“She was the Witch who gave the drugged apple to the girl in the glass coffin, in order to save her from the prince,” the Huntsman adds. Then he adds in a low voice, “But that girl’s storybreaker failed her, and she ended up with the prince, even though she was in love with someone else.”
“She was brave, your mother,” Templeton finishes.
“Did you know her?” I ask.
“Well, I did say that she worked inside Story,” Templeton answers. “All of us here”—she waves her hand to include all the people gathered around the fire—“all of us managed to get ourselves outside of Story.” She shrugs. “Some of us met her, when she was the witch in our stories, or the bad fairy or whatever, but she wasn’t one of us.”
But she’d had a daughter. She must have had some kind of life outside of Story. Where did we live? Did she spend much time with me, or was she always away, being the Witch, fighting against the Godmother?
Did she love me?
“Your mother fought inside Story for a long time,” Templeton says, “though she usually lost. And in the end she lost her life, too.”
“When?” I interrupt. “How long ago did it happen?”
“What do you think?” Templeton asks the Huntsman. “Last winter, maybe?”
“About that, I’d say,” he answers.
My heart shivers with a sudden sense of loss. One year, that’s all. One year ago I had a mother and a name and a place in the world, and now it’s gone. The only memory I have of her is when she gave me the thimble. “The Godmother must have taken me then,” I realize. “She worked her memory spell with the thimble and turned me into one of her seamstresses.”
“That’s likely what happened,” Templeton says. “Since your mother was killed, the Godmother has prevailed. No one has escaped their story’s ending and come here to hide. Many storybreakers have died. Story has grown stronger. There’s none who can stop it now.”
CHAPTER
32
SHOE STARES DOWN AT THE SANDY FLOOR OF THE CAVE listening to Templeton talking to Pen, his thoughts spinning, trying to parse the possibilities of what will happen next.
By the fire, the Huntsman clears his throat. “You are welcome to stay, Prince Cor, Shoe, and Pen. The forest used to be the Godmother’s. Stories used to happen in the forest, but it grew too wild, too unmanageable, so she had to build her city.”
“The forest is a rebel, too,” Templeton puts in.
“That’s right,” the Huntsman goes on. “It hides us. The trackers will give up eventually, and you will be safe here.”
Listening, Shoe gives a tiny shake of his head. As Templeton says, he is a storybreaker, and he knows how much the Godmother hates him and wants him crushed beneath the wheels of Story. And she wants Pen even more. This story—Pen’s story—is crucial; Pen has a thimble and is the daughter of the Witch, so she is far more important to Story than she realizes. The Godmother is not going to give up her hunt this easily. If she has to, she will cover the entire forest with ice and snow until he and Pen and the rest of them are frozen and waiting for her footmen to find them.
“While I thank you for your offer,” Cor says formally, “I must go to East Oria. And Pen, you should come with me.”
“No,” Shoe interrupts. “I don’t think you should leave, either of you.” This is not going to be good, but he has to say it. “Not yet, I mean,” he adds.
“Explain, Shoe,” Cor orders.
He nods, trying to think it through.
There’s none who can stop Story now, Templeton had said. Circles within circles, he’d told Pen, and no escape except into another prison.
“Shoe?” the Huntsman prompts.
Shoe nods. What if there really is another way? He is a storybreaker. And Pen—with her thimble and the strength that is so much a part of her that she doesn’t even realize it—she’s even more powerful. “The Godmother’s fortress,” he says slowly. “It isn’t far from here?”
“We’re practically under her nose,” Templeton says.
“Pen, I know you don’t remember,” Shoe says to her. “But the fortress is full of people like us. Like Marya.” He nods at Tobias, who nods back. “The Godmother’s thimble took away our memories, our pasts, and we were put to work.” He gazes intently at Pen, willing her to understand. “You were a Seamstress. I was a Shoemaker.” He remembers when he first met Pin in the fortress, when she’d whispered this in his ear, the soft caress of her cheek against his. “We didn’t touch, or talk, or . . . or kiss, or fall in love. We were slaves to Story, that’s all.”
Pen is standing close beside Cor. She is staring at Shoe with her eyebrows raised; she doesn’t remember any of this, of course.
She doesn’t remember that moment during their escape when she’d promised aloud to go back to the fortress and rescue the Jacks who had helped them, and free the Godmother’s other slaves, too. She doesn’t remember the other Seamstress, Marya, who had died on the wall, impaled by thorns.
Marya, who had been loved by Tobias before she’d been turned into a Seamstress. Early that morning, Tobias had found Shoe in a corner of the cave where he’d been sleeping. “Come on,” the other man had said, shaking him awake. “We’ll go have a look around outside.”
The snow had been blue with the shadows of the night as they climbed out of the cave and scouted for signs of the Godmother’s trackers. The air had been bitterly cold; they’d tramped silently along, their breath puffing out as clouds of steam. The snow had turned pink as the sun rose, and then sparkling white, but the air didn’t warm. They reached a high place and stopped to look out. The valley below them was absolutely still, the pines cloaked with snow.
Tobias pulled down the scarf covering his mouth. “You were there,” he said, his broad farmer’s face expressionless. “In the Godmother’s fortress.”
“Yes,” Shoe said.
“I wandered into the forest from outside when I was searching for her. My girl, Marya. Was she there, in the fortress? The Godmother took her, for a seamstress most likely.”
Shoe knew exactly who Tobias was talking about. He nodded.
Tobias looked steadily over the quiet valley. “She’s still there?”
Shoe made the blow quick. “No. She’s dead.”
Tobias’s face is grim. “Badly?”
“Yes,” Shoe said. “I’m sorry.”
There was a long silence. “Nothing you could have done about it, is there?” Tobias had said at last, not expecting an answer. “We’d best be getting back.”
As they’d hiked back to the cave, Shoe had realized exactly what they needed to do to strike at the very heart of Story so that people like Marya and Tobias would never be hurt again.
Cor is staring at him impatiently. “Well, Shoe? We know already that you were a slave in the fortress.”
Shoe nods. “Pin and I escaped from the Godmother’s fortress, but we left people behind,” he says. “We need to help her slaves escape, just like we did.”
“Wait a moment,” Templeton interrupts. “What are you talking about exactly here, Shoe?”
Shoe looks at her, then at the others gathered around the campfire. “I’m talking about invading the Godmother’s fortress.”
“What?” Templeton squawks. Beside her, Zel breaks into a silent laugh.
“For one thing,” Shoe goes on stubbornly, “if we do it, we’ll free her slaves. For another, it’ll jam up the wheels of Story, taking away all the dresses and shoes and candles, and things—”
“And straw to be spun into gold,” puts in the wizened little man across the fire unexpectedly.
“And dancing slippers,” adds one of the four redheaded sisters; the other three nod.
“And glass coffins,” finishes the Huntsman. “All of those things make Story turn.”
“Right,” Shoe goes on. Before anybody can object, he continues. “We should do it fast. We know the Godmother’s in the city, not at the fortress. Her guards and footmen are all out searching. We’ve go
t Pen and her thimble. There are enough of us; together we might be able to invade the fortress, disarm the few guards and overseers left behind, and rescue her slaves.”
The others are staring in disbelief.
Deciding to risk it all, he tells them the rest of the plan he’s been turning over in his head. “From there, we’d have enough people to go after the Godmother.”
“You mean attack the city?” Cor asks, his voice strained.
Shoe nods. “Not just the city. Story itself.”
They are all still staring as if he is crazy. Shoe feels a flush prickling his cheeks. He can see the shape of things now, and he knows the plan he’s suggesting is the only way to truly escape the ending that is coming for all of them.
“You’re not just a storybreaker,” Templeton says at last. “You are the storybreaker.”
“It would stir up a lot of trouble,” says the Huntsman. His eyes are gleaming in the firelight.
“I think it’s a terrible idea,” Cor says, his voice deep and authoritative. “We should let my mother, the queen, deal with the Godmother, and with Story.”
“No.” Shoe shakes his head. “She never has before. People from East Oria must have been disappearing for years, but you didn’t even know that Story existed, did you, hidden away in its city in the middle of the forest?”
“No,” Cor admits.
“Then we can’t wait any longer,” Shoe says. “The time to do it is now.”
There is a long silence. Shoe sneaks a glance at Pen, but she is staring down at her fingers, which are turning the thimble over and over.
“All right,” Templeton says at last. She glances aside at Zel, who gives a decided nod. “We’re in.”
“As am I,” the Huntsman says.
“I’m for it, too,” Tobias says.
To Shoe’s surprise, Pen looks up and gives a sudden laugh. “Oh, I think it’s a wonderful idea,” she says.
“Pen!” Cor protests.
“Cor, we’ll never be free of Story unless we try to break it,” she says. “I think it’s brilliant. The Godmother will think we’re running like scared rabbits. She’ll never expect an attack. Well done, Shoe.” She gives him a clean, clear smile, her gray eyes shining.
He finds himself smiling back at her.
Her eyes widen, and then she frowns. “I’ve never seen you do that before.”
“Do what?” he asks, nervous. It’s as if they’re suddenly alone together, not in a cave crowded with other people.
“Smile, of course,” she says.
“Oh.” He thinks back. “I don’t remember ever doing it before.”
CHAPTER
33
SHOE TELLS US ABOUT THE PEOPLE IN THE CITY—THEM that knows, he calls them—who are willing to resist the Godmother. “They’ll help us, I’m sure of it,” he says. “If we could get them a message . . .”
“I’ll take it,” Tobias volunteers.
“Natters and his Missus,” Shoe says. “Start with them. They’re the leaders, and they’ll know who else to contact.”
“Good,” I say. “If we manage to defeat the guards at the fortress, we’ll move on the city. We’ll need a signal.” I glance at the group around the campfire to see if they have any suggestions.
“The fog,” the Huntsman says. “The forest is on our side.”
“All right,” I say, with a decided nod. “When the fog rises, we will come.”
We decide to give Tobias two days’ head start before we invade the Godmother’s fortress. That gives Cor and me and Shoe time to rest, and to make our plans.
After Tobias leaves, I corner Shoe and make him tell me everything he knows—or guesses—about Story. It gives me a lot to think about, but I’m still tired from the flight from the city, so I curl up in a corner to nap for a few hours. When I wake up, night has fallen outside the cave and I can hear the clash of metal on metal. I rub the sleep out of my eyes and get to my feet.
Out in the main part of the cave, by the light of lanterns set in a circle, Templeton and Zel are fighting each other with long, narrow swords that flash quick and silver in the dim light as they beat and parry. Their feet kick up little puffs of sand.
“Hah!” Templeton shouts, and lunges as keen as a thrown spear at Zel’s heart.
Zel coolly parries Templeton’s blade and, quicker than my eye can see, has her opponent on the floor with the sword blade at her throat.
Templeton smiles up at her. “Nicely done, love.”
Smoothly Zel sheathes her blade, then bends and pulls Templeton to her feet.
They are good. Very, very good.
Templeton, dusting sand from her knees, catches sight of me. “What about you, Pen? Can you fight?”
“No,” I admit. “But I want to learn.”
“Ah, good,” Templeton says, rubbing her hands together. “We love teaching people how to fight.” Zel nods, grinning. “First we’ll have to choose you a weapon.”
Silently, Zel holds out her sword to me. The leather-wrapped hilt is warm from her hand; I grip it tightly. It feels awkward, and wrong somehow. “I don’t know. . . ,” I mutter.
“No, you’re right,” Templeton says. “Zel is all grace and quickness, but you need something more solid.”
Zel raises her eyebrows and tilts her chin.
“No, not a knife,” Templeton answers. “A pike, maybe?”
Zel gives her head a decided shake. No.
While talking, they’ve led me to the edge of the cave, to a pile of weapons, both edged and blunted for practice, a shield or two, spears, and a large wooden chest.
As if it knows something I don’t, my hand reaches for a long staff that leans against the bumpy cave wall. It is made of smooth, darkened oak and is as thick as my wrist, with metal caps at each end. My hands close around it and my body moves to find its balance. I hold it easily, testing its weight.
“A staff. Right,” Templeton says with a nod. “Let’s see what you can do with it.”
We go back to the sandy practice circle.
Around the fire, Shoe and Cor have their heads together with the Huntsman and a few of the others. As we step into the circle of lantern light, they look up.
I am so tired of being used by Story. For as long as I can remember—which isn’t very long—I have been determined to fight the Godmother, to do something. Feeling the smooth wood of the staff under my fingers, I finally sense my chance for action gathering in my arms and legs, and in the strong center of my very self. I whirl the staff around my head and plant it in the sand, then take up a fighting stance.
Templeton grins and salutes me with the practice sword she selected from the pile of weapons. “Have at me, Pen!”
She doesn’t wait for me, but launches herself into an attack, one as blunt and straightforward as I might expect from her. My body shifts; I raise the staff, blocking her blade, ducking her next blow. She lunges again, and I slide away, bring the staff around, and with a metal-capped end knock her on the elbow. With a yelp, she drops her sword onto the sand.
“Ooh,” she says, shaking out her hand. Grinning, she picks up her sword again. “Zel, care to join us?”
Her eyes alight, Zel steps into the circle and raises her sword—an edged weapon, not just for practice. They circle me, testing for weakness, slow reactions, but my staff leaps out to meet every attack. I flow, block, thrust, always balanced, always ready. We spar until Templeton takes a blow to the shoulder, flings down her practice sword, ducks the staff, and barrels into me, bearing me to the sand. Zel stands over us, laughing silently.
“You are good!” Templeton says, pushing herself off of me. She leans down and pulls me to my feet.
Panting, I dust sand from my leather vest. She’s right. I am.
Because I’ve done this before, of course. I had forgotten, but my body remembers. “My mother must have taught me,” I realize.
“She knew what she was doing,” Templeton says. Zel nods in agreement and raises her sword. “Again?” Templet
on asks.
I find myself returning her grin. I love this feeling of strength and competence. “Again,” I say with a nod.
We spar for another hour, working, too, on ways of fighting together against multiple opponents, until all three of us are exhausted. At last, sore and sweaty, I settle next to the Huntsman on the cool side of the training circle, away from the fire. Zel and Templeton have gone to inspect the weapons, to be sure all the edged ones are well sharpened.
In the circle, Cor shows Shoe how to hold a knife. “Think of it as an extension of your fist,” Cor instructs, then demonstrates. “Don’t think stab, think punch.”
Watching intently, Shoe nods and then, perfectly balanced, he smoothly repeats the motion.
“Good,” Cor approves.
I watch as Shoe follows Cor’s instruction to keep the knife hidden as long as he can. In a knife fight, Cor explains to him, the one who strikes fast, without warning, is the one who wins.
The Huntsman hands me a tin cup of cooled tea. “So,” he murmurs in his deep voice. “The plan?”
“We’ll invade, free the slaves, and then use the fortress as a base from which to go after the Godmother,” I say. “We’ll strike fast and hard, assisted from within the city by the rebels that Tobias is contacting.”
“Well enough,” he says.
“I know it won’t be straightforward or easy.” I cast him a sidelong glance, seeing his concern. “But one of the advantages that we have over Story is that we don’t have to do what’s expected. Story has to follow a pattern. We don’t. We’ll be ready, whatever happens.”
He looks a little more cheerful. “If you think so.”
“I do.” As I speak I realize that somehow I’ve become leader of this group. Me, who was so uncertain, so hesitant. I may not know who I am—what I am—but I am determined to win this fight. To take up where my mother left off. Maybe the others can sense that, and I hope they’re not wrong.
COR HAS FINISHED teaching knifework to Shoe. They step out of the training circle and I go to meet them.