Winterling

by Sarah Prineas

  The wildling was taking her badly. Her power had held it off for a long time, but now her power was fading. She’d have to make a sacrifice to get it back again. She couldn’t just spill the blood of a dumb animal or a half-wild troll; that wouldn’t be enough. She’d wanted to bind Fer to her with the hunt, and when Fer had refused to shed blood, she’d wanted Fer herself for her prey. But Fer had escaped.

  Rook knew what was coming.

  “I will give you a head start,” the Mór croaked. She shifted, and to Rook it looked like her knees had bent backward, like a bird’s legs. “It must be a good hunt. Now, go.” She pointed with clawed fingers at the forest. “Run, my puck. Run.”

  He fled.

  Blinking, spitting out dirt, Fer sat up. She was back where she started, in the grim, end-of-winter forest.

  Good. That was good. Spring hadn’t come to this place, so the Mór hadn’t spilled anybody’s blood yet.

  “Okay, okay,” she breathed. She couldn’t panic. It wouldn’t be too late. She would find the Mór and the hunt. Getting to her feet, she left her backpack—it was too heavy to carry, and she had to hurry. Then she checked that the Leaf Woman’s green stick was still in the quiver with the arrows and slung it over her shoulder, then did the same with the bow. Ready.

  Leaving the rest of her stuff, she started down the path, back toward the moon-pool. The day was overcast and gray, and an icy drizzle hung in the air, thicker than fog but not quite rain.

  Then, way in the distance, she heard something. She stopped and stood still on the trail, her heart pounding. There it was again, the howl of a wolf. It was followed a moment later by the high, distant call of horns.

  The hunt. “Run, Rook,” she panted. The thought of him shot down with one of the Mór’s black arrows made her heart hurt.

  On through the forest she ran. She passed the clearing where she and Rook had camped, and kept going, down the narrow, muddy path. The quiver of arrows and the bow thumped on her back, keeping time with her footsteps and her panting breath.

  Wolves howled again, just ahead.

  Just before she reached the clearing where the Way and the pool were, Fer skidded to a stop. Catching her breath, she padded forward, her ears pricked. From the clearing came the sound of snarling and bushes thrashing, then the ringing sound of the hunting horn.

  Her sneakered feet silent, Fer crept to the end of the path and peered in.

  The Mór crashed through the bushes into the clearing, riding Phouka. Across the clearing from the Mór, on the other side of the pool, Rook, a ragged, weary dog, retreated as the three huge wolves advanced on him, snarling.

  The Mór looked wild, her eyes glittering, her hair a crest of tattered black feathers. She jerked Phouka to a stop. The Mór’s people lurked in the forest behind her, hovering like ghosts among the trees. The Mór’s crows circled overhead, cawing.

  Taking a deep breath, Fer stepped into the clearing.

  The Mór’s head swiveled. When she spoke, her voice came out as a croak. “Gwynnefar.”

  Fer gasped. The glamorie had failed. The Mór was not beautiful any longer, but a wildling creature, with a sharp, beaky face and hands like withered claws. When she reached over her shoulder to jerk an arrow from her quiver, her arm bent the wrong way, as if her joints were on backward. The Mór clumsily fitted a black arrow to the bowstring. She spoke over her shoulder, giving her people an order. “We have a better prey than the puck. After her.”

  The Mór’s people shifted. Fer saw antlers and feathers and pawed feet. They were all wildling. Yet none of them moved to obey the Mór’s order.

  Fer took another step into the clearing. She felt the land under her feet, the forest dark and mysterious around her, the sky arching overhead, and she felt the stain like a shadow on the land from when the Mór had hunted before. The land and its people—they needed her to do this.

  She took a deep, steadying breath. It was time to ask the question. “What happened to my father and mother?”

  “Ah.” The Mór flinched, as if Fer had struck her. The Mór’s crows dropped out of the air, settling on the tree branches all around the clearing, as if they were waiting to hear the answer.

  Fer took a step forward and asked the question again. “What happened to my father and mother?”

  The Mór’s face went even paler. The clawlike hands holding the bow and arrow shook. “You dare not ask a third time,” she croaked.

  Yes, she did, she did dare. “I ask you a third time, false Lady. Tell me,” Fer said, and she felt the power of command in her voice. “What happened to my father and mother?”

  The Mór cried out, a harsh croak of a scream. She spoke the words as if they were being wrenched out of her. “I hunted them. I spilled their blood. I . . . killed them.”

  Fer spoke past the lump in her throat, trying to keep her voice from shaking. She had suspected, and now she knew for sure how their story had ended. “My mother was your true Lady, and you were her most trusted ally. You were sworn to serve her. You broke your oath.”

  “I did,” the Mór said, her voice the merest thread of a whisper. “And the price has been more than I could pay.”

  Fer slung the bow from her shoulder. She reached back for an arrow. If she shot the Mór, she could get close enough to touch her with the green stick, as Leaf Woman had told her to do. And the Mór, the usurper who’d taken the true Lady’s place—she deserved shooting for what she’d done.

  Fer took up her shooting stance and pulled back the bowstring. She sighted down the arrow, aiming it directly at the Mór’s heart. The shot settled within her. She closed her eyes, feeling grim and determined.

  In the moment of darkness she saw her parents’ deaths as the land remembered them. Fer saw the hunt, the chase through the wild night, the moonlight; this time not a stag but Owen and the betrayed Lady, who was really just a girl named Laurelin, who stumbled terrified into the clearing, trying to get through the Way, and the mounted huntress pulling arrows from her quiver, shooting them down before they could escape. Their blood, black in the moonlight, spilling, seeping into the ground. The true Lady’s blood shed in a hunt, tainting the land, the source of all the wrongness here.

  The Mór had wanted the Lady’s power to rule the land and bind her people to her as tightly as if their oaths were chains. And all she had given the land in return was blood and death.

  “No,” Fer whispered. “I won’t shed more blood in this place.” Opening her eyes, she lowered her aim, releasing the arrow. It flew across the clearing and buried itself in the ground at the Mór’s feet.

  A sneer blossomed on the Mór’s face. “You are weak, just like your mother. She took the arrow meant for him, but I killed them both, just the same.” She groped in her quiver for a black arrow. “And now I will kill you.” The crows in the trees cawed out raucous jeers.

  Quickly Fer reached into her own quiver, felt under her fingers the leafy end of the green stick that Leaf Woman had given her. She pulled it out and fitted it to the bowstring.

  Across the clearing, the Mór’s clawlike hands struggled with her own bow and arrow.

  Fer sighted down the green stick. The shot settled within her, she felt the rightness, and she let it go. The green stick sped through the air, finding its target.

  The Mór flinched as it struck, her hand going to her chest. Her mouth stretched open and instead of a scream, a harsh caw escaped from a sharp beak. The yellowed skin of her face cracked, and from the cracks feathers sprouted, spreading from her forehead, down the back of her neck, across her hunching shoulders. Her hands curled into claws. A flash of brilliant light, and a huge crow tumbled from Phouka’s back, then caught itself and flapped upward on ragged-feathered wings. The Mór-crow circled, gathering the crows that had been perched in the trees. They swirled around the clearing like tattered leaves blown by the wind until the Mór-crow gave a shrieking caw and they flew up, higher and higher.

  Her heart pounding, Fer watched her go. The Mór and her cr
ows became distant black blots in the gray sky, then a smudge, and then they disappeared.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Fer lowered her bow.

  On the other side of the clearing, the black dog that was Rook coughed and spat something from his mouth. The air blurred and Rook’s own hand caught the shifter-tooth. The wolves surrounding him growled.

  Fer took a few steps toward them. “Behave yourselves,” she said, and through her connection to the wolves she felt them tremble at her order.

  The wolves cowered away. Fer kept going around the pool. “Rook, are you okay?”

  “Oh, sure I am,” Rook answered, his voice rough. He stood with his head lowered, the shaggy hair shadowing his face.

  From behind her, Fer heard the sounds of others entering the clearing. She turned to look. The Mór’s people came in silently, shivering as the wildling brought on by the Mór’s evil left them, as paws turned to feet and horns faded away and fur smoothed into skin. Phouka stood among them on wobbly legs, still a horse.

  “What about Phouka?” Fer asked. “Can he change back too?”

  Rook rubbed a weary hand across his eyes. “I don’t know. He might’ve been a horse for too long.”

  “Why did the Mór do this to him?” she asked, now that he was free of the Mór and could answer her questions.

  “He’s a horse, Fer,” Rook growled. “He wasn’t able to tell me.”

  “Rook,” she chided.

  He gave a half-apologetic shrug. “It is the Mór’s punishment for helping your father take you through the Way.”

  Poor, brave Phouka. Fer nodded, understanding. Rook had been brave too, binding himself to the Mór to save his puck-brother’s life. “I think he likes being a horse,” Fer said.

  “He does, yes,” Rook agreed.

  Silence fell over the clearing. Fer looked across the round pool, which gleamed like a mirror in the gray light. Burr and Twig stood holding hands; beside them was a badger-man, and a deer-woman; more of the Mór’s people stood stunned at the edge of the forest. Another badger-man turned to Phouka and started taking the nasty bridle from his mouth.

  What now, Fer wondered. She’d dealt with the Mór and righted the wrongs that had been done. Now what was she supposed to do? It still wasn’t spring here, and probably not on the other side of the Way, either.

  The people stirred and whispered. A fresh breeze kicked through the clearing, sending ripples across the pool, making the tree branches rattle.

  “She’s coming,” Burr said in a thin voice.

  “No, she’s here,” Twig added.

  Fer heard a rustling in the bushes. She turned and saw Leaf Woman, stumpy and green, looking like she’d always been there, like she’d grown up there and had roots deep into the ground.

  Without speaking, Leaf Woman stumped across the clearing to the place where the Mór had turned into a crow and flown away. She glanced up at the sky for a second, as if checking to be sure the Mór was really gone, then bent and picked up the green stick from where it had fallen. She held up the stick.

  The Mór’s people shifted and murmured, then fell silent. Fer felt a touch and almost jumped in surprise as Rook’s fingers closed over hers. She glanced aside at him.

  “Watch,” he whispered, and nodded toward the Leaf Woman. “This is how it’s supposed to be done.”

  Fer watched.

  Still holding the stick, Leaf Woman closed her eyes. She opened them and turned to point the stick in all four directions. Then she took either end of the stick in her hands and cracked it open. The whole forest held its breath. A drop of sap gathered at the broken end of the stick. Shining in the light, the sap dropped slowly down and landed on the dead brown moss.

  Fer gasped as she felt, with every part of her, the droplet of sap seep into the ground. The stain that shadowed the land lifted, as if it had never been there at all.

  As Fer breathed out again, the forest did too, and spring came rushing in, spreading from the spot where the drop of sap had fallen, the moss turning greener than emeralds. The spring spread farther, leaves popping from the ends of twigs, trees stretching toward the sky, ferns unfurling. A warm breeze rustled the leaves. The gray clouds retreated from the sky and the setting sun shed golden beams across the clearing.

  “There,” said Leaf Woman with a happy sigh. “That works better than blood, doesn’t it?” She dropped the pieces of broken stick on the ground. Around her, the Mór’s people were smiling and laughing, and turning their faces like flowers to the golden sun, and some of them were weeping.

  Fer took her hand from Rook’s and started around the edge of the pool; Rook followed. One of the Mór’s people interrupted her. The wolf-guards had turned back into people.

  “Hey-ho, Fer-girlie!” the she-wolf said, grinning. “What’re you doing here?”

  “Are we finally going to get that toast?” the other guard asked.

  “Stupid wolves,” Rook’s voice muttered behind her.

  Fer patted the she-wolf’s arm and kept going.

  Leaf Woman turned smiling to her as she came up. Her square teeth were stained brown, like wood. “Well, Gwynnefar,” she asked in her rumbly voice. “What are you going to do now?”

  Fer glanced at the pool in the middle of the clearing. The breeze still blew, but the surface of the water was smooth, reflecting the clear blue of the springtime sky. The Way was open. Fer felt a little knot of sorrow tie itself in her chest. She couldn’t leave Grand-Jane alone, but she hated the thought of leaving this land and its people forever and closing the Way behind her.

  “Do you know who you are?” Leaf Woman asked.

  Fer nodded. “I’m Fer.”

  The Leaf Woman pointed with one of her gnarled fingers. “What else are you?”

  Fer considered the question. She’d used spells and herbs to heal the wildlings. “I’m a healer,” she realized. Just like Grand-Jane. And she’d fought off the wolf-guards and saved Rook’s life three times. “I’m a warrior, too. And I opened the Way.”

  “So you did,” Leaf Woman said, grinning. “I ask again. What are you?”

  Fer took a deep breath. She looked around the clearing, at the half-wild people, at weary Phouka and tricksy Rook, and at the forest beyond. She blinked and saw it again, its magic and splendor and wonder. She felt a fierce urge to guard and protect this land and its people, and to make sure things here were right. This was what her mother had felt.

  “I know what I am,” she said slowly. “I am the Lady of this place.”

  “You are,” Leaf Woman said. She held up her hands and spoke a word, and a crown appeared, a glowing circlet of twigs and budding oak leaves. “Come here and lower your head,” Leaf Woman ordered.

  Taking a deep breath, feeling the power of the land tingling in her fingers and toes, Fer stepped forward and bowed her head.

  Leaf Woman raised the crown. “Lower,” she grumbled. “You’re a bit taller than I am, Lady.”

  Smiling, Fer ducked lower, then felt Leaf Woman place the crown on her head. Fer straightened. Around the clearing, all her people bowed, and she felt a web of connection to them, and it felt good, and it felt right.

  Fer felt a little hope blossom. “Can I go home and see Grand-Jane, and come back here again?”

  “The Ways will always be open to you, Lady,” Leaf Woman said. “You can.”

  Then she would. She turned to Rook. “What about you, Rook? Are you going to stay in this land?”

  Rook shook the shaggy hair out of his yellow eyes and laughed, and for the first time Fer saw the real Rook, the puck unbound, full of sharp-edged mischief. “Maybe I will, Fer,” Rook said, grinning. “And maybe I won’t.”

  Oh, Rook. Smiling, Fer stepped up to the edge of the round pool and looked down. The water, mirror bright, reflected a tall, wild-haired girl wearing a patched jacket and carrying a bow and arrows, smiling back at her.

  On the other side, spring had come. Grand-Jane would be expecting her; she’d be at the moon-pool, waiting.
Fer looked back over her shoulder. Phouka tossed his head and snorted. Rook, among the rest of her people, sketched a wave and grinned.

  She waved back. “See you soon,” she said.

  And she jumped.

  Acknowledgments

  Many thanks . . .

  To my wonderful editor, Antonia Markiet, who shines light into the dark places.

  And to the outstanding team at HarperCollins, starting with editor Alyson Day, copy editors Amy Vinchesi and Kathryn Silsand, editorial director Phoebe Yeh, publisher Susan Katz, associate editor Jayne Carapezzi, art director Sasha Illingworth, production supervisor Ray Colon, Tony Hirt, publicist Marisa Russell, and cover artist Jason Chan.

  To my agent, Caitlin Blasdell, and her ruthless critiques, ow, ow, ow. And to the Liza Dawson Agency, especially Havis Dawson.

  For support and friendship, Ingrid Law. I believe we have a lunch date coming up, my dearest . . . !

  Jennifer Adam, who kindly answered all my questions about horses, and about not-horses. Lisa Will, astronomer consultant extraordinaire. Jon Michael Hansen, for the archery info. Deb Coates, the dog whisperer.

  To bookseller Beth Yost, from Cover to Cover Children’s Books in Columbus, Ohio, who said, upon reading The Magic Thief, “Um, I actually like that story you wrote about the changeling girl. . . .” Beth, you inspired me to turn that story into this novel.

  To Karen Meisner, Jed Hartman, and Susan Marie Groppi, who bought that changeling girl story and published it at www.strangehorizons.com.

  This book’s intrepid first readers, Rae Carson, Greg van Eekhout, and Jenn Reese. Also to Dragons of the Corn: Deb Coates, Lisa Bradley, and Dorothy Winsor, and to the memory of Alex Tint. To Iowa City’s Nano Rebels, in whose company much of this book was written: Wendy Heinrich, Lori Dawson, Amy Luttinger, Susan Benton, Britt Deerberg, Bev Ehresman, Eleanor Ditzel, Dori Hillestad Butler. To Jessie Stickgold-Sarah, Haddayr Copley-Woods, Robin LaFevers, Kristin Cashore, Charlie Finlay, bookseller Shawna Elder, and to the biggest threat to children’s publishing to come along in quite a while, Paolo Bacigalupi.