Inkdeath (Inkworld 3)

Voices drifted up from down below. Leaning forward, she tried to make something out in the darkness. Was that Battista’s voice? She saw fire, just a small flame, but it gave a bright light. There was Fenoglio! And the Black Prince on a stretcher beside him.

"Farid?" she called down.

"Hush!" hissed Elfbane, and Meggie pressed her hand to her mouth. The robbers were letting down ropes and a net to take up the Prince.

"Quick, Battista!" Roxane’s voice sounded so different when she wasn’t singing.

"They’re coming!"

She didn’t need to say any more. Horses snorted among the trees, twigs broke under the tread of many boots. The robbers threw down more ropes, and some let themselves down the trunk. Arrows came out of the darkness. Men swarmed out from the surrounding trees like silver beetles. "Wait and see—they’ll bide their time until Battista comes back. With the Prince!" Hadn’t Doria said so? That was why he had gone down himself And he hadn’t come back.

Farid made the fire flare up. He and Battista placed themselves in front of the Black Prince to protect him. The bear was with them, too.

"What is it? What’s going on?" Elinor was kneeling beside Meggie, her hair in wild confusion as if bristling with fear. "I’d actually dropped off to sleep, would you believe it?"

Meggie did not reply. What could she do? Oh, what could she do? She made her way over to the forked branch where Roxane and the other women were kneeling. Only two of the robbers were with them. All the others were letting themselves down the trunk to help the Prince, but it was a long way to the ground, a terribly long way, and a rain of arrows came from below. Two men fell, screaming, and the women covered the children’s eyes and ears.

"Where is he?" Elinor leaned so far forward that Roxane pulled her back by force.

"Where is he?" she cried again. "Someone tell me, is that old fool still alive?"

Fenoglio looked up at them as if he had heard her voice, his lined face full of fear, the fighting all around him. One man fell dead at his feet, and Fenoglio picked up his sword.

"Look at that, will you?" cried Elinor. "What’s he’s doing? Does he think he can play the hero in his own damn story?"

I must go down, thought Meggie, I must help Farid and look for Doria! Where was he? Lying dead somewhere among the trees? No, he can’t be. Fenoglio wrote about him! Wonderful things. He can’t be dead. All the same.

She ran to the ropes, but Elfbane stopped her. "Climb up the tree!" he said urgently.

"All the women and children must get as far up the tree as they can!"

"Oh yes, and what are we going to do when we reach the top?" snapped Elinor. "Wait for them to pick us off?"

There was no answer to that question.

"They have the Prince!" Minerva’s voice sounded so desperate that everyone looked around. Some of the women began sobbing. Sure enough, they had the Black Prince.

They were dragging him off the stretcher where he lay. The bear lay motionless beside him with an arrow in his coat. Battista had been captured, too. Where was Farid?

Where the fire was.

Farid made it bite and burn, but Sootbird was there, too, his leathery face pale above his red-and-black costume. Fire ate fire; the flames licked up the trunk. Meggie thought she could hear the tree groaning. Several smaller trees had already caught fire. The children were crying hard enough to melt anyone’s heart.

Oh, Fenoglio, thought Meggie, we don’t have much luck with the people we call to our aid. First Cosimo, now the giant.

The giant.

His face appeared among the trees as suddenly as if the mere word had summoned him. His skin had turned dark as the night, and he wore the reflection of the stars on his brow. One foot trod out the fire that was eating at the roots of their tree. The other foot missed Farid and Sootbird so narrowly that Meggie’s own scream echoed in her ears.

"Yes! Yes, he’s back!" she heard Fenoglio shout. He staggered toward the mighty feet and climbed onto one of its toes as if it were a lifeboat.

But the giant looked up at the crying children inquiringly, as if he had come for something that he couldn’t find.

The Milksop’s men abandoned their prisoners and ran for their lives again, with their lord in front on his snow-white horse. Only Sootbird stood his ground with a small troop, sending his fire to lick at the giant. The giant stared at the flames, bewildered, and stumbled back when they caught his toes.

"No, please!" Meggie called down. "Please don’t go away again. Help us!"

And suddenly Farid was standing on the giant’s shoulder, making flakes of fire rain down from the night. They settled on the clothes of Sootbird and his men like burning burrs, until they flung themselves down on the forest floor and rolled over and over on the dry leaves. As for the giant, he looked at Farid in astonishment, plucked him off his shoulder as easily as a moth, and placed him on his raised palm.

How large his fingers were. Terribly large. And how small Farid looked standing there beside them.

Sootbird and his men were still beating at their burning clothes. The giant stared down at them, irritated. He rubbed his ear as if their screams hurt him, closed his hand around Farid as if he were a precious find, and with the other hand flicked the screaming men away into the forest like a child brushing a spider off its clothes.

Then he put his hand to his ear again and looked up at the tree, still searching for something — as if he had suddenly remembered what he had come for.

"Roxane!"

It was Darius’s voice that Meggie heard echoing through the tree, hesitant and firm at the same time. "Roxane! I think he came back because of you. Sing!"

CHAPTER 69

THE ADDERHEAD’S BED CHAMBER

Resa flew after one of the servants who were carrying buckets of blood and water to the Adderhead’s bedchamber. He sat there in a silver tub, red up to his neck, gasping and cursing, such a terrible sight that Resa feared for Mo more than ever. What revenge would make up for such suffering?

Thumbling looked around when she flew to the wardrobe by the door, but she ducked in good time. It could be useful to be small. Dustfinger’s sparks were burning on the walls. Three soldiers were flicking at them with damp cloths, while the Adderhead put his bloodstained hand over his smarting eyes. His grandson stood beside the tub, arms folded, as if that would protect him from his grandfather’s bad temper. What a small thin child he was, as handsome as his father and delicately built like his mother. But unlike Violante, Jacopo didn’t resemble his grandfather at all, although he imitated the Adderhead’s every gesture.

"She didn’t." He thrust out his chin. He had copied that from his mother, although presumably he didn’t know it.

"Oh no? Then who else helped the Bluejay if not your mother?"

A servant poured the contents of his bucket over the Adderhead’s back. Resa felt sick when she saw the blood running over the pale nape of his neck. Jacopo, too, looked at his grandfather with both fear and disgust — and quickly glanced away when the Adderhead caught him at it.

"Yes, you just look at me!" he snarled at his grandson. "Your mother helped the man who did this to me."

"She didn’t. The Bluejay has flown away! Everyone says he can fly, and they say he’s invulnerable, too."