The Starkin Crown (28 page)

‘But aren't I the third child of the prophecy?' Peregrine had demanded. ‘You and Aunty Rozie always say I am'.

Liliana had paused a while before answering. ‘I think you are, Robin,' she said. ‘I wish that you weren't, I fear what it might mean. But you are the only one who has wildkin and starkin and hearthkin blood in him, at least that we know about'.

Peregrine had not been afraid. He had been eager to be the one to smite the throne of stars asunder, to win back the throne. His mother had drawn him against her knee, ruffled his hair and said, ‘You should be afraid, Robin. It's a terrible thing to have the weight of destiny bearing down on you'.

But Peregrine had only laughed.

‘
I'm
the blind boy,' he said to Molly now, in a strange, choked voice. ‘I've known the prophecy all my life but not once did it occur to me that I'd be the blind boy'.

‘I don't know what you mean,' she said, sounding frightened.

He sat up and twisted around as if to look at Molly, but then remembered he was blind and slumped back against her bent legs. She stroked his wet hair back from his forehead with her hands.

‘Long, long ago, my grandfather spoke a prophecy. He said:

Three times a babe shall be born,

between star-crowned and iron-bound.

First, the sower of seeds, the soothsayer,

though lame, he must travel far.

Next shall be the king-breaker, the king-maker,

though broken himself he shall be.

Last, the smallest and the greatest—

in him, the blood of wise and wild,

farseeing ones and starseeing ones.

Though he must be lost before he can find,

though, before he sees, he must be blind,

if he can find and if he can see,

the true king of all he shall be.

‘My grandfather was the first child, the sower of seeds, the soothsayer. Then came my Uncle Zed, who fell from the tower while rescuing Aunty Rozalina and broke his back and his legs. And then came me. The prophecy says I had to be lost before I can find—well, I was lost in the forest and now I'm lost again in the marshes. And it said I must be blind before I can see. Well, now I am blind and I can see nothing,
nothing
!' He groaned and flung one arm over his eyes.

‘Is that why you asked me if there was a blind boy at the castle?' Molly asked. Her voice was soft and low.

Peregrine nodded. ‘I saw that you were lame …' Somehow it was easier to talk to her of her affliction when he could not see her. ‘Aunty Rozalina said peace would not come until a blind boy could see and a lame girl walk on water'.

‘And I have walked on water, so now, if peace is to come, you must see'.

‘But how?' Peregrine stretched his eyes wide but could see nothing but a dim red haze where the fire was.

‘I don't know. Washing your eyes has not helped?'

‘A little. They feel better. I still can't see, though!'

‘If you find the spear, you'll be able to heal your eyes too'.

Peregrine sat up. ‘Yes! Of course!' Then he subsided. ‘But how can I find the spear when I can't see?'

‘Is there not some other way? Like … when I see what shape is trapped inside the wood, I see it in my mind's eye, not in my real eye'.

‘I could try,' he whispered, then shook his head. ‘No, I must try. But how?'

She got up, shaking out her skirts. ‘Sit and rest awhile, and I'll check on Jack and make us some supper. You must be hungry, your Highness'.

‘Please, call me Robin'.

‘All right … Robin'.

He heard the blush in her voice. That amazed him and gave him hope. If he could hear a blush, surely he could use his other senses to find what he had always used his eyes for.

M
OLLY HUNCHED BY THE FIRE, STIRRING HER SOUP
. S
HE WAS
shaking with cold, her shawl now a sodden, bloodstained ball discarded on the shingle.

Jack lay nearby. His hands and face and throat all showed deep lacerations that still oozed blood. He was hot, and the wounds she had not been able to bandage were weeping and inflamed. The corpse of the dog still lay beside him, its blood staining the grey shingle black.

Peregrine sat next to Molly, his face turning from side to side as he strained to make sense of the eerie night noises of the marsh. An intense red rash spread over his face, and his eyes were puffy and swollen almost shut. Molly suspected a plant like marsh spurge was the source of the poison, for she had once seen a boy come up with a similar rash all over his hands after plucking the weed. Her spirit quailed inside her.

She raised her face to look at the frosty-white stars, spread across the dark sky. The night was clear and Molly thought she had never seen so many stars. The moonlight glimmered on
the still water, and the flames of the fire leapt towards the sky like strange beasts from a fairytale. Sparks whirled.

What would it be like to be struck blind? Molly's heart twisted with pity for the poor prince. Imagine never being able to see the stars again. Imagine never seeing again the sun shining through new leaves, never seeing again the first marsh-marigolds springing out of the shrivelled brown of frost-bitten grasses, never seeing again the Isle of Eels floating in a blue mist. She pressed her hands together and hoped and wished with all her might that it was only a temporary blindness, and that Prince Peregrine would see again.

Robin.

She blushed again and began to ladle the thin soup into two horn cups. She brought them to him and knelt before him so she could press one into his hands.

‘Be careful, it's hot,' she whispered.

‘It smells good,' he answered, trying to smile, then wincing as the movement hurt his face.

She told him about the boy who had hurt his hands plucking marsh spurge. ‘He was fine in a day or two. Maybe your eyes will be too'.

‘Maybe'. He nodded. ‘I can't wait, though. I can hear Jack is getting weaker, he barely makes a sound anymore. As soon as we've eaten, I'll try to find the spear. What does it matter if it is dark, I can't see anyway'. His voice was bitter.

‘I can see quite well. The stars are bright and the moon is shining. If you tell me what to look for, maybe I can guide you'.

‘All right'. Prince Peregrine lifted his horn cup to his lips and drank. Molly drank too. The hot, savoury liquid gave her strength. She was tired, but did not see how she could possibly
sleep with the life slowly ebbing out of Jack and the corpse of the dog lying so still on the sands. Of all the things that Grizelda had done, Molly thought she hated the starkin girl most for the way she had so casually sacrificed her hound to save herself.

Peregrine finished in a few mouthfuls and sighed, as if wishing for more. ‘Molly, I thought I saw a hazel tree growing next to one of the ruined cottages. Did you see it?'

‘I think so,' she replied.

‘Can you see well enough to cut me a forked branch from it?'

‘I'll try'. Molly got out her knife and, crutch under her armpit, limped slowly across the shingle to the ruins of the village. She had to use her crutch to help her find rocks and holes and other hazards. She dreaded falling and wrenching her hip. She would be no help to the prince at all if she fell.

The pale buds of the hazel tree floated in the darkness like tiny glowworms, and relief rushed through her. She felt along the branches until she found one with a fork in it and cut it carefully. Limping, for her hip hurt badly, she made her way back to the fire and put the forked branch into Peregrine's hand.

‘Hazel is one of the sacred woods,' he said. ‘I have read it can be used for divination and for finding water. Let's try it and see what happens'.

Peregrine held the two prongs of the hazel branch in his hands and bent his head over it. In a low, weary voice, he said:

By the truth, let me find what is lost

The spear that in the bog was tossed

And ever since cannot be found

To my will let it be bound.

Tell me where to find the spear

Let me know when I am near'.

Then he rose to his feet. ‘I felt it twitch! Come, Molly, let's see where it leads us'.

As Molly laid down her crutch and picked up the shovel, propping it under her arm, Peregrine knelt for a moment beside Jack's body, feeling for the pulse in his wrist and telling him, in a low murmur, to hang on. ‘I'll be back soon with the spear, and then we'll heal you,' he promised. He then stood and turned, looking blindly for Molly. She was there in an instant, laying her hand on his thin shoulder.

‘I'll guide you,' she said. ‘Careful, the dog is just there, poor thing. Come around. Now, which way? To the west?'

Step by slow, stumbling step, the lame girl guided the blind boy into the marshes. On either side stretched bogs and quagmires, black and menacing under the silver radiance of the round moon. Molly listened to the frogs, smelt the wind, felt the quake of ground beneath her feet and, barely able to take a breath, found him a path.

‘It's close,' he whispered after a long while. ‘It's very close'.

The hazel branch was jerking in his hands, leading them closer and closer to a deep blackness where no grasses shivered in the cold wind, where no frogs sang their peculiar song.

‘It's here!' he cried, and Molly clutched him close as he would have stepped out into the very heart of the bog.

‘Stand back,' she warned. She tiptoed past him, testing the surface of the mud with her boot, then grasped a handful of bulrushes and leant forward, trying to dig one-handed. Some of the bulrushes broke and Molly lurched
forward, only just managing to save herself by grasping another handful.

Will-o'-the-wisps danced before her eyes. At the Isle of Eels they were called corpse candles and were a premonition of disaster. Resolutely Molly turned her face away from the eerie ghost-blue lights and took the shovel from under her arm. She began to scrape at the mud. It smelt like a grave.

Hours passed. Molly was filthy and exhausted. Gnats whined about her head, biting her mercilessly. Peregrine strained forward beside her, balanced precariously on the edge of the inky blackness. Impatiently he directed her, and she did her best to obey him, throwing down handfuls of bulrushes as they broke to give her a slowly sinking platform on which to stand.

The darkness began to seep away. Pink flushed along the horizon. A bird called, and then another. Molly took a long, sobbing breath and brushed back tendrils of hair with her mud-dripping arm.

Suddenly her shovel clunked against something. Molly flung herself on her knees and began to scrabble. Heedless of the shifting ground, Peregrine dropped down and dug too, throwing gobbets of mud behind him.

‘I have it!' he cried. He came upright, gripping a long dark thing in his hand.

Commonsense told Molly it was just an old branch. Yet it was so slim and straight. Foolish hope told her it was the spear of the Storm King.

They were both waist-deep in the bog, sinking fast. Molly leant upon the shovel with all her weight, hauling herself upright, and then, clinging to bulrushes and heath bushes, dragged herself out of the bog. ‘Grab my shovel,' she told Peregrine and
pushed the end into his chest. He seized it and, with the last of her strength, she dragged him free. They fell together into the reeds, then lay there for a moment, too exhausted to move.

Molly kept still, Peregrine's slight body lying against her, his heaving chest against hers. She looked up at tiny rosy clouds floating in the arc of pale sky, and smiled. After a moment Peregrine sat up, pushing his hair away from his face. The rash had subsided, but his eyes were still puffy and half-closed. He held out the long, slim thing to her.

‘I cannot see. Is it the spear?'

Molly sat up and took it from him. It was light and well balanced in her hands. At one end was a sharp point. At the other, the wood flared into wings, like the fletching of Peregrine's arrows. She carefully rubbed it in her skirt. It was made of a twisted length of silvery-pale wood, with strange shapes inscribed all along its length.

A smile burst onto her face.

‘It's the spear,' she said. ‘We've found the spear!'

Slowly Molly and Peregrine trudged back to the camp, both so weary it was hard to put one foot in front of the other. They were both filthy, every inch of their skin smeared with mud.

‘I can see a little,' Peregrine said. ‘Just shapes and shadows. Do you think my sight is coming back?'

‘I hope so,' she answered.

‘Let's hurry. I'm worried about Jack'.

Blitz was calling frantically, flapping his wings, his bells clashing angrily. Peregrine whistled to him reassuringly. ‘It's all right, boy. I'm coming, I'm coming. Just let me check Jack first'.

His squire had not moved, but still lay by the ashes of the fire, wrapped in his cloak. Molly gently folded back the grey
cloth and felt her stomach twist at the sight of the wet red rag at his throat. Her petticoat was completely drenched with blood. Awkwardly she knelt beside him, feeling for a pulse in his wrist. Dread chilled her.