Chapter 10
10
R AISING MY FIST TO THE old, creaking door, I gird myself for what will occur the moment my knuckles touch wood.
I can do this.
A hard rat-tat-tat , a sharp crack of sound. Then I wait.
It doesn’t take long before the door swings open, Harper’s unpleasant features fixed into a scowl. Her blue eyes thin, a scouring glare that rips me open from boot soles to scalp. “What do you want?”
As if she cares about such a thing. “Did Mother Mabel speak with you about the appointment?”
Her beautifully groomed eyebrows snap inward above her nose. “Why do you care to know? Is it not enough that I’m forced to interact with you daily? Must you spy on me as well?”
“There are many ways I would rather spend my time, Harper.” Like shoveling dung.
Her foot taps out her irritation. It is not unexpected. She has always moved in fits and bursts, propelled by the tightly coiled energy stuffed beneath her skin. “What is it then? I don’t appreciate having my time wasted.”
“If Mother Mabel spoke to you, then she likely mentioned you are not the only one vying for the position of acolyte.”
At this, she straightens, and I watch her slide the bits of information into place with satisfaction: my unforeseen visit, this topic of conversation, the odd lack of fear as my gaze meets hers.
“You’re joking.” A small, spiteful laugh descends into a sound of utter bewilderment. “Who knew you had the capacity for humor. What’s the real reason for this disturbance?”
It took all morning to gather the courage to knock. Now I fight the urge to vomit, or pass out, or both. The tightness in my chest is never more severe than when I’m forced to face my oldest adversary. “I’ve been offered the opportunity to earn the position.”
“Excuse me?” Her shrill cry is as hair-raising as an outright shriek. “After the stunt you pulled? You can’t be serious.”
“It is the truth.”
For once in her life, Harper is speechless. No insults, no scathing remarks. Blessed silence.
Her attention whips up and down the deserted corridor. Lunch ended an hour ago, but Mother Mabel freed me from obligations so I would have time to pack. I assume she granted Harper the same respite.
“Get inside.” She yanks me across the threshold, slamming the door behind me. “It’s embarrassing enough learning this without someone overhearing it.”
I jerk my arm from her grasp. “What, exactly, is embarrassing? That I’m worthy enough to be offered the spot, or that you have to compete with me for the title?”
A little snarl punches past her clenched teeth. Harper wants to become the next acolyte as much as I do, but in the end, only one of us may claim the spot. I vow it will be me.
Keeping her within my sight, I angle myself away from her, scanning the cramped space, which she shares with Isobel. Zephyrus called my bedroom sparse. I suppose that makes Harper’s sparse, too. The Text rests on her bookshelf, coated in months’ worth of dust.
“What did Mother Mabel tell you?” she demands. “Leave nothing out.”
Harper’s outrage is total. It breaks upon me like ferocious waves. They will suck me under if I do not hold my ground.
“I assume the same things she told you,” I reply, crossing the room to put space between us. “She mentioned the quest.”
When I do not elaborate, she spits, “No one believes the story surrounding your disappearance. You would never be that irresponsible. Yet here you are, acting like we’ve all done you a disservice in ostracizing you. Do you think me a fool?”
If I say yes , Harper will readily rip my head from my body. So I say nothing. Sometimes no response is best.
“I can’t believe she’s giving you a chance,” she mutters, beginning to pace. “You are the last person to deserve the appointment.”
I’ve learned a thing or two about Harper over the past decade. She seeks attention. She places importance on image. She cares a great deal about Mother Mabel’s opinion, despite her failure to excel, her poor study habits. As long as there is an ear to absorb her complaints, Harper wants for nothing.
“You understand it will be a long journey, yes?” she goes on, too self-centered to realize my eyes have glazed over. “I will not wait for you. With your bulk, you will likely fall behind. Do not blame me when that happens.”
My cheeks warm. Years I have weathered her atrocious insults, and still I struggle to fortify my defenses.
It is true I’m larger than most. Tall, wide, muscular. An ample chest and soft hips. Most days, it doesn’t bother me. Beneath my white robe, I am no different than any other Daughter of Thornbrook.
Stomping over to her cot, Harper plops onto the edge of the mattress. Leather slippers peek beneath the hem of her gray dress. “Did she mention the task to you?”
“She did.” Am I thrilled about this quest? Not exactly. If, however, Mother Mabel demands I load stones into my pockets and plunge into the deepest river, I would do so without question. “We must seek out the blade called Meirlach.”
Harper frowns. “She told me the same.” For a time, she stares out the window, across the rain-damp forest, unusually ponderous. “The name is familiar,” she admits. “I can’t remember where I’ve heard it before.”
My attention wanders to her bookshelf. If she bothered to open the Text, she would know that name.
Harper tracks my gaze, and frowns. Leaning back on her elbows, she eyes me as one would a particularly loathsome creature. “Spare me your false piety. Are you going to tell me or not?”
The story can be found in the Book of Change. There are but a handful of sentences mentioning the remarkable sword. Only those deemed worthy could wield it. I know the words by heart, so I recite them to Harper:
Encased within the stone of destiny, a god-forged blade awaited its master. And on that seventh day, a king heard his name whispered by the fabled sword, and pulled free the shining steel.
When I’m finished, Harper drawls, “Sounds like an ordinary blade to me.”
Unbelievable. “Did you not hear the part where it whispers to its bearer?”
She snorts at the ridiculousness of the notion.
I do not share the sentiment. The Text must be considered truth, always. “May I see your Text, please?”
She waves her fingers in dismissal, as though my asking is an inconvenience, but I wouldn’t want anyone handling my personal copy without permission.
Plucking it from her bookshelf, I flip to the Book of Change, scan the story of Meirlach, seeking additional details while Harper watches from the bed. Her right leg, tossed over her left, bobs a rhythm as it hangs.
“According to the Book of Change,” I say, “Meirlach can cut through any shield, pierce any armor, even hack through walls. Those held at bladepoint will be unable to tell a lie.” Bumps pebble my flesh as I read further. “It is even said to command the winds.”
Harper’s eyebrows climb all the way to her hairline. “I’m sure,” she drawls.
I snap the book closed. “Why do you question the words on the page? To doubt the Text is to doubt the Father and His teachings.” Does Mother Mabel know of Harper’s skepticism? She must not, otherwise she would never have given this woman the opportunity to transcend her current station.
Harper glowers at me. “You’re saying you believe a sword can cut through stone ? You believe it can command the winds ?”
“Yes.”
“Without proof?”
“Harper.” A huff of exasperation escapes me. “That’s the entire point of faith. It only exists in the absence of proof.”
Her face pinches in contemplation. Then she nods, perhaps conceding to the idea that there exists such a blade despite the lack of evidence. “All right. Let’s pretend this blade is real. How are we to find it?”
Setting aside the Text, I pull a square of folded parchment from my pocket. “With this map.”
She bolts upright. “Where did you get that?”
“Mother Mabel.”
“Why would she give you the map and not me?”
If I were to guess, it’s because I’m the more responsible one.
Mother Mabel has marked an entrance into Under on the map. Relatively unknown, it requires an offering to pass through. Apparently, the nymph guarding the doorway is easily bribed.
“We’re looking for someone called the Stallion,” I say, ignoring her question and slipping the map back into my pocket. “If we find the Stallion, we find Meirlach.”
“Who is the Stallion?”
“I don’t know.” Mother Mabel told me nothing about who or what the Stallion is. She offered me only three things: a name, a command, and a warning.
You must kill the beast. It is the only way to obtain Meirlach. And whatever happens, do not climb onto its back.
The order sits queasily in my stomach. Mother Mabel has always been forthright with us. The lack of information is concerning. “All I know is that he lives in a place called the Grotto.”
“Sounds wonderful,” Harper mutters.
I refuse to feed her sour mood. “Navigating Under will present unique challenges. We must remain alert.”
Harper goes still. Her hands, planted on the edge of her cot, curl over the straw mattress. “You mean to tell me I am to travel into Under? With you ? Into some horrible beast’s lair for a sword that may not even exist?”
It appears Mother Mabel told Harper very little about the details of this task. Not for the first time, I wonder why.
Harper shakes her head. “No. No, this is absolutely ridiculous. Sending two mortal women into Under without a guide?” Strands of black hair hang in her face, and she bats them aside with a growl.
Despite our differences, Harper and I do share a similarity. We fear the unknown. Perhaps all of us at Thornbrook do. I’m not particularly thrilled about the quest either, but I recall Mother Mabel’s expression when she informed me of this task, her eyes reduced to furrows of skin, a rare sign of distress. It is clear that this task is necessary, just as our participation in the tithe is necessary. There is little enjoyment in it, but it must be done.
“I’m not going,” Harper clips. “She can’t make me.”
Then my success is all but guaranteed. “Very well. I will inform Mother Mabel that you will be remaining behind.”
I’m nearly to the door when she calls, “Wait.”
Slowly, I turn. Harper appears torn, furious at the idea of being painted a coward, yet refusing to hand over the opportunity without a fight. It is to be expected.
“Seems like a lot of effort for something that may as well be hearsay.” Pushing off the bed, she reaches the window in four steps. Fog shrouds the vineyards in the distance, the air sweet with rain. “There is a high chance we will not return.”
I am well aware.
“Why does Mother Mabel want this sword anyway?” she demands.
“I don’t know.” The abbess has access to plenty of iron blades, enough to keep the entirety of Under at a distance, if necessary. It bears the question of why this blade is so special. What need does she have of its powers?
Harper stares at me until I grow uncomfortable. “What?”
“Aren’t you afraid to go into Under?”
“No.” Yes . “Are you?”
She sniffs delicately. “Not in the slightest. But it matters not.” She brushes past me. “I am not traveling with the likes of you.”
This, too, is expected. She thinks me a pawn to be positioned at the point of greatest advantage. But my future at Thornbrook depends on the outcome of this quest. I will not go quietly.
“How do you expect to enter Under without a map? Is your plan to wander Carterhaugh until you stumble across an entrance by happenstance?”
“Obviously not.” She holds out a hand. “You will give me the map.”
Too easily, the noose tightens in the face of confrontation. I swallow to draw moisture to my mouth. “No.”
Harper stares at me. “No?”
I force out the rest. “I’m not giving you the map. Traveling on this journey alone is your choice, but eventually you’ll realize how little you know of surviving beyond these walls. How will you protect yourself from the fair folk? How will you know where to shelter, what water sources to avoid, what plants are toxic?” Her skin pales, snow against the ebony fall of her hair, and I am glad of it. Let her understand that I have knowledge of such things. Let her feel the weight of her own ignorance. “If you were wise, you would want to travel together.”
“And how does that benefit me?” she counters, eyes ablaze. “If we each want to find the sword first, who’s to say you wouldn’t leave me to fend for myself?”
But I would do no such thing. Because I understand what it is like to walk alone. Because I know how much darker the nights are without a fire. Because, despite my intense disdain for Harper, I cannot in good judgment abandon her to the dark. I have seen its face.
Maybe that makes me weak.
“It’s your choice,” I reiterate. “You are free to travel alone, if you wish.” Moving to the door again, I rest my hand on the knob. “I will be in the fields tomorrow before dawn. I will wait until the sun breaches the horizon. Then I will leave, with or without you.”
Harper holds herself stiffly, every harsh angle whetted by panic. Fear that I am right. Fear of what will happen if she attempts the journey alone and realizes she was wrong. “I’ll be there.”
“Then you’ll need this.” I offer her my extra dagger, which I’ve concealed against the small of my back. It should fit her hand well.
Her eyes widen. “What use would I have for that?”
“To protect yourself.”
There was no bladesmith when I first arrived at the abbey, but in my sixteenth year, I stumbled across the old, dusty, forgotten forge. I peered through the cobwebs of abandonment at the overlooked hut, and asked Mother Mabel about its purpose.
Thornbrook’s last bladesmith had passed on decades ago. Since then, no one had taken up the mantle—until me. It was Mother Mabel who suggested I wield the hammer. Light the forge , she’d said.
What do I remember?
The weight of that hammer, the awful ache of fatigued muscles the following morning.
What do I remember?
Smoke. How horribly I’d hacked and wheezed until I had the good sense to open the doors.
What do I remember?
The first blow against blistering metal, its singular clarity.
What do I remember?
Strength like I’d never experienced before. Strength like elation, like relief.
Lifting the dagger higher, I study it from all angles. Harper frowns, snatching for the weapon, which I pull out of reach.
“Careful,” I whisper. “It’s sharp.”