The Scarecrow Queen Read online

  I can tell from everyone’s breathing—fast, uneven—and the constant tossing and turning that none of us are asleep. But no one speaks. The rushing of the river is too loud to ignore, and every now and then, there are splashes that I know are just fish but that my imagination makes into men coming after us. The winter-bare branches above us stretch like arms, backlit by a sky too full of stars to be reassuring. After a while we start to huddle closer, until we’re all lying next to one another, like my brothers, Maryl, and I did as children. I can feel Nia shaking in front of me, and I don’t know if it’s because of the bitter temperature, or if she’s crying. In contrast, Sister Hope lies still as a stone. But none of us sleep, or speak.

  Dawn takes forever to arrive, by which time I’m stiff with cold, my body aches, and I’m silently furious at nothing in particular. I’m not the only one; Nia snaps at Kirin when he finishes the water, though she’d just had some, and Sister Hope barks at them both. I keep quiet and move near the horses, leaning against them, breathing in their comforting smell of hay and warmth. They seem to have weathered the night well.

  We’re on the move less than an hour after dawn, and it doesn’t take us long, using Kirin’s compass, to get back onto the King’s Road. Until then I’m sleepy, lulled by the gait of the horse, leaning against Sister Hope, but as soon as the wide track comes into view I’m alert, and Sister Hope sits upright, too. We see no other travelers, which we could pretend is because winter is almost here, but I don’t think any of us believe that. There is no livestock in the fields around us, and not even the hedge birds are chattering. It feels as though we’re at the end of the world.

  I feel a tremor run through Sister Hope a second before she kicks back into the underbelly of the horse, driving it into an immediate gallop and forcing me to duck low against her to stay mounted. Behind us I hear Kirin swear, and I tighten my arms around Sister Hope’s waist as we fly across the ground. I want to look, want to see what’s chasing us. Want to know if it’s him. When she draws us to a halt, I’m surprised; I put my hand on the knife at my belt, ready to defend myself.

  Then I see them.

  As if she were a marionette and her strings had been cut, Sister Hope goes slack in my arms; if it weren’t for me holding her, she’d fall from the horse. I take the reins from her fingers as Kirin tells Nia not to look.

  I look.

  Ahead of us over Sister Hope’s shoulder I can see two forms, robed in black, standing against the trees either side of the road. It takes me a moment to see what’s wrong with the picture, baffled by Kirin’s words. Then, with a sickening rush of understanding, I do.

  There is an expanse of trunk, three or more feet, between the ends of their distinctive robes and the ground. They’re not standing against the trees: They’re pinned to them.

  Kirin swings himself down from his horse, somehow carrying Nia with him. He places her on the ground, where she sinks to her knees, her back to the scene before us. He reaches his arms out for Sister Hope and she drops into them with no effort to hold herself upright. He takes her to Nia and the two cling to each other, and I see Sister Hope’s mouth gaping in a silent scream. Nia folds her into her arms and begins to weep noisily.

  Without speaking, Kirin and I walk forward.

  Either side of the road, Sisters Honor and Wisdom have been nailed to the trees.

  Their eyes are closed, their arms above their heads, far above where a man could reach. I can’t understand how this is possible, until I remember the golems.

  Then Kirin swears again, and I turn and see two more bodies in a ditch beside the road. One male, one female. Neither has the telltale white hair of the alchemists. The civilians Nia mentioned; Terra and Glin, Sister Hope called them.

  “There should be others,” I say quietly to Kirin. “Five alchemists. The Sisters were taking them to Tressalyn for their safety.” I look up at Wisdom and Honor. I remember their stern, cold faces in the Conclave. I look back at Hope and Nia, still on their knees and clutching each other.

  “Lief couldn’t have done that.” I gesture at the pinioned Sisters, keeping my voice low. “Not alone. In fact, I doubt it was the work of men at all.”

  “Golems,” Kirin says, and I nod. What else could it have been?

  “He was traveling toward us, though,” Kirin continues. “Away from here, back toward Tremayne. Why? Why turn back?”

  I cover my mouth with my hand as understanding washes over me. He was on his way back for us—or at least for Sister Hope and Nia. Someone must have given them away.

  I can’t imagine any Sister giving up secrets, no matter what was done to her. Everything I know about them makes it unlikely. But the alchemists might have. Or the civilians. If they thought it would save their friends …

  From the way Kirin looks at me, I know he’s reached the same conclusion.

  “Where are the golems now?” I say finally, turning about and scanning the fields, terrified they’ll appear before us.

  Kirin lets out a long breath. “The tracks we found yesterday before we saw Lief … there were a lot. More than just him and the two men with him. My guess would be a whole bunch of the Sleeping Prince’s men—Lief included—started for the south, and at some point they came across the people here and …” He pauses, and I look without wanting to at the Sisters. “I reckon they will have carried on afterward, and Lief and the men we killed turned back. Which means Tressalyn is compromised. We won’t be safe there.”

  “No.” I have to look away from the bodies. The positions are so unnatural they don’t look real.

  “Penaluna is close,” Kirin is saying. “It’s in the mountains. I have family there. They’d hide us, until we can figure out what to do. We could hole up there and …”

  “And then what?” Something flares inside me like acid, or fire, and I raise my chin, my jaw tightening. “To the best of our knowledge, the Sleeping Prince has taken every alchemist he can find and killed everyone else. He’s winning, Kirin.”

  “Which is why we need to regroup …”

  “No.” My vehemence surprises even me. “I’m done with running away.”

  “Then where?”

  “Lormere,” I say. “We have to go to Lormere.”

  Kirin actually laughs. “Have you taken leave of your senses? Lormere, which he invaded with two golems and won in a night? Lormere that he made completely subservient in under three moons? Twylla, Lormere is the seat of his power.”

  “Exactly. I’m willing to bet it’s to Lormere that he’s taken Errin and Silas. And the other alchemists. We need to rescue them if we’re to stand a chance of destroying him.” I remember what Sister Hope said about hiding in plain sight from Helewys. “Besides, it’s the very last place he’d expect me to go.”

  “We can’t just storm the castle, Twylla,” Kirin says. “There are four of us. We need to gather forces, seek out friends—”

  I cut him off. “So we will.”

  “How, exactly?”

  “Did Nia tell you what I was?” I say, and he shakes his head. “I was Daunen Embodied. I was hope. To the people of Lormere, I am the living representation of triumph over extreme adversity.”

  Kirin raises his brows, his expression sceptical.

  “Oh, I know”—I shove his shoulder gently when he makes to interrupt me—“I know that it’s all made up. I know. Lief Vastel taught me that.” His eyes widen, but I keep going. “But that doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter if it’s real or not, so long as people believe. As long as people think that Daunen Embodied coming is a sign. A sign that the war will be won.”

  He stares at me. “Twylla, this is madness. If he gets word you’re alive and plotting against him, he’ll come straight after you.”

  “He’ll do that anyway sooner or later, regardless of where I am, or whether I’m hiding or fighting back. So I’m choosing to fight back. We’ll go to Lormere. By the back roads and the woods. Along the way we’ll gather what supporters we can. That’s our plan. Come on.” I gra
b Kirin by the wrist and pull him back to Hope and Nia.

  “I’m sorry,” I say when they look up at us. “I’m so, so sorry. He will pay for this. I swear to you, I will make him pay for this. I meant what I said in the barn. The beginning of the end is now.”

  Nia and Hope look up at me and for a moment, there is nothing in their expressions; it’s as though they’ve been hollowed out. But then Kirin pulls his wrist from my grip and takes my hand for an instant, squeezing it. I look at him and he nods. And when I turn back to Sister Hope and Nia, there is a spark in their eyes, and a question.

  “We’re going to Lormere,” I say.

  There is a pause. Then: “Yes,” Sister Hope says in a voice made of edges, her hand sliding down to the hilt of her sword. “Yes.”

  The apothecary is seated at the end of a long table, in a room lined with books. She is playing a game. At the opposite end of the table, the prince works, a map spread across the scarred wooden surface, each corner held down by a miniature golem. As he moves unanimated simulacrum across the map toward an enemy composed of cruder, malformed poppets, one of the golems at the corner seems to raise its arm and scratch its elbow. The prince looks up from his strategizing, staring at the clay being, watching as it finishes attending to its apparent itch, and then returns to pinning the map in place. Everything in the room stills, save the apothecary, who continues with her game, rhythmic thuds emanating from where she sits.

  When the golem moves again, seemingly shifting its weight, the prince smashes it into the table, until all that remains is a smear of clay.

  He looks over at the apothecary. “It’s no good when they start to do as they will.”

  The apothecary ignores him. She is busy with her game.

  She’s been playing for as long as he’s been planning his battle. The Knife Game, it’s called. All it requires her to do is splay her hand on the table and then stab the blade down into the gaps between each of her fingers, over and over. She has become very fast, and very good.

  The prince likes the sound that comes when the knife pierces the wood. If the apothecary does it properly, there is a wonderful rhythm to it, a percussive sort of beat, like a heart. He also likes the fear in her eyes as she plays. Her hands are very valuable to her; the idea of losing a finger, or severing a tendon, terrifies her. Of course, if that happened, he could give her some of the Elixir. But she can’t be sure he will. He doesn’t need her to have hands, after all. That’s what makes it so fun for him. He doesn’t know what he’d do if she missed, either. He expects sooner or later they’ll both find out.

  When she speeds up he does, too, moving his players across the map in the war he is always preparing for.

  It’s an indulgence; he doesn’t believe he’ll get the war he wants, because his enemies are cowards. They skulked beneath the earth as they plotted against him, and he does not expect an honest, worthy challenge from them. He’d dearly love to meet them in battle, him and his Silver Knight commanding armies of men and golems. Now would be the perfect time for it; he is unconquerable, unmatched. But he does not believe it will come to pass. He believes the end will come all at once, in a rush—one arrow, one mistake. Not his, of course. Hers. The Sin Eating girl’s. The heretic’s. Almost all of her allies are dead, or under his power. And he’s made very sure she’ll find no new ones. She is the only threat to him, really. Once she’s gone—and it won’t take long—it will all be over.

  But he is so enjoying planning his war.

  He pauses and watches the apothecary as she plays the Knife Game. The knife flashes. She senses his eyes on her and frowns, trying to concentrate. The rhythm slows as she focuses, then speeds up as she masters herself. It annoys him, this confidence, and he reaches toward the pocket he keeps the simulacrum of her in. She looks up at this now-familiar gesture, and in that second the knife slips, and she cries out. The prince smells her blood before he sees it, iron and salt, and he licks his lips involuntarily.

  The knife clatters to the table and the apothecary reaches for it, even as she bleeds, unable to disobey the instruction she’s been given to play the game, to keep playing. The prince pulls her simulacrum from inside his tunic and unpeels a piece of paper from around its middle.

  The apothecary’s hand freezes as the command is broken and her body is returned to her.

  She looks at the knife, then at the prince, and all at once it seems as though the walls have moved, narrowing, until it feels as though they’re pressed together, even as they stand apart.

  “Do it.” The words are seductive, a whisper from a lover in the dark. “Go on, Errin. Do it.”

  The apothecary’s blood drips onto the table, a dull echo of the earlier sound of the knife.

  “There’s no one else here.” He gestures around the room. “No guards. No servants. Just you and me.” He looks at the simulacrum of her and lifts it, tossing it down on the table so it’s within her reach. “There. Now I can do nothing.”

  The apothecary’s chest is heaving. Her fingers twitch, and the prince smiles.

  Then, slowly, he turns his back on her. He pulls the sheaf of his hair around until it falls over his chest. “Right in the back, Errin. Stab me there, won’t you?” he croons, his voice echoing faintly.

  She watches him, hesitating. She picks up the knife and stares down at it, the smallest hint of red at the tip from where it cut her.

  Suddenly he’s beside her, taking the knife from her gently. He licks the spot of blood from the tip and then puts it down, reaching for her hand. He places her injured finger in his mouth and sucks, his gold eyes fixed on her green ones as he does.

  His tongue flicks over the wound and then he releases her. When she looks at the cut, the bleeding has stopped.

  “I take it you don’t want any Elixir,” the prince says, and his voice is husky, reminding the apothecary of someone else.

  She shakes her head, unable to look away from him.

  Then he slaps her, hard, causing her to drop the knife she didn’t know she’d reached for once more.

  “It’s no good when they start to do as they will,” the prince says again. “Get out of my sight.”

  The apothecary turns and runs.

  A crash to her left makes her stop, and she sees the knife embedded in the door frame, inches from her head. It quivers, and she feels her own limbs start to tremble. She doesn’t look back at the prince as she flees.

  I don’t know Tregellan well enough to guide us back to Lormere, so Kirin takes over navigating our course toward Almwyk. I ride with him now, seated in front of him on the dappled horse, my thighs chafing against a saddle made only for one.

  At our side, Nia rides with Sister Hope, in their own private bubble of shock and grief. Neither has spoken since we decided to head to Lormere. But every now and then I catch small movements, and turn to see Sister Hope’s fingers drifting down to the hilt of her sword as an ugly expression crosses her face. In my mind’s eye I see Lief plummet from his horse again, his face bloody from my knife, then I recall the women on the trees, splayed like toys. Each time it makes a thick anger curdle inside me, and I feel my own jaw tighten with the desire to do something violent.

  We managed to get the bodies down, Kirin grimly braced against the tree, holding me by the legs as I pulled free the thick iron nails that kept them pinioned, and Sister Hope and Nia waiting beneath to catch them. They were stiff, and cold, but Sister Hope embraced each one and kissed their marbled cheeks. We had no shovels to bury them, so we laid them in the ditch beside Terra and Glin, covering them with fallen leaves and branches, anything to protect them from the animals that were sure to come.

  “We need to keep the sun behind us,” Kirin says for the third time since we began heading east, and I feel him looking back over his shoulder. I look, too, seeking out that faint glowing disc behind a blanket of clouds. “It will be dusk soon. We’ll stop a couple of miles outside Newtown and camp there. Then tomorrow we’ll reach Almwyk, and from then on we’ll be in the wood
s.”

  “We’d be better off traveling at night,” Nia says from the other horse. “We’re too visible in the day.”

  “I need the sun to navigate if we’re going to Lormere.”

  “Use the stars.”

  “I don’t know how.” Kirin’s voice is tight.

  “We’re safer moving during the day,” Sister Hope says, silencing them both. “During the day we can at least see what is approaching us. Or following us. At night we’re blind.”

  An hour or so later, she’s proven right. We spy black spots on the horizon that soon become riders on horseback, and I feel Kirin tense, my own stomach clenching with fear. We slow the horses. I pull my knife from my belt.

  My palms are damp and slippery as they approach, two figures shrouded in thick cloaks. Impossible to tell whether they’re men or women, Tregellian or Lormerian, and the knife feels loose in my hand. I tighten my grip on it, and breathe in and out slowly, ready to lash out if they attack us. But the figures ride on, passing us, keeping their faces covered, and I feel sick as the adrenaline that flooded me has no outlet. When Kirin leans forward and quietly asks if I’m all right, I look down to see the knife trembling, and I tuck it back into my belt.

  We camp near a small stream two miles outside Newtown, and after a small argument between Kirin and Sister Hope over who’s the most capable, Hope heads alone toward the town on foot to look for supplies, leaving the horses with us. My stomach feels too small, and I pray there’s food in my future; I can’t remember the last time I went this long without eating. I look around halfheartedly for berries, or roots, but it’s almost midwinter and I’m not exactly an expert at foraging or survival. Errin would know, if she was here, I think, and my stomach twists again. Please let her be all right. I offer up a silent prayer to whoever, or whatever, might be listening, and move back to where Nia and Kirin are sitting in silence. When Sister Hope returns within an hour, her eyes are wide.