Seventh Bride Page 8

  Tall wooden poles were sunk in the ground at random, like flagpoles. A few had crosspieces on them, lashed with rope. Rhea could see no purpose for them.

  They’re too big for bean-poles. I suppose you could run a cord between them and dry your laundry.

  Some people grow vines up a pole. I suppose they could have been for roses or grapes or something.

  It did not look as if anything had grown up the poles for a long, long time.

  She edged out into the clearing. The stones were deeply sunk into the earth and did not move underfoot.

  There was a depression on the far side of the clearing. Black trees were reflected in the water, along with a faint dusting of stars.

  In her pocket, the hedgehog shifted uneasily.

  The stones were hard underfoot, and the edges dug into the soles of her boots. Rhea picked her way across the clearing.

  “There’s supposed to be a scarecrow here…” she said aloud. The words made a little space that belonged to her, instead of to the dark woods and the strange poles. She kept talking, to herself or the hedgehog, she wasn’t sure. “I suppose it could be gone. How long do scarecrows last? It would serve Lord—Himself right.”

  She avoided Lord Crevan’s name at the last minute. It sat strangely on her tongue, and suddenly it seemed safer to use Maria’s term, out here, where things might be listening.

  He called up things on the white road and didn’t have wit or will enough to put them down again, Maria had said.

  Rhea had no idea where the white road was in relation to this clearing. Surely it was in the same woods, somewhere nearby?

  How far could a monster travel? Could something walk off the white road, slither through the woods, and devour—oh, to take an example completely at random, an unwary girl and her hedgehog?

  “Can’t think like that,” muttered Rhea. “Otherwise, I’ll turn around and run back to the house and then he’ll marry me.”

  The hedgehog shivered. She could tell by the sudden prickle of spines through her skirt, and then it passed.

  Rhea reached the edge of the pool.

  The stones had sunk here—not as if they had fallen away, but as if the earth had subsided under them. The pool had leaves at the bottom, and mosses grew luxuriantly along the edge.

  If she had been here during the day, it might have been a pleasant place.

  She raised her eyes and saw the scarecrow.

  The hedgehog rolled itself into a ball as Rhea flung herself backward. Her ankle caught on something and she fell on her backside. Her breath was driven out in a great startled whuff!

  All she could think was: of course, of course, I should have known, it wouldn’t be a real scarecrow, it would be something horrible, why didn’t I guess I should have known—

  It was a golem.

  Like the bird-golems on the arches, it was a hard, leathery thing, its skin held together with stitching. Its ribs had been broken down the middle and sewn up again, so that the breastbone sank inward, and its bony wrists were lashed to the crossbrace of one of the poles.

  Its eyes were closed. That was the only mercy. It would have been bad enough if it had stones for eyes like the bird-golems, but if it had human eyes, Rhea thought she might have gone mad right there, gone gibbering and whooping into the woods and never mind Lord Crevan or anyone else.

  This isn’t happening. This is not happening. That is not a real person. It wasn’t a real person. It wasn’t alive. It’s just a doll or a statue or something. It can’t have been real.

  She closed her eyes, and then snapped them open immediately, because what if it was like the bird golems and it moved?

  “Shouldn’t have thought that,” she said under her breath. “Stupid thing to think. It’s not moving. It’s not alive. It’s not really real. It’s just a horrible…scarecrow. That’s all. He told you it was a scarecrow.”

  The hedgehog uncurled itself and climbed out onto her chest. She looked down at it. It looked back up at her.

  “This is bad,” she said.

  The hedgehog nodded.

  Rhea flopped backward, flat on her back on the stones. It was not at all comfortable, but getting up again seemed like an unspeakable effort. If she watched down the side of her nose, she could see the golem hanging, unmoving, on a pole.

  “A golem person,” she said hoarsely. “If he made it out of a dead body, that’s…that’s really bad.”

  The hedgehog nodded again.

  “But not as bad as if he made it out of…”

  She stopped, because saying it out loud wouldn’t help. The hedgehog glanced over its shoulder.

  This is a murderer’s house… the bird-golem had said.

  Could he have killed someone and turned them into a golem? Presumably that’s what he had done with the birds…How did you even make golems like that?

  It occurred to her suddenly that Maria had known. Scarecrow. Is that what she is now? the other woman had said.

  And, much earlier, when Rhea had been half out of her head with exhaustion and terror, Maria had been listing the wives, and one of them had been…

  “Oh Lady of Stones,” said Rhea, in a high voice. “It’s the golem-wife.”

  Eventually she got up, because lying on the ground doesn’t help anything.

  Rhea would have sworn that nothing in the world would make her approach the golem-wife. She would have sworn by the Lady of Stones and the bones of her not-yet-deceased parents.

  She would have been wrong.

  I have to give her water. Otherwise I’ll fail and he’ll marry me, and if he marries me, I could end up like her.

  She thought of the other wives—blind Sylvie and throat-wounded Ingeth and the dead one in the garden. There was nothing too obvious wrong with Maria, but what did Rhea know? The cook could be concealing anything under her apron.

  He does something horrible to each of them. He must. That’s what Sylvie was getting at, using their gifts—oh, Lady of Stones! What is he going to do to me?

  Her heart pounded wildly, and that was stupid, because Lord Crevan wasn’t here. I’m sitting in a clearing in the woods and the only things here are a hedgehog and a dead woman tied to a pole. Nothing’s going to eat me. If I do this and get home, he won’t marry me.

  She wiped her hands on her skirt and scooped up the hedgehog. “All right,” she croaked. Her voice sounded as if she’d been crying, even thought she hadn’t. “All right. Let’s do this, and get home before morning.”

  The golem-wife hung mutely on her pole and said nothing.

  Rhea waded into the pool.

  Her feet were immediately soaked. Her boots were sturdy, but not particularly waterproof, and the bottom was slick with rotted leaves. She tucked her skirt up, mindful of the hedgehog, and stepped slowly toward the golem-wife.

  She had a bad moment when she realized that the only thing she had to cup water with was her bare hands. I should have brought a cup. Well. All right. He didn’t say how much water to give her.

  It occurred to her that she would have to touch the golem-wife’s lips with her hand. Her stomach clenched.

  Suddenly the potatoes for dinner did not seem like such a good idea after all.

  She halted in front of the golem-wife.

  Thick cords bound the golem’s wrists to the pole. They were impossibly thin, bone covered with hard skin, no flesh left on them. The cords looked strong and unfrayed by comparison.

  She’s tied up. She’s tied to the pole. She can’t reach out and grab me.

  Rhea swallowed hard.

  “Do you suppose her eyes are going to open?” she asked the hedgehog. Her voice was shaking terribly.

  The hedgehog gave her a look.

  “Yeah,” said Rhea sadly. “Me, too.”

  She took a deep breath and said, in as conversational a tone as she could manage, “If you’re still alive—or sort of alive—if you’re going to talk like the bird-golems or open your eyes, I’d rather you do it now and get it over with, please.”
/>
  There was a rustling that was almost the wind, but not quite.

  Slowly, jerkily, the golem-wife’s head moved.

  In a way it was a relief. Rhea knew it was going to happen. There was no way it wasn’t going to happen. It would have been worse if she had been pressing water to the golem-wife’s lips and those dry eyelids had snapped open. At least, in this fashion, they got it over with.

  The golem-wife’s eyes opened.

  They were black river rocks, the same as the bird-golems had been. Rhea let out a shuddering breath.

  The golem-wife’s lips had not pulled back from her teeth like the dead were supposed to do. They opened now, just a crack.

  In a voice like dried leaves rubbing together, the golem-wife whispered “…thirsty…”

  Rhea’s horror did not fade, but it was mixed in with pity. She’s not dead, even if she’s not quite alive, and she can feel thirst and oh god, how long has she been here?

  She tried to imagine hanging on a pole for hours—days—years—with water at her feet, unable to drink. She could not even begin. Her mind skittered away from the image of days and years piled up like dead leaves.

  Let her sleep through it. Let her not really be awake and suffering, unless someone wakes her up. Oh, Lady of Stones, please, please, let her not be aware of it.

  “….please…” whispered the dry voice.

  Hurriedly, before she could change her mind or imagine something worse, Rhea ducked down and cupped water into her hands. She lifted the makeshift cup, dripping, and set it against the cracked lips.

  She had to reach up, for the pole was tall. Water poured down her wrists and soaked her shirt, while the golem-wife drank awkwardly over her thumb.

  When the water running down her forearms had slowed to a trickle, she scooped more up, and more again. Five times Rhea gave the golem-wife water to drink, before she whispered “…enough.”

  Rhea dropped her hands. She noticed suddenly that she was cold and soaked and standing in water and began to shiver.

  “…thank you…”

  “I have to go back,” said Rhea miserably. “I have to be back by dawn. Otherwise I’d—I’d cut you down or—oh, I don’t know! Is there anything I can do?”

  There was a crackling noise as the golem-wife shook her head.

  Rhea backed away. It seemed disrespectful to turn her back on what was, in a terrible fashion, another woman. Eventually, though, she had to look down at her feet, to avoid skidding on the scum-slick stones.

  When she reached the edge of the pool and looked back, the golem-wife’s eyes were closed and she hung limply on the pole, as unliving as a scarecrow.

  Let her be asleep. Let her be mostly dead. Let her be anything but alive and awake for all this time.

  Rhea turned and ran.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  She did not run very far, because as soon as she reached the other side of the clearing, she realized that the path was gone.

  Rhea staggered to a halt. It was like going down a ladder and thinking you still had another rung left under you, only to slam your foot into the floor.

  She did not panic. It was absurd that the path was gone—it had been wide enough for a couple of horses. She was just looking in the wrong place. She had been running and frightened and gotten turned around. Nothing else.

  But there was no path into the clearing.

  She turned in place, looking, and there was the pool and the poles and the golem-wife. The trees grew in a dense, unbroken wall around the edges.

  Too many things had happened tonight. That was undoubtedly why she was so calm. In a place where dead women were partly alive and hung on poles, getting upset about a missing path seemed futile.

  “I think we have a problem,” she said to the hedgehog.

  The hedgehog considered this, and made put-me-down gestures with its paws. Rhea set the little creature on the ground, and it trundled up to the treeline and sat back, looking grave.

  The brambles had grown in under the tree trunks, and the thickets were sewn together with vines. There were pockets where she might get a few feet in, but no farther.

  He made the path vanish. He made the white road appear and now he’s made the path vanish so I can’t get back. He wants me to be lost out here.

  And on a sudden rush of outrage—That’s not fair! He’s cheating!

  She fumed for a minute, while the hedgehog studied the trees. How dare Crevan cheat? Set someone an impossible task and—and—

  And what?

  Did you really think he’d let you go? Did you think this was something you could win?

  Her thoughts stuttered to a halt.

  The hedgehog was off again, trundling along the edge of the woods, snuffling in the leaves. Rhea followed, because when your future husband is a mad sorcerer, following hedgehogs sometimes seems like the only option.

  It occurred to her that Lord Crevan had sent her to find the golem-wife, knowing full well that she must be terrified by it.

  For what? Just to scare me, like a little boy with a frog? Why would he do this to me?

  And a cold voice came from the back of her head and whispered, To show you the price of disobedience.

  A chill set in that had nothing to do with her wet shoes.

  The hedgehog halted in front of a particular set of brambles. Rhea could see no difference, but the little animal snuffled at the base of the thicket, stirring up last years’ leaves with its nose. Then it looked up at her, and back to the trees.

  “I’d need an ax,” Rhea said. A little bubble of fear rose up in her throat and burst into horrified laughter. “Oh Lady! If I had an ax, I’d take it to him, and never mind the trees!”

  I’ve been acting as if I could get out of this somehow—if I just said or did the right things, he’d have to let me go. But he’s mad, completely mad, and he turns his wives into golems. He needs killing, not negotiation.

  There was a strange relief to the thought. She was not doing something wrong. She was not failing. She was not a peasant girl marrying above her station and doing it badly. She had run afoul of a murderer, that was all.

  She laughed again, feeling light-headed. She had a sudden desire to grab her aunt by the wrists and shake her and yell “See! See, I told you there was something wrong with it!”

  The hedgehog gave her a worried look.

  “Sorry,” she said contritely. “I’ll stop laughing. I’m not losing my mind, I promise. Losing my mind won’t help, will it?”

  The hedgehog managed to convey that it most definitely would not help.

  “Right.”

  The hedgehog looked at the wall of brambles again.

  “Um,” said Rhea. “Is the path on the other side of this? Is that it?”

  The hedgehog nodded.

  Rhea considered for a moment, then said “Stand back.”

  She lifted her boot and tried to stomp down part of the thicket. It yielded a few leaves and a calf full of thorns.

  I have to get through this. If I’m not back by dawn, he’ll marry me and I’ll wind up like the golem-wife.

  She kicked at the brambles again, and again, and then she had to stop. There was blood running down both legs and the wall of wood and thorn had not changed in the slightest.

  “I don’t think it’s going to happen,” she told the hedgehog. It sighed.

  She sat down on one of the paving stones, and the hedgehog helped her pull thorns out of her skin. They were long and jagged edged, not smooth like rose thorns. She washed her legs off in the pool and saw the blood welling up black in the moonlight.

  I’ll have no skin left, and I won’t get any farther in. You’d need to be wearing armor.

  There were tears in her eyes from the pain, but she did not cry. The golem-wife was too near.

  I can’t cry about thorns when she’s been hanging from a pole for…however long it’s been.

  The hedgehog held up its paws, crossed, and turned away.

  “Err…”

&nb
sp; It turned back, held up its paws again.

  “Do you want me to stay here?”

  A nod.

  “Okay, then…”

  It dropped back to all fours and trundled into the brambles. Thorns that would stop a human girl were no barrier to a hedgehog.

  She could watch its progress for only a moment or two, and then it was gone.

  I wonder if it’s going for help…

  She hoped it was. She was going to need help.

  The gods help those who help themselves…or at least, that’s what Aunt always says…

  She circled the clearing. The sunken stones gleamed in the moonlight. The trees were black and dense and impassable.

  She tried pulling up one of the wooden poles, to see if she could use it to beat back the thicket. The poles appeared to be set deeply in the ground and did not budge an inch.

  As the moon crawled by overhead and the hedgehog did not return, she found herself thinking What if it isn’t coming back?

  She didn’t know why it had come to her in the first place. What if it had decided that she was beyond help? What if it had just gone home?

  Rhea eyed the bramble wall again.

  No. I can’t get out like that. If daylight comes, he’ll just have to come get me, and while he’s making marriage plans, I’ll—I’ll excuse myself to go to the privy and climb out the window if I have to.

  Leaves rustled, and the hedgehog re-emerged.

  Rhea exhaled. “Thank goodness,” she said. “I was worried—”

  A second hedgehog came out of the brambles after it.

  Rhea blinked. “You brought a friend…?”

  And then a third hedgehog emerged, and a fourth, and then there were a dozen and twenty and thirty and the whole clearing was full of tiny, fist-sized animals with prickly backs and blinking, black-bead eyes.

  “Oh…” said Rhea, because she could think of nothing else to say.

  The first hedgehog—her hedgehog—patted her ankle.

  It turned to the others. They crowded together, making grunting, squeaking noises, having a conversation in hedgehog-tongue.

  Perhaps I’ve lost my mind after all…