A Rush of Wings, page 18
Squaring her shoulders, Rowenna met his eyes once more.
“Aye,” she said. “I will. I’ll do the impossible for you, stray.”
“And will you do one other impossible thing?”
“What is it?”
Gawen brushed the back of his hand against her cheek, and Rowenna knew how the fuath felt, at the power in her touch. She wanted to lean into him, to murmur of salt water and freedom.
“I want you to live,” Gawen said. “Through everything that’s coming. Through this curse breaking, and Torr, and the creature in your mother’s skin. I need you to outlive every monster in your way, Rowenna Winthrop, because to me, you’ve become the very last straw. Losing you would be the thing that breaks me.”
In answer, Rowenna reached out to him. His regard and his belief made her feel as if she might truly do the impossible: might outlive all her monsters and come out whole in the end. So she knelt on the green turf by the River Ness and kissed her stray, with stalks of witchnettle strewn between them. In that moment it felt as if all the world had fallen away—the nagging pain and persistent fear, the anger that sometimes burned like ice at her core. There was only this: Rowenna Winthrop and Gawen MacArthur with their dark and broken hearts, who’d found each other in the teeth of a storm, who’d fled monsters and would yet face tyrants, and who, God willing, would live to tell the tale.
That night, Liam, Duncan, and Finn returned to the hut before their change occurred. Though Duncan’s face had turned several horrific shades of black and blue, there were no new injuries, and he held a bulky, burlap-wrapped bundle under one arm.
“What’s this?” Rowenna asked from where she sat by the hut’s small hearth, sorting out nettle flax fibers into large, soft bales.
In answer, Duncan set the bundle down beside her.
“Gawen told us what you’re doing with your craft,” he said. “And so I thought soon you’d be needing this.”
He removed the burlap, and beneath it sat a worn and scuffed spinning wheel.
Rowenna nodded. Duncan was right—it was time to bring this work to an end.
Chapter Twenty
There was no sign of Torr in the menagerie. Rowenna walked up and down the gravel pathways and peered behind cages, a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.
Had he tired of her already? Or had she displeased him in some way?
The fuath sat in its iron enclosure, pressing itself into a patch of shade and panting a little in the warm spring sun. Its skin was riddled with sunburned and drying patches that cracked and flaked and bled. Rowenna, with her ruined hands and feet, knew exactly how that must feel.
I’m sorry, she thought to the creature. Whatever enmity I have with your kind, nothing and no one deserves this fate.
Take care, little fish, a sibilant whisper said within the mire of Rowenna’s mind. Do you think he won’t cage you, too? Perhaps not with iron bars, but before long you will be a captive, as surely as I am.
The fuath drew itself up to its full height and flowed over to where Rowenna stood, its movements fluid and sinuous. For a long while, they stood regarding each other, Rowenna with her sharp black eyes and the fuath with its vicious, deepwater gaze.
Then something sang through the air, and the fuath fell to the floor of its cage with an eerie cry, the thick shaft of a crossbow bolt protruding from its leg.
The wind roared to life, gusting and scudding about unpredictably to keep any other arrows from flying true. Rowenna dropped to the ground before the fuath and crouched to make herself smaller.
From within its cage, the fuath fixed its eyes on Rowenna. For the first time, she read something beyond wildness and hunger there. She saw pain and emptiness and despair.
Kill me, little fish, the fuath begged, its harsh voice once again invading Rowenna’s mind. I’ve had enough of this land and its torments. I have seen you end a life with your craft. End mine now.
But the wind was howling a warning, and as Rowenna turned, she found a stranger striding toward her from across the menagerie, the naked blade of a dirk gleaming in his hand. He held it at the ready and came on without halting, even as Rowenna implored him with her eyes and vainly shook her head.
He will murder you unless you stop him, the fuath’s voice said. Your blood will spill. Don’t think I have not witnessed it before. Other girls, other witches. You are not the first to face these tests—only the strongest. Only the one who will live.
Wield us well, our love, our light, the wind sang.
With a swift, decisive motion, Rowenna shoved the wind at the oncoming man. The force of it knocked him from his feet, and the dirk flew from his hands. He tried to struggle upright but could not, for the wind kept him pinned to the gravel and gasping for breath.
Reluctantly Rowenna approached.
“I will kill you,” the man raged. He was lean as a whip and wild-eyed, his clothing ragged. “If you let me loose for so much as a moment, I will kill you.”
Slow footsteps sounded on the gravel, and when Rowenna glanced up, she found Torr approaching. He wore that honest, straightforward smile and had his hands tucked in his pockets. But Rowenna no longer needed touch to see who he was or to feel what hid beneath his clever ward. He was merciless and a murderer, and would be the death of any who failed him.
“Well, you heard what he said,” Torr told Rowenna easily. “If you don’t kill him, he’ll kill you. It’s your choice, my witchling.”
Rowenna took a few steps back. Whatever she’d promised Gawen about Torr, she had no desire to take a life unless there was no other alternative. All she could see when she contemplated such a thing was the reproach in Mairead’s eyes as she asked Rowenna about trying to curse a redcoat.
Calling the wind away, Rowenna let the man go.
Immediately he lunged at her with fury in his eyes, but she was ready. Once again her wind slammed him to the ground.
Over and over she released him, waiting for him to realize it was no good, that he could leave, that the only thing stopping him was his own determination to reach her. It went on and on until her arms were shaking and her vision was clouded by tears. The back of the man’s head was a bloody mess, and his eyes had begun to lose focus, but still he tried.
Sometimes the greatest mercy is a swift death, the fuath pointed out drily.
A voiceless sob escaped Rowenna. She knew the creature to be right. But something dark and lightless was spreading inside her—that fathomless sea of her craft, surging up from its shores in a rising tide. Tendrils of its darkness crept through her limbs, carrying a spreading malaise with them, a cold to counter even the burn of witchnettle. If she kept pushing her work—if she waded knowingly into that sea—Rowenna feared she’d never set foot on land again. Something within her would be irrevocably altered, and she was not sure she wanted such a change.
So she carried on, calling her wind again and again, pushing at the wild-eyed assassin until at last, chest heaving, he did not get up.
Torr’s mouth turned down in displeasure. He raised a hand, and an arrow whined through the air from some unseen vantage point. It caught the man on the gravel full in the throat, and Rowenna watched in horror as he bled out before her eyes. There would never be enough air for her to draw a full breath again, she thought, nor would her heart cease its frantic racing. She would die in this moment, gaze fixed on a man who’d been killed to test her power.
You could have done it, the fuath said. Could have shown him your strength. Given him reason to fear you. Don’t shy away from the dark and the depths, little fish—you were made to swim in them. I feel that in you.
There was something unsettling in Torr’s face as he approached her. Impatience. Frustration.
Boredom.
That last was most dangerous of all.
“Did you know,” he said slowly, “that you, my saint, are not the first witch I’ve tested here? None of the others had it in them to take a life—some were too weak, some too softhearted, others too rebellious. They all burned sooner or later for their failure, or broke their craft in trying too hard. But you—you will live another day. I can see you holding back, and I will find a way to witness your full strength before the end.”
What about Elspeth? Rowenna thought. Did she kill for you? Or was she too weak, too softhearted, too rebellious?
Torr could not hear her as the wind and the fuath could, though.
“I have a job for you,” he told her instead. “Tomorrow at midnight, I want you to wait in the chapel. Someone will come to you there. When they do, kill them for me, and I will let you live yet again.”
Rowenna nodded her assent, mind racing as she did. She could stage some accident, or warn whoever it was away. Without Torr’s supervision, surely she could find a way to avoid this task while remaining blameless.
Why go to so much trouble? The fuath asked. Why not kill him? You have the power. Shatter his ward and put an end to him, here and now.
I can’t, Rowenna confessed, darkness churning within her. If she pushed too hard, that darkness might swallow her up, and she feared there would be no resurfacing. She feared all her good and all her brightness would drown. Not when he poses no threat to me.
The fuath’s laugh was a grating, unpleasant sound. Poses no threat? Look at me, girl.
Rowenna glanced away from Torr and over one shoulder, to where the monster lay in a puddle of its own dark blood, the crossbow bolt still protruding from its leg.
I will mend, the fuath said. But this princeling who poses no threat to you now does to others. And he will kill you in the end if you do not kill him first.
Still, Rowenna insisted. I cannot.
You’re a fool, the fuath scoffed. A strong and stubborn one, but a fool nevertheless.
“Midnight in the chapel,” Torr reminded Rowenna. “Don’t forget.”
He strode off, whistling to himself, hands still in his pockets, his steps free and easy.
Where is the other one? Rowenna asked the fuath as they were left alone, with only the wind frisking about them and the gruesome corpse of Rowenna’s ill-fated assailant on the ground. The other witch, with the auburn hair. I haven’t seen her in days—where has she gone?
The fuath ducked its head low and licked at its own blood.
Didn’t I tell you he’ll have you in a cage sooner or later? it said, mouth rimmed with crimson. He’s locked her in his dungeons below the earth, now that he has another witch to toy with. I’ve seen many of your kind enter this place and die for it, and though that gentle one lasted longest, her time is running short. He’s tired of her, and he’ll kill her, too, before long.
Thank you for telling me, Rowenna offered.
The fuath stiffened. Don’t give me your gratitude, little fish. Were I free from these bars, I would sup on your flesh and lap up your blood, as I would with any land dweller.
Nevertheless, Rowenna insisted. Thank you. And I’m sorry you were hurt.
The fuath turned its back to her and would say no more.
* * *
Rowenna spun flax fiber into yarn. She could feel the progress she’d made as the yarn slipped through her fingers—it was yearning to unravel, to unbind, to pull apart. It made the spinning troublesome, but Rowenna was pleased. Her craft was working, and she’d come far enough to be able to sense it.
She sat and let the rhythmic motion of foot on treadle and hand on fiber lull her into something approaching peace. But when the moon sailed high overhead, she remembered her promise to Torr and set her work aside. Gawen had gone hours ago, murmuring something about searching for his father now that Rowenna had agreed to deal with Torr Pendragon. Her brothers were gone too—though Duncan had given up fighting, he was loading and unloading boats on the docks, Liam was hiring himself out to scribe messages, and Finn followed either of them as he fancied.
So Rowenna left the hut by the river behind, pulling a woolen cloak around her shoulders. It had been given to her by Elspeth, and the thought nagged at Rowenna. She hated to think of the other girl behind bars, and if she managed to put an end to Torr Pendragon, she would have to find and free her. But for now, she had other troubles—most immediately that she was meant to go to church and kill someone.
On her way to the chapel, Rowenna kept to the shadows. Music and light poured from the castle as she had not seen happen before, and she felt like a wraith, flitting from place to place in the dark. But the chapel and the overgrown graveyard were as gloomy and silent as ever.
It was not midnight yet—the bells in the city had not chimed the hour. Rowenna pulled herself through one of the glassless chapel windows and took a breath. She’d never been inside the chapel before—no doorway led in from the graveyard, and until now, she’d only come to gather nettles. The air within the stone walls was cold and still, her tread a mere whisper against stone. It felt like a haunted place—not in the despairing, gut-wrenching way of Drumossie Moor, but as if the chapel remembered countless people, countless conversations, all of them over and done with.
At the farthest end of the apse, Rowenna tucked herself into the darkness and waited. Though she hadn’t yet decided what she would do when confronted with the individual Torr had sent her to kill, there was something tantalizing about watching and waiting—about being the one with power. So often she felt helpless and useless, but here she had the upper hand.
The dark sea within lapped quietly at her edges, made calm by this sense of being the watcher, of having control.
Rowenna did not have long to wait. Just as the city bells tolled midnight, the door to the chapel creaked open, whining on unoiled hinges, and a figure stepped inside. Rowenna could not make them out in the darkness, but she caught a glint of moonlight on metal—the gleam of a drawn blade in the stranger’s hand.
They’d made it to the middle of the chapel’s central aisle before Rowenna unleashed her wind. It leaped through the windows with a jubilant roar and knocked the stranger from their feet. They held fast to the knife, though, and Rowenna’s wind lifted the stranger’s hand, slamming it against the stone floor with a loud crack. The knife went clattering away, and a strained voice called out.
“Hellfire and damnation, Rowenna Winthrop. It’s me.”
“Gawen?” Rowenna gasped. She was at his side immediately, helping him to sit up and taking his hand in hers. The knuckles were split and bloody, but everything moved as it should. Relief swept over her in a wave, followed by annoyance.
“What are you doing here?” Rowenna asked in confusion. “Torr sent me to the chapel to kill whoever walked into it at midnight.”
Gawen scrambled away from her at once, and she could feel fear pouring off him.
“Push me out with your craft,” Gawen said in a tense half whisper. “Get me right away from this place. Make it look as if you mean to do as he asked.”
“But I—” Rowenna began.
“Do you think there’s no one watching, to be sure you do what you’re told? Get me out, and be rough about it.”
He sounded desperate, even though Rowenna could not see his face in the darkness. So she gathered her wind and shoved.
As if it could sense Gawen’s panic, the wind rushed at him with more force than Rowenna had intended. He fell and fought his way upright and fell again, and Rowenna was reminded of the dreadful minutes leading up to the death in the menagerie, only that morning. Deep within her, the cold water of her power was lapping at her waist. Outside, the wind drew upon her strength, clawing at Gawen, forcing him to stay down. Eager to please and remembering how it had been used before, it pried its way into his mouth and down his throat. Rowenna could see the moment panic flamed to life and blazed in his eyes, as the wind stole his breath and carried on. Her power was nearly in control now—that frigid sea had risen to her shoulders, to her neck, and soon she would go under and be nothing but craft and fury.
Blood seeped from Gawen’s nose, and he began to jerk as his body vainly attempted to expel the jubilant wind.
With a small, broken cry, Rowenna tore herself from that inner sea, and it required all her strength to leave the icy black water behind. At once the wind stilled and returned to frolic about her.
Rowennarowennarowenna, our love our light our dark-hearted girl. We would fly for you, would die for you, would kill for you, make heart’s blood spill for you.
Stricken, Rowenna hurried past Gawen, who still lay on the chapel floor coughing and gasping. She ran into the night, not slowing her pace as she wove through the maze of the castle proper. Mired in her own thoughts, Rowenna paid little attention to where she was going, but her feet knew the way. They brought her through the menagerie, down a long alley, and past the back entrance of a noisy kitchen.
She’d slowed a little, skirting the shadows along the castle proper’s thick curtain wall, when someone reached out from a doorway and snatched her inside.
It was like second nature already, to call the wind. A gale came screaming through the door, but even as it did, whoever had touched Rowenna released her.
“Stop that, scold,” Gawen hissed urgently, voice still raw. At once she let the wind die, everything in her anguished over how this had become her instinct so quickly. To call the wind. To use it as a weapon in her own defense.
Edging around behind her, Gawen shut the door and lit a taper. They were in a small, stone-walled room with no windows. Two other doors led out into unknown parts of the castle.
Stepping back, Gawen shook his head at Rowenna.
“You’re a menace now,” he said, running a hand through his dark hair. “I mean, you were before, but it was with your words. Now it’s with your craft, too.”
Rowenna felt as if she would drown, not in the fathomless sea of her own power, but in regret.
“Are you all right?” she breathed. “I can’t—Gawen, I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
He shrugged. “Didn’t I tell you to? There’s no lasting harm done, and hopefully that was a good enough show for whoever Pendragon had watching.”
Tears pricked at the back of Rowenna’s eyes, and her blistered hands began to tremble. “You don’t understand, I could have killed you. I was a moment from doing so. I’m just what my màthair always thought I would be.”
