Never had Philip been so cold, so wet, so miserable. Each step was harder than the last, but he refused to quit or even entertain the idea that she was dead. Bertha’s fatalistic nonsense did serve a useful purpose. For Philip, it was excellent motivation to keep going when his body begged him to stop. At the Ciele River, he almost acquiesced. The ice over the river unnerved him. It had slowly been forming over recent weeks, but now it looked solid. He knew that could be very deceiving. There was a narrow spot on the river, only around sixteen feet across, near the Heolstor Forest. He walked there, hoping that the narrower river meant thicker ice.
“Now what, Lord? Do I risk it? I won’t do her any favors by getting myself killed, but I can’t just—” The sight of a fallen tree branch nearby gave him an idea. “Well, that was the quickest answer to prayer I’ve ever had.”
His voice sounded out of place in the hushed quiet of a world blanketed in layers upon layers of snow. The branch was big—heavy. He knew it would tire him even further, but rivers don’t freeze evenly. Stepping on the wrong spot meant getting swept under the ice and that would mean certain death. He stared at the three or so yards of rough ice and sighed. Waiting wouldn’t make it any easier; he’d just get colder. His body shook with shivers, but Philip lifted the heavy branch and rammed it into the ice about three feet from the edge. The ice stood firm. He stepped onto it, sliding a bit as he did and raised the branch once more. His feet slid out from under him and he landed on his backside— hard.
He wanted to go home. His backside, numb with cold and now likely bruised, told him his search was futile. Not since he was a small boy, had he felt such a strong desire to go home and ask his father to finish what he’d started. John Ward was strong, accustomed to the cold and the wetness. Why had he been so foolish as to think he could do this all alone?
A new thought hit him as he tried to stand. Maybe he could inch his way across the ice seated. If he did fall, he’d have a chance to grab onto the edge. It wasn’t likely to succeed, but he’d have that chance that wouldn’t come if he were standing. Raising the branch as high as he could while seated, he tried to drive it into the ice, but it bounced back again. Philip inched forward to that spot.
It was a slow, inefficient way to cross a river, but a safe one. The ice was rough and uncomfortable. Twice, he had to scoot around the edge of a thinner patch that cracked a little when his branch hit it. Could he have crossed it anyway? Possibly, but Philip didn’t know and wouldn’t risk it.
Again, he forced his way through the cold snow, his feet and lower legs the warmest parts of his body thanks to Una’s thoughtful provision. Usually, his tall boots kept the snow away from his feet, and the fur lining kept his toes reasonably warm. However, scooting across the ice had cooled most of the rest of his body. Though his hands had been warm, using them to help move him had kept them too close to the ice for too long to be effective anymore. He needed to get warm again. If Dove wasn’t in the tunnels, he’d be forced to seek heat from the castle.
This thought chafed. Philip loved and respected Charles Morgan, but as much as he admired the Lord of Wynnewood, he knew the man found him quite amusing at times. It’s hard for a boy, especially one so near manhood, to feel patronized by anyone, much less someone of such prominence. He wanted to prove himself, not provide for the day’s entertainment.
Fortunately for Philip, the wind hadn’t whipped the snow into the strange circular entrance to the tunnels. After a quick scoop of the very first narrow passage, he managed to slide himself in between the stacked stones as he followed them through into the tunnel that led to the castle. As he walked, he talked aloud, hoping to hear some kind of response from Dove. Each step was awkward in the darkness, but Philip had made that trek once before and thought he knew it well.
“Dove? Are you in here? If you are, just come out and say so. This isn’t time to play. Bertha thinks you’re dead, I’m freezing, and you must be starving. Come on. I’m really hoping you’re in here. There wasn’t much snow at the entrance. Did you eat it away? Is that why? I’m— ouch!” His foot hit a stone. “So, I’m guessing you aren’t in here. I’m going to keep talking though, just in case you’re asleep or something.” Even as he said it, he stopped and listened. What if she was too cold or weak to respond? What if he talked over whatever attempt she made to alert him to her presence? He didn’t know what to do.
“I’m just going to keep talking. If you can’t get up or speak, don’t worry. I’ll ask Lord Morgan to send someone through here with a torch to make sure you’re not in here, so just hang on. Meanwhile, I’m going to talk so you know someone is coming. I feel really silly talking to myself like this. By the way, it’s cold. Very, very cold out there. I bet you’re hungry. I have some bread and cheese in my pocket, but it won’t be easy to eat without water. That’s all right; Lord Morgan…”
All through the tunnel, Philip rattled on with his nonsense, keeping one ear listening. His teeth chattered between words, making him think that even if Dove heard him, she’d never know what he said. At last, he reached the great doors to the castle, but they were locked. Since the siege, both inside and outside, the castle was much better fortified. Danger had entered Wynnewood, and the lord of the land took measures to ensure the safety of everyone at the castle.
Philip pounded on the door, calling out and asking for Lord Morgan. It took several minutes before someone unlocked the great oak door and swung it toward him. Three knights stood in an arc, swords drawn. The man who opened the door sheathed the knife he held and stepped aside. “It’s just the boy.”
Inwardly, Philip cringed. It was bad enough they called him a boy, but that word, “just,” stung. “Can I see Lord Morgan, please?”
“Don’t you think he has better things to do than—” The chatter of Philip’s teeth silenced the man. “Oh, at least get by a fire.” He pointed to one of the knights. “Elric, would you get him to the kitchens?”
“Lord Morgan is going to want to see him; why not just take him to the great hall?”
“Because I keep hoping our lord and master will grow some sense in regards to this boy.”
“Since when do the lords of any castle have sense?” Lord Morgan’s voice startled them all. Slowly, everyone turned to where the man stood, smiling.
“I’m sorry, m’lord—”
“Come along, Philip. You look half-frozen.”
Chapter 7
Within the Sceadu
When Dove awoke, cool air blew in from the cave opening. She blinked twice. The wall of snow was gone, and the storm had died out in the night. From where she lay, she could stare out into the snow-laden trees in the Heolstor Forest. The view was breathtaking.
“You sleep too much.”
She started, instinctively pulling the hood over her head. “Who—” Even as she started to ask, she knew who. It was the eyes.
“I’ve seen you already. There’s no need to hide.” The man stood, and her eyes widened. He was a man. The beard, the deep, gruff voice, and the gnarled hands— they all signified maturity. However, the man was only a few feet high.
“I prefer it.”
“I don’t blame you. Even my people would fear you.” He passed her a flask.
“Who are you, and who are your people?” Dove inched away from him as he neared. Something about the unusual struck fear in her heart.
“I would have thought you, of all people, could understand someone different doesn’t mean someone dangerous.” He chuckled at the embarrassed duck of her head. “I am Jakys of the Mæte.”
“Mæte— it fits. Were you the eyes I saw?”
“Well, they were my eyes. I was watching for the dragon and almost fell off the cliff when I saw you looking out that hole. I was sure I’d misjudged the opening.”
“Why watch for the dragon?” Dove took a drink from the flask to soothe her raspy voice, and winced as her stomach clenched.
“When he leaves, we work in his cave.”
“Work? What kind of work?�
� She stood and inched toward the dragon’s lair for warmth.
“Don’t. He’s restless. We mine.”
“And who is we?”
Jakys beckoned. “Follow me.”
Hesitating, Dove took a step backward. “I—”
“You need more food. That little bit of ale won’t last you long. Come.”
Unsure, she faltered. Was it safe? Her natural tendency to flee was arrested by her equally natural curiosity. She wanted to see what he had to show her. It sounded like, as impossible as it was to believe, there were more of the Mæte. Little miners deep in the Cliffs of Sceadu— the idea was preposterous but fascinating. As much as she desired to escape, the idea of being invited to see this for herself was too tempting to refuse.
“Thank you.”
“I thought you’d say no.” Jakys beckoned her to follow. As she did, she realized she was nearly a head taller than the little man.
He led her out of the cave and onto the ledge. Inch by inch, she followed his little feet across the face of the cliff to a small opening, barely large enough for her to crawl through after him. Inside, torches lit the tunnels that connected cavern to cavern. The walls weren’t the rough, dirty things she’d expected. Little nooks were hollowed out of the rock to hold torches or lanterns.
There was an otherworldly beauty shown in the fine craftsmanship around her. The entrances into each cavern and tunnel were hewn into smooth archways and carved with intersecting diamond shapes and a primrose in the top diamond. Dove wanted to ask the meaning of the primrose but was distracted by a faint plink, plink, plink sound coming from deep within the mountain. “What is that sound?”
“The pickaxes of the miners.”
“How can you spare the time to watch girls, stranded in snow storms, as they sleep while everyone else is mining?”
Jakys laughed. “I am not a miner; therefore, I have time.”
“If you aren’t a miner, what are you?” Everything seemed so strange to her.
They passed another tunnel before he spoke again. “I’m a scout and advisor. I keep watch for intruders, the dragon, or the traders.”
“Who are the traders?” She didn’t have to ask who intruders were.
“We have men who come to trade our silver for other things we need.”
“Such as?”
“Food, clothing…” He laughed at her as if she were joking. “You’re a silly one.”
“I suppose it would be difficult to grow food from inside a cliff.”
“These tunnels run all through the cliffs and through the mountains behind us.”
“I can’t believe no one knows you’re here! I’ve never heard anyone speak of the Mæte.” Dove found the passage through the tunnels a little uncomfortable. Often, she had to stoop to avoid hitting her head on the stone overhead.
“We keep to ourselves and away from Wynnewood. Those people are superstitious enough to fear the spells of the Druids.”
“There are still Druids—”
“Of course not, girl! You seemed intelligent enough at first, but now I wonder.” Jakys paused in the middle of the tunnel just before the opening to a cavern. “How do I know I can trust you?”
“Shouldn’t you have thought of that before you brought me down here?”
“I thought you might be too hungry to make it home without sustenance. If I want you to leave, I need you to eat.” He glanced at her curiously. “Besides, you intrigue me.”
“What do you mean?” Dove knew exactly what he meant.
“First, what is your name?”
“The villagers call me the Ge-sceaft.”
“What does your modor call you?”
She shrugged. “I don’t remember what my modor called me. She died when I was tiny.”
“How— watch your head here, it’s low even for me— did you survive, then?”
“A woman, a midwife, saved me from villagers who wanted to kill me.”
“Wynnewood?”
Dove shook her head. “No. Somewhere else. By the time she brought me here, we kept me covered so people wouldn’t try to run us out of town.”
“Smart woman. So what did she name you?”
“She didn’t.” The conversation was a familiar one. She’d shared almost the exact words with Philip when she’d met him.
“Well, then how does she call you when she needs you?”
“She rings a chime or—”
“Does no one have a name for you?”
Smiling inwardly at the realization that she’d exasperated the little man, Dove shrugged again. “I have one friend. He gave me a nickname. Philip said it wasn’t proper for someone who didn’t even know me to name me, so he calls me Dove because of my cloak.”
“Dove. It suits you. You’re little and graceful, and that color is similar to a turtledove.”
“That’s what Philip said.”
“And who is Philip?”
“He’s Tom Fletcher’s apprentice and friend of the head archer, Peter. Lord Morgan thinks well of him too.”
“I wonder if that’s the boy we heard about—something about saving the Lord’s daughter from kidnappers.” Again, Jakys pointed to a low spot in the ceiling and cautioned her. “And if he’s the one who helped save Lady Aurelia, you must be the girl that helped him. We heard about you.”
“I didn’t do much.”
“You let those kidnappers take you out of the castle. I wouldn’t call that ‘not much!’” Admiration in the little man’s voice swelled in her heart. Every time anyone spoke well of her, she wondered if the ostracism would cease, but it always returned.
“I couldn’t let them take her— she couldn’t get away.”
It seemed as though they’d walked a mile into the side of the mountain. Torches came more frequently, and twice Dove thought she saw someone watching them. At last, they entered a large circular room full of thick carpets, large pillows, and rows of tables along the outer edges of the room. “Our common area.”
“How many of you are there?”
The man’s eyes twinkled in the torchlight. “I can only say that we are many. I must keep us protected.”
A child raced up to Jakys and wrapped her little arms around the man’s legs. “Fæder! You’re back. Did the dragon leave last night?” She looked over at Dove and frowned. “What—”
“This, Durilda, is Dove of Wynnewood. She is the girl we’ve heard of who helped Lord Morgan’s daughter. Do you remember?”
“Why is she here?”
“She was trapped in the caves by the blizzard.” Before he could continue, Dove swayed. Faint from hunger, exhaustion, and the trip through the caverns, she gripped a table and sank onto the bench by it. “See, she is hungry.”
“Shall I get her some bread and water?” The child spoke as if Dove could not hear or understand.
“Bring ale and cheese too. Perhaps an apple or a piece of meat.” He glanced at Dove curiously. “I don’t suppose you’ll eat carrots or turnips?”
“I love turnips.”
Jakys looked as if he didn’t believe her, but rather than contradict, he simply nodded and added, “Then by all means, bring her a baked turnip.”
For several long seconds, she glanced around the empty room, wondering why she saw no one. The tables could easily seat over a hundred hungry little people, and the cushions in the middle of the floor seemed plentiful enough for at least half that many. The desire to ask again was keen, but Dove resisted. She didn’t need to irritate her host.
“So, what were you doing by our caves? What brought you here?”
“I didn’t come to the caves originally. I was just going to leave an apple for a—” she hesitated. “An animal. But then, the storm grew worse, and I had to choose between the caves or the castle. The caves were closer.”
“You brought an apple for what animal?”
Something in the dwarf’s voice told her he knew what she meant. “Philip and I, we’re trying to catch a unicorn. Well, Philip wants to catch one.
I just come along for the company. It’ll be his capture.”
“Your friend cannot catch a unicorn— not without your help.”
“Oh, Philip is very resourceful. I’m sure he could do it. He just likes having me along because I know the woods so much better than he does.”
Jakys made a disapproving sound, but before he could continue, Durilda returned with a tray of food. “Drink,” he insisted. To his daughter, he pointed to the cavern from which she’d come, sending her away again. “It doesn’t matter how resourceful, clever, or strong he is, a unicorn will not permit himself to be captured by a man or boy. Only a fæmne can capture a unicorn.” He sighed. “Not even my child could capture one. It must be a full-sized human girl.”
“Why?”
“We do not know. We’ve tried to capture them, but they are elusive.” Jakys pointed to the mutton. “Eat. You look ready to drop.”
“I am very hungry. Tell me about the unicorns.”
“Well,” Jakys began, obviously eager to tell a story. She knew immediately that he was one of those gifted people who know how to make picking weeds sound like a grand adventure because of his ability to spin a tale. “Even the Druids knew that one must be a maiden to capture a unicorn. They used unicorn hair in their rituals, or so my fæder’s grandfæder used to say. Our people have tried to tame unicorns for centuries, but they won’t be tamed by us. We don’t know if it is our size or if there is something in us that they resist.”
“I doubt then,” Dove sighed sadly, “that I will do Philip much good. If they resist you, they’re sure to resist me as well.”
“That is possible.” The little man’s words were a little deflating. She’d hoped he’d disagree.
“So, how do they tame the beast?”
Jakys’ eyes lit up with repressed excitement. He loved telling stories. “It is said, that to capture and tame a unicorn, a fæmne must sit, alone, and wait for the animal to come and lay his head in her lap.”
The Annals of Wynnewood Complete Series Page 24