Thief With No Shadow (20 page)

“When the stonecutter saw the gryphon carrying his sweetheart high into the sky, he ran as fast as he could to the house of the wisest woman in the village. ‘Mother Nonni!’ he cried. ‘Mother Nonni! You must help me!’

“Mother Nonni, being wise, knew that the stonecutter had very little hope of rescuing his sweetheart. And, being wise, she also knew that there was nothing she could give him except courage. ‘Take this,’ she said, handing him a spear. ‘It belonged to Yuri the Slayer. With it you cannot miss your mark.’

“The stonecutter (whose name was Ivan) slung the spear over his shoulder and hurried into the Wasteland, and if his sweetheart had not been a resourceful girl, he would have been far too late. But gryphons’ eyries are untidy places, full of rock and bones and shadows and places to hide. The gryphon hunted for the stonecutter’s sweetheart, tearing at the rubble with its claws and snapping its vicious beak into the crooks and crannies, but Irina was well-hidden. At last the gryphon threw back its fearsome eagle’s head and uttered a shriek so bloodcurdling that shards of stone fell from the roof. It backed out of the eyrie and spread its wings with a thunderclap of sound and sprang into the sky, snapping its beak in fury.

“The spear that Mother Nonni had given the stonecutter was as good as a spear could be, which is to say that it was very little use against a gryphon. It hadn’t, of course, belonged to Yuri the Slayer for that spear must long since have disintegrated into dust, but the stonecutter didn’t think about such facts. All he knew was that Yuri had killed two gryphons with the spear and he was going to kill a third. He ran across the Wasteland for hours, while the sun’s heat made the rocks twist and shimmer. Then he climbed the high crag to the gryphon’s eyrie, where the hot wind tried to pluck him from the cliff face, until at last he stood on the wide stone ledge.

“Now, as everyone knows, gryphons are difficult to slay, being part lion and part eagle, but a well-placed spear can kill even the most dangerous of creatures. And so the stonecutter stood in front of the eyrie and gripped the shaft of the spear tightly with both hands and shouted: ‘Gryphon!’

“It was no gryphon that came from the dark cave, but his sweetheart, and the stonecutter was so overjoyed that he laid down the spear and picked her up in his arms. He almost didn’t see the gryphon’s shadow as it passed over them. ‘Get back!’ he cried to Irina, pushing her towards the cave. He snatched up the spear and turned to face the gryphon. But Irina didn’t leave him. She stood at his back and braced him as the gryphon swooped low. And because the stonecutter believed it was Yuri the Slayer’s spear and knew that he couldn’t miss, the spearhead pierced the gryphon’s breast and slid deep into its heart.

“The weight of the gryphon snapped the shaft of the spear. It tumbled the stonecutter and his sweetheart to the ground and very nearly swept them off the rocky ledge. The gryphon shrieked as it fell down the cliff, a sound as sharp and fierce as a battleaxe slicing through armor, and its claws scored long grooves in the granite. By the time it hit the stony ground, it was dead.

“The sharp lion claws had cut open the stone-cutter’s face, but his sweetheart didn’t panic. She took out the needle and thread that were tucked into her bodice and calmly sewed up his cheek. And then they climbed down the cliff together and skirted the gryphon’s great broken-winged body and walked home across the Wasteland.

“‘I broke the spear, Mother Nonni,’ said the stonecutter when they reached the village. ‘Please forgive me.’ But Mother Nonni laughed and told him that it didn’t matter at all.

“The stonecutter was known as Ivan the Slayer thereafter. He had been a plain lad before, and with the broad scar across his face was even plainer, but Irina certainly didn’t care, and nor did anybody else.

“The stonecutter married his sweetheart and they lived very happily. When Mother Nonni died, Irina became the wisest woman in the village, although she could neither read nor write, and people came from far across the Wasteland to seek her advice. In the corner of their little stone house, there always stood a spear. Sometimes the shaft was made of ash, sometimes maple, but it was always strong and sturdy. And from time to time Irina gave the spear to folk who had desperate need of courage. ‘This is Ivan the Slayer’s spear,’ she would say. ‘With it you cannot miss your mark.’ And they never did.”

H
ANTJE’S WORDS BECAME
clearer as the day progressed. “Dark,” he said, distress twisting his face. He gripped Melke’s hand tightly.

“It’s not dark.” She stroked strands of black hair away from his face. “If you open your eyes you’ll see sunlight. I promise you, Hantje, it’s not dark.”

His head turned blindly towards her.

“It’s not dark, Hantje. The sun is shining.”

The deep lines of distress smoothed from his face. His eyelids flickered.

“Open your eyes, Hantje,” she said softly. “Open them and see for yourself.” She held her breath.

Long seconds passed.

Her exhalation was a sigh of disappointment. “Please, Hantje,” she whispered. “Look at me.”

Her brother opened his eyes.

“Hantje!” She leaned close.

He blinked and didn’t seem to see her. His hand was limp in her clasp.

“It’s all right, Hantje. See, it’s not dark. The sun is shining.” She reached out with her free hand to touch his cheek.

Her brother flinched from her.

Melke froze with her hand outstretched. There was pain beneath her breastbone, as if a knife blade was buried there. Hantje was afraid of her.

Her fingers curled into her palm. She lowered her hand. “It’s me,” she said, a tremor in her voice. “It’s Melke. It’s
me
.”

His gray eyes focused slowly. He blinked with heavy eyelids. “Mel...?’’

“Yes. It’s me.” She still held his hand, and his fingers moved weakly, as if to clutch at her. “You’re safe, Hantje. See? The sun is shining. It’s light.”

She reached out to touch him again, slowly, and this time he didn’t flinch from her. She stroked his cheek and smoothed back his hair. “It’s all right, Hantje.”

His face twisted. She saw his distress. “Hush,” she said. “Hush. It’s all right.”

“No.” His fingers fisted around her hand. Tears filled his eyes.

How much did he remember of his crime, of his punishment? Melke eased her hand free of his clenched fingers. “Hush,” she whispered as she gently gathered him close. “Hush. It’s all right.”

She held her brother while he wept, too thin, too weak, too warm still with fever. His words were choked.
Sorry
, she heard him say.
I’m sorry, sorry.

H
ANTJE SLEPT AFTER
that, rousing only when she made him drink, opening his eyes and staring at her. He seemed to recognize her. He didn’t flinch again or draw away in fear, but he said nothing, made no answer to her words of comfort. He closed his eyes and slept again.

“The fever,” said Liana, when she came at dusk. “He’s not fully lucid. It will take several days.” She bent over Hantje.

Melke lit the candles and drew the curtains closed. The bedchamber became full of shadows. She stood back and watched as Liana placed her hand lightly on Hantje’s brow. “Is there another candlestick? I think we need more light.”

Hantje’s eyes opened. His breath was sharply indrawn.

Melke stepped hastily towards the bed. “There are candles, Hantje. See? It’s not dark.”

Hantje didn’t hear her. He sat up, clawing at the sheets in frantic panic, fighting Liana’s grasp. “Dark!” He almost screamed the word.

Endal leaped to his feet. He barked, loud. The sound terrified Hantje into stillness.

“There are candles,” Melke said.

Hantje’s gaze fixed on her. Breath sobbed in his throat. His eyes were wide and staring.

“Candles. You can see me, Hantje. It’s not dark.”

He sat hunched in the sheets, panting, trembling, his gaze clinging to her face. He didn’t appear to notice that Liana touched him gently, that she stroked his hair and smoothed her palm down his cheek.

The girl soothed him with her hands, a frown of concentration on her face. Hantje’s ragged, gasping breaths became slower and more steady. The tension that corded beneath his skin eased. He didn’t flinch when Liana sat on the bed beside him, didn’t pull away as she continued to touch him.

“It’s all right,” Melke said, and Hantje seemed to understand. He stared at her, his eyes wide, as if by keeping her in his sight everything
would
be all right. He didn’t resist as Liana put an arm gently around him.

The girl’s embrace seemed to melt the last of Hantje’s terror and panic. His eyelids drooped slightly. He leaned into her, passive.

“I won’t let it be dark,” Melke said. “I promise, Hantje.”

His eyes squeezed shut. He turned his head and pressed his face against Liana’s shoulder. His hair was as black as midnight against the silver-white of hers. Tears glistened as they slid down his pale cheek.

It hurt to see Hantje’s terror, his panic, those silent, despairing tears. Distress choked in Melke’s throat. She wanted to push the girl aside and hold him herself. But Liana helped Hantje more than she could, her touch soothed and healed.

Her hands curled into helpless fists.

Liana met her eyes. “You’re right. Another candlestick. There’s one in my bedchamber.”

Speech was impossible. Melke nodded.

The extra candles pushed the shadows back. Hantje’s silent weeping stopped. He slid into a calm sleep.

“Go to bed,” the girl said softly, wiping the tears from his thin cheeks. “He’ll be all right now.”

Melke turned away without speaking. It was Liana her brother needed, not her.

Sleep was a long time coming. She lay on the hard, narrow bed and watched the candles burn, tightness in her chest and throat, behind her eyes. Hours passed, while she listened to Endal’s breathing as he slept on the blanket she’d given him, and heard her brother weep and cry out in terror, over and over again.
Dark.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

B
ASTIAN SLICED HIMSELF
another piece of ham and sat at the kitchen table, chewing slowly. It was wrong to be so alone in his own house. Liana ought to be here, sharing lunch with him, and Endal should be lying on the cool flagstones.

Bastian pushed the plate away. He rose to his feet and stood listening. The silence and emptiness made him uneasy. He wanted to go upstairs and quietly open Liana’s door and hear her breathe while she slept, to reassure himself that he wasn’t alone. He wanted to talk to Endal.

He walked soundlessly down the corridor. A voice came from the sickroom, a soft murmur. It was the wrong voice. The wraith’s, not Liana’s. Her pitch was lower.

“There is a little magic in this world. It runs in certain bloodlines.”

Bastian frowned. He recognized those sentences. He strode to the door, quietness forgotten. Breath hissed between his teeth. The wraith had the book.
His
book. The one he’d read aloud to Liana when she was a child. The one his mother had read to him.

Endal opened his eyes.

Where did she get that book?
Bastian demanded.

Liana gave it to her.

Liana. Bastian’s hands knotted. How could his sister have done such a thing?

Why are you angry?
Endal asked. His mouth stretched in a wide yawn.

Because I don’t want her touching it
, Bastian told him. That book was precious. It shouldn’t be pawed over by a filthy wraith.

Endal’s shrug was silent.
The sick one likes it. He rests more easily.

I don’t care!

He heard, clearly, how petty his rage was, how selfish. He glared at Endal, daring him to say anything.

“Here is the tale of a girl who could run as fast as the wind.”

The wraith spoke with the accent of an easterner, the soft
s
and purring
r
, the long vowels. The cadence was almost musical.