My luck holds, and I’m able to peek into the room. There’s Kian Arnold, asleep in the chair, boots on the desk, head thrown back, snoring lightly. And there’smycloak hung on those hooks, and my knife and tinderbox and the spare key on the shelf beside it, and on the smaller rack? Smaller keys, for the cells.
I wrestle with my conscience, think seriously about putting my knife to the lad’s throat and drawing it across – then I think about his mother and how she will feel. Lutetia is kind and I’d not willingly hurt her. So I fasten my cloak, put my reclaimed possessions into my pockets and I’m reaching for the cell keys when I hear a whimper behind me. I turn slowly.
Kian Arnold’s white as a sheet, bottom lip trembling, swollen, red-rimmed eyes filling with tears. His voice quivers. ‘Are you here to kill me, ghost?’
This time I’m tempted to play the spectre, but I resist. ‘Not a ghost. I’m here to save my friend.’
‘You died. I watched. I saw. I was the only villager to do so, and I’ve had to keep telling them, all night and all day. Had to tell my mother and she asked how could I? How could I stand by?’
‘Surely they all knew. They told the god-hounds I was a witch, the crimes I’d committed.’
He shakes his head. ‘They… everyone answered questions, but we didn’t accuse you of anything, Mistress Mehrab. You must believe that. No one wanted you murdered. I didn’t want you murdered, just wanted you… frightened. That’s all. We didn’t… didn’t know how the god-brothers would…’
‘That’s what god-brothers do, Kian.’ My desire to kill him has cooled. ‘Where are they?’
‘At the Fox & Crow, drinking. They’ve all taken up residence at the Peppergill house, and Cylla said they’re not welcome, but showing no sign of moving on.’
‘And what are you going to tell them, when they return?’
‘Only that I saw a ghost. I swear.’
‘Not a—’ I start forward to touch him, and he shrieks. ‘Or perhaps I am. Tell them I’m a phantom and I’ll be seeing them very soon.’
***
Back down in the cellar, I unlock Fenna’s cell, then relock it as soon as she’s out; that’ll give them pause as long as Kian keeps his mouth shut. May it make them soil their holy robes. I’m not done with them. Fenna grabs my hand again and whispers urgently, ‘Don’t let me be caught again. Kill me before that happens.’
‘If there’s no other choice, certainly, but don’t give up so easily. It shows a lack of faith in me when I’m already back from the dead.’
Rather than take Fenna out the front door – too brazen even for me – we use the ladder to exit, and sneak into the woods. She’s weak from lack of decent food and ill-treatment, but she can move under her own steam; I, on the other hand, am having one of those rare surges of energy when I think I can do anything. Or perhaps that’s simply the resurrection. Fenna’s canny enough not to try and have a conversation, just follows me as I pick my way towards the smithy and Faolan’s horses. With any luck, they’re all still saddled and ready to go, but that might be wishful thinking. Surely he’s found them today, put them back in their stalls. The horses will give us a betterchance of getting home unscathed, or at least more quickly than on foot. I’m delusional, I suspect, if I think it’ll be easy to outpace a horse made of bone and ill-will and wish-hounds that travel on the night air, but a woman must believe in miracles if she’s to survive this world. And, at the moment, escaping the god-hounds is more imperative than avoiding the huntsman.
We’re almost across the open ground between the tree line and the smithy, so very close but not close enough, when the moon comes out from behind the clouds and the doors of the inn across the marketplace open and all five god-hounds come staggering out, stumbling down the steps. For a moment, I think my cloak might save us – Fenna’s has been lost somewhere along her journey as a captive – and perhaps for a second, two, three, it might. But Fenna sees the god-brothers and all her fear bubbles up, comes out as a half-scream that she tries too late to swallow down.
And we’ve got their attention.
They don’t start running towards us, however, not immediately because, I can only assume, I’m a ghost and terrifying. Part of me is delighted to have the chance to stick a knife in at least one if not all of them, and I hear my blood beginning to thud, thud, thud in my ears.
Then I realise it’s not my blood, but the sound of hoofbeats, accompanied by an unearthly baying. I push Fenna towards the smithy, get her in the stables, and pause only long enough to see the shadow half on his skeletal steed, and the wish-hounds bounding towards the now-shrieking god-brothers.
In the stables, Rosie remains, whickering softly to greet me, and the two geldings, still saddled. I don’t question it, just urgeFenna onto Rosie, then grab the reins of all three mounts and lead them back out into the night, into the trees, praying the huntsman is too busy toying with the god-brothers to notice us. The screams seem to support my hopes.
Once we’re well hidden, I mount up and kick the gelding into a gallop. Rosie follows as does the other horse and we plunge away into the darkness.
***
The moon appears at random intervals, peeking from behind clouds when we need her most – perhaps to make up for her recent betrayal. The forest itself moves to allow our passage and I think the green woman must be looking out for me in her own way. I hope it won’t cost her, that the shadow half won’t sense her power, won’t be able to track her to the bower as a result. That makes my task all the more urgent.
I don’t know how long the huntsman and his pets will take with the god-hounds, whether they’ll die quickly or slowly. I can’t help but hope slowly, especiallyFatherLoic. He’ll never get his hands on Rhea, never drag her back to Lodellan to be presented to its archbishop and an ecclesiastical court. For that I’m grateful.
Eventually I slow the geldings to a walk and Fenna moves Rosie up beside me while we’re on a broader path. All the horses are lathered with sweat and I feel we’ve used all our luck in not having one of them stumble into a rabbit or fox hole. Another miracle. A time of miracles, this day and the last, and such things can cease at any moment.
Fenna asks: ‘Did you see that thing? All of those things? Am I mad?’
‘Yes. And no, not mad.’
‘They told me they’d drowned you.’ She clears her throat. ‘Did they?’
‘Yes. And I’ll be delighted to tell you more about it all when we’re safely home, Fenna. My advice is to keep an ear out for pursuit.’
