Mo put down the knife. "The book will be finished tomorrow, as agreed. It would have been ready sooner, but the leather to cover it was full of tears and holes made by thorns, so that held us up, and the paper wasn't as good as it might have been, either."
"Yes, yes, very well, the librarian has passed on your complaints!" The Adderhead's voice sounded as if he had been shouting himself hoarse. "If Taddeo had his way, you'd spend the rest of your life in this room, rebinding all my books. But I will let you go – you, your daughter, your wife, and those good-for-nothing strolling players. They can all go, I just want the book! Mortola has told me about the three words that your daughter so cunningly failed to mention, but never mind that – I shall take good care that no one writes them in its pages! I want to be able to laugh in the Cold Man's face at last – laugh at him and his pale women! Another night like this and I shall be beating my head against the wall, I shall kill my wife, I shall kill my child, I shall kill all of you. Do you understand, Bluejay or whatever your name is? You must finish the book before dark falls again! You must!"
Mo stroked the wooden boards that he had covered with leather only the day before. "I'll be finished by the time the sun rises. But you must swear to me on your son's life that then you will let us go at once."
The Adderhead looked at him as if the White Women were there standing behind him. "Yes, yes, I swear by whomever and whatever you like! By sunrise, that sounds good!" He walked ponderously over to Mo and stared at his chest. "Show me!" he whispered. "Show me where Mortola wounded you. With the magic weapon that my master-at-arms took apart so thoroughly that now no one can put it together again. I had the fool hanged for that."
Mo hesitated, but finally he opened his shirt.
"So close to the heart!" The Adderhead put his hand on Mo's chest as if to make sure that the heart in it was really still beating. "Yes," he said. "Yes, you must indeed know a way to cheat death or you wouldn't be alive now."
He turned abruptly and waved the two servants over to the door. "Very well, I shall have you fetched soon after sunrise, you and the book," he said over his shoulder.
"Now get me something to eat in the hall!" Meggie heard him shouting outside the door as the guards bolted it again. "Wake the cooks, wake the maids and the Piper. Wake them all! I want to eat and listen to a few dark songs. And the Piper must sing them so loudly that I don't hear the child crying."
Then his footsteps retreated, and only the rolling of the thunder remained. A flash of lightning made the pages of the almost-finished book shine as if they had a life of their own. Mo had gone over to the window. He stood there motionless, looking out.
"By sunrise! Can you do it?" asked Meggie anxiously.
"Of course," he said, without turning. Lightning was flickering over the sea like a distant light being switched on and off by someone – except that no such light existed in this world. Meggie went over to Mo, and he put his arm around her. He knew she was afraid of thunderstorms. When she was very small and had crept into bed with him, he always told her the same story: Thunderstorms were because the sky longed to be united with the earth, and reached out fiery fingers to touch it on such nights.
But Mo didn't tell that story today.
"Did you see the fear in his face?" Meggie whispered to him. "Exactly as Fenoglio described it."
"Yes, even the Adderhead must play the part that Fenoglio has written for him," replied Mo. "But so must we, Meggie. How do you like that idea?"
69. THE NIGHT BEFORE
True, I talk of dreams,
Which are the children of an idle brain,
Begot of nothing but vain fantasy,
Which is as thin of substance as the air.
William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet
It was the last night before the day when the Adderhead would show his clemency. In a few hours, just before dawn, they would all be in position by the road. None of the informers had been able to say exactly when the prisoners were to come down it – they knew only that this would be the day. The robbers were sitting together, telling one another tales of old adventures in loud voices. Presumably that was their means of keeping fear at bay, but Dustfinger did not feel like either talking or listening. He kept waking suddenly from sleep, but not because of the voices that came to his ears. Pictures in his mind woke him, terrible pictures that had been robbing him of sleep for days.
This time they had been particularly bad, and so real that he started up as if Gwin had jumped on his chest. His heart was still thudding hard as he sat there staring into the dark. Dreams – in the other world they had often kept him from sleeping, too, but he couldn't remember any of them as bad as this one. "It's the dead. They bring bad dreams," Farid always said. "They whisper terrible things to you, and then they lie on your breast to feel your racing heart. It makes them feel alive again!"
Dustfinger liked this explanation. He feared death but not the dead. But suppose it was quite different, suppose the dreams were showing him a story already waiting for him somewhere? Reality was a fragile thing; Silvertongue's voice had shown him that once and for all.
Roxane stirred in her sleep beside him. She turned her head and murmured the names of her children, the dead as well as the living. There was still no news from Ombra. Even the Black Prince had heard nothing for a long time, either from the castle or the city, no word of what had happened after the Adderhead sent Cosimo's body back to his daughter, with the news that hardly any of the men who had followed him would come back, either.
Roxane whispered Brianna's name again. Every day she stayed here with him cut her to the heart, Dustfinger knew that only too well. So why didn't he simply go back with her? Why not turn his back on this infernal hill and return at last to a place where you didn't have to hide underground like an animal? Or like a dead man, he added in his thoughts.
You know why, he told himself. It's the dreams. The accursed dreams. He whispered fire-words to banish the darkness in which dreams put forth such dreadful blossoms. A flame licked up sleepily from the ground beside him. He held out his hand and let it dance up his arm, lick his fingers and his forehead, in the hope that it would simply burn away the horrible pictures. But even the pain did not rid him of them, and Dustfinger extinguished the flame with the flat of his hand. His skin was sooty and hot afterward, as if the fire had left its black breath behind, but the dream was still there, a terror in his heart, too black and strong even for the fire.
How could he simply go away when he saw such images by night – pictures of the dead, again and again, nothing but blood and death? The faces changed. Sometimes it was Resa's face he saw, sometimes Meggie's, then at other times the face of the Barn Owl. He had seen the Black Prince, too, with blood on his breast. And today – today it had been Farid's face. Just like the night before. Dustfinger closed his eyes when the pictures came back, so plain and clear… Of course he had tried to persuade the boy to stay with Roxane tomorrow, when he set off with the robbers – along the road they were to come down, Resa and Silvertongue, Meggie, the Barn Owl, and all the others. (Just how many there would be, even the Prince's informers could not say.) But it was hopeless.
Dustfinger leaned back against the damp stone into which hands long gone had cut the narrow galleries, and looked at the boy. Farid had curled up like a small child, knees drawn up against his chest, with the two martens beside him. They slept at Farid's side more and more often when they came back from hunting, perhaps because they knew that Roxane did not like them.