The One-Armed Queen

  Make it and take it wherever you go.

  Traveling swiftly or traveling slow,

  It will keep you filled up in the morning.

  This wasn’t a trip I was planning to make

  As I fled through the door with some good journeycake.

  But my horse was all saddled, so off I did ride

  Thankful I still had my head and my hide.

  Journeycake ho! Journeycake ho!

  Make it and take it wherever you go.

  Travel on water, on ice, or on snow,

  It will keep you filled up till the morning.

  The master was after me, likewise the noose,

  I had to go quickly and lightly and loose.

  So I grabbed what I could and I let the rest be;

  I didn’t have much—but at least I had me.

  Journeycake ho! Journeycake ho!

  Make it and take it wherever you go.

  And if you’ve no money, you’ll still have the dough

  To keep you filled up in the morning.

  THE STORY:

  Seven took up the reins of her horse, Sarai led the big black, and together they walked across the meadow toward the stream. Scillia let out a deep relieved sigh. A sound answered her, and she listened for a moment before realizing it was just a song thrush. She forced herself to relax, but at the same time she listened a moment more. Just because the sun was out did not mean they were safe. Sarai’s mother’s face came back to her. That had all been done in the daylight.

  She glanced around the meadow. It was awfully quiet, except for a lone squirrel busy at the near end of the field. Squirrels, she thought, could mean buried nuts. And nuts would be a wonderful change from journeycake. She went over and scraped about with her foot, but either the squirrel had already found his wintered-over nuts, or he was as hungry as she. All she found was an owl pellet, old and brittle, with a shrew’s skull inside. She made a face. Not much eating in shrews, even if she could catch one. They were not worth the effort. This wood, she told herself, is but a meager larder.

  There were a few new ferns, but she did not want to start a fire to boil them. The less attention she brought to the Hollow before nightfall the better. But on a mossy path, she found three different kinds of mushrooms and that—at least—was promising. One kind had an inky top and she knew it was especially good eating. The others were chancy this time of year. Still there were enough of the blackcaps for Sarai and Seven to have a meal. And perhaps further along some for herself as well. She was bending over to collect them and heard a muffled yell and then the high scream of a girl.

  Without stopping to think, she straightened up and was running across the field in a single fluid motion, unsheathing her sword as she ran. When she came to the crest of the hillside leading to the stream, she saw there were two men in leather face masks—Garuns—more intent on having their way with Seven than killing her.

  Anger rather than fear steadied Scillia, and she gripped her sword hilt tightly.

  The men did not notice her, for Seven’s screaming masked other sounds. And, since there was no sign of the black horse, it might mean the men didn’t know there was more than one girl at the stream. The one man atop Seven was holding both her hands over her head with one massive paw, loosening the leather string on his pants with the other.

  Scillia knew which one to tackle first. The more dangerous one was on his feet still; the other would be too busy for the moment, and with his pants around his ankles would be effectively bound. She half ran, half slid down the grassy slope and came up silently behind the standing man. At the last minute she coughed and, when he turned at the sound, spitted him expertly. His face as he died was full of surprise as much—she was sure—that he had been killed by a woman as that he was dead.

  When he fell, she braced her foot against his chest and pulled out her sword. She made a face at the sound. Suddenly she was a girl again and the sword slicing through the man’s chest felt like a knife through venison. She shook head, then turned, throwing herself atop the second man.

  “Wait your turn, Brun—” he cried, thinking it his friend. He was dead before he could finish the name. Scillia pushed him off Seven who was still screaming.

  Throwing her sword to one side, Scillia gathered Seven to her, saying, “There, hush, girl. They are both dead and can no longer hurt you.” But Seven continued to scream, pushing Scillia away, and it took a minute to understand.

  “Three,” the girl was screaming. “Three. One finished and went after your horse.”

  The sword was too far for her to reach and besides, it was already too late. Someone had caught her hair up from behind, jerking her backward.

  “Carnes!” came a man’s voice, straining through the leather mask. It was the Garunian word for a female jackal.

  Scillia let herself go slack against him, a trick her mother had shown her. She was ready to fling herself forward and catch him off guard, when the man cursed and dropped his hold on her hair, for a thrown rock had caught him in the back of the head. Scillia seized the opportunity and pitched forward.

  Seven screamed again, a cry this time of fury not terror. She stood and picked up the sword, then flung it at the man’s head. It struck point first between the eyes of the mask. It did not sink in terribly deep; the mask’s leather was too stiff for that. But it was deep enough to kill him. He tumbled backward slowly, like a mountain falling, his head resting finally on Sarai’s feet. She had a second rock ready to fling. When she saw he did not move she dropped the rock and threw herself onto Scillia’s chest.

  “I did not save my ma,” she sobbed “I could not let him take you, too.”

  Scillia hugged Sarai, then looked up at Seven. “Alta’s hairs!” she said. “You could have killed me with that sword.”

  “No chance of that,” Seven said. “He was much too big to miss.” Her words were brave, but the tremor in her voice and the tears running down her cheeks gave them the lie.

  “Did you learn that at Selden Hame?” Scillia whispered, rocking the weeping child as she spoke.

  “It’s the Game,” Seven said, finally.

  “Game?”

  “The Game of Wands.” She tried to smile and failed. “The mothers taught us. ‘Round the circle, round the ring,’” she began in a breathy voice.

  “I know, child,” Scillia said, gathering her in as well. “I once called it a silly sport. How was I to know?” And she thought how her own mother had taught her only games of peace. Well, it will be the children who are my teachers now.

  THE RHYMES:

  Trot trot to Selden,

  Trot o’er the lea,

  They caught seven children,

  But they never caught me.

  —Ball-bouncing rhyme, South Dales

  Ride a black horse,

  Ride a grey mare,

  Follow the lady

  If only you dare.

  —Toe-and-finger-count game, South Dales

  The number of the beast

  Is three times seven.

  All good children

  Go to Heaven.

  —Counting out rhyme, North Dales

  THE STORY:

  Well before the lowest tide, Sarana led the men along the shore, leaving their horses in the willow copse. Three of them carried the withy ladder and they slipped through the dark, being silent a shadows.

  This time luck was with them. They were not seen.

  The wind off the ocean was cold and they were all shivering by the time they got to the rocks below the castle, but it did not slow them down. They set the ladder against the wall, sighting on the single dark window above them, then anchored the bottom of the ladder between two boulders, with a man on each side. The ladder was within a hand’s span of the window and Sarana let out a sigh of relief.

  “I’ll go first,” she whispered. “I know what to expect. Or at least I knew better than anyone else. If I scream, scatter and find some other way to divert them from looking out toward the sea.”
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  “We should have gone the other side, then,” muttered Malwen and several of the men grunted their agreement.

  “We no longer have the numbers for that sort of thing,” Sarana reminded them, though in truth she half believed him right. Without another word, she began to scramble up the ladder, pleased that the rungs held.

  Near the top, she slowed and felt cautiously with her right hand over the sill, something biting deeply into her palm.

  “Alta’s braid!” she cursed quietly. How could she have forgotten the broken glass? She inched up two more rungs, keeping her head and body to the side of the window, and carefully peered in.

  The window was not boarded up but inside the wine cellar it was pitch black. Not a single torch lit the rooms. That is odd, she thought, remembering the flickering light of the prison. She listened carefully for a moment longer, than scrambled down the ladder.

  “What is it?” someone asked. “Were you seen?”

  “There is no one there,” she said.

  “What do you mean?” Malwen asked sourly.

  “Just that. The rooms are dark, empty. Can we make a torch before I go back?”

  “I can,” someone whispered, and was gone back up the beach, returning shortly with a stick of driftwood wound round with dry grasses. “It won’t last long.”

  “I just need it for a short while to see what is wrong up there.” She felt in her leather pocket for her flints. “Give it me. I’ll signal as soon as I know.”

  “A scream will do,” Malwen said. He hadn’t meant it to relieve the tension but everyone laughed.

  Sarana scrambled back up the ladder, with less caution this time, though made awkward by the driftwood torch. She balanced for a moment on the sill, and leaned the torch against the side of the window. Then she got out her flints, struck a spark, and lit the torch. She held it in front of her into the cavernous dark and the light flowed like water over the wall and floor. She could see nothing that might be a danger, so she jumped down, slipped on a wine bottle, and stifled a yell.