Spindle Fire (Spindle Fire #1)(8)
Aurora’s chest tenses. A talking bird. Like something from one of her tales. She throws back the covers and steps cautiously toward the window. Around the bird’s ankle is a fine metal brace, and if she’s not mistaken, it bears a familiar image: a thorny ring surrounding a small crow. The crest of Malfleur.
Aurora stares in awe. People say that unlike most faeries, Queen Malfleur still knows how to wield magic of great power and influence—has made a special study of it all her life, which has been long. She reigns over the scattered territories of disgruntled and largely disorganized citizens in the remote LaMorte Mountains, and Deluce has little to no traffic with LaMorte, so there’s not much evidence to prove whether the rumors of the queen’s gifts of magic are true.
In fact, Deluce has issued many trade sanctions against them, and has repeatedly taxed all passage between the two kingdoms in an effort to discourage the unhappy, unhealthy, and often uncivilized people of LaMorte from crossing over to the lands of their far wealthier neighbors. Aurora has always assumed Malfleur’s skill in magic had been vastly exaggerated throughout the years—more myth than truth to it.
But studying the bird now, Aurora realizes that in fact the rumors about Malfleur’s powers may have been accurate all along. If the faerie queen can make birds speak, what else can she do? And why has the bird come here?
Aurora shivers again, trying to picture the faerie queen, with the dramatic white scar that supposedly crosses her left eyelid.
The bird flutters its wings. “Me freak? Me . . . fiction?”
Aurora shakes her head no.
“What is me?” the bird asks, and she cannot tell if the words are a taunt or a test—or a sincere question. “Vermin. Wonder. Failed experiment. Or success?”
She shakes her head again.
“Magic in guts. Magic inside. Words inside. Like dust. Eating dust. Like fire. Me? Alone. Alone,” the bird says.
Its voice is cold as iron, and she can’t tell whether it knows what it’s saying. Whether it’s asking for help.
“Cat got your tongue?” the bird caws. “Cat got your tongue?”
Aurora shakes her head a third time.
“No words, human?” The starling caws again, and it sounds like a harsh laugh. “Like scarecrow.”
At this, Aurora loses patience and shoos the bird out of the window with a hard wave of the back of her hand. The bird cries once more, fluttering back and taunting her with a final, mocking word. “Useless.” Then it’s winging away into the night.
As soon as it’s gone, Aurora closes her shutters quickly, tears pricking at her eyes, mortification stinging her cheeks. Is she losing her mind, or did a starling really just speak to her—and not just speak, but tease, call her useless, and compare her to a scarecrow?
She gets back into bed, either to sleep and dream, or else to wake up from this eerie nightmare, but neither happens. Instead she lies awake, the starling’s words lingering in her ears. Useless.
She sits up and pushes back the covers. She goes to the hearth and lights a lantern, then wraps herself in her robe and hurries into the secret passageway to Isbe’s room. She has to tell her about the bird—maybe her sister can help her understand what it means. But when she flips open the tapestry, she sees wind rattling the open shutters. The fire is out. The room is empty. Isbe has gone.
Aurora adjusts the heavy cloak around her shoulders and lifts her lantern higher as she steps into the thick, moon-bright snow, reminding herself why she’s doing this. She forces herself to think of the talking bird. She will not be useless. She will not let Isbe go. She has always needed her sister. Now her sister needs her. She’s not going to let her just run away like that. She’ll find her, bring her back, fight for her to stay.
Suspecting Gilbert’s aid, the first thing she does is look for hoofprints, which are easy enough to find in the new-fallen snow. She traces them past the stables and along the dark woods at the edge of the castle village. She passes the unruly thicket where she and Isbe used to imagine that evil monsters dwelled at night, the branches twisted into an ornate latticework glistening with frost. The path of snow prints leads her to the main southerly road, which first winds closer to the shores of the strait and then curves west, veering toward the vast expanse of land beyond the royal grounds. Peasants sleep later in winter, and the area appears deserted. She rapidly loses the meager set of hoofprints amid the mud and slush and chaos of horse tracks in the road, all silvered in a predawn haze.
She turns, half tempted to go back. Though she has only gone a few miles, she is as far as she’s ever been from the castle.
Sneaking away had in fact been easy, which gave Aurora an uneasy feeling. She’s never considered simply leaving the palace before—why would she?
Now she’s hoping that there will be so much to do in the morning in preparation for her birthday feast that it will take everyone a little while to realize that the princess herself has vanished, and the bastard sister too. She knows the council members will be quite busy doing their best to hide their fears about the princes’ murders, while dispatching soldiers and guards to fortify the LaMorte border.
And if all goes well, she’ll catch up to Isbe by the afternoon, and they’ll return safe and sound in time for the celebration.
A horse-drawn cart clops toward her, and she moves to the side of the road as its giant wheels shoot mud up her ankles. She’s partly hoping that its driver will stop and ask if she needs help, but she can’t bring herself to wave him down, fearing she could be recognized and sent home as soon as the driver realizes she doesn’t speak.