A Bright and Terrible Sword Page 3

  It did not. We walked for the rest of the day, the dog and I, with many pauses to rest and occasional ones to hide whenever a farmer’s cart or a lone horseman passed us on the road. There were not many. No one from Rivertown came after me. The dog had far more energy than I. It trotted tirelessly along the road. Whenever I stopped to rest, it brought me sticks, which I studiously did not notice. It chased three squirrels, catching none of them. It lapped water from roadside ditches. It scratched its fleas, looking up at me and wagging its tail hopefully. I ignored it.

  When I stopped at dusk and made camp, exhausted but pleased with my returning strength, the dog disappeared briefly and then brought me a rabbit. This it laid at my feet, tail swishing madly, green eyes liquid with dumb hope.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, before I thought.

  At the sound of my voice, it practically turned itself inside out with happiness.

  I was stuck with this dog. Even if I had succeeded in sending it away, whoever had sent it already knew where I was. And clearly the dog itself meant me no harm. I skinned and roasted the rabbit and shared it with the creature.

  ‘You need a name, dog.’

  It regarded me thoughtfully. Another memory sliced through me: Maggie suggesting names, all of which I rejected, for the first dog. Was she considering names even now, for our child?

  I said, ‘I’ll call you Hunter.’ An innocuous, common name, and if it meant more than it seemed, only I would know that. The dog finished its share of the rabbit.

  Hunter curled up beside me as I slept, and both his warmth and his presence were comforting.

  I dreamed. It was, and was not, the same dream I had had in the disorderly cottage of John the Small. Once again I dreamed of crossing over, with–

  Darkness—

  Cold—

  Dirt choking my mouth—

  Worms in my eyes—

  Earth imprisoning my fleshless arms and legs—

  The dream crossing brought me not to the Country of the Dead but to the road I had just left, running between crop fields and thick woods and small scattered villages. I stood alone in the middle of the deserted road until I became aware of an unseen presence, a shadow whisper, vague but not as vague as before. A scent I could almost but not quite identify, a sound I almost heard …

  Then I was awake, Hunter stretched out beside me, the dog’s front legs twitching as, in some doggy dream of his own, he ran after bright images in his own unfathomable brain.

  Hunter and I travelled together many more days. The weather cleared and turned warm. Here in The Queendom, so much lower than the mountains I had left behind, it was already early summer. Cattle moved slowly over meadows thick with sweet clover. In the golden light of late afternoon they stood beside farm ponds, their reflections undisturbed in the still waters. Barley and hops and cabbages grew in neat fields bordered by buttercups and daisies. Hunter and I clattered over wooden bridges built across lazy streams clogged with lily pads, and blue and green dragonflies darted over the waters below. And always the air was filled with sound: birdsong, croaks of frogs, the lowing of cattle, the deep whoooo of an owl at dusk.

  Settlements grew closer together, travellers more frequent. Once I allowed myself the luxury of a night at an inn. And so late one afternoon we came to Stonegreen during its spring faire.

  I did not recognize the village until we were in it, and then my bile rose. I had been here before, three and a half years ago, with Hartah. Here my brutal uncle had forced me to work for him as he preyed on the grief of women who had lost a loved one. Here I had met Cat Starling, the beautiful half-wit girl later burned as a witch. Here Hartah had made, or strengthened, his plans for the shipwreck that had altered my life for ever.

  Unchanged was the huge, moss-covered boulder that gave the village its name. Unchanged, too, the painted caravans with the itinerant faire folk: jugglers and fire-eaters and sellers of pewter plates, coloured-glass jewellery, hand mirrors with carved gilded frames – things that village folk could not obtain save twice a year. This was the spring faire, to celebrate the end of planting; there would also be a harvest faire. The booths had been set up in a field at the far end of town. Caravans and worn tents and sale goods remained the same, but nothing else did.

  Silence, thick and heavy as wool, hung over the field. Only a few villagers had come to the faire. Except for a boisterous group under the ale tent, who did not seem to be local, people stood in small serious clumps between tents, talking in low tones. Even the few children seemed subdued, gawking at the booths but not clamouring to be taken inside.

  A figure approached Hunter and me. My stomach clenched. I remembered him: Kah the Fire Eater, a small wiry man in bizarre turquoise breeches, soft slippers like a lady’s, and swirls of colour on his face and naked chest. He had been travelling faires when Hartah had had his booth. ‘Sir, be ye from this place?’

  ‘No,’ I said, with relief. He did not recognize me. Bearded, one-handed, years older, there was little to connect me with Roger Kilbourne, Hartah’s timorous and resentful nephew.

  ‘Ye be a stranger here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then ye don’t know what has happened.’

  ‘No – what?’

  ‘That’s what I be asking ye,’ Kah said. His face furrowed in frustration, creasing the bright paint. ‘The folk be not coming to the faire! How are we to eat if they don’t come and buy?’

  ‘Has there … has there been plague here?’

  ‘Plague? No! Nothing like that, nothing a man can understand. I think the villagers all be daft. They talk on and on of their babes, as if the small ones all died, but from what I hear, they ain’t!’ He glared at me as if I were responsible for these babies, dead or alive.

  ‘Then what—’ I had trouble getting the words out ‘—what did happen to their children?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Kah said, disgusted. ‘Not dead, not sickly, not stolen. Just gone quiet. What be ill about a quiet child? A blessing, if you ask me – children make too much by damn noise anyway.’

  Gone quiet. Like the infant in the cottage at Rivertown? Like all the infants under a year old at Rivertown? I managed to say, ‘How many babies—’

  ‘I don’t know, and it makes no cheese ale to me.’ All at once he looked hopeful. ‘Would ye like to see a display of fire-eating, sir? Fresh from performing afore the Princess herself and all her titled court and—’ He scanned my tattered clothing, and hope wilted. ‘No, I suppose ye would not.’

  ‘Are the infants—’

  But he had turned and strode off.

  So it had happened here, too. But … what had happened? Infants put into the quiescent trance of the Dead, but here in the land of the living. How long ago?

  All at once I had to know. Did the babes relapse into mindlessness, then wither from lack of food, and die? If so, this could be no more than a new, terrible disease to which the infant brain was particularly susceptible. But if the children did not wither, if they remained as whole and plump as the Dead did on the other side, then this was no mortal illness.

  I ran after Kah so fast that Hunter gave a startled bark and then a great bound to catch up. ‘Kah! How long ago did the babes here—’

  He turned and stared at me. ‘How do ye know my name?’

  ‘I … you told it to me!’

  ‘I did not. Do I know ye?’ He squinted at my face, and my heart began a long slow thud in my chest. ‘Ye do look familiar, lad …’

  ‘I don’t think so. But I … I heard your name at the inn. From some boys in the stableyard, who wish to come to your performance.’

  ‘Oh.’ He scanned the forlorn faire. ‘Then where be these boys?’

  ‘I don’t know. But can you tell me if the babes—’

  ‘Pox on the babes!’ Again he strode off.

  I let him go. I could not stay here at Stonegreen. If Kah had almost recognized me, then others might do so. I walked towards the river, Hunter at my heels. Once away from the faire, I struck out
across the fields back towards the main road.

  Someone followed me.

  At first, I wasn’t sure. The figure stayed far enough behind me that I could not tell anything about it – a man? Woman? The figure seemed to be carrying something. Some poor farmer lugging home on foot goods bought at the faire? Perhaps a girl, blanket in hand, stealing away from her parents to meet a youth in the woods. Or had someone in Stonegreen recognized me? There were many in The Queendom with good reason to wish me ill. Loyalists to Queen Caroline. Kin to soldiers I had caused to be killed in battle. Those who would burn anyone suspected of witchcraft.

  As the miles increased and the figure neither disappeared nor gained on me, I became certain. I was being followed. ‘Hunter, go see,’ I said to the dog. He wagged his tail, licked my hand, and stuck his nose in a rabbit hole under a hedgerow.

  Nonetheless, Hunter made me feel safer. I had seen what dogs like him could do. Even though I knew that, having had Hunter more than a week, I would not have him much longer. And then – would I be sent another dog? Sent by whom?

  The figure was no longer behind me.

  Startled, I put up my hand to shade my eyes against the lowering sun, setting at the western end of the road. Had the person turned off into the woods to follow some track to cottage or wood cutter’s hut, or to make camp in the woods?

  Uneasy, I left the road to make my own camp. A half mile through the trees, walking as carefully as I knew how to leave no trail. The evening was far advanced but enough light lingered for me to discover a spring of sweet fresh water gushing from a hillside. I would not risk a fire lest it call attention to me; the night was warm enough and I had bread and dried cherries in my pack. I ate with my back against an old oak, Hunter curled beside me. The moon rose, full and round and yellow as one of Maggie’s sweet cheeses.

  Maggie … what was she doing right now? Asleep in her sister’s house at Tanwell? Sitting beside the hearth, sewing garments for our child? Or maybe gazing at this same moon in sorrow at the wreck I had made of her life: a fatherless babe, a husbandless mother. Did she hate me for abandoning her? Maggie, I will make it up to you, all of it—

  ‘Hello, Roger Kilbourne,’ a voice said behind me, and my world shattered.

  4

  I leapt up to face the intruder. He was small, a few years older than I, much shorter and even scrawnier. He wore rough brown clothing, old boots, and a large pack strapped to his back. With the moonlight falling full on his face, his scar stood out vividly, a long half-healed gash from hairline to chin running over the left side of his mouth, so that both upper and lower lip swelled and twisted. He pointed a gun directly at my heart.

  And Hunter merely gazed up at him curiously.

  I fought to control my fear. ‘Who are you? What do you want?’

  ‘What I don’t want is to hurt you. This savage weapon is merely because I don’t want you to hurt me. I am not much of a fighter.’

  This last was said with bitterness. But I could see that he would indeed be bad in a fight. His shoulders were no wider than a girl’s, and the hands that held the gun were small-boned and dainty. Even I, one-handed, could probably take him in a struggle. But there was nothing dainty nor timid about the dark eyes above the barrel of his gun. They burned with feeling.

  Hunter scratched absently at a flea.

  Irritation at the dog kept me silent. Wasn’t Hunter here to protect me? He was doing a piss-poor job so far. But I have learned that if one says nothing, often the other person will begin to talk. Few can bear an unbroken and tense silence.

  This youth was not one of them. His voice, high with strain, tumbled out words as a grinder tumbles out sausage meat. ‘I said I mean you no harm and it’s true, Roger Kilbourne. You must believe that. I will put down the gun as soon as you assure me that you won’t harm me. Nor will your dog.’

  My dog found another interesting flea on his backside.

  I said, ‘How do you know my name?’

  ‘That is part of what I will tell you as soon as you tell me that you won’t harm me.’ The gun had started to wobble slightly, from either heaviness or fear.

  ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Leo Tollers. You see how frank I am with you.’

  ‘It could be a made-up name.’

  ‘It is not.’

  ‘Then Leo—’

  ‘Answer me! Have I your assurance or not?’

  ‘After one more question. If I give you my assurance that I will not harm you, why would you believe it?’

  ‘Because I know a great deal about you, Roger Kilbourne. And I have information you would like to hear.’

  ‘But if I—’

  His tone became sharper. ‘You are trying to wear me out! No, don’t get to your feet, don’t try to rush me, I tell you I will shoot!’

  If it hadn’t been for those eyes, I might have tested him. A single leap would gain me the gun, which now wobbled even more in his unsteady grip. But his eyes stopped me. They held utter desperation. The desperate, I have learned, often stop at nothing.

  Slowly I eased back to the ground until I sat cross-legged. Hunter, finally aware that something was happening, raised his face to me questioningly. I did not know what ‘information’ Leo Tollers had for me, but I did not trust him. And I did not want anyone in The Queendom tracking me. I was going home to Maggie, and I must not lead anyone to her and my unborn son. Of all the things Mother Chilton had told me, that was the one I believed most.

  There was only one way to escape Leo Tollers. And although Mother Chilton had told me not to do it, my father – curse his faithless bones – had told me it could do no harm. There was no longer any danger to me in the Country of the Dead. My mad sister was gone. I would rather do anything at all than either endanger Maggie or give up going to her.

  With Leo’s gun pointed at me, I bit my tongue hard, willed my mind, and I crossed over.

  Darkness—

  Cold—

  Dirt choking my mouth—

  Worms in my eyes—

  Earth imprisoning my fleshless arms and legs—

  And then I stood on the far side of the grave. I had not been here in months, not since the onset of last winter, but the Country of the Dead had not changed. Here was the sunless grey sky, the motionless trees, the hillside I had just left. Here, too, was one of the circles of the Dead.

  They sat motionless, fourteen of them, facing the centre of the circle, dressed in whatever clothing they had died in. Around each of their heads was a thick, dark grey fog, completely hiding their faces. If I touched that fog I knew I would feel it vibrating like a hive of bees. In the centre of the circle was another patch of the grey fog, humming and spinning. As yet this patch spun slowly, the humming barely audible. But I knew what that patch of fog really was, and what it would eventually do. These were watchers from Soulvine Moor, preparing to destroying these Dead for ever and to take unto themselves the power that the Dead slowly accumulated in their long wait for eternity. That was how war was being fought between Soulvine Moor and those struggling to preserve the barrier between life and death. It was only because of that war – and my past actions – that the barrier had eroded as much as it had.

  But this was no longer my war. My need was simpler. As part of that erosion, I stood here now in body as well as soul. Only a hisaf could do so. I planned to walk towards Tanwell on this side of the grave, for perhaps half a day, then cross back over. There would be no way for Leo Tollers to track me. Even now he must be standing, bewildered and terrified, staring at the spot where a moment before I had sat cross-legged on the ground. Would he fire his gun at the place I had been? I hoped he would not hit Hunter.

  I started to climb the little hillside, hoping for a break in the trees through which I could take my bearings. Land stretches or shrinks in the Country of the Dead according to need. Where many have died, a mile in the land of the living can become ten on the other side. A pond may become a vast lake, a stand of trees a huge forest. Conversely, if few h
ave died on a mountain or desert or wild ravine, ten miles may become one. I put my boot firmly on the hillside.

  Something made me turn, some shimmer of the still air or motion at the edge of my vision, and so I saw Leo Tollers, still holding his gun, materialize beside me.

  He was a hisaf.

  I must have gaped at him because a smile flickered on that scarred face, curving up the one side of his lips that could still move. ‘Close your mouth, Roger.’

  ‘You are—’

  ‘Even as you are, yes. You cannot escape me by crossing over. And I am still waiting for that assurance that you will not harm me.’

  It suddenly seemed ludicrous. Here we stood, two living men in the Country of the Dead. Both with talent far beyond what ordinary people could command, both knowing that the Dead go on, although in a form neither of us relished – one no longer even assured since the war began – and we argued over bodily harm from a weapon foreign to both of us. If Leo Tollers had planned to shoot me, he would already have done so. I could not escape him, so I must put up with him. Although why he should believe my assurances, I didn’t know.

  I said, ‘I promise I will not harm you.’

  ‘Good.’ He lowered the barrel of his gun, but did not replace it on his back. I suddenly saw what was slung there, which he must have been carrying when I first glimpsed him: a lute. He looked around and said, ‘I don’t like it here. I never have. Let us go back.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Darkness—

  Cold—

  Dirt choking my mouth—

  Worms in my eyes—

  Earth imprisoning my fleshless arms and legs—

  I was the first to appear in the land of the living. Hunter had curled up on my cloak and gone to sleep. Some protection he was! For a moment I wondered if Leo would actually follow me back but a moment later he appeared, pale and looking ill.

  ‘I hate that.’

  I said nothing. Of course he hated it; I could not imagine any hisaf enjoying the passage through the grave. But Leo seemed far more affected by it than I had ever been. Sweating, his free hand on his concave belly even as the other clutched his gun, he seemed to be fighting nausea. I watched, taking his measure: a naturally squeamish and timid man who had steeled himself to this task involving me. Whatever it was.