Inkspell

28. THE WRONG WORDS

Dustfinger was just chasing Jink out of Roxane's henhouse when Brianna came riding into the yard. The sight of her almost stopped his heart. The dress she wore made her look like a rich merchant's daughter; since when did maidservants wear such clothes? And the horse she was riding didn't suit this place, either, with its expensive harness, its gold-studded saddle, and the deep black coat that shone as if three grooms had spent all day brushing it. A soldier in the Laughing Prince's livery rode with her. He scrutinized the simple house and the fields, his face expressionless. But Brianna looked at Dustfinger. She thrust out her chin just as her mother so often did, straightened the comb in her hair – and looked at him.

He wished he could have made himself invisible. How hostile her glance was, her expression both adult and that of an injured child! She was so like her mother. The soldier helped her to dismount and then took his horse to drink at the well, acting as if he had neither eyes nor ears.

Roxane came out of the house. Brianna's arrival obviously surprised her as much as him. "Why didn't you tell me he was back?" Brianna snapped. Roxane opened her mouth – and shut it again.

Go on, say something, Dustfinger, he told himself. The marten leaped off his shoulder and disappeared behind the stable.

"I asked her not to." How hoarse his voice sounded. "I thought I'd rather tell you myself." But your father is a coward, he added to himself, afraid of his own daughter.

She was looking at him so angrily, in exactly her old way. Except that now she was too grown-up to hit him.

"I saw that boy," she said. "He was at the festival, and today he was breathing fire for Jacopo. He did it just like you."

Dustfinger saw Farid appear. He stayed behind Roxane, but Jehan pushed past him, glanced anxiously at the soldier, and then ran to his sister. "Where did you get that horse?" he asked.

"Violante gave it to me. As thanks for taking her with me by night to see the strolling players."

"You take her with you?" Roxane sounded concerned.

"Why not? She loves their shows! And the Black Prince says it's all right." Brianna didn't look at her mother.

Farid went over to Dustfinger. "What does she want here?" he whispered. "She's Her Ugliness's maid."

"And my daughter, too," replied Dustfinger.

Farid stared incredulously at Brianna, but she took no notice of him. It was on her father's account that she had come.

"Ten years!" she said accusingly. "You stayed away for ten years, and now you come back just like that? Everyone said you were dead! They said you'd moldered away in the Adderhead's dungeons! They said the fire-raisers had handed you over to him because you wouldn't tell them all your secrets!"

"I did tell them," said Dustfinger tonelessly. "Almost all my secrets." And they used them to set another world on fire, he added in his thoughts. A world without a door to let me out again, so that I could come back.

"I dreamed of you!" Brianna's voice rose so high that her horse shied away. "I dreamed the men-at-arms tied you to a stake and burned you! I could smell the smoke and hear you trying to talk to the fire, but it wouldn't obey you and the flames devoured you. I had that dream almost every night! I still do! I was afraid of going to sleep for ten whole years, and now here you are, hale and hearty, as if nothing had happened! Where – have – you – been?"

Dustfinger glanced at Roxane – and saw the same question in her eyes. "I couldn't come back," he said. "I couldn't. I tried, believe me, I tried."

The wrong words. They were true a hundred times over, yet they sounded like a lie. Hadn't he always known it? Words were useless. At times they might sound wonderful, but they let you down the moment you really needed them. You could never find the right words, never, and where would you look for them? The heart is as silent as a fish, however much the tongue tries to give it a voice.

Brianna turned her back on him and buried her face in her horse's mane, while the soldier went on standing by the well, acting as if he were nothing but thin air.

And that's what I wish I was, too, thought Dustfinger. Just thin air.

"But it's the truth! He couldn't come back!" Farid stationed himself protectively in front of Dustfinger. "There wasn't any way! It's exactly like he says – he was in an entirely different world, but it's as real as this one. There are many, many worlds, they're all different, and they're written down in books!"

Brianna turned to him. "Do I look like a little girl who still believes in fairy tales?" she asked scornfully. "Once, when he stayed away so long that my mother's eyes were red with crying every morning, the other strolling players told me stories about him. They said he was talking to the fairies, or he'd gone to see the giants, or he was down at the bottom of the sea looking for a fire that even water can't put out. I didn't believe the stories even then, but I liked them. Now I don't. I'm not a little girl anymore. Not by any means. Help me mount my horse!" she ordered the soldier.

He obeyed without a word. Jehan stared at the sword hanging from his belt.

"Stay and eat with us!" said Roxane.

But Brianna just shook her head and turned her horse in silence. The soldier winked at Jehan, who was still gazing at his sword. They rode away on their horses, which seemed much too large for the narrow, stony path leading to Roxane's farm.

Roxane took Jehan indoors with her, but Dustfinger stayed out by the stable until the two riders had disappeared into the hills. Farid's voice quivered with indignation when he finally broke the silence. "But you really couldn't come back!"

"No… but you must admit your story didn't sound very convincing."

"It's exactly what happened, all the same!"

Dustfinger shrugged and looked at the place in the distance where his daughter had disappeared. "Sometimes even I think I only dreamed it all," he murmured.

A chicken squawked angrily behind them.

"Where the devil is Jink?" With a curse, Dustfinger opened the stable door. A white hen fluttered past him into the open; another fowl lay in the straw, her feathers bloody. A marten was sitting beside her.

"Jink!" Dustfinger scolded. "Damn it, didn't I tell you to leave the chickens alone?"

The marten looked at him.

Feathers were sticking to the animal's muzzle. He stretched, raised his bushy tail, came to Dustfinger, and rubbed against his legs like a cat.

"Well, what do you know?" whispered Dustfinger. "Hello, Gwin."

His death was back.