Yes. Don’t say that. ‘You told him not to.’
‘There. You heard it from her. There was no interrogation. I simply gave her the opportunity to tell her tale.’ She turned to me, her mouth kind and her eyes cold. ‘Little child, I fear I must walk you back to a cell tonight, instead of to the lovely little cottage I promised you. I am so sorry. But as you see, these three have outvoted me, and we must give way to them.’ She turned the smile back on them and I saw Symphe’s upper lip lift in a cat’s snarl. Did she think I had just been won over to Capra’s side? Perhaps if I had not endured those months with Dwalia and been taught so thoroughly to distrust, I might have been.
I stood up, taking my broken candle and then stooped to get the hated sandals as well
‘What do you have there?’ Coultrie demanded sharply.
Capra said nothing.
‘Sandals,’ I said quietly. ‘They hurt my feet so I took them off.’
‘No. The other.’
‘A candle that my mother made.’ Without intending to, I lifted the two broken halves to my breast and held them protectively.
‘A candle,’ Capra added smugly. ‘The child arrives with a candle.’
A silence fell. I wondered what that pause signified, for it was fraught with something. Respect? Dread?
Fellowdy spoke. ‘One candle in two pieces. Not three, nor four?’
‘You are thinking of the Destroyer dreams?’ Coultrie was shocked.
‘Be silent!’ Symphe snapped at him.
‘It’s a bit too late for silence,’ Capra said. ‘It was probably too late by spring, when the dreams of the Destroyer began falling like late snowflakes. Right after Lingstra Dwalia disturbed a hornets’ nest by provoking a finished Catalyst. When she shifted the futures by putting his prophet into conjunction with him again. And stealing his child.’ Her eyes swept over them. ‘Why did he have the power to make such changes? Because you gave Beloved back to him. You drove him to FitzChivalry’s door. You reunited the Prophet with a powerful Catalyst. You restored the power of the Unexpected Son. Perhaps creating the Destroyer he will undoubtedly send to us.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Fellowdy demanded, his voice going high.
‘Why are you speaking of these things in front of this child?’ Symphe exploded.
‘Do you think I am saying things she doesn’t already know?’
I did and I didn’t know what she was talking about. I kept my eyes low. Let them read nothing there.
‘You three triggered this.’ Capra spoke each separate word of her accusation coldly. ‘With your stupidity and greed and a thirst for vengeance! As if vengeance ever bore anything but bitter fruit. And now I think we had best put her back in her cell, as that is what you think will keep us safe. As for me, I think I shall be up all night with an army of scribes, reading what she has written and studying the dreams and trying to find a path that does not end in destruction for all of us!’ She smiled like a smug cat. ‘And reviewing my own dreams. In my personal records.’
‘This is highly inappropriate!’ Symphe insisted.
‘No. What you did was extremely dangerous, and as usual, I am the one who must spring to our defence.’ Capra reached into the bosom of her shirt and drew out a key. She pulled it free, snapping the fine silver chain that had held it, and almost threw it at her guard. ‘Confine the child and then return the key to me. I do not have time to waste on locking up the harbinger of the storm. I must prepare for the storm itself. One that I have long seen coming!’
The guard looked stunned. He caught the key and stared at it as if she had thrown him a scorpion. ‘This breaks all traditions!’ Symphe shrieked. ‘None of the Four can surrender a key to another’s use!’
‘It broke tradition when you lied to me and aided Dwalia in releasing Beloved. I warned all of you, for so many years, about how dangerous he was. Well, dead or alive, he threatens us again!’
She turned, snatched up the scribe’s pages and raged away as if she were the storm she had warned them about. I kept my eyes lowered, watching them only through my eyelashes. Coultrie reached down. He had a pocket somewhere in those loose trousers for he drew out a key on a thick brass chain and unclipped it. He handed it to the twice-stunned guard. ‘I go to help Capra, for I fear she is right. I never should have listened to you two. This may be the end of us.’
He did not storm off but went like a shamed dog, head down and shoulders hunched. Fellowdy and Symphe looked at one another. And then Symphe snapped at the guard, ‘Well, take charge of her! Do you imagine I will entrust you with my key? Let us lock her up and then I suppose I must go join Capra and Coultrie, to be sure I get the whole truth. Girl! Move.’
And move I did, with the guard’s big hand on my shoulder, pushing me along. He was tall and long-legged, and more than once I stumbled as we left that room and went through yet more corridors and up a different flight of stairs. This time, we entered the hall of cells from the opposite end. I could get a glimpse of the man who owned the black hands and rich voice. He was sitting on his bed, his hands folded loosely between his knees. His cell was kinder than mine. It had a little table, a small rug, and a real bed, with blankets. As I passed, he lifted his head and smiled. His eyes were black, as gleaming a black as the rest of him. He caught my gaze as if he had been waiting for me to pass, but said not a word.
They locked me in, the guard fumbling a bit with the two keys, and then they left me. I sat down on my bed and wondered what would next befall me.
TWENTY-SIX
* * *
Silver Secrets
I miss the wolf as a drowning man misses air in his lungs. For years after his death, I would have sworn I still felt him within me. Nighteyes. His wry way of telling me I was an idiot, his endless appetite for the immediate pleasures of the world, his solid sense that if only we fully lived in the present, all the tomorrows would take care of themselves.
With this enlarged household at Withywoods, I feel I cannot relax for a moment. Everything is a plan that has gone amiss and must be corrected.
Torn page from journal of Tom Badgerlock, Holder of Withywoods
Spark stepped to the railing. She opened her hand, and Lant’s curling locks were blown away in the ever-present ocean breeze. He stood up from the barrel, and rubbed both his hands over his shorn head. His eyes were red-rimmed. He stepped away from the barrel and I sat down on it.
‘How short?’ she asked me.
‘To the scalp,’ I replied hoarsely.
Lant twitched and turned back to me. ‘He wasn’t your father!’ he objected.