When twilight fell, Dustfinger limped outside. He leaned against a column and looked up at the hill where the Castle of Night stood. Never moving, he gazed at the silver towers – and Meggie asked herself, for what was surely the hundredth time, if he was helping her only for her mother’s sake. Perhaps Dustfinger himself didn’t know.
Chapter 54 – In the Dungeon of the Castle of Night
They say:
Speak for us (to whom?)
Some say: Avenge us (on whom?)
Some say: Take our place.
Some say: Witness
Others say (and these are women): Be happy for us.
– Margaret Atwood, “Down,” Eating Fire
Mina was crying again. Resa took the other woman in her arms as if she were still a child, hummed a tune, and rocked her as she sometimes rocked Meggie, although by now her daughter was almost as tall as Resa herself.
A girl came twice a day, a thin, nervous little thing, younger than Meggie, to bring them bread and water. Sometimes there was porridge, too, cold and sticky, but it filled the stomach and reminded Resa of the days when Mortola had locked her up for something she had or hadn’t done. The porridge had tasted just like this. When she asked the girl about the Bluejay, the child just ducked her head in fright and left Resa in fear – the fear that Mo was dead by now, that they had hanged him, up there in the huge courtyard, and the last thing he had seen in this world was not her face but the silver vipers’ heads with their tongues licking down from the walls.
Sometimes she saw it all so clearly in her mind’s eye that she put her hands over her eyes, but the pictures were still there. And the darkness around her made her think it could all have been a dream: that moment at Capricorn’s festivities when she had suddenly seen Mo standing beside Meggie, the year in Elinor’s house, all that happiness –just a dream.
At least she was not alone. Even if the glances of the others were often hostile, their voices brought her out of her dark thoughts for a brief while. Now and then someone told a story, to keep them from hearing the weeping from the other cells, the scurrying of rats, the screams, the stammering voices that had long since ceased to make sense. Usually, it was the women who told stories. Stories of love and death, betrayal and friendship, but they all ended happily, lights in the darkness, like the candles in Resa’s pocket with wicks that had now become damp. Resa told fairy tales that Mo had read aloud to her long, long ago, when Meggie’s fingers were still soft and tiny, and the written word held no terrors for any of them yet. As for the strolling players, they told tales of the world around them: of Cosimo the Fair and his battle with the fire-raisers, of the Black Prince and how he found his bear, and his friend the fire-dancer, the man who made sparks rain down and fiery flowers blossom in the darkest night. Benedicta sang a song about him in a soft voice, a beautiful song, and in the end even Twofingers joined in, until the warder banged his stick against the bars and told them to keep quiet.
“I saw him once,” whispered Benedicta when the warder had gone away again. “Many years ago, when I was a little girl. It was wonderful. The fire was so bright that even my eyes could see it.
They say he’s dead.”
“No, he isn’t,” said Resa quietly. “Who do you think made the tree across the road burn?” They looked at her so incredulously! But she was too tired to tell them any more. She was too tired to explain anything. Let me go to my husband, that was all she wanted to say. Let me go to my child.
Don’t tell me any more stories; tell me how they are. Please.
Someone did at last give her news of Meggie and Mo, but Resa would rather have heard it from any other mouth.
The others were asleep when Mortola came. She had two soldiers with her. Resa was awake, because she was seeing those pictures again, pictures of Mo being brought into the courtyard, having the rope put around his neck . . He’s dead, and she has come to tell me! That was her first thought when the Magpie stood before her with a triumphant smile.
“Well, well, here’s our faithless maid!” said Mortola as Resa got to her feet with difficulty. “You seem to be as much of a witch as your daughter. How have you kept him alive? Perhaps I took aim a little too hastily. Never mind. A few more weeks and he’ll be strong enough for his execution!”
Alive.
Resa turned her head away so that Mortola wouldn’t see the smile that stole over her lips, but the Magpie was not looking at her face. She was enjoying the sight of her torn dress and bleeding, bare feet.
“The Bluejay!” Mortola lowered her voice. “Of course, I haven’t told the Adderhead that he’s going to execute the wrong man – why should I? It’s all working out just as I wanted. And I shall get my hands on your daughter, too.”
Meggie. The sense of happiness that had briefly warmed Resa’s heart disappeared as suddenly as it had come. Beside her, Mina sat up, woken by Mortola’s hoarse voice.
“Oh yes, I have powerful friends in this world,” continued the Magpie, with a self-satisfied smile.
“The Adderhead has caught me your husband, why wouldn’t he catch me your witch of a daughter, too? Do you know how I’ve convinced him that she’s a witch? By showing him a photograph of her. Yes, Resa, I let Basta take the photos of your little darling with him, all those pretty silver-framed photographs standing around the bookworm woman’s house. Of course the Adderhead thinks they’re magic pictures, mirror images captured on paper. His soldiers are afraid to touch them, but they’re showing them around all over the place. A pity we can’t duplicate them as we could in your world! But fortunately your daughter has joined forces with Dustfinger, and there’s no need for any magic picture of him. Every peasant has heard of him –
him and his scars.”
“He’ll protect her!” said Resa. She had to say something.
“Oh yes? The way he protected you?”
Resa dug her fingers into the fabric of her dirty dress. There was no one, in either this or the other world, whom she hated as much as the Magpie. Not even Basta. It was Mortola who had taught her how to hate. “Everything is different here,” she managed to say. “Fire obeys him here, and he’s not alone as he was in the other world. He has friends.”
“Friends! Ah, I suppose you mean the other mountebanks: the Black Prince, as he calls himself, and the rest of that rabble!” Contemptuously, the Magpie scanned the other prisoners. They had almost all woken up. “Look at them, Resa!” said Mortola spitefully. “How are they going to help you out of here? With a few brightly colored balls or a couple of sentimental songs? One of them gave you away, did you know that? And as for Dustfinger, what could he do? Unleash fire to save you? It would burn you, too, and he certainly won’t risk that, besotted with you as he always was.” She leaned forward with a smile. “Did you ever tell your husband what good friends you two were?”
Resa did not reply. She knew Mortola’s games. She knew them very well.
“What do you think? Shall I tell him?” Mortola whispered, ready to pounce, like a cat waiting by a mouse hole.
“Do that,” Resa whispered back. “Tell him. You can’t tell him anything he doesn’t know already.
I’ve given him back the years you stole from us, word for word, day after day. And Mo knows, too, that your own son made you live in his cellar and let everyone think you were only his housekeeper.”
