He paused before a turn in the road and moved close to the hedge. The wind shook again and white petals fell among the thorns. He looked back along the way we’d come.
“Maybe I’m not afraid of the gods either,” I said.
Fat drops of rain began to land around us.
The Nuban shook his head. Raindrops sparkled in the tight curls of his hair. “You’re a fool to make a fist at the gods, boy.” He flashed me a grin, and edged to the corner. “Who knows what they might send you?”
Rain appeared to be the answer. It seemed to fall faster than normal, as if the sheer weight of water waiting to fall hurried the raindrops down. I moved in beside the Nuban. The hedge offered no shelter. The rain came through my tunic, cold enough to steal my breath. I thought then of the comforts I’d left behind, and wondered if perhaps I should have taken Lundist’s counsel after all.
“Why are we waiting?” I asked. I had to raise my voice above the roar of the rain.
The Nuban shrugged. “The road feels wrong.”
“Feels more like a river—but why are we waiting?”
He shrugged again. “Maybe I need a rest.” He touched a hand to his burns, and a wince showed me his teeth, very white where most of the brothers had a mouthful of grey rot.
Five minutes passed and I kept my peace. We couldn’t get wetter if we’d fallen down a well.
“How did you all get taken?” I asked. I thought of Price and Rike, and the notion of them surrendering to the King’s guard seemed somehow comical.
The Nuban shook his head.
“How?” I asked again, louder, above the rain.
The Nuban glanced back along the road, then bent in close. “A dream-witch.”
“A witch?” I made a face at him and spat water to the side.
“A dream-witch.” The Nuban nodded. “The witch came in our sleep and kept us tied in dreams while the King’s men took us.”
“Why?” I asked. If I took the witch seriously, and I didn’t, I knew for certain that my father didn’t employ any.
“I think he was seeking to please the King,” the Nuban said.
He stood without announcement and set off through the mud. I followed, but I held my tongue. I’d seen children tag after grown men throwing question after question, but I had put childhood aside. My questions could wait, at least until the rain stopped.
We sploshed along at a good pace for the best part of an hour before he stopped again. The rain had graduated from deluge to a steady soak that fell with the promise of lasting the night and through the next morning. This time our pause in the hedgerow proved well judged. Ten horsemen thundered by, kicking up mud left and right.
“Your king wants us back in his dungeons, Jorg.”
“He’s not my king any more,” I said. I made to stand, but the Nuban caught my shoulder.
“You left a rich life in the King’s own castle, and now you’re hiding in the rain.” He kept a close watch on me. He read too much with his eyes and I didn’t like it. “Your uncle sacrificed himself to keep you safe. A good man I think. Old, strong, wise. But you came.” He shook a clot of mud from his free hand. A silence stretched between us, the kind that invites you to fill it with confession.
“There’s a man I want dead.”
The Nuban frowned. “Children shouldn’t be this way.” The rain ran in trickles over the furrows on his brow. “Men shouldn’t be this way.”
I shook loose and set off. The Nuban fell in beside me and we covered another ten miles before the light failed entirely.
Our path took us by farmhouses and the occasional mill, but as night came we saw a cluster of lights below a wooded ridge a little south of us. From memory of Lundist’s maps I guessed it to be the village of Pineacre, until now nothing more to me than a small green dot on old parchment.
“A bit of dry would be nice.” I could smell the wood-smoke. All of a sudden I understood how easily I’d sold the brothers my plan on the strength of warmth and food.
“We should spend the night up there.” The Nuban pointed to the ridge.
The rain fell soft now. It wrapped us in a cold blanket that leeched my strength away. I cursed my weakness. A day on the road had left me dead on my feet.
“We could sneak into one of those barns,” I said. Two stood isolated, just below the treeline.
The Nuban started to shake his head. In the east thunder rumbled, low but sustained. The Nuban shrugged. “We could.” The gods loved me!
We made our way through fields turned half to swamp, stumbling in the darkness, me tripping over my exhaustion.
The door to the barn groaned a protest, then squealed open as the Nuban heaved on it. A dog barked somewhere in the distance, but I doubted any farmer would dare the rain on the strength of a hound’s opinion. We reeled in and fell into the hay. Each limb felt leaden, I would have sobbed with the tiredness if I’d let it have its way.
“You’re not worried the dream-witch will come after you again?” I asked. “She’s hardly going to be pleased if her present to the King has escaped.” I stifled a yawn.
“He,” said the Nuban. “I think it’s a he.”
I pursed my lips. In my dreams the witches were always women. They’d hide in a dark room I’d never noticed before. A room whose open doorway stood off the corridor I had to follow. I’d pass the entrance and the skin on my back would crawl, invisible worms would tingle their way across the backs of my arms. I’d see her, sketched by shadows, her pale hands like spiders writhing from black sleeves. In that moment, when I tried to run, I’d become mired, as if I ran through molasses. I’d struggle, trying to shout, vomiting silence, a fly in the web, and she would advance, slow, inevitable, her face inching into the light. I’d see her eyes . . . and wake screaming.
“So you’re not worried he’ll come after you again?” I asked.
Thunder came in a sudden clap, shaking the barn.
“He has to be close,” the Nuban said. “He has to know where you are.”
I let go of a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been keeping.
“He’ll send his hunter after us instead,” the Nuban said. I heard the rustle as he pulled the hay down on himself.
“That’s a pity,” I said. It had been a long time since I’d dreamed of my own dream-witch. I rather liked the idea that she might be chasing us here, to this barn, in the jaws of the storm. I settled back into the prickle of the hay. “I’ll see if I can dream a witch tonight, yours or mine, I don’t care. And if I do, this time I’m not running anywhere. I’m going to turn around and gut the bitch.”
16
Thunder again. It held me for a moment. I felt it in my chest. Then the lightning, spelling out the world in harsh new shapes. I saw visions in the after-images. A baby shaken until the blood came from its eyes. Children dancing in a fire. Another rumble rattled the boards, and the darkness returned.
I sat in the confusion between sleep and the waking world, surrounded by the creak of wood, the shake and rattle of the wind. Lightning stabbed again and I saw the interior of the carriage, Mother opposite, William beside her, curled upon the bench-seat, his knees to his chest.
“The storm!” I twisted and caught the window. The slats resisted me, spitting rain as the wind whistled outside.
“Shush, Jorg,” Mother said. “Go back to sleep.”
I couldn’t see her in the dark, but the carriage held her scent. Roses and lemon-grass.
