by Mindy Klasky
Alana’s own breath rattled in her throat, and she could still feel Maddock’s fingers digging into her flesh. Her blood pulsed hot where his icy fingers had burned, and her head began to spin. “Maddock!” she croaked again, raising her bavin as a symbol of recognition. At the same time, she thought a prayer to the Guardians, begging them to let the warrior recognize her, begging them to let her spare his life.
He cringed at the sound of his name, but Alana forced herself to speak the two syllables one last time. She fought against the horror that pulsed through her rising bruises, the ancient fear of madness.
“Get back, fiend!” Maddock raised his hands in a warding gesture. The stark bavin light turned his hollow eyes into a skull’s dark sockets. “Get back to my nightmares and leave me be!” His voice broke on the last word, frantic, desperate, destroyed.
“Maddock, it’s me, Alana Woodsinger.” Her whisper was harsh in the dank room, but she made herself heard above her thundering heart. Before she could change her mind, she took Maddock’s hand, forced herself to grasp his ice-cold flesh. He struggled to fight free of her, writhing as if she were the nightmare creature.
Swallowing painfully, Alana reached out toward his bavin, trying to push comfort and awareness through the Tree and into the woodstar she had sung for him so long ago. The other woodsingers added to her thoughts, bolstering her strength along the relay. The man was too frightened, though, terrified by the voices of strange women in his mind, crazed by drugs and exhaustion and evil dreams.
Alana tightened her grip on his hand, but he started to fight her in earnest, started to throw her off with all the power of a warrior intent on saving himself from a mortal enemy. Alana ordered her sister woodsingers to desist, commanded them to drop out of the link that was forged through the Tree. Instead, she reached for the depths of the oak herself, plunging through her own burning bavin until it seemed that she stood beside the giant oak on the Headland.
She drilled into the rings of the People’s history and asked the Tree to carry her intention forward, to push her thoughts into Maddock’s awareness. Her journey was so sudden, her burrowing so complete, that for a moment she was almost consumed by the Tree. She was lifted from the world of Smithcourt’s stone dungeons, from the cage of distance and weariness and cold-forged iron blades. She collapsed into the oak’s green beauty, into its quiet, steady power. She breathed in the sea breeze, felt the loam settle around her roots. Sap beat strong in her veins, calming, soothing, deepening her rapport with the People, with the past. She felt the power of earth and air, fire and water.
She almost lost herself.
Almost, but not quite. Alana remembered not to linger in the Tree’s orderly rings. She did not permit herself to stay on the Headland, where the fresh wind blew, where she could swallow great draughts of air without the burning, blazing pain in her throat. Instead, she urged the Tree to send her thoughts forward, to leap across all the land with her emotions. She asked the Tree to reach for Maddock’s bavin with all its oaken strength, to thrust all her thoughts into his woodstar.
It took a moment, but the Tree complied. Alana felt her own assurance, her own comforting thoughts, her own power sear across the chasm of forest, fields, and city that separated her from the Tree. The giant oak bolstered her warm comfort, poured it into Maddock’s bavin. And, after a long moment when Alana did not dare to draw a rattling breath, she felt Maddock absorb the Tree’s spirit.
“Alana Woodsinger?” he asked at last, sounding even younger than Reade or Maida.
“Yes, Maddock. I’ve come to help you.”
“How did you get here?” Disbelief carved deep lines across his brow.
“I rode from the People,” she answered steadily, gentling him as if he were a new colt. She tightened her grip on his frozen hand and sent another burst of reassurance through her bavin, to the Tree, to his woodstar. “I’ve come to help.”
“I dreamed about you! I dreamed that you rode the bay mare.”
“That wasn’t a dream, Maddock. It was the power of the bavin, of the Tree.”
“The Tree…”
He spoke the two words like a prayer, and she nodded, swallowing hard. She forced her voice to sound reasonable. “My bavin spoke to yours across the leagues.”
“But who were those others? Who were the other women who were here?”
“They are my sisters, Maddock. Other woodsingers. They are our friends.”
“But—”
“Hush, Maddock. Don’t trouble yourself with them. I’m here now. We can make our plans. We can defeat the duke.”
“Duke Coren,” Maddock muttered, and whatever confidence Alana had begun to build in his mind visibly collapsed upon itself. “I haven’t seen Duke Coren. Only the priest, Zeketh.”
“Aye,” Alana said, hoping that her agreement would reassure him. “Zeketh. And the Avenger.”
“You know then? The bavin let you see?”
“I saw it all,” she answered.
“Then you did watch me along the road….” His words trailed off, and she would have recognized his shame even if she could not sense his every thought through his bavin. This creature who cringed before her was a broken shell, shattered on the hard rocks of his inland journey. “In the name of all the Guardians,” he gasped. “What have I done, woodsinger? Your throat…. What have I done to you?”
Alana raised both hands to cup his face. With the gesture, she forced herself to loosen her link to the Tree. Maintaining the bond with the giant oak had left her lightheaded and giddy; she needed to bring Maddock back to Coren’s palace, back to Smithcourt and the urgent present. As the Tree’s presence faded to the back of her own mind, subsiding to the whisper of breakers on a distant beach, Alana crushed pity from her voice. “I am fine, Maddock. I still stand before you. Now we haven’t much time. Duke Coren’s Service is tomorrow, in the cathedral.” The warrior stared at the stone floor, defeat bowing his shoulders. “Maddock, I can’t do this alone. I need you.”
Her ragged tone penetrated, even if her words left a confused look on his face. “Me? But I—”
“You are still the greatest warrior the People have ever had. Maddock, you rode all the way to Smithcourt. You stood against Bringham’s men. You found your way inside the palace. You eluded capture when all the duke’s men pursued you.”
Each of her declarations forged iron along his spine, but his words clung to doubt. “I’m just so tired….”
“We’re all tired, Maddock.” She forbade herself to sway on her feet, refused to let her sigh turn into a coughing fit. Instead, she peered behind Maddock toward the room that had housed the Avenger. “Is there water in there?”
“Nay. But I have the soldier’s flask.” Doubt drowned his words almost as soon as he voiced them. “It’s only half full, though.”
“Half is better than none.” Alana fumbled for her rucksack, digging deep for Goody Glenna’s leaf-wrapped herbs. A few deep breaths eased a little of the tightness in her throat, steadied her after her drawn-out contact with the Tree. Her fingers were confident on the flask that Maddock handed her. She measured out the dried greenery with a certainty borne of years among the People. Mint for refreshment. Redshell for wakefulness. Lionsmane for courage.
After shaking the flask vigorously, she drew her bavin over her neck, holding the woodstar by its leather thong. She had held on to just enough of the Tree’s magic to keep the bavin burning bright.
Muttering yet another request to the Guardians and the nurturing force of the Great Mother, Alana passed the bavin beneath the flask. She held her link to the Tree at the very back of her mind now, a comfort, a song among the green leaves of late spring. She heard her sisters whispering among themselves, knew that they watched her, even as she had watched Maddock, as she had watched Reade. She knew that they were there if she needed to draw on their strength, but she was able to summon heat from her bavin without pulling directly from the women.
The hammered metal grew warm to her touch, but
she only shifted her grasp to its leather-wrapped neck. The bavin could not heat the water to a proper tea, but it could bring out some of the herbs’ strength.
When she had done the best that she could, she passed the flask to Maddock. He took it mechanically, but made no further gesture. She eyed him steadily in the flickering light. “Drink.”
“But what good can that do? I can’t—”
“I’m your woodsinger, Maddock, and I order you to drink.” She put all of her authority into the command, and he raised the flask to his lips.
Perhaps it was the familiar gesture in a strange place. Perhaps it was receiving orders, rather than needing to think of some course of action. Perhaps it was the effect of the redshell and the lionsmane, hitting his blood like alcohol. Whatever the cause, Maddock stood straighter after he had drunk, and the deepest lines eased across his brow. He drew one stout breath, and then another. When he looked up at Alana, she could still make out fatigue and doubt and fear in his face, but she saw another emotion as well: determination.
“Alana Woodsinger,” he breathed, lowering the flask and wiping his lips with the back of his hand. “What do we do now?”
“First, we find Landon and Jobina. Then, with the Guardians’ grace, the four of us will free the twins.”
Hours later, Alana wished that she had saved some of the herb tea for herself. Her eyes were gritty with fatigue, and she caught a yawn against the back of her teeth. Her throat ached where Maddock’s fingers had bruised her flesh against her bones. She slumped against the stone wall of her abandoned storeroom, clutching her glowing bavin and struggling to hear Maddock over the pounding of her heart. He was far from Alana’s bolt hole; he’d gone down to the dungeons to work the next stage of their plot.
“You cursed idiot,” Maddock was swearing at the castellan, the hapless guard who held the ring of keys to Coren’s dungeon cells. “You think I don’t know it’s the middle of the night? Will you be the one to tell the duke you can’t be bothered to fetch the prisoner, or will I have the pleasure myself?”
Even when Alana caught her breath, she could not make out the castellan’s reply. Maddock continued to berate the unfortunate guard. Alana could sense through her bavin that he was settling his hands on his stolen sword, readying himself to fight. “Duke Coren sent me himself, man. Who do you think issues orders in the palace?”
Just as Alana was certain that Maddock would have to draw his weapon, the soldier gave way. The woodsinger could make out the man’s grumbling, and then Maddock was stalking down the dank dungeon corridor. The guard preceded him with a jangling ring of keys.
The redshell in Alana’s tea had made Maddock jumpy, and he shied away from the prisoners’ hands that reached out from iron bars. Nevertheless, he remembered his role, drawing his short sword as the prisoners’ moans echoed down the corridor. “Quiet, dogs!” he ordered, making a halfhearted swipe toward a grasping hand. “Pull your hands back, or I’ll give you something to bay about.”
The words, with their casual reference to dogs, made a chill run up Alana’s spine, but she had to admit that Maddock sounded every bit a Smithcourt soldier as he sauntered to the dampest, darkest cage in all the dungeons. “Get him out of there,” Maddock barked at his supposed soldierly colleague.
There were four separate locks on the cage, and Alana’s teeth gritted as each clanged open. Maddock swore at the delay, cursing the castellan’s lineage and threatening to drag Duke Coren himself down to the dungeon. Just as the guard succeeded in springing the last of the locks, Alana yielded to her curiosity, pushing her vision all the way through Maddock’s bavin, stretching her Tree-empowered senses to see entirely through his eyes.
Bogs and breakers! Landon huddled in the corner of his cursed cell, filthy and stinking in the ragged clothes that he had worn from the Headland of Slaughter. His hands trembled like a foolish old woman’s as they curled against his iron chains, and his head bobbed on his thin neck. His broken nose was still squashed to one side, and his breath wheezed in his throat. The castellan’s torch flickered in the Guardian-forsaken cell, and Landon closed his eyes against the brightness, involuntary tears etching through the filth on his cheeks.
“On your feet, Outlander,” the castellan barked, thrusting his torch forward, as if the searing flame would give Landon the strength to stand. The tracker only huddled toward the back of his cage, sheltering his head with arms so thin that Maddock could have broken them like sticks.
Sharks and fins! They were too late. He’d waited too long getting into the palace; Alana had taken too much time riding from Land’s End. Landon was never going to rise to his feet. Maddock settled a length of steel into his voice, barking, “Let’s go, you cursed beast.”
This time, Landon managed to ease his eyes open, to squint past the fire’s glare. “Maddock!” he gasped, the word half blocked by his broken nose.
By all the Guardians, was the man that far gone? It was hard enough for Maddock, trying to disguise his outland accent for the castellan. He didn’t need Landon pouring ideas into the cursed guard’s head. He reached out to the tracker with a rough hand. “That’s right, you miserable dog. Maddock. You’re going to help Duke Coren find that traitor or die in the trying.” Maddock tugged his comrade to his feet, jostling him upright despite the tracker’s failing muscles and trembling limbs.
“But, I—” Landon trailed off in confusion.
“You nothing,” Maddock snapped, forcing the tracker to take a step. “You’re coming with me, now.”
“Hold there,” the guard interrupted, and Maddock was forced to turn toward his supposed fellow. The burly castellan gestured with a single curt nod. “Step back from the prisoner.”
Cursing silently, Maddock obliged, leaving Landon to tremble like a new fern frond in the forest. Before Maddock could speak, the guard hefted a wooden bucket and tossed icy water across Landon’s face and down his chest. Cold and surprise left the tracker gasping for air, swaying on his feet as if he were going to crash to the ground. “You couldn’t take him before the duke stinking like that, could you?” The guard tossed the empty bucket on the floor. “Not that that’ll make much difference.”
“It’s enough,” Maddock grumbled, trying to force the note of relief from his voice as he relaxed his grip on his short sword. Instead of gutting the castellan, he used the weapon to harry Landon out of his cell and into the narrow corridor, pausing only long enough to collect the key for Landon’s chains. “Let’s go, you bastard. You’ve kept His Grace waiting long enough.”
The tracker’s confusion was transparent, but he began to shamble down the corridor, catching his shoulder against another cell’s bars when he could not keep his balance. That movement brought a cry of rage from the cell’s occupant, and the castellan brought his wooden club down with a muffled grunt. The discipline raised an outcry from still other prisoners, and Maddock hustled Landon out of the dungeon, leaving his supposed fellow to quell the incipient rebellion.
Pulling back from the bavin’s vision, Alana scarcely managed to restrain herself until the pair of outlanders had reached her hiding place. As they entered the corridor, she swung open the door to the abandoned storeroom, and she reached up with frantic hands to half carry, half drag Landon forward. She caught the tracker as he collapsed to his knees, and she could not keep from crying out as she felt his feather weight in her arms. She let her bavin glow a little brighter so that she could see his face.
“Alana!” he gasped against teeth that chattered with cold. “Then this is just another dream.”
“No, Landon,” she whispered, easing him into a more comfortable position and dabbing her skirts against his soaked rags. “We’re truly here. Maddock and I. We’re going to fetch Jobina, and then all of us will get the children.”
“N-not me.” He clutched at her cloak, and his tight grip managed to still his ague for a moment. “Leave me here. You got me out of the dungeon—that’s enough. I-I-I’ll keep you from reaching the children in time.”
“In time for what? Landon, what do you know?”
“Only w-what I’ve overheard from the guard.” His words were faint, and she shifted him to a more comfortable position, cradling his head against her chest, easing the chains that bound him. As the cold stone floor gnawed through his soaked clothes, his teeth chattered so hard that he could only bite off single words. “Tomorrow. Service. Cathedral.”
“We’re going to stop the Service,” Alana said.
Before Landon could summon the strength to speak again, there was a grating at the door, and Maddock ducked into the tiny room. Alana flushed as she realized that she had not even missed the warrior, had not realized that he had left their hideaway. Her surprise sharpened the words that formed at the back of her throat, but she did not get a chance to speak before Maddock thrust a flask toward her, clean water still dripping from its side.
Mollified, she took the canteen and gestured for Maddock to support Landon as she rummaged in her rucksack. The tracker’s breath came harsher as Maddock knelt to support him; he whistled through his shattered nose. Maddock bent over the iron lock, turning the castellan’s key with a grating curse. Alana fought down her panic, remonstrating with herself to remember all of Goody Glenna’s lessons, all of the wisewoman’s herb lore.
Redshell, of course, and pungent feverlock to quell his ague. Curly greenleaf for the rattle deep in his lungs, and Guardians’ smile for the palsy that shook his limbs. In only a moment, she was holding her bavin beneath the flask to heat the tea, and then she shoved Maddock out of the way, supporting the tracker’s spent body with her own.
“Drink, Landon.”
“Can’t…k-keep anything…down.” He was drifting away from her, back toward the dark regions of sleep.