A Rush of Wings, page 19
Frowning, Gawen stepped forward and put his arms around her, and Rowenna hid her face against the rough wool of his pullover.
“Here now,” he said. “Just because you can do something, doesn’t mean you will. You’ve got a craft in you that can bring about damage, but I was brought up to be a knife in the dark. It’s for both of us to choose what we do with that power—how we use it, and who we use it against. It doesn’t wield us, scold. We wield it.”
“What were you even doing in the chapel?” Rowenna sniffed. “Why did Torr Pendragon know you’d be there, and why did he want me to kill you?”
“I’m looking for my father,” Gawen said. “Like I told you I was at first. Now that you’re here to deal with Torr, the promise I made my family will be kept sooner or later, and my father can’t fault me for searching. I knew Torr Pendragon’s aware that I’m in the city, but I thought it’d be harder to track me down, given I’m a swan by day. And I’ve taken care not to let anyone untrustworthy know my business, so I can’t see how he found me. I was supposed to meet Elspeth tonight—she knows of a guard in the castle dungeons who might have news of where my father’s being held.”
A chill swept over Rowenna.
“Elspeth,” she said. “I heard Elspeth’s been put in the dungeons herself. Torr must have found out about the meeting from her.”
Gawen looked as if he might be sick. “She’s loyal to a fault, scold. For her to tell him anything…”
His voice trailed off, and they left the truth unspoken. That Torr must have tormented Elspeth beyond endurance for her to give away a friend’s secrets.
“What if—” Gawen began, but he was cut off. The door flew open with a loud retort to reveal Steward Greaves standing on the threshold, a flintlock pistol cocked and at the ready in one hand.
Chapter Twenty-One
“Not again,” Rowenna groaned.
“Not mute after all,” Greaves said triumphantly. “I saw you in the chapel, witch. I saw you fail to kill this rebel, and heard you speak to him.”
But before the words were fully out, Rowenna’s wind had slammed the steward’s arm holding the pistol against the doorframe, so hard she could hear bone snap. Gawen moved forward too, quick as thought, and before Rowenna realized what had happened, he’d drawn his crimson-stained knife out from between Greaves’s ribs.
The steward crumpled to the ground. Slowly Rowenna and Gawen turned to each other, eyes wide.
“You killed him,” Rowenna whispered, still hardly able to believe it had happened before her very eyes.
“It’s not the first time I’ve killed a man,” Gawen said grimly. “And it won’t be the last. We’ll have to do away with him, though. We could weight him down with rocks and throw him in the river.”
Rowenna shook her head, thinking hard. “No, I’ve got a better idea. I know someone who can help, and there’ll be no worry over his body washing up somewhere, or a search for a murderer starting up. But we’ll need to move him.”
Gawen slipped through the door and, after a few anxious minutes, returned with a handcart. They bundled the body into it and covered it with Rowenna’s cloak, and she led the way through the dark toward the menagerie. Rowenna wasn’t sure which would be worse—if Torr caught her with Gawen MacArthur, known rebel, or with the dead body of his steward. She wasn’t interested in finding out, and her heart beat rapidly in her throat. It was a comfort at least, to have Gawen’s company and be joined together in their crime—that is, until the scent of peat and woodsmoke rose up.
The sound of the handcart trundling along stilled, and when Rowenna turned, Gawen was in his swan form already. The hours the boys spent as their full selves each night had rapidly dwindled to only a few, and Rowenna chafed at this distraction from her curse-breaking work.
Taking up the handles of the cart, she pushed it along herself, though it was slower going. At last she reached the tall hedge of the menagerie and carried on into its heart.
The fuath stood curiously at the bars of its cage, wicked head cocked to one side, vast eyes gleaming in the dim.
What do you have there, little fish? the creature asked Rowenna. What do you have that smells like a man’s heartblood? Have you braved the dark within you? And why does the black swan show the sheen of something cursed?
Glancing from right to left to ensure they were truly alone, Rowenna threw back her cloak, exposing the lifeless body of the steward. The fuath’s lips parted as it bared its fishhook teeth in a barbarous smile.
Oh, we have wished that one dead for years now. Well done, minnow. Well done, indeed. And what will you do with his bones?
Rowenna put her head to one side. I didn’t kill him. The one in the swan’s body did. But I had thought to give you the steward’s remains, as a gift.
An odd, rippling sound spread throughout Rowenna’s mind, and she recognized the fuath’s laughter.. The creature drew itself up to its full height. Though it was starvation thin, it still stood a foot and more above Rowenna, but she stared up undaunted.
And why, the fuath hissed, would I help you hide this killing?
Because perhaps someday, I’ll help you in return, Rowenna offered.
The creature in the cage scoffed at her, an audible noise like a wave breaking on rock.
Perhaps today, Rowenna thought, growing desperate. If you hide the manner in which the steward was killed, I’ll let you go free. On the condition that you leave Inverness without taking a life.
Open the door, the fuath said invitingly, and bring your dead thing in. Once you do, I’ll consider it.
Rowenna knew it to be a ruse. The monster hadn’t even bothered to hide its intentions well—perhaps it wanted her to know. They were taking a measure of each other now, in a way they’d never been able to before. Though the swan at Rowenna’s side made small, anxious sounds and ruffled his feathers unhappily, Rowenna called the wind and slipped it into the cage’s lock.
A sharp click rang out. The fuath stayed preternaturally still as Rowenna swung the door open and, with a concerted effort, maneuvered her handcart inside. But once she’d got it in, a metallic whine and a bang signaled the shutting of the door.
She was closed in now, with the fuath grinning wickedly, its webbed, many-jointed hand still on the doorway. Rowenna began to tremble as she recalled the manner of her mother’s death.
What is it you fear so about me, minnow? the fuath asked. You’ve reeked with fear since the day we first laid eyes on each other. Yet we’re alike in some ways. Both creatures of power and hidden depth, who could put an end to anyone in this castle if we chose. If cold iron did not bar our way.
It doesn’t bar mine, Rowenna shot back defiantly, knowing that if she’d spoken aloud, she’d not have been able to keep her voice from shaking. That’s where our likeness ends. I’m still free to do as I please, while you’re a prisoner here.
Again the fuath laughed, like water chattering over rock. Your freedom is an illusion. How many times must I tell you? You will never be rid of Torr Pendragon—not until he lies in a pool of his own blood. Until you burst his lungs with your craft or someone else makes an end of him for you.
Even as it spoke, the fuath edged around the handcart that lay between them, its movements so small and fluid, they were barely visible. Had everything in Rowenna not been attuned to its actions, she’d never have noticed. But her focus was fixed on the monster, and the wind swirled restlessly about her, murmuring warnings as it had done in Neadeala before all Rowenna’s curses began.
Beware, beware, dark-hearted girl.
Like lightning on water, the fuath struck. But Rowenna was equally quick. She thrust her wind at the creature, and a jolting shock ran through her as fuath and craft collided. It was more than a matter of using the wind now, or seeing what it saw—Rowenna felt what it felt, as if they were one, as if it was an extension of her own person.
A choking odor of salt and cold stone rose up, emanating from the fuath. And Rowenna’s faithful wind was forced to draw back, pushed toward her by the monster’s power. Even on land, the beast was strong and cunning and possessed of craft, and Rowenna let out a voiceless gasp as the fuath drew closer. Yet once the wind reached her, it held, surrounding Rowenna with a whirling, impenetrable shield, making her the eye of her own small storm.
“I am water,” the fuath said to Rowenna, and she had never heard it speak audibly before. Even the creature in Mairead’s skin never used its true voice, but her mother’s sweet, stolen tones. If the fuath’s thoughts were like water running over rock, its spoken words were laced with the distant roar of waves—with treacherous power, of the sort that could break ships and drown strong men. “And wind will not prevail upon water for long, little fish. It will only make it wilder, and lend it strength in the end. Who are you to stand against me, with your craft of feeble air?”
It reached for Rowenna, elongated fingers prying apart her wind and setting it to unraveling like so much knitwork. With a soft, wordless cry, the swirling breeze began to fail.
Rowenna felt herself and her wind losing power even as the fuath gained it, and the devastating recollection of Mairead’s last night rose up in her.
You’re like the sea, Mairead said, still herself, still whole, still beloved, because it seems yielding at first, but even rock wears away before salt water in the end.
Saltwater girl.
Little fish.
Cailleach.
Witch.
Our love, our light, our dark-hearted girl, the wind grieved as it slowed and gentled around Rowenna.
And last came the echo of Gawen’s voice.
It’s for both of us to choose what we do with that power—how we use it, and who we use it against. It doesn’t wield us, scold. We wield it.
Turning inward to the restless sea of her craft, Rowenna waded in unhesitatingly, though the memory of the deaths and damage she’d already wrought lay like darkness within her. She went in among the breakers, until they buffeted at her waist and her neck and she went under entirely, suspended in a weightless, lightless world where there was only power. Above her, wind troubled the waters, and rather than draw on its strength Rowenna fed it her own, siphoned from this endless shadow realm.
Saltwater girl.
Little fish.
Cailleach.
Witch.
I am all of this and more.
The fuath traced the line of Rowenna’s jaw with one finger, just as the creature in Mairead’s skin had once done. But this monster wore its true form, fingers tipped with hooked and murky claws, and Rowenna felt a stinging burn and the trickle of blood as the creature’s touch broke skin.
I am all of this and more. I choose where my craft starts, and where it stops, she repeated to herself from within the depths of her own dark sea. Reaching out, she cupped the fuath’s wicked face with one nettle-ruined hand, pantomiming its motion.
For a moment she saw hesitation in the creature’s deepwater eyes.
Rowenna smiled.
And threw all her power into the faithful wind.
With the roar of a summer storm it tossed the fuath back. The monster hit the opposite cage wall with a sickening sound of impact, but it was tough and fierce and hardy, and writhed against the grip of the wind, hissing and spitting, a feral light in its gleaming eyes. Bit by slow bit, the scent of salt and stone rose up again. The fuath freed itself and straightened. But its power and Rowenna’s were matched—they stood facing each other, with the length of the cage and the body of the steward between them, and neither could bridge the gap.
At last Rowenna gestured to the body of Steward Greaves.
This is for you, she thought to the fuath. Do with it what you will.
With a twist of wind in the lock, she stepped out of the cage and left it open. Around her, the air stilled as she drew back her power. Within herself, she broke the water’s surface and stepped out from the fathomless depths of her craft, undrowned and tremulous with success.
The black swan flew to Rowenna at once, furious and anxious over what he’d seen. She caught him in her arms, holding him close. Nodding to the open door, she addressed the fuath once more.
There’s your freedom, as promised, she told the creature. And with it you may also do what you like.
Before stepping out of the menagerie, Rowenna looked back. The last thing she saw in the gray dawn light was the fuath, still standing within the iron bars of its cage, staring down at the steward’s body with a thoughtful expression on its cunning face.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Rowenna spun nettle fiber until dawn broke and she was too weary to sit upright, and then she fell into an exhausted sleep, one arm thrown over Gawen in his black swan form.
She woke not an hour later to Torr Pendragon standing over her. He was glancing curiously about himself, at the hut’s spartan interior, and when Rowenna sat up slowly, Torr smiled.
“Ah, little witch, I didn’t like to wake you, not when you’ve already spent a good part of the night working on my behalf. I’m having a bit of new trouble, though, and I could use your help.”
For the first time since Rowenna had known him, Torr was dressed like a would-be king. His breeches and jacket were night-blue velvet, heavily embroidered with gold, and white lace foamed from his sleeves and his collar. Seeing him this way, Rowenna hardly had to push against the influence of his ward—his smile, which had once seemed honest to her, was now a wholly calculating thing. And she wondered at how he’d ever appeared simple and trustworthy, when he held himself with absolute confidence—the posture of a man who’d never been naysaid, and who was accustomed to power.
“Come with me,” Torr said, holding out a hand. “Let me show you what I need.”
Rowenna went. He led her up the hill, through the green loveliness of late spring, and into the castle proper. There were exhausted-looking servants lounging about, who all snapped to attention as they passed, but Torr paid them no mind. He brought Rowenna to the tall hedge around the menagerie and paused.
“There was… an incident, in here last night,” Torr said. “I was holding a banquet in honor of my nobles and my troops—perhaps you heard the music. And while everyone was otherwise occupied, the fuath escaped.”
Rowenna feigned shock.
“It killed Greaves,” Torr said peevishly. “Most inconvenient. He’ll be impossible to replace. But here. I’ll show you.”
And together, they stepped through the door in the hedge.
Rowenna stopped short on the threshold. The fuath crouched in the middle of the cage-dotted courtyard. Half a dozen red-coated bodies littered the open space around it, torn limb from limb. Gore slicked the creature’s arms to the elbows, and dark blood ringed its vicious mouth.
At the sight of Rowenna, the fuath bared its fishhook teeth in a wicked grin.
What was it you said? the creature asked her silently. Take no lives and go freely? Instead, I choose to take them, and to stay. I see something in you, cailleach. Something not of the wind and the air, but of the sea. A hunger and an edge. A longing to be free. You will pit yourself against this tyrant before long, and I would be here to watch when you do. So I will stay, on the understanding that you owe me my freedom, and I will expect to gain it in the end.
Rowenna turned to Torr with a question in her eyes, as if she had not heard the fuath and did not know what was expected of her.
“You’re a witch,” Torr said impatiently. “Obviously the beast has made short work of my guards. I could shoot it, or waste more men to return it to its cage, but that’s foolishness when I have you. Use your craft, and put the monster back.”
Rowenna stepped forward. She intentionally kept her gaze from straying to the horrifying spectacle of the mutilated bodies. Instead, she focused on the strange, familiar face of the fuath.
And once her back was to Torr, she gave it a disapproving look.
They would have killed me, little fish, the fuath thought at her immediately. You will take life too, someday, so do not pretend to be more righteous.
I don’t pretend to be more righteous, Rowenna answered. But I think you should have left. You’re a fool to wait on me—you have no idea how often I’ve failed before.
You won’t fail, the fuath told her as she stopped with bare inches between them. There’s salt water in you. I scented it and tasted it in your craft only hours ago. You’re more like my kind than you wish, minnow.
Why wait to see me kill Torr Pendragon? Rowenna asked. He’s done you wrong, and he stands just there. Why not kill him yourself? You have craft of your own, with which to unmake his ward.
A look of disgust crossed the fuath’s wild face. Do you think we’re alone? Do you think he has ever entered this place unguarded? There are a dozen archers waiting to strike me down if I touch him. I have not survived a cage this long to throw away my life when I might keep it yet.
Rowenna glanced up. As the fuath had said, liveried men with longbows could be seen in the windows or on the battlements of every tower that overlooked the menagerie.
He thinks me a mindless beast, the fuath said. Unaware of such things, and unthinking. But you. You know better. You know the cleverness of my kind.
Aye, I do. Rowenna bowed her head to the fuath in respect, as she had never yet done to Torr. You are clever and wicked and a force to be reckoned with. But you’ve made your choice, so to live, you must go back to your cage.
“Can you hurry this along?” Torr said from back by the hedge, stifling a yawn. “I was up all night politicking, and I’d like to get to bed. Besides which, I’ve got to dispatch someone to deal with the body you left as a present for me in the chapel.”
Tamping her anxiousness over Torr’s last comment down, Rowenna bowed lower to the fuath and held out a hand, as if they stood in a grand ballroom and she was asking for the pleasure of a dance. The creature put its head to one side. For a moment, it looked more alien and other than ever. Then it mirrored Rowenna’s movement and took her hand, and she led it to the cage. The fuath did not hesitate on the threshold—did not show the slightest reluctance at giving up its new freedom. But Rowenna could feel a tremor go through the long, murderous fingers gripping hers.
