Soulvine 03 A Bright and Terrible Sword (18 page)

She seemed to visibly gather herself together, pulling from the air sufficient courage, or will, or perhaps even cruelty. ‘You killed your half-sister, Rawley’s second child, that was born and raised in the Country of the Dead.’

‘Yes.’

‘You threw her into a soul crossing.’

‘A spinning vortex, yes.’

‘And you thought her power – the power of a conduit between the living and the dead – you thought her power had vanished, too.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I thought it had been dispersed, distributed among the watchers in that vortex. I knew it made them stronger, but it obliterated Katharine.’

‘No,’ Cecilia’s mother said, ‘that is not what happened. It’s what should have happened. It’s what might have happened if there had not been another nearby.’

‘Another
hisaf
? One of the Brotherhood? I saw no one!’

‘No. Not a man, nor woman either. Did you not hear it? I have heard that it was very close.’

A crashing through the underbrush just as I threw my mad sister into the vortex. I had fled that crashing, crossing back to the land of the living to escape what I assumed was a
hisaf
racing, too late, to rescue Katharine. But it was not a
hisaf
. It was … it was …

Cecilia’s mother saw the truth on my face. ‘Yes. It was one of the dogs. And Katharine had some inborn power as a woman of the soul arts, or she could not have become what she did. She was untutored and unpractised, but her mad brain had seen Lord Jago and the others with the dogs. Perhaps she had even tried it before. One of the dogs had been sent to rescue her – so much faster than mere men! – after you and yours killed her
hisaf
guard in the mountains. She crossed to inhabit the dog.’

My knees gave way and I sank to the edge of the narrow bed.

Cecilia’s mother sat beside me and took my one hand in both of hers. Even through my horror I somehow noted how small her hands were, how delicate the bones. Like Cecilia’s.

‘Your sister did not know how to do the inhabiting correctly, or perhaps it was the death of her body that made it so hard. At any rate, the crossing nearly killed them both, her and the dog. It did kill the
hisaf
. For a long time the beast, too, seemed certain to die. But it did not, and now she grows stronger and stronger.’

I remembered the dreams I had had of a vague greyness, an animal scent, something unformed but uneasy. My sister, slowly gaining strength in the habitation of a dog in the Country of the Dead. I got out, ‘And soon it –
she
– will be ready.’

Cecilia’s mother didn’t answer me. She didn’t need to. Leo had told me about a badger baiting that had scarred him. That had been a lie, but this baiting would not be. Katharine wanted revenge. I would be put in a pit with this dog that was my mad sister. One-handed, unarmed, unable to cross over. The dog would leap upon me, and it would be as it had been with Straik, with the savage singer in the cottage at Almsbury, with all the maiming
and killing I had seen such dogs do. Go for the throat, the eyes—

‘Roger!’ Cecilia’s mother said. ‘Drink this!’

Wine. I gulped it down. It did not steady me, but her gesture of kindness did. And I remembered my own practice with the rabbit, the deer, the swallow … If I could find any creature near the dog baiting, I could at least escape the pain.

I demanded, ‘Is the place where I will die outdoors?’

She must have thought it an odd question, for her lined face wrinkled even more. ‘Yes. Why?’

A rat, a bird in the sky above, anything at all. I said, ‘I would prefer to die under the open sky.’

She answered nothing, because what could one say to that? For a long moment neither of us spoke. Then all at once words tumbled out of her, as if they had been kept inside a long time.

‘When Queen Caroline sent word that she wanted a child from Galtryf to raise, a child with talent in the soul arts, I persuaded Lord Jago’s father to send Cecilia. She was five years old. I have no talent, but my mother did. I lied and said I had seen the glimmerings of talent in Cecilia, and so she was taken to court. I wanted to get her away from here. The Brotherhood had just been formed, and had joined Soulvine Moor in its quest to live for ever. I thought my Cecilia would be safe at court in The Queendom.’

‘Why did you not go yourself?’

‘No one left Galtryf without permission, not even then when there were so many apprentices here, both web women and
hisafs
. Later there was the poison.’

Poison. ‘Fia said—’

Her green eyes sharpened. ‘You knew Fia?’

‘Yes.’

‘She, too, escaped Galtryf, but I don’t know how. One
day she was just gone. How did she live without the antidote in her food every day?’

‘She didn’t,’ I said flatly. The memory of Fia was almost as painful as that of Cecilia. ‘She died of the poison.’

‘Ah.’ A soft, desolate syllable. ‘Cecilia would have lived had she not been betrayed by Hemfree.’

‘Why did Hemfree bring Cecilia back to Soulvine Moor?’ For years I had puzzled over this. ‘Mother Chilton trusted her to him!’

‘Yes. But he had been turned by the Brotherhood. Mother Chilton did not know that. Hemfree, too, wanted to live for ever, and so he joined Galtryf and gave Cecilia to the Soulviners.’

‘I would kill him if I could!’

She gazed at me, and I saw myself through her eyes: ineffectual, one-handed, doomed to be killed. I sounded inane, even to myself. But then another thought struck me.

‘The poison – is it in the food here?’

‘Yes, and the antidote. After a fortnight a person cannot leave here without dying.’

Her look said:
But you do not have that long
. She did not say it aloud. I said, ‘Charlotte, Rawnie—’

She nodded sadly. ‘Soon they will never be able to leave.’

‘And my father?’

‘He is here. But
hisafs
do not seem susceptible to the poison. It—Oh!’

The door unlocked and my jailer came in. He jerked his head at Cecilia’s mother, who stood and walked towards the door. She risked only one sentence more, said back over her shoulder as if it mattered much to her. ‘My name is Joan.’

‘Get ye out,’ the man growled. He looked at me then,
with the strangest combination of defiance, anger, and shame.

‘And mine be Hemfree,’ he said, and was gone.

That night was long. I could not sleep. Repeatedly I tried to cross over, but always I could not get past the grave. The mouse-woman had said she could not enter Galtryf unless she had changed to her soul-sharer while still within its walls; something blocked the soul arts in this place. Galtryf was a huge dark blockage that nothing external could pass.

But I was wrong. Dreams could pass. Towards morning I fell into fitful sleep, and somehow I knew even in sleep that this was one of the sent dreams, but sent neither by Stephanie nor by the dog which Katharine struggled to inhabit. In this dream all was blurry. No defined landscape, but instead a meaningless swirl of colours. No figures, but instead a wavering form that might have been a person or a piece of furniture or a colourful tapestry. From this shifting blur came a sensation of need, of seeking something.

‘What?’ I said in my dream. ‘What are you seeking?’

The answer came not in any clear voice, but in a sort of sing-song repetition, such as a parrot bird will use to speak words it does not understand. ‘Where … do … they … go?’

‘Who?
Who
?’

More swirls of colours, somehow conveying distress. The swirls began to fade.

Where do they go
? The same words Mother Chilton had spoken to me in Stephanie’s dream. Then they had been clear and crisp, but no less puzzling. Where did who go? And why should I, imprisoned and soon to die horribly, have any knowledge about the matter?

‘I don’t care where anyone goes!’ I shouted at the
retreating colours. They vanished, I woke, and Rawnie stood clutching the bars of my window and peering through them.

‘Who are you shouting at, Roger?’

‘What … why …’

‘Wake up, lazy head, it’s almost midday. Who were you shouting at?’

‘I … I dreamed.’

‘Oh,’ she said, without interest. ‘Well, wake up. Your meal is coming. Joan is getting it now in the kitchen.’

‘Rawnie,’ I said, now fully awake, ‘You must not eat the food here! It’s poisoned!’

She considered this, her thin freckled face pushed as far between the bars as it would go. ‘I ate food last night and I don’t feel sick.’

‘No, it takes a long time. You and Charlotte must not eat!’

‘We have to eat or we’ll die,’ she said reasonably. ‘Besides, we ate the exact same food as everybody else and they’re not dead.’

‘But—’

‘There isn’t anything else to eat,’ she said impatiently. Clearly she didn’t believe me about the food, preferring to trust her own observations. ‘But listen, Roger, I don’t have much time. I came to tell you things. First, Papa is here. I haven’t found him yet but I’ll make Leo tell me just where he is. Second, I’m going to rescue you.’

I stared at her.

‘Don’t look so doubting! I can come and go as I please here and—’

‘You can? Can Charlotte?’

‘No. Just me. I follow Leo around and pretend he’s wonderful, so I’m not caged. Mama is and she doesn’t like me gone from her, but Leo lets me out just to annoy her. Also—’

‘Rawnie, Leo is dangerous. You can’t—’

‘Be quiet and listen! I don’t have much time! I’m going to get a knife and bring it to you and – here he is!’

Leo appeared beside Rawnie. Instantly she turned her face towards his, and it was like a flower – or at least a small weed – turning to the sun. Leo smiled at her, condescending to accept her adoration, before unlocking the door.

‘Good morrow, Roger. Did you sleep pleasantly?’

I stared at him in hatred.

‘Perhaps not – you seem a bit out of sorts. Maybe breakfast will help.’

Joan entered, eyes downcast, and placed a tray on the table.

‘That’s all, Joan,’ Leo said. ‘You may go.’

She curtseyed to him and left without looking at me. Behind Leo’s back, Rawnie rolled her eyes and made vomiting gestures.

‘Eat well,’ Leo said. ‘A few days from now I will have a surprise for you.’

I glanced at Rawnie, who shrugged.

‘Come, child. You can watch me groom my horse.’

‘Oh,’ she breathed, ‘can I help? Please, Leo? I can learn so much from helping you! You know how to do everything!’

‘If you’re very good, you may help.’

She clapped her hands like a girl much younger than eleven. Wouldn’t Leo, an actor himself, recognize her performance for what it was? Apparently not. His vanity outweighed his judgement, and he swaggered away with Rawnie at his heels.

Could she really find our father? Or bring me a knife? I would not put much past her. But I didn’t see how a knife could help me. It would not hold off a dozen men, or even one, not when I had but a single hand to wield
it with. And I doubted I would be allowed to bring a knife into the pit against … her. The dog. Katharine.

Don’t let those pictures form in your mind
.

My stomach growled. I gazed at the food, but on this Rawnie was right: there was nothing else to eat. So I ate the coarse, dense bread, the cheese made of sheep’s milk, the summer berries. If there was poison in any or all of it, I didn’t taste it. Afterwards I wanted to lie down on the straw and give myself to despair, but instead I made myself stand at my barred window and observe what I could. Watching the life of Galtryf from the shadows of my prison became both distraction and tutelage.

A girl, a green-eyed Soulviner dressed in tattered brocade and torn lace, drew water from the well.

Two men crossed the courtyard, deep in conversation.

Two more men mounted horses and clattered through the gate, accompanied by the pack of hunting dogs.

A rat scuttled from a hole in the keep wall to a different hole in a different wall.

Leo also scuttled across the courtyard. That’s how it looked, his confident swagger replaced by a resentful hurrying. Lord Jago’s voice pursued him, issuing mocking orders.

A cart pulled in, laden with casks and bundles. Women unloaded it and carried everything through a far door.

In late afternoon something changed. At least three dozen people, taut with excitement, assembled in the courtyard. The
hisafs
wore their usual wool tunics and breeches but the Soulviners were even more fantastically garbed than before in ragged gowns with court trains, moth-eaten hats with fresh feathers, soiled velvet doublets slashed over even more soiled cloth-of-gold. Glimpsed between the bars of my window, the strange parade seemed both solid and unreal, like faire puppets that disappear and reappear at the will of someone
unseen. Leo, Jago, Tarf – none of them so much as glanced towards my cell.

A wagon pulled into the courtyard. Someone – the crowd blocked my view – was helped down from the wagon box. Everyone collapsed into curtseys and bows, and a murmur ran through the courtyard. Awe, respect – who was this? He or she vanished into a doorway and the entire gaudy, tawdry group dispersed.

The sun lowered in the sky and the shadow of the western wall, dark and cold, fell across the courtyard. Rawnie slipped through that shadow, furtive as a small animal.

‘Here, Roger, take this, I have to go!’ Something pushed through the bars, and she was gone.

A knife. Small, intended for bread, not sharp enough to even cut meat. The tiny shaving knife in my boot was more deadly. I wished I had back Tom’s two knives, taken from me when I was captured. Since I didn’t, I put Rawnie’s knife into my other boot, trying to keep myself from either laughter or tears. She had tried.

I went back to my straw pallet, lay down, and gave myself to despair.

The next three days were much the same as the first. I watched from my cell, saw nothing of note, and was never taken out of my comfortable prison. Rawnie came and went, but she had no new information for me except that the new arrival was ‘really really old’. She had not found our father. People passed through the courtyard, and it seemed to me that each day they looked more tense, more excited. Apprentice girls, not Joan, brought me my poisoned meals. They all curtseyed to me, and the curtseys were a mockery of what was already a mock court. I did not see Hemfree, nor Jago, nor Charlotte.