My Swordhand Is Singing by Marcus Sedgwick Read Free Book Online

Sultan’s back, but lost the fight and hit the ground hard. In a moment’s confusion, it seemed that Sultan was going to fall and crush him, but then he rolled beside Peter, struggled to his feet, and limped away, frightened.
    Peter spun off his back and onto his front, worried that Sultan was going to bolt for home. Then he remembered the scream just before he fell.
    “You nearly killed me!” cried a voice.
    All Peter could see at first was hair, lots of it, coiling like small black snakes.
    The figure moved into a sitting position and began to smooth her long skirts into place, checking that nothing was broken. Now he knew who it was. The Gypsy girl, the singer.
    “You ride very badly!” she said, pointing a finger right at him.
    “Me?” Peter spluttered. “It was your fault! What in Heaven’s name were you doing? Running in front of a horse like that!”
    She ignored Peter’s anger, but with it, her own rage seemed to have vanished.
    She smiled at him and tried to stand, but immediately shrieked.
    “My back!” she cried, sinking to the ground. “Oh! I think it is broken!”
    Peter doubted that very much, but nonetheless she appeared to be in pain.
    “You must help me,” she declared. “You nearly killed me! So get me out of this road.”
    Peter stood up slowly. He hurt too, but there was no point in protesting.
    “Carry me. Over there.”
    She nodded toward the side of the road, and a low bank of grass.
    Peter sighed and bent over her. For a moment he considered how best to pick her up; then he slid one arm under her legs and the other under her shoulders. She was light enough for him, he was used to carrying logs all day. But logs didn’t wriggle, or complain, or hiss in pain, and he was glad when he had taken her the short distance and placed her on the soft grass, the start of a narrow strip that kept the forest away from the village.
    They were just beyond the ragged edge of the huts here, with only the odd one or two dotted about, the street turning into nothing more than a snow-covered track that wound away into the trees. The puny thatched fence that marked the end of the village was defense against nothing, and yet being beyond it was disturbing. The Shadow Queen had already settled in the back of Peter’s mind.
    “Your back isn’t broken,” he said, looking down at the girl. “You couldn’t move your legs if it were.”
    “My name’s Sofia,” she said. “What’s yours?”
    He sighed, looking around to see that Sultan was still close by.
    “Peter,” he said.
    “I think my head is maybe hurt,” Sofia announced.
    Peter opened his mouth, then shut it again. She might sing beautifully, but he was finding her enormously irritating. Still, as he was carrying her, he hadn’t stopped himself from noticing that her legs were long, and that her dress was cut very low. Nor had he stopped himself from looking at her brown skin, so different from that of everyone else in the village, and more like his own.
    “My head hurts,” Sofia said again, “Here. You must feel it. Come here!”
    Peter stood where he was.
    “Come!” she demanded, and reluctantly he knelt down beside her. She grabbed his hand nimbly and pushed it into her thick hair. “There’s a bump. Yes? No?”
    Peter gingerly moved his fingers through the girl’s hair, but could feel nothing.
    “I think you’re fine.” He pulled his hand away.
    As he did, Sofia took his hand in hers and didn’t let go.
    “I think I’m lucky you didn’t kill me,” she said, but gently this time.
    Awkwardly, Peter sat next to her. Still she didn’t let go of his hand.
    “What were you doing anyway?” he asked. “Out here, in the night? You shouldn’t even be in the village after dark.”
    “Because of who we are?” Sofia said haughtily.
    “Yes,” Peter said. Then he added, “But I don’t make the rules around here.”
    The girl laughed.
    “No, I am sure of that.”
    Peter felt offended, at the same time wondering why Sofia was