Silvertongue

Chapter Nine

I stumble after the man through the Wayless Wood, too exhausted and mentally occupied to pay attention to my surroundings. In fact, I'm so preoccupied that not a single worry about what the night held in the Wayless Wood crosses my mind. The strolling players had taken my horse, so now, barely able to stay on my feet from both fatigue and the torrent of thoughts invading my brain, I am making the journey out of the forest on foot.

My body is moving sluggishly, but my mind is racing and jumping from one jumbled thought to another so rapidly I'm unable to follow a thought pattern long enough to figure anything out.

The Bluejay doesn't exist. . . What is that supposed to mean?

A spy for the Adderhead. . . I thought the Adderhead was dead

What do I do now. . .

Did Meggie's books get back to her okay? Nothing I can do now about that. Nothing really I can do about anything I've encountered since Gwin.

I have to collect myself, rein in my thoughts. I choose one and banish the others out of my head for a while. I build a mental barricade to those thoughts and focus on the one.

The Bluejay doesn't exist. They said he was just a bunch of words flung into the air by minstrels. But Mo had taken up the position as Bluejay.

A sudden ideas sends me scrabbling at the mental barricade to let another thought in. I have to make care, though, not to open the dam too much and let too much water through.

If the Adderhead isn't dead, and the Bluejay hasn't become a flesh-and-blood character, I must not have come into the book at the same time as Meggie. I must've arrived earlier than any mention in the book Inkspell.

If Fenoglio is here, then it must be within a year of the Folcharts coming.

I have no idea how that's possible - when Dustfinger came home, he arrived ten years after he left, the amount of time he'd been away. And no mention of the date was made in the words that sent him back.

I'll have to wait till I meet Fenoglio, master of words he is. If he doesn't have an answer to this question, I'm sure no one will, at least in this world. I've not a doubt in my mind that Orpheus would be big-headed enough to claim he knew the answers to any possible questions on the subject of silvertongues.

Right at this moment I am shaken to my senses by the sudden realization that the dense gloom of the forest has grown considerably thinner. Up ahead I see the faint glimmer of stars shining in the cloudless night sky. I'm rather impressed with myself that I managed to trail a few paces behind my guide (to whom no introduction was given, I realize, and whose face I haven't yet actually looked at) without stumbling too close or falling too far back. He clambers over an immense tree root poking out of the ground, and I copy. Albeit, a little more clumsily, but I manage.

A hundred paces or so later the canopy of branches and leaves falls away abruptly and we are suddenly in the open night air.

Moving up to walk next to my guide, I ask, "How are we going to get in? Won't there be guards at the gate?"

He just nods silently in response and, offering no words, keeps walking. Not even a glance in my direction.

I pause and frown questioningly after the man for a moment before scurrying to catch up. I don't ask anything else, and he doesn't say anything, and soon the outer wall of Ombra is in view.

I can see the Laughing Prince's castle rising up majestically over the buildings of the city. It's beautiful from this perspective, and unconsciously I slow my pace to take it in. Once again, I find myself having to hurry to catch up to my companion's brisk walk.

My heart sinks when I see two heavily armed guards standing on either side of the entrance. They look bored and half asleep, but both look extremely formidable, and I've no doubt they could kill me in a heartbeat if they decided to.

Upon seeing two travelers making their way along the road to the gate, the guards seem to snap to attention, straightening up and gaining an air of importance. I can see hard expressions under their helmets, even in soft moonlight.

I glance at the man walking silently next to me. He has yet to utter a sound since starting on this journey, and I wonder how he intends to get into the city. He keeps on, however, and I have no choice but to follow.

One of the guards, not particularly tall but solidly built, and terrifyingly supplied with deadly weapons, calls out, "Motley Folk are not allowed within the gates of Ombra except on market days."

I cast a despairing look at my guide. It seems to me that there is no way the guards are letting us in. His face, though, is still as a rock. And in the moonlight it looks somewhat like a rock, and not a very smooth rock either. If he has a plan, that'll be miraculous. I've not the slightest inkling of what methods might get us through the gate. Perhaps he expects me to climb the wall. I have no idea. I just hope it doesn't get me killed.

His mouth, like a crack in a rock, opens to speak. "Is not today a market day?" he asks in a quiet, but confident, voice.

This greatly confuses me, as I am sure it must by now be well past midnight, considering the long trek into and out of the Wayless Wood. I can't recall whether or not I specifically wrote that I arrived on a market day, but that's what I had envisioned, and it's certainly what it had looked like. I wonder just how often there are market days in Ombra.

It must truly be another market day, however, because the guards do not turn us away. They share a glance, and the one who'd spoken formerly grunts and moves to open the gate. The other casts a glare at the strolling player and me, and growls in a low, menacing voice, "Alright, you can go in, but don't expect to be able to pull this off again."

My guide nods, " Of course," and ushers me through the gate before him.

The clang of the gates closing behind us has a sense of ominous finality, and I get the feeling I won't be leaving here anytime soon.