Nine

Their hands were bound behind their backs with thin rope that bit into their wrists, and the strange, silent soldiers marched them up the road. Otto tried to talk to them at first, but they only stared down at him, expressionless, and made pointed gestures with their spears.

Before long, they reached the edge of the trees. Here the dirt path met up with a sternly straight road of gray brick. It sliced its way cleanly through a rolling landscape of hills. At the end of the road, built within a blasted crater of rock and dirt, was their destination: a castle.

The massive structure loomed even from this distance. It was ringed by high, gray walls, and topped with looming gray towers. Above it streamed banners the color of soot.

“That doesn’t look promising,” Otto said. The soldier walking behind him shoved him hard on the shoulder.

The hedgewitch looked troubled. Her fingers worked behind her, twisting as if she were trying to get free of her bindings. At least Pip still had Gloaming. The third time they’d tried to take the sword from her, only to have it vanish and reappear at her hip, the soldiers had tied it down to its scabbard so that even if Pip got her hands free, she couldn’t draw it. Eleanor didn’t know what was waiting for them in the castle, but she was glad they had a weapon.

The gates opened as they approached. Fear gnawed relentlessly at Eleanor’s insides, but she forced herself to keep moving, all too aware of the wicked weapons at her back.

Beyond the gates was a courtyard of stone as colorless as all the rest. To the left was a building that looked like a stable—but the creatures within it definitely weren’t horses. Some had long bodies like greyhounds, with heads that split into writhing tendrils. Others were built like rhinoceroses, with the heads of wolves. They all stood deathly still in their stalls.

“What is this place?” Pip whispered, looking around with wide eyes. There were more men, women, and even children walking around, dressed in rough-spun clothes in shades of gray and brown, but all of them had the same blank expressions as the soldiers. None of them spoke. None of the animals made any noise. The only sound was the rasp of cloth and tramp of feet, and the metallic clanking of the soldiers’ armor.

The silence made Eleanor’s whole body shake with instinctive fear.

Come on. You’re the world-walker. Do something, she screamed silently at herself—but concentrating as hard as she could, only the faintest shimmering lines traced through the air.

“What is this?” a voice said, and Eleanor almost cried out in surprise at the sudden breaking of the silence.

A boy who looked about sixteen approached from the right. His collarbones stood out from his skin, and his cheekbones jutted up above hollow cheeks. He wore a simple gray shirt, loose on his narrow frame but belted at the waist. Unlike everything else, he wasn’t gray, but his brown hair had an ashen cast to it. A thin iron circlet sat on his head, like a crown.

One of the soldiers opened his mouth. Eleanor flinched back. It was a long, stretched O of black, no sign of anything inside but darkness—no tongue, no teeth, no throat. From that void came a sound like a cloud of flies, a soft and horrid buzzing.

The boy looked sharply at Eleanor and the others.

“In the woods? But you’re not from the village,” he said. His hands were folded behind his back as he stalked around them, looking them up and down. “Who are you?”

“Don’t tell him anything,” the hedgewitch hissed.

“You can tell me now, or you can tell my parents. And believe me, their questions are less kind than mine,” the boy said. He stopped in front of Eleanor. His eyes met hers, and a shiver went through her. There was something about the boy that seemed familiar.

“Who are you?” the boy asked again, leaning closer. Eleanor clamped her teeth shut and glared at him.

“Let us go, and maybe we’ll tell you,” Pip suggested.

The boy straightened up. “Take them to the throne room.”

They were herded toward the front doors of the castle. Eleanor looked over her shoulder, managing to catch Otto’s gaze. He looked as panicked as she felt.

They were marched through a long hall, up a set of steps, and then through a massive pair of iron doors. Eleanor, pushed out in the front, found herself in a huge, vaulted room, the ceiling covered in intricate patterns of twisting lines. Columns lined each side of the vast hall, and a single red length of carpet split its center—the only color in the whole place.

Two spikes of onyx stone stood at the front, carved into thrones. And on those thrones sat two figures Eleanor had seen once before, in a painting on the wall of a hidden room in Mrs. Prosper’s office. Fresh fear flooded Eleanor’s body, followed by a slow wave of dread.

They were the Pallid King and the Pallid Queen. The mother and father of the People Who Look Away. Which could mean only one thing.

Somehow, impossibly, they were in the Pallid Kingdom.

“No, no, no,” someone moaned, and Eleanor realized it was her. She stopped walking, but still the soldier dragged her forward, toward the grim thrones.

The king and queen were like people, but stretched. Their bodies and limbs long and horribly thin, even their faces distorted—not that they really had faces. They had no mouths, no noses, only black, lidless eyes. Their fingers, resting on the arms of their thrones, were like spiders’ legs. They wore robes of many shades of gray, and above their heads floated a few jagged spurs of metal and stone, like shattered crowns.

Eleanor twisted to look back helplessly at the others. The hedgewitch’s face was drained of blood, stark fear in her eyes. Pip and Otto looked terrified.

“Why have you brought these vermin to our hall?” someone whispered in Eleanor’s ear. She gave a startled cry—but there was no one behind her. The Pallid Queen was leaning forward, and even though she was at least fifty feet away, Eleanor was somehow sure she had been the one to speak.

That fly-buzzing sound came from one of the soldiers again, and the queen clicked her stretched-out fingers against the arm of her throne. “Then our child can explain himself.”

A door to the side of the hall opened. The boy from before came in, shoulders back and head up, stiff as a soldier. Behind him walked two younger children, both girls. The older one was about Eleanor’s age, with plain brown hair hanging in a single long braid down her back, strange purple flowers woven into it. The younger girl had red-gold hair, braided the same way, and her eyes were a bright, startling green.

A shiver went down Eleanor’s spine. Because she’d seen these children before, too. Just not their faces—because those had been turned away, in the painting in Mrs. Prosper’s office.

They couldn’t be the same children, Eleanor thought. The children in the painting were the People Who Look Away. And the People Who Look Away were adults. Unless . . .

The Wending could take you to any world. Worlds that are and worlds that were and worlds that could have been. Did that mean it could take them into the past?

They’d been wondering where they were. They should have been wondering when.

“Why did you have these four brought before us?” the Pallid King whispered, and just as the queen’s voice had, his voice seemed to come from just over Eleanor’s shoulder. Like he was leaning down behind her. She steeled herself and tried to keep from shaking.

“They were in the woods. They aren’t from the village. Their clothes are strange,” the boy—the prince?—said, stepping forward. “I thought you would want to see them.”

“Bring one of them to us,” the queen whispered.

The boy nodded. He walked toward them and paused, eyes roving over the four of them. The hedgewitch straightened, opened her mouth as if to volunteer—but then the boy stepped forward and grabbed Eleanor’s elbow, pulling her toward the steps of the dais on which the two thrones sat.

“Hey! Leave her alone!” Pip called, and then grunted like something had hit her in the stomach. Eleanor twisted in time to see her on her knees, wheezing, and Otto being restrained by another one of the soldiers. Eleanor held back a whimper and turned back to the front. She couldn’t bear to lift her eyes to the faces of the king and queen.

The queen leaned forward. Her eyes were round and lidless, and Eleanor could see herself reflected in each one. She looked small and terrified.

She was terrified. Her mouth was dry, and she shook so hard she didn’t know if she could stay standing if the boy took his hand from her arm.

“Who are you?” the queen asked in that horrible whisper. Eleanor didn’t think she could speak if she wanted to. She swallowed and stayed silent. The queen laughed softly, a dry and scuttling sound. “You think that you are being brave. You think that what you do here matters, but it does not. There is no purpose to your silence. Where did you come from, child? The mountains? Across the sea? Beneath some rock we neglected to turn over?”

Eleanor clamped her back teeth together and didn’t say a word.

The queen sat up once more. She considered Eleanor, tapping a single finger in a slow, relentless rhythm. “Melia. Come.”

The older girl flinched, then stepped forward. She moved like a deer picking its way out into the open as she approached the dais. She was beautiful, Eleanor thought—an aching, perfect kind of beautiful that made Eleanor feel tense. As if a single flaw, a hair out of place or a smudge of dirt, would be disaster.

Behind her, the younger girl shivered—and split apart. A second, identical girl darted away, hiding quickly behind a column. Eleanor blinked. She didn’t think the king or queen had noticed. The little girl must be Katie, with her ability to split into multiple versions of herself, which meant the other girl was Mrs. Prosper—but her first name had been Korri, not Melia.

Katie, Mrs. Prosper, Mr. January—those were the names they’d chosen for Eleanor’s world. Of course they weren’t their original names, Eleanor realized.

“Dearest Mother. Honored Father. What do you wish of me?” Melia asked. Her voice was smooth as polished stone, but her fingers knotted behind her back.

“What would you use to make this girl speak the truth?” the whisper asked.

Melia tipped her chin up, answering confidently. “A tincture of angelica and yew would encourage honest answers.”

“That is correct. Yet it would not force her to speak. She could remain silent. Ash.”

The boy holding Eleanor’s arm stiffened. “Yes, Mother?” he asked.

“How would you make this girl speak?”

Ash looked down at Eleanor. She stared up at him. Could this really be Mr. January? He looked so young. And there was something in his eyes she’d never seen in Mr. January’s.

Sympathy.

“Pain might make her speak,” Ash said. “But she would give up more readily to save one of her companions. A bargain, perhaps. Spare them suffering in return for her answers.”

He sounded so matter-of-fact. It made Eleanor’s skin crawl.

“An interesting approach. Thea.”

Then came the younger girl, scurrying forward to take her place at her sister’s side. Eleanor noted the tiny twitch in Ash’s fingers against her arm, and the way Melia tensed, trying not to look over at her sister. The younger girl bounced up nervously on the balls of her feet before curtsying and settling.

“Which of this girl’s companions would she break her silence to save?”

Thea glanced between her siblings, her expression one of plain terror. They stared straight ahead. Eleanor’s mouth was dry. She could feel their nervousness.

She’s Katie Rhodes. She’s evil, Eleanor reminded herself, but it was hard to remember as the little girl trembled.

“I—I’m not sure,” Thea stammered. There was a moment of silence that seemed louder than a shout. And then the king crooked one finger, beckoning Thea closer. She hesitated, then crept forward. “But I don’t—I don’t know—” she started.

“Enough babbling.” The king’s whisper admonished Thea. She fell quiet as she scaled the steps to the dais on which the thrones sat. The Pallid King reached out his spidery hand, his crooked fingers caressing her golden hair. “If you wish to make her speak, you choose the smallest. The weakest. The one least able to stand the pain.”

Those slender fingers wrapped around Thea’s neck and shoulder, resting loosely but holding her in place. Ash’s hand tightened on Eleanor’s arm, his breath coming faster. He was afraid, too, Eleanor thought. Afraid for himself? Or for Katie—Thea?

Was it possible, Eleanor wondered, that the People Who Look Away could care about someone?

“Ash. My son, my eldest. You have taken something that belongs to us. Where is it?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Ash said immediately.

“Melia. Your brother’s mouth is filled with lies. You will aid him in honesty.”

Melia shuddered. She twisted her hands in the air in front of her, and a glass vial appeared in her hands, filled with an amber-colored liquid. She turned, holding it out to Ash. Eleanor thought she saw her mouth I’m sorry.

“Drink,” the whisper ordered. Ash hesitated. Then he let go of Eleanor’s arm and stepped toward his sister. He took the vial, and tipped it up, draining the whole thing. He dropped the vial to the ground. The glass shattered, but no one moved.

Eleanor, forgotten, fell back a step. She looked around wildly. Pip was on the floor on her stomach, with a soldier’s boot on her back holding her down as she bared her teeth. Otto sat with his legs flung out in front of him, like he’d gotten knocked down, too. Only the hedgewitch was still standing, unmoving.

“Where is that which you have stolen from us?” the king asked.

Ash stared down at the ground and said nothing. The queen hissed in displeasure. Eleanor fell back another step, but none of the soldiers or royals seemed to be paying attention to her anymore. She edged to the side, toward the columns, and looked back again at her friends.

The air shifted. Shimmers of light played around her. Those bright threads running all around her sprang into focus, and she could feel them—still faintly, but there.

“Thea, my darling, come here. Let us find out if we can make your brother break his silence,” the queen whispered.

Thea let out a whimper, and Eleanor went cold. What were they going to do?

“Eleanor.” The hedgewitch locked eyes with Eleanor. “Use your power. Get out of here.”

The queen had wrapped one horribly long hand around Thea’s shoulder. All eyes were fixed on the two of them. Eleanor looked wildly at the hedgewitch. At Pip and Otto. She couldn’t run. She couldn’t leave her friends.

“You can’t help us if you’re trapped with us. Go,” the hedgewitch hissed. The soldier beside her shoved her hard, and she fell to one knee. Then he began to turn toward Eleanor.

Just as Thea started to scream.

Eleanor turned away from her friends and bolted for the edge of the room.

The soldiers weren’t fast in their armor, and she had a second’s head start. It was enough to sprint around behind one of the columns, to screw her eyes shut, to reach for the world-walker’s power blindly and pull—

She was still weak. But a tiny shimmer in the air turned into a whisker-thin seam of light, and then eased wider—a tiny gap in the fabric of the world, wide enough to slip through. She didn’t care what was on the other side. She turned herself to the side and toppled through.

She landed on the other side awkwardly, her bound hands crushed under her body, already willing the tear in the world shut. The portal vanished.

Eleanor lay on the cold stone floor, breathing heavily. That hadn’t been the Wending—there hadn’t been a road. And with as little strength as she had, she didn’t think she’d gotten far.

She pushed herself to her feet, looking around. She was in a familiar stone corridor. She hadn’t even gotten outside the castle walls. She groaned. What good was getting away from the throne room if she was still trapped in here, her hands tied?

And her friends left behind. Guilt roiled inside her. If she’d run in the first place, when she saw the hedgewitch with the soldiers, maybe Pip and Otto would still be free. But now she’d gotten them all captured—and then abandoned them. With no plan or hope of rescuing them.

A hand touched Eleanor’s elbow. She managed not to shout as she twisted around.

The younger girl was standing behind her, eyes wide. Her hair was in loose waves, falling around her shoulders, instead of its orderly braid, and her clothing was different than it had been in the throne room. Eleanor remembered the other little girl, darting away.

“How did you get out here?” the girl asked curiously. Katie, Eleanor thought. Or Thea. Or whoever she is. Eleanor clamped her lips together. The girl frowned. “You can’t stay here. The Empty will find you. I’ll show you a place to hide.” She beckoned.

“Why should I trust you?” Eleanor demanded. “You’re probably going to lead me right back to those soldiers.”

The girl shrugged miserably. “I guess you shouldn’t. But if you stay here, they’ll definitely get you. Please?” She backed away down the hall, clearly inviting Eleanor to follow.

Eleanor looked the other way. Cold stone and no sign of safety. She bit her lip. If she was right, if this girl Thea was really Katie Rhodes, surely Eleanor shouldn’t trust her.

But maybe she wasn’t evil yet. And it wasn’t like Eleanor had much of a choice.

“Fine,” Eleanor said. Thea smiled and scurried away. Eleanor hustled to follow, moving awkwardly with her hands tied behind her back. Thea skittered around turns, dodging out of the path of more silent servants as they went. Finally they came to what seemed to be a dead end—a flat expanse of wall. But Thea pressed her hand to a brick, and the wall slid to the side, opening a narrow passageway. Thea gave her one last smile, and slipped inside.

Eleanor stood, staring at the passage. Thea could be leading her into a trap. Given everything Eleanor knew about her, she almost certainly was.

Heavy footsteps sounded in the hallway around the corner. Eleanor took a deep breath, and dived in after Thea.