Kingdoms of the Cursed, page 20
Aster, for instance. They had been friends when they were young, but by high school everybody thought she was too weird, and he’d pretended to feel the same way.
He wondered where she was, if she was okay, where the ship was taking her and Dusk. But he was too tired to think about it. Tomorrow, he and Veronica would make their plans, figure this whole thing out, find Aster, beat the bad guys. They had done it before, they could do it again, if they were together, the three of them. He knew it.
He drifted off to sleep, holding Veronica.
He woke to light bleeding through the fabric of the tent, wondering what time it was. For so long, that had been a meaningless question; it felt comforting to be able to ask it again.
Then he realized Veronica was gone.
He dragged himself up, feeling good. Better than good. He found some clothes laid out for him—pants with suspenders, a white shirt, a vest, some leather shoes. Old-fashioned looking stuff, but it fit him, more-or-less.
Once he was dressed, he went out to see where Veronica had gotten off to.
In the daylight, he found everything even more familiar, the camp itself aside. Like everyplace else beyond the Pale, there were no adults. The young men he saw were dressed as he was. The women wore a little more color, but they wouldn’t have stood out as all that weird back home. And the trees, the insect sounds, the weeds pushing up through the beaten dirt of campground—all varieties he knew.
How close to home was he? Veronica had said they were near the Pale. The first time they’d entered the Marches of the Kingdoms, they had run into Jobe and his bunch, who didn’t look and talk that different from the people he’d grown up with. If it hadn’t been for the magic and such, he might have imagined they had wandered into some backward part of the county. But gypsies—
He remembered something—a graveyard, in town, where his dad once took him, to see the grave of the Gypsy Queen. She had died somewhere nearby, and in those days a body couldn’t be preserved for long, so she’d been buried quickly in Sowashee. When her husband died, he was buried beside her, and every year the gypsies came around to leave presents on their graves—beads, money, orange soda . . .
Where was he?
A girl sat nearby, tending a cookfire.
“Excuse me,” he said. “There was a girl with me, ah, in the tent . . .”
“Yes,” the girl said. “She’s gone.”
“Gone? Gone where?”
“She went with my brother,” she said.
“Where?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “But she left a note for you.”
She pulled a folded piece of paper from her pocket. Something was written on it, it looked like with an old-fashioned ink pen. It was cursive, with lots of flourishes and loops.
Dear Errol, it began.
I have a few things I need to do; I don’t think you will like all of them, and I have reason to believe you might not survive if you are with me. I can’t have you dying on me. I thought you were dead once before, and I did not care for how that made me feel.
You may not hear from me or see me for quite some time, maybe never. I do not feel that I should explain, because knowing you, you would only get yourself into trouble on my behalf, which would make me sad, and I don’t like being sad.
The gypsy camp is very near the Pale and Sowashee. The young lady who gave you this note knows how to get you home, where you will be safe.
I will understand if you do not wait for me. But please know that I will cherish what little time we got to spend together. Thinking of you has gotten me through hard times before, and I think it will again. Do know that I love you, and that I’ve finally realized that means I must think of you before I think of myself.
I am yours,
Veronica
He read it again, then folded the sheet and put it in his pocket. He felt dazed, only half-present as he questioned the girl. Where did they go? Who is your brother? Everything he could think of. The girl didn’t seem to be trying to hide anything from him, but she also wasn’t going out of her way to help. What she did volunteer, bit-by-bit, he didn’t like. Her brother’s name was Shandor-something-or-other, and he had apparently proposed marriage to Veronica.
Why hadn’t she mentioned that? She was off with this gypsy king, leaving him here, where he was “safe,” while Aster and Dusk were being hauled off who-knew-where.
He knew why she thought he needed protecting. And she was right.
“Which way to cross the Pale? To the Ghost Country?” he asked the girl.
She pointed down the road, to the west.
“Thanks,” he said.
He went back into the tent, and unrolled the bundle he’d been carrying this whole time, the dead weight, the armor he was too chicken to wear.
He picked up one of the greaves and tried to figure out how to put it on. There were no straps or buckles. He pushed it against his shin and felt a pull that reminded him of a magnet, but it wouldn’t stay. He took off his pants and tried again. This time it snapped into place, molding to the contours of his leg.
“Oh, God,” he said. He tried to pull it off, but it might as well have been glued to him. As he had feared, once he put this on, it wasn’t coming off again.
He stripped off his clothes and donned the rest of the armor.
Unlike the heavy metal stuff he’d worn at the glass pyramid, this armor didn’t weigh much of anything. It was as if it became a part of him, to the point that if he dug a fingernail into it, he could feel it.
“Just like old times,” he said, thinking of the time he’d spent with a wooden body.
He held the helmet up. It reminded him of the ones the ancient Greeks wore, with a nose guard but a space carved out for his eyes and mouth.
He was already in this far. He put it on. Then he gathered his few belongings and walked back out of the tent.
He looked west, down the road toward home.
Then he turned and walked east.
Veronica enjoyed being on a horse again. The black mare felt strong underneath her, and her gait was smooth, even while trotting.
“You’ve ridden before,” Shandor said.
“Yes,” she replied. “I’ve been on a horse or two.”
So had he; he sat the horse in a regal fashion, back straight, shoulders square, arms relaxed, moving the reins only sparingly. It was as if the beast knew what he wanted before he did. He was born to ride.
She also had to admit he looked good doing it. His long hair spilled from beneath a brimmed hat, and he had affected another three-piece suit. The jacket on this one had a high, stiff collar and lots of buttons. He wore a sabre and a pistol, and had a rifle thrust in a holster on his saddle.
“I didn’t thank you for before,” she said.
“You don’t have to,” he said.
“But—ah—you were following me, right?”
He nodded. “I was,” he said. “After my altercation with the Sheriff, I lost your trail.”
“So how did you follow me through the water, through the caves under the Castle of Winds?”
“I didn’t,” he said. “I took a short cut. So did the Sheriff.”
“You know shortcuts?”
“Some. I have a knack for them.”
“I know some shortcuts, too,” she confided. “But right now I don’t know where to go. Do you think you can find him? The Sheriff?”
“I know where to start,” Shandor said. “Although as you must know, he isn’t really the Sheriff any longer.”
“Yes,” Veronica said. “I’m aware of that. Now he’s the Raggedy Man.”
“Is he?”
“I’ve been trying to figure out what to call him,” she said. “I remembered some names from church. Beelzebub, Mammon, Moloch, scary devil names. But my friends Mistral and Haydevil called him something like Raggedy Man, and I think that fits. He’s just a nasty old guy who steals things. He puts on enough airs of his own, I don’t figure I need to help him out with a name from the Good Book. Even if it’s a bad name from the Good Book.”
“Names can have power,” Shandor said. “And they can take power away. But it’s no matter what you call him to me. He threatened you, that’s all I need to know, and I will kill him for you.”
For some reason, that grated on her a little.
“Like you did last time?” she said.
“I wasn’t prepared for him last time,” Shandor said. “This time I am.”
“Yes, well, prepared or not, if you want him you’re going to have to stand in line,” Veronica said.
“I am at your service,” Shandor said. “You are strong, but everyone needs steady companions.”
They rode in silence for a few moments.
“Careful what you’re thinking,” she said. “Errol has saved me, too—more times than you have. He’s the steadiest.”
“Yet I am here, and he is not,” Shandor said.
“That’s because I care a lot more about him than I do about you,” she shot back. “If he dies, I’ll mope around for years. I can’t be doing that.”
“And what if I die?”
“I’ll bring a flower to your grave,” she said.
“A beautiful gesture.”
“Nothing store-bought, mind you. A primrose or some ragweed, maybe.”
He laughed. “I’ll take what you offer.”
“That’s right, you will.”
“But in time—”
“Don’t start up again,” she said.
He shrugged. “As I told you—I am patient. You—you are more magnificent than ever. You’ve changed, haven’t you? You’re more awake to what you are.”
“I’m still little ol’ me,” she said. “And I’ve had about all the hummingbird food I can stand for the time being. Why don’t you just be pretty and keep quiet?”
“I’ll do what I can,” Shandor said.
THREE
ECHOES
Aster felt him, as he lowered himself upon her, but most of her attention was on the knife, as she realized he wasn’t merely threatening her with it.
He was going to cut her throat.
His other hand was between her legs.
She couldn’t move. All she could do was watch it happen, feel it happen. And she wasn’t ready.
The knife touched her throat . . .
Vilken screamed. His body jerked up and off of her as he clutched at his face, staggering backwards until he slammed into the wall.
Aster didn’t know what had happened, but she knew she hadn’t done it. Her brain was as dead to magic as it had been a moment before. Her limbs felt like they were made of marble. She tried to move anyway and succeeded in rolling off of the bed, landing clumsily, painfully on the floor. She crawled toward the door.
She heard him whimpering, but she didn’t dare look. She needed all of her focus to move her arms and legs, to reach the door . . .
Then he was there, in front of her. His face was blanched, and one of his eyes was bleeding, but he was standing. He heaved her up by the armpits and threw her roughly back on the bed. Then he sat back down. She saw he still had the knife in his hand, but it was shaking, like an old man with palsy. With a cry, he tossed the knife away.
“Your father’s curse,” he said. “I thought I was done with it.”
When Vilken was Mr. Watkins, her father had put a spell on him to seek her out and bring her back to him. The spell had included an inner compass that allowed Mr. Watkins to always know what direction she was in, and an obsession that made sure he would never stop trying to find her.
Obviously, it had included something else.
“Of course, you asshole,” she said. “You think my father would send some guy after me—make him obsessed with me—without including an anti-raping-and-murdering clause?”
“Shut up,” he said.
“You shut up,” she said. “You’re a disgusting clown, and I’m going to see the end of you. I swear that on my mother.”
He pushed his hair back.
“You’ll see no such thing,” he said. “Your father’s curse lost most of its force when I took this body. The part that remains—now that I’m aware of it—I’ll find a way to deal with. We will take this up again, I promise you.”
He rose, pulled his robe back on, picked up the knife in his still-trembling hand, and went out the door. She heard it lock, and bolts slide into place.
She picked up her robe and put it back on, still feeling as if she was living in slow motion.
Only then did she begin to cry.
And not just for herself. There were hundreds of girls on the island, and because Vilken hadn’t been able to have her, he would have another. Because she lived, someone else was about to die. Maybe more than one.
There was nothing she could do until the drugs wore off. She knew he would never let that happen.
She was right. A few minutes later, the door burst open, and ten divlings came into the room—bigger, nastier, less human than any she had yet seen. They held her down and forced her to drink something bitter and black. She tried to resist it as it crept into her brain, but it was no use. Everything began to dissolve into nightmare. But she was still aware when they put her in the box and covered her with flowers.
Stop, she tried to tell them. I’m not dead.
They put the lid on anyway.
After a few hours, Errol realized he was going in circles—or, rather, the road was. He had passed the same oak several times now, he was sure, but to be positive, he marked it with the tip of his sword and continued, straight.
Half an hour later he saw the oak again, with his mark on it.
The weird thing was, he couldn’t see that the road curved at all, one way or the other.
He tried going back toward the gypsy camp, but the result was the same. The road no longer had a beginning or an end, only this middle, this little section.
There was no use staying on it. The problem was that the road was surrounded by blackwater swamp, which looked to be hard going. But he couldn’t keep going in circles, could he?
He found a way that looked relatively clear and started out, wading first ankle deep then dropping very quickly to above his waist. Eventually he came to a long hummock and climbed out on that, only to see a maze of lowland and swamp stretching out in every direction.
He couldn’t see the road anymore, and he suspected that if he went back to find it, he probably wouldn’t.
Night came, solid black and full of bugs. He climbed up into a tree and dozed fitfully, waking once to what he was sure was the sound of music—drums and voices—faint and faraway.
The dawn was slow to come, and murky when it arrived. Errol wondered if the curse was still spreading, if day and night were teasing apart even here in the marches. Would it eventually affect his world, what these people called the Ghost Country?
He didn’t see how. Day and night were caused by the rotation of the Earth, and if the Earth stopped turning, one side of it would probably burn up and the other would freeze. His world wasn’t magical—any miracles that happened there were strictly imported from elsewhere and had limited affect. According to Dusk, people in his world didn’t even have souls. If you died in the Kingdoms, you were reincarnated. If you died in the Reign of the Departed, that was it. You were done.
But he had seen his father, or thought he had—when he was dying in his hospital bed, and the woman in white came for him, his father had appeared, and tried to protect him. He hadn’t been able to, but there had been something, right? At least a wisp of something remaining of the man he loved so much?
Or maybe it had merely been his brain cells going dark. It had felt real, but so did a lot of things that weren’t. Maybe Earth really was the last stop for souls that had worn out their welcome with the universe.
Anyway, that was all stuff that didn’t matter right now. What was important now was getting out of the swamp. He climbed down from the tree and started slogging along again.
About midday somebody started shooting at him.
He thought he’d caught a branch or something and it had whipped him in the chest—until he realized an arrow had just skipped off his chest plate.
“Hey!” he shouted. He ducked behind a tree, which was useless, because he wasn’t sure where the attack had come from.
He didn’t have to worry long, because another missile whizzed by and a third hit him in the shoulder. Once again, his armor saved him from being shish-kabobbed, and now that he knew intimately how that felt, he was more grateful than ever that he’d put it on.
He had a glimpse of the shooters through the trees. They were dead white—not beige or tan or pinkish, but white like a sheet of paper, except where they were speckled—on their backs, a little like trout.
“I’m not looking for trouble!” he yelled.
His answer was another eight or so arrows. They were made of switch cane and fletched with black feathers.
“Dammit!” he grunted, and started to run, hoping they would get the message that he wasn’t interested in a fight.
Of course, they might not be interested in a fight, either—given the way things fell out in this part of the Marches, they might be hunting him to present as the main course at some sort of banquet.
He had a sword, but what he knew to do with it came strictly from movies and television. Anyway, a sword didn’t quite have the reach of a bow . . .
He hit water and churned through it as best he could. Something else splashed nearby, loudly. The good news was, by now he would normally be laid out from exhaustion, but with the armor he was barely breaking a sweat.
He was almost to the other bank when the water in front of him fountained up.
It was a man, and a big one. He was probably thirty years old. His front was the same frog-belly white he’d glimpsed already, but his flanks and the tops of his arms were mottled green with blue speckles. His glossy black hair was tied up in a topknot.
