Mistle Child (Undertaken Trilogy) (41 page)

A
T THE END OF
THE LITTLE BOOK
, there was a name almost scratched into the vellum of the final page, and Silas spoke it softly into the evening air.

Alysoun.

Alysoun.

Alysoun.

And when he looked up, Alysoun, the terrible spirit who had wrought her sorrows and losses furiously against the walls and very stones of Arvale, stood quietly before him, little more than a child, perhaps of fourteen, in her ruined and tattered raiment, her face hidden below her hair. Seeing her then, as she was, and knowing what had befallen her, Silas knew he would never let anyone harm her again.

By the doors to the summer house, the nurse sat by the cradle, rocking the child and singing. The baby was crying softly, almost in time with the nurse’s song.

Lollay, lollay, little child, why weepest thou so sore?

Little child, little child, you have been kept since days of yore.

Child, if it betideth that thou shalt thrive in joy

Remember only that you were fostered upon your nurse’s knee.

Ever hold in your heart these things three:

Whence you have come, what thou art, and what shall come of thee.

Lollay, lollay, little child, child, lollay, lollay.

With sorrow thou came into this world,

but in joy may thou wend away.

The nurse looked up at Silas and slowly nodded. He knew then what child it was she’d kept and tended. For though the infant had died and been buried by its mother in the tree, the baby’s father’s people had taken up the child after all. The nurse leaned into the cradle and brought out the Mistle Child. She followed Silas back to the edge of the lawn, where Alysoun stood, her hands shaking. Looking back once at the company, who waited silently in approval, the nurse handed the baby to her young mother. Alysoun stood and wept, and the stars stopped their round, and the company went quiet. She clutched the child to her and held her tight and dear. Slowly, she lifted up her head and spoke to Silas.

“Is this heaven?”

“No. I cannot give you heaven, but I can give you home. Little sister,” Silas said tenderly, “come home with me.” As he spoke the invitation, Silas realized he had just broken his promise to Cabel Umber, the same monster who’d wrought such horrors upon his own child and grandchild. Silas couldn’t care less about his promise now.

He led Alysoun away. As they reached the path at the edge of the lawn, Ottoline waved and said, “Farewell, Silas! We’ll come later to see you off!”

Silas looked back, and said with regret, “I fear there won’t be time.”

“Oh! Little cousin,” Ottoline called after him gaily as he and Alysoun walked away, the sound of all the cousins’ laughter briefly bubbling up, “there’s all the time in the world!”

And beneath the ever-living stars, the candles and all the ornate lanterns were suddenly extinguished. Arrayed in shadow and starlight, the cousins left the lawn in quiet reverence, and took away with them the bones and the little book. They walked into the summer house, and its doors closed silently behind them.

S
ILAS BROKE INTO A RUN AS HE
approached Arvale. The ghosts of Alysoun and her child were right behind him.

As he came to the entrance he held up his hand and the doors swung open. He crossed over the Limbus Stone and turned around to see the ghosts waiting in the middle of the threshold, unable to come any farther.

At the long table, Maud Umber and Lars sat staring.

Lars ran to Silas’s side, but Maud spoke first. “This is well done! Well done. But Silas, abide a moment. She has been bound from entering the house. She may not pass the stone. Have you given her the waters? Is she safe? Is she nameless still?”

Maud’s voice was measured. She smiled. But her eyes were fixed on the baby.

Silas saw this. “She has a name.”

“You have found that as well? Very impressive, Silas. Truly, you are Janus of this house. Still, as she is, she may not enter here.”

“Maud, I would break this stone in two before I allow it to become a wall to keep out this mansion’s kin. She has the right to come in; this house was once her home.”

“Yes, but she was banished,” Maud said, then added gently, like the merest afterthought, “I do not imagine the baby is likewise bound. Perhaps if you bring
her
in . . . take pity on the infant . . . then you could more easily give remedy to the mother. For her, the obsequies must be obeyed, Silas. The Doom must be pronounced upon her. She has wandered. She has embraced unrest. She has wrought vengeance against this house. A judgment must be made, Silas. Let her take the waters and find rest, or send her down, if you must. Give me the child.”

Alysoun stood upon the threshold but did not speak. She rocked her child in her arms and Maud’s head moved back and forth, following the baby’s face as though it were a pendulum.

“Thank you, Maud, but that will not be necessary. Tradition must bend to necessity. I am the Janus and will stand for the dead and for the peace of the house. There has been a terrible wrong committed against this girl. We must acknowledge that, and concessions must be made to heal the sins of the past.”

“How?” asked Maud, her face flushing with desperation.

“I will start as I mean to go on. I will bring peace to my ancient sister. She has been judged enough. I mean to help her. Let me show you.”

Silas put one foot onto the Limbus Stone near where Alysoun stood with her child.

“Little sister, Alysoun, welcome home. Be welcome here, among your kin. Come in, come in, come in.”

Silas reached across the threshold and brought her inside the house by his own hand.

Maud Umber began to shake as the mother of the child entered Arvale. Her lips moved furiously, as though the frantic workings of her mind were spilling senselessly into her mouth. She muttered beneath her breath, but then began to speak, rapidly, madly. “The cursed one is coming
inside
. See how she clings to the child! Mother of Heaven, see! The cursed one! No child needs two mothers. Where is my child? Bring home the child! Give me my child!”

Maud’s form erupted in flames that swirled about her, obscuring her face. From within the spectral fire, a terrible cry was heard. Maud flew toward the doorway where Alysoun and her child were standing oblivious to all.

“Let the baby come to me! It’s mine! It must come to me!” Maud cried.

Alysoun stood immovable, holding her child, as Maud circled before the door in a burning arc.

“Maud Umber! Stop!” Silas commanded. For a moment, Maud was still again. Her eyes were wild, and tears streamed down her face. Silas did not want to call her to the stone, but as she began to move again toward Alysoun, Silas acted without thinking. He reached into his front coat pocket, pulled out a handful of the grave earth Mother Peale had put there, and threw it at Maud. The crumbling clod of earth struck her in the back and the effect was immediate. Dust engulfed her, extinguishing her cloak of flames. Her face softened instantly as she descended to the floor of the hall. She stood quietly, her jaw hanging slack, tears spilling from her eyes.

Silas knew the effects of the grave earth were brief. He could see now there would be no rest for her. “Maud Umber, be still. Will you take the waters that may bring peace and rest?” Maud’s eyes were closed as she barely moved her head from side to side.

“No?”

Maud did not speak, but slowly, she raised her arms toward the baby, her hands reaching and clutching desperately at the empty air.

“Very well.” Silas drew in a breath and when he spoke again, his voice rose in the cadence of command. “Maud Umber, I bid you to return now to that sphere within this house where you abide in solitude, until such a time as you can return to your kin in peace.” As Silas finished speaking, his words echoed through the hall. Maud Umber dissolved upon the air and was gone.

Lars stood by the door with his mouth open.

Silas turned to Alysoun. She would look only at her child. In her child’s face was all the home she wanted. In that moment, he knew that Arvale could offer her no solace at all. Silas imagined mother and child, sitting in the empty hall and he knew there would be no real peace for her in merely enduring on in another, larger prison of stone.

“Little sister?” said Silas, taking the vial of the waters of Lethe from his satchel. “Here is Heaven for thee. Here is peace, if you will take it.”

Alysoun looked up at Silas. “Heaven’s peace for my child and me?”

“I pray so, yes.” He held up the crystal vial. Did she understand him? Did she believe it was holy water? Did it matter?

Alysoun held out her child to Silas. He gently tipped the bottle toward the baby’s tiny mouth, letting fall three drops of the water. He held the vial up to Alysoun who looked at him questioningly. Silas whispered, “And Heaven for thee,” and Alysoun drank from the vial. Light rose up about Alysoun and her child and they closed their eyes in bliss. For an instant, brightness filled the hall and pushed all the shadows up beyond the rafters. When the light faded, mother and child were gone.

Silas walked to the small table by the door and took the scepter, sliding it into the deep inside pocket of the coat his great-grandfather had given him. He looked past the threshold and saw that the path back to Lichport had been revealed once more. Exhausted but determined, Silas looked at Lars and said, “We’re leaving. Now.”

L
EDGER

When the infernal huntsman rests, the earth weeps to bear so great an evil deep within her bosom. When the infernal huntsman rides forth, the earth trembles to bear the weight of so great an evil. When the infernal huntsman chooses his quarry, the earth hides its eyes so that it may not see the evil one soul may wreak upon another.

—F
ROM
A M
IRROR OF
P
ENITENCE
,
BY
J
ACOPO
P
ASSAVANTI, 1354, TRANSLATED
BY
A
MOS
U
MBER

H
IS DAU
GHTER HAD BEEN SENT
OUT OF THE WORLD
and taken the Mistle Child with her, and Cabel Umber knew it. He looked at the massive bronze statue of Moloch, its swollen belly-oven and empty sacrificial receptacles glowing red from the eager flames and hungry embers he’d set burning inside it. Now there would be no sacrifice. Long ago, the offering had likewise escaped him when his daughter had hid her filthy infant—the firstborn of his firstborn—in the forest. Now Silas, firstborn of his own family, had put the sacrifice beyond his reach. Cabel threw another log into Moloch’s belly.

Amends would have to be made.

The bronze idol groaned as the fire inside it flew upward into the bull-shaped head. Its wide hollow eyes blazed and flashed.

Cabel stood in his deep chamber, his vengeful thoughts boiling in anticipation. It was true. Silas had not brought him the Mistle Child and would have to pay the price. All to the good, he now saw. With his daughter gone, her curse upon him had dissolved. And to seal it, Silas had broken his promise. The Undertaker, the Janus of Arvale, had deliberately cast aside his vow.