The stream fell rapidly over small waterfalls, and Ember was glad of her sturdy boots in the wet mud.
They passed through a screen of poplars and came out into a meadow where the tumbling stream spread into a wide, shallow pool which fell silently over a lip on the other side to become a broad snaking creek.
All around the pool were juniper bushes. The sharp smell hit the back of Ember’s throat and brought her alert. Because on the bushes, on every bush, on every twig and leaf, were butterflies.
Swallowtails, she thought. Black and white and yellow-gold, some dappled blue, some green, they lay with their wide wings and long tails drooping against the bushes, unmoving.
“Are they dead?” she whispered.
“No,” Elgir said. “They came from the cocoon yesterday, and this morning they should have flown north. But they do not move. And the wind has not come.”
“The wind?”
“The south wind blows always at this time of year. It carries them up, and north to their breeding grounds. It is cold when it comes over the mountains, but it warms over my meadows and rises, and these little ones rise with it, and sail away.”
Contemplating the silent, vibrant host was sad. Ember loved butterflies. Well, who did not? But there was something else odd.
“There are no birds eating them,” she said.
“No. They are easy prey, but there are no birds. That is why I think the Powers are acting—birds are alert to power, they avoid it as quick as may be.”
Ember realized that there had not been a bird in sight when she walked from her father’s fort to her marriage fire, when normally there were birds everywhere in spring.
She moved out among the bushes, looking carefully at the butterflies. Some of them moved just a little as she passed, their wings waving gently, their antennae quivering.
“They’re waiting for something,” she said.
“For the wind. If they do not fly soon, they will die before they have bred.”
Abruptly, she was angry. Power. Powers. Interfering with humans was bad enough, but to condemn a whole generation of beauty to death—to sacrifice the generations of beauty unborn—that was wanton evil, and it should not be countenanced.
“Can’t you do something?” she asked Elgir. “Raise a wind?”
“I am Earth and Forest,” he said. “I have no power over Air.”
Fuming, she moved further in, lifting a butterfly onto her fingertips and holding it up, willing it to fly. It hung there, limp, and that enraged her, too. They should fight, these little beauties, fight for their lives.
Anger swelled in her: anger at the Powers, at the butterflies, at the gods, at the world itself which let these things happen.
“It’s not fair,” she muttered. Her hair was standing up on her neck, and she thought, fleetingly, of Ash’s warning about temper, but it was too late. Much too late to stop the wave of heat that swept over her. No, she prayed. Don’t come. Don’t come here.
Wind. Perhaps if she could stir up a breeze, the butterflies would lift… she spread out her arms and began to spin, holding her skirts out to make a fan. Slowly. Faster. Faster still, until the world became a blur and she lost all sense of left or right, up or down. There was only the blue of the sky and the green of the grass and the black, white, gold rainbow in between.
Around her, the air grew warm and her hair began to lift gently as it rose. Air, she thought. We need air, not fire. Don’t come here.
She spun, and the air grew warmer. The butterfly on the tip of her finger lifted away, drifting. She caught glimpses of it, snatches as she went around and then around. It was moving. Flying. Flapping its wings. She spun faster, laughing, and the air was like honey, thick and warm, and then like summer itself, almost burning her, almost blinding her.
More butterflies lifted, flapped, followed the current of warm air around her up, up and around into a swirling cloud of color, a waterspout of wings rising like hope, a ribbon spreading into a scarf, a skirt, a cape of color that filled the sky and streamed northward. She flung up her hands as she spun and the anger became delight, triumph, equally hot, equally strong, and she laughed as she spun until she was breathless and had to sink, panting, to the green earth.
Her gaze followed the rainbow trail across the sky. Hah! she thought. I hate Them so much. Let Them taste failure.
Elgir wound through the bushes and reached a hand down to help her stand. She realized again how tall he was, how massive, and felt a small shiver of fear. But he was smiling at her.
“So you use Their power against Them?” he asked. “You are brave, but perhaps not wise.”
“You think They will retaliate?” she asked, suddenly very afraid. The sweat on her skin turned clammy.
“All things must be paid for,” he said. Ember was irritated. That was the kind of thing people said when they didn’t want you to have fun.
“Well, of course everything has to be paid for,” she said. “But sometimes you have to take a chance. Some things are worth it.”
“Butterflies?” he asked, and he was teasing her now.
“Butterflies,” she said firmly.
“I agree,” he said, “and I will do what I can to help, since you have helped me and mine.”
“Butterflies are yours, too?” she asked.
“All that lives is mine, here,” he said seriously. She nodded. It was no more than she had suspected.
“Including humans?”
“Those who are alive,” he said. “The ghosts look after themselves, mostly.”
“Even your guards?”
He pursed his lips, but he didn’t get time to answer. A shout came from the ridge. Ash’s voice, calling her.
She turned and ran back the way they had come, not waiting for Elgir. It seemed steeper the second time, but she panted up the rise. Ash wasn’t anywhere near where he had left them.
“Ember!”
She followed his voice, and found Ash at the base of one of the trees, some way from where he had climbed up. His arm was around Curlew, and they were both scratched and bleeding on hands and face.
“It was a hard climb down,” Ash said.
“There were butterflies,” Curlew said dazedly.
Ash made a face, as if the butterflies hadn’t helped. “There certainly were! We could hardly see!” Then his face softened. “But they were pretty.”
Cedar and Tern arrived and went to help Ash with Curlew, and Ember took her sergeant’s hand. He was shockingly pale and drawn—older than when she had last seen him. His eyes didn’t seem to see her. They focused past her, onto the ground. Slowly, he sank down and placed his palms on the grass, and then lay down fully, pressing his face into the dirt. He began to cry, as a child cries when it comes back to its mother’s arms after being lost.
Ember regarded him helplessly. Should she comfort him? Or scold him, as a mother did when the reckless child was found? She knelt next to him and put a hand on his back.
“You’re safe now,” she said. “It’s all right.” She kept her voice low, and rubbed his back, and gradually his sobs died away and he hid his eyes against his forearm in a mixture of exhaustion and embarrassment.
Elgir had arrived. She glared at him, but Tern spoke first.
“What have you done to him?” he demanded.
Ash answered. “The spell made him fly.” Curlew shuddered under her hands at the words and Ash grimaced, putting a finger to his lips. Ember nodded. No more talk of what had happened—at least, not in front of Curlew. Tern looked distraught. He patted Curlew tentatively on the shoulder.
“I hope you’re satisfied,” she said bitterly to Elgir, whose face was creased with concern.
“That was my father’s spell,” he said. “Perhaps it is time to revisit it.”
The sun was almost gone, sending the long shadows of the trees down the ridge and across the glades.
“You will stay here tonight,” Elgir said. It wasn’t a question, but although Ember looked at Ash to see if h
e objected, he didn’t say anything. He was brooding about something, she thought. Curlew’s condition, or something that had happened up in the trees.
She wanted to say, “No, we’ll go on,” but it was sheer stupidity to travel in unknown country in the dark, and the moon wouldn’t rise for hours.
Tern and Ash helped Curlew up and Ember used her last kerchief to wipe his face. His eyes were still unfocused, but he could walk, as long as the others held his elbows and guided him.
They went down the slope and Elgir led them to a group of elms which had grown into rooms and towers and staircases, bowers and balconies. The horses and dogs, brought by some signal they hadn’t heard, met them at the trunk of the largest tree.
“The privies are over there,” Elgir said, pointing at a clump of densely planted aspens.
Ember made for them with relief. She hadn’t liked to ask—that was the problem with there being no lady here—she shouldn’t have had to ask.
It was odd, she thought, as she made her way through the narrow gap between two trees, that the privy she found was exactly the same as the one at home. Except that they used comfrey leaves here instead of dock.
And the waterbutt with its dipper was not a cooper’s cask, but a single tree trunk, hollowed out.
She was overtaken by homesickness as she washed her hands and face. The linen towel smelled of rosemary, and it brought back a vivid memory of helping her mother and the other women lay out the bed linen over the rosemary bushes in the kitchen garden, to air after winter in the gentle spring sun. It had been part of the preparation for the wedding, and the day had been full of laughter and happiness. The scent brought that back and she missed her mother fiercely. If only she had her mother’s Sight! Then perhaps she would understand this odd warlord, these peculiar circumstances.
The others were using the nearby privies, and they met back at the elms, all of them looking cleaner and more relaxed, even Curlew.
“I have had your gear brought here. Come,” Elgir said, starting up one of the staircases, but Curlew began to shake.
“Not up. Not flying,” he muttered, and stood dead still. Grip whined in his throat and Holdfast nosed Curlew’s hand, as if trying to give comfort.
“Better for Curlew to stay on the ground,” Ash said clearly.
“I’ll stay with him,” Tern offered.
Looking from Elgir to Ember, Ash hesitated. He didn’t want to leave her alone—and she didn’t want to be left. But Curlew’s need was greater than hers.
“I will too,” Cedar said quietly.
Ash nodded thanks and began to climb the staircase behind Elgir, but Ember went to Curlew and took his hands.
“Will you be all right, down here, with Tern and Cedar and the dogs?” she asked gently. “Do you want me to stay, too?”
He stared at her dumbly, his eyes still fixed on the ground.
“Curlew?” she prompted.
With an effort, he brought his gaze to her face.
“Down here,” he said. “Not up.”
“I must go up,” she said. “Unless you want me here.”
“Don’t fly, my lady!” he cried. “Don’t fly!”
“Shh, shh,” she soothed him. “I won’t fly. I promise.”
Dully, he turned away and sat down, his back to a large stone.
Ash came back and took her arm.
“He will be all right,” he said. He looked at Tern and Cedar. “Just keep him warm and get him something to eat.”
Elgir called from above. “Food will be brought.”
Ash nodded and exchanged glances with Cedar, who nodded.
“I’ll stay by him,” he said. “Feet on the ground.”
“There was Loss in your casting,” Ash reminded him. Cedar made a face.
“And Destiny. And Chaos. When they are there, who knows what will be lost? Anything from life to love to—” he looked at Curlew “—to something less nameable.”
Grimacing, Ash turned to the tree.
“I’ll bring your packs down,” he said. With a last pat on Curlew’s arm, Ember followed him up, marveling at the smooth, easy climb. The long limbs of some sapling—she thought it was a kind of myrtle, from the leaves—had been trained to form a handrail, smooth and pleasant to the touch.
Elgir led them to a room woven from the central branches and minor leaves of the elm—a green room full of breezes and the rustling of leaves. The slanting sun put lozenges of gold light on the floor, which shifted and danced as the leaves moved. Ember stepped onto the floor with caution. It dipped a little under her weight and she had a moment of panic before it settled into firmness. Their packs were lying to one side—how had Elgir organized that? She’d been with him all the time…
Ash picked up Curlew, Tern and Cedar’s packs and simply tossed them over the side of the “wall” into Cedar’s waiting hands.
“There is food above,” Elgir said, climbing a narrower stair to a higher level in a nearby tree. Ember followed him, and Ash came behind, a reassuring presence at her back. This stair was not so solid—it creaked as she walked, and swayed alarmingly. Ash didn’t even seem to notice. He moved as though on solid ground.
In the next tree, a dining room of sorts was laid out. A slice from a huge tree trunk formed the table. Plates and cups of wood held food. Ember took a bet with herself that there would be no meat, and she was right: berries, bread, a salad of purple carrots and baby beets, and…
“Cheese?” she said to Elgir in surprise. “You keep cows?”
“This is mare’s cheese, from the ponies,” he said. “The cows don’t like to be milked, but the mares don’t mind. Try it.”
She was abruptly hungry. The cheese had a hard white rind but inside it was soft. There were no knives on the table so Ember used her belt knife to cut some and spread it on the bread. Oat bread, crumbly and fresh. The slightly sour cheese and the sweet oat bread were delicious together.
Ash sat next to her and Elgir went to the other side of the table. Ember spared a thought for the men below.
“My men, Lord Elgir?”
“They will be cared for,” he assured her.
“Your people are shy,” Ash commented, biting into cheese and bread himself. “I’ve spoken to only one so far, apart from the little girl.”
Who had he seen? Ember came alert, only then realizing that she had relaxed into a drowsy state as soon as she had sat down. It had been such a long day… she stifled a yawn and listened.
“You met one of the high people?” Elgir seemed genuinely interested.
“Grus helped me find Curlew,” Ash said. His face was unreadable, but Ember watched his hands, which played with his knife on the surface of the table. Something had happened up there…
“Grus is the most comfortable with speaking to strangers,” Elgir nodded, “but does not normally do so. I wonder why help was offered?”
Ash shrugged.
“Perhaps they wanted to get rid of Curlew,” he said, his voice harsh.
Elgir put down the cup he had raised to his lips.
“I did not intend harm to your man,” he said quietly. “We intend harm to none but predators, here.”
“What, no wolves in this domain?” Ash jeered. That was so unlike him that Ember stared. He was more upset about Curlew than he had shown.
“There are wolves,” Elgir said. His voice was dark again, and held a warning. “They guard our borders from the Ice King’s men, and are honored warriors. I would not cross them, if I were you.”
“If they attack my lady, they will die,” Ash said flatly.
The two men stared at each other, stony faced. Elgir looked down first.
“No wolf of this domain will attack the lady who danced for the butterflies,” he said, a smile making his face almost charming.
“What?” Ash demanded, and so she had to tell him the story.
“Oh, princess,” he said, shaking his head but with his eyes full of warmth, “you take too many chances.”
His m
outh was so tempting. An image of running her thumb along his lower lip flashed through her mind, of him pulling her into an embrace, a kiss, more… there was a confusion of feelings: the harsh heat of desire and something else, a softness, a need to surrender. Fire’s weaponry, she thought, and steeled herself against it. Ash looked puzzled by her expression.
“Elgir knows about Fire,” she said. That would distract Ash from whatever had been showing on her face. Would he be upset with her? He drew in a long considering breath, but then he nodded, thank the gods, and looked seriously at Elgir.
“We need to reach Fire Mountain as soon as possible,” he said.
“I will guide you,” Elgir said. “It is west of here, and the journey is difficult.”
“Naturally,” Ember said gloomily, and yawned again. “Everything always is.” Except butterflies, a small voice whispered in her mind. She was still smiling at the memory when Ash pulled her to her feet and guided her down to the room with their packs, where their sleeping pockets had been spread out and lit candles had been placed in shallow wooden bowls. The light filled the leafy room with a green glow.
“In you go, princess,” Ash said.
She was so tired she didn’t even say goodnight to Elgir, just climbed into her pocket and laid her head down. Ash would say what was right. But a last instinct of courtesy made her raise her head and say into the shifting green walls, “Thank you, my lord.”
Elgir’s voice drifted back from above, “Good night, my lady.”
The last thing she heard was Ash saying, “Sleep well, princess.” His voice carried her safely into warmth and darkness.
Palisade Fort, the Last Domain
Lamb, the leader of the Valuers’ Plantation, was the first of the Domain Council members to arrive. She came riding through the gate in a flurry which was strange to see—Lamb was a calm woman, normally. A grandmother of seventeen, fifteen of whom were still alive, she was unflappable as a rule, used to dealing with the minor crises of childhood and the major ones of a large plantation. But she was flushed and uncertain as she dismounted and came to talk to Arvid, who waited courteously for her.
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