An Artificial Night
Page 36
“Baby, you’re awake!” I started toward her. The ground snatched at my feet, but I wrenched myself free and kept walking. “We’ve got to get you out of here. It’s not safe—”
“I know, Aunt Birdie,” she said, moving to reveal a small girl crumpled by the base of the nearest willow. “It never was.”
The little girl couldn’t have been more than ten years old, dressed in a tattered nightshirt, feet bloody and bare. She was obviously of Japanese descent, slat-thin and used too hard. Her long black hair was knotted at the base of her neck. Tears had washed streaks through the dirt on her face. Three silver-furred tails were curled behind her, and silver fox ears were pressed flat against her skull. Kitsune.
She wasn’t breathing, and I realized with slow dread that the grass around them was dead, crumbling into dust. “Karen, your friend—”
“Her name is Hoshibara. This is her place.”
“Honey, she’s not breathing.”
The look on Karen’s face was infinitely sad. “I know.”
“Karen—”
“Aunt Birdie, you have to listen now,” she said. Somehow her voice filled the world, and I stopped, watching her. She shook her head, something ancient and tired lurking in the faded blue of her eyes. “I’m not really awake. I can’t wake up while he has me. Something’s wrong, Aunt Birdie, something’s very wrong. You have to find her before it’s too late.”
“Find who?”
“The rose’s daughter, the woman made of flowers who wanted to be a fox instead. The Blodynbryd queen.”
“Karen, I don’t understand. I need to take you home. Your parents are worried.”
She tilted her head to the side. “Home? You can get there and back by the light of a candle, they say. Where’s yours?”
My candle? I realized that my hands were empty. Where was it? We couldn’t get home without the candle. I turned, looking for the familiar flame, and found it on the horizon, far away and moving farther. I shouted, “Wait here! I’ll be right back!” and ran after it. The years fell off me as I ran, until I was a child again, as lost as the rest of them, and I ran . . .
. . . and ran . . .
. . . ran . . .
Night had finished falling while I slept, and shadows filled my hiding place. I snapped awake to the sound of footsteps and caught my breath, confusion seared away by the sight of my candle. It was burning an almost lambent red, flame licking high against the brambles. I was half afraid it would set the bush on fire. That was really the least of my worries, because if Blind Michael’s Riders took me, a little fire wouldn’t matter at all.
They would find me. They had to. The light would lead them to me if nothing else, and then the game would end, with Blind Michael taking the checkmate. It was only a matter of time before one of them realized I was there and shouted for the others.
But they didn’t. The footsteps faded, leaving me alone with the frantic beating of my heart. The flame dwindled to normal, calming a lot more quickly than my nerves. “What did you expect me to do, Luidaeg?” I muttered. “Walk up and take them away from him?” I could still see Blind Michael when I closed my eyes, tall and vast against the sky. He was willing to be my god. All I had to do was let go of the candle and let him in.
No way in hell.
He was blind but saw everything in his lands—everything but me. He wouldn’t have agreed to my little game if he didn’t have to, because victory is always better than playing fair. He couldn’t see me, he couldn’t hold me, and so I was almost safe. But why was I so special? Why should a candle matter so much? I paused, reviewing. The Luidaeg gave me the candle and sent me into his lands. She said I could get there and back by the light of a candle.
Of course: we were in a child’s land, playing by children’s rules. Blind Michael would catch me if he could, because that was how the game worked, but he couldn’t stop me or see me as long as I kept my candle burning. That would make the game unfair.
“Just great,” I said. I was trapped in the realm of a mad Firstborn who obeyed the laws of children’s tales, and my only hope for escape was pinned on a candle flame. It hadn’t been able to hide Raj from the Riders, and I wasn’t counting on it to be able to hide any of the other children, either. The Luidaeg and I were going to have words when I got home.
And then there was the dream. I’ve always been a vivid dreamer, but this was different. It felt almost real, and it felt like it was important. Like it was something I needed to remember. Not that I could have forgotten the look in Karen’s eyes, even if I wanted to.
My thoughts distracted me enough that I didn’t hear the rustling until something grabbed my shoulder. That’s the kind of mistake you only get to make once, because afterward, you’re generally dead. I whirled as far as the bush allowed, ignoring the thorns raking my cheek as I pulled back my free hand to strike my attacker. Whatever it was might be disoriented enough by prey that fought back for me to get out of the brambles and run.
I started to swing and froze, staring. Quentin stared back. The brambles had forced him to his hands and knees. Mud was caked on his face and hair, making him look more like an extra from Lord of the Flies than a well-groomed courtier. Spike was on his shoulder, looking unperturbed by the situation. I guess when you’re made of thorns, a few more don’t hurt.
“Quentin.” I slowly lowered my hand. Spike gave me a wounded look, and I added, “Spike. What are you two doing here?”
It took Quentin a moment to find his voice. He just gaped, still staring, before he stammered, “T-Toby?”
“In the flesh.” I glanced down at myself and grimaced. “So to speak. How the hell did you get here?” Don’t you know you’re going to get yourself killed? Did you think for a second before you did whatever it took to follow me?
Idiots. Idiots, children, and heroes.
“I—the Luidaeg said you’d be here. She told me to look for the candlelight.” He pointed to my candle. “But I didn’t think . . .”
“Yeah, it’s a little weird from this side, too. I ask again, what are you doing here?” He’d gone to the Luidaeg. Oh, root and branch. The Luidaeg can be kind when she wants to, but her gifts are never free. What had he paid to find me?
Quentin stiffened, looking away for a moment before he turned back to me and said, “I’m here for Katie. You’re going to let me help,” in what was probably supposed to be a commanding tone.
“I know, Aunt Birdie,” she said, moving to reveal a small girl crumpled by the base of the nearest willow. “It never was.”
The little girl couldn’t have been more than ten years old, dressed in a tattered nightshirt, feet bloody and bare. She was obviously of Japanese descent, slat-thin and used too hard. Her long black hair was knotted at the base of her neck. Tears had washed streaks through the dirt on her face. Three silver-furred tails were curled behind her, and silver fox ears were pressed flat against her skull. Kitsune.
She wasn’t breathing, and I realized with slow dread that the grass around them was dead, crumbling into dust. “Karen, your friend—”
“Her name is Hoshibara. This is her place.”
“Honey, she’s not breathing.”
The look on Karen’s face was infinitely sad. “I know.”
“Karen—”
“Aunt Birdie, you have to listen now,” she said. Somehow her voice filled the world, and I stopped, watching her. She shook her head, something ancient and tired lurking in the faded blue of her eyes. “I’m not really awake. I can’t wake up while he has me. Something’s wrong, Aunt Birdie, something’s very wrong. You have to find her before it’s too late.”
“Find who?”
“The rose’s daughter, the woman made of flowers who wanted to be a fox instead. The Blodynbryd queen.”
“Karen, I don’t understand. I need to take you home. Your parents are worried.”
She tilted her head to the side. “Home? You can get there and back by the light of a candle, they say. Where’s yours?”
My candle? I realized that my hands were empty. Where was it? We couldn’t get home without the candle. I turned, looking for the familiar flame, and found it on the horizon, far away and moving farther. I shouted, “Wait here! I’ll be right back!” and ran after it. The years fell off me as I ran, until I was a child again, as lost as the rest of them, and I ran . . .
. . . and ran . . .
. . . ran . . .
Night had finished falling while I slept, and shadows filled my hiding place. I snapped awake to the sound of footsteps and caught my breath, confusion seared away by the sight of my candle. It was burning an almost lambent red, flame licking high against the brambles. I was half afraid it would set the bush on fire. That was really the least of my worries, because if Blind Michael’s Riders took me, a little fire wouldn’t matter at all.
They would find me. They had to. The light would lead them to me if nothing else, and then the game would end, with Blind Michael taking the checkmate. It was only a matter of time before one of them realized I was there and shouted for the others.
But they didn’t. The footsteps faded, leaving me alone with the frantic beating of my heart. The flame dwindled to normal, calming a lot more quickly than my nerves. “What did you expect me to do, Luidaeg?” I muttered. “Walk up and take them away from him?” I could still see Blind Michael when I closed my eyes, tall and vast against the sky. He was willing to be my god. All I had to do was let go of the candle and let him in.
No way in hell.
He was blind but saw everything in his lands—everything but me. He wouldn’t have agreed to my little game if he didn’t have to, because victory is always better than playing fair. He couldn’t see me, he couldn’t hold me, and so I was almost safe. But why was I so special? Why should a candle matter so much? I paused, reviewing. The Luidaeg gave me the candle and sent me into his lands. She said I could get there and back by the light of a candle.
Of course: we were in a child’s land, playing by children’s rules. Blind Michael would catch me if he could, because that was how the game worked, but he couldn’t stop me or see me as long as I kept my candle burning. That would make the game unfair.
“Just great,” I said. I was trapped in the realm of a mad Firstborn who obeyed the laws of children’s tales, and my only hope for escape was pinned on a candle flame. It hadn’t been able to hide Raj from the Riders, and I wasn’t counting on it to be able to hide any of the other children, either. The Luidaeg and I were going to have words when I got home.
And then there was the dream. I’ve always been a vivid dreamer, but this was different. It felt almost real, and it felt like it was important. Like it was something I needed to remember. Not that I could have forgotten the look in Karen’s eyes, even if I wanted to.
My thoughts distracted me enough that I didn’t hear the rustling until something grabbed my shoulder. That’s the kind of mistake you only get to make once, because afterward, you’re generally dead. I whirled as far as the bush allowed, ignoring the thorns raking my cheek as I pulled back my free hand to strike my attacker. Whatever it was might be disoriented enough by prey that fought back for me to get out of the brambles and run.
I started to swing and froze, staring. Quentin stared back. The brambles had forced him to his hands and knees. Mud was caked on his face and hair, making him look more like an extra from Lord of the Flies than a well-groomed courtier. Spike was on his shoulder, looking unperturbed by the situation. I guess when you’re made of thorns, a few more don’t hurt.
“Quentin.” I slowly lowered my hand. Spike gave me a wounded look, and I added, “Spike. What are you two doing here?”
It took Quentin a moment to find his voice. He just gaped, still staring, before he stammered, “T-Toby?”
“In the flesh.” I glanced down at myself and grimaced. “So to speak. How the hell did you get here?” Don’t you know you’re going to get yourself killed? Did you think for a second before you did whatever it took to follow me?
Idiots. Idiots, children, and heroes.
“I—the Luidaeg said you’d be here. She told me to look for the candlelight.” He pointed to my candle. “But I didn’t think . . .”
“Yeah, it’s a little weird from this side, too. I ask again, what are you doing here?” He’d gone to the Luidaeg. Oh, root and branch. The Luidaeg can be kind when she wants to, but her gifts are never free. What had he paid to find me?
Quentin stiffened, looking away for a moment before he turned back to me and said, “I’m here for Katie. You’re going to let me help,” in what was probably supposed to be a commanding tone.
