21 . 4 . 13
I have not been following through on my Wednesday updating plan, clearly. Life has been a bit monumentous, and trying to focus on writing is difficult. However, I am going to sit here until it is time for church and organize a few more chapters so I can update weekly for a while. Thanks for sticking with me!
Once asleep on the (surprisingly) comfortable bed in The Purple Jay, however, Tyrillius was not able to completely rest. The same feeling that had drawn him south, though he had no firm reason to ride south, was stirring around in his mind, affecting his dreams. He was not one prone to odd dreams usually, and — though his recent experiences might excuse anxious or frightening dreams — these dreams were nothing like he'd ever experienced. In the midst of whatever scenario his mind had seen fit to dream about, little snippets of conversation and landscape would appear and disappear with no rhyme or reason. Always it was of a woman, middle-aged and with curly hair, talking to a girl who appeared to be the spitting image of Amethyst at age six.
Why he would imagine Amethyst at such a tender age he couldn't imagine, and as for who the woman was he had even less of an idea. All he knew was that when he woke, he had an even more pressing feeling that he needed to ride northeast. After a late dinner — he awoke after the sun had set — he rode off in that direction, still without any logical reasoning for doing so.
This action did not go unnoticed.
The men and women in the Jay found the quiet young stranger quite intriguing, and they all had different theories as to why he would be coming and going at such odd hours. Some thought he might be a messenger, judging by his fancy clothes, but others refuted that idea; all the messengers who usually passed through Haven were jocund and loquacious fellows, happy to bring them the latest news from court. Some thought he might be a lord's son of Werinith or Syndoc, who had been separated from his party somehow. Others thought he might be a squire on his way to his knighting ceremony. (Although it was not quite the season for knightings, the elder men pointed out.)
It was not, however, Haven's opinion of him that was the most important — or the most grave. Now in the southern regions of Syndoc, it was the witch who had begun to realize that they were being followed. Of course, she had expected to be trailed by guards who found her inevitable slip-ups and clues accidentally left behind. She had successfully ranged through enough towns and fields, however, to ensure they wouldn't catch her before the princess was safely dead.
The lone horseman, however, was not following her path. He was anticipating it. At first she thought it was a coincidence, but when she changed the roads she was taking to the safe house in eastern Syndoc and the horseman changed his route without hesitation, she knew there was more to it. Her magic was not infinite, however, and it took the better part of a day to mutter spell after spell, casting about vaguely until she found the right one — one that would tell her how the man was following them so closely. (In fact, if he kept at this rate, he would cross paths with them just before they reached the safe house.)
In all of her casting, the witch finally got a glimpse of the man's face, and recognized Tyrillius in an instant. Upon discovering the identity of the horseman, everything else made sense.
"Blast that prince!" she said suddenly, making Amethyst jump and the horse snort indignantly. "I've got to get into the habit of undoing spells. I should have known that one would come back to bite me."
"Is Prince Tyrillius following us?" Amethyst said, flattered, though with some surprise.
"The absolute dunce," the woman said by way of reply. "I don't know what he expects to do." (A fair thought, as Tyrillius didn't know himself.)
"Save me, obviously," Amethyst said, rolling her eyes. Then, she suddenly remembered what the witch had said in the first place. "Wait, when did you put a spell on him?"
"On the road, on the way to the castle," the witch muttered distractedly. "It was the only way I could get in. Now stop talking so I can think."
Amethyst considered pressing the issue to distract the witch, but the dangerous furrow of the woman's eyebrows reminded her that she was, after all, a murderer. And with this new development, she may decide that killing Amethyst right away is the best solution. Best not to push her too far.
Nonetheless, the thought of someone coming after them was buoying to Amethyst's flagging spirits. Though she had, over the course of the past day or so, graduated to speaking terms with her captor, it had been a discouraging acquaintance. It had seemed that the woman had thought of everything, and that Amethyst was just going to die a perfectly undignified death, after all. Even though Tyrillius might not have been the man she would have chosen to save her (what other man she might have chosen is not significant) she would take what she could get. He was not a coward, and he was adequate at fencing — she remembered being impressed with his skills in the royal tournament the year previous. Assuming he could incapacitate the witch before she cast any spells, he had a fair chance.
In any case, the several hours she had spent as a squirrel had been enough to convince her that being kidnapped was not as romantic as the books made it seem it would be. A hero of any kind was still a hero. And she felt quite entitled to one after that escapade.
What really bothered her, though, was that the woman who had kidnapped her seemed deceptively … un-evil. She was gentle, kind, and comforting. Yet, for all her pleasantries and general proof of sanity, she never called into question whether or not she would be killing Amethyst in five days. About that, she was unwavering and unapologetic. Amethyst had tried everything from shouting to begging to tears, but the woman was unmoved. Amethyst finally had to comfort herself in knowing that, if she was going to die, she was going to die holding the hand of someone who reminded her of a comforting fairy godmother.
That thought stuck with her the rest of the long, long day of riding. They didn't stop until Amethyst had already fallen asleep and woken up several times with her back pressed to the witch's chest. By then, her mind was blurry and her speech slurred with tiredness. The next day, she barely recalled anything that had happened past sunset. This was fortunate for the witch, because it forestalled any questions that might have arisen from the princess the next morning.
"You're like my fairy godmother," Amethyst sighed as the witch tucked a blanket around her curled form.
The woman just laughed. The laugh was sad, the kind of laugh that held a story. Her hand moved like it would stroke the princess' hair, but she pulled it back and turned away.
"I'm the fairy godmother's worst enemy," was all she said, before blowing out the lantern and casting an unnecessary spell around them to blind any odd passers-by. Amethyst was asleep almost before she heard the woman's reply.
Tyrillius had given up on justifying his actions to either himself or Booker after that afternoon at The Purple Jay, and he relegated himself to the confines of his own mind as he rode, forever following the nagging tug at the back of his mind.
It was not hard to stay in his own mind, however. The images and conversations that had plagued his dreams steadily moved to his daydreams, then his passing thoughts. The only differences in these images was that Amethyst was soon restored to her proper appearance, giving Tyrillius the idea that he was, somehow, seeing the princess and her kidnapper.
As with most humans, magic was not the first thing that occurred to him. Insanity was the first thing, actually, but in the interest of boosting his self-esteem, he decided to explore other options. Magic seemed to be the only other plausible option. And, he argued, the princess' situation was all brought about by a curse. Was it really so far-fetched that he, the prince expected to marry her, would be embroiled in the mess of magic somehow?
As if to prove his theory — though it was not, in fact, true — the images and conversations he saw began to confirm that following the nagging feeling in the back of his mind was leading him closer to Amethyst. The woman became increasingly more agitated, and their days of riding became longer. Additionally, the scenery he saw in these images would often strike him as deja vu when he passed them on his own path.
It was an altogether odd sensation. He rarely trusted his gut feelings on anything, preferring to think through things logically and decide based on the pros and cons. However, it could not be denied that, assuming these visions were true, he was on the right path. That doubt cropped up occasionally, but he kept pushing it back. After all, what else could he do? Go home, where his family wasn't sure whether or not he was involved? Go back to Folall, where he would almost assuredly be killed or tortured by the townspeople? Go back to the castle in secret and try to follow clues from there?
No, there was no way to proceed but to follow the path he had set out for himself on the night he left his brother in the inn. He may not be accomplishing anything now, but he doubted he could make any headway in a different course of action before it was too late.
But by far, the oddest part of the entire situation was when the woman began speaking to him in his visions. The first time it happened, he nearly fell off his horse, which Booker did not much appreciate.
"I know you can probably hear me," the witch said, looking pointedly at an offending cloud, though Amethyst didn't think that was whom she was really addressing. Although who she could possibly be talking to in the sky was beyond the princess' comprehension. Perhaps the woman really was crazy. "I'm warning you now to leave off. You can't stop me, and you'll only end up getting yourself killed. Everyone does."
She laughed that laugh again — the laugh that told a story.
"What are you doing?" Amethyst asked, raising an eyebrow. She surmised that the witch was attempting to speak with Tyrillius. "He can't hear you. Unless he's really that close."
She peeked over her shoulder hopefully, half-expecting Tyrillius to come bounding out of the slowly-passing forest with a gleaming sword and a battle cry.
"He might be able to," the woman said with a shrug. "Magic is tricky sometimes. I can see him occasionally, especially as he gets closer, so it probably works in reverse."
"You can see him?" Amethyst said with interest. "Is he alright then?"
"Surprisingly, yes," the woman answered, her tone slightly disbelieving and a bit offensive. "I thought the scanty evidence I had time to plant would be enough to keep him locked up for a few days, at least. Maybe even executed."
"You framed Tyrillius?" Amethyst said in horror. "Do you know how paranoid my family is?"
"Oh, quite," the woman said, with a bit too much relish. Her dispassionate smile was unsettling. "I've been watching you, you know."
"That is not something I wanted to hear," Amethyst said, now thoroughly unsettled.
"Come come," the woman chided. "I had to keep an eye on you. Filling a curse is not as easy as one would suspect. That's why I had to kidnap you at all. There was no way to get a spindle into your castle, even with my magical shielding. Your parents paid good money to keep any sewing icons out of the castle; those fiari wishes are nothing to mess with."
Amethyst didn't respond; the mention of the curse reminded her that she now only had four days to live, unless she could find a way to escape. Odd, really, that her life had been reduced to four risings and settings of the sun. Such a small number — frighteningly small. The deep gloom, the voice that whispered that she had wasted her life, the sticky darkness, reached out for her again, but she shook it off. If she only had four days, she would have to make the most of them. As her activities were much limited by her captivity, she could at least find the answers to some questions she'd been wondering for a long time.
"Why spindles?" she asked.
The woman looked at her, then tucked a curl behind her ear and sighed.
"I don't know, really. I suppose it was the first thing to come to my mind. I woke up late that morning, see, and didn't have time to fully plan out the day's events. I knew death would be involved, but the spindle just sort of happened of its own accord."
"Why do you talk about this like it's some sort of story — some sort of game?" Amethyst snapped. That was the one most unsettling part about the witch, the thing that made Amethyst more sure that she was actually out of her mind. No one could talk about death like that — no, about murder like that — like it was an activity between breakfast and tea.
"It is a story," the woman said, nudging the horse faster. "They're all stories."
"Everyone you've cursed?" Amethyst pressed, anger still infecting her tone. "All the innocent lives you've taken?"
"All of them," the woman said. "And they were all beautiful." Her tone was calm, too calm. As always.
"Then why did you kill them?" Amethyst said, aware that she was shouting now. "Why are you going to kill me? What has anyone ever done to deserve that?"
"Nothing at all." This statement was barely able to be heard over the sound of the horse's hooves.
"Then don't do it!" Amethyst cried in frustration. Nothing made sense about this woman. If she had been expecting a villain with clear motives or blind hatred, she was severely disappointed. The more she talked with the witch, the less she understood her.
True to form, the woman stopped answering her then, and Amethyst soon resorted to simply crying, as silently as she could, until there were no more tears. It didn't make her feel better, but it kept her from getting any more frustrated, because she couldn't talk when she was crying that hard.
The woman took a deep breath to resettle herself. They always got pitiful and weepy near the end. It was only four more days. Then, it would all be over for another year.