warns me, the more determined I am. I want to see the look in his eyes when I prove him wrong.

  “Prepare to lose your bet, Ravod,” I say, pleased that I sound more confident than I feel. I’m actually pleased that he’s here at all. And curious where he’s been all week. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  Ravod’s eyes wander my face, either in amusement or skepticism. “We’ll see.” His brow creases. “What happened?”

  I follow Ravod’s gaze to the long cut running along the side of my finger. My breath hitches as I recall the wound I got from sneaking into Niall’s room.

  “An accident.” I clutch my hand, as if pulling it out of sight will somehow cause him to forget he saw it.

  “You should probably put something on it,” Ravod says. “You don’t want it getting infected.” Before I can reply, he produces a small vial from a pouch on his belt. “May I?”

  I let him take my hand, perhaps a little too eagerly. His fingers are warm through the fabric of his gloves.

  “You just carry disinfectant around with you?” I ask him.

  “My mother was a physician in—” He cuts himself off abruptly, turning my hand over and applying a few drops of cold liquid to my wound. His dark eyes are steady and focused, more magnetic than usual in their intensity. The medicine sting
s and my hand flinches in his. He gently squeezes my palm to keep me from disturbing the wound. “I used to help out a little in her clinic. Old habits die hard, I suppose. Hold still so it can sink in.”

  “Did you want to be a physician too?” I can’t help asking questions. This is the first time he’s been open with me.

  Ravod shrugs. “I probably would have taken over the clinic eventually. But I definitely don’t have her bedside manner.”

  “As your patient, I think you did all right.” I smile at him. “Your mother … She sounds like a really remarkable person.”

  The tiniest smile turns the corner of his mouth. “She was,” he whispers. “She’s … gone now.”

  His hand trembles against mine, like a small, wounded forest creature. I worry he’ll pull away, but he doesn’t. His gaze is fixed on the point where our hands meet as though such a thing is completely strange and foreign.

  “I lost my mother too,” I say softly. “I know how much it hurts.”

  His eyes lock onto mine, widening fractionally with emotion. I’m not sure if it is because of what I told him the other night, or some other old hurt, but he forces himself to look away, clearing his throat.

  “There are fates besides death,” he whispers. His voice barely carries over the wind in the mountains. “There are many ways someone precious to you can’t be here anymore.”

  “So keeping medicine with you makes it feel like she’s still with you?”

  Ravod abruptly drops my hand and replaces the vial in its pouch. I pushed too far. “That should stave off infection and help prevent scarring,” he says. “You should try to be more careful in the future.”

  His eyes flick to the side; Kennan is approaching. He nods tightly to her before walking away, and as I watch his tall, broad form retreat, it takes all my willpower to keep from following.

  Even if I didn’t find him intriguing, just about anyone in the world would be more pleasant to spend time with than Kennan.