My Swordhand Is Singing (6 page)

Peter was unable to understand how the villagers made sense of it—the frightening figure of hideous power described in the inn the previous night was such a far cry from the laughable doll that had been sawn and burnt in the field.

As Peter got talking to more locals, there were those who claimed to have really seen her, up in the mountains, or in the depths of the forest, or lurking in the graveyard.

As he was being told that the clothes the figure wore were those of the most recent widow’s husband, intended to keep him from “coming back,” he noticed that Tomas was rolling out of the village on their own cart, having decided to waste no more time.

“Stop him from coming back?” Peter asked the man. “What do you mean, coming back?”

10

Refusal

As Peter rode through the murk on Sultan, his thoughts had drifted to a sunny field, a long time ago, and this should have done something to keep the power of the night at bay. In fact, it did nothing to make him less scared. There was a little starlight, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to gallop Sultan once they were in the forest. Still, there was nothing to stop him from hurrying up the last street to the edge of the village.

He kicked Sultan on, suddenly feeling more terrified by the admission of his own fear, but just as they picked up speed something rushed into their path.

Sultan, usually so sure-footed, shied and reared. There was a scream. Peter fought for a moment to stay on Sultan’s back, but lost the fight and hit the ground hard. In a moment’s confusion, it seemed that Sultan was going to fall and crush him, but then he rolled beside Peter, struggled to his feet, and limped away, frightened.

Peter spun off his back and onto his front, worried that Sultan was going to bolt for home. Then he remembered the scream just before he fell.

“You nearly killed me!” cried a voice.

All Peter could see at first was hair, lots of it, coiling like small black snakes.

The figure moved into a sitting position and began to smooth her long skirts into place, checking that nothing was broken. Now he knew who it was. The Gypsy girl, the singer.

“You ride very badly!” she said, pointing a finger right at him.

“Me?” Peter spluttered. “It was your fault! What in Heaven’s name were you doing? Running in front of a horse like that!”

She ignored Peter’s anger, but with it, her own rage seemed to have vanished.

She smiled at him and tried to stand, but immediately shrieked.

“My back!” she cried, sinking to the ground. “Oh! I think it is broken!”

Peter doubted that very much, but nonetheless she appeared to be in pain.

“You must help me,” she declared. “You nearly killed me! So get me out of this road.”

Peter stood up slowly. He hurt too, but there was no point in protesting.

“Carry me. Over there.”

She nodded toward the side of the road, and a low bank of grass.

Peter sighed and bent over her. For a moment he considered how best to pick her up; then he slid one arm under her legs and the other under her shoulders. She was light enough for him, he was used to carrying logs all day. But logs didn’t wriggle, or complain, or hiss in pain, and he was glad when he had taken her the short distance and placed her on the soft grass, the start of a narrow strip that kept the forest away from the village.

They were just beyond the ragged edge of the huts here, with only the odd one or two dotted about, the street turning into nothing more than a snow-covered track that wound away into the trees. The puny thatched fence that marked the end of the village was defense against nothing, and yet being beyond it was disturbing. The Shadow Queen had already settled in the back of Peter’s mind.

“Your back isn’t broken,” he said, looking down at the girl. “You couldn’t move your legs if it were.”

“My name’s Sofia,” she said. “What’s yours?”

He sighed, looking around to see that Sultan was still close by.

“Peter,” he said.

“I think my head is maybe hurt,” Sofia announced.

Peter opened his mouth, then shut it again. She might sing beautifully, but he was finding her enormously irritating. Still, as he was carrying her, he hadn’t stopped himself from noticing that her legs were long, and that her dress was cut very low. Nor had he stopped himself from looking at her brown skin, so different from that of everyone else in the village, and more like his own.

“My head hurts,” Sofia said again, “Here. You must feel it. Come here!”

Peter stood where he was.

“Come!” she demanded, and reluctantly he knelt down beside her. She grabbed his hand nimbly and pushed it into her thick hair. “There’s a bump. Yes? No?”

Peter gingerly moved his fingers through the girl’s hair, but could feel nothing.

“I think you’re fine.” He pulled his hand away.

As he did, Sofia took his hand in hers and didn’t let go.

“I think I’m lucky you didn’t kill me,” she said, but gently this time.

Awkwardly, Peter sat next to her. Still she didn’t let go of his hand.

“What were you doing anyway?” he asked. “Out here, in the night? You shouldn’t even be in the village after dark.”

“Because of who we are?” Sofia said haughtily.

“Yes,” Peter said. Then he added, “But I don’t make the rules around here.”

The girl laughed.

“No, I am sure of that.”

Peter felt offended, at the same time wondering why Sofia was still clutching his hand. He realized that he didn’t want her to let go.

“What do you want?” he asked. “It’s dangerous out here.”

“Let me tell you,” she whispered, so quietly that despite himself Peter leant closer to her.

Peter was aware of the warmth from her body, and could smell her long raven locks. In that split second he wouldn’t have cared if the Shadow Queen was right behind him.

“I want you to stay with me awhile,” Sofia said.

Then she pulled his hand quickly, catching him off balance. He half fell on top of Sofia, who lifted herself high enough to plant a kiss on his lips.

Peter yelped as if he had been bitten by a dog and jumped to his feet.

She laughed.

“Peter!” she said, smiling.

He backed away and ran to Sultan.

“Peter!” Sofia called, this time more urgently. “Stay with me! My back hurts! I can’t walk!”

But Peter wasn’t fooled by Sofia’s tricks anymore; his thoughts were full of Father and the hut, and Agnes. What would she say if she knew what the girl had done?

Sultan seemed sound enough after his fall, and Peter plunged into the forest, heedless of the danger of galloping over difficult ground in the dark. Behind him Sofia’s cries grew fainter.

“Come back! Come back and help me. Peter!”

He rode.

11

Visitors

As Peter rode he saw neither trees nor snow, but instead a glorious vision of Sofia. The girl was arrogant for sure, but all he could see were the rich tresses of her hair, her welcoming brown eyes and dark skin. With a wrench he shook himself, and tried to push Agnes back into Sofia’s place. He found Sofia floating into his mind again, and started to work on the image, lightening and shortening the hair, turning the brown eyes gray. Finally he watched as the brown skin grew paler, paler, paler. There, that was Agnes.

But no! He watched in horror, transfixed as Agnes’s skin took on an evil whiteness, the whiteness of death, and became impossibly wrinkled and old. Her lips shriveled, her nose became pointed and thin, her hair grew lank and noisome. Her eyes flattened and widened, darkening and disappearing in shadow.

Shadow.

“No!” Peter cried into the air, then snatched himself away from the grotesque vision.

He let Sultan slow to a walk once Sofia was out of earshot. They followed the bank of the river Chust out to the hut. But Sultan was uneasy. He sensed something up ahead and now stopped completely.

For a while Peter urged him to walk on, and they managed to go a few more steps. Then once again Sultan stopped, this time for good.

“What’s wrong, boy?” Peter whispered, his attention divided between the horse and whatever might be up ahead that was bothering him.

Sultan made no noise, but merely stood as still as any horse can.

“Well, you’ll have to stay here.”

Knowing what Tomas would say about leaving their most expensive possession alone in the forest in the night, he reluctantly tied Sultan’s reins to a sturdy birch.

Peter turned around and all there was to see were the shadows of the night forest. Trees stretched off into the distance in every direction, becoming gray ghosts and then no more than suggestions of ghosts. In the gloom the river chugged softly somewhere away to his right, but there was just enough starlight to make his way, so he started off toward the hut.

As he went, Sultan gave one final snort, then was silent.

Peter knew Sultan well, knew that he was trustworthy, not the sort of horse that spooked easily. Sultan’s refusal to go any closer to the hut was a sign that something was wrong. Peter slowed his walk to a crawl as he stepped as gently as he could along the riverbank, and was glad at least for the sound of the water rushing, hiding his quiet footfall.

There was the hut in front of him, across the log bridge. At first sight nothing seemed to be amiss, but Peter’s heart froze as he made out the shapes of not one but two horses on the bank, just beyond the bridge. The horses were tethered, and alone.

He stared through the pricking darkness at the hut, but could see nothing, could hear nothing but the water. There was light coming from inside, flickering slightly, as if people were moving around.

Something was wrong. No one ever came to see them, certainly not late at night. He put a foot on the bridge, eyeing the horses as he did so. He didn’t recognize them, but he noticed that strangely they bore no saddles. He turned his attention back to crossing the bridge without making a sound. He succeeded and stole a few hurried paces across the island to the hut, but instead of opening the door and walking straight in as he usually would, he slid close to the wall, crouching nervously beneath the shuttered window.

He could hear voices.

He raised himself on his knees, bringing his ear as close to the window as he dared. He knew that he could not be seen from inside, but still something made him desperate to keep hidden.

Now he could make out words.

“…you have no choice…”

A muffled reply. Peter knew it was his father’s voice, but the words were not clear.

“Once, you would have spoken differently.”

“You cannot refuse. There is no choice. The Shadow Queen has taken your choice away.”

The Shadow Queen. Who was his father talking to in there? Now several voices all spoke at once, urgently.

“…the Shadow Queen is coming.”

“…more hostages.”

“…where is it, Tomas?”

“I don’t have it.”

“You will agree. You have to understand that.”

“No!”

His father again, shouting this time.

There was silence for a short time, then quieter voices, indistinct but insistent nonetheless.

Peter was about to risk moving closer, when the door flew open on the far side of the hut. He dropped to the ground and crawled to the corner by Sultan’s stable. Between the cracks in the planks of the stable, he saw four figures leaving, then crossing the bridge.

The light from the open door shone across the island and the bridge. Its glow was enough for Peter to see the identity of the visitors.

The Gypsies who had been with Sofia in the village.

12

Closer

Agnes closed the door to her mother’s room and leant against the door frame for a moment, her eyes shut, running her hand through her hair. She had lost count of how many times she had been in to check on her through the day, and now the evening was thickening and the long night lay ahead. All day she had been trying to make some sense of her late father’s business. People had come to collect orders that she knew nothing about; there had been arguments. She was exhausted.

She was still furious with Peter, but deep down she knew that was unfair. He had been trying to help. But he was tactless and certainly not as bold as she would have liked him to be. As she would have liked her future husband to be.

She blushed as she considered what she had told no one else, not even Peter himself. And he was poor too, she would never have dared tell her father of her desires. A draper’s daughter does not marry a woodcutter’s son.

Father, however, was gone. Though that was not what her mother said.

Agnes tried to push that thought away as she busied herself for bed. She slipped out of her clothes and into a nightdress, and began to brush her hair, but her fears would not stay away. Her hands began to tremble. She dropped the hairbrush clumsily on a table by the window, backing away from it uneasily. She knew the window was protected, but that didn’t quell her fear.

What if Father had been coming back? To Mother, in the night? She did not doubt for a second that it was possible; everyone knew it. Cattle and sheep had been attacked in recent days too. And it was true that her mother did seem to be getting weaker with every night that passed. Weaker, and paler.