nine

Outside Waverley Hall the rain was falling, forming little puddles on the gravel and coaxing the lawn into a deeper shade of green. Rhosmari sat by the window in the library, gazing listlessly at the neglected garden. She had tried to read, but every book she chose seemed to be little more than a chronicle of human misery, and her eyes refused to focus on the pages for long in any case.

After a few minutes the little dog–Isadora–crept across the muddy gravel, thinner and filthier than ever. It turned appealing eyes to Rhosmari and lay down facing the window, chin resting between its stubby front paws. Why was it here? The Empress did not even seem to know that it existed, and Sarah had pushed it away from the door as though it were a nuisance . . .

Someone behind her drew in a sobbing breath. Startled, Rhosmari turned to find Sarah standing in the doorway–but as soon as their eyes met, the human woman clapped a hand to her mouth and fled. Wondering what could be wrong, Rhosmari followed her and found the elderly woman at the other end of the corridor, clutching her elbows and trembling.

“I’m sorry,” she quavered, as Rhosmari came up to her. “Please don’t tell her you saw me like this. I’m only an old woman who loves her little dog, and I can’t help—” She broke off with a little sniff as her eyes welled up again.

So Isadora was Sarah’s pet, after all. But if the dog was so dear to her, then why had she neglected it?

Please don’t tell her, repeated Sarah’s voice in her mind, and all at once Rhosmari understood. “Did the Empress tell you to shut Isadora out?” she asked. “Did she order you to let her starve?”

Sarah wiped her eyes. “I know I did wrong to look at her,” she said. “It won’t happen again. Please–have mercy—”

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Rhosmari told her. “And I’m not going to tell the Empress.” At least, she added silently, not if I can help it. “I only want to know why you’re upset.”

“But you . . . you’re one of them. Why would you care?” Sarah backed away from her, fumbling for the handle of the door. “After all your people have done to me . . . to my dog . . . my beautiful house . . .”

“I had no part in any of that,” said Rhosmari. “And I want no part of it, either. I’m a prisoner here, just as you are.”

“I don’t believe you.”

How could Rhosmari prove her good faith? She glanced back toward the library–and remembered the little dog still sitting patiently with her nose to the window, waiting for a mistress who would not, and perhaps even could not, come.

“Where do you keep Isadora’s food?” she asked.

•••

Carefully Rhosmari filled the dog’s bowl and carried it to the front door. She could not step past the threshold, but she set the dish outside, and when she softly called “Isadora!” the dog struggled up the steps to meet her. With a snort, it buried its nose in the bowl.

“You can’t do this,” whispered Sarah from behind her. “The Empress will find out, and then—”

But Rhosmari held up a hand for silence, and picked up the bowl again. Step by step, she coaxed the dog through the entrance hall and along the passageway to the kitchen, while the human woman followed anxiously behind.

“The Empress doesn’t know everything,” Rhosmari said to her, when the kitchen door was shut. “Does she ever come in here? Do any of the other faeries?”

The woman shook her head.

“Then I’ll come down and feed Isadora whenever I get the chance,” Rhosmari told her. “She doesn’t deserve to starve, no matter what the Empress says, and if there’s any trouble then I’ll take responsibility for it.”

Sarah collapsed into a chair and buried her face in her hands, thin shoulders shaking. It was a long time before she composed herself enough to speak again. “She was only trying to protect me,” she gasped. “She’s always been such a gentle thing, I’d never heard her growl at anyone before, let alone bite . . .”

“Why did you let the Empress into the house?” asked Rhosmari.

“She came to the door,” Sarah said thickly, “asking if she might come in and look at the paintings. She’d heard we had a Wrenfield here, she said, the last portrait he ever painted, and she would dearly love to see it. And she seemed like such a nice young woman that I invited her in. But no sooner did I show her the painting than she—” She swallowed. “She did that to it, with just a sweep of her hand.”

So the Empress had destroyed Philip Waverley’s portrait herself. Rhosmari wondered what she had been trying to prove–or hide. “Go on,” she said.

“After that everything went dark, and I got terribly confused,” said Sarah. “I felt as though I were walking in a dream. Before I knew it I’d shown her upstairs to the best bedroom, and by the end of the day I’d turned away the groundskeeper and told the cleaning staff I didn’t need them anymore.” She pulled a crumpled tissue from her sleeve and dabbed her eyes with it. “Then the Empress got angry with Isadora and told me not to feed her or let her in the house . . . and since then I’ve been all alone. With her.”

Isadora was nosing at the bottom of her dish; Rhosmari refilled the bowl and sat down on the other side of the table. “How long has it been?”

“Three weeks, but it feels like forever,” said Sarah wearily. “At first I thought that if I could only walk to the village, or pick up the telephone . . . but it’s impossible. I can’t get past the end of the garden without turning back again, and whenever anyone rings or comes to the door all I can say is how fine I am and how nice the weather’s been. The only one who comes here anymore is the grocer’s man, and he doesn’t seem to notice anything wrong.”

No, of course he wouldn’t, thought Rhosmari. The Empress must have put a glamour around the house, and perhaps an aversion charm to keep unwanted visitors away. But she had mentioned wards as well, and it was hard to believe that any faery, even a powerful one, could maintain so many spells at once.

“My husband died a year ago,” Sarah went on, “and I never could have children. I should have sold the house after the funeral, only I couldn’t bear to leave all those memories behind . . . and how could I have known something like this would— Oh!” She looked down, her eyes brimming again. Isadora had crept over to the table and laid her head at her mistress’s feet.

“She’s all I have now,” Sarah murmured. “And I can’t even touch her.”

Anger blazed inside Rhosmari at the Empress’s cruelty. She stooped and lifted Isadora up onto the table, then took Sarah’s hand in her own and placed it on the dog’s head.

“Now you can,” she said.

•••

“You had a pleasant afternoon, I hope?” asked the Empress as Rhosmari walked back into the study.

Seeing the Empress smile, with the memory of Isadora’s suffering and Sarah’s helpless tears fresh in her mind, it was all Rhosmari could do to hide her revulsion. But if she allowed her feelings to show, then the Empress would surely want to know what was wrong. So she could only bend her lips into an answering smile and hope that she had learned something, however small, from her visits to the theatre.

“Please sit down,” the Empress continued, motioning to the chair before her desk. “I have been thinking some more about your people, and the things you have told me about them. They are sworn to peace, you say? For how long have they upheld this law, or tradition, or whatever you call it?”

“For a thousand years,” said Rhosmari.

“A thousand! They must be a mild-mannered folk indeed. Tell me, how many of your people are there?”

As a scholar, Rhosmari would never have thought to be glad she did not know something. But she was glad now. “We don’t keep count.”

“But surely you can estimate,” the Empress persisted. “Are there fifty of you? A hundred?”

Rhosmari shifted a little, uncomfortable. “I can’t say.”

“I think you can,” said the Empress gently. “And will.”

“About eight hundred,” said Rhosmari, and then wished she could bite off her tongue.

“Oh,” the Empress breathed. “Oh. That is . . . more than I expected.”

“Is it?” Rhosmari asked, hoping to get her off the subject. “How many faeries are on the mainland?”

“Fewer than you might think,” the Empress replied distractedly. “Our people are widely scattered, and we do not have many children.”

This had always been true of faeries, if the ancient histories Rhosmari had studied were reliable. In fact, it had once been common for faeries to adopt unwanted human children in order to bolster their numbers. Even the Children of Rhys had done so in the past, though Rhosmari could not remember it happening in her lifetime.

“Eight hundred,” murmured the Empress. “To have allies so numerous would be a great advantage. But . . .” Her gaze focused on Rhosmari again. “I must know more about your people, if I am to decide how best to approach them . . . and what they are capable of offering me.”

Rhosmari wanted to tell the Empress that the Elders would never make a bargain with her, that they would quickly see through her charming facade. But she had not thought that her mother would ever send an army onto the mainland, either, and suddenly none of the things in which she had once put her confidence seemed certain any more. Her throat went dry as the Empress leaned toward her, eyes glittering.

“Tell me more about the Children of Rhys,” she commanded. “Tell me everything.”

•••

By the time the Empress let her go, Rhosmari felt sick with exhaustion–and shame. Long after she had left the study, she could hear the echo of that soft, relentless voice asking one question after another, while she babbled out all the secrets about her people and her homeland that she had been most desperate to hide.

There was very little now that the Empress did not know about the Green Isles, or the Children of Rhys, or about Rhosmari herself. She knew how upset the Rhysians had been over losing the Stone of Naming, why Rhosmari had been so alarmed by Lady Celyn’s plan to get it back, and how she had escaped to the mainland through Gruffydd’s Way to look for Garan and the Stone herself. The Empress also knew what a shock it had been to Rhosmari when she learned of the Oak’s destruction (she had smiled at that point, which made Rhosmari loathe her even more) and when she had seen Llinos in Manchester (which the Empress seemed to find particularly interesting for some reason). And just when Rhosmari thought she had utterly humiliated herself and betrayed her people in every possible way, the Empress took her back to the beginning and made her go through it all again.

Rhosmari dropped into the chair beside her bedroom window, pushing the heels of her hands against her eyes. How could she have been deceived by the Empress, even for a moment? Let alone felt sorry for her, or believed they had anything in common? It was bad enough to feel that no one else was trustworthy, but now Rhosmari was beginning to think that she could not even trust herself.

At least one thing was clear to her, however: somehow, she must get word to her people and warn them about the Empress. No one could approach the Green Isles without the Elders’ permission, and after what had happened with Timothy and Linden they would not be quick to welcome strangers again. Still, she wanted them to be prepared to refuse anything the Empress might offer–or better yet, not listen to her at all.

But how could she deliver a message to the Green Isles when she was trapped here in Waverley Hall, unable to use magic or even set foot outside the front door?

Even the moon’s beaming face seemed to mock her, promising light when all she could see was darkness. Bitterly Rhosmari flung the curtains shut, and turned away.

•••

Over the next few days Rhosmari’s life settled into a kind of nightmarish routine. Every night she lay awake for hours, trying to think her way past the restrictions that bound her.

In the morning she would force down a few mouthfuls of breakfast with the Empress, then escape as quickly as possible. Some time before noon, or just after it, she would hear the screams of captured faeries being dragged into the study, never to come out again. When all was quiet, it was time to feed Isadora and exchange a few words with Sarah. Then she would wander about until supper, sit silently at the table listening to the Empress’s lieutenants boast of their achievements and compete for their mistress’s approval, and finally head back upstairs to begin the cycle all over again.

The worst of it was that after a while Rhosmari stopped caring. She knew the Empress was preparing something, or waiting for something to happen, so she could hunt down Rob and his remaining followers and put an end to their rebellion. But that hardly seemed relevant any more. Why should it be, when Rhosmari had no idea where the rebels were, let alone how to make contact with them? And if only a few of them had escaped the destruction of the Oak, how could they help her in any case?

But then one afternoon she started down the stairs to find Veronica bringing up her latest prisoner, and everything changed.

“Oh, look, Martin,” said Veronica. Playfully she clapped her hands to her captive’s cheeks and tilted his head up toward Rhosmari. “It’s your little friend. Say hello.”

Martin made a croaking noise, like a bird trying to speak. His hair hung limp over his eyes, and his clothing was rumpled and torn. Shaking her head, Rhosmari backed away.

“So disapproving, Rhosmari? I thought you would be pleased to see him like this. He deserves it, after all.” Veronica poked Martin in the shoulder, and he began to climb the stairs again. “Just imagine,” she added in a confiding tone as Rhosmari edged aside to let them pass, “all the interesting ways you could punish him for what he did to you! If I were you, I would have him begging for mercy.”

She twirled one finger, and Martin turned around and crumpled to his knees on the landing at Rhosmari’s feet. “Don’t,” said Rhosmari, pressing back against the wall. “Stop it.”

“Veronica,” said the Empress from the door of the study, “stop playing with Martin and come here. You too, Rhosmari.” When they had all followed her into the room, she turned to Veronica and said, “Release him.”

Veronica passed her hand over Martin’s face, and his vacant look sharpened into fury. “You broke our bargain,” he snapped at the Empress. “We agreed—”

“We agreed that if you could deliver to me one of the Children of Rhys, I would let you go. And indeed, I was intrigued to know how you would manage it, so I chose to indulge you.” The Empress stopped behind her chair, resting one arm lightly along its high back. “But you disappointed me, Martin. Instead of accomplishing the task on your own, you made a bargain with my Blackwings to help you carry it out. And since you could not have called on them without my leave, that makes Rhosmari’s capture as much my doing as it was yours.”

Martin’s eyes narrowed. “You never said I had to do it alone.”

“And you never suggested that you planned to do it any other way,” said the Empress. “So I think I have been quite generous to let you wander free as long as I did. Nevertheless, that is not the reason I brought you here.”

She walked back toward him and took his chin in her hand, like a mother rebuking a willful child. “I have heard some very distressing reports about your activities, Martin. Have I not warned you against spending too much time with humans? And what made you think I would tolerate you doing so, whether you were under my command or not?”

“The ability to play a role is a useful skill,” said Martin levelly, but Rhosmari could see he was shaken. “And only the humans have it.”

“That is quite true,” agreed the Empress. “And I have often made use of that talent myself. But I have never found it necessary to be friendly with humans, much less treat them as equals, in order to get it. Clearly you have lost sight of your position, and if I must take matters into my own hands to ensure you do not forget again, so be it.”

She nodded to Veronica, who seemed to take it as a dismissal and Leaped away, leaving Rhosmari, Martin and the Empress alone. The Empress let go of Martin’s jaw and continued. “Under ordinary circumstances, the penalty for your disobedience would be death. Yet you have rendered me good service in the past, so I am prepared to be merciful.” She reached for her dagger. “Give me your hand.”

“Wait.” A muscle twitched in Martin’s cheek; he looked close to panic. “You don’t have to do this. I can give you something else you want, and this time, I swear, I will do it alone—”

“What else can you possibly do for me,” said the Empress, “that the Blackwings or Veronica cannot do just as well, or better?”

“I can infiltrate the rebels for you.” He spoke quickly, flushed with eagerness. “I can gain their confidence, learn their secrets–they will see that I am not under your control, and let me join them in the Oak—”

The Oak. Rhosmari’s heart thudded against her ribs. So even that part of Martin’s story had been a lie? Rob and his rebels, Garan and his men, the Oakenfolk, Timothy and the others–they were all still alive, still free, still together?

Joy surged up within her, and it took all the skills she had absorbed from her visits to the theatre not to exclaim aloud. But she managed to keep her expression neutral, right up to the point where the Empress turned to her and said, “Strike him, Rhosmari.”

Immediately Rhosmari’s arm whipped out, with the full force of her weight behind it. The blow connected with Martin’s cheek, jarring the bones in her hand and stinging her palm like fire. He staggered back and almost fell, but as he righted himself one corner of his mouth turned up.

“You must have enjoyed that,” he said.

Rhosmari swallowed back the sickness in her throat. She had never struck another living being before. “No,” she whispered, but even as her lips shaped the word she knew it was a lie.

“I have no interest in your offer,” the Empress told Martin. “As far as the Oak is concerned, I have all the information I need. So one last time, before I lose my patience: give me your hand.”

Martin looked straight into her eyes, but he did not move.

“Or,” the Empress went on conversationally, “I will have Rhosmari take control of your mind, and she will make you caper about the room like a clown until you die of exhaustion. Would you prefer that?”

Rhosmari’s skin prickled with horror. Don’t let her do this, she pleaded silently with Martin. Just give her what she wants. Please . . .

Martin’s lips moved, shaping a curse or a prayer. Then he raised his clenched fist, unfolded it finger by finger, and turned his palm up to the Empress. Rhosmari turned away, not wanting to watch what happened next.

“What is your command, Your Imperial Majesty?” said Martin, when the Empress finished. There was no mockery or insolence in his tone; he knew better than to openly defy her now that she held his name.

“You may join my other servants,” she told him, “who are helping to rebuild my army. Capture as many renegades and rebels as you can find, and bring either them or a sample of their blood to me. But do not travel far. I want you within summoning distance.”

Martin nodded, flicked an unreadable look at Rhosmari, and Leaped out of the room. The Empress sighed and sat down, arranging her silken skirts. “It is always so tedious forcing people to do what is best for them,” she said. “Why can they not simply accept my judgment, even if they are too ignorant to appreciate it?”

Once, Rhosmari might have been tempted to sympathize. Now she only wanted to scream. “Your Majesty,” she said unevenly, “may I ask a question?”

“Of course,” said the Empress, with one of her indulgent smiles. “What do you wish to know?”

“I am as much in your power as he is,” Rhosmari said. “And I have done nothing to offend you. You already know everything I could tell you about the Children of Rhys. So why keep me here, and let him go?”

The Empress looked surprised, then amused. “You mean you still have not guessed?” she asked. “I know you are not accustomed to thinking like a soldier, but surely the answer is obvious. I need an army large enough to defeat the rebels and wipe them out completely. And once you have opened Gruffydd’s Way for me and my followers, and led us to the Green Isles in secret . . . I will have that army.”