Текст книги "Hero"

Автор книги: Alethea Kontis

Соавторы: Alethea Kontis
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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

9

Decision

“TELL ME what to do!” Saturday screamed up at the catbird.

Betwixt took wing and dropped down to where Peregrine now lay dying at her feet. “I don’t know,” he answered.

“I didn’t mean it,” she said, “when I told him to die. I didn’t really mean it.”

“I know that. So did he. It’s all right.”

“This”—Saturday pointed at Peregrine’s prone form—“is not all right.” She was a killer. She’d killed Trix and heavens knew how many innocent people, and now she’d killed Peregrine, when she was just starting to like him.

Saturday’s mind spun. She begged the gods to hear her: she hadn’t really meant it. Mama’s oft-spoken warning repeated itself in the back of her mind: Words have power.

The message had always been meant for her little sister, or for Mama herself. It had never applied to the ax-wielding giantess who traded quips in the Wood with her father and brother all day but couldn’t tell a proper story to save her life. Yet here she stood, over a boy she’d threatened to kill, watching him die.

“Think, Saturday, think!” She tossed the heavy blade aside and felt the runes fade from her body. He’d been right; the feeling was reminiscent of her own sword, not that it could ever take its place. The symbols had turned her skin into armor, impervious to any blow. By all rights, Peregrine should have won first blood with his ruby blade, but thanks to her magical protection, he had not.

They had fought long and hard, longer than she should have and not half as hard as she’d wished to. They were well matched: he was as rusty with his weapon as she was untrained. After much teasing and taunting and running and jumping, she’d turned the tables and scratched him first instead. Peregrine fell to his knees almost immediately, but not in mock defeat as she’d first supposed.

Saturday’s blade hadn’t just been decorated with enchanted runes. It had also been poisoned.

The moment Peregrine’s hand left the hilt of his sword, the blade’s red glow faded and the walls around them regained their shimmering powdered-sugar whiteness. Similarly did the blood leave Peregrine’s face, rendering him deathly pale. It had been only a scratch on his wrist, but he was already beginning to shake.

Saturday’s hand instinctively moved to the bag that was not at her side. “If I were in the Wood, I would have crushed jewelweed,” she told Betwixt. “Is there anything like that here?”

“Maybe in the witch’s caves,” he said. “But they are far from here and difficult to reach. And it wouldn’t be a plant.”

“Right.” Proper plants couldn’t grow in caves. Saturday didn’t know the first thing about magic spells, but she knew a little bit about poison. There was one option left.

Saturday removed the ornate dagger Peregrine had sheathed in his belt and used it to cut deeper into the angry wound. Moving his confounded skirt out of the way, Saturday lowered her lips to Peregrine’s wrist.

The gryphon put a paw on her shoulder. His dark fur was soft and his feathers tickled as they brushed her dirty skin. “You might be poisoned too.”

“I’ll be fine,” said Saturday. She hoped the catbird took her at her word. She didn’t have time to explain her recent indestructibility, though it would have been nice to have her sword to help her on that front. She sucked the blood from Peregrine’s wound and spat it onto the icy stone floor. She could taste the poison’s taint amidst the copper on her tongue. Peregrine’s eyes rolled back up into his head.

Saturday sucked and spat again. “Go find that witch of yours. Tell her that her daughter is dying.” She didn’t want to involve the witch, but she saw no other choice. Jack Woodcutter would take the blame for this, though it was Saturday who deserved the punishment. She resolved to tell the witch everything if this boy died.

Betwixt did not argue. He leapt toward the archway through which Saturday had entered, only to be stopped by a mass of cerulean wings. The raven was blue now? Fantastic. She’d probably be blamed for that, too. Well, if that loathsome bird was here that meant the witch wasn’t far behind. Saturday hoped the lorelei wasn’t too addled over the state of her “daughter” to cast some sort of antidote spell.

Saturday wiped her mouth and laid an ear flat against Peregrine’s chest. She feigned calmness in an effort to discern a breath and heartbeat that were not her own. His shivering increased. His skin was clammy. Saturday’s lips tingled. She should have asked him which of his gods he’d like for her to pray to. Perhaps the catbird knew.

“Step aside, daughter.”

The words were not the witch’s, and the daughter referred to was not Peregrine. Saturday recognized the voice as the one that had echoed loudly inside her head upon her arrival, deep and rough as a chimney sweep’s.

Betwixt hissed. Where the raven had once been now stood a sturdy, blue-robed woman of average height with a face like Mama’s: grim, no-nonsense, and full of lines. Her messy hair was as rich a blue as the raven’s feathers had been and her build was thick, as if she were no stranger to hard work. The woman rushed to Peregrine’s side.

An enchanted bird turning human did not surprise Saturday. One of her sisters had done the same thing just that spring, and that goose had been as white as a wedding gown. “Did you bring the witch with you?” Saturday asked the woman.

“This will go far more smoothly without her,” she replied. “We have to act quickly. Is there a container of any sort handy?”

Saturday hastily scanned the armory and returned with a smallish helmet, a metal gauntlet, and a finger-claw. There might have been something more suitable in the room, but she didn’t want to waste Peregrine’s breath trying to find it.

The woman smiled at the choices Saturday laid before her. “Well done,” she said, and leaned over them. Saturday had no idea what the woman was looking for. Hadn’t she said they were in a hurry? Curious, Betwixt leaned in too. The woman gently reached out a hand as if to pat his dark ears reassuringly, but she grabbed a whisker from his muzzle and pulled it out instead.

The catbird screeched, hissed, and flapped his wings. He unsheathed the wicked claws on his right front paw and snapped at the woman with his beak. She held his head down. “Tears,” she said to the chimera. “Don’t waste them.”

Betwixt stopped struggling. The woman placed the gauntlet under the cat’s beak and coaxed the tears from his eyes with the finger-claw. She did not touch the tears herself.

“You deserve to be pecked,” Betwixt said from beneath her arm.

“I could have told you a sad tale and waited, but your friend is in quite a bit of danger,” said the woman. And then, to Saturday, “Hold his arm still.”

Saturday placed her hand in Peregrine’s, turning his arm so that the festering cut on his wrist pointed heavenward. There was little blood, but the skin was red and angry. Around the cut, the veins ran black and blue and green.

The woman tilted the gauntlet and let the tears fall—one, two, three—directly onto the wound. Almost immediately the blood dried and the redness began to fade. The flesh turned pale again but for a thin blue line of scar marking the original cut. His shivering stopped, but not in a bad way. Saturday placed her other hand on his chest and felt his breathing, slow and deep and even.

“Was there a need for all that?” asked Betwixt. “He cannot die in this place.”

“Just because a man cannot die does not mean he cannot be crippled,” said the woman, “and there are many ways to cripple a man.” She dipped her finger in the tears again and traced Saturday’s lips before gently placing the gauntlet aside. “Gryphon’s tears have healing properties. Do not waste the rest.”

“Thank you,” said Saturday. Her lips still felt swollen, but the pain had stopped.

“Who are you?” asked Betwixt.

The woman sat back on her haunches, crossed her legs, and rested her folded hands on her belly. “I have many names,” she said. “In these mountains I am usually known as Vasilisa. Here, the lorelei calls me Cwyn. That will serve.”

Saturday gave a half-laugh. “No one else in this cave is what they seem. Why should you be any different?” She felt a gentle squeeze and realized that she was still holding Peregrine’s hand. She let it go immediately and leaned away from him. Thankfully, he didn’t seem to notice.

His eyes were open now, staring at the blue woman. “Is that . . . ?”

“Yes,” Betwixt finished before he could bother asking, just as Peter would have done if Saturday had posed the question.

“Smart bird. Never did that before.” Peregrine sounded euphoric. Either a gryphon’s tears also reduced the amount of oxygen to one’s brain, or the cure had somehow rendered him drunk.

“I did not have the power before,” said Cwyn. “It takes much for me to resist the geis.”

“Before what?” asked Saturday.

“Before you,” said Cwyn. “Don’t worry. It will not last long.”

What an odd thing to say. What cause would Saturday have to worry? “Are you a goddess?” she asked.

“You flatter me, daughter. You are closer to the gods than I.”

“You’re a demon,” said Betwixt.

“Another witch,” said Peregrine. “Bah.”

“I’ve been called worse things.” Cwyn brushed her hair back to reveal two small horns protruding from high on her forehead.

“Tooo many bluuue witches,” slurred Peregrine.

“I am not a lorelei.” The witch said the word as if it were a curse. “I am a pyrrhi, a fire witch. I’m only blue because the lorelei’s imposter daughter cured my wounds with a salve made from rancid cave mushrooms.”

Peregrine giggled guiltily. “Oops.”

“A healing for a healing,” Cwyn said to Peregrine. “My debt has been repaid.”

“Bad mushrooms dye your skin?” asked Saturday.

“The ones up here do,” Betwixt answered. “As they wither, they change colors.”

“Like leaves in the Wood,” said Saturday.

“Like leaves that run the spectrum of the rainbow,” said Betwixt. And then to Cwyn, “How can you stand to be her familiar?”

“How do you stand it?” Cwyn shot back. “Her need drew me here, amplified by the dragon’s power. She summoned me from the Earthfire at the heart of this mountain.”

“S’not very good at spells,” mumbled Peregrine.

“Indeed. Acquiring a familiar to restore her vision was what she intended. Acquiring me wasn’t.” She looked pointedly at Betwixt. “Nor do I plan to enlighten her about my true identity. While I act as her eyes, she sees only what I want her to see.”

“Understood,” said the chimera.

“I don’t think you do,” said Cwyn. “The lorelei must be stopped. She is attempting to open a doorway back to the demon world from which our ancestors came. If she succeeds, it will rip this world apart.”

“Never happen,” said Peregrine. “She’s rubbish. No worries.”

“Jack took her eyes to slow down her progress,” said Betwixt. “Peregrine and I have been doing what little we can to sabotage her, but mostly, she sabotages herself.”

“Your efforts have not gone unnoticed by me, though they remain unseen by our mistress,” said Cwyn. “Until now, her spells have been fueled by what little magic she can siphon off the dragon. That’s changed, thanks to our new visitor.”

“Me?” asked Saturday. “But I don’t have any magic. You must have me confused with another sibling. It’s a common occurrence lately.”

“You were not born with magic, nor can you create it,” said Cwyn, “but you are a vessel. You can channel magic, contain it, and control it. Through you, others may do the same.” She clasped Saturday’s hand in her own. It was small and strong, like Mama’s. “At the moment, you are the most powerful being on this mountain. You must use that power to defeat the lorelei.”

Cwyn was talking too fast, saying impossible things quicker than Saturday’s mind could process them. “I’m not fey,” she told the fire witch. “All my brothers and sisters are. Not me.”

“It isn’t fairy magic she’s talking about,” said Betwixt. “This is godstuff.”

Erik had said that exact same phrase back at the towerhouse. Godstuff. Saturday remembered the taste of Trix’s stew on her tongue and resisted the urge to vomit. She stared at her hands, large and unwieldy and never good for more than hefting an ax or a sword. Now she was supposed to believe that those hands could throw lightning bolts? Impossible. And yet, she’d already called an ocean and endangered—or ended—countless lives. She could not deny what she had witnessed with her own eyes.

Poor Trix. He should never have been burdened with a sister like her.

“No more killing,” said Saturday. “These hands have done enough damage on behalf of the gods. I won’t be used as an instrument to kill the witch who holds you prisoner.”

“If you don’t kill the lorelei, she will destroy the world,” said Cwyn.

“And if she does kill the lorelei, the dragon will wake and this mountain will fall,” argued Betwixt.

“Save a few, or save the world.” Cwyn kissed Saturday’s hands and released them. “The choice is yours.” The outline of her human form was already beginning to fade, her blue skin and hair quickly turning to blue down and feathers.

That was no choice for a mere woodcutter; it was a choice for a hero.

“What do I do?” Saturday asked no one. What would Jack do?

Have faith, the pyrrhi said inside Saturday’s mind. With the last of her energy, the witch’s familiar lifted her raven wings and flew from the cave.

“Did she answer you?” asked Peregrine. “What did she say?”

“Nothing helpful,” said Saturday. “Are you all right?”

“I—” Peregrine’s eyes widened and his face softened dreamily. “You’re beautiful.”

Fantastic. As if she didn’t have enough on her plate, now she had to deal with insults from a boy drunk on magical catsnot. “You’re delusional.”

In a flash, Peregrine’s dreamy expression was gone. “Yup. Just as I thought.” He stood up, brushed his hair back, and straightened his belt and skirt as if he’d done nothing more than trip and have a bad fall.

Saturday felt as if she’d been tricked into something. “What just happened?”

Peregrine put his hands on his knees. He leaned down to speak to her, still on the floor, as if she were a child. “How can someone so clever always be so lost? Let me help. We fought with magical swords. You almost killed me. I was saved by someone who I didn’t realize owed me a debt, only to be told I’m going to die soon anyway . . . unless I’m miraculously rescued by an idiot who thinks beauty is a weakness.” Peregrine crossed his arms over his chest. “Forgive me if I’m a little upset.”

What in the world did beauty have to do with anything? And why was he putting those words in her mouth? Saturday may not have been beautiful, but she certainly wasn’t weak.

“I’ll find a way,” said Saturday. “I’ll find a way for us all to escape. I’ll get us all safely down from this mountain and then no one has to die. Just let me think.” She was very good at problem solving as long as she had the peace of mind to work things out.

“She doesn’t get it, does she?” Peregrine asked Betwixt.

“Don’t make this harder on her than it already is,” said the chimera.

“Why not?” yelled Peregrine. “It’s not only her life in the balance here!”

Is this what she and Peter did all the time? So much talking without actually saying anything helpful! Saturday’s patience reached the breaking point and she lashed out at Peregrine. He recoiled enough for her arm to miss sweeping his legs.

“You already almost killed me once today, Jack. Isn’t that enough?”

Saturday jumped to her feet and reached for the red magic sword between them. “Apparently not.”

Peregrine rushed to the pile for another sword; this one’s blade burst into flames as he raised it against her. “Let’s finish this, then.”

“Children, please,” said Betwixt, but Saturday ignored him. There were no cords of wood here for her to chop in frustration; this was the next best thing. Besides, if anything happened, there were still some gryphon’s tears left.

Saturday lunged at Peregrine. “Why do you have to be such a jerk?”

He lifted his flaming sword and the two blades met. “Why are you so selfish?”

She sliced a wide arc across his middle, but he had already backed away. “I have to choose between killing myself or killing everyone else. How is that selfish?”

He grunted as he blocked her next strike. “Because you haven’t asked what I wanted.”

“You want to rescue us all? Fine. You figure it out.”

Peregrine caught his sword against hers and slid it up the length of her blade until their noses were almost touching. His breath was warm. “Maybe I don’t want to be rescued. Maybe Betwixt and I are just fine where we are. Did you ever think of that?”

Saturday stomped on his foot and spun away as he winced in pain. She turned back to strike at him, but he was gone again, having jumped to the rows of pillarstones along the far wall.

As much as it irked her, she knew how he was feeling right now. The gods hadn’t given her much time to consider her options as she tumbled from one mess into another. Saturday eased up on her attack, allowing Peregrine his time to think. “Why would you want to stay here?”

Peregrine stepped gracefully from one pillar to another without faltering. “When I first arrived here, I attempted to escape multiple times. Each one ended in failure. I pretended to be the witch’s daughter because I valued my life. Betwixt seemed to think it was a good idea for me to keep breathing.”

“I’ll thank you to keep me out of this,” said the catbird. He had returned to his perch on the shelf high above them.

“Eventually, I stopped trying to leave. I have a friend here. I can do anything I want, for as long as I please. I have, literally, all the time in the world. That’s more than I ever experienced as a boy, and so much more than my father ever had. Which you would know if you cared to ask.” Having reached the last pillarstone, Peregrine jumped down and came at her with the flaming sword again.

Only bring him back if he wants to come. Trix had run away from his family, from her, and she had been too stubborn to let him go. Now here she was, doing the same thing again with Peregrine.

Peregrine kept coming at her, but without her nameday sword she lacked the energy to continue. She refused to fight anymore. She threw the red sword across the room, tossed her head back, and screamed her frustration at the ceiling. She did not realize that Betwixt had returned from his shelf until she felt the warmth of his fur and feathers by her side.

“Saturday?” the chimera asked tentatively.

Saturday lowered a hand to the soft spot between his wings. In that moment, she missed her Wood as much as she missed her brothers. She’d spent most of her life looking toward the horizon, waiting for the moment to escape the mind-numbing simplicity of her daily routine. She never imagined she’d meet her fate alone at the top of a mountain frozen in time. “I destroy everything I touch,” she said. “What sort of destiny is that?”

“Come, now. You’re being too hard on yourself.”

“I broke the world,” she told the chimera. “I have no intention of doing it again.”

Peregrine lowered his sword. The flame on the blade sputtered and died. “The earthquake? That was you?”

“Yes.” She did not mention the mirror she had thrown, or the ebony-handled brush that had come with the set. Mystical or not, it remained in her bag on Thursday’s ship. Probably for the best.

“My little brother ran away and I was angry,” said Saturday. Who knew what price Trix had paid for that anger.

“Remind me never to make you angry,” said Peregrine.

“Too late,” said Saturday. She might have laughed if her limbs hadn’t felt as heavy as her heart. Responsibility burdened her already-tired soul. Her defenses were so far down that she put up no resistance when Peregrine took her in his arms and kissed her.

He was warm and clean and his kiss was soft on her sensitive lips. He held her tightly and she held him back. She reveled in his embrace like a gift she did not deserve. She clung to the feeling as he stepped away, knowing that the moment she let it go, the guilt and filth and exhaustion would subsume her.

If Peregrine started reciting love poems, she would punch him. But when he finally opened his mouth to speak, what he said was “Turn the rake around and shovel with the handle.”

It took her a moment for his words to register. Saturday relaxed her clenched fist.

“You can sleep here tonight.” He crossed the room to where he had fallen and slid the runesword into his belt before picking up the gauntlet, still damp with gryphon’s tears.

Sleep here? In the wretched cold, with no fire or pallet or blankets? There were but a few torches on the walls . . . and then Saturday remembered the flaming sword. She’d make do. She thought she heard something scurry away in the shadows, but she paid it no heed.

“We’ll find you tomorrow. Good night, Saturday.”

And with that, they were gone.