Winterling

by Sarah Prineas

  “I got it,” Fer said. She shrugged her shoulders inside her patch-jacket. “Thanks, but this one’s warm enough.”

  For just a second the Lady looked angry, but then her face smoothed into a smile. “Are you ready?”

  Fer nodded, still thinking about her connection to the land. “Can you feel the land here?” she asked.

  The Lady’s eyes narrowed. “Feel the land? What do you mean?”

  “It’s hard to describe it,” Fer answered. “I can feel the ground and the sky and the trees.” She turned and pointed out of the forest. “I know there are mountains that way, and that it’s going to storm there in not too long. And I can feel that there’s something wrong here.”

  The Lady had gone very pale. “Ah, yes,” she said quickly. “Of course I can feel the land. I am a Lady of the land; of course I can. I feel it far more strongly than you do.”

  Oh. Fer pushed on to her next question, even though she knew the Lady wasn’t going to like it. “How do you bring the spring to the land?” she asked.

  The Lady gazed down at Fer, her beautiful face still, like stone. “Ah,” she said at last. “I am glad you asked that question. I bring the spring through a kind of ritual. You will learn more about it soon. It will be one of your lessons.”

  Fer opened her mouth to ask about the open Way, and to tell her about how spring wasn’t coming at her home.

  But the Lady interrupted. “Do not ask me any more questions, Gwynnefar. I find it wearying.” She turned the force of her glamorie onto Fer. “Do you understand?”

  Fer clutched the spell-bag in her jacket pocket and blinked, and the power of the glamorie faded. No, she didn’t understand. But before she could protest, the Lady turned away and led Fer from the tents among the trees and out to the field beyond, where Fer and Rook had landed at the end of the wild ride. Waiting for them in the field were two badger-men, bundled up to their chins in warm coats and scarves, each holding a horse. The marble-white one for the Lady, and Phouka, tossing his mane, for Fer. The badger-men handed over the horses, bowed, and left.

  “Mount up,” the Lady ordered.

  “Okay,” Fer said. Beside her, Phouka stood quietly, knee-deep in snow. His yellow-gold eyes watched her closely. She reached out with a careful hand and patted his nose. He snorted.

  She didn’t have Rook here to give her a leg up, but she thought she could do it without his help. With her left hand she grabbed Phouka’s mane, then she backed away, took a running step, jumped, and pulled herself up at the same time.

  As she swung up, Phouka took a half step sideways, and Fer slid right over the top of his back, and then—phlump!—she was facedown in the snow on his other side.

  “And again,” the Lady said. When she had mounted up, she had looked graceful.

  Fer stood up and brushed snow off her jacket. Right, try again. This time, when Phouka tried his side-step trick, Fer was ready for it. She jumped, belly-flopped onto his back, then, clinging to his mane, scrambled around until she had her legs on either side.

  For the rest of the morning, in the snow-covered field, the Lady taught Fer to sit straight and tall, to turn the horse by shifting her weight slightly and pressing her outside leg against his side, and to trot without bouncing. Sometimes Phouka did as he was told, and sometimes he didn’t. At first she felt like a bag of potatoes bouncing around on Phouka’s back, and her bottom got sore. She knew she looked nothing like the Lady, who rode with smooth grace, as if she was one with her horse.

  Fer fell off twice, and she was sure that Phouka was laughing at her as she got to her feet covered with snow. He snorted, anyway, and tossed his head both times it happened. But after a while, Fer started to feel the rhythm of riding. She’d be going along, jolt-jolt-jolt, and then, just like on the wild ride, the bumping would turn to rocking and she’d find her balance, and lean with Phouka as he turned, and move with his motion. It was like flying, but better, faster.

  After a quick lunch, they went back to the field with Phouka and the Lady’s white horse. Fat flakes of snow were drifting down from the sky. Crows perched in the pine trees at the edge of the field, watching.

  The Lady led Fer and Phouka across the field and onto a trail through the pine forest, going away from the encampment. The forest was silent except for the shuff-shuff of hooves in snow and the shush of wind high up in the tops of the trees.

  Ahead of her, the Lady whispered to her horse and it stopped, then fell in beside Phouka. “I want more than anything to win you to my side, Gwynnefar,” she said.

  To her side? “I’m not against you, um, Lady,” Fer said.

  The Lady tilted her head, birdlike. “Yet I think you suspect me of things, terrible things.” She smiled, and this time Fer saw the icy net of the glamorie as it dropped over her. This time it was cold, like metal bars, like being caged.

  This had to be wrong. The Lady used the magic of the glamorie to force her people to obey her. Fer stared down at Phouka’s tangled black mane. She took a deep breath, fighting against the glamorie as it forced her mind away from her questions and doubts. She had meant to ask the Lady about the wrongness she felt here, about the wildling. And to ask her why Rook was bound to her so tightly, even though he hated it. She wouldn’t get answers from this Lady, she was sure of that now. “I don’t suspect you,” she said slowly. But maybe, she realized, she should. The thought made her feel icy cold and shaky inside.

  The Lady didn’t answer. After a moment, as if nothing had happened, she said, “We must continue with your lessons, Gwynnefar.” She pointed ahead at a log, an old tree that had fallen across the path. “You are going to jump that.”

  Fer shivered, still thinking about her new suspicions of the Lady. Then she blinked and examined the log the Lady was still pointing to. Better go along with her for now. Hmm. The log didn’t look too high. “C’mon, Phouka,” she said, squeezing her legs to tell him to go forward. “Let’s go take a look at it first.”

  After Phouka had snuffled at the log for a bit, Fer brought him back down the path where the Lady waited.

  “Horses cannot judge distance very well,” the Lady said. “But Phouka knows what he’s doing. When he begins the jump, lift your seat, move your hands forward to give him room, and lean over the crest of his neck. It’s a matter of balance and timing.”

  Fer nodded, the instructions whirling around in her head. She squeezed her legs. “Go, Phouka,” she told him. They jolted off down the path, then Fer found the rhythm. As they came up to the log, she felt Phouka gather himself; his muscles bunched and his front legs came off the ground, and then his back legs. His back arched, and Fer leaned forward, finding her balance. As he landed, he lowered his head, and whoosh, she was tumbling over his shoulder, landing facedown in the deep snow.

  She sat up, wiping snow out of her eyes. Phouka trotted a few more steps, then turned and came back, snorting and giving her a wicked glance with his yellow eyes.

  Was he laughing at her again?

  She got to her feet and led him over to the log, which she used to climb onto his back, then rode down the path where the Lady was waiting.

  “Again,” she said.

  Fer fell off four more times. The fourth time, she sat up in the snow, grinning. “Phouka, you did that on purpose,” she said, wiping snow out of her face. Phouka lowered his head and tossed his mane, then stepped forward and pushed his nose against her shoulder. She climbed to her feet. “You bad horse,” she said, and patted his neck.

  The Lady came up, very tall and dark against the gray-white sky. She was frowning. “You don’t carry the whip I gave you, Gwynnefar,” she said. “He’d behave better if you reminded him now and then that he is bound to serve you.”

  Bound to her? That was a strange way to talk about a horse. Fer leaned her head against Phouka’s neck. “I will never use a whip on you,” she whispered into his ear. He couldn’t understand her, she knew, but she felt better telling him. She patted him again, and he whuffled his nose against her shoulder
.

  The Lady decided Fer had learned enough about horses for one day. They rode through the falling snow, back to the encampment, where the Lady left Fer at her tent. “You’ll be tired,” the Lady said, almost like she was giving Fer an order. She handed her horse over to one of the badger-men. “Go straight to bed. I must go out of the encampment to meet with someone, so I will have dinner sent to you.”

  Fer slid down from Phouka’s back. When her feet hit the snowy ground, all the soreness of strained muscles from her first day of riding hit her at once. “Ooh,” she breathed. She patted Phouka to say good-bye, then turned to the Lady, who stood with the snow falling around her and her eyes gleaming as if they were full of stars.

  “Good night, Gwynnefar,” the Lady said. Her voice sounded like silvery music.

  “Good night,” Fer said slowly. She turned her head, to see if she could catch a glimpse of what was behind the Lady’s glamorie.

  Before she saw anything, the Lady turned and strode away. Fer blinked. Bed. She was going to flop on her bed and not move until morning. She ducked stiffly under the flap and hobbled into her tent.

  Gingerly she eased herself down onto her bed. Ooh, the muscles in her legs hurt. And her bottom felt like one big bruise. She bent down to untie her sneakers.

  Then she stopped. The Lady had gone off to meet someone, she’d said. Rook was somewhere else, not spying on her. Now was the perfect time to do some spying of her own.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Fer’s patch-jacket was lined on the inside with dark brown calico. She took the jacket off and turned it inside out and put it on again. She’d be harder to see that way, as she snuck through the encampment.

  She went to the tent flap and peeked out. Evening was coming on, but nobody had lit the lanterns that hung from the pine trees. The snowy paths leading from tent to tent were empty. Maybe all the Lady’s people and her crows had gone with her.

  Keeping an eye out for the wolf-guards, Fer went down the path, past one dark tent, past another, past a snow-covered pine tree and another tent that had light leaking out from under its tent-flap doorway. She paused outside the flap, listening. A wind rustled the pine branches, far overhead, but everything else was quiet.

  She turned to continue down the path, toward the Lady’s tent, when she saw a dark shape coming closer. She froze. The she-wolf guard, looking grim and gray and fierce in the gloomy light.

  Uh-oh. Fer gulped. She’d tell the guard that she was . . . hungry, that she’d come out of her tent to find some food.

  Fer opened her mouth to start explaining, but the she-wolf looked straight at Fer and her face didn’t change; her eyes just slid away and she passed Fer, her heavy feet going crunch-crunch-crunch on the snowy path.

  Fer stared after her. Had the wolf-guard not seen her? She looked down at herself. The brown lining of the patch-jacket made her blend in a little with the night, but she wasn’t invisible. Was she?

  Fer stepped back onto the path and headed toward the Mór’s tent. She walked a few steps and stopped, listening.

  Again somebody was coming, this time from behind her. Fer stepped off the path and looked back. One of the Lady’s people, a badger-man carrying a torch. His broad face seemed orange in the dancing light. He came closer and Fer hunched down into her patch-jacket. He passed by without even glancing aside at her.

  Fer let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. She was invisible! Maybe Grand-Jane’s patch-jacket had more power here than it did back home. Feeling more confident, she went along the path until she reached the Lady’s tent. A wolf-guard stood out front, doing his job. Guarding. A glowing lantern sat in the snow nearby.

  Fer paused. She might as well try it. Keeping her feet quiet on the path, Fer crept closer to the tent flap, watching the guard’s face. He looked out into the night, showing no sign of seeing or hearing her as she edged past him. She ducked under the flap and into the Lady’s tent.

  She straightened, her heart jumping with excitement, and looked around. The tent looked just as it had when she’d eaten dinner here. Summer-green carpets on the floor and hanging from the walls. A table and chairs and a camp bed just like the one in her own tent. A lantern turned low sat on the table. And, against one tent wall, a wooden chest. That was the place to look for clues about what was wrong here.

  Her feet silent on the carpeted floor, Fer crossed the tent and opened the chest. It was full mostly of shirts and trousers, all made of black silk. Among the neatly folded clothes, Fer found a box. It was made of the same light-colored wood as her OWEN box, but a little bigger. Fer took the box over to the table where the lantern was so she’d be able to see better. She opened the box.

  She found three things inside. The first was a bunch of glossy black feathers tied together with thread. Fer gave them a quick glance and set them aside, pulling out the next thing. It was yet another box made of the same wood, but smaller, only the size of her fist. It rattled when she gave it a shake. Inside the little box were two lumps of something. Fer dumped them out into her hand and held them up to the lantern to see them better. One was smooth and pointed like a sharp tooth. Yes, it was a fang from a dog or a wolf. The other thing looked like a chunk of bone. They were both about the size of the end of her pinkie finger. Fer put them back in the box and examined the last thing.

  It was circle shaped and lumpy, wrapped in a piece of sky-blue silk. Fer unwrapped it and turned it in her hands. The crown the Lady had been wearing during the wild ride. It was a circlet made of living twigs and budding oak leaves, green and glowing with the magic of the land, even here in the darkness of winter. Fer held it closer to see it more clearly.

  No, wait. The crown wasn’t as green and healthy as it had first appeared in the dim light. The leaves looked freshly budded, but they were limp and edged with the dry brown of autumn. Spots of black mold marred their surface. A smell like rotting flowers hung in the air. The twigs felt slimy under her fingers. Fer set it down with shaking hands.

  It was the Lady’s crown, and it was dying.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The dying crown meant that the wrongness Fer felt in the land had to have something to do with the Lady.

  But the Lady had told Fer herself—the Lady could feel the land. The Lady was bound to the land and her people, just as much as any of her people were bound to her by their oaths. She must have done something terrible, Fer realized. Something that made her own people turn wildling and made this feeling of wrongness seep through the land.

  Fer needed to talk to Rook. He couldn’t know about the dying crown, and he needed to know about it. Maybe once he knew that the Lady was evil, he would be free of her, and he could explain how things were supposed to work here, to help her figure out how to fix what was wrong. After putting everything carefully away, she slipped back outside and to her own tent. All night long, the questions and thoughts whirled in her head.

  In the morning, Rook didn’t bring Fer’s breakfast. Instead it was Burr who crept in with a tray full of bread and hot tea.

  “Have you seen Rook?” Fer asked. She’d gulped down two slices of bread and honey, even though she still felt sick and shaky from what she’d found the night before.

  Burr pushed her shoulder, making her sit on the bed so she could braid her hair. “The puck is hers,” Burr said.

  Fer gritted her teeth. “I know that. I have to talk to him. Have you seen him?”

  “No,” Burr said. With quick fingers, she finished the braid and tucked the Lady’s black feather into its end.

  Fer turned to face her. Time for a question. “Burr, something is wrong in this land, isn’t it. Do you know what it is?”

  Burr’s eyes widened.

  Through her connection to the other girl, Fer felt how her heart trembled at Fer’s question.

  “We are bound to her,” Burr whispered, her voice shaky. “We are all winterlings, cold and alone. Spring will never come for us. We are not to speak of it.”

  “But you
know, don’t you?” Fer insisted. “Something happened. The Lady did something terrible.”

  “I can’t answer,” Burr said. Fer felt the girl shivering. “Find Leaf Woman. Ask her. She is not bound. She can tell.” Tears welled up in her eyes, and she ducked her head and scurried out of the tent.

  Leaf Woman again. What did she have to do with it all?

  With a sigh, Fer put her head into her hands. She was a girl, and she was alone, and she didn’t have any power. The Lady was a strong warrior with the glamorie and the power of the land behind her. For a moment, Fer felt like giving up, like fleeing back through the Way to the safety of Grand-Jane’s house.

  But no. The wrongness from this land was seeping into her own world too, Grand-Jane’s letter had said. And she couldn’t leave this land stained and shadowed as it was. She had to do something. Her own father had gone back through the Way to help her mother put things right. He’d been a human, alone in a land of magic and danger, and he’d done it. They must have tried to stop the Lady from doing whatever evil thing she’d done. They’d both failed, she could see that.

  Fer stood up and gave a firm nod. She would find out what the Lady had done to bring wrongness to the land, and she would set it right

  Until she found the answer and fixed what was wrong, she couldn’t go home to Grand-Jane. But she could send her a letter about it.

  Fer dug her pencil and paper out of her backpack and wrote a note.

  Dear Grand-Jane,

  You are right that something wrong here is coming through the Way to mess things up there. I’m sure it’s because of something the Lady did, but I don’t know what. I can feel spring here, wanting to come, but the winter is staying longer than it should. People here are wildling and I think they might be turning wild because they’re sworn to serve a Lady who has gone bad. Does that sound right to you? I found her crown, and it’s dying.