A Bright and Terrible Sword Read online

  It was a stupid thought. This war had always enlisted children. Stephanie. Jee. Katharine. Rawnie. My son.

  What of my son?

  The web girl jerked her head sideways to peer back over her shoulder. I strained my senses but could detect nothing. She said hurriedly, ‘I must go. But listen well, Roger Kilbourne. Let no hisaf see you like this, no matter which side you believe him to be on. Mother Chilton will meet you at the junction of the Rivers Thymar and Albustrine at dusk tomorrow night. If you hurry, you can be there by then. I must go!’

  I bit the hem of her gown and held on, growling deep in my throat. She looked startled, then angry. ‘Let that free! Oh, yes, your son is safe with us. Now stop you – I must go!’

  A brown rabbit stood before me, and the next moment had raced into the brush.

  I still could not see what had prompted her to leave. No scent came to me, no sound. Unless it was the owl hooting in a distant pine, but I did not think so. The web women, as always, shared as little knowledge as possible with hisafs, even me. Perhaps especially with me.

  When I returned to camp, Rawnie was nearly asleep. She raised her eyelids to half-mast and said scornfully, ‘You were gone long enough. And why are you all wet? Don’t lie next to me!’

  I growled at her, lay down, and tried to remember where the River Thymar met the Albustrine. ‘Do you think you are some variety of hero, creating what could be yet another weapon for Soulvine Moor?’ the web girl had said. I did not feel like a hero. Or, if this be heroism, I would rather it had fallen to someone else. Anyone else.

  And the next day, I wished it even more.

  19

  With hard travel that strained my every muscle, left the horse covered in foam, and made Rawnie cry out every time she slid from her mount to crumple to the ground, we reached the place of two rivers by dusk the next day. No one was there.

  ‘Roger, why did you push me so hard?’ Rawnie said. ‘I can barely feel my legs. And I’m so hungry! Why, Roger? This place looks no different from anywhere else!’

  Petulance and weariness blinded Rawnie; this place was different. We had travelled by fields and woods, leaving the main road until we’d reached the Albustrine, a swift small river frothing with silvery rapids. Then we had followed the river. The Albustrine was too shallow for boats, and so the countryside had been peopled only with far-flung farms and the occasional mill village, all easily avoided. As it neared the Thymar, the Albustrine flowed wider and slower and then, with a last tumble of small waterfall, joined the great river.

  I stood on its south bank. Broad and slow, the Thymar was the main navigation route for The Queendom, and tonight the moon was full and the air warm. In the blue twilight lighted barges glided downriver as silently as stars. The barges would be empty, having left their rich cargoes of vegetables, meat, wine, cloth, artisan works at the island capital of Glory.

  Above me a great willow dipped its branches into the water. Across the river a few barges made for shore to tie up for the night, but none would choose this place. Beyond this bank the land made a shallow shelf, thick with reeds and cattails and sedge. Only a small, light boat could reach my hidden place under the drooping willow.

  Small craft were out there among the barges, everything from boys in leaky wherries, hooting at every passing vessel, to the sumptuous pleasure barges of the quality. On such a boat, thick with cushions and graced with musicians, had Cecilia and her friends passed summer evenings on the river.

  Cecilia. Was her mother being punished for having helped Rawnie to escape Galtryf? That ruined, grey pile of rock seemed another country from the River Thymar. Yet it was Galtryf that so lethally threatened the prosperity and peace spread out before me on the river.

  My nose twitched. A small skiff, without lights, glided through the reed-choked water towards me. Someone guided it with a pole, someone I could see only in silhouette, someone seemingly too small for the task. Behind me Rawnie still complained; above me a mourning dove gave its low single note. Frogs jumped from hummocks into the river, away from the skiff. It neared the bank and through the blue dusk I saw that the pole-man was Jee.

  He had grown since I saw him last, but not by much. Across ten feet of water we stared at each other, boy and beast. Jee wore rough riverman’s garb with high boots, but not as if accustomed to it. For more than half a year now he had been at the palace, page to the young queen.

  ‘Roger,’ he said to the moor cur on the bank, and it was not a question. I could smell his acceptance of me, in whatever guise I appeared, just as he always had. Bred in the Unclaimed Lands, Jee had the countryman’s knowledge of how bizarre the world can become, but the gaze he turned on me was more than that. Loyalty was hardened into Jee’s bones, liquid in his blood, woven into the sinews of his strong little heart. He would die for me, for Maggie, for the little Queen Stephanie, and never count the cost.

  On the skiff stood a small crude tent. Jee poled the craft to shore as the tent opened and Mother Chilton crawled out. She did not try to stand on the bobbing skiff but stayed in a spiky crouch. ‘Well, Roger Kilbourne, we encounter each other again, and even more strangely.’

  Was she going to reproach me, as the web girl had done? I didn’t care. She was here, which meant I was no longer alone. Although, looking at Mother Chilton, she did not seem much of an ally: so old that her spine curved like a weighted sapling. Her face creased into wrinkles deep as valleys among dry hills. But her eyes still pierced me, those grey, almost colourless eyes that seemed to gather all light into themselves.

  Jee tied the skiff to the willow and helped Mother Chilton ashore, she leaning on his shoulder, both of them splashing through the reeds and hummocks. Rawnie limped through the farther branches of the willow.

  ‘Roger! I heard voices! Are you—’ She stopped, peering through the gloom at the two strangers.

  ‘Come here, child, so I can see you,’ Mother Chilton said. ‘No, not there – stand in the moonlight by the water. Do so now.’

  Scowling, Rawnie obeyed, although I suspect she did so more to see the two strangers than to be seen. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I am Mother Chilton.’

  ‘I don’t know you. Who are you?’ she said, swinging her gaze to Jee, who said nothing.

  ‘That is Jee,’ Mother Chilton said.

  ‘Can’t he talk?’

  ‘He talks when he has something to say, which would be good advice for you, too, daughter of Rawley and Charlotte.’

  ‘How do you know that? Roger, who are these people?’ Rawnie demanded, obviously expecting no answer. Her scowl deepened; her freckled little face shone taut and pale in the moonlight.

  Mother Chilton said, ‘I know a great deal about you, child. Since Roger has inhabited a creature he should never have meddled with, I will need to talk to you, too, about Galtryf. But Roger first. Roger, you can at least indicate yea or nay, can you not?’

  I nodded, the gesture feeling as stiff as ever.

  ‘Good. What happened at Galtryf? We know that Katharine was there, that you did not succeed in destroying her in the Country of the Dead. We could feel her growing, a centre of power in the web of being, but we did not know in what form. Stephanie tried to reach you in dreams. Did she succeed?’

  I nodded.

  Rawnie said, ‘Who’s Stephanie?’

  Mother Chilton ignored her. To me she continued, ‘Then, abruptly, that centre of power disappeared. What form had Katharine taken, Roger? She was the granddaughter of one of us and obviously had talent, but we did not know how tutored it was. What did she become?’

  Mother Chilton’s eyes, sunken in her fantastic mass of wrinkles but still clear in the moonlight, pierced me. But without speech, how could I possibly answer her? Frustration swamped me.

  Rawnie said defiantly, ‘There was a hisaf dog that Roger was supposed to fight.’

  ‘A dog?’ Mother Chilton said. ‘That could not have been Katharine.’

  ‘Who’s Katharine?’

  ‘Be quiet, c
hild, you know nothing.’

  ‘I know everything, you old witch!’ Rawnie shouted. ‘Roger, tell her! You were supposed to fight a bad dog and I think you killed it!’

  Three faces looking at me. I nodded.

  It was the only time I have ever seen Mother Chilton wordless. And I felt a mean, stupid satisfaction: For a moment she was as mute as I. But how had Rawnie known that? By eavesdropping of course. Skulking into corners, creeping behind furniture or rocks, straining at keyholes.

  She repeated, ‘Who’s Katharine? Who’s Stephanie?’

  Jee spoke for the first time. ‘Queen Stephanie to ye.’

  ‘Oh!’ Rawnie said. ‘That Stephanie! And she sends you dreams, Roger? How come you never told me? I tell you things! Is she a web woman?’

  Mother Chilton ignored all this. To me she said, ‘We had hoped the growing source of power was connected to the children … where do they go, Roger?’

  I stared at her with incomprehension, shook my head. The children went nowhere. Their tranced, undecaying bodies stayed with their grieving kin, and their souls were devoured by Soulvine Moor in its lust to live for ever. Mother Chilton already knew that. I didn’t even understand her question. Hadn’t the web women witnessed the Brotherhood stealing children? They seemed to know so much. They must have at least witnessed the half of that monstrous procedure that took place in the land of the living.

  But if they had not, I could not tell them about it.

  Mother Chilton saw my frustration and turned to simple questions, to which I could nod or shake my head.

  ‘Are Rawley and Charlotte in Galtryf?’

  Yes.

  ‘And Maggie?’

  Yes.

  ‘When you left, all three lived?’

  Yes.

  ‘And you do not know, learned no clue, about where the children go?’

  Again I did not understand the question. Mother Chilton sighed. ‘I had hoped for more information from you, Roger Kilbourne. Child, tell me everything you witnessed, from the moment you and your mother were taken. Leave nothing out. Begin now.’

  Rawnie, torn between fury at these imperious commands and the desire to accomplish what we’d come for, glared at Mother Chilton, kicked at a root by her feet, and began to talk. She recounted everything in great detail, warming to the attention as she was allowed to speak without interruption. But what she recited that was new to me, mostly details of her abduction and captivity, was not important, and what was important, I already knew. She finished with, ‘So that’s why we need an army, Roger and me. With an army we can rescue Mama and Papa and Roger’s friend Maggie. If you know Princess Stephanie – I mean, Queen Stephanie – you ought to be able to get an army for us. If the queen is sending dreams to Roger, especially!’

  Rawnie took a step backward, an actress thrilled with her own performance, a seeker confident of being rewarded with what she sought.

  Mother Chilton said, ‘That is not possible, child.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said that is not possible. There will be no rescue.’

  ‘But you have to! You must!’ Rawnie clenched her fists and advanced on Mother Chilton. Instantly Jee was between them. Mother Chilton spoke over his shoulder; in her stooped age, she was little taller than he.

  ‘Listen, Rawnie, and you, too, Roger. I know what you hope. Inside Galtryf, the Brotherhood have no more power than we do, that much is true. Hisafs may not cross over, and women of the soul arts may employ neither dream arts nor soul-sharing ones. That is the result of the terrible battles that brought Galtryf Keep to ruin, battles fought long before Roger was even born. So you believe that within Galtryf, both hisafs and Soulviners are just men and may be attacked like men. The fortress is ruined, the men and women within are few in number, and a small force of trained soldiers could capture the whole easily. In that, you are right.

  ‘But consider further. Even if I were to convince Lord Robert Hopewell that The Queendom is in danger from Soulvine Moor – and I could perhaps do so – his army must first travel to Galtryf. They must cross a third of The Queendom, climb through the Unclaimed Lands, ride or march across Soulvine Moor itself. The Brotherhood and Soulvine have so few people at Galtryf because they are spread thinly across the countryside. The Brotherhood steals children. The Soulviners gather as watchers, to form what you call “vortexes”. Both groups have spies everywhere. Lord Robert’s army would be seen before it had so much as crossed the River Thymar. Long before it could reach Galtryf, Rawley and Charlotte and Maggie would have been murdered. And you, Roger – how long can your body stay alive in Galtryf while you parade across three lands in that animal guise you have so unwisely adopted? You, too, would be dead before Lord Robert’s army reached Galtryf.

  ‘I am sorry, children. It cannot be done.’

  Silence, heavy and terrible as the grave pressing on me when I crossed over. I was being made to cross now, into truth. Mother Chilton spoke truth. The thing could not be done.

  Rawnie burst into wailing tears and flailed her arms, her fists harmlessly glancing off Jee, who still shielded Mother Chilton. He pushed her away and she fell to the ground, sobbing. Jee knelt beside her, making soft ineffectual noises of consolation. Mother Chilton watched me.

  ‘Roger Kilbourne, you have fought well, if mistakenly, for what you love. I am sorry it must end this way. I must return now to Stephanie, who may say her good-bye to you in a dream. Or not – she has enough control now to use the conduit, even though he himself still has none.’

  None of this made sense to me, and I didn’t care. I cared only about Maggie. I could not rescue her, and I myself must die soon. Maggie, Maggie, once more I failed you … But such thoughts were intolerable. Better to think of something else, anything else! So I looked at Mother Chilton, and something in my stance must have conveyed information to her, because she said, ‘You do not know?’

  Know what?

  ‘No, you do not,’ Mother Chilton said. ‘I thought that Stephanie might have … I am losing control over what she dreams to you. As I said, she is growing stronger in her arts. But only when she uses, as we all do, the conduit that replaced Katharine. Do you not remember, Roger, that I told you once she was the conduit for Soulvine Moor? Her unnatural living presence among the Dead made it possible for Soulvine Moor to begin their unnatural quest. Now they are strong enough to do so without her. But we, too, have our centre of power, one such as is born once in a thousand years. He can affect nothing himself, no more than can the centre of a spider web move into action. But all strands of the web flow through him. He is the conduit for others’ power. He is our last hope.

  ‘Do you really not remember this, Roger, even in your current form? I have told you before, and so did Alysse. The conduit is unclear still because he is so young. He is your son, Roger. He is the one. As I have told you before.’

  The skiff had left, Jee poling silently through the marsh and then rowing upriver in the growing darkness. Numbly I watched the little craft, its tent hiding Mother Chilton, grow smaller and smaller on the black waters, until I could see it no longer. Rawnie still lay on the ground, sobbing. Mother Chilton had tried to persuade her to go with them to Glory – ‘What will happen to you if you stay here, child?’ – but she had refused, kicking so hard that even Jee had given up. He had left her a bundle taken from the tent. He had also bent to give me a look of compassion so painful I had run off into the trees rather than endure it. But now I was back, having no place else to go, and not caring much if I had.

  My son, the centre of Mother Chilton’s web. Maggie, whom I could not help and would never see again. Myself, soon to die when my body expired in Galtryf. And then I would sit mindless in the Country of the Dead, until I was devoured by Soulvine Moor.

  My son, the centre of Mother Chilton’s web. Maggie, whom I could not help and would never see again …

  An owl hooted in the willow above. The river lapped gently at the shore. Frogs splashed into the water. A hundred night sounds came
to me, a hundred night scents. And soon I would experience none of them, and neither would Maggie. Unless she was already dead.

  Rawnie had stopped crying; perhaps she had sobbed herself to sleep. The night was warm enough that I did not try to cover her. This might be my last night alive. I fought to stay awake so as to miss none of it. And yet I could not really see it, really hear it, really smell it while my thoughts tumbled in their bleak pain.

  My son, the centre of Mother Chilton’s web. Maggie, whom I could not help and would never see again …

  No creature can hold off sleep for ever. I had travelled hard all day. Despite myself, my despair slid into sleep. The moonlit grotto formed by the willow faded around me, the coarse river grass beneath me, the rustling leaves above me. Into the void of their passing came Stephanie’s dream.

  And all changed yet again.

  20

  Swirling colours, vague shapes. But I was half awake under the willow, or perhaps I dreamed that I was half awake, or perhaps both were true at once. At any rate, a part of my mind understood that the shifting colours and half-distinguished shapes were in the infant mind of my son, through which the dream came. The conduit.

  A figure emerges from the bright swirl, a small figure with something bright on her head. A crown. Stephanie’s voice comes shockingly clear and unchildlike – shockingly because, for the first time ever, she sounds as commanding as her dead mother. I had not thought that possible. ‘Roger,’ Stephanie says, ‘wait there. Do not leave. I so order.’

  I try to answer, but no words come from my moor cur throat, and so—

  ‘Roger!’ Rawnie screamed in my ear. ‘I dreamed!’