by Diane Magras
And yet as Drest climbed down the cliff to fill the jug again, she was so tired she almost slipped.
* * *
• • •
When they’d finished the hare, they set off. Their pace was even swifter, for Emerick really did know the way, remembering a magnificent tall elm, an old Scots pine that had been uprooted in a storm, and then the bog.
The ground was damp and sticky, but soon they were past and into sparse woods. In places, bare tree roots had risen bone-like through washed-away soil.
After several hours, they rested and took turns sipping from the jug.
“How close are we to Harkniss?” Drest asked.
“If you can believe it, we may be there by midday tomorrow.”
They went on until it was dark, and Emerick slept. But not Drest.
If Tig was hurt, I’d know, wouldn’t I? I’d feel it somehow.
None of her brothers’ voices answered.
Drest frowned and turned over, wincing as her scabbard poked into her.
Tig wouldn’t be hurt. He was clever and swift, and he was right: He could hide in the woods as well as any of her brothers.
And yet as she lay there, she could see Tig by the mill, packing bread and cheese and meat into a sack, and Sir Fergal approaching silently behind him.
Nay, Mordag would warn him. And Elys would be there. Aye, Elys would help.
Elys, whose embrace had felt like a mother’s might: all-surrounding and safe. Just as her hand had felt on Drest’s cheek before they’d parted.
Was that what a mother was like? Her real mother wasn’t even a shadowy memory. Grimbol had never told Drest who her mother had been, nor her brothers, and Drest had never thought to ask. It was as if her mother never had been.
I wonder if she’d like me as much as Elys seems to.
“Are you nervous as well?” Emerick. A faint whisper.
Drest crawled silently to his side. “Do you mean about the castle?”
“Yes. Drest, I—I haven’t seen Oriana in years. Since before she was married.” His voice grew softer. “She never liked me. I was only Celestria’s little brother. I was always too small and too—too weak for her to respect.”
“Emerick, you’re grown now.”
“But I’ve lost my castle and my army and everything within months of inheriting them. How could she respect me? When her husband died, she took over two castles and two armies without blinking an eye.” He shuddered. “What if she sneers at me and says that a man so weak should never have a castle? What if she takes my castle for her own and turns me out?”
“Nay, she won’t, not if she’s your ally.”
His face was troubled. “I didn’t tell you the truth before. I have thought of Lady de Moys. Just not recently. Before I went to the headland to capture your family, some of my knights told me I should ask for her help. I said no. Why would I need her help? Did I not have a strong army of my own? I don’t want to ask for her help now. I should be able to do this on my own, only—only I can’t.”
Gently, Drest took his hand.
He was shaking. “Will you stay with me when I speak with her? It will be good for Oriana to see you and to know that I’m not completely friendless in this world. Or completely pitiful.”
“You’re not pitiful. You’ve had bad luck; that’s all.” Drest leaned against him. “And you’re not friendless. Even if you were once, you’ll never be that again.”
15
THE GATEHOUSE
A watery sun woke Drest, and with it came a sense of dread. Today they would arrive at Harkniss Castle. Today Lady de Moys would agree to help them—or reject their pleas. Or worse: She might take advantage of Emerick’s weakness. And then the wolf’s head would be with Drest forever.
They staggered on through the brightness of morning. Emerick kept up with Drest’s pace, though he was panting. It was past midday when he asked to stop at a golden wheat field that seemed to glow beyond the trees.
But when they came to the field, they saw where it ended: in the near distance at a long, towering wall. Within the wall rose a brutal gray block of a fortress.
“Oh,” said Emerick, sounding as if his word had crept from deep in the ground. “We’re here. Harkniss Castle.”
Two spear-bearing guards in helms and brown tunics stopped them at the gate.
“Your business?” said one, his eyes flicking between them.
Drest had donned the cloak and hood to hide her sword and most of her face. The guard’s gaze slid off her and fixed on Emerick, who was sweating and pale.
“We—we’ve come for an audience with Lady de Moys,” he stammered. “Is she—is she seeing anyone today?”
“Yesterday was Petition Day,” the guard said. “You’re too late.”
Emerick’s posture wilted. “May I send her a word?”
“Nay, you can’t do that. But you can wait for Petition Day next week.”
The other guard nudged the first with flat of his spear. “He could send word, couldn’t he? Just to ask?”
“Has the lady ever seen a villager outside of Petition Day? Nay, she hasn’t. Were I him, I wouldn’t waste my time.”
“But I’m not one of her villagers,” Emerick blurted. “I’m her friend, an old friend from many years ago.”
Now both guards were frowning.
“What’s your name?” said the first.
“E—Edric. Edric of Weemsdale.”
“Weemsdale isn’t one of the lady’s villages,” said the first guard slowly. “Strange. I don’t think she’s ever been there.”
Above their heads, a hawk that had been circling the bailey let out a piercing shriek.
Emerick flinched.
Now the guards were staring. The first had lowered his spear. The second had set his foot to the side, in what Drest knew well was a balancing position, ready to fight.
She suppressed an urge to throw back her cloak and draw her sword.
“Everyone the lady’s kind to thinks she’s their friend,” Drest said. She cleared her throat. “She was kind to Edric long ago, when he was but a lad. She was kind to my da too. He fought for Lord de Moys as a man-at-arms. He told me I should see her if I was ever in need. And I am.”
The guards glanced at each other.
The sun beat down on her hood and cloak.
“That’s different,” said the first guard. “If your da fought for the lord’s army, she’ll listen to you.”
The second guard pointed into the bailey with his spear. “Go ahead. Find someone to take your message to her. Make sure you say your da’s name, the name of a battle he fought with Lord de Moys, and what your need is. She doesn’t see petitioners outside of her one day, but she’ll do it for a lass with that connection.”
“But go to the well first,” said the first guard. “Your Edric there seems parched.”
“Thank you.” Drest took Emerick’s hand and led him away from the gatehouse and onto the grass of the bailey.
“Oh, God,” breathed Emerick, “I didn’t know what to say. I can’t do this.”
“Nay, you can. We’re in, are we not? Do you see the well?”
Everything in the bailey distracted her. This green was different from Faintree Castle’s expanse of grass: This was a town between the walls.
A tannery belched foul odors nearby into a river by the guardhouse. Smoke floated up from a smithy. Loud clanging sounded from there too. Across the path, rich scents of bread and meat wafted from a cookhouse.
And the people—as many as had been in Launceford, clustering, gossiping, rushing, forming a sea of faces.
And then Drest’s breath stopped in her throat.
Not more than four sword lengths away stood a knight in a white surcoat with a bold blue tree: the colors of Faintree Castle.
Emerick ducked close. �
��That’s Sir Roland, one of Oswyn’s most trusted men. I don’t know what this means. If he recognizes me—”
“Let’s hide.”
“No, I—you go on. I’ll hide at the tannery. There’s some shade there, and no one will question me if I’m resting. Find Lady de Moys and tell her where I am, or—or beg her yourself for what we need and—just go!” Emerick staggered back toward the buildings clustered near the end of the curtain wall.
He’d left her. There, alone in the bailey, with a knight who surely knew of the wolf’s head curse.
You’re not my friend but a filthy coward, Drest thought.
The Faintree Castle knight was still standing on the path, idly, as if he were simply out enjoying the sun. His eyes were drifting around the yard. They flicked on Drest, then away—but then came back.
“You there. Do I know you?”
“No, sir,” said Drest slowly.
“You were staring at me.”
“I—didn’t mean to, sir.”
Her chest was tight. There was no room to draw her sword, nor room to run.
A hand closed over her arm.
“There you are, dawdling as you do,” said a woman’s stern voice. “Come along, before I lose my temper.”
And a hard grip pulled her back into the crowd.
The knight grinned and looked away.
Drest looked up at her rescuer.
And nearly let out a cry.
In a humble shift and apron with a modest cap holding back all her hair was the vengeful woman she had saved from an angry mob and fiery death at Soggyweald:
The witch and healer Merewen.
16
THE HEALER
Merewen swept through the crowd, her hand clamped on Drest’s wrist, leading her to a small hut set back on the grass between a cluster of others like it. Drest ducked through the low doorway after her and blinked in the dim light.
It was a tiny room, its floor strewn with trodden brown rushes, with a ring of stones for a fire in the center. Rolled-up blankets, a line of jugs, and a woven basket teeming with sausages hung from the walls.
Merewen pushed Drest deeper in and stood by the door.
Drest clasped her hands. “Is he gone?”
“Yes.” Merewen turned back and sighed. “You, child, take too many risks.”
She drew the door shut and stepped over to a tall chest piled high with herb bundles. She gestured for Drest to sit on the mounded rushes at its base. The witch sank to her side and stared at her in silence.
Drest stared back. She had saved the witch’s life, but Merewen had saved Drest’s life at Faintree Castle with the cloak that had hidden Emerick and helped her and her friends to escape.
“Thank you for your help on the road,” Drest said at last.
Amusement flickered in Merewen’s face. “Did my cloak aid you on your journey? I expect it did; the sky seemed to break open with rain that night.”
“Aye, and it helped me and Tig get away from the castle. With Emerick.” Drest paused. “He’s the injured knight I was traveling with. He’s really Lord Faintree. I learned that later.”
Merewen’s eyes narrowed. “He tricked you into taking him all that way? I hear he’s dead now.”
“Nay, he’s not dead. And he’s my friend. He’s hiding by the tannery. He needs to see the lady of this castle.” Drest wavered. “Nay, I need to see the lady of this castle. He’s hiding.”
Merewen’s gaze softened. “Not dead, and your friend. Well. Is he still wounded? I would think so, given how he looked when I saw him last. I might be able to help this time.” She reached up to the chest and took down a bundle of herbs. She untied them and began to sort the stems on her lap.
“Are you the healer here?”
“I am one of several healers here. This hut belongs to a sister in my trade, but I’ll not stay here long; it is neither safe for me nor my stag. My poor stag; he’s wandering those woods alone.”
Drest remembered the stag: a majestic beast with a crown of antlers like a king.
“But to meet you here—” Merewen gave a faint smile. “I’ve thought of nothing but you since I left you with that cloak on the road to Faintree Castle. And here you are. How strange chance is.”
Merewen reached out and set her cold, long-fingered hand against Drest’s cheek and held it there.
It was not like Elys’s hand: gentle, rough, but kind. This was a hand that had clenched in anger, had torn and thrust, a hand that had set all the thatch in her village aflame.
Drest flinched, and the hand dropped away. “I need to see the lady of the castle.”
“So you said. Why?”
“We need her army. Emerick’s uncle is holding his castle against him and—”
“Where is Grimbol? This should be his task.”
“Nay, Da only wants to keep afoot and hide. But I can’t.” Drest took a deep breath. “There’s a price on my head.”
“Like on your father’s.”
“Nay, I’m—I’m a wolf’s head.”
Merewen’s eyes widened, then narrowed at once. “Who made that so?” Her voice was a low rumble, like thunder.
Drest’s face reddened. “Emerick’s uncle. But it doesn’t matter. I need to find the lady, because then we’ll have her army, and then—then Emerick can get back his castle and take away that sentence.”
“A sentence like that is not easy to end. Child, do you know what this means? If you are called a wolf’s head, every town in the lowlands will hear. And every lad, lass, woman, and man will hunger for the coins they’d get if they were to cause your death.”
Drest swallowed. “I know. That’s why I need to go to Emerick’s castle. I can hide, and—”
“Will you hide there all your life? Ah, child. They know of you even here: the bloodthirsty lass who freed the Mad Wolf from Faintree Castle’s prison. And they say that Lord Faintree died by your hand.”
Drest picked up a rush from the floor and rubbed it between her fingers. “Tig always said I was a legend.”
“Tig was right. But you bear a new legend now, and it will doom you if you are not careful. A castle will not protect you from it, unless you stay behind the castle’s walls forever. A castle will swiftly change from your sanctuary to your prison. And every person within will never forget what you are.”
“I’ve no choice, do I? It’s that or always running like my da—”
“There is another way.” Merewen set down her stems, her hand shaking. “Transform yourself. Become not the Mad Wolf’s daughter but a simple village lass. Bury your sword in the woods. I’ll find you a cap to hide your hair and a shift. Stay with me. Be my apprentice, and no one will question us. Yes, child, that’s how I’ll save your life this time.”
Drest stared at the witch’s intense silver eyes.
She could be like Idony, a lass with a quiet life in a village.
No running. No fear. Just a simple life in a hut.
Her brothers could visit as they fled from place to place.
And Emerick—he could go with her and become a village lad. He’d never gain his castle back, but he could live without fear as well.
And so could Tig.
But going into that life would mean giving up everything you’ve ever been, murmured Gobin. Could you really leave it all?
Her sword.
Her old legend.
Be yourself, Drest, Wulfric had said when they had last parted. As if he’d known of the choice that would be before her.
Honestly, lass, do you think life with a woman who burns villages in revenge would be all that peaceful? Nutkin’s voice.
But it might save your life. Thorkill. Don’t say nay too quickly.
And then Drest thought of Emerick hiding by the tannery, pale with fear, transformed into a coward by the sight of his own man.<
br />
And of Tig, who was still missing.
They needed her to be herself.
She needed to be herself.
Drest’s hand drifted down to Tancored and brushed the pommel. “Nay, I can’t give up my sword. Do you know the lady of this castle?”
Merewen drew back. “No. I saw her for the first time this morning. She was giving her troops orders, sending them off.”
“Sending them off?” Drest echoed. “To where?” It was almost too much to hope that she could be sending them to Faintree Castle, and yet—
“To defend against a foe in the western lands.”
The hope began to dwindle. “Emerick said she had more men in her army than his uncle, so—so maybe she hasn’t sent all her knights away.”
“I do not know.” Merewen took a deep breath. “Must you go into that castle? Bring your friend here. I will take you both away, to somewhere remote, where no one can find you. My stag and I—we will do all in our power to protect you.” She paused. “I cannot let you go again.”
Merewen’s final words were soft, but a sharp warning slid down Drest’s spine.
She bolted to her feet. “I need to get into that castle. Thank you for your help, but I don’t want any more of it.”
“It’s not safe for you out there—”
“It’s not safe for me anywhere, and I’ve a task I must complete.”
The witch rose as Drest skittered toward the door. “Wait—Drest!”
But Drest ducked outside before Merewen could catch her again.
17
THE KEEP
Drest pushed through the crowded bailey toward the castle’s keep, her hood up. A handful of men in green surcoats emblazoned with white hawks wandered about, but there were twice as many Faintree Castle knights.
Something was wrong.
Drest slipped to the edge of the crowd, away from the knights. From there, she strode up to the keep. Its pattern of mortar and stone made a perfect surface for climbing, but she merely walked alongside it.