The Scarecrow Queen Read online

“Newtown is taken,” she says, collapsing beside us and rubbing a hand through her hair. “Gates have been put up. They’re not much, wooden poles with wire between them, but there are men patrolling them and they wear the sign of the Solaris on armbands. I saw no one else; there’s probably a curfew.”

  “Were there golems?” I ask.

  “I didn’t see any. But I expect so.”

  “There’s no food, is there?” Nia says.

  Sister Hope shakes her head. “I’m sorry.”

  So we pass another miserable night on the ground, made worse by the icy drizzle that starts an hour after we bed down and persists until I can feel it in my bones. We don’t even pretend propriety tonight, snuggling together like fox kits in an earth as the rain blankets us, shivering in unison. As soon as my body finally becomes numb enough to allow a kind of sleep, the sky starts to turn gray and Sister Hope rises, breaking up our nest and prompting us all to rise. It seems none of us are used to going without food, as evidenced by the chorus of angry rumbles that sound when we try to fill up on water from the stream. We check the horses, and then we’re on the road and skirting around Newtown before the sun is truly risen.

  I’m too exhausted to speak, my clothes are damp and starting to smell, and my stomach growls incessantly; it feels like there’s an angry animal trapped in there, gnawing at me. Nia is hunched over and has her arms crossed over her stomach, and Sister Hope’s face looks pinched. We need to find food, and soon.

  We spy another set of figures on the horizon just after midday, and at once the pall that has fallen over us lifts, as we become alert to a threat, my heart skipping into a now familiar pattern of nervous beats as we once again draw our weapons and wait.

  It soon becomes apparent they are on foot, two of them, dressed in brown wool, not armor, and the relief I feel is mirrored on the face of the female of the pair, who cradles a bundle to her chest. We draw our horses to a stop beside them and the bundle in the woman’s arms wriggles free, revealing itself not, as I expected, to be a child but a small black-and-white dog. It licks her face and I can’t help but smile.

  The male addresses Kirin in that thick, singsong Tregellian accent. “If you’re heading to Tyrwhitt, I wouldn’t bother. Unless you’re a supporter of this Sleeping Prince.”

  “Newtown is the same, and Tremayne.” Kirin’s voice is gruff. “Both gone.”

  The other man swears. “Do you know what the situation is in Tressalyn?”

  “No. But there were signs on the King’s Road that the army marched on south after Tremayne—so …”

  The man nods grimly and I remember where I’ve heard the name Tyrwhitt before.

  “There was a camp, outside the town, wasn’t there?” I say. “For Lormerian refugees. What happened to them?”

  “Gone,” he says. “They attacked that first. The poor people inside were trapped like rats. There were fences, you see. They tried to get out, to get to safety, but they didn’t stand a chance. That’s all that saved us, you know. We could hear the screams from Tyrwhitt …”

  He keeps talking, I see his mouth moving, but I can’t hear a word of it. Those poor people. My people. Fenced in a camp, miles from their homes, with nothing but what they could carry, unable to save themselves or their loved ones. It’s no way to live. And no way to die.

  The rage inside builds again, filling me with fire, and the need to move, to do something. To fight, and avenge, and put things right.

  “… plan was to head to Tressalyn, but now …” The man is still speaking and I tune back in, in time to hear him say, “Where do you head for?”

  “The woods,” Kirin says swiftly. “For now.”

  The man nods again. “I know some others headed that way.”

  We all fall silent, and I see the man look over the horses, and something in his face turns sly. With studied nonchalance, he glances over at Kirin and me, then at Sister Hope and Nia, who haven’t said a word. Foreboding tightens my chest, and I try to catch Nia’s eye, only to see her gaze is fixed on the pack on the man’s back, her face mirroring the want in his. The air seems to thicken then.

  “We should go,” I say, kicking back to prompt the horse into action, and breaking the rising tension that it seems only I noticed, as they all look at me. “Good luck to you both,” I say to the man and his wife, raising my arm to reveal the knife at my waist.

  “You, too,” he says, a faint edge of disappointment in his tone.

  I reach for the reins and flick them, prompting the horse into a trot, eager to put some distance between us.

  “What’s wrong?” Kirin asks when I pull us back to a walk.

  “I didn’t like the way he was looking at the horses. Or the way Nia was looking at his bag,” I say in a quiet voice. “It’s not just Aurek’s men who are a danger to us.” I see his knuckles whiten on the reins. “We need to be careful,” I say. “The horses are valuable.”

  “So are you, apparently,” Kirin says. “Listen, maybe we—”

  “We’ve agreed.” I cut him off. “We’re going to Lormere.”

  “I was actually going to say, maybe we shouldn’t have said we were heading toward the woods. Maybe we should have said the coast. Lief knows who we all are, and how many we are. We’d be easy to track down.”

  “You’re right. And we should avoid people as best we can. No more roadside chats.”

  Kirin nods in agreement as Sister Hope draws up alongside us.

  “Good thinking,” she says. There’s respect in her tone, almost warmth. It does nothing to fill my empty stomach, but it helps, somehow.

  * * *

  As we arrive on the outskirts of Almwyk the cloud finally breaks and the sun casts a weak but welcome light over us. Kirin guides us through the remains of the Tregellian army’s camp—the tents, stores, and stables Kirin told us were here have all vanished. There are a few forgotten weapons buried in the mud, and we salvage what we can: more knives, a mace without a handle, a small sword, a battered shield, a dented helmet. By some absolute miracle, we come across an undamaged ration pack of hardtack and dried meat and fruit, half-submerged outside what Kirin says used to be the captain’s tent. We fall on it like animals; even though the biscuit is hard enough to make me worry for my teeth, I can’t stop cramming it in my mouth, and neither can the others. I think it might be the best meal I’ve ever had. We eat until it’s all gone, washed down with water from a well in the village. Kirin shows me Errin’s old cottage, ransacked, not even a ragged cloak to steal, though I do find a copy of the old Tregellian stories, leather-bound and gilded, beneath an upturned pallet.

  I’m about to pack it, to give it back to her, when I’m gifted with another memory: of Lief, on my bed in Lormere, telling me how his mother would read him the stories. Curiosity gets the better of me and I open it, only to see Aurek’s face peering out at me. I toss it into the grate as though it’s aflame. When I do, the grate shifts, and investigation reveals apothecary equipment hidden beneath the fireplace. Nia exclaims when she sees it, picking it up delicately, and even Sister Hope smiles. We pack it away reverently, and at the last minute I add the book to our bundle, too. Errin can decide if she wants it or not.

  There’s nothing for it, then, but to enter the West Woods.

  * * *

  Forest of nightmares from my childhood, the place where I believed the spirits of those whose sins weren’t Eaten went to languish eternally. Before I traveled to Scarron, I’d only ever seen it from a distance, on calls with my mother. But when I finally had to pass through it, I was pleasantly surprised to find it was green, and warm, and teeming with life. Even now, it’s less frigid than the fields beyond the tree line, and much of the greenery is still in place. We dismount and lead the horses through the woods in single file: Kirin, me, then Nia, with Sister Hope bringing up the rear.

  The attack comes from all sides. One moment, there are birds calling, then silence, and it’s in that silence they appear. Four of them, with scarves over their faces and wicked curve
d knives in their hands. No livery, no armbands. Not the Sleeping Prince’s men. They recognize Kirin at the front and Sister Hope at the back as the main threat, and take them down with ruthless efficiency. A blow to the side of the throat, another to the stomach, and within seconds, both are disarmed and forced to their knees without hope of fighting back. It’s so fast that neither Nia nor I have had time to pull out our knives. Nia reaches for my hand and I clasp it, squeezing it tightly.

  One of the men, tall and blue-eyed, comes over and stands in front of us.

  “Take the horses,” I say. “Take whatever you want. Just let us all pass.”

  “Pass to where?” The voice is muffled through the scarf, but male. And to my surprise, Lormerian.

  “I can’t tell you. But I promise we’re no threat to you.”

  The man cocks his head, considering. “That cloak looks mighty warm,” he says, reaching for it.

  But before he even comes close, another figure knocks his hand away. “Don’t touch her!” he almost screams.

  Then he turns to me and pulls his scarf down, and with a start I recognize him. “Stuan?” I ask, and he gulps, nodding.

  “So it is you?” he—Stuan—asks. “I thought it was, but the hair …”

  “Dyed to get me out of Lormere.”

  The man whose hand Stuan pushed away pulls his own scarf down, revealing a thin, tanned face.

  “Who is she?” he asks.

  “It’s Lady Twylla,” Stuan says. “Daunen Embodied.”

  My eyes dart to Kirin. Now he’ll see why Lormere was the right choice. “It’s true,” I say, trying to keep my voice even. “I know I look a little different, but I am Twylla Morven, Daunen Embodied, daughter of the Sin Eater of Lormere and former betrothed of Prince Merek.”

  No one looks impressed, and I realize how unlikely my claim must seem to them. Brown-haired, muddy, and stinking, an old cloak covering a bloodstained dress. No jewels, no red gown, no guards. Not the shining beacon of hope the legends spoke of.

  “How’s she touching you, then?” the other man asks, gesturing at where Nia still grips my hand. “She was poisonous, Daunen was.”

  “No, I—” I pause, trying to find a way to explain what the queen did. “I was never poisonous. That was a trick—a lie of the queen’s.”

  “Daunen was the executioner,” the man says. “Or you were, if you’re her. You killed people. I was there, I worked there, too. We all knew you killed people. I saw the bodies.”

  “It was a trick,” I say again. There is an edge of desperation to my voice, and I tamp it down. “The queen gave them a poison, hidden in their last meals. It was timed to perfection so that it would seem I’d killed them.”

  There is a pause. Then, “So, you’re just a girl now?” Stuan says.

  “No. No, I’m not just a girl.” Even as I speak, I feel heat rise along my chest and neck, painting my skin red, but I continue. “I’ve come to lead you against the Sleeping Prince. I plan to fight him, and take back Lormere.”

  The men look at each other. “Is it just the four of you?”

  I feel my cheeks flare again, feel another tremor within as the men look at us. My newly found sense of purpose seems to falter, collapsing, as though not built properly. I glance at Kirin; he’s watching me sadly, as though he expected this and wishes he could spare me. Nia and Sister Hope also remain silent, their expressions unreadable. I ponder how Errin would play this—she’d probably have hit someone by now. Then, unbidden, I think of Helewys and how she would weave words and make the most terrible things sound rational. Believable. Possible. “Yes. Though there was only two of us when I defeated one of his golems in Tremayne.”

  A look of surprise flickers over Stuan’s face as he examines me, and I pull myself up straight, attempting to look commanding. It’s now or never.

  “Look, we need to get back to our camp,” Stuan says eventually. “It’ll be dark soon. You’re …” He pauses and looks at his friends, who nod grudgingly. “You’re welcome to come if you like. We can talk more about this there.”

  I feel everyone look at me. “Lead on,” I say.

  He turns his back on me, and the other men follow. After a moment Nia steps after them, and Sister Hope takes the reins of her horse and joins her. I feel Kirin trying to catch my eye but ignore him this time, fixing my eyes on Sister Hope’s back and moving to join her. The biscuit feels leaden in my stomach now, and I wish I hadn’t eaten at all.

  They lead us to their camp, nestled deep in the trees, around eight miles from where they found us, and only a few miles from the sea. They talk as we trek through the West Woods, and it turns out all of them are former castle employees; one was a groom of the stable, one a gardener, and the one who attacked Sister Hope was a guard like Stuan, though never one of mine. The men are amiable as we talk, chatting happily to Kirin in particular, asking questions about Tregellan and Aurek’s work there. No one talks to me, or looks at me, again. And despite my earlier assurances, they all make sure not to walk too close to me. Nia does, though, walking by my side when the path is wide enough, and helping me over trees when I don’t actually need any aid. Every time she does, she shoots a scathing glance at the men.

  It takes us almost three hours to reach their camp, where around fifty pairs of eyes all turn, as one, to stare at us.

  In their center, presiding over a huge cauldron, is a woman with a classically Lormerian face, strong-featured and suspicious-eyed. “Who’s this, then?”

  I’m about to speak, to repeat my speech, when Sister Hope steps forward, brushing my arm gently as she passes. “I’m Hope, Hope Kolby. This is Nia, and that’s Kirin,” she says, introducing the others. “And I believe you know Twylla Morven—though you might remember her better as Daunen Embodied.” A gasp rises from the crowd, but Sister Hope—or Hope Kolby now, I suppose—continues talking, drowning out the murmuring. “Nia and Kirin are Tregellian, but I’m from Lormere, like Twylla. Born in Monkham. And we’re very glad to see you all.”

  Everyone stares at me, and I keep my spine straight and my head raised.

  “Now,” Hope says, her voice firm but kindly, “I’m sure you’ve heard some things about Twylla, nonsense such as she’s poisonous and that she can kill you. But she can’t. At least, not with her skin.” At that, Hope reaches for me, draping a maternal arm around my shoulders and wrenching another cry from the crowd; one woman even grips the arm of the huge man next to her. Something makes me look at her more closely.

  “Lady Shasta?” I ask.

  She nods, her head wobbling like an ear of corn on her long neck.

  “You got away, then?”

  Another nod.

  “How?”

  Her face contorts for a moment. “We were at our castle in Chargate when word came of the Sleeping Prince’s assault. I was sent away but my husband wanted to fight. He lost his life.” She lowers her head, and her gargantuan companion does the same. It seems she has found solace for her grief already.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. Then someone in the crowd cries out.

  “She’s not dead.”

  I turn to the figure, a woman, who is pointing at Hope, still embracing me.

  “She should be dead. She touched her and she should be dead.”

  “Of course I’m not,” Hope says before I can speak. “Helewys was a liar, and she lied to you all. Including Twylla here. Now, I’m sure you have questions, and I know Twylla will be glad to answer them, and tell you her plans. But we’ve been traveling for a long time. We’d like to rest. And we’d love some of that food, if there’s spare.”

  The crowd looks at her, and at me, and then at the woman presiding over the cauldron, and I get the impression we’re waiting to have a sentence passed on us.

  “We’re from Monkham,” a voice pipes up from the left. “We had the chandlery on Old Lane.” The tension breaks, just like that, and the woman by the fire heaps a bowl full of food and holds it out to Hope. Hope steps forward, murmuring, “Be patient. Let them
get used to you,” as she passes and takes the proffered food, going to sit beside the woman who just spoke and immediately falling into conversation with her. Kirin shrugs and does the same, and soon we’re all seated around the fire, eating what I’m told is squirrel stew by the woman who almost throws the bowl at me. Every now and then I’ll feel eyes on me, people glancing surreptitiously at me, trying to see the child of the Gods in my face. No one sits close to me. No one talks to me, asks me where I’ve been or anything at all. They’re happy to talk to Hope, Kirin, and Nia, but I’m ignored.

  I see myself through their eyes: Helewys’s apparent favorite, the poisoner, the daughter of the Gods. Aloof. Untouchable, inaccessible, and separate in every way. I’d really believed the people would be pleased—excited—to see me, and to plan how to defeat Aurek. I thought they’d be waiting for someone to come and lead them. But instead, they talk tentatively about adding us to a rota of chores, cooking, cleaning, hunting, as if we’re going to stay here and build a life in the woods. No talk of fighting back. No talk of revolution. Stay in the place we’ve been put.

  A yawning emptiness blooms inside me; the feeling is familiar, and I recognize it at once. The feeling of hopelessness, weakness, complicity. Some things are too big to fight, a voice inside my head—female, Lormerian, powerful—croons. Just be a good girl.

  “No—you’re lying!” Nia’s cry jolts me from my thoughts. Her bowl, resting in her lap, clatters to the ground as she stands, her face ashen. The man she was talking to looks momentarily offended, then shrugs, before turning his attention back to the remains of his meal.

  Kirin stands and leads Nia away, and it’s not long until the group begins to break up, as slowly everyone drifts toward the canvases hung between branches, returning to their makeshift homes.

  “What was that?” I lean over to Hope. Her face is shadowed planes in the dim firelight.

  “Aurek is selling the alchemists he’s taken,” she says without preamble. “He’s offering them to the nobles and town leaders. Their very own gold mine to own and use if they swear their loyalty to him. If they use their men and their power for the Sleeping Prince, if they keep their townships in line and squash any revolts—well then, all the gold their alchemists can make is theirs for the keeping—no questions, no taxes. Apparently, two alchemists have already taken their own lives to prevent their enslavement.”