Uprooted(92)

The malevolent carved book sat in the middle of the table. We stood in silence around it. Twenty years ago, Prince Vasily of Rosya had ridden into Kralia, and three weeks later he had ridden out again in the dead of night with Queen Hanna beside him, fleeing towards Rosya. They had gone too close to the edge of the Wood, trying to evade pursuit. That was the story. But perhaps they’d been caught long before then. Maybe some poor scribe or book-binder had wandered too close to the Wood, and under the boughs pounded fallen leaves into paper, brewed ink out of oak galls and water, and wrote corruption into every word, to make a trap that could creep even into the castle of the king.

“Can we burn it here?” I said.

“What?” Ballo said, jerking up in protest as though he were on a string. I think he recoiled instinctively from burning any book at all, which I thought was all very well, but not when it came to this one.

“Ballo,” Alosha said, and from her expression she felt just as I did.

“I will attempt a purification, to make it safe to examine,” Ballo said. “If that should fail, then we will of course have to consider cruder methods for disposal.”

“This isn’t something to keep, purified or not,” she said grimly. “We should take it to the forge. I’ll build a white fire, and we’ll close it in until it’s ash.”

“We cannot burn it at once, no matter what,” Ballo said. “It is evidence in the queen’s case, and the king must know of it.”

Evidence, I realized too late, of corruption: if the queen had touched this book, if it had led her to the Wood, she had been corrupted even before she was drawn under the boughs. If this were presented at the trial—I looked at Alosha and Ballo in dismay. They hadn’t come here to help me. They’d come to stop me finding anything useful.

Alosha sighed back at me. “I’m not your enemy, though you want to think me so.”

“You want them put to death!” I said. “The queen, and Kasia—”

“What I want,” Alosha said, “is to keep the kingdom safe. You and Marek: all you worry about is your own sorrows. You’re too young to be as strong as you are, that’s the trouble of it; you haven’t let go of people. When you’ve seen a century of your own go by, you’ll have more sense.”

I’d been about to protest at her accusation, but that silenced me: I stared at her in horror. Maybe it was silly of me, but it hadn’t occurred to me until that very moment that I was going to live like Sarkan, like her, a hundred years, two hundred—when did witches even die? I wouldn’t grow old; I’d just keep going, always the same, while everyone around me withered and fell away, like the outer stalks of some climbing vine going up and up away from them.

“I don’t want more sense!” I said loudly, beating against the silence of the room. “Not if sense means I’ll stop loving anyone. What is there besides people that’s worth holding on to?” Maybe there was some way, I wondered wildly, to give away some of that life: maybe I could give some to my family, to Kasia—if they would take it; who would want anything like that, at the price of falling out of the world, taking yourself out of life.

“My dear child, you are growing very distressed,” Ballo said feebly, making a gesture at calming me. I stared at him and the faint fine lines at the corner of his eyes, all his days spent with dusty books, loving nothing else; him and Alosha, who spoke as easily of putting people in the fire as she did books. I remembered Sarkan in his tower, plucking girls out of the valley, and his coldness when I’d first come, as though he couldn’t remember how to think and feel like an ordinary person.

“A nation is people as well,” Alosha said. “More people than just the few you love best yourself. And the Wood threatens them all.”

“I’ve lived seven miles from the Wood all my days,” I said. “I don’t need to be told what it is. If I didn’t care about stopping the Wood, I’d have taken Kasia and run away by now, instead of leaving her to all of you to push her like a pawn from here to there, as if she doesn’t even matter!”

Ballo made startled murmuring noises, but Alosha only frowned at me. “And yet you can speak of letting the corrupted live, as if you didn’t know better,” she said. “The Wood is not just some enclave of evil, lying in wait to catch people who are foolish enough to wander inside, and if you can get someone out of it there’s an end to the harm. We aren’t the first nation to face its power.”

“You mean the people of the tower,” I said slowly, thinking of the buried king.

“You’ve seen the tomb, have you?” Alosha said. “And the magic that made it, magic that’s lost to us now? That should have been enough warning to make you more cautious. Those people weren’t weak or unprepared. But the Wood brought their tower down, wolves and walkers hunted them, and trees choked all the valley. One or two of their weaker sorcerers fled to the north and took a few books and stories with them. The rest of them?” She waved a hand towards the book. “Twisted into nightmares, beasts to hunt their own kind. That’s all the Wood left of that people. There’s something worse than monsters in that place: something that makes monsters.”

“I know it better than you!” I said. My hands still itched, and the book sat there on the table, malevolent. I couldn’t stop thinking about that heavy, monstrous presence looking out of Kasia’s face, of Jerzy’s, the feeling of being hunted beneath the boughs.