52. Yarrow and Hawthorn and Frin and Peregrine All Have a Chat and the Beast Sees the Light
Tertius came to a languid stop before Hawthorn and giggled.
“What song?” said Yarrow.
“I don’t know,” said Hawthorn. “Old Yarrow knew it. My master wanted it. You must have it.”
“It could be anything, ” said Yarrow. “I know a lot of songs.”
Hawthorn held up the tiny book that Yarrow had been carrying. “In here. She talks about a song the women in grey know. It calms the Beast. If the Beast is calm, I get a wish.”
“I don’t know a song for the Beast.”
Hawthorn bit her lip. Mentioning Old Hawthorn’s notion of the sixth sister would—well, it would be better if an official of Black Tower was not there to hear it. “Can we talk in private?”
Yarrow glanced at Peregrine. “I would rather not.”
The earth vibrated. Weakened by snow, a nearby roof caved in.
“Fine,” said Hawthorn. “Then it’s your fault if—”
“Hawthorn,” said Frin, peering over the side of Tertius. “It’s all right. Just say whatever you have to say.”
Frin? Hawthorn’s pale skin turned even paler, seized by a fear so intense it hurt. Yarrow wondered at the significance of this.
“What are you doing here?” she said. “You were supposed to—you should have stayed behind.”
“I’m your squire,” said Frin stolidly. “Even if you wanted me to stay, I couldn’t.”
Hawthorn sighed and looked at Yarrow. “My master thought the Beast might be—might be one of the Ladies. The sixth sister, if that means anything to you.”
“That’s a game,” said Yarrow. “A child’s rhyme.” But she remembered Old Yarrow mentioning a sixth and fretting over the mistake. If it was a mistake.
“It’s not just that.” Hawthorn flipped through the book. “It crops up in old stories and songs from all over the palace. Hidden there, just waiting for someone to make the connection. Look. Six stones stand in the Garden of the Ladies in Blue. The song they sing in Yellow, There were six sisters to cross the river .”
“ Hey nonny nonny, ” said Yarrow, more to herself than anyone else. Frin climbed down from Tertius and went to stand near Hawthorn.
“Yes, exactly. The five sisters were six. But they did something to the last one. Or something happened to her. She fell down a very long way .”
“Not all sisters are the sisters, Guardian,” said Peregrine.
“But it’s what my master thought. Don’t you see what that means? The Beast is one of the sisters; the sisters are the Ladies, and we know—” Hawthorn gulped. “We know how to kill Ladies.”
If all eighty-five tellings of the Night of Bones agreed on one thing, it agreed on that: nobody agreed on the hand that wielded it, but the steel had done it.
“We do,” said Yarrow quietly. Hawthorn barely even heard her.
“So you see,” Hawthorn said. “You must know something. The Yarrows have held some crucial knowledge all these centuries. My master knew they had it, but not what it was. There must be a part of the women’s lore that would help. It might be hidden. It might seem like something else, a story, a rhyme. You have all those litanies, don’t you?”
“What you’re asking,” said Yarrow slowly, “is—is not easy.”
“I know that,” said Hawthorn impatiently.
She did not. For Hawthorn, whose knowledge came from books that anyone was allowed to read, it was impossible to grasp the nature of her request. The Mothers’ stories were, as the Grey Lady had always intended, written in the twists of Yarrow’s nerves and bound in the pulse of her blood. Yarrow, all Yarrows, were books who could choose to be read. And they were all of them taught to choose otherwise.
By now we have all guessed that Hawthorn needed the Lullaby of Reeds. Even Yarrow knew that. But to sing it to the Yellow Lady and her daughter was one thing. That was, more or less, its proper use. To hand it over to a Guardian—
“There is a song,” said Yarrow heavily. Hawthorn’s face lighted up. “It is sung to the Ladies to soothe them.” Hawthorn opened the book to the end and took up a pencil. “But I can’t give it to you.”
“Why not?” said Hawthorn fiercely.
“It’s only sung to Ladies,” said Yarrow. “And only the women know it. Even we are barely ever permitted to sing the full melody. And we certainly don’t teach it to outsiders.”
“Outsiders?” Hawthorn slammed the book shut. “I was born in Grey. And I need this song to save it.”
“You don’t know that,” said Yarrow. Her face was very calm as she folded her hands into her sleeves. How dare a Guardian demand anything from her? Especially one who had circumvented every proper channel to become one! “The Beast is the Beast. You and your master may think one thing. You may even be right. But there are limits—”
“Fuck the limits,” said Hawthorn. She took a step forward so ferociously that Tertius shuffled back, jolting its three passengers. “This could save us all. Why can’t you understand that?”
“Is there no boundary you won’t cross?” said Yarrow. “Is there nothing you hold sacred?” Her voice had risen to a shout, and she broke off, surprised to hear that sound from her own mouth.
“Safety,” said Frin. “She holds safety sacred.”
Everyone looked at him.
In the sudden silence, the vibration of the earth became much more apparent. They were so accustomed to the tremors that its faint beginning hadn’t registered. But now the rumble was all about them. The flagstones rattled. Snow slid from the rooftops. Upon the ridgepoles and gargoyles, birds shifted and stirred their wings. Stronger and stronger, the quake went on.
“Hawthorn,” said Yarrow. “I—”
Then the Beast came.
All of Grey Tower shuddered. Slates fell from its turrets. In the windows, a harsh green light sparked and glared, and a halo of green flared about its summit. With a flash of sickening insight, Yarrow understood why the tower was hollow.
Things boiled out of its top. Claws, wings, eyes, tentacles, long hairs like a cat’s whiskers. All of it rustled like so many silk gowns. Aside from the earthquake and the collapse of masonry, there was no other sound.
Six or seven clawed hands latched on to the rim of the tower. The rest of the Beast unfurled in great loops, eyes opening, wings shaking out to their full extent, on and on. Red gashes appeared in its sides, and for a moment Hawthorn thought, It’s already wounded, it’s already weak. But they gaped, showing dark teeth, and she saw how wrong she was. The whole thing was covered in mouths. Then at last—there—a yellow scale. As soon as she saw it, the rotating mass of the creature turned it away, but she knew it was there, the Beast’s weakness.
It kept coming. Under its claws, Grey Tower’s parapet was splintering. By now, the Beast reached hundreds of fathoms into the sky: the tower was like a vase holding a too-big bouquet. Winter had broken like a fever: the sun shone hotly and the snow was melting. The Beast’s eyes opened and turned their fierce emerald gaze on the palace, where they caught sight of Black Tower, dark in the bright sunlight.
With a roar that silenced all else, the Beast dove from Grey Tower and whipped its vast bulk down the West Passage, straight toward the hollowman.