35

The Approach

It didn’t take long to reach Sultan, but Sofia was shattered by the time they found him. She had been sitting on the frozen ground all morning and her legs would barely move at first, but Peter urged her on. He had to lift her onto Sultan’s back. Then he swung up behind her. Very soon, with the warmth from horse and boy, Sofia began to feel better.

The trotted through the trees, aiming nowhere until they were convinced that there was no pursuit from the camp. Peter slowed Sultan to a walk, mindful of the double cargo the horse was carrying. As he rode with his arms around Sofia, he felt her leaning back against his chest. But Sofia had other things on her mind.

“It’s up to us,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“This is all going to end badly, Peter.”

Peter grunted.

“My uncle went to talk to the Elders. The woman called Anna?”

“Yes,” Peter said.

“He tried to warn them of the danger, but they ignored him. She is a difficult woman, and thinks she knows best how to run her village. We know better than she about hostages, but she refused to listen. After hours of talking, they did nothing.”

“But there are other ways of killing the…hostages?”

“The hostages, yes. They did not want to become what they are. It is like a disease, it makes them become that way. It is not a question of killing them, but of returning them to the ground. Forever. And it can be done without the sword. But the sword is easier. A single cut from it is enough. And they fear it. It is as if the power of the Winter King is inside it. Inside the blade.”

“But what can we do?” Peter cried. “You and me. A boy and a girl.”

“Peter. There is nothing else now. The villagers are too frightened to know what to do. Your father refuses to help, or even give the sword. My people may kill him for it now, as he has killed one of us.”

“Sofia, I’m sorry. I wasn’t there. I might have stopped it.”

“And you might be dead too,” Sofia said. “Don’t worry. I am not surprised it is Georg who is dead. He was always first to anger. I heard he rushed at your father with his knife. Your father defended himself, and the others fled back to my uncle. But listen, Peter, it won’t be long. Once they’ve licked their wounds they’ll be back. If you go to stop them you’ll be hurt too. And the epidemic is growing worse. Very soon there will be more hostages in the village. If it spreads, it will become impossible to control.”

Peter thought about what she’d said, about Tomas, and her uncle, and the hostages. But one thing she had said stood out: “You might be dead too.”

She cared about him. And that small spark was enough to kindle something in Peter. He couldn’t lie down and die, like the meek shepherd. He was going to fight.

“Sofia, I will help you. What can we do?”

“We are not powerless. We can act. We need to show the villagers that they must act, despite their fear. And we need to do this before my people hurt your father.”

“How?”

Sofia hesitated. Sultan hesitated too, and came to a standstill. Peter barely noticed. Sofia twisted around so that she could see Peter’s face. Around them the snow-laden branches of the bare trees hung heavily, pointing their twig fingers toward the couple on horseback. There was total silence across the face of the earth, and the silence centered on this small universe in the trees.

“We have Sultan,” Sofia said slowly. “There is an old way of finding hostages in their own ground.”

“You mean, in their graves?” Peter’s mouth twisted with fear as he spoke.

“Yes. We must start there. If a virgin tries to ride a horse over a grave where a hostage lies, the horse will know, and will refuse to cross. We must find the graves of the hostages, all of them, and prevent them from leaving the ground.”

“How?”

“There are ways. We could stake them in. That holds them to the ground. Or we could put nets into the graves. That works like the millet; they have to unpick every knot before they can leave again. But we have no nets.”

“I’ve heard things like that too,” Peter said. “My father said they were fireside tales, but now…”

“You know it’s true. We could put charcoal in the graves. They must write with the charcoal, and that keeps them from returning until the charcoal runs out.”

“Or we can use buckthorn,” Peter said. “That’s what they did at Radu’s funeral.”

“Yes. The thorns are like little stakes,” Sofia said, nodding. “They pierce the skin. The hostages cannot move through the thorns. But if that’s what they put into Radu’s grave, and he still came out…”

“What does it mean?”

“My uncle knew about this. It is why we are so afraid. It’s never been like this before; it is as if there is something more powerful happening. Something giving them greater power.”

Peter shook his head.

“I don’t know. Is there nothing else we can do?”

“Yes. You could sever the head with your axe, and place it at the hostage’s feet. Only two things work better than that. Fire. And your father’s sword.”

Peter stared straight through Sofia.

He knew there was no way he could sever a head, even the head of a corpse.

“If you’re too afraid, then give me your horse at least. I’ll try on my own.”

“No!” Peter cried. “I’m not afraid. I’ll help you.”

He kicked Sultan into a walk again.

“We’ll need a spade,” he said. “We can steal one from the sexton’s shed. I know where that is.”

Sofia laughed.

“Excellent! And we can cut some buckthorn on the way.”

“But…”

“What?” asked Sofia.

“You said we need a virgin to ride the horse.”

Sofia twisted in the saddle and slapped Peter’s cheek.

“That’s me, you pig!”

Peter burst out laughing.

“I’m joking,” he cried, rubbing his face in mock pain, and now Sofia laughed too.

“Be careful, Peter,” she said, but with a warm smile on her face.

“Let’s go, Sultan!” he said, grinning.

Holding not only the reins but Sofia too, he spurred the horse into life and they thundered toward the village.