by Kate Forsyth
It was the second day after the ambush in the forest. They had ridden as long as they could the previous day, only stopping when it was too dark to see. Lord Murray had made them a tent out of his cloak, and he and the two boys had taken turns in standing guard all through the endless hours of the night. No-one had trusted Grizelda to stand watch. They had risen before dawn, their makeshift tent so deeply covered in snow it was just a white hump in the winter landscape. Oskar sank to his stomach when he tried to go outside. The only way he could keep up was to leap and bound as if running through waves.
It had kept snowing all day. The wind was so strong it buffeted against Peregrine, piercing through the wool of his cloak and leaving it dusted with frost. He could not see more than a few feet in any direction, and was glad of the low hoot of the owl guiding him safely through the trees. He kept Blitz pressed close to his heart, for the falcon would not wish to fly in this howling wind.
Sometime during the afternoon, the wind began to die away. They rode through an immaculate landscape, the trees all wearing hats and scarves of snow, the bare twigs in white mittens. Peregrine unhooded Blitz and untied his jesses so the falcon could hunt.
‘Where are we?’ Grizelda asked, quickening her pace so that she rode beside him. Her eyes were very blue in her face, the tip of her nose pink.
‘Somewhere in the Perilous Forest,’ Peregrine answered rather tartly.
‘But don’t you know?’
‘It’s a very big forest. And I only know small parts of it—the forest around the castle and near the Evenlinn’.
‘That’s where the Erlrune lives, isn’t it?’
He nodded.
‘You’re related to her too, aren’t you?’
‘Yes. She’s my great-aunt’. Peregrine spoke rather tersely. He could not be sure whether Grizelda’s many questions were mere curiosity or if she was really a spy, pumping him for information.
She did not seem to notice any restraint in his manner, saying, ‘Is she very terrifying? We have heard such stories of her! Is it true she cuts the throats of children in order to see into that well of hers?’
‘Of course it’s not true!’ Peregrine would normally have explained that the Erlrune cut herself to get the blood necessary to see into the Well of Fates, so that her palms were crisscrossed with scars, but he wished to give nothing away. The starkin had been seeking for centuries to find some way to undermine the enigmatic power of the Erlrune, and he certainly did not want to be the one to say that she was in fact the most gentle and kind person he knew. Her reputation for fearsomeness did a great deal to protect her.
‘I must admit I’m rather apprehensive about meeting her,’ Grizelda said. She smiled at Peregrine. ‘You’ll protect me, though, won’t you, your Highness?’
Peregrine contented himself with a stiff, formal bow.
‘How long until we get there?’ she asked.
Peregrine had been scanning the sky as they rode, looking for Blitz, but he had not been paying much attention to the landscape. Now he looked about him in some surprise. They should have been heading north, the ground growing steeper and harsher, pines and firs casting a deep green gloom over them. Instead they seemed to be heading west, towards the setting sun, and the ground was gentle and rolling, covered with bare-branched beeches and larches, with the occasional towering oak tree still hung with a few brown leaves.
He shrugged. ‘I’m not sure. I think Stiga is taking us the long way around, just to be safe’.
‘Stiga? You mean that funny little old woman who kept hissing “starkin” at me? Didn’t we leave her at the castle?’
Peregrine glanced at her in surprise, but then remembered that Grizelda had been blindfolded when Stiga had changed shape, and the old woman had not changed from her owl shape since.
‘No, Stiga came with us, didn’t you realise? She’s been with us all the time, in her owl shape. That’s her, flying ahead of us, showing us the way through the forest’. Peregrine pointed to the white owl, flickering in and out of the trees ahead of them. She was almost invisible against the white banks of snow. ‘That’s Stiga’.
Grizelda peered at the owl, then looked at him in disbelief. ‘Are you having a jest with me?’
‘Of course not’. Peregrine called to Stiga and she wheeled about and came down to rest on a low branch nearby, staring from one to the other with round golden eyes. ‘Stiga, will you change, please?’ he asked.
The owl ruffled up her feathers in displeasure, but stepped off the branch and into the form of an old woman wrapped in a pale mottled shawl.
Grizelda screamed. She flung herself back so violently in her saddle she almost fell off, and had to clutch at her pommel to steady herself. ‘What … what the blazes … ?’
‘No time to waste, we’re on the chase,’ Stiga said scoldingly. ‘Let us flee, come follow me’. She hunched her back, spread her shawl-fringed arms and flew up in the shape of an owl again, hooting commandingly.
‘She changes shape into an owl?’ Grizelda cried.
Jack clicked his tongue. ‘Really, starkin are so unobservant’.
‘She’s our guide,’ Peregrine said. He would have explained more about Stiga’s uncanny magical powers, but at that moment there was a shrill cry and Blitz came plummeting down from the sky. Peregrine braced his knees and held out his gauntleted wrist, and the falcon landed heavily, scolding him, his feathers ruffled. He carried a dead white hare in one claw. Peregrine rested his wrist on the wooden perch, holding his reins in that hand so he could scrabble for some gobbets of raw meat in the pouch at his belt. Blitz tore hungrily at the meat and, when he had finished, Peregrine hooded him again and tied his jesses to the perch so the bird could ride in comfort. He threw the hare to Jack.
‘Fresh meat for supper tonight!’ he said exultantly.
‘Oskar needs to hunt too,’ Grizelda said. ‘He hasn’t eaten since we left the castle, and he’ll be hungry. He can bring down a deer or even a wild boar if need be. We can hunt together and feast afterwards!’
Peregrine glanced at her, a little surprised, and she laughed at him, her eyes bright and clear. He smiled back, quite involuntarily.
A dog bayed mournfully behind them, and then another. Their smiles were extinguished at once. Lord Murray gestured to them, his horse breaking into a gallop. Peregrine untied Blitz deftly, loosening his hood and throwing him into the air. The falcon screamed, high and shrill, and soared away as Peregrine pressed his heels into Sable’s satiny black sides. At once the stallion leapt forward, Grizelda’s white mare easily keeping pace beside him. Snapdragon was not so swift, but galloped gamely in the rear, Jack drawing his sword.
They galloped through the brown tracery of trees, the dogs baying for blood behind them. Down a hill, along a broad slope, in and out of trees, through a copse of mossy birches, up a steep and stony slope and down the other side they galloped, pursued by the howl of the dogs. The owl swept sideways. Through a shadowy gateway of stone and along a deep, fern-hung gorge they raced, horses sweating and labouring. Still the dogs bayed at their heels.
Along a small, rocky brook the horses cantered, icy water splashing their riders’ legs. The dogs clamoured behind them. The brook plunged down in white cascades into a deep green pool. Lord Murray did not hesitate. He urged his horse down the waterfall and into the water, kicking his legs free so he floated alongside, gripping his pommel. Peregrine followed close behind. The shock of the cold water was like an iron clamp on his lungs and heart, but he kicked his feet free of the stirrups and let Sable tow him towards the far shore.
Grizelda hesitated on the bank. ‘It’ll be cold … my boots will be ruined …’
‘Suit yourself,’ Jack said as his horse plunged past her, sending up a spray of glittering droplets that drenched her to the skin.
‘Lady Grizelda, if you don’t come now we will leave you,’ Lord Murray called back. ‘My responsibility is to get his Highness to safety!’
‘Come on,’ Peregrine called.
Grizelda kic
ked her mare forward. She cried out in shock as she was plunged up to her waist in the freezing water, but she did not immerse herself as the others had done, making her mare carry her weight so her upper body remained dry. Oskar swam after, his head held high.
Two enormous hounds burst out of the ravine, baying loudly. They were far larger than Oskar, with bloodshot eyes and drooping eyelids and flabby red lips that hung away from teeth as sharp as icicles. They looked strong enough to tear a man apart in seconds. Behind them rode a man dressed all in grey, with hair and beard the colour of dust.
Peregrine had only time to snatch a quick impression, for the man was raising a longbow even as he spurred his horse into the pool. The string twanged, the arrow sang straight for Peregrine’s heart. He kicked Sable forward, feeling strangely as if time and space had turned to honey. Stones slid and rattled. Lord Murray flung himself forward, his face distorted, his mouth stretching, ugly as a scream. Peregrine could not hear him. Everything seemed very far away. Sable reared, and the pommel caught him in the chest. He heard the thud as the arrow meant for him pierced the thick leather of Lord Murray’s coat. The bodyguard groaned and fell from his horse, which galloped away with a wildly rolling eye. Lord Murray lurched to one knee.
‘Go! Go!’ he mouthed. ‘I’ll hold him back. Go!’
Lord Murray drew his sword, leaning on it for a moment, fresh red blood leaking down his leather coat, the arrow deeply embedded in his chest. He rose to his feet with a great effort as the grey man on the grey horse thundered through the pool towards him, the two bloodhounds swimming close behind. Peregrine looked back at his bodyguard, tears burning his eyes, even as he let Sable gallop forward through the freezing water. Jack and Grizelda were close behind, the white owl hooting ahead. Peregrine bent over the reins, hearing with unnatural clarity every blow and clang and grunt of the duel behind him.
The pool fell away behind them, ice-cold spray dousing them from head to foot. The forest blurred past. Peregrine’s head swam. He held out a hand. ‘Jack,’ he whispered. He felt the lightning in his head surge up, bringing a green taste, euphoria, dread, darkness. Then there was only the sensation of falling.
‘What is wrong with him?’ Grizelda whispered.
‘Nothing!’ Then, ‘It’s the falling sickness, my lady’. Jack’s voice was sombre.
Peregrine could hear their voices, but they sounded far away. His head ached, his mouth tasted awful, and there was a faint tinny ringing in his ears. He felt he had to anchor himself to the earth, as if his body was so insubstantial it would blow away in a puff of breath.
Jack saw his hands groping out. He said with a gasp of relief, ‘He wakes! Pass me the medicine’.
Someone rifled through his pack. Peregrine realised he was lying on the ground. It felt like ice below him, seeping through his wet clothes. Jack must have unbuckled his harness and lifted him to the ground. He wondered how long he had been unconscious. He felt as if he had been beaten with iron-studded clubs and kicked with hobnailed boots. Peregrine groaned and tried to open his eyes. Snow drifted down through black branches, swirling in eddies that made his vision swim. He shut his eyes again.
‘What’s in it? It smells awful,’ Grizelda asked.
‘I don’t know. The healers make it. I know it has mistletoe in it, for Queen Rozalina cuts that herself for him. And skullcap and valerian too, I think, for I can’t count the times I’ve been sent to gather them from the garden’.
Peregrine heard the gurgle of liquid, then he was lifted and a cup held to his lips. An all too familiar smell assaulted his nostrils. He turned his head away. Jack said hoarsely, ‘You know you must drink it, sir, please?’
Peregrine obeyed. For a moment he gagged. Then his muscles began to relax. Jack laid him back down in the snow. Peregrine became aware of being very, very cold. His wet clothes were white with frost, his fingers so stiff he could not bend them. Each breath hurt.
‘We need fire,’ he said.
‘Too dangerous. That hunter is still out there somewhere. Keep your cloak wrapped tight about you, it seems to help’.
‘Lord Murray?’
‘I’m so sorry’. Jack’s voice was clogged with grief.
Peregrine struggled to sit up. ‘Lord Murray? Lord Murray is dead?’ The thought filled him with horror and sorrow and fear. Lord Murray had been his bodyguard all of his life. Lord Murray had played pig’s-bladder-ball with Peregrine, taught him to fight with dagger and sword, and had stayed up with him when Blitz was a fledgling, helping him feed the baby falcon all through the night. It seemed impossible that someone so tall and strong and indomitable could be dead.
Tears suddenly overwhelmed him.
‘Why does he weep?’ Grizelda demanded. ‘What is wrong with him?’
‘A man has died in his service,’ Jack said harshly. ‘Would you have him laugh?’
‘No, of course not! But Lord Murray died valiantly. It was his duty. And while his Highness weeps, we are in danger’.
‘Sir,’ Jack whispered. ‘I hate to say it but she’s right. We must go on. I’ve done my best to hide our trail. We rode through water as far as we could, and then, when we came ashore, I made sure we rode on the rocks awhile so as not to leave hoof prints. But he’ll be following us, we must ride on. Can you rise?’
‘Of course,’ Peregrine said. In trying to rise, he fell again. ‘Help me up. I’ll be fine. Help me, Jack’.
His squire heaved him to his feet and lifted him across to where Sable stood, ears twitching uneasily. Jack hoisted him into the saddle and buckled the harness about him. Long years of training asserted themselves. Peregrine sat straight, his heels down, his hands lifted. With a screech and a whirr of wings, Blitz exploded from the trees, landing on his saddle perch, scolding Peregrine for his neglect. Once again tears overwhelmed him. He whispered his bird’s name.
Just at the edge of his hearing he heard Grizelda whisper, ‘He’s weeping again. What ails him?’
‘It leaves him worn and sad,’ Jack said defensively, then more sharply, ‘Look to your own horse and dog, my lady. Let’s ride!’
They rode for the rest of the long day, Peregrine aware of very little beyond the jolting of the saddle, the blur of the white and black forest, the thudding of his head. If it had not been for the harness about his waist, he would have fallen from the saddle. Peregrine hated that. He hated the harness, and he hated the brief storm of lightning in his brain that always shamed him and made of him a child again. Sometimes it came often, when he was tired or ill, or when battle came close to him with all its heart-wrenching, blood-jolting terror. Sometimes there were long months of peace, when even his parents stopped worrying over him and people began to forget. Peregrine thought his mother felt it the worst. She was a healer. She could stop blood with a touch of a finger, she could heal grazes with a stroke of her hand, she could knit bones and steady heartbeats and soothe tortured gasping lungs, yet she could not save her own son from the sickness that stalked him.
Peregrine did not know what he did when the lightning storm came upon him. He often felt it approaching, a strangely golden, lucent glow that flooded his inner landscape with extraordinary warmth and beauty, like a field of buttercups at sunset under a stormy sky. Even as he shrank away and thought, Oh no! It comes, part of him welcomed it because the world, for a moment, was so bright and beautiful: a harp sang tremolo; he smelt something like rain on roses; he felt brave and splendid and lovely, as if he could cut the air with a sweep of his hand, lead legions to the stars. Then came the stench of refuse, dark spots swarming into his eyes, the sensation of falling, worse than utter failure.
Afterwards Peregrine was exhausted, like a child after a storm of crying. Often he slept for hours and could not eat. He could not sleep today, though, he could only cling to his pommel and try to stay upright, as the miles jounced away under his horse’s hooves.
Twilight fell on them. Peregrine swayed and would have fallen from his saddle if not for the harness. Jack gently unbuckled him
and lifted him down. Peregrine staggered and dropped to his knees under a tree. He ached all over, and the cold was like a vice trapping his legs. Jack wrapped him in his cloak. It was soft and warm and smelt of home. Peregrine nestled his cheek into it and fell again into darkness.
CHAPTER 9
Lost
PEREGRINE WOKE WEARY AND SORE THE NEXT MORNING, but returned to himself. He sat up and looked around.
It was early morning and Jack and Grizelda still slept, wrapped in their cloaks, in the shelter of a massive log. Beneath them were soft brown needles; above them drooped a tumble of dry ferns and brambles that gave them some shelter from the cold. He got stiffly to his feet and ducked under the brambles.
He was standing in a long, narrow forest glade. Snow lay thickly along the floor of the glade and mantled the top of the fallen tree trunk. A few stray flakes drifted down from clouds as low and menacing as a bully’s brow. Sable stood nearby with the other horses, head hanging, one of his hind legs relaxed. Snow lay over their backs like white caparisons. The hound raised his head at the sight of Peregrine, growling softly. Oskar had obviously been hunting, for a well-gnawed rabbit carcass lay between his paws.
Peregrine heard a familiar whirr of wings and held out his arm for Blitz, who landed heavily, claws digging through the thick buff of his jacket.
‘Good morning, Blitz,’ he whispered. ‘Have you eaten? Do you want me to try to get some of that rabbit away from the dog?’
Blitz gave a low chitter in response and Peregrine said, ‘Well, I can try, but to be honest I don’t think I have a chance’.
Peregrine bent and stretched out one hand but the dog’s growls intensified, and he withdrew his hand. ‘You’ll just have to hunt for yourself,’ he told the bird.
He looked round the clearing for Stiga. The owl sat in an oak tree nearby, her eyes shut, her head sunk down. Peregrine whispered her name and the enormous golden eyes at once opened, focusing on him.
‘Stiga, where are we?’ he asked. ‘I can’t see one single landmark I know. There’s not a mountain in sight. Are we lost?’