The Warden and the Wolf King

by Andrew Peterson

  Sara shook her head, thankful that everyone was too busy ducking under the overgrowth of spring briars and low branches to notice her rosy cheeks. They rode past a broken fence and came upon a humble cottage beside the charred remains of a barn. Black timbers rose from the weeds like gravestones. The cottage windows were all broken, the door hung limply from its hinges, and many shingles were missing from the roof. A dragonfly zipped by, shot into one of the windows, then back out through the door. Gulpswallows sang in the sweeping branches of one of the biggest glipwood oaks Sara had ever seen.

  Even in its dilapidated state the homestead was a beautiful spot. Sara had the secret thought that she would like to live there someday if she ever got married, but she blushed again when she realized that Janner Igiby was the husband who popped into her head.

  Artham dismounted and walked up to the porch. “This is where they lived.”

  “It ain’t a bad spot,” Maraly said, spitting and wiping her chin with her forearm. She pointed beyond the house at a trail that led into a little stand of trees. “What’s through there?”

  “That’s the Glipper Trail,” Artham said. “I’ll show you.”

  They dismounted and traipsed through spring weeds so green and wild they seemed to have erupted from the ground that morning. They slipped in among the trees and wound down a short slope of rocky switchbacks. All at once, the trees parted and the Dark Sea of Darkness spread out below them like a gray sheet.

  Maraly clutched the nearest tree, dizzied by the height.

  “That’s something you don’t see every day,” Gammon said. “Beautiful.”

  “And scary,” Sara said.

  “It’s not scary at all,” said Artham with a laugh. He ran to the edge of the cliff and jumped. The others gasped and then fell into nervous laughter as he spread his wings and soared out over the water.

  Sara inhaled the salty air, felt the cool wind whispering up over the cliff, and closed her eyes with a sigh. Could it be that the Fangs were truly gone? Gone forever? She didn’t understand why they had left, but the air around her and the ground beneath her feet tingled with a long-withheld joyfulness. Was it possible that the land itself knew that the shadow of Gnag the Nameless had passed from Skree?

  When Sara opened her eyes she glimpsed tiny shapes on the horizon, far to the east. She squinted one eye and pointed. “What’s that?”

  Gammon studied the horizon. His face broke into a smile, and his eyes glimmered with tears. “It’s the Fang fleet. They’re leaving!” Artham tipped his wings and rode a gust of wind back to the cliff, alighting gracefully beside Gammon. “Your bird eyes can see better than mine. Is that what I think it is?”

  Artham launched himself out again and flew so far that he might as well have been the Lone Fendril in the distance. Gammon put his arm around Maraly. Sara saw her stiffen and then relax as she leaned her head on his shoulder.

  The sight made Sara’s heart ache like it hadn’t in years. She missed her sweet father and mother and wondered what had become of them. They had been either killed or tortured into submission by the Fangs. They might have even become Fangs themselves—something that Sara didn’t hold against them. Artham was proof to her that even the noblest soul could be broken. If her parentswere Fangs, maybe even among those on the ships in the distance, she prayed the Maker would be merciful. She shuddered, then she hugged the tree at the cliff’s edge, wishing she had someone to love her the way Gammon loved Maraly. At least she had her orphans. They needed her, and that was just as good, wasn’t it?

  Artham flew back with a smile spread across his face.

  “It’s true! The Sangs are failing away. Dack to Bang—back to Dang!”

  Sara laughed, wiping tears from her eyes. Maraly whooped and hollered her best Strander victory cry, and Gammon sat down like a weary farmer after tilling a hundred miles of land. The four of them sat looking over the Dark Sea of Darkness, giving silent thanks for their deliverance.

  “What do we do now?” Maraly asked.

  Gammon pulled the Florid Sword mask from his coat and turned it over in his hands. “We go home.”

  “Where’s that?” Maraly asked.

  Gammon shrugged. “Anywhere we want, I suppose. There are some beautiful little villages down in the Linnard Woodlands. I could go back to farming.”

  Maraly looked at him like he was crazy. “You said you were a terrible farmer.”

  “It’s true,” he said with a chuckle.

  “There are always gonna be Stranders causing trouble in Dugtown, you know,” Maraly said, “and someone needs to uphold the law—ride the rooftops and all that. And besides, Artham, you said you’d make me a mask of my own if we survived the night.” She stood and drew one of her knives, striking a fearsome pose. “Who will protect the citizens of Dugtown from the thieves and Stranders of the night? The Florid Sword and his trusty companion, Shadowblade!”

  “I like it,” Sara said.

  The men laughed, and Gammon said, “I like it too.”

  The four of them walked back through the trees to the Igiby cottage to fetch the horses. When they got back to town they found a small crowd milling about, laughing together and singing as if it were the Dragon Day festival. Joe and Addie Shooster waved at Artham and the others from their front porch. They had already filled buckets of water from their well and were serving it to the crowd. Smoke rose from their chimney and Sara smelled something delicious wafting out of the kitchen.

  “We’re going back,” Gammon announced as he and Maraly mounted their horses. “Errol needs to know what’s going on. We have good news, and that’s been a rare thing in this land for too long.”

  Sara looked at Artham, who was pacing in front of Books and Crannies with his head down. She knew she needed to get back to the orphans, but Glipwood was such a haven of pleasant memories that she hated to leave. “Can we stay a while?”

  “I want to see my castle, Cara Sobbler.” Artham blinked several times and shook his head as if to clear it. “But I don’t want to go by myself-self-self.”

  Gammon looked her in the eyes. “You’ll be all right?”

  “Yes, sir. Tell Borley and the orphans that I’ll be back soon. Bye, Maraly.”

  “That’s Shadowblade to you.” Maraly lowered her voice. “But don’t tell nobody. They can’t know my true identity.”

  Sara waved as Gammon and Maraly trotted back to Dugtown to herald the peace that had come at last—and, of course, to roam the rooftops of Dugtown by night, keeping her citizens safe.

  “Ready?” Artham said.

  Sara nodded and began to mount her horse, but Artham stopped her. Before she knew it, Sara was resting in his arms, rising over the smiling faces of the people on Main Street. She clung to Artham’s neck as they soared over the fields behind the houses, up the grassy slope of the land toward the line of Glipwood Forest.

  They flew over the charred remains of a large estate where Sara spotted several strange statues, then they glided along the forest’s edge, passing farms and meadows and fenced pastures before turning north into the forest proper, over treetops that seemed like soft green clouds. The new leaves were so bright and beautiful that it was difficult for Sara to imagine how dangerous the forest really was.

  “This should do it,” Artham said, and they swooped below the canopy into a small clearing. He placed Sara gently on the ground and listened to be sure there were no animals on the prowl. “Here we are,” he said, putting his hands on his hips proudly. “My castle.”

  44

  Peet’s Castle

  Sara didn’t see anything resembling a castle. Then Artham lifted her chin. Nestled high in the branches was an impressive treehouse covered in brown leaves. Rope bridges spanned between limbs, leading from one room to another, then out into other trees.

  “You lived here?” Sara said breathlessly.

  “Aye. And so did the Iggyfeathers for a while.”

  Artham dropped to all fours and rooted around in the mulch like a dog after
a mole, scattering leaves everywhere. “Aha!” he said.

  “What is it?”

  “My journals. Looky.”

  Artham brushed aside a pile of twigs and old leaves, revealing a bundle wrapped in weathered canvas. He unwrapped the covering and held up a leatherbound book. He handed it to Sara and did a backwards somersault, sitting back up with leaves stuck in his hair.

  “You want me to read it?” she asked.

  Artham didn’t answer. He hopped to his feet, climbed the tree, and banged around in the different rooms of his castle. Sara opened the book and read.

  The writing was in a beautiful, precise script. She read poems about Anniera’s white shores and fair green hills, poems about sailing, about the Castle Rysen at sunset and sunrise, about Esben and Nia, poems about the children. She skimmed forward until she found one about Janner. It described his thoughtful eyes and strong back, the good work he did in the fields and the way he always watched over his brother and sister. It said he looked like Esben, the king, and then the handwriting grew jittery and wild.

  As Sara reached for another journal she heard a rustle in the leaves behind her. Then she heard the most frightening sound one can hear in Glipwood Forest: “Mooo.”

  She turned to face the beast. It snorted and pawed the ground, then opened its terrible maw and mooed again, drool dribbling from the ends of its yellow teeth. Before she could scream, Artham lifted her over the treetops.

  “Sorry about that, Queen Sara,” said Artham as they soared.

  He flew her back to Glipwood and asked the Shoosters if Sara could stay with them for the night. He planned to stay in his castle.

  “Maybe forever,” he told them.

  Sara lay in a soft but musty bed after a delicious meal of steamed wild vegetables. All the rooms of the Only Inn were occupied, and she heard the pleasant murmur of conversation through the walls, conversation untroubled by the fear of the Fangs of Dang for the first time in nine years.

  But Sara was troubled. She couldn’t stop thinking about Janner, and the danger he was in. Nor could she stop thinking about her beloved orphans, who had to build new lives now that the Fangs were gone.

  If the war was really over, everything would slowly return to normal, and sorrow over the loss of their parents would come crashing over them like a wave—she knew it because she could feel it crashing over her. She had never felt so alone as she did that night in the soft bed, surrounded by strangers in Glipwood, where it seemed the ghosts of her parents haunted the streets. She longed for her home like never before.

  The other occupants of the Only Inn laid awake that night, long after their talking ceased, and they wondered who was crying.

  When Sara woke, Joe and Addie Shooster treated her like a queen. They served her breakfast in bed, Addie brought Sara her coat (freshly washed and dried beside the fireplace), and all three of them had their tea on the porch. While they sat, they bade farewell to the parade of Skreeans still trudging up from Fort Lamendron, departing for their old homes and villages.

  “Excuse me, ma’am?” asked a ragged man as he approached. A woman with hollow eyes limped beside him. “Have you seen any children?”

  “Our daughter Grettalyn was lost to us two years ago,” said the woman.

  Sara’s teacup clattered to the floor and she leapt to her feet. “Grettalyn with the curly red hair?”

  The couple looked at Sara with shock and nodded dumbly.

  “Yes!” Sara rushed down from the porch and took their hands. “She was with me at the Fork Factory. She’s in Dugtown, and she’s fine!”

  The man dropped to his knees and looked up into Sara’s eyes. “Take us to her. Please.”

  Sara didn’t realize she had forgotten to thank the Shoosters for their kindness until she was halfway to Dugtown. As she walked with Grettalyn’s parents, rumor spread among the Skreeans on the road that a girl named Sara Cobbler knew every orphan in the city. Men and women surrounded her, pleading, sometimes going away sadly but often rejoicing upon learning that their children had survived. By the time Sara took the ferry across the Blapp the next day she had located the parents of dozens of her children.

  She didn’t allow herself to hope that she might see her own parents again, but as the ferry bumped into the dock she mustered the courage to privately ask a man named Portis (Trilliane’s father) if he had heard her parents’ names during his imprisonment. He hadn’t, and he was so distracted by the hope of seeing his own daughter again that he didn’t notice the way Sara’s face fell. She decided not to ask anyone else.

  It was late afternoon when Sara led the weary men and women to Thimble Thumb’s Threads and witnessed many happy reunions. By nightfall she and Borley and twenty-six other orphans were all that were left. No one said much, and it took great effort to express their gladness that so many of their friends had been reunited with parents or relatives.

  The factory was sad and silent that night. Sara lay in her cot thinking about her mother and father. In her soul a spark of hope that they might still be alive glowed stubbornly, but she did her best to snuff it out. They were gone. She was alone. Better to get used to the idea. She scolded herself whenever she thought of Janner Igiby, because he was gone too. Maraly had Gammon. Joe Shooster had Addie. Even Janner, wherever he was, had his family.

  “I’m still here, Queen Sara,” Borley whispered from his bunk, as if he knew her thoughts.

  “I’m glad,” she answered.

  She dreamed of her parents, and when she woke their absence was more painful for it. Sara feigned cheerfulness as she and Armulyn prepared breakfast for the orphans, but she sensed that Borley, who never left her side, knew better. His quiet, steady presence was a great comfort, and by the time the meal was served and eaten, and the kitchen was cleaned, Sara’s heart was lighter.

  She wasn’t alone—not as long as she had Borley and the others to care for. Gammon would help them whenever they needed it, and Armulyn, too, at least until his wanderlust carried him off. They had managed in the Fork Factory, and in the war against the Fangs, and they would manage now.

  Sara was sweeping the floor that afternoon when the door to Thimble Thumb’s Threads opened and light poured in. She couldn’t see the silhouetted woman’s face.

  45

  Found and Lost

  Sara’s skin tingled. Her broom clattered to the floor. The woman gasped and opened her arms, and Sara took a hesitant step forward.

  “It’s you!” the woman cried.

  Sara’s heart leapt and her joy was so great that she was unable to speak.

  “It’s you!” the woman exclaimed. “My Borley!”

  “Mama?” Borley said uncertainly from beside Sara.

  The woman rushed in and swept him up. Little Borley was too stunned to cry, and his eyes were on Sara even as his mother held him.

  That was the moment the last spark of Sara’s hope was vanquished. Stiffly, she picked up her broom and continued to sweep, unable to cry, unable to think, unable to feel.

  Before he left, Borley begged Sara to come with him.

  “I would be glad to have you as a daughter, dear,” said Borley’s mother. “We’ll need help putting the farm back together.”

  “I can’t. I have the others to care for.” Sara kissed Borley on the head and looked him in the eye. “It’s all right, General Borley. I’ll come visit you sometime.”

  “We’ll expect you,” said Borley’s mother. “We’re just a few miles south, toward the Linnard Woodlands. A lovely little village called Stellen, near Warren Downs. Come and see us.”

  When Borley left, the sun left with him. Armulyn lit a lantern and sang the children their goodnight song while Sara busied herself cleaning the factory floor, pretending not to notice the way the last twenty-five orphans watched her. She didn’t feel any better in the morning, but she willed her sorrow away and found that at times she managed to feel nothing at all.

  As the days passed, Armulyn grew anxious, often looking out the window, eager
to escape the orphanage to fetch supplies from the market or run some other errand, and Sara knew he would soon be leaving them too.

  “You can go, you know,” she told him one morning at breakfast. “It’s all right.”

  Armulyn stared at his cup of bean brew. “No, it’s not.”

  “We’ll miss you, but we’ll manage.”

  “It’s not that. I know you can take care of yourself and the orphans too.” Armulyn took a sip and looked out the window. “I’ve spent my whole life traveling, Sara, always looking to the next town, the next city, the next adventure—and I never knew what I was looking for until now. I used to think it was the thrill of new places, new people, the satisfaction of singing a story they’ve never heard. There’s a powerful magic in songs, you know. They can aim the heart, point it at what matters. My own heart has been aimed ever at the far horizon, and my feet have followed. But now I’m as tired as an old bed. I thought that with the Fangs gone I might settle down here and help you with the children. It seemed like a good home. But my feet are still restless, Sara. I’m tired of moving and yet I can’t wait to leave. I’m homesick—I’ve always been so. I can’t rest until I finally learn what that means.” Armulyn took Sara’s hand. “I’m sorry.”

  “When will you leave?”

  Armulyn answered by pointing a thumb at his backpack, which was resting near the front door and stuffed with supplies. When he told the orphans, they begged him not to leave—especially those who had come with him from beyond the maps. He put on a cheery face and promised to come back and visit soon.

  Sara and the others stood on the street outside Thimble Thumb’s Threads and watched him go. Armulyn’s steps were lighter than Sara had seen them in days, but his leaving felt terribly wrong. She was homesick too, but she couldn’t just pack a bag and strike out for the countryside. She had to make do.