Meggie nodded. “The Spelt-Mill,” she repeated quietly, unable to look anywhere but at the bloodstained straw.
“Right, Meggie can do all that, but I’m going with you.” Farid’s voice sounded so defiant that the little girl, still kneeling silently beside Meggie, was upset and reached for her hand.
“I’m warning you, don’t start on about looking after me again!” Dustfinger’s voice was so sharp that Farid lowered his eyes. “I’m going alone, and that’s that. You take care of Meggie and the child until Nettle comes, and then get CloudDancer to take you to Ombra.”
“No!” Meggie saw the tears in Farid’s eyes, but Dustfinger just walked toward the cave entrance without another word. Gwin scuttled in front of him.
“If it gets dark before they arrive,” he added, looking over his shoulder at Farid, “then light a fire.
Not because of the soldiers. They have what they came for, but wolves and Night-Mares are always hungry: the wolves for your flesh, the Night-Mares for your fear.”
Then he was gone, and Farid stood there, his eyes blurred with tears. “That bloody bastard!” he whispered. “That thrice accursed son of a bitch! But he’ll soon see. I’m going to follow him. I will look after him! I swore I would.” Abruptly, he kneeled down in front of Meggie and took her hand. “You will go to Ombra, won’t you? Please. I have to go after him. I know you understand!”
Meggie said nothing. What was there to say? That she wasn’t going back any more than he was?
He’d only have tried to persuade her not to go on. Jink rubbed against Farid’s legs, and then scurried outside. The little girl ran after the marten but stopped at the entrance to the cave – a small, forlorn figure, all alone. Like me, thought Meggie.
Without looking at Farid, she took Fenoglio’s parchment out of her belt. The letters could scarcely be made out in the twilight that filled the cave.
“What’s that?” Farid straightened up.
“Words. Only words, but better than nothing.”
“Wait, I’ll give you a light.” Farid rubbed his fingertips together and whispered. A tiny flame appeared on his thumbnail. He blew gently on the little flame, until it grew like the flame of a candle, and then held his thumb above the parchment. The flickering light made the letters shine as if Rosenquartz had retraced them with fresh ink.
Useless, something whispered in Meggie. The words will be useless! Mo isn’t here, he’s far away, he may not even be alive anymore. Shut up! she snapped at this internal voice. I’m not listening. This is all I can do, there’s nothing else, nothing at all! She picked up the bloodstained blanket, placed the parchment on it, and ran her fingers over her lips. The little girl was still standing outside the cave, waiting for her mother to come back.
“Read it, Meggie!” Farid nodded at her encouragingly.
And she read it, her fingers clutching the blanket stained with Mo’s dried blood. “Mortimer felt the pain… ” She thought she felt it herself, in the sound of every letter on her tongue, in every word that passed her lips. “The wound was burning. It burned like the hatred in Mortola’s eyes when she had shot him. Perhaps it was her hatred that was sucking the life out of him, making him weaker and weaker. He felt his own blood wet and warm on his skin. He felt Death reaching out to him. But all of a sudden there was something else, too: words. Words that relieved the pain, cooled his brow, and spoke of love, nothing but love. They made his breathing easier again and healed the place where death had been flowing in. He felt the sound of them on his skin and deep in his heart.
They echoed ever louder, ever more clearly through the darkness that threatened to swallow him up, and suddenly he knew the voice speaking the words: It was his daughter’s voice, and the White Women withdrew their pale hands as if they had burned themselves on her love. ”
Meggie buried her face in her hands. The parchment rolled up on her lap of its own accord, as if it had served its purpose. Straw pricked her through her dress, as it had in the shed where Capricorn had once imprisoned her and Mo. She felt someone stroking her hair, and for a moment, a crazy moment, she thought Fenoglio’s words had brought Mo back, back to the cave safe and sound, and everything was all right again. But when she raised her head, it was only Farid standing beside her.
“That was beautiful,” he said. “I’m sure it helped. You wait and see.”
But Meggie shook her head. “No!” she whispered. “No. Those were only beautiful words, but my father isn’t made of Fenoglio’s words. He’s made of flesh and blood.”
“So? What difference does that make?” Farid removed her hands from her tearstained face.
“Perhaps everything’s just made of words. Look at me, for instance. Pinch me. Am I made of paper?”
No, he wasn’t. And Meggie had to smile when he kissed her, although she was still shedding tears.
Dustfinger had not been gone long when they heard footsteps among the trees. Farid had taken Dustfinger’s advice and made a fire, and Meggie was sitting close to him with the little girl’s head on her lap. Nettle said not a word as she emerged from the darkness and saw the wrecked camp.
Silently, she went from one dead body to another, looking for life where none was left, while CloudDancer, his face unmoving, listened to the message Dustfinger had left for him. It was only when Meggie asked CloudDancer to take a message, not just to Roxane and the strolling players but to Fenoglio, too, that Farid fully realized she didn’t intend to go back to Ombra any more than he did. His expressionless face didn’t show whether he was angry or glad.
“I’ve written my message for Fenoglio.” With a heavy heart, Meggie had torn a page for it out of the notebook that Mo had given her. On the other hand, what better use could she put it to than saving him? If it was still possible to save him. “You’ll find Fenoglio in Minerva’s house, in Cobblers’ Alley. And it’s very important that no one else reads the message.”
“I know the Inkweaver!” CloudDancer watched Nettle draw a ragged cloak over the face of another dead man. Then he frowned at the sheet of paper with Meggie’s writing on it. “There’ve been messengers who were hanged for the words they carried. I hope these aren’t that kind? No, don’t tell me!” he said defensively as Meggie was about to answer. “Usually, I ask the sender to tell me the words of any message I carry, but with this one I have a feeling I’d better not know.”
“What do you suppose she’s written?” asked Nettle bitterly. “No doubt she was thanking the old man for writing the songs that will bring her father to the gallows! Or is he to write a dirge for him, the Bluejay’s last song? I scented misfortune the moment I saw that scar on his arm. I always thought the Bluejay was just a legend, like all the noble princes and princesses in other songs. Well, you were wrong there, Nettle, said I to myself, and you’re certainly not the first to notice the scar. So the Inkweaver had to go and describe it in detail! Curse the old fool and his silly songs! Men have been hanged before because they were taken for the Bluejay, but now it seems the Adderhead has the right man in his hands, and the game of playing heroes is over.
Protecting the weak, robbing the strong .. Yes, it all sounds very fine, but heroes aren’t immortal except in songs, and your father will find only too soon that a mask doesn’t protect you from death.”
