Chapter 17

126

Chapter 17

Oriane woke not knowing where she was.

The familiar flicker of warmth in her breast had roused her, as always. Yet she had grown so quickly used to sleeping in her luxurious palace chambers that it was a shock to feel the narrow bed beneath her, to see the faint gleam of fading starlight through the tiny window.

She was home. But she could not be here for long.

Oriane had planned to have her father packing to leave the moment she returned, but the sight of him so fragile, so changed, had shaken her. And so, banking on the head start Kitt and Andala had given her, she'd taken the time to help Arthur into a seat by the sleeping fireplace, make him tea. Then she'd told him of the palace, the city, the people she'd met. Of the strange confusion of feelings that led her to fly away in the first place, and the way she had sung for strangers. And of the way it had all ended, with her fleeing like a criminal on the run.

‘I'm so sorry,' she kept saying throughout, the words desperately inadequate to express her remorse. ‘I'm so sorry I did this to you.'

But her father just looked at her fondly, the way he'd always done.

‘You don't have to apologise to me, Oriane. You should have seen it all a long time ago,' he murmured. ‘I should have showed it to you. I should not have been keeping you here like a prisoner.' 127

‘You weren't,' Oriane said sharply. ‘That was not how I felt about my life here, Father. That wasn't why I left at all. And it was the king who was holding me prisoner, in the end.'

‘What did he want with you?' Arthur asked. ‘Do you have any idea of his plans for you?'

Oriane shook her head, thinking back on Tomas's actions over the past weeks. ‘He seemed to be … waiting for something, I suppose. I don't know what. I think when I went into the city, he thought I might not come back, and that whatever he'd been waiting for was lost.'

Arthur sighed. ‘It could be that he simply planned to reveal you to the people and be celebrated for it. The king who brought the skylark back into the world.'

Oriane thought on this. ‘Their faces when they saw me transform, heard me sing …' she began slowly. ‘I think … I think I might be able to help people, with what I do. It doesn't excuse the king for keeping me there the way he did, but if that was the effect I'd have, out in the world …' She could not disguise the enthusiasm in her voice.

Arthur must have heard it, because he smiled: a genuine smile, made stronger by the hint of sadness that lay around its edges.

‘You are so like your mother,' he murmured. ‘Not a day went by that she didn't wonder whether she was doing the right thing, hiding herself away like this. Not until we knew we would have you, at least. She could not bear the thought of you smothered by strangers who would not let you a moment's peace. Not without her there to protect you.'

The reminder of Elidia's story jarred something in the depths of Oriane's mind. I'm afraid that what he told you is not entirely accurate, Terault had said. The skylark in question – she lived. It had made her wonder if her father had wilfully deceived her. But looking at him now, she could not believe him capable, could not stand that she ever had. 128

‘She knew, of course, what had happened to all the skylarks before her,' Arthur went on. ‘Your mother was prepared to leave this world the moment you entered it.' He smiled again, and Oriane had never seen a sadder thing. ‘I was in denial, right to the last. I told her she would not get away from me so easily.'

Oriane let out a laugh, or was it a sob?

‘But she was right, as always. And so I kept the promise we made together before you were born. I kept you here, kept you safe.' Arthur sighed, his eyes a world away. ‘I wonder now whether there could have been another way.'

Oriane moved to kneel beside her father's chair, grasping the hand that rested on its arm with both of her own. He looked down at her, and through his glasses she could see his eyes had filled once more with tears.

‘I hope I have not done you wrong, Oriane. I hope I have not held you back.'

‘Never,' she whispered. ‘Never. But perhaps there can be another way, Father. At the palace … someone told me a different version of Elidia's story. One where she lived.' She drew a breath. ‘Maybe we were wrong. Maybe the skysingers don't have to stay hidden after all. Maybe … what happened to Mother won't happen to me.'

Arthur's brows drew together. ‘Skysingers?'

She told him what she'd heard of the Order of the Sky. ‘They believe there are two birds – two women. A skylark to call the day. And … a nightingale, to call the night.' There was that feeling again at the thought of the nightingale: a flare in her chest, like a struck match.

‘I've never heard anything about a nightingale,' Arthur said slowly. ‘Your mother never mentioned there being anyone else like her, either. If it's true, she must not have known.' 129

‘Can it really be true, though? Surely we would have heard something about it, surely someone would have found her …?'

Arthur gave her a meaningful look. ‘Had anyone found you until a few weeks ago?'

He was right. Perhaps the existence of the nightingale was more likely than she had thought.

‘You should seek out this nightingale, Oriane,' her father said softly, after a beat. ‘If she exists, perhaps she may know more than we do about your kind – your power, your fate. And when I die – and I will die one day, my girl, there's no use protesting otherwise – when I die, I would hate for you to be alone.'

Oriane could form no response. She had never really considered the certainty of her father's death – the inevitable fact that he would leave her one day, and that she would spend the rest of her lifetime alone in these woods.

Her parents had believed that they could help her live forever. But what use was a life as lonely as it was long?

She forced herself back to the moment, back to her father. ‘For the meantime,' she told Arthur firmly, ‘I belong here. With you.' She paused to take in the sight of him, grey-whiskered and thin. ‘Father, you look …'

‘Old?'

She started to protest that that had not been what she meant, but Arthur chuckled.

‘I am old, my dear. We were not so young when we had you, your mother and I, and more than twenty years have passed since then. I have lived a good life, though. Two lives, really. One with your mother, and one with you.' He put a callused hand briefly to Oriane's cheek. ‘I have treasured both.' 130

Oriane swallowed hard against the lump in her throat. He spoke as if he were already dying … It made her feel panicked, as if she were losing him bit by bit, and there was no way for her to stop it.

‘We should leave together,' she blurted, aching to do something, to protect him somehow – keeping him safe from the king was somewhere to start. ‘We should get out of here. They'll be coming after me. I got a head start, but they have our direction from my letters. They will come.'

But to her dismay, Arthur shook his head. ‘This is our home,' he said simply. ‘It belongs to you and me, and to your mother's memory. We will not be forced out of it for anything or by anyone. You can hide if they come to find you, or flee elsewhere if it will be safer. They'll get no word of your whereabouts from me. But for as long as you want to stay here in our home, you'll stay.' His eyes traced the walls, taking in the sanctuary he and her mother had built. ‘And for as long as I live, so will I.'

Oriane had thought long into the small hours, unable to sleep. The worry, the sense of urgency that had been kept at bay by her reunion with her father – it had all come back in a rush as she lay down in her old bed. The king's people would find her soon. The cottage was well hidden, but with her vague directions, they knew where to look. And yes, she could hide, as her father had said, or leave – but she did not want to go anywhere without him again.

‘You can come with me in the morning, if you want to,' she'd told him last night. ‘While I sing.'

Arthur had given a playful smile. ‘So I can make sure you don't fly away?' 131

Her cheeks had coloured with shame, even though she knew he was only teasing. ‘I love you, Papa,' she'd said, voice choking a little with how much she meant it. ‘I just don't want you to worry.'

Her father had studied her for a moment, his face half in shadow, half lit by the candle he held. Then he pressed a kiss to her forehead. ‘I love you too, my girl,' he said. ‘And I won't worry. Whatever happens, I am not worried.'

Now, as the feeling in her chest grew stronger, she crept down the hallway to his door. She knocked gently, but when silence persisted beyond, she entered anyway.

Arthur had slept with his window thrown open. A predawn breeze cast cool fingers into the room, playing about the curtains. Oriane raised her candle. Her father slept soundly still. His breathing was deep and even, the look on his face one of peace, serenity, rest. Oriane did not like to disturb him, but she wanted to keep her word from the previous night.

‘Papa,' she whispered, crossing to his bedside. ‘It's almost dawn.'

He slept on. Oriane hesitated. Leaning down, she kissed his forehead, as he had done for her last night. If it wakes him, that is all well and good. If not, I will let him sleep.

Arthur shifted a little, but did not wake. The look of calm contentment was still plain on his face. Perhaps he was dreaming.

Her decision made, Oriane whispered, ‘I'll see you soon,' and padded quietly from the room.

The summer night was tranquil. It enveloped her like a calm body of water as she stepped outside, its stillness broken only by the faintest whispers of a breeze. A surge of affection for her home and her life here rose in her chest. She was struck by a feeling of wanting everything all at once: to stay here with her father and their animals and their garden, to go back to the palace and the people, 132 to take to the skies and fly – somewhere, anywhere. Was this what it was like for everybody else? So much wanting , spilling over like a too-full cup?

It didn't matter now. Her heart beat warm in her chest. She had other things to do than stand here, getting lost in her own desires.

Oriane moved to the base of her usual tree. She would wait here as always until the time came. Or perhaps she no longer needed to wait – she had proven that, hadn't she?

She closed her eyes. I'm ready.

Nothing happened. Oriane concentrated harder. She thought of Hana's questions about how it felt to be a bird. She thought of the nobles watching her, their faces turned towards her like sun-seeking flowers. She thought of Andala, and the first time she had watched her transform.

To her surprise, the heat behind her breastbone suddenly grew stronger. And then her human form disappeared like an illusion, and in an instant she was the skylark, a creature of her own making.

Oriane took to the air, performing a swift loop of the cottage before settling in her tree to sing. Watching the world wake beneath her calmed her earlier worry, solidified a sense of rightness in her bird's heart, her hollow bones. There was another bird, flitting through the lower branches. There a butterfly, drifting white between the flowers. There—

There a man, hiding behind a tree.

Oriane thought she'd imagined him at first. Her song still bubbled from her beak in an unstoppable stream, and she stayed rooted to her branch, focusing on the woods below.

The rising light soon showed her he was real.

A soldier. And another. And another. All hiding in the woods around her home. All dressed in the king's blue. 133

They were here. They had found her so much sooner than she'd thought.

She spotted more of them: two more, five more, ten. How many soldiers had he sent to retrieve her? Why were they hiding? What did they plan to do?

Fear gripped her, setting her lark's heart beating even faster. The day kept breaking. Its beauty felt wrong, discordant. The soldiers were looking up, searching for the source of her song. Oriane stayed perfectly still on her hidden branch. Finally, finally, the notes slowed to a stop, and the woods lapsed into a strange silence.

Now what?

They'd been waiting for this moment, she realised as more of them crept between the trees, signalling to one another, their searching gazes moving lower. Now that she had sung, they expected her to change back; they were seeking a woman now, not a bird. But as a bird she could stay hidden, just as her father had said.

‘Stay alert.'

Oriane froze, heart seizing. The speaker was directly below.

‘Keep your eyes above and below. She may still be the lark.'

She knew that voice. It wasn't a soldier or a guard – it was Terault.

He sounded different, his tone smooth and deadly as steel. Oriane could see him now: a glimpse of his head at the base of her tree. What was he doing here? He was the king's seneschal, not a guardsman—

‘Check inside,' he murmured, and the guards obeyed.

Inside.

Oriane watched in horror as a swarm of silent soldiers surrounded the cottage.

Father.

They burst through the door, not bothering to be quiet anymore. The ambush was forceful, violent. The chickens in the garden 134 fluttered at the sudden noise. Snowpea whimpered. There were so many of them.

Oriane's mind had turned white with panic. She had to warn her father. She needed to move.

The moment she took wing, Terault saw her. She heard him shouting, his words indistinct. His eyes burned her back like a brand as she shot towards her father's bedroom window. It was open – he had left it open—

She shot inside, her call sharp and incessant now, so different to her dawnsong. Arthur was awake. He had half risen from bed, still in his nightclothes, and he looked confused at the sight of her zooming into the room.

‘Oriane?'

The bedroom door burst open. ‘ She's here! ' shouted a triumphant soldier, two of his comrades piling in after him. ‘She's up here!'

Oriane flew towards them, not knowing what else to do besides put herself between them and her father. She did not know what they'd do if he tried to stop them taking her. She would hold her form, lead them away – but first she aimed for the shouting soldier's head, claws forward and wings beating furiously. He threw his arms up to protect his face. The other two began swiping at her, trying to catch her with their bare hands. She avoided them, but only just—

There was a strangled cry. Her father had launched himself at the guards. All four men fell in a heap. Oriane pulled back as the soldiers gained their feet again, faster than Arthur. He was still on the ground when the first soldier pulled him up by his collar, shoving him roughly against the doorframe. Oriane aimed again for the soldier, clawing at his hair, his eyes. He raised his arms again, but this time to swipe at her rather than shield himself. 135

All three of the guards were looking up at her now, backing her into a corner. Oriane fluttered up near the ceiling, out of their reach. She could not think. Her father was standing up straighter, looking dazed but determined. No – she would not let them hurt him again while he tried to protect her. The window was blocked, but perhaps she could get past them to fly through the doorway—

But before Oriane could do anything, she realised what her father was going to do.

One of the guards' swords was half out of its scabbard. Arthur, unnoticed as they stared up at Oriane, snatched the blade, tearing it free with a shing . As the guard who owned it turned at the sound, Arthur moved, faster than Oriane had ever seen him move. He raised the sword and drew it across the guard's torso.

It was not a killing blow; his nature was too gentle to permit that. Oriane doubted that he had ever hurt another person in his life. But it was enough to tear a gash in the guard's jerkin, and draw a bright line of blood on the skin beneath.

The three soldiers were looking at Arthur now. Oriane hovered near the ceiling, temporarily forgotten. Now was her chance; she should fly, lure them away.

But before she could, before her eyes could even register what was happening, the lead guard had drawn his blade, and driven it through her father's chest.

It seemed to take an age for Arthur to fall. He staggered as the guard withdrew the blade and a torrent of blood darkened his white nightshirt. His eyes drifted up to Oriane as he stumbled back, overturning the table and the candle still burning by his bedside.

Oriane tried to call out to him, but she was still a bird, so a screech came out instead – a sound she had not known the lark was capable of making, a sound that severed the morning air like steel 136 through silk. Time moved strangely; her wings seemed to beat at half-speed as she stared down at her father and he stared up at her, a small, reassuring, incongruous smile spreading slowly on his face, a look of love.

‘Go, my girl,' he murmured, so quietly she could not really have heard it, but the word echoed in her mind all the same.

Go.

She did not stay to see his eyes close. Before the guards realised what she was doing, she shot past them and out the open window. It was as if her father's words had been a spell, an irresistible command. Away. She had to get away.

A chorus of shouts followed her. The garden and the woods around her house were still swarming with soldiers, and the three in the house were bellowing down to them, telling them which way she had gone. Oriane dipped a little and then caught herself. She needed to go higher. She could think of nothing else but forward, faster . There was no time for pain. She had to get away. He had given her the chance to do that.

She reached the edge of the woods; she was going to make it. They could not reach her this high, the air was on her side—

And then there was a weight across her back, her wings, her head. It was heavy.

She was falling.

The shock of it was such that she lost hold of her form as she was forced downward, crashing through branches. And just like before, just like on the day this had all begun, Oriane found herself growing back into her human body as the ground hurtled up to meet her.

137 She landed with a bone-jarring thud. Her breath left her in a rush and for a moment she could do nothing but fight for air. Run, she thought faintly, desperately, as her lungs burned and pain erupted through her body. I have to run.

But as she tried to rise, she realised whatever had brought her down was still on her back. It felt like a dozen thin ropes, tangling up her arms and legs.

A net.

She tore at it desperately. A sob choked her throat. She was caught. It had been for nothing. The chance her father had given her, the cost – for nothing …

‘Don't struggle, Lady Lark,' said a low voice behind her.

Oriane spun around in a half-crouch, tripping on the netting as she did so and landing with another painful thump . She scrabbled backwards as Terault advanced, stepping out of the shadow of a tree and into a shaft of pale morning light. His face was oddly expressionless, his eyes glassy as a doll's.

‘I won't hurt you,' he murmured. ‘None of us will hurt you. The king simply sent us to retrieve you.'

‘My father,' Oriane burst out. ‘ They stabbed my father.'

Terault frowned, tilting his head slightly.

‘Let me go back – let me go back to him, please! '

A stampede of hurried footfalls crashed through the undergrowth, and half a dozen soldiers burst through the trees at Terault's back.

‘My lord,' a woman panted, ‘she—'

Terault raised a hand and the guard fell silent. Her eyes and all the others went to Oriane, crumpled and trapped beneath the pile of netting. She felt like an animal still.

‘Help the lady out of there,' Terault commanded softly. ‘Then get ready to leave.' He turned and walked back in the direction of the house. 138

Oriane thrashed wildly again, desperate to free herself from the net before the guards could get to her. Ice flooded her body as one of them stepped forward, pulling out a short, sharp dagger – but he merely used it to cut the netting around her so two others could get her free. Though free was not the right word, of course. A man and a woman each took one of her arms and held it fast. The woman was gentle, but the man's grip dug into the skin of her arm, fingernails close to piercing the goosepimpled flesh.

Oriane barely felt the discomfort. She barely felt anything at all, numb but for a creeping, pervading sense of horror, an impossibly cavernous pit that grew steadily deeper and threatened to swallow her whole.

‘Get ready to move out!'

‘They got her!'

‘Leave it – time to go!'

The chorus of shouts grew louder as Oriane and her captors approached the edge of the woods. There was the sound of people moving about, preparing to leave; but there was another sound, too, strange in the still morning air. A faint crackling. Then a whoosh of air, and a sound like splintering wood.

Fear like Oriane had never known took hold as she recognised that sound.

She saw the first flicker of flames as they passed the tree where she usually called the dawn. And then they were out in the clearing between the garden and the woods, and the sight rose up before her like some spectre from an unspeakable dream.

Her home was on fire.

Great gouts of flame shot through the upstairs windows, licking the wooden walls with hungry tongues. Part of the roof had collapsed. 139

Someone, mercifully, had set the animals loose, and Oriane could hear the chickens squawking as they fluttered away from the house and its falling debris, could hear Snowpea braying fearfully as he retreated towards the woods.

She hoped, against all hope, that what she had feared initially was true: that her father had died mere moments after the soldier had withdrawn that blade from his chest.

Perhaps it was the horror of what she was hoping – that her father had died quickly then, so that he would not have to die slowly now – that set something loose within her.

Oriane barely knew what she was doing, then. All she knew was that she had somehow thrashed her way free of her captors, and that she was suddenly close to the burning house, close enough to feel its heat and fury on her face, and that she was screaming , screaming so loud her throat felt like it had torn, like blood should be pouring from her mouth with every cry. There were hands at her back an instant later, pulling her upright. She did not recall having fallen to her knees. She began to thrash again, lashing out with feet, fingernails, teeth. Her screams turned to wails. And soon the brightness of the day, of the fire, of her pain, all faded to dark, and Oriane knew no more.