The Waking Land Page 9

  And to think Victoire and I spoke of the Korakos, too, reading the news from Ida and laughing over the idea of meeting him!

  “I only hear it if they’re strong about it,” he’s saying. “Upset, or angry. Or if they’re magicians themselves. And they have to use my real name, not my nickname.”

  I breathe out in relief. We never spoke with intent, and I never knew his given name until yesterday. The broadsheets and songs only ever spoke of him as the Korakos.

  “Is it…dangerous?” I ask. “When someone speaks your name?”

  He doesn’t answer immediately. I peer over my shoulder and glimpse a strange expression on his face—anger? Frustration? He forces a smile. “Only a sorcerer could use it for harm. Even then, as a spell, it’s merely a summons. One would have to be a very great sorcerer—very powerful indeed—to compel me to appear against my will.”

  The way he says it, he must know someone with such power. “Was it a sorcerer, just now?”

  “No—or they would have tried to summon me. This is more…awareness. She had a whining sort of voice, a little harsh. No one I know. She didn’t say my name right, either.”

  I venture a theory. “If she pronounced the J, she can’t be Idaean.”

  He looks at me, his expression lighting up. “That’s right! I am always Yahan in Ida. An Ereni woman, then, perhaps—”

  “Loyce,” I blurt out. “Whining. Harsh. It fits.”

  There’s a hateful edge to my voice, and I flush. I suppose I want Jahan to think well of me, not to think me the type of person who hates. But don’t I have the right to hate Loyce? She’s willing to accuse me of regicide without a shred of proof, willing to have me hunted like a dog for someone else’s crime.

  Jahan doesn’t seem to notice. He rubs a finger beneath his ear, where there is the faintest of scars. “I need to go back.”

  My chest contracts. He can’t leave us like this, still so far from my father’s house—though of course if he’s not in Laon, that will raise suspicion, too. “You won’t come to Caeris with us?”

  Hugh and Finn heard us. They’ve slowed ahead, and Finn drags his horse around to face Jahan. I’m surprised to see the panic on his face, mirroring my own. “No,” Finn says. “Not yet!”

  Hugh says nothing, and Finn seems embarrassed at his outburst. He straightens, but one fist curls on his thigh, and the horse sidles under him. “I’m sorry. You must do as you think best.”

  Jahan looks between us. “I didn’t mean now. I’m not abandoning you on the roadside.” He lifts himself from the saddle to jostle Finn’s arm, and Finn breaks into a brilliant smile. “Come on, let’s go.”

  With a wicked grin, he presses his horse past the others, into a trot and then a canter, down the narrow road. Finn shoots after him.

  Hugh raises his brows at me, as if I’m going to race after the boys. “Well?”

  I tense in the saddle. It is tempting to rush after them. Tempting not to let them out of my sight.

  Tempting to escape Hugh.

  Instead, we ride together, not speaking, the only noise the jingle of the harness and squeak of leather, a far-ahead whoop from Finn and Jahan, quickly cut off. But I seem only to be half on the road. Part of me gnaws on the words in the pamphlet, surely written by Hugh. And the other part of me is five years old, swept up by the man in the gray coat, feeling the certainty of his arms around me, the high pitch of my laughter. Not my father. I never felt certain with my father. I always felt certain with Hugh.

  Who were you talking to, little El?

  Nobody.

  Nobody, who sat beside me beneath the tree, who asked me what I was doing with the green fern in my hand. Growing it, I said, as the fern got bigger and bigger, and the roots sagged into my lap.

  Nobody, who asked me other questions. Do you make things grow often?

  Did your father teach you?

  Will you grow things for the king? Not King Antoine. King Euan. Will you grow a new kingdom for him?

  What else can you do?

  I asked just one question for his many. His name. He ran a thoughtful hand along his chin, and he said, Nobody.

  Nobody! I thought that was marvelous. I laughed and laughed, and when I looked over, he was leaving, slipping through the gate that bound our garden.

  Nobody—who didn’t have a name until I met the Butcher of Novarre. Until I began to understand what real fear is. Until it became clear that it was I who had, with a child’s ignorance, betrayed my father and his rebellion. I, who gave the Butcher and Antoine Eyrlai the proof they needed to break into our townhouse, to take me hostage, to destroy villages and lives and exile my father to his home.

  Hugh sighs, startling me out of my thoughts. “I know you blame Ruadan and Teofila for what happened to you. The gods know, you’re right. But your parents didn’t abandon you willingly. They had no choice.”

  The memory of music crowds my ears—my mother’s song. Just for you, Elly. I wrote it just for you.

  And maybe she put some magic in it, because after all these years, I still hear the melody.

  I clear my throat. My hand has clenched around the reins, and Hugh is watching me.

  “That’s not why,” I say, my voice tight in my throat. “If that was the only reason—”

  But I cut myself off. Even if my father forgave me for betraying them into the Butcher’s hands, I know I was born for only one thing. There’s only one reason he wants me back.

  Hugh frowns. “Then what is the reason?”

  I swallow the other words to the back of my throat—deep inside me, where they will never be spoken, never be seen. Quietly, I say, “My father is a fool. An ambitious fool who thinks he has the right to play kingmaker. I despise men who want only power.”

  There are so many reasons not to go home.

  “You dispense judgment quickly, for not having met him since you were a child. Do you understand why Ruadan tried to crown Euan Dromahair king in Antoine Eyrlai’s place? Or have they filled your head with lies?”

  It’s hard not to glare at him. “The Dromahairs have been lusting after a throne ever since it was taken away from them during the conquest. The Old Pretender—and my father—took advantage when the old king died suddenly and Antoine inherited the crown.”

  “And why do you think they did it?” Hugh’s voice is patient.

  I throw up a hand, dismissive. “They wanted power, of course.”

  “You’re right,” he says, and I’m so surprised he agrees that I stare at him. He nods at me. “We did want power. We wanted the power to speak our own language and worship our own gods. To live according to our own laws and govern our country according to the traditions passed down by our ancestors, not imposed by the Ereni. To dress in the clothes of our clans.”

  “But you still wanted the throne of Eren.”

  “No,” says Hugh, “we wanted Caeris to be free. And if the Ereni chose to join us—and many of them did—so much the better.” He adds under his breath, “I should have guessed they would fill your head with lies.”

  “Then tell me the truth,” I snap. “Tell me what really happened.”

  He looks at me. “Your father and King Euan began to plan their rebellion long before Antoine’s father died. It began when they met as young men in Ida—your father and I went there, as youths do, to see the famous city and make our bows before the emperor. The Dromahairs were living then, as they do now, as a court-in-exile under imperial auspices, and naturally Euan knew the current emperor, then crown prince—and knew him well. We all met, raced horses and so forth. The prince liked us. But he didn’t like Antoine Eyrlai, whom he thought was an arrogant, insufferable brat, considering he came from a backwater like Eren. He thought it would be good fun to put Euan on the throne instead.”

  I think of Antoine’s stories about the imperial court; how they mocked him and he soldiered on. I swallow. “It’s all a game to Paladis, isn’t it?”

  “The then-emperor didn’t think so. He liked the idea of havi
ng a stronger, personal tie to Eren and Caeris—an easier way to get our resources and make us do his bidding. The Eyrlais, he said, were too headstrong, but the Dromahairs were more biddable. I think he meant more desperate.” Hugh sighs. “But Euan’s father was obsessed with the idea of reclaiming what was his, and Euan, I suppose, inherited that desire. It’s difficult to call yourself king when your territories are held by someone else.”

  “And you wanted your freedom,” I say. I don’t mean to say it; it just comes out.

  “Yes.” Hugh gives a faint smile. “And so we returned home with the promise of imperial aid. And when Antoine’s father died, a decade later, we tried to act. We had spent years undermining the Eyrlais, spreading the truth about everything from their misuse of tax revenue to their compulsive lies.”

  I clench the half-destroyed pamphlet in my hand. It figures that Hugh also knows about the recent financial deceit—and more.

  “Your parents were summoned to Laon for Antoine’s coronation—we couldn’t act quickly enough to depose him before it—and then ‘invited’ to remain until the Harvest Feast. It was not an invitation; Antoine and his advisers suspected us. I told your father to give up, to retreat and try again. But he was determined. Euan Dromahair had already set sail from Ida. People were rioting around the country, following the coronation. Your father insisted that we could still win, even from Laon; he thought we could bring in Euan under Antoine’s nose. We had begun to infiltrate our people into the palace—like your nursemaid, Hensey. It was going to be a coup, as bloodless as we could manage.” Hugh pauses. In a quiet, hard voice, he says, “And then someone betrayed us. We still don’t know who.”

  I hardly hear his next words—“And you were taken captive”—for the ringing in my ears. Someone betrayed them. Yes, someone did, didn’t they?

  “So my father wanted to kill Antoine all along,” I burst out, but the ringing in my ears doesn’t subside. “And now he’s murdered him and let me take the blame. Tell me how that’s noble. Tell me how that’s the act of a good man, a just man.”

  “Killing the king?” Hugh says. “Elanna, he didn’t—not this time…” But then he shakes his head. “What do I know? You’ll have to ask Ruadan about that. I’m not privy to all his secrets.”

  “Yes,” I say. My mouth is dry as dust. “Yes, I will.”

  When I see my father, in three days’ time.

  I’m going back to Caeris. Fourteen years after my father attempted his coup; after he was betrayed.

  And I’m not angry, or sad, or even happy. I’m none of those things.

  I’m terrified.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “We need to angle back west,” Hugh says. We’ve stopped on a hill overlooking the Ard, where the twilight lingers on the slate roofs of a sleepy town beneath us, and the line of a westerly road cuts off to our left. He points two fingers along the road. “Another eight miles or so along that, then north. We’ve another two days, at least, till we reach Caeris; more, if the roads are mud and we have to slow our pace.”

  And here I thought we might get to rest.

  “Is it safe, on a main road?” Finn asks.

  Hugh looks at Jahan, who runs a finger behind his ear again, his lips pressed together, thoughtful. “Yes,” he begins. Then he grimaces. “I’m not the most skilled at listening beyond my body, through the earth and air.”

  They all carefully do not look at me. I stiffen nonetheless. They say nothing, but we all know these are skills I possess.

  But I won’t use my magic to help them. It’s too dangerous, and it gives the others ideas. It makes them think I might be what they want me to be.

  I can’t be pulled into some absurd and hopeless bid for Caerisian freedom. I won’t be made to use my magic—the magic that puts me in mortal danger—to further my father’s ambitions, Finn’s ambitions, even Jahan’s ambitions.

  I won’t.

  For Hensey, for Guerin, for Victoire, I have to get away from Eren. I can make a bid for their safety from Tinan.

  “I don’t sense anyone,” Jahan offers, though he’s already said it means little.

  “Maybe they didn’t send anyone north,” Finn says. “How would they know, after all?”

  “Oh,” says Hugh, “the queen will have sent someone north. It’s four days, riding hard, from Laon to the southern border of Caeris. The crown keeps a garrison at Portmason. The queen’s men may well reach it before we find our crossing place. From the garrison, it’s a simple matter to alert the watchtowers along the border. They’ll be looking for us.”

  The way he says it carries weight, like a prison sentence. We are all quiet. Jahan seems to be concentrating, listening, but I don’t know whether he hears anything at all. I hear the ford whispering over rocks, and sparrows singing, and the liveliness of the trees.

  Once, when I was a little girl, I heard more. When I listened to the world, I heard the earth’s heartbeat.

  It’s both a relief and a torture, finally letting myself remember. A tear catches in my eye. I dash it away. I can’t regret losing this connection to the land. I can’t afford to be a sorceress. So I heard the earth’s heartbeat in the Madocs’ garden. I’m putting myself in danger even by thinking of it.

  But my throat is still tight. When I was a child, I felt so alive.

  No, if I’m going to Tinan, I have to go now. I have to get away from this treacherous longing—this pointless yearning for a child’s memories, this nagging guilt that I am somehow complicit in worsening the people’s lives. I need to go before we move away from the river, cutting west and then north. On the other side of the water, the hills of Tinan form a drowsy silhouette. Loyce won’t have sent anyone to Tinan. Not yet. I will be safe there. King Alfred, being Eren’s traditional rival, would love to thwart Loyce by keeping me out of her hands. I won’t practice my magic. I’ll bury it again where no one will ever see it—not even me.

  Gathering the reins, I nudge my mare forward. The others swivel after me. I smile at them, showing my teeth.

  “I’ll scout the hill,” I say. “Check the path to town.”

  Jahan begins collecting his reins to follow, but Hugh holds out a hand. “It’s all right. Let her go.” He gives an approving nod; he’s been trying to show me more trust after he told me the story of my father’s failed rebellion. “Five minutes, Lady El. And if you’re not back by then, we come after you. Whistle if you’re in trouble.”

  “Like this?” I make the sound of a hawk coming in for the kill.

  He flashes a smile. A real one. And I almost hesitate. I almost say, Please, Hugh, help me. I can’t go to Caeris. I can’t face my father. I can’t do what you want me to do.

  But I don’t say it. Because Hugh would never betray my father.

  Pulling my hat lower, I urge my mare over the lip of the hill. We sidle down the path toward the village.

  Hugh’s voice drifts after me, speaking to the others just loud enough for me to hear. Maybe he means me to. “…good to see her like this.”

  I loosen my breath. Five minutes.

  I check behind me. They’re no longer visible. Pushing the mare to a fast walk, I emerge onto a narrow lane between houses, and then onto the village’s main street, lined with simple half-timber buildings. The town is quiet, its main street a morass of mud, the buildings in disrepair. A girl walks ahead of me, leading a donkey whose ribs show beneath the pack carrying dirt-encrusted vegetables. Each time the girl takes a step, the sole of her left shoe flops down to expose a dirty sock. Her pale hair falls in a thin tail between her shoulder blades. She’s probably not much older than me. As we pass a tavern, a couple of rough-looking men leer at her and frown at me, then shrug and look away. Bundled in my coat and hat, I must look enough like a boy from a distance. The tension in my neck eases a fraction. Surely I have more to fear from Hugh’s anger—from Finn’s and Jahan’s—than I do from these villagers.

  The mare twitches, sensing my worry, and I pat her neck. We’re on our way toward the ford.


  As we approach the town square, the girl with the donkey turns off and my mare slows. There’s a sorry collection of booths lining one side of the unpaved, mucky square. The girl makes her way to a booth and starts unloading the donkey’s bags, passing them over to a woman running a vegetable booth. A few other people are perusing the goods for sale. I stare as one woman commences haggling with a man over the price of a single carrot.

  They are poor. I think of the revenue report that Master Madoc falsified, of the poor who press into Laon and must be cleared away by the royal guard. Of the claims that Antoine Eyrlai has abused and mistreated his people in order to build a bigger fountain behind the palace. Of Hugh’s pamphlet, with its claims of a better future under traditional Caerisian laws.

  The girl with the donkey exclaims; the sole of her shoe has come right off.

  I am a heartbeat away from riding over and giving her my own boots when a hammering begins. I glance to my left. A man is nailing a paper to a door—a paper with my face on it.

  My body goes numb.

  The mare sidles. I’ve stiffened so much she’s protesting against me. I tug my collar up, pull my hat down. The man’s just about done. He steps back to survey his handiwork and nods with satisfaction. He doesn’t wear livery, so he must be a town official. The mayor, perhaps.

  I have to read that paper. I know the desire is perverse, idiotic. But I must know.

  I urge the mare across the square. Still no one takes much notice, though my heart is beating harder. They must often have travelers passing through, to and from Tinan. I am just another traveler. I hitch the collar still higher toward my face.

  The likeness of me is taken from a portrait Antoine commissioned in the summer, saying it was a worthwhile expense to have me painted if it found me a decent husband. It’s flattering, even in bare black lines—the hard angle of my chin is softened, my curling hair looks artful rather than wild, my chest is delicate in a low-necked gown. As for my face, though the artist has shaded it to hint at my tawny-brown skin, I look like a child—nothing like myself. Certainly not like myself in mud-splattered trousers, a dirty coat, and a hat.