Uprooted

Chapter 23

There were people everywhere shouting: guards, servants, ministers, physicians, all crowding around the body of the king as close as they could get. Marek had set the three guards to watch him and vanished. I was pushed up to the side of the room like flotsam on the tide, my eyes closing as I sagged against a bookcase. Kasia pushed through to my side. “Nieshka, what should I do?” she asked me, helping me to sit on a footstool.

I said, “Go and get Alosha,” instinctively wanting someone who would know what to do.

It was a lucky impulse. One of Ballo’s assistants had survived: he’d fled and pulled himself up into the stone chimney of the library’s great fireplace to escape. A guard noticed the claw marks on the hearth and the ashes of the fire all raked out over the floor, and they found him still up there, shaking and terrified. They brought him out and gave him a drink, and then he stood up and pointed at me and blurted, “It was her! She was the one who found it!”

I was dizzy and ill and still shaking with thunder. They all began shouting at me. I tried to tell them about the book, how it had been hiding in the library all this time; but they wanted someone to blame more than they wanted someone to explain. The smell of pine needles came into my nostrils. Two guards seized me by the arms, and I think they would have dragged me to the dungeons in a moment, or worse: someone said, “She’s a witch! If we let her get her strength back again—”

Alosha made them stop: she came into the room and clapped her hands three times, each clap making a noise like a whole troop of men stamping. Everyone quieted long enough to listen to her. “Put her down in that chair and stop behaving like fools,” she said. “Take hold of Jakub instead. He was here in the middle of it. Didn’t any of you have the wits to suspect he’d been touched with corruption, too?”

She had authority: they all knew her, especially the guards, who went as stiff and formal as if she were a general. They let go of me and caught poor protesting Jakub instead; they dragged him up to Alosha still bleating, “But she did! Father Ballo said she found the book—”

“Be quiet,” Alosha said, taking out her dagger. “Hold his wrist,” she told one of the guards, and had them pin the apprentice’s arm to a table by the wrist, palm up. She muttered a spell over it and nicked his elbow, then held the blade beside the bleeding cut. He squirmed and struggled in their grip, moaning, and then thin black wisps of smoke came seeping out with the blood, and rose to catch on the glowing blade. She rotated the dagger slowly, collecting up the wisps like thread on a bobbin until the smoke stopped coming. Alosha held the dagger up and looked at it with narrowed eyes, said, “Hulvad elolveta,” and blew on it three times: the blade grew brighter and brighter with every breath, glowing hot, and the smoke burned off with a smell of sulfur.

The room had emptied considerably by the time she was done, and everyone left had backed away to the walls, except the pale unhappy guards still holding the apprentice. “All right, give him some bandages. Stop shouting, Jakub,” she said. “I was there when she found it, you idiot: the book was here in our own library for years, lurking like a rotting apple. Ballo was going to purge it. What happened?”

Jakub didn’t know: he’d been sent to fetch supplies. The king hadn’t been there when he’d left; when he’d come back, carrying more salt and herbs, the king and his guards had been standing by the podium with blank faces, and Ballo was reading the book aloud, already changing: clawed legs coming from beneath his robe, and two more sprouting from his sides, tearing their way out, his face lengthening into a snout, the words still coming even as they garbled and choked in his throat—

Jakub’s voice rose higher and higher as he spoke, until it broke and stopped. His hands were shaking.

Alosha poured more nalevka into a glass for him to drink. “It’s stronger than we thought,” she said. “We have to burn it at once.”

I struggled up off my footstool, but Alosha shook her head at me. “You’re overspent. Go sit on the hearth, and keep watch on me: don’t try to do anything unless you see it’s taking me.”

The book still lay placidly on the floor between the shattered pieces of the stone table, illuminated and innocent. Alosha took a pair of gauntlets from one of the guards and picked it up. She took it to the hearth and called fire: “Polzhyt, polzhyt mollin, polzhyt talo,” and on further from there, a long incantation, and the dull ashes in the hearth roared up like the blaze of her forge. The fire licked at the pages and gummed them, but the book only flung itself open in the fire and its pages ruffled like flags in a high wind, snapping, pictures of beasts trying to catch the eye, illuminated with firelight behind them.

“Get back!” Alosha said sharply to the guards: a few of them had been about to take a step closer, their eyes vague and caught. She reflected firelight into their faces from the flat of her dagger, and they blinked and then startled back, pale and afraid.

Alosha watched with a wary eye until they moved farther away, then turned back and kept chanting her fire spell, over and over, her arms spread wide to hold the fire in. But the book still hissed and spat on the hearth like wet green wood, refusing to catch; the fresh smell of spring leaves crept into the room, and I could see veins standing out on Alosha’s neck, strain showing in her face. She had her eyes fixed on the mantelpiece, but they kept drifting downwards towards the glowing pages. Each time, she pressed her thumb against the edge of her dagger. Blood dripped. She lifted her gaze back up.

Her voice was going hoarse. A handful of orange sparks landed on the carpet and smoldered. Sitting tired on the footstool, I looked at them and slowly I began to hum the old song about the spark on the hearth, telling its long stories: Once there was a golden princess, loved a simple player; the king gave them a splendid wedding, and the story ends there! Once there was old Baba Jaga, house made out of butter; and in that house so many wonders — tsk! The spark is gone now. Gone, taking the story with it. I sang it once through softly and said, “Kikra, kikra,” and then sang it again. The flying sparks began to drop onto the pages like rain, each one darkening a tiny spot before they went out. They fell in glowing showers, and when they fell in clusters, thin plumes of smoke went up.

Alosha slowed and stopped. The fire was catching at last. The pages were curling in on themselves at the edges like small animals huddling to die, with a burnt-sugar smell of sap in the fire. Kasia took my arm gently, and we backed away from the fire while it slowly ate the book up like someone forcing herself to eat stale bread.

—

“How did this bestiary come to your hands?” one minister bellowed at me, seconded by half a dozen more. “Why was the king there?” The council chamber was full of nobles shouting at me, at Alosha, at one another, afraid, demanding answers that weren’t to be had. Half of them still suspected me of having set a trap for the king, and talked of throwing me in the dungeon; some others decided, on no evidence at all, that shivering Jakub was a Rosyan agent who’d lured the king to the library and tricked Father Ballo into reading the book. He began to weep and make protests, but I didn’t have the strength to defend myself against them. My mouth stretched into an involuntary yawn instead, and made them angrier.

I didn’t mean to be disrespectful, I just couldn’t help it. I couldn’t get enough air. I couldn’t think. My hands were still stinging with lightning and my nose was full of smoke, of burning paper. None of it seemed real to me yet. The king dead, Father Ballo dead. I had seen them barely an hour ago, walking away from the war-conference, whole and healthy. I remembered the moment, too vividly: the small worried crease in Father Ballo’s forehead; the king’s blue boots.

In the library, Alosha had done a purging spell over the king’s body, then the priests had carried him away to the cathedral for vigil, wrapped hastily in a cloth. The boots had been sticking out of the end of the bundle.

The Magnati kept shouting at me. It didn’t help that I felt I was to blame. I’d known something was wrong. If I’d only been quicker, if I’d only burned the book myself when I first found it. I put my stinging hands over my face.

But Marek stood up next to me and shouted the nobles down with the authority of the bloody spear he was still holding. He slammed it down on the council table in front of them. “She slew the beast when it might have killed Solya and another dozen men besides,” he said. “We don’t have time for this sort of idiocy. We march on the Rydva in three days’ time!”

“We march nowhere without the king’s word!” one of the ministers dared to shout back. Lucky for him, he was across the table and out of arm’s reach: even so he shrank back from Marek leaning across the table, mailed hand clenched into a fist, rage illuminating him with righteous wrath.

“He’s not wrong,” Alosha said sharply, putting a hand down in front of Marek, and making him straighten up to face her. “This is no time to be starting a war.”

Half of the Magnati along the table were snarling and clawing at each other; blaming Rosya, blaming me, even blaming poor Father Ballo. The throne stood empty at the head of the table. Crown Prince Sigmund sat to the right of it. His hands were clenched around each other into a single joined fist. He stared at it without speaking while the shouting went on. The queen sat on the left. She still wore Ragostok’s golden circlet, above the smooth shining satin of her black gown. I noticed dully that she was reading a letter: a messenger was standing by her elbow, with an empty dispatch bag and an uncertain face. He’d come into the room just then, I suppose.

The queen stood up. “My lords.” Heads turned to look at her. She held up the letter, a short folded piece of paper; she’d broken the red seal. “A Rosyan army has been sighted coming for the Rydva: they will be there in the morning.”

No one let out a word.

“We must put aside our mourning and our anger,” she said. I stared up at her: the very portrait of a queen, proud, defiant, her chin raised; her voice rang clearly in the stone hall. “This is no hour for Polnya to show weakness.” She turned to the crown prince: his face was turned up towards her just like mine, startled and open as a child’s, his mouth loosely parted over words that weren’t coming. “Sigmund, they have only sent four companies. If you gather the troops already mustering outside the city and ride at once, you will have the advantage in numbers.”

“I should be the one who—!” Marek said, rousing to protest, but Queen Hanna held up her hand, and he stopped.

“Prince Marek will stay here and secure the capital with the royal guard, gathering the additional levies that are coming in,” she said, turning back to the court. “He will be guided by the council’s advice and, I hope, my own. Surely there is nothing else to be done?”

The crown prince stood. “We will do as the queen proposes,” he said. Marek’s cheeks were purpling with frustration, but he blew out a breath and said sourly, “Very well.”

Just that quickly, everything seemed decided. The ministers began at once to take themselves off busily in every direction, glad of order restored. There wasn’t a moment to protest, a moment to suggest any other course; there wasn’t a chance to stop it.

I stood up. “No,” I said, “wait,” but no one was listening. I reached for the last dregs of my magic, to make my voice louder, to make them turn back. “Wait,” I tried to say, and the room swam away into black around me.

—

I woke up in my room and sat straight up in one jerk, all the hair standing on my arms and my throat burning: Kasia was sitting on the foot of my bed, and the Willow was straightening up away from me with a thin, disapproving expression on her face, a potion-bottle in her hand. I didn’t remember how I’d got there; I looked out the window, confused; the sun had moved.

“You fell down in the council-room,” Kasia said. “I couldn’t stir you.”

“You were overspent,” the Willow said. “No, don’t try to rise. You’d better stay just where you are, and don’t try to use magic again for at least a week. It’s a cup that needs to be refilled, not an endless stream.”

“But the queen!” I blurted. “The Wood—”

“Ignore me if you like and spend your last dregs and die, I shan’t have anything to say about it,” the Willow said, dismissive. I didn’t know how Kasia had persuaded her to come and see to me, but from the cold look they exchanged as the Willow swept past her and out the door, I didn’t think it had been very gently.

I knuckled my eyes and lay there in the pillows. The potion the Willow had given me was a churning, glowing warmth in my belly, like I’d eaten something with too many hot peppers in it.

“Alosha told me to get the Willow to look at you,” Kasia said, still leaning worried over me. “She said she was going to stop the crown prince from going.”

I gathered my strength and struggled up, grabbing for Kasia’s hands. The muscles of my stomach were aching and weak. But I couldn’t keep to my bed right now, whether I could use magic or not. A heaviness lingered in the air of the castle, that terrible pressure. The Wood was still here, somehow. The Wood hadn’t finished with us yet. “We have to find her.”

—

The guards at the crown prince’s rooms were on high alert; they half-wanted to bar us coming in, but I called out, “Alosha!” and when she put her head out and spoke to them, they let us into the skelter of packing under way. The crown prince wasn’t in full armor yet, but he had on his greaves and a mail shirt, and he had a hand on his son’s shoulder. His wife, Princess Malgorzhata, stood with him holding the little girl in her arms. The boy had a sword — a real sword with an edge, made small enough for him to hold. He wasn’t seven years old. I would have given money that a child that young would cut off a finger within a day — his or someone else’s — but he held it as expertly as any soldier. He was presenting it across his palms to his father with an anxious, upturned face. “I won’t be any trouble,” he said.

“You have to stay and look after Marisha,” the prince said, stroking the boy’s head. He looked at the princess; her face was sober. He didn’t kiss her, but he kissed her hand. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“I’m thinking of taking the children to Gidna once the funeral is over,” the princess said: I knew vaguely it was the name of the city she was from, the ocean port the marriage had opened to Polnya. “The sea air will be healthy for them, and my parents haven’t seen Marisha since her christening.” From the words, you would have thought she’d just had the idea a moment ago, but as she said them, they sounded rehearsed.

“I don’t want to go to Gidna!” the boy said. “Papa—”

“Enough, Stashek,” the prince said. “Whatever you think best,” he told the princess, and turned to Alosha. “Will you put a blessing on my sword?”

“I’d rather not,” she said grimly. “Why are you lending yourself to this? After we spoke yesterday—”

“Yesterday my father was alive,” Prince Sigmund said. “Today he’s dead. What do you think is going to happen when the Magnati vote on the succession, if I let Marek go and he destroys this Rosyan army for us?”

“So send a general,” Alosha said, but she wasn’t really arguing; I could tell she was only saying it while she searched for another

“I can’t,” he said. “If I don’t ride out at the head of this army, Marek will. Do you think there’s any general I could appoint who would stand in the way of the hero of Polnya right now? The whole country is ringing with his song.”

“Only a fool would put Marek on the throne instead of you,” Alosha said.

“Men are fools,” Sigmund said. “Give me the blessing, and keep an eye on the children for me.”

We stayed and watched him ride away. The two small children knelt up on a footstool, peering over the window-sill with their mother behind them, her hands on their heads, golden and dark. He went with a small troop of guards for escort, his retinue, the eagle flag in red on white billowing out behind him. Alosha watched silently beside me from the second window until they had gone out of the courtyard. Then she turned to me and said dourly, “There’s always a price.”

“Yes,” I said, low and tired. And I didn’t think we were done paying.