Authors: Anna Kendall
Crossing Over (26 page)
“No worse than us, stuck here in Witchland. . . . Fool? Ye be all right?”
“Y-yes.” Their boots were not even wet.
Lucius said, “What news, then? Does the whore-queen still hold the palace?”
“Y-yes.” I fought to master myself. “But Lord Solek—”
Lucius let loose with a string of violent oaths. I had not heard such language since Hartah. “The savage holds the palace for her?”
“Yes.” The truth was too complicated to explain, even if I had wanted to.
Lucius shook my arm, not gently. “What, then? How do we escape from Witchland? Have you nothing good to tell us?”
“Leave off, Lucius,” his friend said. “Don’t shake the fool like that. He’s on our side. He tried to get the young witch’s amulet for us, remember?”
Cat Starling. What had happened to her after I left? I said, “Have you taken the amulet from her since I was last witched here?”
“No one has so much as seen her. Is that what will send us back—the amulet?”
“I don’t know yet,” I said. “But the . . . the witch-queen keeps me close, and I hope to learn how to undo my own ensorcellment, and so yours. I work for that night and day. Meanwhile ...” I tried to fake a sob, and discovered it was not fake. There are many kinds of witching.
“Don’t cry, fool,” Lucius said with disgust. “You’re nearly a man.”
“He’s not crying—are you, boy? What can we do mean-times? We drill, you see, to prepare for the battle. When we go back, that savage will not beat us, no matter how many fire-sticks he brings against us, nor how the witch-queen deforms Witchland to frighten us. We will defeat her and her savages. We fight for The Queendom.”
They all believed still that they were in Witchland, all the Blues whom Lord Solek’s army had killed. I had said so to the first ones, who told the others as they arrived, and so none at all believed that he was dead.
The second soldier grew impatient. “I asked you, fool, what can we do to aid our own freedom from Witchland?”
“You can . . . you can continue to prepare for battle.” They expected more from me. Lucius’s eyes darkened with anger. At the same moment, the sky rumbled and lightning flashed from one glowering cloud to another. I invented wildly: “And you can make amulets that will be useful on your return. Each amulet should consist of five of the thorns on the new bushes that have appeared—you have noticed the new bushes?”
They nodded, listening carefully, anxious to miss nothing that might save them. My stomach clenched, but I went on. “Wrap the five thorns—and they must be five perfect thorns, not blemished—in a bit of cloth and wear it around your neck. The thorns will not hurt you in this place”—truer words were never spoken, since nothing could hurt them in this place—“but once out of Witchland, they will impart a little of the witch-power to each of you. This have I learned by stealth, and as a result of my own ensorcellment.”
Lucius nodded. “I will tell the captain. Thank you, boy. We are in your debt.”
“Then you can help me now. I seek a messenger from Queen Isabelle, who married our Prince Rupert. The messenger was . . . was witched here. He will be a small man, a rider, dressed in yellow. He may be under the same spell as Queen Eleanor. Have you seen him?”
Both soldiers shook their heads. They thanked me again, and I watched as they walked on the surface of the water back across the swift river. Then I set out to find the messenger in yellow.
It was hopeless. The land had become so much more difficult to walk across, let alone to scan. Boulders, thorn scrub, groves of trees thicker than before, and somehow menacing. Beneath my feet, the ground rumbled. I scrambled away from the riverbank and toward the north, the direction of Queen Isabelle’s queendom, frantically searching. I looked for a long time, becoming dirty and exhausted. Although even if he were here, I didn’t see how I could find the messenger.
Instead, a dead Blue found me. He jumped out from behind a boulder several yards away. Unlike the other Blues I had seen here, he had lost the discipline of soldiers. His eyes were crazed and wild. He shouted something incoherent. Thinking himself in Witchland had unsettled his wits, perhaps never strong to begin with. Or perhaps dying had deranged him. He carried what he must have brought with him, seized from the enemy in battle: a
gun
.
gun
.
He shrieked again, raised the thing, and fired at me.
Something hard and hot—so hot!—struck my left arm, sending me falling backward against the rocks. The sky gave a great
crack!
of lightning. I screamed; the pain was pure agony, searing my flesh like flames.
crack!
of lightning. I screamed; the pain was pure agony, searing my flesh like flames.
And then I lay on the stone roof of the tower, it was night, and I had other questions to torment me. I already knew I could be hurt in the country of the Dead, by the Dead. But what would happen to me if I were killed there? Would I return to my body in the land of the living, or would I lapse into the unknowing tranquility of the Dead?
Now I had not one but two places where I could die.
The pain continued. It was too dark to see my arm, but when I made myself flex it, I could tell that the bones were not broken. This was a flesh wound only, but I had seen men die of flesh wounds that turned black and rancid. And the pain did not diminish, burning like acid along skin and nerves.
Cradling my left arm in my right, I forced myself to my feet. Where was the queen, her guard, anyone at all? How much time had passed? My eyes adjusted to the night, and I peered over the parapet. Most, although not all, of the courtyards were dark. So was most, but not all, of the narrow ring of the tent city. Above, the stars shone brightly, without a moon. Summer had barely begun; the night air was cold and sharp.
I tried the trapdoor that led from the tower roof. It was bolted from below.
Something must be happening in the palace, something that had drawn the queen away from the tower. She had forgotten me before, but never while I was on a mission for her to the country of the Dead. What if she had been murdered, as she had murdered her mother? What if no one came to the tower before morning? The courtyard was many stories below, too far to jump. I didn’t think I would freeze to death here, but I needed to clean the wound in my arm, bandage it . . .
Why did everyone always abandon me?
I leaned over the parapet and screamed, “I’m here! I’m here!”
And then, “I’m here, you bastards! I AM HERE!”
Nothing.
I don’t know how long I stood there, clinging to the stone railing, shivering and cursing, my arm pure agony. Stars moved overhead, I know that. I grew light-headed, maybe feverish. And then, on a rooftop below the tower, two figures emerged. It was forbidden to all but soldiers to go onto the roofs at night. These were not Greens. In the starlight I could see their silhouettes clearly: a soldier of the savages and a woman. They embraced.
My voice was hoarse, but I called down, “Help me, please! I am Roger, the queen’s fool, and I am trapped on the tower by mistake! Please, send for help!”
Instantly the woman vanished, perhaps unwilling to be identified. The savage came to the edge of his roof, peering upward at me. He looked a tiny figure, no more dangerous than a small pet dog that stands on two legs. Distance deceives, promising safety where there is none.
The savage called something that I of course did not understand, and then disappeared from the roof. Several minutes later—it seemed like hours—the door to the tower roof opened and a man emerged.
Lord Solek himself.
Behind him was Eammons, the translator, who said, “What are you doing here?”
“I was forgotten! The queen—” I gasped as a wave of dizziness hit me.
Eammons said sharply, “What about the queen? What did she say to you?”
There was something wrong with his tone. It held not only sharpness but fear. Of what? Something was wrong here, very wrong. With every last shred of strength in me, I summoned what wits I had. They were all that had kept me alive until now. They counseled caution, counseled evasion, counseled lies.
“Nothing. I . . . Her Grace left and . . . I wanted . . . I wanted to be alone. So I came here. But I fell asleep and the tower was locked at dusk; I guess that is the usual way. And by now the queen must be looking for me. ...” I tried to look befuddled, foolish, out of my depth. It was not hard.
Lord Solek said something, and Eammons replied. Translating my words, I guessed. The savage chieftain gazed at me from cold blue eyes. Up close, he was even more terrifying: huge, hard, full of suppressed energy, like an enormous boulder about to fall and crush me. Then he shrugged, turned, and strode off.
“Go back to where you belong,” Eammons said irritably. “If you do this again you will be flogged, queen’s fool or no. If she doesn’t order it, I will.”
He
will? Did Eammons, who now trailed Lord Solek and not the queen, have that much power? It was clear that Solek did; he now kept as close a watch throughout the palace as Queen Caroline had once done.
will? Did Eammons, who now trailed Lord Solek and not the queen, have that much power? It was clear that Solek did; he now kept as close a watch throughout the palace as Queen Caroline had once done.
I, on the other hand, had no power, not even to stay upright. I staggered down the tower steps, far behind Eammons, who had hurried after his master. Every few steps I stopped and rested against the stone wall. Then, at the bottom, I collapsed.
Sometime later—that same night?—a page bent over me, shaking my good shoulder. “Fool? Fool? Are you ill?”
“Mag . . . Mag ...” I couldn’t get the word out for the chattering of my teeth:
Maggie
. She was the only one I could think of who might help me, cure me, care what happened to me. But, of course, the page didn’t know Maggie. He was only nine or ten, a scared little boy in royal service to a palace gone mad.
Maggie
. She was the only one I could think of who might help me, cure me, care what happened to me. But, of course, the page didn’t know Maggie. He was only nine or ten, a scared little boy in royal service to a palace gone mad.
He said, “Who?”
“Mag ...”
“I’ll get her!” And he was off, running into the courtyard, bringing the only person he knew who served the queen and had a name like what he thought he had heard. When next I opened my eyes, Lady Margaret bent over me, a green velvet cloak over her nightdress.
“Fool? Are you sick?”
“H-hurt,” I managed, and then I fainted, and knew no more.
22
I WOKE ON
a nest of blankets on the floor beside a strange hearth. A fire burned brightly. The room was small but richly decorated in green and warm brown, with a table between me and the door. Sunshine streamed in the one window through a curtain of light silk. On the window cushion sat an elderly serving woman, mending a petticoat.
a nest of blankets on the floor beside a strange hearth. A fire burned brightly. The room was small but richly decorated in green and warm brown, with a table between me and the door. Sunshine streamed in the one window through a curtain of light silk. On the window cushion sat an elderly serving woman, mending a petticoat.
“Where ...?”
She rose, looked me over, and said a single word: “Wait.” She left the room.
I sat up. I felt light-headed, but the pain in my arm was gone. It had been bandaged, and the bandages smelled of some faintly vinegary ointment. Carefully I got to my feet, trying to puzzle out where I was. A second door, ajar, led to a bedchamber. I glimpsed a narrow bed and a plain, highly polished chest. Three books were stacked neatly on top, beside some needlework. The other door opened.
“Roger! ”
The serving woman had returned, and with her was Lady Margaret. Some part of my mind realized that this was the first time she had ever used my name instead of calling me “Fool.” Clumsily I fell to my knees.
“Rise,” she said impatiently. “How do you feel?”
“Better, my lady. Did you bring me here and—”
Lady Margaret interrupted me to speak to the serving woman. “Leave us, Martha.”
“Yes, my lady.”
When she had gone, Lady Margaret said, “Eat first. You’ve had nothing for two days. Sit there, and eat that.”
As soon as she said this, I was ravenous. Nothing existed except the bread, cheese, and wine on the table. I gobbled like a boar. Then, when my belly was full, Lady Margaret existed again, looking haggard. She was ten or fifteen years older than the other ladies, and still in the queen’s service because no one had married her, and she had never been a beauty. Still, I had not thought it possible that her long face could look this gaunt and drawn, and there were violet shadows beneath her eyes. I said, “The queen ...”
“Knows where you are. I told her that you had fallen ill from being locked all night outside on the tower during a fit, and that I would have you cared for. She sends her good wishes.”
But no regrets for having locked me out during my “fit.” Nor any reasons for having left me there, where I might have died. I said dryly, “The queen is well?”
“Don’t be insolent, Roger.”
Lady Margaret was much shrewder than Cecilia; I needed to remember that. I bowed my head in repentance. Also to hide my anger. But her next words made my head jerk upward to stare at her.
“I did not tell the queen that you were injured as well as ill, nor that the injury came from a savage’s
gun
. Fortunately, it was but a flesh wound. But how did that happen while you were locked on top of the tower, Roger the Fool?”
gun
. Fortunately, it was but a flesh wound. But how did that happen while you were locked on top of the tower, Roger the Fool?”
We gazed at each other. I chose honesty, partly because I didn’t think I could get away with anything else. Not with her. “I cannot tell you, my lady. On the queen’s orders.”
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