The sundering hours, p.41
The Sundering Hours, page 41
“Don’t put the idea into her head,” Harriet said.
“Ah, yes. I keep forgetting they’re learning to understand speech. It’s really quite remarkable, you know. You must be the first Cassrian to ever achieve so much.”
She shook her head and glanced back at Annabelle. “I doubt that’s true.”
“No, I’m . . . I’m sure it is.”
The earnestness in his voice drew her gaze again.
Delia made a small noise of clearing her throat and stepped forward. “You know, Martin, Ink and I have been meaning to have a word with Simon. Why don’t you take Bessie?”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. You two enjoy the walk.”
Ink frowned. “Whatcha mean? What word with Simon?”
“I’ll remind you on the way,” Delia said, almost glaring at him. “Now come along!”
She took him by the hand and all but dragged him towards the companionway. He hadn’t the faintest idea what had spurred her to do such a thing, but as no one had yet won an argument with the formidable quartermaster, he let himself be dragged.
As they passed by the cannon where Oswald sat, the old cat hunched his back and hissed at Ink.
“Oh, give it a rest!” he shot back.
As the Chain Breaker was such a large ship, it could sometimes take a while to find someone, and even longer if you needed a specific someone. Delia thought to head to the surgery first, and would tell Ink nothing more about the business other than “just wait, you’ll see”.
They did find Simon in the surgery. When he had looked up from the hefty medical tome he’d been reading and greeted them, Delia nodded towards Ink.
“I think it’s time.”
Simon raised his eyebrows. “Time? For the thing we’ve been talking about?”
“The very thing.”
“Right,” he said, closing his book.
“What thing?” Ink said. “Am I in trouble? What’s this all about?”
“Relax,” Delia replied. “We’re only going to the armory.”
“The armory? Oh, sure! Now I can relax!”
Simon led the way. Once they arrived, he went to a locked cupboard in the corner. Delia produced a key and handed it to him. Not long ago, Ink would have expected the worst and begun looking for an escape route. Now he was only curious and strained to see over Simon’s shoulder as he rummaged through the shelves. When he turned back to them, he was holding a small weapon.
It was Ink’s pistol—the one he’d kept hidden in his boot during his travels across Eriaris, and which had been confiscated his first day on Riverfall. Simon held it out to him.
“This is what Delia and I have been discussing. I took it from you when you first came to us because I thought you couldn’t be trusted with it. That you were far too angry and frightened to be armed. But since then you’ve proved yourself to be a loyal friend, fully trustworthy, and one of the bravest souls among us.”
“Brave? Me?”
“Yes, Mr. Featherfield, brave. To our knowledge, you’ve faced down Spektors on no less than three occasions now.”
“Faced them down and had the gall to tell them off,” Delia added with a smirk.
“Aw, that wasn’t brave,” Ink said. “Foolish more like.”
Simon tilted his head. “Well, those two traits aren’t always mutually exclusive. Just ask our dear Keyholder the next time you see him.”
Ink felt the blood drain from his face. He put a hand to his stomach and tried to swallow the lump in his throat, then took a step back and shook his head.
“I can’t take it. The pistol, I mean. I can’t take it back.”
“Can’t take it?” Delia echoed. “Are you feeling all right?”
Simon frowned. “It doesn’t look like it. Maybe we should head back to the surgery.”
“No. No, I’m all right.”
“Inkwell,” Delia said with a tone of deadly seriousness. “We offer your own property back to you and you react like we’re asking you to eat a poisonous snake. Now what’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
Simon studied him closely. “Nothing you can say, you mean? Like Skiff?”
Ink dropped his gaze, cursing himself. He used to be a lot better at hiding his foolish feelings. Better at hiding everything, in fact. He retreated farther, sank onto a stool near a rack of blades, then squeezed his hands into fists and bowed his head. When he forced himself to speak again, he had to fight every word before it crossed his lips.
“If I . . . if I told you . . . you’d hate me forever. All of you.”
Delia folded her arms. “Better you let us decide how to feel. It’ll be far more accurate.”
“You will. I know you will.”
“Come on, Ink,” Simon said. “We’ve been through our share of trouble and misfortune, and still we’ve not stooped so low as to actually hate anyone.”
Ink clenched his fists tighter, pressing his fingernails into his palms. He couldn’t tell them. Not after what they’d done for him, and he for them. He hadn’t come this far and worked so hard only to lose it all—to lose them—with a few words.
“I can’t,” he replied. “I’m sorry.”
He stood and turned to hurry out of the armory.
“Wait!” Delia said. “What if . . . we play a game?”
That stopped him. Ink glanced back at her. “A game?”
“Yes. I used to play it with my children when they were young, whenever they were reluctant to tell me something. We called it ‘the Secret Game.’”
Ink stepped back again. “Go on.”
She glanced at Simon before continuing. “Each player tells a secret about themselves. Something none of the other players know, which none of them may repeat to anyone else without permission. It requires absolute trust and honesty. But this way, we all have something to reveal. Not only you. If you agree to the terms, I am willing to do so.”
Simon looked unsure, but after a moment of thought he finally nodded. “And me.”
This was clever. Very clever. Ink had a strict policy of keeping private information close to the chest, but he also had a strong streak of curiosity. Delia had secrets? And Simon as well? The perfect priest? He could scarcely believe it, and he certainly couldn’t turn down a willing offer to reveal them. For the rest of his life, he would wonder what he’d missed.
Maybe the game was worth the risk. And he wouldn’t have to tell them the worst of his secrets. He could simply choose one that wasn’t quite so damning. Or at least one that wasn’t the least bit his fault.
“Fine,” he said, returning to the stool. “I’ll play your game. But you two go first, and they better be good secrets! Not like you accidentally hit a cat with a wagon or anything like that.”
Delia sighed and suddenly looked quite weary. “Well . . . no worries there. Not for me, anyway. What about you, Simon?”
He was staring off into space, his brow furrowed and his eyes full of troubled memories. When he realized they were waiting on him, he seated himself on a nearby barrel and rubbed his stubbled jaw. He leaned to one side and glanced this way and that, making sure no one else would hear, then sighed heavily.
“I promised myself I would never tell anyone. It pains me to do so now. But if it helps you, Ink, I will bear it.” He took a deep breath before continuing. “I told you what happened to me when we were all separated after Harroway. How I found myself in a dreadful little clinic with a disgraced physician styling himself as ‘Professor Percival’. I told you about the . . . program he put me through, to rehabilitate me. The music and the philosophy books and the psychological poking and prodding.”
Ink nodded. “And then you escaped.”
“Eventually. But not before . . . not before he’d spent five days sending bolts of electricity through me.”
Delia’s mouth fell open, her expression both horrified and crestfallen. “He tortured you?”
“Please. Please don’t repeat it to anyone else.”
“But why would you keep that a secret? You ought to have told someone! Not carried it inside you all this time, unacknowledged!”
“I knew it would pain whoever I told it to. I didn’t want that pain to spread any farther than me. I didn’t want his influence to reach anyone else—as it has now done. And besides that . . . I was ashamed.”
“What for?” Ink asked. “It was hardly your fault.”
Simon gripped a hand around each of his arms. His grim face darkened. “I have been a Defender. I’m supposed to stand firm against evil and darkness. I’m supposed to know the dangers of hate and despair, better than most. But as the days passed, I began to give no regard to such things. I began to hate. For the first time in my life. Even now I must avoid all remembrance of that time for fear of it rising in me again. I don’t mean to hate anyone. But I couldn’t stop it, and I couldn’t control it once it appeared. Couldn’t wish it away or talk it down. It was too insidious for that, as if it had a will of its own. That was a terror in and of itself.”
“Simon,” Delia said, “I don’t believe anyone in that situation would have reacted any differently. Not all the Defenders and Keyholders who ever lived, put together. You are being far too hard on yourself. If it were someone else who had suffered what you did, would you be telling them all these things you tell yourself? Shaming and rebuking them?”
He pursed a corner of his mouth. “Of course not.”
“All right. Then let’s have no more of it.” She went to him and embraced him. “I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve what happened to you. I am so sorry.”
At once, Ink began to regret compelling Simon to reveal what he’d told them. And yet, it had done him good in the end. As Delia pulled back, she remained standing near with a hand on Simon’s shoulder. Ink could see she was preparing herself. She took a deep breath, then glanced up as though to gaze at the sky through the timbers. Simon covered her hand with his. Ink clutched at the edge of his chair.
“Well,” she said, “you know I don’t like to make a fuss, so I’ll just give you the facts, straight and simple. It happened on Damiras. I was . . . standing guard outside the Elders’ tent with Henry and Nigel. I was near the back, they were in front. The sky went dark. I heard the gunshots and the screaming, and I . . . I panicked. I froze. Rooted to the spot. Someone ran past me. Then another. It wasn’t until I heard noise inside the tent that I realized it was being stormed from all directions. By the time I recovered my wits, I hurried through the back entrance and grabbed the first Elder I could reach.” She paused for a moment as her mouth quivered. “It was Atturias. Sarah’s father. Someone shot him the same moment I took hold of his arm. I pulled him out anyway, hoping it wasn’t too serious a wound. But he was already dead.”
Simon looked at her with sympathy. Ink dropped his gaze.
“And I know, I know,” Delia said, rushing her words, “we all have horrible stories about things that happened that day. And I know it was a normal reaction to have lost my head for a moment—though not normal for me, it must be said. But the worst of it is what came after. Just this past month, as a matter of fact.”
“What do you mean?” Simon asked.
She let her hand fall from his shoulder and paced a few steps away, standing with her back to them.
“I mean the way I’ve been treating her.”
For a moment, the hull shifted to the starboard side under the swell of a wave, making the timbers creak and the lanterns hang at an angle. Delia put one hand on a nearby support beam and another on her stomach. Ink knew the feeling.
“I’ve been trying especially hard to believe she was still our enemy. Even after all the good she’s done. I didn’t want to believe it possible. I thought it only right and reasonable that I continue to harbor a healthy doubt and mistrust towards her. But I’ve since come to realize what lay at the heart of that skepticism. I’d begun to think that if she really was so wicked . . . it would mean I wouldn’t have to feel so badly about being too late to save her father.” She bowed her head and made a small scoffing noise. “So you see, I am worse, Simon. Because I’ve actually gone and hurt someone with my secret, my pain. Which might just make me a monster.”
“No, it doesn’t,” he said. “A monster wouldn’t recognize an offense like that, or feel so badly about it afterwards.”
“A coward, then. I’ve had every chance in the world to go and apologize to her, but I keep finding excuses to avoid it. Her being stuck on Blackwood’s ship I’ve found especially convenient.”
“You can still apologize without saying a word about her father.”
“And even if you did say something,” Ink replied, “she’d know it wasn’t your fault.”
She pushed a stray hair from her face. “You’re probably right. You’re both right. And I will apologize. Eventually. I just need a bit more time to come up with the right words.” She took a deep breath, then turned back to them and smoothed down her skirt, as if trying to brush away the vulnerability she’d let appear. “So . . . what now, Master Featherfield? Feeling better about sharing?”
Better was not the word. Slightly less sick to his stomach, maybe. But still sick. The original cause had been Simon’s mention of Caradoc, which had turned his thoughts to the watch. If he told them about that, he would have to explain that he’d named Caradoc as his enemy, and that the Mistress of the Spektors had burned a soul marking into the back of his eyelids which throbbed with every Sundering Hour. The connection could not have been a coincidence, which meant—in effect—he had helped her cast another curse on the Keyholder.
The Colonists would turn their backs on him for sure. Maybe even throw him overboard. But even that would be better than the way he knew Seherene would look at him. On the other hand, he couldn’t back out of the game now, not after Simon and Delia had played it in good faith for his sake. He had to tell them something.
What of his parents? It would be cheating, of course, since Seherene’s knowledge of them meant they weren’t a complete secret. Even Mavie had half-guessed the truth when she’d caught him looking through the Compendium of Missing Persons. Besides that, there would be no good in telling them. They were racing for King’s Island, desperate to reach it before Caradoc lost his senses forever. There wasn’t time to stop and check all the clinics and infirmaries along the way.
That left his other terrible secret; his granddad. Their relationship was an awful thing to admit, but at least he hadn’t been the cause of Eamon’s chosen fate. And at least he had taken every opportunity to defy him and disregard his instructions. It might be helpful, really. If he did show up again, Ink wouldn’t have to endure his lies alone.
He licked his lips with a rush of anxiety, then finally stood and tucked his thumbs into his belt. “That Spektor . . . the one who showed up the last time? Who gave Skiff’s game away? And did all that terrorizin’ in Harroway? Well . . . he’s sort of . . .” He drew in a big breath before continuing. “He’s sort of my granddad.”
Delia and Simon both looked at him with slack jaws and wide eyes. Ink pulled his hat from his head and gripped the brim tight between his hands.
“I’ve seen him quite a few times, now. First was behind Margaret’s house, while you and Caradoc were inside. I was taken to an Otherworld to meet him.”
“What?” Simon said in disbelief.
“Then again in Harroway . . . the night before his big performance in the town square.”
“God above,” Delia said, half-whispering the words.
“He raised me. Brought me up since I was a kid. Wanted me to be just like him. But he was always a right sour codger.”
Delia, still staring wide-eyed, urged Simon to the far side of the barrel so she could share the seat. “Ink . . . are you serious? This isn’t some kind of joke?”
“It’s no joke. But I wish it were. Believe me.”
“Good Lord,” Simon said, “has he . . . has he tried to kill you?”
“No. Just scare me a little. Or a lot, actually. That first time we met, he told me to . . . do away with Caradoc. Figured I was just a dumb kid who’d do what he said. Fed me some lies about a Keyholder not being trustworthy and being too dangerous and all that. And then, the second time, I tried to get him to tell me where to find the Mistress’s gift we were looking for. He laughed at me, of course. Tried to frighten me off. But then I remembered him saying something about vanity, and that got me to thinking about Kingsley’s wife who looked way too young for her age. So it was sort of because of him that we ended up finding it.” He twisted his mouth and shrugged. “I’ve only caught glimpses of him since then. Well . . . apart from trying to tell him off when they came for Skiff.”
Delia’s frown deepened. “And does he . . . does he still want you to hurt Caradoc?”
Ink shook his head. He couldn’t tell her it was because he’d already done the deed with the watch. As he felt his eyes begin to sting, he wiped at them quickly. Simon and Delia stood and started towards him. He raised his hands to ward off their embraces.
“I’m fine. I’m fine.”
Delia put an arm around his shoulder anyway. Simon knelt so as not to tower over him.
“Oh, Ink,” he said. “Mercy above . . . you have to know you’re not to blame. And I take back what I said about you being one of the bravest. You’ve just shot past us all by leaps and bounds. Goodness, you poor—”
“I don’t want any of that,” Ink interrupted. “All that pity and moon eyes and feeling sorry for me. I only told you because . . . because it’s the reason I can’t take that pistol.” The lump returned to his throat. “Because that same wickedness is in me. It’s in my family. My blood.”
“Don’t you believe that for a moment,” Delia said. “I know it seems like we’re bound to our families in all ways for all time, and of course you carry the things they’ve taught you. But the moment you realize those things aren’t right—the moment you decide you don’t want to live that way—you put them down. You’ve done this already in deciding not to listen to him. And if it’s something in your disposition, like a hot temper or a critical nature, you learn to recognize it and control it before it can control you. There’s no wickedness in you, Ink. Maybe a bit of healthy mischief and curiosity. But you are nowhere near to resembling him. Far from it.”
