Seventh Bride (12 page)

She could have sworn that the nearest slug turned its eyestalks reproachfully to her. “Um. Sorry.”

It went back to eating.

Another armlength into the woods, and another—and there was a break in the trees, and the path clear and visible beyond it.
 

She hurried back to the clearing, just as her hedgehog dropped its paws and stopped crooning.

“Thank you,” said Rhea. “Thank you all. I can’t repay you, but when I’ve got a garden—you’re all welcome, always—forever—
thank you!”

She snatched up her hedgehog and it dove into her pocket. Then she turned and ran.

The way was clear. She pounded down the path, heedless of pebbles that might turn underfoot. The overgrown orchard became more widely spaced and the brambles retreated and the sky was grey overhead, not black, and she was at the garden gate and pounding across the cobbles and there was Maria, standing in the doorway.

Rhea fell over the threshold and into Maria’s arms, just as the sun began to rise.
 

She didn’t mean to cry. She had been crying too much lately and it didn’t help anything. And she didn’t know Maria very well at all—she’d known her two days, really—and you didn’t cry in front of perfect strangers, it just wasn’t done.

She assured herself of all this, and then burst into tears on Maria’s shoulder.
 

“There, there,” said Maria. “It’s over now and you made it back. I’ll make you some tea and some breakfast, and then you can sleep as long as you like.”

Rhea let the cook steer her to a chair and plop her down. She scrubbed at her face and took a shuddery breath, then another.

Maria set the tea in front of her, with a spoon in it to stir the honey. Rhea wrapped her cold fingers around the mug.
 

“She’s still alive,” she said out loud, and felt a sob at the bottom of her throat. “She’s
alive,
Maria!”

“Saw her, did you?” asked Maria grimly. “Well, and so she is.”

“How—how long—?”

“Long enough.” The heavy lines of Maria’s face were hard. “A few years.”

Hot tears started up at the corner of Rhea’s eyes. She could not comprehend the enormity of years, only that it was terrible, unthinkable. Her chest ached.

“Years! But—Maria—we—
we have to tell someone!”
 

Her voice spiraled up as she spoke and she thought,
I’m getting hysterical again
and then she thought,
of course I am, this is
insane,
getting hysterical is absolutely sensible.

“Sure,” said Maria. “Sure.” She began spooning biscuit dough onto a tray. “Who shall we tell?”

“The Viscount! A priest!
Someone!”

“The Viscount who is his friend? A village priest who probably serves at the Viscount’s pleasure? Do you think they’ll listen to a little girl and a fat old cook?” Maria added a bit more flour to the bowl, and scraped the spoon along the side.
 

Her voice was absolutely reasonable, and Rhea wanted to scream. She fisted both hands in her hair. “But—but—but she’s hanging there—and this is insane—
and you’re making biscuits!”

“Yes,” said Maria. “I am. We could both sit down at the table and cry together. And in a few hours things will still be insane and the golem-wife will still be hanging there and there will still be no one we can tell, and the only thing that will be different is that we will be hungry. And there will be no biscuits.”
 

Rhea slumped in the chair, trying not to sob.
 

Maria glanced over at her, and her face softened. “I truly don’t think she suffers much,” she said quietly. “He took her will, you see. She cannot even die without his permission. She likely cannot feel pain either.”
 

What?

On some level, Rhea knew the words were important, but they fell meaninglessly on her ears.
 

How can someone give you permission to die? How can they
stop
you?

“She was thirsty,” she said aloud.
 

“Ah,” said Maria. She exhaled. “Well. That was your task, was it not? Perhaps he gave her permission to be thirsty.”

There was a sound from the doorway, hardly more than a scuff of shoe against the floor. Rhea looked up to see Ingeth.
 

The silent woman turned, not meeting her eyes, and walked away.
 

“Going to report that you came in on time, I imagine,” said Maria.

“What did you mean,
took her will?”
asked Rhea.

“Just what I said,” snapped Maria. “Himself is good at taking. This one’s magic, that one’s will, that one’s death—”

Her whole body jerked, suddenly, once, twice, three times. Her arms went up in the air, twitching, then dropped. She staggered sideways, one hand to her chest.

Rhea jumped up, sending the chair over backward.
 

“Maria!”

The other woman stood still for a moment, swaying. Then she turned and limped to a chair, setting each step as carefully as a mason laying stone.
 

Rhea yanked the chair out for her, and Maria fell into it. Her breath came in hard pants. “Stupid,” she gasped out, one syllable to a breath, “…stu…
pid
…”

“What do I do?” asked Rhea, panicking. If something happened to Maria—her only human ally in this place, you could hardly count Sylvie, who was so sweetly ineffectual, and you certainly couldn’t count Ingeth—

“Wa…ter…”

Rhea splashed water into a cup with shaking hands and held it to the cook’s lips. A few swallows, and the strange spasm seemed to pass. Maria put her elbows on the table and her face in her hands. Rhea hovered over her, uncertain.

“I’m fine,” said Maria. “I’m an old woman who talks too much, that’s all.”
 

“But—”

Maria spread her fingers and looked at Rhea through them.

Rhea shut her mouth.
 

Crevan did that. She was starting to say too much and he did that to her. No wonder she wasn’t talking.

If I marry him, what will he do to me?

A hand closed over her shoulder and she squeaked.

Ingeth jerked her head toward the doorway.
 

“Go on,” said Maria, looking at Ingeth with hooded eyes. “I imagine my husband wants a word with you.”

“So you completed my little task,” said Lord Crevan.
 

He was not standing at the bookstand this time, but sitting behind the desk. Rhea stood in front of it, feeling small and bloody and disheveled. The fact that she was standing and he was sitting should have helped, but it didn’t. She stared at her feet.

“You
did
complete the task, did you not?”

“I gave her something to drink,” said Rhea dully.
 

“Good,” said Crevan. “Good.”

“She wasn’t a scarecrow,” said Rhea. A small fury roiled in her stomach. She knew that she should not speak, but she couldn’t help it. Rage and terror were all bound up together and squeezed out words. “She was a
person.
How could you
do
that to her?”
 

Lord Crevan smiled. “She possessed extraordinary willpower,” he said fondly. “Stubbornness, some might say, but so much more. She was quite incandescent.” He flicked a hand dismissively. “It really did no good for a little baker from the city to have a will like that, so I gave it to someone who could make better use of it.”
 

Rhea stared at him, struck again by the feeling that she was hearing something terribly important that made no sense at all.
 

Her confusion must have showed on her face. Crevan stood and came toward her.

She did not want to step back, but she did anyway, hoping it looked like deference and not like terror.

Maybe it’s better if he knows I’m scared of him. Maybe he wants that.
 

Maybe I have no idea what he wants.

He stopped two paces away. “You don’t understand,” he said. “Well, I couldn’t expect that you would.”

“Um,” said Rhea, because he was clearly expecting her to say something. “No. My lord.”
 

He smiled. “Suppose that you had something that you did not need, Miss Rhea.”

Like a husband?
she thought grimly.
 

“Let us say you had…oh…a bull.” He steepled his fingers. “A fierce bull in a pasture. You have no cows, no other livestock, only a very fierce bull that eats your grain and breaks your fences and does you no good at all.”

It occurred to Rhea that Lord Crevan had a very limited grasp of animal husbandry. There were a great many uses for a bull, not least of which were stud fees, and if the bull was truly a wretch, the butcher could make dog food and sausage out of it. Even a broken-down horse could be sold to the knackermen.
 

Arguing about the value of livestock with a mad sorcerer did not seem like a good idea, however, even as angry as she was.
 

“All right,” she said. “I’ve got a bull.”

He took another step forward. Rhea’s spine bumped against the wall as she retreated.

“Now, it happens that I know someone who needs a bull very much, who will, perhaps, be in a great deal of trouble without one. They may even die without one.”

Rhea had heard of people getting into a great deal of trouble with bulls—usually when crossing a pasture—but never of anyone getting into trouble
without
one. Particularly not lethal trouble.

The lord of the manor is trying to explain things to the peasant, using terms he thinks the peasant will understand. I expect I’ll be even angrier about this presently, if he doesn’t turn me into a golem and hang me from a pole.
 

“I see,” she said.
 

“So I take your bull and give it to my friend,” said Lord Crevan. “The beast is no longer eating you out of house and home, and my friend’s life is saved—”

However
that
works.
 

“—and all is for the best. You see?”

“I believe,” said Rhea, “that what you are describing is called cattle raiding. It’s a hanging offense. My lord.”
 

Lord Crevan’s smile slipped slightly, and he took another half step forward.
 

It occurred to Rhea that she had every right to be furious and also that being furious was not going to do her any good against a sorcerer.
 

I’m being stupid. If I’m meek and agreeable, maybe I can get out of the room—out of the house—out a window—something—

“I would not expect a—country girl—to understand,” he said.
 

Rhea seized on the opportunity. “No, my lord,” she said, trying to infuse her voice with every ounce of meekness she possessed, even though it choked her. “I’m afraid it’s quite beyond me. I know about mills. Just…mills.”

She stared at the floor and wished with all her heart that she were back at the mill.

I wouldn’t care if there were a thousand gremlins and I had to pry each one out by hand. Oh, Lady of Stones, I want to go home, I want this not to be happening…

He sighed, as if she had disappointed him. “I expect too much. Still, you have other gifts, my dear, and you are very young…for now.”

Something about the way he said the last words made Rhea lift her eyes from the floor.

Not too young to marry, apparently. What does he mean?
 

Crevan turned away. “I shall have another little task for you this evening,” he said. “Ingeth will show you out.”

She slept, exhausted. At a little after four in the afternoon, the house shook and she came awake, hearing the clangor of metal and broken bells.

The floor’s falling again,
she thought muzzily.
The clock-wife must be in a mood.
 

She no longer had any problem believing that there was a clock-wife. Of course there would be one.
 

Rhea got up. She put on the dress that she had arrived in, travel-stains and all, and she transferred the hedgehog between pockets. It looked up at her, eyes small and frightened.

“It will be all right,” said Rhea, knowing that she was lying. It would never be all right, not when the golem-wife was hanging from her pole, not while Crevan was utterly mad and babbling about bulls and had the power of life and death and worse than death over them all.

The hedgehog gave her a look that said that it knew she was lying, and understood perfectly well why she was doing so. It rolled into a small, prickly ball in her pocket.

She walked out of her room, her mind carefully empty. Somewhere down, under her breastbone, she knew that she was leaving, this hour, this minute. That didn’t matter. So long as she did not
think
it, surely Crevan could not smell her thoughts.
 

The front door was unguarded. Rhea half-expected to see Ingeth, but the silent woman was nowhere to be seen.

She opened the front door and was through it before it occurred to her to worry that the door might have been locked.
 

The white road blazed before her. If it was dazzling in moonlight, it blinded in daylight. Walking down it would be like walking down the blade of a polished sword.

The fountain still rang with water. The angel with its sagging wings still presided over it.
 

The hedgehog moved uneasily as she approached the road.

The bird golems had their heads tucked under their wings. Perhaps they were nightbirds and roosted by day. The same two huddled together on one side, and the third slept by itself, unmoving.

Are they going to attack me if I go under?
 

Rhea stepped through the arch, hands half-lifted to protect her face.

The birds did not move.
 

Poor things! He made you like the golem-wife, didn’t he?
 

Her eyes ached from the glare and she realized that she was holding her breath. She let it out, carefully.