The Doorway and the Deep (15 page)

The Barghest kept its glare on Dorian for so long that even Lottie began to feel uncomfortable. Then it turned from the company.

“I will stay as near the river as I can for the first leg of your journey,” it said, “before the bank grows hazardous with cliffs and crags.”

Before Lottie could thank it or even say goodbye, the Barghest had bounded into the wood and out of sight.

“Well, that sucks,” said Eliot. “I liked the Barghest.”

“Me too,” Lottie said.

And though she didn't say so out loud, though she didn't want to admit it, she did feel less safe with the Barghest gone.

“Well!” said Nash. “Now that we've got that hairy problem sorted, we should be boarding ship.”

It wasn't at all the kind of ship Lottie had been expecting—with unfurled sails and a gangplank and a gilded ship's wheel at its helm. It wasn't really a ship at all. A “glorified rowboat” was what Fife called it. There was no mast, only a wide hollowed-out space at the boat's middle. Elevated planks that ran across its ends looked like they could be used for sitting. The entire vessel was made of wood, and painted black.

Like the sign of the Northerly court
, Lottie thought.
Like the black diamond
.

“Just wondering,” said Eliot, “how exactly does this boat work?”

He pointed at the river, wide and rushing and far more powerful than Lottie had ever seen it before. The current was flowing southward, in the opposite direction they wanted to go.

“There's a reason certain sprites become sailors,” said Oliver, looking the boat over with intrigued blue eyes. “They have keens apt for the job.”

“That we have,” said Reeve, climbing into the boat with practiced ease and offering his hand to Eliot. “No need to look so worried, boy. Take my hand. Steady on.”

They boarded the boat, one after the other, and sat where Reeve directed them. Lottie, Eliot, and Adelaide took their seats on one end, Dorian, Oliver, and Fife on the other.

Reeve sat at the back of the boat, his hand on some sort of lever. Lottie didn't know exactly how boats worked, but she was fairly certain Reeve was in charge of something called the rudder, which steered the ship.

Nash was the last to board. With the grace of a cat, he leapt inside and took up a post on the end of the boat opposite Reeve.

“That's that,” he said, untying a thick coil of rope that held the boat fast to the dock. “By Puck, it's good to be heading north again.”

Now untethered from the dock, the boat began to speed southward, with the current.

Though not for long. Reeve was bent over the rudder. His eyes were closed and both arms were tensed, muscles straining hard under skin.

The boat stopped moving. It lurched, and Lottie grabbed hold of Eliot's shoulder to steady herself. Then, slowly but surely, the boat began floating northward, against the current.

“Very good,” Nash called to Reeve, and then his eyes went white entirely, as though they'd rolled back into his head. Lottie bit down her shock as she watched Nash turn and peer into the coming dark.

“What's he doing?” Eliot asked Lottie.

She shook her head in wonderment, answerless.

Adelaide said, “He's the lookout. That's his keen: sight. Most likely, he can see for a full mile ahead of us, even in the dark.”

“And Reeve?” Lottie asked.

“Can't you guess?” said Adelaide. “He's controlling the water with his touch. It's a rare gift. He must've had excellent sharpening.”

“What're you all blabbing about?” Fife said, floating across the boat to where they sat. “You're not talking about me, are you?”

“No,” said Adelaide. “Sit down, would you? It's not safe to hover around a moving boat.”

“Tosh,” said Fife. “I happen to be very well versed in the rules of floating around bodies of water, and I—”

Lottie didn't want to hear this new argument between Fife and Adelaide.

“I need to talk to Dorian,” she announced.

She crossed to where Dorian sat, alone, studying the tree line.

“I don't like your friends,” Lottie told him, not minding if the nearby Nash overheard.

Dorian smirked. “‘Friend' is a strong word. The three of us sharpened together as boys, back in the Northerly Court, that's all.”

“But,” said Lottie, taking a seat beside him, “I thought you grew up with your father, in New Albion.”

“I did,” said Dorian, “for a time. Then he sent me north. He thought I'd get the best training there. Also, I was an asset to the Northerlies for one obvious reason.”

Dorian held up his right wrist, showing the white circle branded there.

“That's why you became a spy?” Lottie asked.

“That, and because I could hear so well.”

“Fife keeps telling Adelaide she'd make a good spy,” said Lottie, “but she says she wants nothing to do with politics.”

Dorian glanced at Adelaide, who was still embroiled in the fight with Fife.

“She's a smart girl,” he said.

“Do you wish you hadn't, then?” asked Lottie, surprised. “Gotten involved in politics, I mean.”

“I don't know anyone who was ever
happy
they got into politics. It's just a way of life for some. A Southerly in the Northerly Court—I
was
politics, incarnate.”

“So why do you want to get me involved?” Lottie whispered, staring out at the water. She could just see the tops of their heads reflected below, in the Lissome's ever-changing waters.

“That's Rebel Gem's doing,” said Dorian. “And the Tailor's. I'm just an ambassador.”

“Do you miss being a spy?”

Dorian was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, “I do. I don't particularly like being in the North. It's painful for me. Though I don't know why I'm telling you this. You wouldn't understand.”

“Because you think I'm just a child,” Lottie muttered.

Dorian looked surprised. “No. Not at all. I'm just not sure
anyone
would understand.”

“What're you griping about back there, Ingle?” called Nash.

“Just engaged in a scintillating conversation with the Heir of Fiske!” he said, throwing Lottie a wink.

Nash turned, eyes rolled back to their normal state. “The Heir of Fiske,” he said, his vowels thick. Lottie couldn't tell if he was making fun of her, but the way he stared her down made her uncomfortable.

“I wish everyone would stop calling me that,” she said. “It's not like you go around calling people the Heir of Wilfer or the Heir of Ingle.”

“You're not at all how I imagined you'd be,” Nash said. “All those grand statues of Queen Mab—they don't look a smidgen like you.”

“Yeah, well, I bet you don't look a whole lot like your ancestors from a thousand years ago,” Lottie said.

“Actually,” said Nash, “I've been told I look frightfully like my great-grandfather Coriander.”

“So I don't look like Queen Mab,” said Lottie, irritated. “Sorry to disappoint everyone.”

“You're not disappointing anyone.” Lottie was startled by Oliver's soft voice. She hadn't been aware he was listening to their conversation.

“Eh,” said Nash. “You're young. Maybe you'll grow into it.”

That won't matter much
, Lottie thought,
if I can't grow into my
keen.
And even if I do, it's not worth much to anyone
.

Mr. Wilfer's words still stung at her insides. She would never be able to heal the masses, he'd said. She had to develop a “deep empathetic connection”—whatever that even meant.

“A sprite living in the human world,” said Nash. “What was that like? Is it true what they say? Is there really no magic there?”

“I don't know,” said Lottie. “There's definitely not magic like there is here. But we've got a lot of other things you don't have: cars and televisions and the Internet and . . .” She trailed off, noting the blank looks that Nash and Dorian were giving her.

“I guess it's an all right place,” she concluded. “My friend Eliot's father still lives there. That's why we're trying to get back.”

“Doesn't
sound
nice,” said Nash. “Not to mention, I heard humans killed off all your fairy kind.”

Lottie's stomach turned. “Really?”

“So they say. Hundreds of years back, you human lot went squishing them left and right, driving them deeper into the forests. Not much incentive for sprites to go visiting the human world after that.”

“No,” said Lottie. “I guess not.”

“Just as well,” said Nash. “We have enough troubles of our own. Plenty of monsters clamoring to eat our flesh here in Limn without us root shooting to another world.”

“Come on, Nash,” said Dorian. “Now isn't the time for ghost stories. You'll scare the girl.”

Lottie gave them a level look. “I don't scare easily.”

“What's this?!” cried a voice, causing Lottie to jump.

Fife had floated over and was now crouched beside her.

“Don't
do
that,” Lottie said, regaining her breath and balance.

“What?” said Fife. “Did I
scare
you?”

“Oi!” Reeve shouted from the back of the boat. “What's going on up there?”

“Ghost stories!” Fife called back.

“
Ghost stories?
” gasped Eliot. “I love ghost stories.”

Fife's smile disappeared. “Of course you do.” He rolled his eyes and slouched beside Dorian.

Eliot nodded eagerly. “Lottie and I told them to each other all the time, back at my place. Didn't we, Lottie?”

Lottie remembered. She and Eliot had spent many stormy nights staring out the skylight in his bedroom, telling tales of bloodstains that didn't wash out and strangled waifs who still haunted the streets of New Kemble. Lottie had told Dorian the truth: she really didn't scare easily. But Eliot had a special way of telling his stories that always had Lottie hiding under a blanket by the time it was all over.

“What sort of ghost stories?” asked Oliver.

“Well,” said Nash, “the best ones are those about the River Lissome itself.”

“Oh, let's
not
,” said Adelaide. “I can't think of a more unpleasant way to pass the time.”

“If you don't want to listen,” said Fife, “just stop up your ears.”

“I can't just
stop up my ears
!” shrieked Adelaide, with a wrath so sudden it startled even Dorian and Nash. “You're so
insensitive
!”

Lottie hadn't expected Adelaide to take kindly to Fife's comment (he
was
being insensitive), but even from Adelaide, the reaction was a bit much. Then Lottie caught sight of Fife's tongue peeking out from the side of his mouth.

“You haven't heard the worst of it, Miss Wilfer,” said Reeve, grinning. “You Southerlies only tell the prettied-up versions of the stories. We Northerlies have kept them raw and right.”

“I bet that down in Fairwind,” said Nash, “they say the ghost of Rock Harbor mourns for her true love, not that she murdered him in his bed.”

“Hmm,” said Reeve. “Or that the Thistlebram witch feeds the local children cinnamon cake, not that she turns them
into
cake.”

“Don't forget the splinters,” said Nash. “Casting their voices in dark woods, pretending to be your loved ones. Then capturing you and gobbling you up whole.”

“And what about Iolanthe?” said Reeve.

Lottie's eyes widened. “What about Iolanthe?”

“You should hear the tales,” said Reeve. “They say she's a
splinter of the worst kind. The absolute worst. They say with a single touch, she can transform her skin into any shape in all of Limn.”

“Just an old piskie tale, that,” said Nash.

“No it isn't,” said Reeve. “I've got soldier friends who swear up and down that they've seen strange shapes roaming the Northerly border—a little lost girl some days, or a mewling cat on others. It's Iolanthe, they say, spying for the Southerly King. Or mayhap just waiting around for a poor soul to cross her path so she can—”

“Stop it!” Adelaide cried. “I don't want to hear any of it.”

“You heard her,” said Oliver, red-eyed. “Both of you cut it out. We've had a long day . . . night . . . 
whatever
it is, and the last thing Ada needs is—”

“Calm down, calm down,” said Nash. “No need to get in a bramble tussle about it. We were only having a bit of fun.”

“We can talk about something else,” said Reeve, cheery. “Like what sort of creatures are swimming through the Lissome this time of year.”

Lottie wasn't happy with Nash or Reeve, but her curiosity got the better of her.

“What creatures?” she asked.

Nash lowered his voice. “Terrible things lurk under the cold waters up north. Creatures that could swallow down a boat like ours whole. They call 'em ice crawlers. Saw one
myself, when I was a boy. My own uncle died in a capsized boat, dragged under in a crawler's jaws.”

“They come out in the dead of winter,” said Reeve, “sniffing for sailor blood. You don't even hear 'em sloshing until it's too late and they've wrapped their hundred legs around your boat, and
snap!
The hull breaks like tinder.”

“Ha!” said Fife. “Brilliant.”

Eliot began to cough—stifled at first, then loud and uncontrolled.

“Stop it, all of you. That's quite enough!”

Lottie hadn't meant to scream the words.

She whipped around and found Fife smirking, his tongue touching the air. Heat boiled in her cheeks, but she spent her attention on Eliot first, rubbing his back until the coughs had subsided and he smiled, embarrassed.

“It just happens sometimes,” he said. “Nothing to worry about.”