“Bow down before your master,” Evelyn commanded.
Virginia lifted her face and said, “I serve only one master: I serve the King.”
Lord Skraetock drew back his hand as though he would strike Virginia, but instead he brought his hand down lightly and ran his fingers along the side of her face. She shrank back from his touch, and he laughed, a low, rippling, mocking laugh.
“You kneel within the protection of the Covenant Flame,” he said. “Your exiled king has no power here. Here is only the power of fire and darkness, my power! I am the lord here, and no other.”
“The King will return from exile,” Virginia said. She seemed to be struggling to get the words out. “I have seen him, and I have seen the awakening of his army.” Quietly, terribly quietly, she whispered, “I remember.”
“You have seen lies and foolishness!” Skraetock hissed. “What good has trust in the king done you? Only a blind woman could fail to see that we have won.”
He stepped closer and cocked his head. “But you are not so blind, are you? If I wish to see I must sacrifice for the power. A power you were born with. Yes, you have seen many things. Tonight you will see for me.”
“I cannot control what I see,” Virginia said.
“I can,” Skraetock said. His eyes drank in the sight of the girl. “You have no idea what you are, do you? But I know. I know the power in you.”
“I will not help you,” Virginia said, pulling one arm away from the man who held her.
Skraetock’s voice grew thin. “We shall see,” he said. “Evelyn?”
Evelyn motioned the guard away and stood behind Virginia herself. She began to trace patterns in the air, and Virginia gasped for air. Her knees buckled and she fell to the ground, her breath trembling with pain.
“Evelyn brought you here to make atonement,” Skraetock said, speaking to the blind girl who lifted her face in defiance. Her unseeing eyes shone with the effort.
“You see, a few months back she misplaced something important to me,” Skraetock said. “I want to find it. You will find it for me.”
Virginia opened her mouth to speak and cried out in pain instead. She had raised herself to her knees, and now she fell again. Evelyn continued to trace patterns in the air behind her.
“More,” Skraetock said. “Zarras the Incompetent has been whining for my help. He thinks he is losing control of his lands. He is. So you will help us find the rebels and destroy them. Do you understand?”
He raised his hands swiftly, palms up, and iron bars formed of the dust of the ground and surrounded Virginia. In moments a cage surrounded her, and it rose until it hung above the fire.
Skraetock and Evelyn turned and faced the fire. As the heat beat on their upraised hands, the dark stain of a tattoo appeared on the palm of each one’s hand: a spider.
* * *
Maggie had brought the scroll with her. She sat with it spread out before her in the little room Pat had rented. Candlelight illuminated the ink scratchings in such a way as to make the writing seem alive, dancing with the motion of the flickering flame.
A movement in the shadows made Maggie jump. She laughed a little with embarrassment when Pat sat down beside her.
“I thought you were going to give that thing to the Ploughman,” Pat said.
“I meant to,” Maggie said. “It just… never was the right time.”
Pat reached out as if to touch the parchment, and drew her hand back just before she did. “The light makes those signatures on the bottom look new, somehow,” she said. “Still wet. As though it has just been signed.”
“It has never looked quite so evil before,” Maggie said. The signatures shone red-black and seemed to run on the parchment, spreading their stain.
“It’s not the parchment at all,” Pat said suddenly. “It’s the light… look!”
Maggie turned to see what Pat was talking about.
The candle flame had turned blue.
* * *
The Ploughman sat by the fire, his eyes scanning the heavens. The stars were shining brightly across the sky, ornamented by the sickle moon.
Who am I? he asked.
A man, his voice replied.
More than a man, a deeper voice inside him said. He felt a warmth brush past his face and heard the faintest echo of clanking armour. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath to rid himself of the delusions. Childhood delusions. Something with me, he had said as a child. There is something with me. I am never alone.
He opened his eyes again and searched the stars more intently. A gold mist passed before him and disappeared.
“What are you looking for?” Libuse asked. She was dressed like a soldier, in tunic and trousers, with leather armour and a sword hanging from her hip. On her back was slung a spear.
“A sign,” the Ploughman said, turning to look on his love. Her hair was shimmering in the moonlight, and her eyes glowed as warmly as any star. She had braided a silver thread into her hair, and it seemed to shine in the darkness.
“Tell me,” he said. “Do you believe that the stars hear us, as some say they do? Is there help for us out there?”
Libuse looked to the sky. Her fingers played with the glowing thread in her hair. “I think there must be, my love. Surely the power that has given us courage for the fight will not abandon us in the middle of it.”
“We need more than courage now,” the Ploughman said. “We need victory.”
“And we shall have it,” Libuse said. “I do not think it is the stars themselves that help us,” she said. A smile began to play at her mouth. “Not the stars, but the One the stars themselves serve.”
“If there is such a One,” the Ploughman said, “I would give anything to have him riding beside me now.”
“Perhaps he is,” Libuse said.
The Ploughman reached out and took his lady’s hand. In the moonlight he kissed it gently. “If not,” he said, “it is enough for me that you are here. You are my courage, my heart.”
* * *
Chapter 13
The End Begins
The smoke rising around Virginia drugged her senses. She heard cries as though they were very far away—men’s cries, death cries. The guards? She smelled blood and heard the hiss of liquid and fire, and beneath it chanting.
She heard rippling laughter inside her head. He was inside her head.
“Find the scroll!” Skraetock commanded, his voice ringing through her mind like the painful sound of a bell in a closed space. She clenched her fists and thought back.
No.
Pain washed through her, and she cried out. In a moment it was gone. It left her panting for breath. Still fighting.
“Find the scroll,” commanded the voice again.
I will not.
Once again pain coursed through her, wave after wave, unceasing. She curled up on the floor of the cage, trying to shut it out, to stop the agony. The pain sharpened in her eyes and she covered them with the heels of her hands, skin wet with tears of agony. She fought for control: the control to speak—to call out for help. She could not. Skraetock would not leave her alone long enough. The pain ceased suddenly and left her trembling. She tried again to form a word, but still she could not.
Something was happening inside her mind now. Her head was an instrument and someone was trying to play it. It was a warm feeling, warm and enveloping, and it called to her to let go: relax, release her control. She nearly gave in when a deeper part of her fought its way to the top.
No!
He was tearing her apart. Her eyes hurt so badly. It would never stop, she thought, until she was dead.
But something in her mind was letting go. She was losing control, no matter how hard she tried to hang on. Light played through her mind, stabbing her. The visions came, though tears ran down her face as she wished them away. Away where he could not see them.
She saw the auburn haired young woman she had seen before. She was sitting in a room in Pravik with a scroll opened before her. Pat
was with her, looking over her shoulder. They seemed uneasy.
The room they were in was nondescript, a little rented flat just like a hundred others in the city, and yet Virginia knew exactly where they were. From the laughter in her head, she knew that he knew, too. In the same way, Virginia knew the young woman’s name and how she had come to have the scroll. Through the searing pain and the sound of chanting voices that dragged her down deeper into darkness, Virginia at last managed to cry out:
“Run, Maggie! They’re coming!”
Far back in her mind, amidst the tearing visions, she saw another face—a boy’s face. She sent the message to him as well, though it took more strength than she had and left her feeling as though something inside was shattering.
“Yes,” hissed the voice of Lord Skraetock. “We’re coming! They can’t run anymore!”
Virginia felt as though claws were digging into her neck. She choked for air. Laughter flowed all around her, mingling with the chanting and the smoke, and the claws released her.
“Now, where are the rebels?” Skraetock’s voice asked.
Virginia could not stop the visions. It was the future she saw. Men, brave men, golden men inside with tawny lion’s manes and true hearts, though outside they were common and plain. They stood up to the Empire and its black ways. They won.
Until the creatures came into Pravik, howling and shrieking and tearing and killing, and Skraetock was laughing.
Everything went black. The pain was gone. Virginia closed her eyes and tears slipped out as despair slowly overtook her. She had betrayed the people and the purposes of the King.
She let go, and slipped away into utter blackness.
* * *
Maggie rolled up the scroll abruptly and stuffed it back inside her coat. She laughed uneasily. “Funny how a piece of paper can make me so nervous.”
Pat was still staring at the candle. “It’s gone back to its normal colour now,” she said. “If you hadn’t seen it too, I would have said I’d imagined it.”
There was a sound outside like a door slamming, and Maggie jumped. “What was that?” she said.
“Just the neighbour’s dog, playing with the gate again,” Pat said. “Are you all right, Maggie?”
Maggie’s heart was pounding, but she nodded. “Just a little jumpy. I’m sorry.”
Pat stood up and stretched, yawning. “Never thought I’d say this, but since Mrs. Cook isn’t here to offer you some tea, how about I make some? It’s good for the nerves, you know.”
Maggie laughed and nodded. “I know. Thank you, Pat.”
* * *
Nicolas’s feet hit the cobblestones as he flew over the bridge. He was running blindly, following only instinct… and praying, praying to the stars that he was not too late. He had come back to look for her. Something within had driven him to look for her. Now urgency propelled him forward.
His fingers reached for the slender sword that hung from his waist. He skidded to a stop. The bridge was behind him and a webwork of streets lay before him. His pounding heart sent him off in one direction, and he ran again.
Nicolas Fisher did not know what he would find; he only knew what he had heard, and the fear it had wakened in him. A voice he did not know, crying out in deep pain:
“Run, Maggie! They’re coming!”
* * *
The kettle had just begun its high-pitched whine when a knock pounded at the door. Pat frowned.
“Who in the world?” she said. She rose and called out,“What do you want?”
“High Police,” came the answer. “Open the door.”
Maggie and Pat exchanged anxious glances. Maggie pulled Pat’s long knife down from its resting place on the fireplace mantle and handed it to her. She drew her own sword out of its sheath and stood back from the door, nodding slightly.
Pat flung the door open and drove her knife into the surprised officer. There were others in the hall. They lifted a shout and pushed their way into the flat.
* * *
Nicolas tore up the stairs, the clash of steel meeting his ears. His sword was ready. He rounded the corner and slashed into the first black and green uniform he saw. The man fell with a cry and Nicolas whirled into the fight, unable to think, or see, or hear anything but the steel and the shouts of his opponents.
When four men lay on the ground, Nicolas looked up from his last opponent to see recognition in Maggie’s eyes. “Nicolas!” she cried, and threw herself into his arms like a sister whose long-lost brother has just come home.
“You were in danger,” he said, embarrassed by Maggie’s enthusiastic greeting. “I heard someone trying to warn you,” Nicolas continued. “And I knew where you were so I—I ran.”
“You may have saved our lives,” Maggie said.
“Don’t speak too soon,” Pat said. She had moved to the window. “Black-and-Greens in the street. They’re on their way up.”
“Then let’s not wait for them!” Nicolas said. He joined Pat and threw open the window. A latticework covered with creeping vines, yellow with the turning of the seasons, formed a shaky ladder to the ground. The High Police had left the street and were coming up the stairs.
Nicolas started his careful climb to the ground. Pat and Maggie looked at each other, nodded, and followed him out.
* * *
The second day of the Tax Gathering dawned bright. The peasantry picked themselves up from the alleys and doorsteps where they had slept, outside inns crowded to the bursting point. Almost as one, the people of the city crossed the bridges and climbed the streets of the plateau to Pravik Castle.
There would be a trial today.
Maggie, Pat, and Nicolas joined the curious who flocked to the castle. Maggie recognized others in the crowd. Some limped as she did. Here and there an old farmer smiled at her, a smile of encouragement.
It would work.
It had to work.
They were among the first to reach Pravik Castle. Maggie reached into her coat pocket and fingered a small map the Ploughman had given her. She lagged behind as Nicolas and Pat passed through the gates into the huge courtyard where the trial would be held. Maggie shivered, for she could see through the gates where a massive gallows waited.
She pulled the map out of her pocket and studied it quickly, darting into the crowd as quickly as her leg would allow. She moved through the gates and around the castle wall away from the courtyard until she reached a low door where castle servants went in and out.
Her heart was pounding as she went through the small entrance. No one stopped her with so much as a word, though guards stood all around.
They will hire extra help for the Tax Gathering and the trial, Libuse had said. Chances are no one will notice you.
Or the others, Maggie hoped. She could not do this alone. She had entered a low-ceilinged room with stone walls dark with soot and floors stained with mud. There were many servants in the room, and merchants delivering special wares, and others on other errands. She raised her eyes and looked around her quickly—there. She knew the face of the hump-backed old man near an inside door.
She limped to his side. He acknowledged her with a slight nod. “You’re late,” he said. He started off through the door, and Maggie followed him. Three others were waiting on the other side.
Together they moved through the castle corridors, consulting the Ploughman’s maps when they had need of them.
“You there!” a guard shouted. Maggie kept going, her heart pounding. Footsteps hurried down the hall behind them—and passed them. The guard was calling someone else.
They climbed a twisting flight of stairs.
“Shouldn’t we be going down?” whispered one of the men. “To the dungeon?”
“Ploughman says they’ll keep the prisoners here,” the hump-backed old man said. “We do what he told us.”
You shouldn’t do this, Libuse had said. The men can do it alone. Stay where it’s safer.
I have to see him, Maggie had answered. If we—fail—I may
never have another chance.
Libuse had smiled. I understand completely.
They rounded a corner and a guard looked up in surprise. His face was red and he held a flask in his hand.
“What the—” he started to say.
He had no opportunity to finish.
As they pushed through the halls, fighting nearly every step of the way, Maggie felt exulted at the ease with which the High Police fell. They were drunk to the last man.
Nobody makes wine like my grandmother makes wine, the farmer had said in a late-night meeting with the Ploughman. And nobody drinks it like the High Police. A present, perhaps, might be in order…
Maggie heard Jerome call her name before she saw him. For a fleeting instant she was afraid—afraid of him, afraid of herself, afraid she had dreamed everything. She lifted her eyes and saw him through the fight, behind crossed iron bars. One side of his face was bruised and swollen, and his clothes were torn and filthy.
She pushed through the fight, the cries of the High Police and of her fellow rebels like distant memories in her ears. He reached for her through the bars. She took his hands and looked into his eyes and he kissed her.
The moment was fleeting. Maggie’s sword struck at the lock on the cell until it was finally broken and Jerome was free. She pressed the sword into his hand as he moved by her. He did not pause to talk to her, or even to look at her, but hurried down the long corridor, deeper into the dungeon.
“The master is this way,” he called over his shoulder. Maggie followed him.
* * *
Drums beat in the courtyard. Antonin Zarras, Overlord of the Eastern Lands, stepped onto the platform next to the gallows. He was a short, dark man; handsome though his physique evidenced that he habitually ate better than any dozen of his tenants. The crowd murmured as he appeared, flanked on all sides by High Police.
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