Dearest (23 page)

They were all reluctant to sleep—especially Friday—but she settled her Darlings in, kissed them good night, and blew out the candle anyway. She lay in her own bed, staring into the shadowy darkness, wishing for sleep to wash her away. She imagined the Angel of Dreams descending from the moon astride a white horse, headed for her window.

Friday sat up. Something was indeed headed for the window, but it wasn’t an angel.

“WATCH OUT!” she managed to cry before two white bundles of feathers crashed through the casement, tumbled across her sheets, and came to a sprawling rest at the children’s feet.

Swans.

“Is it Tristan?” Michael tried to approach the unconscious birds, but John held him back. “Is he a swan again?”

“I don’t think so,” said Friday. “If I had to guess, I’d say this is Sebastien and Odette.”

Wendy crouched carefully beside the swans and put a gentle hand on their bellies. “They are alive,” she said, “but they look really tired.”

Friday could verify that. She had never before been able to sense the feelings of animals, but it seemed the same thing could not be said of humans trapped in animal bodies. The couple’s exhaustion was so complete that it made Friday’s limbs heavy. “They’ve come a very long way,” she said.

“I can see why.” Conrad leaned forward to unfasten the buckles that wrapped around the first swan. Friday felt a tickle in her chest, the sense that Sebastien had been held against his will and somehow escaped, but details beyond that were hazy. Conrad unsheathed the dagger he kept in his belt and sawed at the rest of the bindings—white as Sebastien’s feathers—until they fell away.

Friday moved to lift up the bindings and examine them. As soon as her fingers touched the fabric she knew what this was: the modified shirt Tristan had worn to the ball. Despair gripped her as a small bundle fell from the tattered shirt.

“Why would Sebastien-swan bring us a carpet?” asked Michael.

“It’s a mat.” John swatted his little brother. “It’s not big enough to be a carpet.”

Wendy unrolled the mat and handed it to Friday. “It’s woven,” the girl said, “like the magic shirts.”

From what Michael had told the children after returning from the shore that day, they now assumed all woven fabric contained magical properties. Friday hoped they were right about this one. A weaving could only mean a message from Elisa. When Friday took hold of the small mat, both her arm and the weaving glowed in the dark with a powerful blue light.

“It
is
magic,” breathed Michael.

Friday smiled into the light and a single tear slipped down her cheek. It wasn’t from Elisa. This mat was from Tristan, woven by his own hand.

“What does it say?” asked Conrad.

Until the messenger posed the question, Friday hadn’t considered that the weaving said anything at all. But there was the message, right before her eyes.

“It says, ‘Red blob, white blob, green blobs,’” said Michael confidently.

“It says we have to get this to the king and queen immediately,” said Friday. She lit the candlestick once more and handed the weaving to Conrad. “Let’s go.”

“Right now?” asked John.

“In our nightclothes?” asked Wendy.

“Do you want to meet the king or not?” Michael called from the doorway. Ben was already halfway down the hall. With a hoot and a holler, Michael tore after him into the shadows. The pair made enough racket to wake half the castle, but Friday didn’t care. The five of them raced, nightclothes and all, down the corridors to the royal bedchambers. Ben barked their arrival to the twin guards who stood outside Rumbold and Sunday’s door.

“Their Majesties are asleep,” the first guard told Friday.

“Well, then, wake them up!” said Friday.

Behind the guards, the oversized door shifted open a crack. “Mission accomplished.” Sunday yawned. “Friday, dearest, what is it?”

Friday took the weaving from Conrad and thrust it in her sister’s face. “Proof!” Sunday took the mat from Friday and squinted at it. The second guard took the candlestick from Friday’s trembling hand and held it steady for his queen. “Tristan didn’t leave here willingly. He’s been captured by Mordant and taken back to the Green Isles.”

“White blob, red blob, green blobs,” Conrad translated for Michael.

“Where did you get this?” Sunday asked.

“Sebastien and Odette. Tristan used his shirt to strap the message to Sebastien and buckle it tight. They’ve flown an awful long way, but I can’t say how far. We need to hurry and launch Papa’s ship immediately!”

Sunday sighed and rubbed her eyes. “Friday . . .”

“Tristan wove that message for me,” Friday said quietly. “With his own hands.”

Sunday shook her head, but Friday could see a smirk hiding there. “Only you, my sister with a heart as big as the moon, could teach a prince to weave well enough to send you love letters. Rumbold!” she called back into the room. “You need to write me love letters!”

“Yes, dear,” mumbled the sleepy voice inside the chamber.

“Tell Mr. Jolicoeur to summon the crew and ready the ship,” Sunday said to one of the guards, and he took off running. “Collect your things,” she said to Friday. “I’ll wake the king and get his assent. May I bring this?” She indicated the weaving, and Friday nodded reluctantly. Whatever it took to convince Rumbold to let her go and take an army with her, she would do it.

Unfortunately, King Rumbold didn’t have an army to spare. “I’m sorry,” he told Friday on their way down to the grassy shore. “We’re spread thin enough as it is. I can give you Velius and a small strike force, but that’s all.”

“Against Mordant’s sorceress
and
his Infidel?” Friday prayed to the gods it would be enough. As it was, Rumbold was giving her full control of Papa’s ship when he desperately needed it for trade. Friday dared not ask for more.

Rumbold, Sunday, Monday, and Velius all accompanied her to the ship. John and Michael carried her carpetbags and Wendy held Friday’s cloak. Conrad managed his own things. Friday held only Tristan’s weaving, tight in her frightened grip. Together they climbed the slight berm that had undoubtedly saved the palace from flooding.

At the top of the hill, Friday froze. Beneath her stood Papa, Peter, and half of Arilland. On the water behind them floated her father and brother’s beautiful ship. It was a glorious sight to behold.

Even in the predawn darkness, the people of Arilland were awash in colors. Almost everyone present—and their children, who were up far earlier than they should be—wore patchwork. To Friday, the fabric would always be a symbol of love and generosity, and she was touched by their kindness. Mr. Jolicoeur waited for her in the boat meant to take her to the ship, but the children stopped her before she reached him.

“Just a moment, Princess.” Mr. Humbug’s tall hat waded through the colorful crowd. When the people before him parted, Friday noticed a patchwork handkerchief peeking from the front pocket of his coat. “Arilland has a few gifts for your journey.”

Friday wanted to jump in the water and swim for the ship immediately, but there was the small matter of her not being able to swim.

The young twins Elaine and Evelyn stepped forward, each holding one end of something. When they stopped before her, they unrolled the item and presented it fully: a flag. More precisely, a patchwork flag, in the middle of which swam a majestic white swan.

“Your ship needs to fly this,” said Elaine.

“They are your colors,” said Evelyn.

And so they were: all the colors of the rainbow. Friday hugged the girls and a cheer went up from the crowd.

“I have this for you as well,” said Mr. Humbug. He placed in Friday’s open hand a sphere that looked a bit like a brass bed knob. “When you are aboard the ship, cup the sphere between your hands and whisper where you want to go. This should speed your journey.” Friday hugged Mr. Humbug as well at this, and placed a sound kiss upon his cheek.

“Well, well.” He blushed. “Don’t get too excited. It’s just a bit of conjuring. Nothing more.”

“You have been a great help to me, sir, and my family. To all the people I love. And I thank you for that.”

“Well, well,” Mr. Humbug sputtered again. “Good, good.”

Friday raised her free hand to the crowd. “I love you all! I can’t thank you enough for seeing me off. I will remember this forever!”

A freckled, ginger man—he could only be Carrot Kate’s father—wrung his hat in his hands. “I’m not sure you understand, Princess.”

The man’s patchwork tunic was utterly charming. “Understand what?”

“We’re not here to see you off,” said the twins’ mother. “We’re here to fight for you.”

Friday covered her gaping mouth with a hand. Michael tugged at her skirts, and she turned to look down at him. “You needed an army, dintcha? Well, we got you one.” The boy raised his arms, and the children in the crowd joined his battle cry with raucous screams. So many children on the shore . . .

No. It couldn’t be.
Friday’s shock deepened and she scanned the crowd again, this time examining each face. These weren’t just concerned citizens of Arilland, they were the parents of her children. All of them. High- and lowborn alike.

“I—I can’t . . .” stammered Friday. “I can’t . . .” These people had children! Besides, she didn’t know the first thing about leading an army. No, that wasn’t quite right—she did know. Tristan had taught her. She could almost hear his voice in her head:
The most important quality is loyalty. If they know you will fight just as hard for them, they will happily die for you.
The weaving he’d sent her felt warm beneath her fingers.

“I took the liberty of selecting the halest and heartiest of the bunch for your crew,” Velius told her. “The ship will sail at capacity.”

“It’s already decided, Captain Friday,” said Mr. Humbug. “Your Patchwork Army awaits your command.”

“I can’t let you do this,” Friday finally managed to spit out, but rafts and canoes full of people were already spilling off the shore and heading to the ship. High above them, two large white swans drifted on the breeze.

“It’s out of our hands, milady,” said Kate’s father as he helped her into Mr. Jolicoeur’s craft. “We can’t disappoint our children, no more than you can.”

Friday urged Mr. Jolicoeur to row as fast as he could; she wanted to thank each and every person as they boarded the ship. There were tears in her eyes as she shook hands and received hugs and listened to parent after parent gush their praises of her. With every person she touched, she could feel her resolve strengthening. Every person, that is, but one.

She reached out to a tall, cloaked man as he boarded, but he did not take her hand. Confused, Friday looked up into the man’s shadowed face and saw ocean-blue eyes glaring back at her.

“It seems we have the same destination,” said Philippe. “Just don’t get in my way.”

16

B
Y THE TIME
Gana returned to the hold to check on her prisoners, Tristan had restrung another loom and was weaving once more. It was Christian’s idea to continue the project instead of attempting to clean up everything they had so obviously destroyed. There was no need to mask the act of weaving, he pointed out, just that they had sent the first as a message.

Rene and Bernard took the game to heart and began decorating the cage with whatever they could pull out of the carton. Elisa joined in, laughing and criticizing their choice of colors and patterns. François selected the sturdiest yarn and fashioned a sling for his wounded arm. He and Christian sat in the dead center of the cell, suggesting ideas for how they might overpower Mordant and his forces. Christian listed their assets: not much beyond Elisa’s power over wind and Tristan’s wings. François invented ridiculous and impossible methods of attack. Normally, Tristan would have reined him in, but they truly had no idea what they were in for. None of them had set foot on the Green Isles for almost a decade.

Unfortunately, Sebastien’s absence was the one thing they could not cover up. They would simply have to deal with whatever punishment Gana doled out when she realized he was missing.

The sorceress’s smell preceded her. When the air turned cloying, the siblings immediately huddled together in the center of the cell. They would not let another of them be caught unaware by that shadow-hugging assassin.

The sorceress’s first reaction was laughter. “I underestimated you.”

“Never underestimate our ability to take a joke,” said Bernard.

The sorceress considered the scene as she stroked the gleaming scales of the once-more dormant cockatrice around her neck. Tristan waited for the humor in her eyes to turn to stone. He did not have to wait long. The bars of the cell began to smoke, and all the decorative yarn was reduced to cinders. Even the loom and its contents turned to ashes in Tristan’s hands.

“Where is the bird?” She did not ask politely.

“He’s a
bird,
” Rene said boldly.

“He doesn’t do well in cages,” said Bernard. “So we encouraged him to go.”

“It wasn’t an easy decision,” Christian said solemnly. “Our family draws its power from being together.”

Tristan turned to his older brother in surprise. This wasn’t something he’d considered before, but it was certainly plausible. He only hoped it wasn’t true. Gana seemed pleased at the concern on his face; if Christian had been saving that little gem for just this sort of reaction, he’d done extremely well. Tristan hid the remnants of the expression behind his wings and concentrated on soaking up the heat from the cage bars.

“Bind them.” Gana said the command to thin air, and from that invisibility strode the Infidel. He waited for the sorceress to wave a hand over the lock to disenchant it, then turned the key and opened the door. The brothers sucked in a collective breath as the Infidel’s hand gripped the still-glowing metal bars. Even with his gloves, the heat should have been unbearable. Tristan could detect the stench of burnt leather on top of soot and corpse rot, but the Infidel did not so much as flinch.

As the masked man approached, Tristan could make out the exact quantity of red in his eyes, so much more now than the mere outline that was present only a few days ago. The iris was almost completely obscured by the color, as if all the blood had burst inside his eye sockets. Blood that glowed.