“This world,” she said. “Do you really like it?”

What a question! Farid never asked himself such things. He was glad to be with Dustfinger again and didn’t mind where that was.

“It’s a cruel world, don’t you think?” Meggie went on. “Mo often told me I forget how cruel it is too easily.”

With his burned fingers, Farid stroked her fair hair. It shone even in the dark. “They’re all cruel,”

he said. “The world I come from, the world you come from, and this one, too. Maybe people don’t see the cruelty in your world right away, it’s better hidden, but it’s there all the same.”

He put his arm around her, sensed her fear, her anxiety, her anger . . It was as if he could hear her heart whispering as clearly as the voice of fire.

“You know a funny thing?” she asked. “Even if I could go back at this moment, I wouldn’t. Now that’s crazy, isn’t it? It’s almost as if I’d always wanted to come here, to somewhere like this. But why? It’s a terrible place!”

“Terrible and beautiful,” said Farid, and kissed her. Kissing her tasted good. Much better than Dustfinger’s fire-honey. Much better than anything he had ever tasted before. “You can’t go back, anyway,” he whispered to her. “As soon as we have your father free, we’ll explain that to him.”

“Explain what?”

“Why, that we’re afraid he’ll have to leave you here. Because you belong with me now, and I’m staying with Dustfinger.”

She laughed and pressed her face to his shoulder in embarrassment. “I’m sure Mo won’t agree to that.”

“Well? So tell him the girls here marry when they’re your age.”

She laughed again, but then her face grew grave. “Perhaps Mo will stay, too,” she said softly.

“Perhaps we’ll all stay .. Resa and Fenoglio, too. And we’ll go and fetch Elinor and Darius as well, and then we’ll all live happily ever after.” The sad note had crept back into her voice. “They can’t hang Mo, Farid!” she whispered. “We’ll save him, won’t we? And my mother and the others. It’s always like that in stories: Bad things happen, but then it all ends happily. And this is a story.”

“Of course!” said Farid, although with the best will in the world he couldn’t imagine that happy ending. He felt good, though, all the same.

After a while, Meggie dropped off to sleep beside him. And he sat there and kept watch over her

– her and Dustfinger – all night long. It was the best of all nights.

Chapter 51 – The Right Words

There’s nothing ill can dwell in such a temple. If the ill spirit have so fair a house, Good things will strive to dwell with it.

– William Shakespeare, The Tempest

The groom was a fool and took forever to saddle up the wretched horse. I never invented a character like that, thought Fenoglio. Lucky that I’m in a good mood. For he was indeed in the best of moods. He had been whistling quietly to himself for hours, because he had done it. He had found the solution! Yes, at last the words had flowed onto the parchment as if they’d just been waiting for him to fish them out of the sea of letters. The right words. The only right words.

Now the story could go on and all would end well. He was an enchanter, after all, a conjuror with words, one of the very first quality. No one could hold a candle to him – well, one or two, maybe, but in his own world, not this one. If only this dolt of a groom would hurry up! It was high time he went to Roxane’s house or she would ride away without the letter – and then how was he going to get it to Meggie? For there was still no sign of life from the young hothead he had sent after her. That callow youth had probably gotten lost in the Way less Wood.

He felt for the letter under his cloak. A good thing that words weighed light, light as a feather, even the most important of them. Roxane wouldn’t have a heavy load to carry when she took Meggie the Adderhead’s death warrant. And she would take something else to the principality by the sea with her – the certainty of Cosimo’s victory.

Just so long as Cosimo didn’t set out before Meggie even had a chance to read his words! Cosimo was burning with impatience, longing for the day when he would lead his soldiers to the other side of the forest. ” Because he wants to find out who he is! ” whispered the quiet voice in Fenoglio’s head (or was it in his heart?). ” Because your fine avenging angel is empty, like a box with nothing inside it. A few borrowed memories, a few stone statues – that’s all the poor lad has, and your stories of his heroic deeds. He searches his empty heart in desperation for some echo of them. You ought to have tried to bring back the real Cosimo, after all, straight back from the realm of the dead, but you didn’t dare!” Hush! Fenoglio shook his head in annoyance. Why did these troublesome thoughts keep returning? Everything would be all right once Cosimo sat on the Adderhead’s throne. Then he’d have memories of his own, and he’d gather more of them every day. And soon the emptiness would be forgotten.

His horse was saddled at last. The groom helped him to mount, his mouth twisted in a mocking smile. The fool! Fenoglio knew he didn’t cut a very good figure on a horse, he’d never get used to riding – but so what? These horses were alarming beasts, much too strong for his liking, but a poet living at his prince’s court didn’t travel on foot like a peasant. And he would go much faster on horseback – assuming the animal wanted to go the same way as he did. What a business it was to get the creature moving!

The hooves clattered over the paved courtyard, past the barrels of pitch and iron spikes that Cosimo was having set on the walls. The castle still resounded at night to the hammering of the smiths, and Cosimo’s soldiers slept in the wooden huts along the wall, crammed close together like larvae in an ants’ nest. He had certainly brought a warrior angel into being, but hadn’t angels always been warlike? The fact is, I’m just no good at making up peaceful characters, thought Fenoglio as he trotted across the yard. The good ones either have bad luck like Dustfinger or they fall among thieves like the Black Prince. Could he ever have made up a character like Mortimer?

Probably not.

As Fenoglio was riding toward the Outer Gate it swung open, so that for a moment he actually assumed the guards were finally showing a little respect for their prince’s poet. But when he saw how low they bent their heads he realized that it couldn’t possibly be for him.

Cosimo came riding toward him through the wide gateway, on a horse so white that it looked a little unreal. In the dark he looked almost more beautiful than by day, but wasn’t that the case with all angels? Only seven soldiers followed him; he never took more as guards on his nocturnal rides. But someone else rode at his side, too: Brianna, Dustfinger’s daughter, no longer wearing a dress that had belonged to her mistress, poor Violante, as so often in the past, but in one of the gowns that Cosimo had given her. He heaped presents upon her, while he no longer allowed his wife even to leave the castle, or their son, either. But in spite of all these proofs of love, Brianna didn’t look particularly happy. And why should she? What girl would be cheerful if he lover was planning to go to war? The prospect didn’t seem to cloud Cosimo’s mood. Far from it; he looked as light at heart as if the future could bring nothing but good. He went riding every night. He seemed to need very little sleep, and Fenoglio had heard he rode at such a breakneck pace that hardly any of his bodyguards could keep up – like a man who had been told that death had no power over him. What difference did it make, anyway, when he could remember neither his death nor his life?