A Bright and Terrible Sword Read online

  The scream sent me leaping to my feet, teeth bared. Rawnie ignored my teeth, my raised hackles, my attack crouch. She threw her arms around me and went on screaming. ‘The queen said to wait here! I think they’re coming!’

  One should not throw arms around a confused moor cur. Only with the greatest difficulty did I jerk my head to the side so that my teeth closed on air rather than on her arm. This, too, Rawnie ignored.

  ‘Did you hear me, Roger? That little queen sent me a dream and told us to wait right here! They must be going to send an army after all!’

  Even with my wits once more assembled, this did not seem likely to me. Stephanie might have meant … oh, anything. That she would send more food, that she would send soldiers to claim Rawnie. This last seemed most probable. I was going to die, and without help Rawnie might, too. Or so Stephanie, delicate and usually timid, might think. (But, some part of my brain whispered, she did not sound timid in your dream.)

  It was not yet dawn. The moon had set and a thousand stars danced on the dark river. On the opposite north shore, a distant light bobbed as some boatman or fisherman made an early start on the water. I could barely see Rawnie in silhouette, but I could smell her joy.

  ‘I’m so hungry! Oh, look, that boy must have left this bundle last night – do you think there’s food in it?’

  Of course there was food in it. Not only could I smell it, during the night I had growled sleepily at one badger and two squirrels who had approached the pack. Rawnie tore it open.

  ‘Bread and cheese and oh, look! Meat tarts, you shall have one too, silly Roger. Probably we will set out today for Galtryf and you will need your strength. Here, you may have the biggest one – aren’t I thoughtful of you? Here’s something! Trousers and a tunic! Mama would never let me dress as a boy no matter how much I begged her but I see that old woman knew better, or maybe it was the boy. What a strange boy! He hardly spoke at all. Oh, there’s ants on the bread, they get into everything, no matter, I can brush them off … How long do you think it will be before the army arrives?’

  For once, I was glad I could not answer. Not that Rawnie would have listened to my nay-saying anyway. She believed what she wished to believe.

  Throughout breakfast she went on prattling. The east brightened and then the sun rose. It would be a hot, clear day. Rawnie changed into her boy’s clothing, first making me turn my back. She made a neat pack of the remaining food, her warm cloak, and the rest of her meagre belongings. Then she sat on the riverbank, boots off and toes dangling in the shallow water, to wait for the army that would not come. I lay beside her, dreading her inevitable disappointed rage.

  As the morning wore on, boats crowded the river. Barges were pulled upriver by horses or mules on the opposite bank. Skiffs and wherries were rowed by stout men. Pleasure craft drifted downriver or were poled closer to shore, although not so close as the wide, marshy shelf of land before Rawnie and me. When a craft came close enough, she hallooed and waved, while I shrunk back into the brush. Nearly always the people aboard hallooed or waved back.

  So much peace and prosperity, and The Queendom at its loveliest summer best. Was all this to be destroyed by Soulvine Moor, in their unnatural quest to live for ever? I did not know what the Moor and the Brotherhood would do next. Perhaps destroying enough of The Queendom’s children would gain them their aim, perhaps not. How many children would be required? And had they some further means of harvesting more of them, once their power had grown sufficiently? My killing Katharine – twice – had apparently not even slowed this monstrous war.

  No country can survive without its children.

  By noon, Rawnie was restless. She waded in the marshy river, caught a frog, let it go. She washed the horse, tethered a short distance away, with river water, a task to which the horse objected. She made a daisy chain and tore the petals into tiny bits. She hunted, vainly, for a four-leaf clover among the coarse river grasses, which held no clover. Finally she burst out, ‘Where the by damn are they?’

  I said nothing.

  ‘How far away is that stupid palace? You know how far, Roger, you’ve been there! Mama said so! Tap your paw for how many miles it is!’

  I had no idea how many miles.

  ‘Stupid Roger. And Mama told me you had such wit! Of course,’ she added, in a generous attempt to be fair, ‘she didn’t know you were going to become a moor cur.’

  The mention of her mother seemed to sober Rawnie. She sat on the bank, staring sullenly at the water. A skiff went by, hallooing and pointing at us, and she didn’t even respond.

  The hallooing and pointing grew louder. And it was not at us, but a little way upriver.

  Then I caught the scent. Men and horses.

  By the time they reached us, riding over fields on our south bank of the river, I knew that they had not come merely to escort Rawnie to the palace. Fifty men fully armed, and at their head, two figures. One was Lord Robert Hopewell himself, mounted on his magnificent black charger. Beside him, looking small on a large roan and holding on for dear life, sat Jee.

  Rawnie capered and yelled. I sat on my haunches in the shadow of a gorse bush, stunned. Had Jee not heard what Mother Chilton said last night? No army could approach Galtryf without causing Jago to kill Maggie, Charlotte, and my father and then flee. What had happened at the palace to bring an army here?

  ‘Look, Roger!’ Rawnie shouted. ‘Don’t they look fine!’

  Lord Robert halted his men in the meadow behind the willow tree and beside the Albustrine, where Rawnie’s horse had been the sole contender for the field grass. He dismounted, lifted Jee from the boy’s uneasy saddle, and strode towards us. When I glimpsed Lord Robert’s face, I almost could feel pity. When I had known him, he had neither believed in nor trusted what he called ‘witchcraft’. First I had challenged that stance and now, I guessed, Stephanie had. His handsome face had aged much in the past year.

  Rawnie rushed forward. ‘You came! You, boy … what’s your name again?’

  ‘Jee.’ He gazed at Rawnie, in her boy’s clothing, with open distaste. Stephanie, dainty and small, always wore modest gowns and spoke in a soft, feminine voice.

  ‘Jee, thank you for bringing the army! Who are you?’

  ‘Lord Robert Hopewell, Regent for Her Grace Queen Stephanie and High Commander of Her Grace’s army,’ he said, somewhere between irritation and amusement. Rawnie’s mouth made a round pink O. Then, with some remembrance of the manners Charlotte must have desperately tried to fasten onto her, she made The Queendom’s most awkward curtsey, nearly tumbling over onto the grass.

  But Lord Robert’s attention had already left her. His gaze found me, and now his expression was too complicated to read, although I would not have liked to encounter it over duelling pistols. He spoke to Jee. ‘This is really Roger Kilbourne, the erstwhile Queen’s Fool?’

  ‘It be Roger, my lord.’ Jee’s soft voice, still in the accent of the Unclaimed Lands that had bred him, held tension. And I could smell it on both of them. The lord regent, the most powerful man in The Queendom, and the upcountry page insisted on by the little queen, had clashed on this matter, perhaps on many matters. Life at court must still be as complex and faction-ridden as I remembered from Queen Caroline’s reign.

  Lord Robert gazed down at me. ‘The same Roger Kilbourne that rescued Her Grace from Tarek’s army, the same that …’ Abruptly he swung to face Jee. ‘You are sure, page?’

  ‘I am, my lord.’

  Rawnie said loudly, ‘Of course that’s Roger! That old woman knew it last night, why don’t you?’

  ‘Be quiet, child,’ Lord Robert said. ‘How dare you speak to me like that?’

  Rawnie’s face went white, then red. She kicked Lord Robert in the shin. Outraged, he grabbed her, held her at arm’s length so she could not repeat the offence, and swatted her behind. She began to shout curses, so he swatted her again. Jee ignored all of this, dropping to one knee beside me and speaking urgently into my ear.

  ‘He did not wish to co
me to ye, Roger, but Stephanie made him. She be the queen, and she maun do what be best for The Queendom. I told her of Maggie in the fortress, and of ye witched into what ye be now, and of the babes being tranced like the Dead. Can ye believe it, Lord Robert had not told her! I learned of it in the city, and if it be not for me, my lady would never know aught. Lord Robert treats her like a child.’

  Stephanie was seven years old, Jee eleven.

  ‘I told her, too, of what ye had done to save the palace from the Blues, those years ago. To save her mother. And she did not know that, either. And then I told her what she maun do now.’

  Jee had told her, the queen. Jee, whom Stephanie had clung to on our journey months ago through the Country of the Dead. Jee, whom Stephanie apparently trusted with that blind loyalty of which her ruthless mother had been incapable. Jee, who had convinced Stephanie to order Lord Robert here in order to do – what?

  Jee gazed at me, his eyes dark and shifting as ash, and all at once I knew what he intended. For a moment I could not catch my breath. We stared at each other, and he nodded quietly.

  Rawnie, not quiet, had been turned over to one of Lord Robert’s lieutenants, who had dismounted and walked through the drooping branches of the great willow. He held Rawnie firmly and I heard him say, ‘Touch Lord Robert again and I will bind you, see if I do not. And stop that screaming or you stay here when we march.’

  He meant it. Rawnie stopped yelling and flailing, although her expression was murderous. But I knew she would not have been left behind, not even if she grabbed Lord Robert’s sword and thrust it through his belly. Lord Robert was no longer directing this campaign. Nor, except for whatever assistance she might have given the little queen, were the elderly Mother Chilton and her web women. Nor were my father and his hisafs, sworn enemies of The Brotherhood and of Soulvine Moor.

  This part of the war would be directed by children. Jee, Stephanie, Rawnie, my infant son. Four children and a moor cur, poised to save two realms, the living and the dead, through a plan that made even my animal blood run cold in its foreign veins.

  21

  We could not bring the horses. That much was clear even to Lord Robert, who nonetheless hated the idea. But, then, he hated everything Jee had planned, everything Jee had asked Queen Stephanie to order done. As Lord Robert gave commands to his men, his face looked like a man eating pickles.

  ‘Dismount. Grooms, assume control of mounts. Captains, tight three-column formation.’

  Much shuffling of men, hooves, armour. The wildflowers in the little meadow became trampled. On passing boats, people craned their necks to see and shouted indistinguishable words. The soldiers made three columns of sixteen men, a captain heading each and Lord Robert with his man-at-arms in front.

  Rawnie knelt beside me. ‘What are they doing?’ When I did not even glance at her, she turned reluctantly to Jee. ‘Boy, what are they doing?’

  He did not answer either.

  She rolled her eyes and said, with an elaborate show of mock courtesy, ‘Jee, what are they doing?’

  ‘They be invading Galtryf.’

  Rawnie frowned, and then her eyes widened as she worked it out in her mind. Springing forward, she grabbed her little bundle, raced back to me, and twined her grubby hand firmly in the fur of my neck. I shook her free. She grabbed my tail.

  Lord Robert choked out, ‘Each man grab hold of the one ahead of him. Hold on tightly.’

  The men looked at each other, scowling or puzzled or already angry. On a few faces, older men, I saw the first dawning of comprehension. They remembered the battle three years ago at the palace. Heads swung around, looking wildly for the queen’s fool. The three captains looked grim but unsurprised. They had known what was coming.

  ‘This will provoke you,’ Lord Robert said, and I wondered how long it had taken him to choose that particular word. ‘It will not be pleasant. But when we arrive at Galtryf, remember that you are fighting the enemy there in the name of The Queendom and of Queen Stephanie. Long live the queen!’

  ‘Long live the queen!’ the men returned. This, at least, they understood. Their fear stank in my nostrils, and it would only increase.

  No hisaf could cross into or out of Galtryf from the Country of the Dead. But I was not coming from the Country of the Dead. No web woman, the mouse-woman had told me, could enter the gates of Galtryf as a mouse, a swan, a deer, a hawk: ‘That would be possible only if I had guised to my soul-sharer while inside the castle’s reach, and I did not.’ But I was not a web woman, nor was I entering the gates of Galtryf in a soul-sharing state. My body was already there.

  Anyway, this plan was all we had.

  Jee stepped forward and wrapped one arm around Lord Robert’s waist. The three captains and the man-at-arms locked arms around each other’s shoulders, and Lord Robert did the same to the captain at the left. I moved forward from the hidden shelter of the bushes, rose on my hind legs like a faire dog trained to amuse the crowd, and planted my front paws on the back of Jee’s shoulders. The soldiers broke discipline to murmur – one even cried out – but at a sharp word from Lord Robert they fell silent, taut as lute strings. Rawnie gripped my tail so hard I nearly shook her off again, but her grip was the only thing preventing me from sticking the tail between my legs.

  And so I crossed back into my body.

  It was just as three years ago, and it was not. Then I had crossed the grave, bringing the Blue army with me. It was not the grave I crossed now, but the weight of the men dragged at me just the same. I struggled to surmount the well, and the struggle went on and on and on so that there was time for a thousand thoughts, all black with despair:

  What if this bastard art, half hisaf and half web woman, did not permit me to cross back with others attached to me?

  What if the chamber in Galtryf that held my body was too small for so many? Would soldiers end up inside solid rock?

  What if this unnatural effort killed me – what then of these others?

  What if—

  What—

  On and on and on—

  In the distance someone was crying. How could that be, in the grave? How could I hear it? All at once, a woman’s scream, and then I lay on a pallet of straw, unable to move from weakness, labouring hard just to breathe. A woman bent over me, whirling around and crying out as soldiers abruptly filled the room.

  Maggie.

  Maggie lived.

  A long bare room, rubble at one end. Lord Robert shouted commands and his soldiers rushed the door. It was not locked. In a moment all were gone except for two, guarding the door. Rawnie would have rushed after them, crying ‘Mama!’ but Jee tackled her to the hard floor.

  ‘Ye maun stay here till the place be secured.’

  ‘Let me go!’ Rawnie screamed.

  Maggie gaped at us. ‘Jee?’

  Rawnie tore free and ran for the door, only to be stopped and thrown back by one of the guard. Jee got to his feet. Maggie threw her arms around him and burst into tears. ‘But how … how …’

  She looked back at the pallet and my gaze met hers.

  Her face went dazed and still, as if hit on the back of the head by a rock. When she finally managed to speak, her voice did not sound like Maggie. ‘Roger …’

  Jee said simply, ‘He be back. And he brought the rescue.’

  She looked wildly from me to the straw, back again, and put her hands over her face. A long shudder shook her entire body. But Maggie was still Maggie. The next moment she had thrown off her fear and she bent over me, raising a waterbag to my lips. ‘Roger … drink …’

  I could not. Everything went dark, came back, wavered again. I was dying.

  And yet I was aware of all I could not see, almost preternaturally aware. From the corridor beyond came screams and the clash of swords. Rawnie argued with the guard. Jee went to Maggie and put his arms around her, and she hung on to him like a drowning woman to a raft. But Jee pushed her gently away, drew a pouch from his belt, and forced something from a vial into my mouth.<
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  ‘This be from Mother Chilton. It might not be enough but it be the best she could do.’

  The liquid from the vial tasted bitter on my tongue. I was too weak to speak. My eyes sought Maggie, who clutched my hand hard and started to cry. The last things I saw were her tears and then Rawnie’s face, thrust angrily over the pallet.

  ‘What the by damn is wrong with you? Roger, don’t you dare die before we find Mama and Papa! Don’t you dare!’

  Darkness.

  I was in the Country of the Dead, and then I was back in the land of the living. No, that was not possible; it only felt real. Others flickered in and out with me.

  I saw Stephanie, and the little queen was crying.

  I saw Maggie, also crying, who laid a cool hand on my forehead and said something I could not hear.

  I saw Alysse, who said to me, ‘I told you already, Roger, that those living and those dead are connected in a vast web. How can it be otherwise, when the Dead were once alive and the alive must someday join the Dead?’

  I saw Jee carrying a sword too large for him. The sword flashed in sunlight, vanished in a clap of sound.

  I saw Tom Jenkins, playing at dice with Fia, while a moor cur capered around them like a court fool.

  I saw my mad half-sister, a dim figure in the fog, mourning, ‘Why did you do it, Roger? Why did you kill me?’

  I saw Lord Robert, scowling as he said, ‘We have won.’

  And I saw Mother Chilton say back to him, ‘You understand nothing.’ But I could not have seen Mother Chilton, she was too old to travel to Galtryf. I could not have seen any of them, because weren’t Alysse and Tom and Fia dead? Was I dead?

  I saw an old man with a white beard and green eyes, who held a knife poised above my heart.

  I flickered in and out of the Country of the Dead, and that could not have happened either, because no one could cross over from inside Galtryf. I was inside Galtryf, was I not? And there was a battle, after which Lord Solek fell on the green tiles outside Queen Caroline’s door … or was that a different battle? I seemed to see the dead Lord Solek arise, his son Tarek behind him, and to hear them chorus at me, ‘Where do they go, Roger?’ while Leo played his lute as accompaniment.