The night was black and the torches sputtering. The soldier pulled me sharply by the arm, and I slipped on the wet grass and fell. He looked at me, scratching an eyebrow. “Wasn’t my idea, this.” His hand loosened on my arm.
I jerked myself loose and ran, mud squelching under my feet. Before I had gone three strides he grabbed me from behind. “No trouble, now,” he said. “It’ll be over quicker if you don’t squirm. Poor little mouse.” He put me over his shoulder and held me there with such ease I thought it pointless to struggle.
He carried me up the hill half covered in its yew wood, and then we were pushing through black cuirasses and wet, glinting mail.
About the brow of the hill a crowd had already gathered: black and grey, like a sooty fog. I looked behind me; the Ombenelvan soldiers spread down into the fields below. There was hardly a light to be seen anywhere in the black countryside.
Faces turned to look at me, hungry eyes shining in the few torches. I concentrated on the soldier’s jerkin and only looked up when he slowed––we’d reached the top. Three stakes stood out like fingers from the ground. There was a little rowan tree just behind them, the white of its blossoms twinkling obscenely in the torchlight.
A few of Herist’s men had gathered near the stakes, preparing for the burning. The Ombenelva weren’t helping. They looked on, contemptuous spectators of the terrified garrison.
A little way behind the rowan, right against the eve of the forest, more of the garrison were stacking Andrei’s pyre.
My soldier set me down before Herist. I stared at him unflinching, determined to hold my head high no matter what he did.
He ignored me; he was measuring the length of rope in his hand.
“Commander,” said Gershom, holding a torch over the center stake, touching it with a palm. Herist dropped the rope.
“What?”
“The wood is unfit, and all the stakes. Completely waterlogged. We should wait to burn the boy.”
“We’ll burn him now,” said Herist sharply. “I want no corpse coming back to haunt me.” The garrison soldiers around him muttered under their breath.
“The Commander is scared of a corpse,” said an Ombenelvan officer. “Pity. I would have my sausage cooked.” His fellows laughed.
Gershom whispered to my captor, “I expect they know, they’ve known all along they ain’t getting that weapon.”
“I expect they’re looking to torture a snake,” my captor said.
“The snake’s shaking in his skin,” Gershom said, and jumped when Herist addressed him.
“We’ll use the tree as a stake.” He pointed at the rowan. “It’s not so wet beneath the tree.” He picked up the rope and tossed it at the foot of the rowan.
“But the wood, sir,” said a soldier with a hissing torch.
“Gershom,” said Herist, ignoring the soldier, “collect wood from the prison.” He made a gesture at my soldier. “You, Kalk––Meladrau, bind her to the trunk.”
Gershom crept down the hill, right against the forest, as far away from the Ombenelva as he could manage. As Meladrau bound me to the rowan I turned my head over my shoulder and watched a group of Herist’s soldiers lay Andrei on the pyre. He was glistening with oil. An axe knocked somewhere below, the torches guttered, and it drizzled steadily.
“Set the boy alight now, before the night gets wetter,” said Herist to the soldier with the hissing torch, and he nodded his head toward Andrei.
The soldier walked toward the pyre. Rain pattered on the leaves overhead. It dripped into my hair and I willed it to rain harder, down on the pyre, down on the tree.
The soldier stood over the pyre now, and glancing with the light of his torch, he made a strange, stiff movement––and fell to the ground. The torch tumbled from his hand and went out in the wet grass. He lay twitching on the ground, two arrows sticking from his neck and back.
The garrison soldiers stopped what they were doing and the Ombenelva muttered in their own language. “What’s this?” Herist’s breath caught. “Who shot him?”
“They came from the wood,” said one of the garrison. He backed away from the yew wood, pulling one of his fellows back with him. “Over there.”
“Did they?” Herist walked over and heaved the soldier headlong toward the pyre. The soldier collapsed at the base of it, and got to his knees, shaking.
But nothing happened; nothing struck him down. He rose all the way and stepped cautiously away from the pyre. “Another torch,” said Herist. A torch was given him, and he placed it in the hands of the soldier and again shoved him toward the pyre.
There came a whistling noise. And the man was down, an arrow in his groin, his torch in the grass, extinguished.
I strained to see, wondering.
“Lady Slut,” said Herist to me. “Are these friends of yours?” He raised his hand and I shrank from it. But he lowered it, listening, his nostrils flaring. I heard it, too. A distant shouting, coming nearer.
There came a string of muffled words. Three of the garrison pushed through the wall of Ombenelva, and one shouted, “Gershhom’s dead––axe. Rerle got it in the stomach. And I only just got away with my life––”
“What?” said Herist.
“Them that were in the––” the man stopped to catch his breath. He was one of the guards from the pen. My face flushed; I remembered the axe knocking. I thought it had been chopping wood. The soldier continued in a strangled voice, “Gershom opened the door and they got him in the head. The wall’s half gone––they stormed us, took our weapons––”
Herist strode up to the man and struck him in the face.
“Commander,” someone shouted, and soldiers pointed at the pyre. There was nothing on it. At the edge of the wood the undergrowth stirred––two figures dragging a third into the yews.
Herist ran a hand over his chin. “The young Caveira.”
He turned around and cried to Meladrau, “In, in, after them.” But Meladrau didn’t move, and neither did the other soldiers; and when Herist shoved them forward they wheeled away with sheepish, miserable looks on their faces. “Dogs! After them. They’ll work some devilry with the boy.”
“Commander,” said an old Ombenelvan man, and Herist turned. “Mind your duty.” His voice was gross with phlegm, and he stepped close enough that I could see his face. They all looked similar in that light, but this man––and then I knew. He had set his dog on me in the city. “Let them be. Finish the work.”
“If you want the work finished,” Herist snarled into the man’s face, “finish it yourself. You find the wood, you burn the girl.”
“Show some respect.” The man made a gravely noise in his throat. “Our traditions are of the utmost importance.”
Herist flung his arms out. “Fool! She’s the one ran off with your Aebelavadar.”
“You lie,” said the man, and thumped his fist on his cuirass. “Mind your forked tongue. We will tolerate no disrespect. If you do not respect our traditions, we will not respect yours.”
“This isn’t your land.” Herist’s hand crept toward his knife. “Why should I give a damn for your traditions?”
“Not our land?” said the man. Water dripped from the trunk and trickled down my back. “Land belongs to the iron fisted. You haven’t even a fist of flesh, we think. First the heir apparent slips through your fist, than a bevy of prisoners. You are unfit to lead.” He coughed again, and smiled, his fat face wrinkling up. “Perhaps if you give Orshinq his due he will take pity and give you a fist of straw.”
Herist looked as though he’d like to yank his knife out and plunge it into the man’s eye. But he said in a low voice, “So be it.” He turned to Meladrau, and said he might take men and go and collect the rest of the wood from the prison, as there was no other use for it now.
So Meladrau and a few more of the garrison went down the hill. The rain fell, and Herist grumbled, his hands clutching at his lank hair, until the men came back up with armfuls of kindling and filthy straw. They worked silently, furiously, stacking the wood around my feet and bundling the straw into bunches under the wood; and the Ombenelvan officer, Chureal I thought he must be, blended back into the mob of his countrymen, the front line of which looked on mockingly.
“Light it.” Herist gave a torch to Meladrau. Meladrau passed the torch to one of his fellows, and he in turn passed it to someone else, and for some time not one of Herist’s soldiers would step forward to light my kindling.
“What’s this about?” said Herist. “Are we waiting for daylight?”
“They’re scared of the arrows,” said Meladrau quietly.
“You’re out of reach here.” Herist took back the torch and gave it to Meladrau. “Stop trembling and get to it.” Herist stepped back, and Meladrau didn’t move. The Commander pulled his knife and forced him forward. “Light it.” Meladrau put his torch to the first bundle of straw.
“Go on,” Herist told me, the knife shaking in his hand, the bones in his fist standing out. “Curse and sob. Tell me the details. What’s this? You aren’t of the mind?.” But drizzle had already come through the branches and dampened every surface, and only smoke curled around my feet.
A shape flitted through the smoke and landed on my shoulder. “I’d wondered where they put you,” she said. “The camp’s a mess. Where’re the tunics? Is Liskara still packed with your things? I saw her outside a tent but didn’t look closer.”
“Floy,” I breathed. I drooped in my bonds. “What’s the use? The asters are gone.”
“We can try half the business, can’t we? Before sunrise? I’ve brought them all, and we’re going to find the tunics. And the asters.” I lifted my head. The air darkened and grew heavy.
“You shouldn’t have come. It’s no use, Floy. Tell them to leave.”
“Sure, right away I’ll tell them,” said Floy. “Boys, it’s your sister! But don’t look––she’s being burned at the stake and wants you to leave. They’ll respect your last wishes, oh, certainly they will.”
“Floy,” I gasped, coughing. But she had gone. A flame trickled through the straw, and the men blew life into it. It ate at the wood under my feet, snapping it up, growing fat. The tree woke and whispered at my back. Smoke coated the inside of my mouth, and I closed my throat and held my head up. A thousand spinning eyes bored into me. I savaged my lips and tongue with my teeth.
Hot air billowed under my skirt, hounding the moisture away. Pain clouded my senses and someone started screaming so loudly it rang in my ears.
A black shadow flew through the smoke. A long neck arched, and black wings beat against my feet, stinking of burnt feathers. “Get away,” I cried. “Get away. They’ll kill you. Get away!”
Arin said nothing, but kept beating and beating.
Herist hung back for a moment. Then he reached out and crumpled the swan against his chest. Arin screamed, tore at him with a webbed foot, and Herist caught his neck and twisted it. “You don’t know what you’re doing,” I whispered. The neck snapped, and Arin the boy struggled, his face blanched, and Herist, in surprise, let fall the wings from his arms.
The surprise changed on his face. Gasping, he dropped to his knees––the grip of a knife stuck out between his shoulders. A man stood behind him, lacquered with oil. Herist hit the ground and his mouth darkened the dirt.
“I hate waking up,” said Andrei. He pulled his knife from Herist’s back, and I thought vaguely to myself, he must have slipped from the wood and come up from behind.
I looked at the swan fanned over the straw and closed my eyes. It felt as though there were a rock in my throat.
“My lord, you daren’t do that,” said Meladrau. Andrei was cutting through my ropes. “The other prisoners are gone.”
“My lord,” said another soldier, “she’s guilty. Her scar––”
“Of what?” Andrei hacked away at the ropes, freeing my arms. “Killing me?” His hands were shaking, his eyes bruised, his skin waxen. No wonder they’d thought him dead. “Which should give me sufficient license to pardon her.”
Someone––Trid––put a hand on Andrei’s shoulder, and Andrei wrenched it away, twisting it. Trid squawked.
“You’ve lost your mind,” he said. I looked over my shoulder, but nothing stirred. The brigands had the sense to stay hidden. Andrei stumbled and fell to his knees, and Trid squatted next to him. “You’re weaker than an infant. You’ve only got a couple spoonfuls of mash in you; I’m surprised you can even move. You don’t understand what’s going on, the Ombenelva could squash us with one boot, we don’t know if the other troops are anywhere near, you’re going to have to negotiate––”
“Your Grace.” Chureal stepped from his horde of Ombenelva, and Trid looked up, words caught in his throat. Both the boys became still. “It’s a delight to see you alive.” He didn’t look delighted. “Perhaps we should find you a cot.”
Andrei’s hand tightened around his knife. “She’s coming with me.”
Chureal stopped an arm’s length away. “You would grant her pardon?” he said, smiling at Andrei. “Very magnanimous. She must confess, of course.”
Trid stood up. “To what?”
Chureal flicked rainwater from his lump of a nose. “I don’t know. She has yet to speak.” He still smiled at Andrei.
“You know,” said Andrei. He got unsteadily to his feet. “You know she can’t confess.”
“What?” said Chureal. “How could I, Your Grace?”
“Got hordes of djain telling you, probably.”
“Pardons can only be issued to those who confess.” Another Ombenelvan officer stepped up beside Chureal. “We must respect the law.”
Andrei said, “Herist––”
“Is dead,” said Chureal. “Our thanks.” Andrei shook like a tree stricken by an axe.
He sat on the ground and dug his hands into his long, matted hair.
“My lord,” said a garrison soldier, and he knelt before Andrei and spoke in a whisper, “They’re a bunch of mad dogs. They’d murder us, enslave the people. You know what they do in the South. Think of the Girelden.”
“Give them what they want,” muttered another of the garrison.
“Be reasonable, boy––”
“She’s a far cry from mute,” said Meladrau, who’d heard me yelling at the prisoners. “Yes or no. She could say either.”
“One word,” said Trid. “Just once, Aly. It doesn’t have to mean anything.”
“Look at me,” Andrei said, hauling himself up to my level. “You want your people enslaved? They think I’m going to torch you.” He laughed. “They don’t get it. I won’t. You stopped weaving––I thought you’d finished. For gods’ sake, Aly, it’s spring, why don’t you just say no? Is the sun out? No. Are we having a garden party? No. Am I the man you love best? No--” His head knocked against the trunk, and he saw my left hand. He grabbed it and held it to the torchlight. “What happened to your finger? Smells like a––”
He threw it away and looked at Trid. “You said it was palendries.”
He turned back to me. “Did you stop weaving to keep me alive? You left your shirts alone so you could stuff me full of weeds?”
My feet ached. The sky was lightening. I was going to go mad soon. I turned my head away, to watch for morning. “Ah,” he said bitterly, “I destroy every life I touch. Can’t be helped.”
The rain thinned, and he sat down again. “I can’t do this. They can’t make me do this.”
He fell silent at a noise. The whinny of a horse and a great crash, both far off and muffled in the wet.
Something barreled through the sea of soldiers, leaving a path in its wake. A sparrow’s song rang out in the dark:
A monster burst onto the hilltop, bristling with black wings and yellow eyes.
“By the blood of the earth,” said Meladrau.
An Ombenelvan officer sank to his knees. “Orshinq,” he said, and cried out in his own language. His countrymen shouted and fell around him, and the hillside began to writhe.
“Aguna nu,” yelled Chureal. The men from Omben stilled and watched silently as the beast came toward me. Its many wings spread, and a pair separated and flew off when a great load dropped to the ground.
“How’d you do it?” called the beast.
“A switchblade,” it answered itself. Then the wings fell off entirely, and I saw it was a horse––Liskara. She bolted into the wood.
“Where’s the bag?” An egret picked at the pile of fallen baggage. “What’s become of Arin?”
“A sign.” Chureal looked after the horse, his face wan beneath black whiskers. “We have time yet.” He started forward with a torch.
Andrei thrust himself from the ground, wrested the torch from Chureal’s hands, and pushed him away.
“Get back,” he snarled. He almost set himself alight, and his convulsive, wasted limbs flailed the torch about with so genuine an aspect of lunacy that he cleared a great circle of ground before the tree. “Get back,” he called, pointing with the fire. “All of you. If you want to burn her, you’ll have to tie me to the tree as well.”
He ground the torch into the dirt and scrambled around the baggage, scattering the birds. They watched with cocked heads.
“Cracked?” said Mordan.
“I believe he’s trying to help,” said Tem.
Floy alighted on a bag. Andrei took the hint and took the old saddlebag from under her. He somehow dragged himself and the bag over to the rowan, where he demanded I hold my hands out.
I did so, and he dumped the Marione shirts across my arms. And he would have stood there in the way of my brothers, knocking Herist’s head around with his boots and waiting for justice to hew the earth into halves, had Trid not pulled him aside and sat on his legs.
The birds stood before me, blending together in the half-light. “Go on,” said Tem. “The sun won’t wait.”
It was light enough to see the wind ruffling Floy’s feathers. I had no idea what would happen to her when the sun rose. But I wouldn’t think on that. I must make our spirits whole again.
My aching fingers could scarce open the garments. The first drowned Leode completely, Tem received the next, and then Mordan, and finally, uncertainly, I bent from the waist and pulled the second-to-last over the swan as best I could. But I kept my own draped over my palms, frowning at it.
“Quickly, Reyna. They won’t be held in suspense for long, these men.”
“Why are you waiting?” said Mordan. They held their heads erect, awkward in the thorny garments. No asters. I knew what they intended.
“Put it on,” said Tem. “Forget about us.”
“No,” I said.
“Do as I say. I’m eldest.”
“You’ll die,” I said.
“Better than going mad.”
“We want you to live,” said Mordan.
I didn’t need for them to explain. I knew what would happen: we would forget each other. They would pass away––shot in the breast, frozen in a cold lake, old and sad in the corner of a mew––and melt back into the mud as simple beasts, while an empty pocket of earth who used to be Reyna lived on.
Madness would be rest of a sort. But it was cowardly. My father stood in front of me. Be brave. He was smiling, holding out his hand.
I shook my head. I couldn’t do it.
Be brave.
I took a painful breath and slipped the tunic over my head.
Sunlight caught in the branches above me, and the wind changed. The tunic whipped against me, just strings and knots, for the blossoms had torn loose and formed a funnel in the wind.
The point pierced my chest. My soul thawed and sang.
“Yes,” I said, and I didn’t care who heard it. “Yes. See what I did?” I pointed toward Arin. “He should’ve had strong arms to fight with, and legs for kicking, and teeth for biting. But he didn’t, and because of me. I would I’d never wished them useless wings on him, and all the rest of them, too.”
Andrei took this as a confession, and pulled away from Trid to saw through the rest of my ropes. I hardly noticed for the beating in my ears.
I saw wings, an albatross beating its great, white wings. For an instant the yew wood seemed to grow, to circle round us, a sea of ancient trees stretching from horizon to horizon. A second wind came up, cold as the moon, and a thousand black feathers blew past.
Then they were gone, birds and feathers.
The wood dwindled to its normal size. A boy was sprawled over the logs at my feet, his black hair blowing across his face. He was crumbling. Behind him the others stood in a line. They crumbled too, and the sun burst through them, setting the dust sparkling. Mordan said, “You did it? You wished us into birds?” He laughed, voice rusting through. “And you’ve renounced it. Goodbye.”
Andrei stumbled under me. I reached to steady myself, and pulled him down by the shirtfront.
An ice aster blew out of his shirt––the last one I’d tucked next to his wound. It caught, a warm, spidery, white thing, in the hollow below my collarbone.
Tem knew what it was. “Give it to Leode,” he said. He was so good.
“Wait.” Mordan’s voice was very faint, as though it came from deep underground. “Composites. Composites!” I couldn’t guess what he was talking about. “Don’t you remember, any of you?”
Then I remembered. The scent of meadowsweet, like almonds. They’re composites. Got lots of little flowers on each head.
“Maybe he’s right,” Leode said, and as if this were the final word, they held out their arms. Their hands were gone, so I tore the magnificent white flower to bits and pressed the pulp against their arms, sides, legs, wherever there was flesh––until I felt nothing.
I reached out, searching the air for Arin, who should have been right here. And the ground here was hot, like a palm. I placed in it the last bit of aster.
The air warmed and became a real palm, and I yanked my hand away.
“Reyna?” said Tem. I shook my head, too distraught to believe it.
“I saw him, Tem,” said Mordan, “right after the man snapped his neck.”
“Reyna, look.”
I put my head between my knees and vomited.
“She’s in shock.”
“He was alive and kicking, Tem.”
“One last push?”
“Quite a push if his neck had already been broken,” said Mordan. “Reyna.” I looked up, and he crouched and put his ear to his little brother’s mouth. His hands moved over Arin’s body, feeling for something. “Arin may be high-tempered. His head may be in the clouds. But he hasn’t got a foot of vertebrae in his neck anymore.”
Tem knelt beside us.
Mordan placed my fingers onto Arin’s neck, and I could feel a pulse. Like wings flying away.
Tem began to laugh––it was the most wonderful sound I’d ever heard.
Floy drew her hands around her knees, and wept.
“The sun,” Leode whispered, watching it fall over his skin.