Inkdeath

So many men dead, Resa. Just because you want to go home. There was blood all over the paving stones, and when Mo dragged away the soldier who had been holding her, the man’s eyes still seemed to stare at her. Was she sorry for him? No.



But it sent a shiver down her spine to hear her daughter, too, speak so casually of killing. And what did Mo feel about it? Did he feel anything anymore? She saw him wiping the blood off his sword with one of the dead men’s cloaks and looking her way. Why couldn’t she read his thoughts in his eyes now, as she used to?



Because it was the Bluejay she saw there. And this time she had summoned him herself.



The walk to the dye works seemed endless. Sootbird’s fire was still lighting up the sky, and they twice had to hide from a troop of drunken soldiers, but finally the acrid smell of the dyers’ vats rose to their nostrils. Resa covered her mouth and nose with her sleeve when they came to the stream that carried the effluent away to the river through a grating in the city wall, and as she followed Mo into the stinking liquid she felt so sick that she could hardly take a deep enough breath to plunge down under the grating herself.



As the Black Prince helped her to the bank she saw one of the dead guards lying among the bushes. The blood on his chest looked like ink in the starless night, and Resa began crying. She couldn’t stop, not even when they finally reached the river and washed the stinking water out of their hair and clothes as best they could.



Two robbers were waiting with horses farther along the bank, at the place where the river-nymphs swam and the women of Ombra dried their washing on the flat rocks by the waterside. Doria was there, too, without his brother, the Strong Man. He put his shabby cloak around Meggie’s shoulders when he saw how wet she was. Mo helped Resa into the saddle, but still said not a word. His silence made her shiver more than her wet clothes, and it was the Black Prince and not Mo who brought her a blanket. Had Mo told the Prince what she had gone to do in Ombra? No, surely not.



How could he have explained without telling him what power words had in this world?



Meggie knew why she had ridden to Ombra, too. Resa saw it in her eyes. They were watchful—as if her daughter were wondering uneasily what she would do next.



Suppose Meggie learned that she’d even asked Orpheus for help? Would she understand that the only reason had been Resa’s fears for her father?



It was beginning to rain as they set off. The wind drove the icy raindrops into their faces, and above the castle the sky glowed dark red, as if Sootbird were sending a warning after them. Doria fell behind on the Prince’s orders, to obliterate their tracks, and Mo rode ahead in silence. When he looked around once his glance was for Meggie, not her, and Resa was thankful for the rain on her face that kept anyone from seeing her tears.



CHAPTER 20



A SLEEPLESS NIGHT



"I‘m sorry." Resa meant it.



I’m sorry. Two words. She whispered them again and again, but Mo sensed what she was really thinking behind her words: She was a captive again. Capricorn’s fortress, his village in the mountains, the dungeons, the Castle of Night.., so many prisons.



Now a book was keeping her prisoner, the same book that had imprisoned her once before. And when she’d tried to escape, he had brought her back.



"I’m sorry, too," he said. He said it as often as she did and knew that she was waiting to hear very different words. Very well, let’s go back, Resa. We’ll find a way somehow! But he didn’t say it, and the unspoken words gave rise to a silence they had never known, even when Resa was mute.



At last they lay down to sleep, although the sky was growing lighter outside, exhausted by the fear they had both felt and by what they didn’t say to each other.



Resa fell asleep quickly, and as he looked at her sleeping face he remembered all the years when he had longed to do just that: see her asleep beside him. But even this brought him no peace now and at last he left Resa alone with her dreams.



He stepped out into the waning night, passed the guards, who ribbed him about the stench of the dye works that still clung to his clothes, and walked through the narrow ravine where they had set up camp, as though, if he only strained his ears hard enough, the Inkworld would whisper to him and tell him what to do.



He knew, only too well, what he wanted to do. . . .



Finally, he sat down by one of the ponds that had once been a giant’s footprint and watched the dragonflies whirring above the cloudy water. In this world they really did look like tiny winged dragons, and Mo loved sitting there, following their strange shapes with his eyes and imagining how huge the giant who had left such a footprint must have been. Only a few days ago he and Meggie had waded into one of the ponds to find out how deep the footprints were. The memory made him smile, although he was not in any smiling mood. He could still feel the shuddering sensation that killing left behind it. Did the Black Prince feel it, too, even after all these years?



Morning came hesitantly, like ink mingling with milk, and M0 couldn’t say how long he had been sitting there, waiting for Fenoglio’s world to tell him what ought to be done next, when a familiar voice quietly spoke his name.



"You shouldn’t be here on your own," said Meggie, sitting down beside him on the grass. It was white with frost. "It’s dangerous to be so far away from the guards."



"What about you? I ought to be a stricter father and forbid you to take a step outside the camp without me. She gave him an understanding smile and wrapped her arms around her knees. "Nonsense. I always have a knife with me. Farid taught me how to use it." She looked so grown-up. He was a fool, still wanting to protect her.



"Have you made it up with Resa?"



Her anxious expression made him feel awkward. Sometimes it had been so much easier to be alone with her.



"Yes, of course." He put out a finger, and one of the dragonflies settled on it. It looked as if it were made of blue-green glass. "And?" Meggie looked inquiringly at him. "She asked them both, didn’t she? Fenoglio and Orpheus."



"Yes. But she says she didn’t come to an agreement with either of them." The dragonfly arched its slender body. It was covered with tiny scales.



"Of course not. What did she expect? Fenoglio isn’t writing anymore, and Orpheus is expensive." Meggie frowned.



He stroked the insect with a smile. "Watch out, or those lines will stay, and it’s rather too early for that, don’t you think?" How he loved her face. He loved it so much. And he wanted it to look happy. There was nothing in the world he wanted more.



"Tell me one thing, Meggie. Be honest with me perfectly honest." She was a far better liar than he was. "Do you want to go back, too?"



She bent her head and tucked her smooth hair back behind her ears.



"Meggie?"



She still didn’t look at him.



"I don’t know," she said at last, quietly. "Maybe. It’s a strain, feeling afraid so often.



Afraid for you and Resa, afraid for Farid, for the Black Prince and Battista, for the Strong Man She raised her head and looked at him. "You know Fenoglio likes sad stories. Maybe that’s where all the unhappiness comes from. It’s just that sort of story. .



That sort of story, yes. But who was telling it? Not Fenoglio. Mo looked at the frost on his fingers. Cold and white. Like the White Women . . . Sometimes he woke from sleep with a start because he thought he heard them whispering. Sometimes he still felt their cold fingers on his heart, and sometimes yes sometimes he almost wanted to see them again.