Sofia.
“It’s all right,” she said, before he could speak. “I’ll go.”
“You can’t,” Peter said, but she was already crossing the bridge. “It’s not safe.” Peter lifted his hand to Sofia, but in friendship.
“It’s safe enough,” she said. “The sun is almost here. There can be no evil by daylight. I must go back to my people.”
“Wait!” Peter said. “You’ll freeze before you get there.”
He was weighing something in his mind.
“Take Sultan,” he said at last. “He’ll give you some warmth and you’ll be home quickly. I’ll come for him later.”
Sofia nodded.
“Thank you. You must not worry. I’ll look after him.”
Peter smiled and said, “When Father finds out…”
Sofia returned the smile.
They fetched Sultan from his stall. He seemed pleased to see Peter. He snorted steam into the cold morning air.
Sofia swung herself easily into the saddle.
“What will you do?” she asked.
“I’m going to look for Agnes. I must.”
“Peter, you should know—”
“Don’t say it,” Peter said, interrupting her. “I must try to find her. She…I…”
He hesitated. He couldn’t say what he was thinking, and anyway, he didn’t even know if it was true. Had there ever been anything between them?
“I understand,” Sofia said. “But be careful.” She leant down in the saddle and, taking Peter by surprise, planted a quick kiss on his cheek.
“For luck,” she explained, kicking Sultan into life. She laughed. “You should have let me do it before—we might have had an easier time of it!”
Peter watched her go, and then heard her begin to sing. She sang the Miorita, of course, and Peter smiled in spite of himself.
“Let it just be said I have gone to wed
A princess so great, at Heaven’s gate.”
Peter watched her go, and without even meaning to, raised a hand to his cheek, feeling the wetness of her lips with his fingertips.
As soon as she was out of sight Peter suddenly realized how bitterly cold he was. He went into the hut, and saw his father poking the fire, trying to coax it into life after its quiet slumber through the long night.
“Father,” Peter said.
Tomas lifted his head.
“Has she gone?” he asked, still shaking from his outburst, but Peter didn’t answer. Through his mind ran a series of pictures, each more evil than the last, culminating with the awful sight of Stefan’s eye staring from inside his grave.
“Son?”
Exhausted, freezing, and scared, Peter’s body gave up, and the world faded as he collapsed onto the floor.
28
The Dream of the Queen
In the dreamworld through which Peter struggled, everything was shadow. As he lay unconscious, he knew nothing, saw nothing, yet somewhere nearby a presence closed in on him.
Out of the darkness, a white spectre floated toward him. As it came closer he saw a pale face, disembodied and deathly. It was the face of an ancient but powerful woman, with strong nose and eyebrows, and vicious eyes. Now the face pressed right against his own, and he saw that though the face was ghost-white, there was a shadow across it, from eyes to lips, a strange five-sided shadow, like an inverted pentagon hanging from the brow and pointing at the lips.
The face drifted away, and fortunately for Peter, when he woke, he remembered nothing of his nightmare.
29
Ancestors and Hostages
When Peter woke, it was to the sound of singing. Someone was singing the Miorita, but as he opened his eyes he realized that it was he. Had he been singing in his sleep?
Tell my murderers
To let my bones lie somewhere close by,
By the sheepfold here so my flocks are near,
On the open ground so I’ll hear my hound….
Tell not a breath of how I met my death,
Say I could not tarry; I have gone to marry
A princess—my bride is the whole world’s pride.
That stupid song! It was even in his dreams now.
Peter opened his eyes and found he was lying in bed. He swung his legs to the floor and sat
“It’s all right,” she said, before he could speak. “I’ll go.”
“You can’t,” Peter said, but she was already crossing the bridge. “It’s not safe.” Peter lifted his hand to Sofia, but in friendship.
“It’s safe enough,” she said. “The sun is almost here. There can be no evil by daylight. I must go back to my people.”
“Wait!” Peter said. “You’ll freeze before you get there.”
He was weighing something in his mind.
“Take Sultan,” he said at last. “He’ll give you some warmth and you’ll be home quickly. I’ll come for him later.”
Sofia nodded.
“Thank you. You must not worry. I’ll look after him.”
Peter smiled and said, “When Father finds out…”
Sofia returned the smile.
They fetched Sultan from his stall. He seemed pleased to see Peter. He snorted steam into the cold morning air.
Sofia swung herself easily into the saddle.
“What will you do?” she asked.
“I’m going to look for Agnes. I must.”
“Peter, you should know—”
“Don’t say it,” Peter said, interrupting her. “I must try to find her. She…I…”
He hesitated. He couldn’t say what he was thinking, and anyway, he didn’t even know if it was true. Had there ever been anything between them?
“I understand,” Sofia said. “But be careful.” She leant down in the saddle and, taking Peter by surprise, planted a quick kiss on his cheek.
“For luck,” she explained, kicking Sultan into life. She laughed. “You should have let me do it before—we might have had an easier time of it!”
Peter watched her go, and then heard her begin to sing. She sang the Miorita, of course, and Peter smiled in spite of himself.
“Let it just be said I have gone to wed
A princess so great, at Heaven’s gate.”
Peter watched her go, and without even meaning to, raised a hand to his cheek, feeling the wetness of her lips with his fingertips.
As soon as she was out of sight Peter suddenly realized how bitterly cold he was. He went into the hut, and saw his father poking the fire, trying to coax it into life after its quiet slumber through the long night.
“Father,” Peter said.
Tomas lifted his head.
“Has she gone?” he asked, still shaking from his outburst, but Peter didn’t answer. Through his mind ran a series of pictures, each more evil than the last, culminating with the awful sight of Stefan’s eye staring from inside his grave.
“Son?”
Exhausted, freezing, and scared, Peter’s body gave up, and the world faded as he collapsed onto the floor.
28
The Dream of the Queen
In the dreamworld through which Peter struggled, everything was shadow. As he lay unconscious, he knew nothing, saw nothing, yet somewhere nearby a presence closed in on him.
Out of the darkness, a white spectre floated toward him. As it came closer he saw a pale face, disembodied and deathly. It was the face of an ancient but powerful woman, with strong nose and eyebrows, and vicious eyes. Now the face pressed right against his own, and he saw that though the face was ghost-white, there was a shadow across it, from eyes to lips, a strange five-sided shadow, like an inverted pentagon hanging from the brow and pointing at the lips.
The face drifted away, and fortunately for Peter, when he woke, he remembered nothing of his nightmare.
29
Ancestors and Hostages
When Peter woke, it was to the sound of singing. Someone was singing the Miorita, but as he opened his eyes he realized that it was he. Had he been singing in his sleep?
Tell my murderers
To let my bones lie somewhere close by,
By the sheepfold here so my flocks are near,
On the open ground so I’ll hear my hound….
Tell not a breath of how I met my death,
Say I could not tarry; I have gone to marry
A princess—my bride is the whole world’s pride.
That stupid song! It was even in his dreams now.
Peter opened his eyes and found he was lying in bed. He swung his legs to the floor and sat
Similar Books
