Cornelia Funke - Inkspell

"Nettle will soon be here with Cloud-Dancer," she heard Dustfinger say. "She'll look after the child."

"What about us?" asked Farid.

"I'll follow them," said Dustfinger. "To find out how many are still alive and where they're being taken. Although I think I know."

Meggie raised her head. "To the Castle of Night."

"Good guess,"

The girl put her hand out to Jink; she was still small enough to find comfort for her grief in stroking an animal's fur, Meggie envied her.

"What do you mean, you'll follow them?" Farid shooed Gwin off his lap and stood up,

"Exactly what I said." Dustfinger's face was as uncommunicative as a closed door, "I will follow them while you two wait here for Cloud-Dancer and Nettle. Tell them I'm trying to follow the trail, and Cloud-Dancer is to take you back to Ombra. He's not fast enough to follow me with his stiff leg. Then tell Roxane what's happened, so she doesn't think I've vanished again, and Meggie will stay with Fenoglio." His face was as well controlled as ever when he looked at her, but in his eyes Meggie saw all that she herself was feeling: fear, anxiety, anger… helpless anger.

"But we have to help them!" Farid's voice shook.

"How? The Black Prince might have been able to save them, but they've obviously caught him, and I don't know anyone else ready to risk his life for a few strolling players."

"What about that robber everyone's talking about, the Bluejay?"

"There's no such person." Meggie's voice was little more than a whisper. "Fenoglio made him up."

"Really?" Dustfinger looked at her thoughtfully. "I've heard otherwise, but still… well, as soon as you're in Ombra, get Cloud-Dancer to go to the strolling players and tell them what's happened. I know the Prince has men at his command, men who are devoted to him and probably well armed as well, but I've no idea where they are. Perhaps one of the strolling players may know. Or Cloud-Dancer himself. He must try to get word to them somehow. There's a mill in Argenta called the Spelt-Mill, It's always been one of the few places south of the forest where people can meet or exchange news without the risk that it will come to the Adderhead's ears at once. The miller is so rich he doesn't even have to fear the men-at-arms. So if anyone wants to see me, or has any idea of how we can help the prisoners, let him send news there. I'll drop in now and then to ask if any messages have come. Understand?"

Meggie nodded. "The Spelt-Mill," she repeated quietly, unable to look anywhere but at the bloodstained straw.

"Right, Meggie can do all that, but I'm going with you." Farid's voice sounded so defiant that the little girl, still kneeling silently beside Meggie, was upset and reached for her hand.

"I'm warning you, don't start on about looking after me again!" Dustfinger's voice was so sharp that Farid lowered his eyes. "I'm going alone, and that's that. You take care of Meggie and the child until Nettle comes, and then get Cloud-Dancer to take you to Ombra."

"No!" Meggie saw the tears in Farid's eyes, but Dustfinger just walked toward the cave entrance without another word. Gwin scuttled in front of him.

"If it gets dark before they arrive," he added, looking over his shoulder at Farid, "then light a fire. Not because of the soldiers They have what they came for, but wolves and Night-Mares arealways hungry: the wolves for your flesh, the Night-Mares for your fear."

Then he was gone, and Farid stood there, his eyes blurred with tears. "That bloody bastard!" he whispered. "That thrice-accursed son of a bitch! But he'll soon see. I'm going to follow him. I will look after him! I swore I would." Abruptly, he kneeled down in front of Meggie and took her hand. "You will go to Ombra, won't you? Please. I have to go after him. I know you understand!"

Meggie said nothing. What was there to say? That she wasn't going back any more than he was? He'd only have tried to persuade her not to go on. Jink rubbed against Farid's legs, and then scurried outside. The little girl ran after the marten but stopped at the entrance to the cave – a small, forlorn figure, all alone. Like me, thought Meggie.

Without looking at Farid, she took Fenoglio's parchment out of her belt. The letters could scarcely be made out in the twilight that filled the cave.

"What's that?" Farid straightened up.

"Words. Only words, but better than nothing."

"Wait, I'll give you a light." Farid rubbed his fingertips together and whispered. A tiny flame appeared on his thumbnail. He blew gently on the little flame, until it grew like the flame of a candle, and then held his thumb above the parchment. The flickering light made the letters shine as if Rosenquartz had retraced them with fresh ink.

Useless, something whispered in Meggie. The words will be useless! Mo isn't here, he's far away, he may not even be alive anymore. Shut up! she snapped at this internal voice. I'm not listening. This is all I can do, there's nothing else, nothing at all! She picked up the bloodstained blanket, placed the parchment on it, and ran her fingers over her lips. The little girl was still standing outside the cave, waiting for her mother to come back.

"Read it, Meggie!" Farid nodded at her encouragingly.

And she read it, her fingers clutching the blanket stained with Mo's dried blood, "Mortimer felt the pain…" She thought she felt it herself, in the sound of every letter on her tongue, in every word that passed her lips. "The wound was burning. It burned like the hatred in Mortola's eyes when she had shot him. Perhaps it was her hatred that was sucking the life out of him, making him weaker and weaker. He felt his own blood wet and warm on his skin. He felt Death reaching out to him. But all of a sudden there was something else, too: words. Words that relieved the pain, cooled his brow, and spoke of love, nothing but love. They made his breathing easier again and healed the place where death had been flowing in. He felt the sound of them on his skin and deep in his heart. They echoed ever louder, ever more clearly through the darkness that threatened to swallow him up, and suddenly he knew the voice speaking the words: It was his daughter's voice, and the White Women withdrew their pale hands as if they had burned themselves on her love."

Meggie buried her face in her hands. The parchment rolled up on her lap of its own accord, as if it had served its purpose. Straw pricked her through her dress, as it had in the shed where Capricorn had once imprisoned her and Mo. She felt someone stroking her hair, and for a moment, a crazy moment, she thought Fenoglio's words had brought Mo back, back to the cave safe and sound, and everything was all right again. But when she raised her head, it was only Farid standing beside her.

"That was beautiful," he said. "I'm sure it helped. You wait and see."

But Meggie shook her head. "No!" she whispered. "No Those were only beautiful words, but my father isn't made of Fenoglio's words. He's made of flesh and blood."

"So? What difference does that make?" Farid removed her hands from her tearstained face. "Perhaps everything's just made of words. Look at me, for instance. Pinch me. Am I made of paper?"

No, he wasn't. And Meggie had to smile when he kissed her, although she was still shedding tears.

Dustfinger had not been gone long when they heard footsteps among the trees. Farid had taken Dustfinger's advice and made a fire, and Meggie was sitting close to him with the little girl's head on her lap. Nettle said not a word as she emerged from the darkness and saw the wrecked camp. Silently, she went from one dead body to another, looking for life where none was left, while Cloud-Dancer, his face unmoving, listened to the message Dustfinger had left for him. It was only when Meggie asked Cloud-Dancer to take a message, not just to Roxane and the strolling players but to Fenoglio, too, that Farid fully realized she didn't intend to go back to Ombra any more than he did. His expressionless face didn't show whether he was angry or glad.