The Countess' Captive (The Fairytale Keeper Book 2) (3 page)

A great crowd swarms Hay Market.

Why? Why are so many people here?

Smoke slinks heavily between their feet, and the fumes fill my nose. I put my hand to my face and cough.

It is a dark, starless night, but a rich fiery light flickers off the sides of the throng of blank faces, each staring in the same direction.

“What’s happening?” I nudge the moon–faced boy beside me, but he does not move. His eyes do not flinch at my touch.

What is everyone looking at?
I push up on the tops of my toes. A thousand heads block the view, fading into the smoke.

A thought warns me:
Turn around. Go home.
I shake the words from my head and surge forward.

I shimmy through the crowd, gently at first, excusing myself. No one moves aside. No one complains. No one acknowledges me at all. They are as stubborn and stupid as cattle. I push harder, shoving old ladies and burghers’ wives. And strangely, no one chides my ill manners.

Smoke thickens, and I put my sleeve to my mouth and nose to filter the stench. The rich smoke reeks of burning flesh—like a hundred pigs cooked far too long over the spit. A gag rises in the back of my throat, and I turn my back to the cloud, hoping to catch clean air.

I expect to look upon a sea of faces, but all I see are the backs of heads again. I whirl around, and the same sight is before me. Fear and foreboding push the hairs up on my arms and neck.

I push on—faster now—making my way through the crowd, jumping up to see my progress. The throng extends into the horizon still, as far as my eyes can see, vanishing into a wall of smoke. I charge through the throng at a run, shouldering through them, holding one hand to my mouth to muffle the smoke. The silence is menacing. I run faster and harder until I unexpectedly, suddenly break through. I am falling.

I land in the downy plume with a
swoosh
. It puffs up in a large splash, shooting up a thousand fireflies with it. They scatter into the darkness as the feathery substance snows down. I hold out my hand and capture a few flakes, rubbing the warm snow between my fingers, turning it to powder. I place the powder to my nose, inhaling its smoky odor.

Ashes.

I am swimming in ashes.

The smell of burning flesh fills my nostrils again. A chill rides up my spine, and I jump up, brushing the ashes from the bottoms of my sleeve, my chainse. These aren’t the cinders of timbers. They are the cinders of people.

The roar of fire, and the flicker of flames forces my gaze up.

I see a boy, almost a man, tied to a stake. His head bows. His legs are withered, wrinkled, black. I hope the smoke has killed him, that he no longer suffers. A breeze blows the smoke toward me. I keel over, gagging at the stench. The wind turns, and I compose myself, drinking clean air in gulps.

“Addie,” someone whispers, and I look up. The boy on the stake is still. “Addie,” it hisses again menacingly. I turn in every direction, looking for the whisperer. A firefly streaks by my face, and I swat at it.

I hear my name again and again as a swarm builds, encircling me. I crouch and cover my ears, readying myself for what I know they shall call me, but their buzz fades. I peel open an eyelid. They spiral the stake, a glimmering eddy of eerie green–gold.

WEAK! WEAK! WEAK!!!
They chant louder and louder, pounding like the beat of a drum. One fly breaks from his swarm and lands on my shoulder. I swat him, and he whirls around, landing on the other side. “You cannot save
him
,” it whispers and giggles shrilly.

I shudder and look up.

This is no stranger on the pyre.

“No, no, no!” I race to the pyre, looking up into Ivo’s unconscious, sooty face. The heat is a wall. It’s crackle: a roar that drowns out the chanting flies. I grab for the pyre, but my hands ignite with pain. I look around for something I can use to squelch the flames, but there is nothing. No water, nothing, but an ocean of ashes.

The straw at the base crumbles, barely more than embers and cinders. The fire laps at Ivo’s chest and face, climbing far beyond my reach. Tears roll down my burning cheeks as I undo my belt, tear off my surcote, and use it to beat back the blaze.

I swat at the flames, but they grow higher, swallowing my surcote. It is no use.

Weak! Weak! Weak! WEAK!
They chant, and they’re right. I crouch to the ground, trembling with heavy sobs. I cover my nose, muffling the awful stench. I seal my eyes tightly, hoping if I can make it dark enough, I won’t see the horrific image behind my eyelids every time I blink. And just as I think things couldn’t possibly be more horrid, a ghastly shriek pierces the chanting, followed by a wail of pain.

I am falling.

“Ivo!” I cry out, jerking upright. I look around through foggy eyes at unfamiliar surroundings. The floor rises and drops below me. My vision clears
.

I am on the floor of the carriage. It was just a dream, a nightmare. Ivo is safe—for now.

Father sits ambivalently before me on the bench in the carriage. Galadriel sits, with a furrowed brow, beside me on the floor. I wipe sweaty tangles from my temples and skim a large bump on my forehead. A streak of pain stabs down my face, and I flinch. Memories return to me in a rush, and I quickly recall falling into the outcrop of stone near the Bauer’s field outside the city walls. And, that is all. I do not recall warning Ivo.

“We must go back!” I expect a scowl from Father, but he doesn’t regard me at all. His elbow rests upon the sill of the window, and he stares outside. “Please, Papa,” I beg and grasp for the arm nearest me, but he whips it out of reach.

“Do not ask a thing of me.” His lip curls. “If your lips continue to move, you shall find yourself in a convent where they can be put to good use.”

“But, Papa!”

He shoots me a glare of warning. I snap my mouth shut.

Galadriel’s dress shuffles as she rises to her seat, brushing her skirt to straighten them with one hand, holding a cobblestone in the other. I gaze upon her looking for pity, for help, but she quickly shifts her eyes. She shall be no help to me.

I take my seat beside Galadriel. She hands me the cobblestone. I roll it around in my hands, examining it for evidence of its importance. I look to her quizzically, but she gazes forward. I nudge her, but she does not move.

I lean in close to her ear. “What is this?” I whisper as lowly as possible.

“A stone,” she whispers even lower.

“I know it is a stone. Why do you give it to me?”

Her eyes widen in warning. “It’s from your mother’s grave. Now hush before you upset him further.”

Mama’s grave.
My stomach sinks. In my worry for Ivo, I hadn’t thought of missing the chance to say parting words at her grave. Who knows when I shall see it again?

My fingers spread along the cool surface of the stone, and I close my eyes, conjuring Mama’s wide smile, soft, mousy hair, and mahogany eyes. The memory withers, and her warm skin pales to gray, her lively eyes cloud over. The image of her death mask tears at my insides. I shake away the thought, the feeling of pain that is now synonymous with her.

The stone is heavy in my hands. Why would Galadriel do me such a kindness? Galadriel looks out the window upon the forest. Perhaps, the stone is an olive branch. Perhaps, she wants to make peace. She tried to save us from the stocks, and when we were freed, she gave us shelter. She risked herself to save Gregor, and now she thought to save this stone for me.

My hatred for her melts, emptying a spot for guilt to fill. I shake the moods from my head. Mama’s spot in the bed was hardly cold when Galadriel weaseled her way into it,
I remind myself. Galadriel usurped my mother’s place and not a fortnight after her death.
They were cousins, and she betrayed her. Any fondness I have for Galadriel is a betrayal, too.

Even if this weren’t so, I cannot allow Galadriel’s few kind deeds to deter me from getting back to Cologne, and I have more pressing matters to attend to. I shall have time to change Father’s mind about Bitsch, even if it is a week after we arrive. But my time to warn Ivo wears thinner with each turn of the carriage wheel.

I cannot send a letter directly to Ivo, for he may go out in search of Elias to read it for him. Perhaps, I should send the letter to Elias, voiding our deal, telling him he need not tutor Ivo and should, instead, flee for his own safety. Of course, I cannot address it to him, for he is a wanted man, and if the archbishop’s guards hunted down Gregor within a half–day, surely the archbishop would be motivated to put out a reward for Elias’ capture.

I could address the letter to my room at The White Stag, where Elias shall stay again tonight, but by the time the letter reaches Cologne, Elias shall have left it. My only option seems to address the letter to Brother John who performed Mama’s good funeral. Surely he can find Ivo and warn him against any contact with Elias.

We passed the end of the world or at least the end of the world as I knew it. The trees loom close, blotting out the sun. According to Mama’s tales a forest was a place as ominous as night, filled with wolves and witches, devils and brigands—and we haven’t a defense against any of them. The silence is disturbing, but not so disturbing as when something stirs. The shutters give the same false safety as a blanket gives a child frightened by shadows, but I keep them closed none–the–less. I’m not sure if the hours spin fast or slow, though I’d guess the latter. Without a sun rolling across the sky or bells tolling for masses, it’s hard to tell.

By the time the forest clears into rolling hills, I venture to push the shutters open. A creek rambles alongside us, weaving its way into an ever–widening river. The sun begins its descent. Slices of silver dance across the peaks of the small river waves. The air is clear here, but cold. If I take too sharp a breath, the chill burns my nose.

“We shall be in Oppenheim just before Compline,” Galadriel announces, her face lighting with child–like excitement as she reaches across me to pull the shutters closed. Father gives her a quizzical look. “The view from the south of the city is far better than it is from the north,” she explains. “I want you to be surprised.”

My stomach rolls as the carriage twists and turns, rises and falls, along this meandering, hilly road that skirts Oppenheim. I take a slow breath to ease the nausea. That only makes matters worse. The soft perfume of forest has faded, giving way to the less forgiving scents of a city: refuse, manure, and hearth smoke. Bleating rings close, and I peek through a shutter slit. A shepherd in rough homespun and a tawny skullcap steers his flock of sheep through a treeless field.

He veers north, and we crest another high hill. The river’s splashings soften to a brook’s babblings. Galadriel leans over me and throws open the shutters.

The view would be breathtaking—if I cared to see it. Oppenheim’s hill is crowned with a great stone castle, banners of the onyx eagle flapping over its towers. Each level below is older, less arranged. Wide, tree–lined streets halo stone manors and a half–built cathedral. If I close my eyes and listen close, I can hear the song of chisels on stone. Galadriel says the unfinished church will be dedicated to Saint Catherine. Below this the streets narrow, wandering into alleys that twist around timbered inns, merchants’ stands, cloisters, and monasteries. In their shadows hide the taverns, brothels, and hovels.

We added an hour to our journey just for this eagle’s nest view. If I was a willing traveler, say a girl on pilgrimage, it would have been worth it. But I’m not. This city, which I must sadly admit is far, far fairer than Cologne, elicits no excitement, no wonder. Sometimes I think my heart has grown hard as stone. I am not yet sure if that’s a good thing or not.