Crossing Over - Anna Kendall [113]
“Maggie be there?” Jee said.
“Yes.”
“In that high place?”
“No.” Maggie would be below, in the dungeons I had never seen, the dungeons where advisors and captains loyal to the old queen had been put to death. Or would Queen Caroline keep Maggie with her in her apartments, trying to beguile her into cooperation, as she had once beguiled me? That’s what I was hoping: that Maggie was still alive, and whole. That if Queen Caroline had tried wiles and sweet promises instead of torture, Maggie would know enough to play along.
Jee slipped his grimy little hand into mine, a thing he had never done before. He must be terrified, to seek such reassurance now. He said, “Ye look and look ...”
He was right. I had been staring at Glory as if truly ensorcelled. Sunrise, just a few minutes ago, had left long fingers of gold and pink in the eastern sky, curving around the horizon toward the island as if to embrace it. The summer morning was soft-aired, filled with fresh flowers and the trills of birds.
“. . . and ye look, but we maun do.”
“You’re right, Jee. We maun do.” I tore my eyes from the tower, knelt, and put both hands on his bony shoulders. “Listen to me. Listen very carefully. I am going to do things that will look strange to you, and frightening. All these things will help save Maggie. No matter what I do, you must stay where I put you. You must not run away, or scream, or do anything but stay very still. Do you understand?”
“To help save Maggie,” Jee said, seizing on the only words that mattered to him.
“You must stay hidden, Jee. And silent.”
“To help save Maggie.”
He trusted me utterly—maybe because he had no other choice. I knew how that felt. I put him in a dense nest of bushes half a mile from the river, where he couldn’t be seen. Then I squeezed my burned and bandaged left hand with my right, cried out, and willed myself to cross over.
The storm had, if anything, worsened. Lightning flashed over a river racing with evil-smelling rapids. The ground shook so much that it was hard to stand. Rain pelted my face, soaking through my clothing in just a few moments. I had appeared not far from a captain of the Blues, now on this side of the river. He rushed over and cried, “The witch’s captive! You’re back, boy! What news?”
I nodded. It was difficult to hear over the howling wind. Through the rain I saw that the army of dead Blues had swelled to many hundreds. Had Lord Solek killed all those who tried to rebel? It seemed likely, but I had no time to ask.
“The best news,” I shouted, my mouth close to the captain’s ear, “we are going back to The Queendom, to fight and take back our own.”
His face, streaked with rain, lit up. His lips pulled back, baring his teeth, and I almost quailed before the fierce light of hatred in his eyes.
“Aye, and in good time, boy! We have our battle plan at the ready. But something has happened to Witchland.” He waved his arm to indicate the entire landscape: roiling, quaking, stormy, withered, coming apart.
He did not know that what had happened to Witchland was me. I had interfered with the order of life and death. I had convinced large numbers of dead men that they were not really dead, preventing them from lapsing into the serene, waiting trance that was their natural next state. Worse, I had brought back Bat and then Cecilia to the land of the living. A hisaf could make that journey, but no one else should. Taking away the subjects of the country of the Dead had torn the very fabric of that sacred place.
And now I was going to rend it far more.
“Captain, bring all your men together in”—I grasped at a military term I had heard from the queen—“in close formation. Here, now. We must act quickly!”
“You have the amulet?”
Amulet? What amulet? Then I remembered: the amulet I had invented to save Cat Starling, the amulets I had told the soldiers to make. The captain’s hung from a string around his neck. Lies upon lies—and all necessary.
“Yes,” I cried over the wind, “I bring you the amulet, and much more