Ash & Bramble (28 page)

S
HOE 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?” Templeton 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.

C
OR HAS FINISHED
teaching knifework to Shoe. They step out of the training circle and I go to meet them.

“You're surprisingly quick,” Cor says to Shoe, with an approving nod. Shoe hands him the knife; Cor holds it up, inspecting its edge. “A bit more training, and you could be quite good.”

With a ragged sleeve, Shoe wipes sweat from his forehead. “We don't have time for more training.”

Cor shrugs. “At least you won't get killed in your first fight.” He smiles at me. “You're very good too, Pen. And you will have me there to protect you.”

“Apparently I'm capable of taking care of myself in a fight,” I tell him, a little acerbically.

“Of course you are,” Cor says, still smiling. He moves closer and puts a hand on my arm in an almost proprietary way. I give him a level look, and he takes his hand away. He knows I need more time.

Shoe picks up his sweater and pulls it on over his head. “Pen—” he begins, and then he folds his arms and frowns down at the cave floor.

His sandy hair hangs over his eyes; my fingers twitch, wanting to reach out and brush it aside so I can see him better. “Yes, Shoe?”

After a moment he gives a half shrug, as if deciding something, then looks up, meeting my eyes. “Your thimble. Would you use it to help me remember my Before?”

I take a quick breath. Then let it slowly out. “Yes, of course. I should have asked before this.”

“You have been busy,” Shoe says wryly.

Cor excuses himself, and as I lead Shoe over to the fire, my mind flounders. I used the thimble on Cor, but the Godmother hadn't taken much from him; he'd already known most of his Before. What if I use it on Shoe and it hurts him? What if he's lost too much? What if his life Before makes everything since then irrelevant? “Are you—” I stumble. “Are you certain? It might be best not to know.”

“I need to know,” Shoe says, sitting on one of the sawed-off
logs the rebels use as chairs. “And it's not just for myself. If we know more about the Before, we could learn more about what we're dealing with.”

I sit down facing him, our knees touching. Yes, of course Shoe needs to know. He's so clear-sighted. So . . . true. He's not going to stay blind to his Before just to—to what, protect himself? He needs to go into his future with his eyes wide open. “All right,” I agree.

“Thank you,” he says soberly. His face is very pale.

Now my fingers get what they want as I reach out and gently brush aside the hair that hangs over his green eyes. Those eyes fix warily on the thimble as I draw it out of my pocket. Then I pause. Moving closer, I bring my lips to his. “For luck,” I whisper against his mouth. He leans in, and our kiss scorches through me. I jerk back. His gaze is so intense I can't bring myself to return it. Instead I look away, busying myself with polishing the thimble on my sleeve and putting it onto my finger. “Ready?” I ask, in a voice that isn't as steady as it should be.

“Yes,” he says, his voice gruff.

I raise my hand and feel him control a flinch as I touch the thimble to his forehead. He closes his eyes.

I know you, Shoe,
I think.
Remember
.

The thimble's dimpled silver warms and then glows dull orange, brightening to a red flame. I put my other hand on Shoe's shoulder, steadying him, or maybe myself. The
thimble burns even brighter, then flashes with brilliantly white light, and goes dark.

Panting as if he's run a race, Shoe slumps until his head is resting against my shoulder.

I swallow down a strange, desperate feeling and ask, “Do you remember?”

He takes a ragged breath. “Yes,” he whispers.

“Is he all right?” Cor's deep voice interrupts behind me.

“Yes, I think so,” I answer. Shoe lifts his head from my shoulder.

“Let me guess,” Cor says. “He remembers that he's a shoemaker.”

I glance up at him; he's standing with his hands on his hips, frowning. It's not like him to be unkind. He's not jealous, is he? Pointing to another sawed-off log, I frown back at him. “Sit down, Cor, and stop looming over us.”

Shoe has his elbows on his knees and the palms of his hands pressed over his eyes. “Yes, I was a shoemaker,” he says, his voice muffled. Slowly he straightens and blinks dazedly. With a shaking hand, he rubs his forehead. The thimble's heat left no mark there at all. He glances over at Cor, then back at me.

“Well?” I prompt, growing impatient.

“Pen,” he says, and something about the way he says my name assures me that knowing his Before has not changed the way he feels about me.

“Shoe,” I say, smiling back at him.

He shakes his head. “No,” he says wonderingly. “Not Shoe. My name is Owen. I'm from Westhaven.” He glances at Cor. “Do you know it?”

“Yes,” Cor answers. “It's a trading city about a day's sail down the coast from East Oria.”

I nod and turn back to Shoe. To
Owen
. “Do you have family?” I ask.

He nods. “My dad is a blacksmith there, and my mum runs the shop.” Then his eyes take on a faraway look; he's clearly remembering them. “I have four brothers and six sisters, all older.” I find myself imagining a big, noisy family, sandy haired, green eyed, some of them strapping like their blacksmith father, or clever like their mother, with
Owen
as the youngest, maybe a bit quieter than the rest, but safe and well loved.

“How did the Godmother take you?” Cor asks.

The smile fades from Owen's eyes. “Oh,” he says as he gets abruptly to his feet. “They must think I'm dead.” He looks as if he's ready to run all the way to his true family in Westhaven. “It was, um . . . it was her footmen. I was running an errand for my master. I was apprenticed to a shoemaker,” he adds. “They just took me off the street, stuffed me into a windowless carriage with five other people, and drove night and day until we arrived at the fortress.” He frowns. “We didn't stop once. They must have killed the horses.” He shivers. “They dragged us in to the Godmother. She . . .” He
touches the center of his forehead, and his shiver turns to a shudder.

“She took your Before,” I say.

He nods. “Pen, I was eleven years old. I was just a kid.” He looks sick. “I was at the fortress for such a long time.”

“Your family remembers you,” I reassure him.

“I hope they do,” he says. “I hope they're all right.”

I am glad for him. Yet I feel just a little bereft. He has all that certainty. He knows he is loved; he knows he has a place in the world, if he can get to it. He knows who he is.