The Skeleth (21 page)

He did hear it, though, and when he did, his heart felt as though it had frozen. It was a whine, lost and weak, coming from the trees that bounded the road between castle and village. He had already passed well by the spot—it was a last, despairing call, almost a goodbye.

“Jumble!” Tom sprang from the back of the horse. He dove through needled branches, down a hummock and into an open grove. He dropped to his knees before the form amongst the fallen leaves, patches of black-and-white fur and two odd-colored ears drooped low.

Jumble tried to raise his head. He lacked the strength; it fell back to the earth.

S
o tell me, Edmund Bale. When will it be your turn to drive the cart?”

Edmund jolted up. “What?” He sat on the edge of Gilbert Wainwright's best wagon, his legs dangled down so that his heels nearly brushed the turning wheel below. He held the
Paelandabok
on his lap, arms braced along the pages to hold them flat in the wind.

“The cart, Edmund, the wagon.” Mercy Wainwright sat beside her husband at the front, bouncing their infant son on her knee. “When will you drive one of your own, and who will sit beside you when you do?”

The words of the book swirled in Edmund's mind . . .
for his loyal men came death within life, for his enemies an end without a grave. He gained dominion over kin and kine, and set up his throne over all things on two feet and on four, but it did not last, it could not last
 . . . He tried and failed to understand what Mercy was getting at. “I don't know what you mean.”

“Don't play dense, Edmund.” Mercy loosened her baby's hold on a hanging lock of her hair. “You stand to inherit the inn one day, and you're not even all that ugly. So, who will be sitting on your wagon when you do?”

“Oh, let him be, love.” Gilbert drove the wagon with one hand upon the reins and an arm around Mercy's waist. “Edmund's got plenty of time to find a wife.”

“Tourney days are lovers' days, man of mine.” Mercy kissed Gilbert on his stubbled cheek. “Or have you forgotten?”

Their daughter, Celia, looked up at Edmund from her game of dolls on the floor of the wagon. Emma Russet nudged Miles Twintree and turned to smirk at Edmund from her seat on the back. Of all the passengers on the cart, only Geoffrey seemed to find Mercy's inquest into Edmund's marriage prospects as uninteresting as Edmund did himself. Edmund let his eyes slide back down to the lead-ruled line of words:
As there is no alliance between water and fire, nor is there concord between the wolf and the lamb, so is there no faith to keep between living men and That Which Waits Within the Mountain.

“Very well, Edmund, you force me to guess.” Mercy tapped her angular chin. “Molly Atbridge?”

Edmund looked up from the book again. “What—who? No.”

“Ah. Then—Siffy Twintree?”

“No.” Edmund spoke over a chorus of retching sounds from Miles and Emma.

“Anna Maybell?”

Edmund sat up rigid. “No!”

Mercy's smile sharpened. “Someone else, then.” She exchanged a look with her husband. “Thought so.”

“Who?” said Emma, and then to Edmund: “Who?”

Edmund looked away, flushing hot to the roots of his hair.

“Let him read his books, Mercy.” Gilbert twitched the reins to steer them over the bridge across the Swanborne stream. “Edmund Bale goes his own way in the world; no one doubts that anymore.”

“Reading some dusty old book on his way to a joust, though.” Mercy tutted, and winked at Edmund. “Don't you know how hard girls try to pretty themselves up on days like this? Don't let it go to waste!”

Edmund shook his head and returned to the open page before him. Gilbert's wagon bore him south out of Moorvale, down the Longsettle road toward the castle and the jousting field. The sun shone white, warm and kindly for an autumn afternoon. The folk of Moorvale were ranged along the road in carts, on horseback and on foot, chattering in clumps at a holiday volume as though their world could never fail and fall apart.

“What are you reading?” Miles Twintree thrust his shadow between Edmund and the page. He was Geoffrey's age but looked younger, a mousy-haired boy burned berry-brown from his labors in orchard and field. “Come on, what is it? Some kind of magic spell?”

Edmund shrugged Miles aside. “If I told you what I was reading, you wouldn't understand a word of it, so I'm not going to bother.”

“You don't tell me anything, anymore.” Miles turned away sulking. “Just because I didn't go to that stupid mountain.”

Geoffrey looked up from the floor of the wagon, where he
sat sorting his arrows for the archery tourney. He cast a glance at Miles. “What's wrong with him?”

“He wishes he had gone to see the Nethergrim.” Edmund shook his head and returned to his studies.

Gilbert leaned back from his seat. “Now, what are you kids whispering about back there?”

“Nothing, Master Wainwright.” Edmund nodded to him with a fake smile. “Just talking about the joust. We're all excited about it.”

“Especially for Harry's turn!” said Emma. It occurred to Edmund that her hand-embroidered dress and carefully arranged hair were quite possibly done in hopes that somehow Harry might notice her in the crowd.

“Ha!” Gilbert shook his head. “Just don't go making wagers on our lad Harry.”

“Oh—no, Master Wainwright.” Edmund laughed. “Very bad bet, so I hear.”

Gilbert leaned back to the reins. “I just hope he falls quick and easy, and doesn't get too badly hurt. Last thing I want is to lose Elverain's only heir.”

“It's just a joust, though.” Emma started to look genuinely worried. “Blunt lances. It's all for show, isn't it?”

Gilbert shook his head. “Men die jousting from time to time, Emma, blunt lances and all. It's a sport for rich fools, you ask me.”

“Gilbert!” Mercy swatted his shoulder. “Don't scare my little sister like that!”

“Why, what's the trouble?”

Mercy leaned to whisper in his ear.

“Father's thunder!” Gilbert laughed and whipped the reins to speed them. “Is there a girl in Elverain who is
not
in love with Harry?”

The road descended gentle and sure, turning past cottages, byres and fields on the way down to Longsettle, then through it and up again toward Northend and the castle. Bright banners and pennants had been hung about the square in the colors of Elverain, dark green and silver-white, above a milling crowd. Pavilion tents stood on the field at the foot of the hill before the castle, each flying its own colors and devices.

“Who's that coming up the road, there?” said Gilbert. “That's Katherine, isn't it?”

Edmund stood up to look. Katherine wore her best blue dress, and her hair had been worked into an elaborate, ribboned braid that matched its color. She wore a closed and inward expression, the way her father always looked when someone asked him to tell a brave old war story.

“I'll walk from here, Master Wainwright.” Edmund hopped off the back of the wagon.

“Thanks for the ride.” He joined Katherine at the verge, avoiding the knowing, smiling gazes of the Wainwrights. The wagon pulled away along the road, Emma giggling and whispering into Miles's ear on the back.

“I came to find you as soon as I could.” Katherine turned back south again, following the disappearing wagon down toward the jousting field. “Some things have happened.”

“I know they have.” Edmund wanted to give Katherine a compliment, but it came out all wrong: “Why are you dressed like that?”

Katherine would not look at him. “Even maidservants get holidays sometimes.” She walked a few more paces with her brows drawn low. “Edmund, I have come to warn you of the danger you're in.”

“
I'm
in danger? The whole of the north is in danger!” Edmund hesitated, then plunged on. If he could not trust Katherine, he could not trust anyone. “I found out some more things about the Skeleth, in a place you'd never expect in a thousand years. There's a tomb of an ancient king and queen, right beneath the old keep on Wishing Hill!”

He looked about him to make sure there was no one nearby on the road. He dug into his sack and held out the wax tablet. “This is a powerful sealing spell, one that can trap a creature even if that creature can't be touched. And here, have a look at this!” He flashed the dead queen's brooch in front of Katherine. “There's a riddle on here that I'm sure has something to do with the spell, but I can't figure out what it means.”

Katherine stared at the brooch. “Where did you get that?”

“I told you,” said Edmund. “The tomb, right under Wishing Hill.”

“So stealing another book was not enough.” Katherine turned away. “Now you've started robbing graves.”

Edmund shook his head. “No, no, it's not like that! I'm going to bring the book back, just as soon as I'm done with it, and I needed this brooch to help figure it all out. The Skeleth are servants of the Nethergrim, you see, and long ago this old king called Childeric—”

“I don't care about what old kings did long ago,” said Katherine. “There's a war coming, Edmund, here and now, and we have to make ready for it.”

“That's what I'm trying to tell you! The Skeleth are coming, and Ellí told me—”

“Edmund, everything that girl has told you is a lie.” Katherine crossed her arms. “She's drawing you in, playing you for a fool. She's not on our side.”

“Is that why you attacked her with a knife?” Edmund had never faced himself to Katherine in anger before. “She told me about that, too.”

“I caught her in the middle of a spell.” Katherine kept walking, forcing Edmund to follow. “She was in contact with—I don't know—something or someone very bad. I think they were talking about you.”

“That's ridiculous.” Edmund forgot to keep his voice down, even though by then they had passed in amongst the shops and stalls of Northend. “If it wasn't for Ellí, I wouldn't even know that the Skeleth were coming!”

“And how do you know that they are?” Katherine matched his angry voice. “You keep talking about these Skeleth things, but I've never seen one. All I know is that Lord Wolland is planning to start a war, and you're running about looting and stealing because some wizard girl in his service is telling you to do it! Why do you like her so much, anyway?”

“Until two weeks ago you'd never seen the Nethergrim before, either, but you can't deny what we found up in the mountains,” said Edmund. “Why are you so suspicious of Ellí? She
told me you just leapt on her without warning, that you attacked her for no reason at all!”

“Who are you going to trust, Edmund?” Katherine swept away. “Her or me?”

Ellí's words of warning returned to Edmund:
Ordinary folk don't really understand people like you and me, and because they don't understand, they suspect the worst of us.
He struggled for an answer to Katherine's question, following her all the way up the lane that led from town to castle. He passed by Geoffrey drawing back for his first shot in the archery tourney, but did not care to linger long enough to find out how well he did.

The jousting lists consisted of a hundred-yard track, bounded by a simple rope barrier to keep out the crowd. On its far side stood a reviewing stand where the wealthy and noble sat under the shade of a brightly colored canopy. Harry stood beside a nearby pavilion, his arms held out at his sides to allow a servant to buckle a coat of plates over his chain armor. He glanced over at Katherine, then away.

Katherine let out a curse. “They've started early. Hurry, Edmund—we're going to miss it!” She paced onward as quickly as her skirts would allow, seeming either to have forgotten all about her argument with Edmund, or to assume that she had won.

Harry picked up his shield and walked off with his servants in train behind. Katherine watched him go, her hands clasped tightly together, then turned and pushed her way into the swelling crowd of peasants at the side of the lists.

“Katherine?” Edmund shoved in behind her. “Wait a moment. I want to watch, too!”

Folk jostled and pushed in around the barrier, looking for a good view. Trumpets sounded from the reviewing stand, calling the crowd to something like quiet. Edmund forgot his anger for a while, for like most peasants, he loved a good joust.

“In the name of Aelfric, Lord of Elverain.” A powerful voice intoned across the field. “And in honor of those noble persons who are our guests, I declare this tourney open!”

A cheer went up from all around. Rowdy men broke out into local fighting songs. Edmund struggled to keep in sight of Katherine as she shouldered folk aside on a straight line to the edge of the jousting lists.

The herald raised a hand for silence. “And if it please my lords, we begin the day's engagements with a contest of the highest importance.”

Katherine shoved her way to the barrier and leaned out over the rope. Edmund slid in beside her and swept his gaze up and down the field. Two of the knights sat astride their chargers, one at either end.

“To your left, my lords, we have an honored guest from the barony of Wolland, eager to do battle for his liege and father who sits among you this day. Sir Wulfric of Olingham earned his spurs this very year, and he rides before you to prove his skills with the lance. Sir Wulfric, are you prepared?”

The herald gestured down the field. Wulfric wore an azure surcoat over his armor, emblazoned with the head of a ram.
The edges of his shield caught the sunlight. He raised his lance in salute.