Beastkeeper (19 page)

“This,” Alan said, and raised two of his fingers, enough that the little wren could struggle its head free. “I've come to free you,” he said, and twisted his hands just so.

 

15

TOWARD THE WITHIN

THE RAVEN WAS WRONG.
Falling out of love was not always a slow descent, too dull for stories. Sarah fell out of love as quickly as the snap of a neck.

The raven cawed, but that was the final harsh note it made. A high screaming filled Sarah's ears, a howl of wind and beast. The air froze around them, and in one moment, the world turned from fading warmth to the bitter snowstorm fury of the Within, freed now as its ruler was.

The scream went on forever, a kettle that never stopped boiling. Sarah couldn't move for the pain of it; the sound dug needles into her head. She curled up, trying to protect herself from the raging storm, from the razor shards of ice blown around her.

And then it stopped.

A sudden silence, no movement. She raised her head warily, and saw a world frozen in time. The ice and snow hung in the air as if held by invisible wires. They twirled in place, scattering light between their thousand broken crystals. At the center of the motionless maelstrom stood two figures.

Alan, with his offering held out before him, its neck limp.

And the witch. Freya. The other grandmother. She wasn't pretty or terrible. A handsome woman. Ugly-beautiful, with proud eyes. She was wearing a cloak of white feathers that pooled heavily about her feet. Her hair was silver with age, but her face was unlined, her eyes the pale blue of a winter sky. All about her hung a feeling of immense power.

It pressed Sarah down, held her in her place.

Then Freya spoke. Her voice was no louder than the softest hush of a playful wind against the very tops of trees, but at the same time, it was loud enough to shake the bones of the world. “What have you done?” she asked, staring at the boy, and at the dead bird in his hands.

“Freed you,” Alan said, and let the bird drop. “Because you wouldn't do it yourself.”

“I would have stayed cursed,” said Freya. She did not look down at the little corpse at her feet. “I would have stayed cursed.”

Alan swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing. “She was dead anyway, the moment she left him. You know that. She couldn't live unless you lifted the curse from them all. And you never would because it would cost you all you are.” He held his ground, eyes like suns. “If you'd loved her like you said, you would have set her free no matter what. She was already dead. Your curse did that.
You
did that.”

“I could not lift it.” Freya stepped forward, breaking the spell that held the world still. The ice crystals dropped to the ground, covering it in a sea of shattered glass.

Sarah tensed, feeling herself rise with the release of the pressure. She wanted to tear Alan's throat out. She wanted to make him run.

And then I will be nothing more than a beast, truly
. The curse was far from broken. She still had to hold on to what was left of the human parts of her. The struggle was immense. Froth built up in her mouth and dripped from her jaws with the effort of keeping herself from leaping up at him, from feeling his windpipe crushed between her teeth. Instead, she looked at her grandmother's feet, at the dead bird there. It was just a bird, as Alan said.

It had stopped being her mother the day it flew from her life.

The truth of it didn't make things better.

“I did what I had to,” Alan said. “I only did the things you should have. It was that, or leave you to die a slave to your own hatred.”

Freya put her hand to Alan's cheek. “So loyal, after all these years. And all done to free me.” She slid her hand back into his hair, and tightened her grip. “Did you think I would be pleased?”

“Yes,” he said, but it came out a hiss of pain. “I gave you back to yourself, returned all your power.”

“She was my daughter.” Freya glanced down at Sarah. “My granddaughter is a beast now, her life ruined, and what did you do in exchange? Hunted down one little bird and snapped its neck.”

“One little bird who never loved you,” Alan said. His eyes were streaming, but he kept his voice even, low. As if he was trying to calm the very different beast that Freya had become.

“I had a selfish daughter, a flighty daughter, a daughter who changed her heart as easily as her outfits.” Freya smiled, showing her teeth unnaturally. “I did not need a beastkeeper to remind me of that. Still.” She released Alan. “I suppose I owe you some small reward, at least.”

Alan looked away for the first time. “I want nothing from you, just for you to be free. Before you took me in, I was nothing more than a starveling child with a dead family. I owe you at least a life.”

“I should have left you where I found you.”

“But you didn't.”

The silence streamed between them, and Sarah concentrated, trying to piece together these last bits of Alan's and her grandmother's story—a chance bit of compassion, and this was what had come of it.

“I didn't save you out of pity, boy. I needed a beastkeeper, nothing more. And now you think to repay my thoughtless kindness with some of your own. How noble you think you are,” Freya said. “Fine, then. You've freed me from my curse. Ask for one thing. Contracts are contracts.”

“Change the girl back,” he said.

Sarah's heart leaped up, beating against her rib cage.

“I cannot,” said Freya. “You stupid, stupid child.” She moved forward, her arms lifting the white cloak of feathers around her, and embraced Alan.

The storm rose as suddenly as it had stopped; a brief roar of icy wind passed through the clearing and was gone again.

And Freya and Alan were gone with it.

*   *   *

The birds in the forest boughs resumed their song as if nothing had happened. The ice was already melting into the ground; the bees began their relentless drone.

A small breeze ruffled the feathers on the wren. It lay in a puddle of ice water. Sarah shuffled closer and picked up the body as carefully as she could with her sharp teeth, not wanting to break any more bones, even now.

From the castle came a bang as the doors crashed open. Nanna stood outlined in the castle mouth, like the start of a scream. “Where is she?” Nanna said. Her eyes narrowed as she took in the animal standing in the clearing and realized it was Sarah. “And you too, now,” she said. “Well, I suppose there's a certain irony to that.”

Her eyes went to the little corpse Sarah held so tenderly.

“What have you done? You've set Freya free, you ungrateful little wretch!” She spread her arms, her cloak of fur flapping heavily behind her, and a raking wind sprang up around Sarah, furnace hot, clawing at her eyes and mouth and nose. The wind tugged at her fur with cruel fingers, dragging her across the earth toward her grandmother. “First him, and now this?” Nanna's screech was as rabid and fierce as the wind itself. “For this, girl, you will suffer. I'll see to it.”

Sarah shook the magic off with a huge burst of will, and tried to run. She needed to be far from the castle and from Nanna's sphere of power. The falling-down turrets and the broken walls overrun with nettles were all that was left of Nanna's magic. Freya had told her that Nanna's power didn't extend all the way to the river. If she could get there, she would be safe, at least.

She strained against the pulling wind, head bowed as she struggled to take one step after the other toward the forest. It was not safe either, not at all, but it seemed now that nowhere was safe. The people who should have loved her hadn't; her enemies wore smiles, and her family, snarls.

The wind released her as her grandmother's burst of power faltered, and finally Sarah leaped free, galloping for the cool dark of the shadowed forest.

If nothing else, now that she was a beast, the forest accepted her completely. Sarah raced through the twisting deer trails, following the secret magic of the ancient land.
It is an old forest,
Alan had said,
and old forests remember
. He had shown her how to do this, but it had seemed strange and unbelievable to her—certainly not something she'd ever be able to do herself. But now, as a beast, the woods flowed around her, dragging her on. Now she understood—it was about being one with the forest, and as a human girl, she'd never been able to do it.

The bird was warm in her mouth, and Sarah had to fight against the urge to crunch down and swallow it.
Don't. Don't think about it.
Instead, she let the trees and the branches open before her and show her where they wanted her to be.

She was far from the castle now, but still going in aimless circles.

The magic of witches and humans and curses had failed her completely. It was time to trust something older. She held on to the tiny bit of humanity she had left and gave up the rest of herself to being a beast.

It felt like letting go of a balloon. The little speck of her that was a girl who liked to read, who missed her mother, drifted away until it was lost in the sky. It became easier to race through the darkening boughs. The trails widened and the forest led her on. Her paws did not break the fallen twigs, the way a girl's clumsy feet might, and the branches did not whip her cheeks or tangle in her fur. She felt no cold, just warmth and speed.

She was only vaguely aware when the second beast joined her again, and together they ran. This time there was no crowned buck to follow, no loyal, beautiful, cruel boy bound to the forest and to the shape of its magic. There was just the forest itself.

Another beast, older, greater than either of them, slipped from the darkness and became the head of their pack. His horns were sharper now, his fur longer, bright-washed by rain and snow. He ran silently with them.

Sarah felt the pack-rightness of her father alongside her, of her grandfather ahead, and redoubled her efforts, pounding her legs against the frozen ground. There was ice in her lungs, frost on her fur, and starlight-bright snow swirled around them. The trees were glass-coated. The forest was leading them to the Within. Sarah leaped ahead, knowing what she needed to do.

The river waited for them. The pathways had taken them to a bank that was less steep, where the rapids ran shallower, and a trail of rocks broke the surface like a bridge of old tusks. White water frothed about their roots. Sarah paused on the snow-deep bank and felt the cold wet her belly.

The other two beasts looked at her in concern. The older one howled mournfully and said nothing. The younger merely sat and said nothing. They wanted her to run away with them. They did not understand why she had brought them here to this terrible river.

They said nothing.

They told her this with their ears, their eyes, their whines and growls.

Even her grandfather had lost what was left of him here in the forest.

Sarah's legs were numb. The only warmth now seemed to come from the bird in her mouth. It was a coal against her tongue, and the urge to drop it and cool her burning jaw with mouthfuls of snow was strong.

Pain. Drop. Drop. Drink,
the beast part of her mind clamored. It was a rage of instinct, but Sarah tightened her grip, clenching her teeth like a cage around the coal-burn of her mother's body.

My name is Sarah. My mother's name is Merete. Her mother's name is Freya. We have not always been beasts
. She turned to the huge shadowy figures.
My name is Sarah. My father's name is Leon. My grandfather had a name once: Eduard. We have not always been beasts
.

Her father's eyes were animal, with not a flicker of human understanding anywhere in them. He had run with her because he sensed pack-rightness, nothing more. He had no words; he had lost his love, and himself. He whined, turning away from the raging waters and disappearing back between the long trunks of the pine trees.

Her grandfather watched her as if deep inside him a little part still understood what she was doing and why, but he made no move to go with her.

Turn back, and be a beast complete, or go on and do this one last human thing.
Sarah looked at the raging waters. Perhaps it would be better if she just followed them, after all.

Her heart tightened as if an invisible fist had closed around it, and Sarah whined softly. She held the burning body firmly in her mouth and took an awkward leap to the nearest wet-black rock. It was slippery as eel skin, and she scrabbled there, her claws splayed for a better grip. Water splashed against her, drenching what little fur had stayed dry this far. She was bedraggled, the wet fur clinging to her skin. She felt smaller and weaker.

The next few stones were easy enough. They lay close together, and with slow, careful movements, she inched her way toward the center of the river. The water ran black, shadows of deep green flickering below her. Sarah hung in place. The distance to the next rock was too far for a simple jump. Even as a beast, she wasn't sure she would make it. Her heart was hammering as she looked back to see if her grandfather was following.

The bank was spotted with her paw prints. The large beast still sat, watching her progress. His black horns rose in high coils behind his ears, and for a moment, he looked like something that wasn't flesh and bone and fur, but a shadowy nightmare creature. He raised his blunt head and howled once, a sound that set the trees to shivering, their snow loads dropping from them like falling cloaks. Then he turned and walked back into the forest.

The knowledge that even her grandfather had given up hit Sarah so hard that she almost lost her balance. Her back legs slipped into the water, and she scratched and wriggled, trying to get a grip on the black stone and pull herself up out of the freezing current.

Finally, she had all four paws back on her outcrop. Her soaked fur provided no protection from the cold now. She shook, only her fierce determination keeping her from just letting go and falling to the water and allowing it to take her away. She knew she wasn't going to make that leap to the next rock, but she gathered her paws under her, crouching down and preparing her hind legs like springs. The rock wavered in her sight.
A beast would give up. A beast would go back to the woods and forget this.