The Amber Owl (Heartwood #1)

Chapter 20 Stasya

20

Stasya

‘We spoke before of amber. And of old tales. Are there any such tales that touch on its curative power?’

Today the Ruler was speaking softly and wearing a kinder expression. Stasya wanted nothing more than to edge closer to the hearth fire; she was filthy, exhausted and shivering after a night in that place. And Irina was still locked up there. No word of Lukas. No sign of Aleksis yet. Best attempt some kind of answer.

‘There are some that I know of, my lady.’

‘Oh, you’re talking today?’ Lady Elisabeta’s brows rose in mock surprise. ‘Tell me one of these tales.’

‘May I sit down, my lady?’ Her back ached; it was a struggle to stay upright. I will be strong. I must be. Irina. Lukas. Flip. She had to find a way out for all of them.

‘Sit, sit.’ The Ruler waved a hand toward the bench.

Stasya sat. Her body was full of pain. How many such nights could she and Irina endure? Had the Ruler really put them in that place deliberately, or was that the act of some wayward guard? She wanted to ask. But because of the smile and the softer manner, she would tell a story instead.

‘Once, long ago,’ she began, her voice less than steady, ‘a race of uncanny folk lived in the depths of Heartwood Forest. They were tall and beautiful, fleet of foot and expert in magic, and the local people called them the Forest Folk. The race had been unseen by the human inhabitants of that place for longer than the oldest grandmothers could remember. But sometimes there were signs that the Forest Folk might have travelled a certain path, or bathed in a certain lake, or paused to admire a lovely shimmering birch or to wonder at a tall larch whose head seemed to touch the sky itself.’

The Ruler was listening, even without Aleksis there to keep things calm. She poured a cup of mead and passed it across to Stasya. One sip was enough. It was balm to her dry throat, but too strong to tolerate on an empty stomach. Fresh water would have been more welcome. Stasya nodded thanks.

‘People wondered why the Forest Folk chose not to show themselves. If they had the gift of magic, they surely could not be afraid of humankind, for magic gave power. It gave strength. Or so people believed, though none of them had ever seen anything magical themselves, or if they had, they had not recognised it for what it was. For them, magic was frightening, a thing to be spoken of only in undertones, or whispered behind the shield of a hand. In particular, a person did not mention it before priests or other church leaders, as that might bring down the most severe of consequences.’

A fleeting smile crossed the Ruler’s stern features. ‘Go on,’ she said.

‘There was a boy in the village who was known as Amber. Perhaps that was his true name. Or perhaps it was a name folk had given him because he wore an amber token around his neck, strung on a cord. It was only a small thing, a scrap, smoothed by water into a shape something like a fish. Other children teased Amber, suggesting his real parents must have been Forest Folk, though everyone knew his mother was an ordinary village wife and his father a travelling merchant who had stayed with her awhile then moved on. As for the little token, Amber had worn it since he was a baby. The odd thing was that he never got sick. Other children caught coughs and colds in winter; they had upset stomachs in the season of fresh fruit, summer agues, sore ears, skin rashes. Not Amber. Not ever.’

Lady Elisabeta was listening intently. Something about this had caught her interest. ‘Go on,’ she said when Stasya paused to cough.

‘Might I have some water, please? There was none left for us in the – the place where they put us.’

‘Paula!’

The sharp call made Stasya flinch. The maidservant came in, the Ruler rapped out an order, and a flask and cup were fetched and placed on the bench, within reach.

‘Thank you,’ Stasya said, then drank thirstily. The maid gave her an odd look, then bobbed a curtsy to Lady Elisabeta and went out.

The story. Stasya drank again, then set the cup down. ‘When Amber’s mother fell deathly ill, the village was full of whispers. Nobody had ever asked the boy to share his necklace; it had felt wrong to suggest this when the thing had perhaps been a gift from his long-absent father, or even – if by some chance the rumours were true – from a fey father the lad had never met. Over the years, the folk of the village, folk of all ages, had endured their illnesses. Some had recovered; some had perished; some had survived in a weakened state.

‘But when it was the boy’s mother who lay in the grip of some unknown malady, would it not be right, folk murmured, for Amber to take the token from his own neck, strung on the cord that had been lengthened as the child grew, and place it around his mother’s? Did he not want to save her life? Nobody was quite prepared to ask Amber directly; all feared the consequences of speaking out. If only they could ask the Forest Folk, who knew and understood such things, or so the old tales suggested. But those folk of ancient story did not show themselves.

‘Amber was by now eight years old and devoted to his mother. He heard the whispers. He knew what people thought he should do. But he was scared. What if he saved his mother’s life only to die himself without the protection of the necklace? But … that was selfish, wasn’t it? There was nobody he could ask. His grandmother was there, tending to his mother, but he had always been a little afraid of her, with her moody silences and sudden outbursts of anger. She had more than once referred to him as spawn of the devil . He did not know what that meant, only that it sounded bad. So, Amber crept around the cottage like a mouse and watched his mother grow sicker each day. He was desperate to help, but what if he gave her the necklace and everything went wrong? What if his fey father, if there really was such a person, appeared on the doorstep and dragged him off to the strange home of the Forest Folk? What if a devil came?

‘While Amber was still trying to pluck up his courage, Grandmother, too, fell sick. There was nobody to help; either folk were sick themselves or they were busy tending to others, and the boy was left to cope on his own. He did the best he could, but it was too much for him to manage. The food ran out; the woodpile was down to splinters and scraps. He could not leave the house to seek help. What could he do?

‘Grandmother was not as weak as Mother, and one morning when Amber was trying to sponge her face with a wet cloth, her bony hand reached up, seized his beloved token and ripped the thing right off his neck. He cried out; it hurt a lot. But he did not snatch it back, indeed could not, for Grandmother’s fist was tight around it and her rheumy eyes had a look in them that said, Don’t meddle with me or you’ll be sorry. She did not order Amber to take the token to his mother, to see if it would make her well again. No; Grandmother was keeping the thing for herself.’

Stasya paused for another drink of water. The Ruler seemed spellbound by this story; she was waiting eagerly for more, sitting bolt upright on the very edge of her chair. Why had this one caught her interest? Did she believe that if amber had the power to cure the sick it would win her better trading profits? Best be careful with the ending.

‘The boy Amber could do nothing but go on chopping wood for the fire, fetching water, trying his best to keep the two women clean and warm. One thing did change for the better. The day after Grandmother stole his necklace, he opened the door to find a covered dish on the step. Someone had left food: a tasty porridge, enough for all three of them, with some left over. Beside it, a little jug of fresh milk. Amber did not question who might have left it there. Instead, he wept a few tears of gratitude and brought the wondrous gift inside. He coaxed the women to try the food while it was still warm. Grandmother was well enough to feed herself with a spoon if he held the bowl for her. Mother, he had to feed like a small child, mouthful by mouthful, and she only took a little. But when she was done, she reached out her hand and touched his cheek, and murmured something that might have been, Good boy .

‘So it went on: Amber as housekeeper and nursemaid, the two women bedridden, and supplies that arrived each morning before sunrise. There was food to sustain the three of them, and also wood for the fire, neatly chopped and added to the woodpile, though they heard no sound of an axe. Perhaps neighbours were doing this, though they never had before. Or maybe someone else was helping, someone who did not belong to the village or to the human realm at all. Amber did not care; the only thing that mattered was getting his mother well again. And his grandmother, of course.

‘The illness passed; the village lost five good souls that winter. But Amber’s mother was not among them. She rallied and grew strong again, sustained by the mysterious meals and by her son’s love and dedication. Grandmother was not so fortunate, though she, too, had eaten the food and received the loving care. She passed away in her bed, with the amber fish still clutched in her hands. Before she called for the village undertaker, Amber’s mother sat him down for a serious talk. She had removed the token from the old woman’s body and returned it to her son, reminding him to wear it hidden beneath his clothing. She thanked him for his love and care. And she said they should never, ever tell anyone about those meals or the firewood or any part the amber might have played in events. But, said Amber, it was Grandmother who had my amber fish, not you. She wouldn’t give it back to me. Yet she died and you got better. Does that mean there’s no magic?

‘Mother put an arm around his shoulders. Maybe the magic is love, she said. Or maybe the magic only works if it’s used in the right spirit. Care for others, compassion, kindness. You are made of those, my boy. And she added, Don’t forget what I said. The food, the firewood, they were special gifts to us. If magic played any part in them, it was used to help a good boy look after those he cared about. And maybe the magic was not from the amber fish, but only the action of a kind neighbour. We’ll never know. And we’ll never tell. The next day they buried Grandmother with prayers and songs. And if they spoke of the secret again, it was only between the two of them.’

The ending could have gone several different ways, for the tale owed as much to Stasya’s imagination as to her knowledge of the old stories, and each telling was different, depending on the situation and the audience. Now, it was greeted with silence. The Ruler was looking at her, but her expression gave nothing at all away. Would she say thank you for the first time ever? Would she once again pepper Stasya with angry questions? Would she shout and slap her in the face? This story, too, this one happening right now, might have many possible endings.

‘I see,’ the Ruler said eventually. ‘Now let us be clear about this. You, too, possess an amber token, like the boy in the tale, though yours is in the shape of a bird. Tell me this: have you worn that piece of amber since you were very young? Have you enjoyed the same excellent health as that child did?’ There was something new in her eyes, something that alerted Stasya to danger, fuzzy as her head was feeling. She must focus. She must answer with care.

‘Lukas and I were old enough to make that climb through the forest safely. We were not children. This is the third spring since we found Clearwater.’ She could not help adding, ‘And I don’t have the amber owl, not any longer. It was taken from me. I understand it is locked away somewhere here at court.’

The Ruler’s lips tightened. ‘And your health? Did wearing amber make any difference?’

‘That old tale is … only a tale, my lady. I can’t afford to get sick; folk rely on me.’ And there’s nobody to look after me. She would not say that, true as it was. ‘I’ve had the same coughs and colds other folk had in our village, both before and after I wore the amber owl, but mostly I’m in good health.’ How long that would last if she and Irina were kept cooped up in the storage room without even fresh water to drink was another matter. She imagined Aleksis sitting beside her, whispering, Don’t lose your temper. Answer only the questions she asks. But there was more to be said. ‘Some folk do believe amber can ward off sickness. But it might only work if used in the right spirit. Or it might depend on how the person got the amber or where it came from. Many folk dismiss the idea as fanciful.’

‘But you do not?’

‘All old tales have some truth in them. That doesn’t mean every single part of them is true. That story tells us about kindness, about acting unselfishly. That boy must have grown up to be a fine man.’ As poor Tomas would have done, if the fire had not cut his life so short.

Lady Elisabeta moved then, taking two steps toward the fire, warming her hands, briefly facing away. Stasya drank the last of her water. She tried to straighten her shoulders. Her scalp felt itchy. Chances were she’d picked up lice. Dark thoughts crept into her mind: how she could bargain with this woman, one secret for a hot bath, one for a set of clean clothing, one for a meal for herself and Irina. An offer to lead the Ruler’s men to the Hermit in exchange for freedom for herself and Flip, Irina and Lukas. She would tell a story about that feeling some time; about how easy it would be to give in when you were tired and sore and cold and hungry. But she wouldn’t give in. She couldn’t. The survival of the forest was at stake. And something more, something she could not quite name, but she only had to remember the women of Heartwood settlement speaking out that night after the fire, raising their voices to challenge the Commander, to know how important it was.

‘I’ll ask this only once.’ The Ruler turned toward Stasya. Her tone was weighty now. ‘And before you answer, understand that your safety and that of your companions is not guaranteed indefinitely. Will you use your knowledge and skills to guide a smaller party through the forest for me? To seek out this place known as the Hermit, and discover whether there is indeed a deposit of amber there? No cutting down of trees. No laying waste to the land. Just a journey of discovery, for a good cause. Will you do that?’

Stasya rose to her feet. That was a mistake; she felt dizzy, as if she might faint. She set her cup on the bench. Took a deep breath. ‘That’s the same question as before, just in different words. I don’t believe we could do what you suggest without causing harm. What the Commander did at Heartwood was monstrous. And he was under your leadership. I can’t have anything to do with this, not even with a smaller group of people. The idea goes against everything I believe in!’ Stay calm , came the voice of the absent Aleksis. Breathe. Speak quietly. ‘The forest is precious. It is … eternal. Whatever may or may not lie at the Hermit, we have no claim on it. Its secrets belong to those who live there. Trees. Creatures. Maybe the Forest Folk.’

The Ruler opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again. For just a moment Stasya thought perhaps she had actually listened and would reconsider her plan. But no. Lady Elisabeta shook her head in a way that suggested, What is the point of talking to you? Then she called, ‘Guard!’ and in a moment there was a guard in the chamber, awaiting orders.

‘Take her out to the garden and make sure she stays there until I send word.’ She turned to Stasya. ‘What unfolds from here is your doing, girl. Keep that in mind.’ A long pause, then she said, ‘We will speak again. Tomorrow, I think.’

In the garden, she could breathe, even with a guard watching her every move. This time it was a broad, bearded man whose belt held more knives, surely, than even a court guard could possibly need at one time. Perhaps he collected them. Perhaps, when he finished his working day, this was a man who would go to the inn with his friends and enjoy telling stories over a mug of ale. Perhaps he had a wife and children at home. Did the guards have any home beyond Dragon’s Keep? And if not, did they long to get away from this place, or were they actually content to work under Lady Elisabeta’s rule?

Whoever was supposed to bring word was taking their time. The guard stood close by, rocking to and fro in his big boots.

‘May I sit down on the bench?’ Stasya asked.

The guard gave a grunt that seemed to mean yes, so she sat. There was a bird in the garden, darting about after insects. A finch. But not Flip. Perhaps that was for the best. Oh, the sunshine was good; she had been so cold. What was the Ruler thinking, to leave her and Irina without food, water or the means to clean their bodies and their clothing? Surely she could not intend to keep them in that place for long. Best not dwell on that now. Best enjoy whatever time she had here in the sun, among the flowers. That gardener was working again, quite close this time. Emptying a sack of compost onto a bed prepared for planting and digging it in. She wished she could go and talk to him, speak of something clean and healthy and good. Growing vegetables. Picking fruit. Watching the seasons pass. Maybe she would talk to the guard, instead of imagining his story.

‘What is your name?’ she asked. ‘Mine is Stasya.’

He looked taken aback, as if he had not expected her to speak. ‘My name is Marek.’ A pause. ‘You must be cold.’

‘It’s sunny here. Warmer. But yes, I am cold. They …’ Perhaps she was not supposed to say anything about what had happened. Perhaps she was not even meant to talk to this man.

‘Here, put this around your shoulders.’ He took off his short cape and passed it over to her.

The warmth brought tears to her eyes. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘It feels … very good.’

‘I’ll have to take it back later. The uniform needs to be correct.’ And after a moment, ‘Sorry.’

‘It’s welcome for now.’

They waited, Marek standing alert, Stasya on the bench. She willed clouds not to cover the sun, not yet. After a while she asked, ‘May I walk down the garden and back? I promise not to bolt. There’s nowhere to go anyway.’

‘I’ll walk with you. That way neither of us breaks any rules.’ Marek gave her a smile; she found herself smiling back. What a difference a simple act of kindness could make. And how sad that the Ruler of the Northlands, the most powerful person in the whole country, did not understand that. Sad and terrible. Something inside that woman was chewing her up, twisting her thoughts.

They walked to the spot where the gardener was working. The man straightened, leaned on his spade, gave Marek a nod.

‘You wouldn’t have an old sack or two to spare, would you?’ the guard asked. ‘The young lady’s been getting cold, and I can’t leave my cape with her for long.’

Stasya gazed at a frame supporting a fine crop of runner beans and another with ripening peas. In the bed below them sprouted the feathery green tops of carrots; some had been pulled already and lay sun-bright in a basket. ‘Your beans look so healthy,’ she said, imagining the taste and feel in her mouth. ‘The whole garden is lovely.’

In response the gardener stepped out onto the soil and plucked a bean pod, splitting it open with a fingernail. ‘Here. Try them. They’re good.’

Good? It was the best thing she’d ever tasted. He gave her a pod of peas to try, explaining what went into his compost heap and why it worked so well. As she listened, Stasya savoured each bite, aware of how strange it was to be here, surrounded by green growing things, with the sun shining and two strangers being kind and courteous, while there was Irina, and Lukas, and the Ruler’s threats, and the fact that she was half-dressed in filthy clothing and no doubt smelled like a midden. Yet Marek had let her wear his cape, and this man was offering the food he’d grown with his own hands, and neither seemed to be judging her. If only she could ask for their help. But they lived and worked at Dragon’s Keep. Everyone here answered to the Ruler. ‘These are so delicious,’ she said. ‘Thank you!’

‘No little dog today?’ asked the gardener.

How to answer that simple yet dangerous question? She had no gift for lies. ‘Not today. She did like it here. Lots of interesting smells.’

‘Ah, well. Another time. Wait here a bit, will you?’ He went off toward a shed further down the garden and returned with two sacks over his arm. They were clean and uncrumpled – surely new. ‘Will these do?’

‘Excellent,’ said Marek. ‘Pity we can’t offer you a tunic or a proper blanket, but these might help keep you warm after sundown.’

‘And this,’ said the gardener, handing her a small bag. She did not need to look inside to know it held beans and peas, enough for two women to enjoy a small meal. ‘You’d best get on; someone over there is looking for you.’

For a moment, before she turned around, Stasya hoped it might be Matiss. Or Aleksis. Or Pavel, who had looked after Flip for her. But it was not. It was the black-clad man again. Stanislav.

The gardener was suddenly attentive to his work, wielding his spade busily with his back to all of them. Marek swore under his breath.

‘What is it?’ Stasya whispered.

‘Bad news,’ he murmured. ‘Do exactly as you’re told. Don’t try to argue. Wish I could help you, but …’

‘You’ve helped already.’ She put the sacks over her arm, clutched the little bag, and followed him forward.

Stanislav was not inclined to talk. There was something forbidding about his presence. In a story, Stasya thought, this man would be a mysterious and powerful figure, someone who could be good or evil, and nobody ever knew which choice he would make. She looked for a moment into the darkest eyes she had ever seen. He might be Death. For Death could be both cruel and merciful.

‘Come,’ he said, and led her away from the garden, the green growth, the sunshine, and back to the barn. He made no comment about the things she was carrying, the sacks for warmth, the bag of vegetables. Let him not try to take these gifts of kindness , she thought.

There was, as it turned out, one more gift. Stanislav waited until they had crossed the main part of the barn and were at the bolted door of the storage room. Stasya was forcing herself not to look up. She could feel Flip’s presence on the rafters and could not risk drawing attention to her. Stanislav pulled the bolt open, then took something from a hidden pocket.

‘For you,’ he said. His voice was like the tolling of a deep, soft bell. ‘With the Ruler’s compliments.’ He put a small package in her hand, something wrapped in cloth. Before she could react, he had pushed her into the storage room and shut the door behind her. The bolt slid across with a grinding sound.

‘Irina?’ Stasya looked one way, the other way, wondering if her friend was huddled in a corner. She looked again. There was enough light from the high window to make the truth plain: Irina was not here. A reprieve? Had they seen sense and let her return to the servants’ quarters?

The package Stanislav had given her felt damp and slightly sticky. She dropped the other things she was carrying and unwrapped the cloth, wondering if it contained some kind of food. At first she could not tell what the contents were. And then … and then the light caught a glint there, and her heart jolted. It’s not real, it can’t be real, she told herself. It’s just a bad dream, it’s … But it was no dream. There in her hands, laid out on the bloodstained cloth, was a severed finger. A human finger. On it, still clinging, was Irina’s silver ring.