by Marjorie Liu
Sally almost didn’t see him do it. She was crawling from the wagon, taking advantage of the obvious distraction—but she happened to look at the juggler just at that moment as the rocks and red ball went up—taking with them the mercenaries’ attention—and caught the glint of silver that remained in his hand.
The straw-haired man staggered backward into his companions and fell down, twitching, eyes open and staring. A disk smaller than the mouth of a teacup jutted from his forehead, deeply embedded with edges that were jagged and sharp, as irregularly shaped as the points on a snowflake. His companions stared at him for one stunned moment, and then turned to face the juggler. He was tossing rocks in the air again, but was no longer smiling.
“Accidents,” he said. “Such a pity.”
The mercenaries pulled their swords free. Sally scrambled from the wagon, but did not run. Her dagger was in her hand, and there was a man in front of her with his back exposed. She could do this. She had to do this. It was she or they, them or the juggler—even though everything inside her felt small and ugly, and terrified of taking a life.
But just before she forced her leaden feet into a wild, headlong lunge, a strong hand grabbed her shoulder. She yelped, turning, and found herself staring into hooded brown eyes, almost entirely obscured by coarse, bushy hair and a long-braided beard shot through with silver.
A human bear, she thought, with a grip like one. He held a crossbow. Beside him stood another man, the tallest Sally had ever seen, whose long blond hair and strong, chiseled features belonged more to the ice lands than the green spring hills of the mid-South. His hands also held a bow, one that was almost as tall as him.
Startled, sickening fear hammered Sally’s heart, but the bearded man gave her a brief, beaming smile, and fixed his gaze on the mercenaries—who had stopped advancing on the juggler, and were staring back with sudden uncertainty.
“Eh,” said the bearded man. “Only three little ones.”
“I’m going back for the deer,” replied the giant, sounding bored. He glanced down at Sally. “Congratulations on not being dead. We took bets.”
He turned and walked away toward the woods. Sally stared after him, and then turned back in time to see a rock slam into a mercenary’s brow with bone-crushing force. She flinched, covering her mouth as the man reeled to the ground with a bloodless dent in his head that was the size of her fist.
Pure silence filled the air. Sally was afraid to breathe. The juggler was now tossing the red ball into the air with his left hand, holding his last rock in the other. He stood very still, staring with cold, hard eyes at the two remaining mercenaries—both men obviously rattled, trying to split their attention between him and the bearded man, who patted Sally’s shoulder and pointed his crossbow at their chests.
“I think,” said the juggler, “that you should consider your options very carefully. My hands are prone to wild fits, as you’ve seen—which I have most humbly come to suspect are possessed occasionally by various deities in lieu of hurling thunderbolts.”
“In other words,” said the bearded man, “you should drop your weapons and strip. Before he kills you.”
“But not in front of the lady,” added the juggler.
“Don’t mind me,” replied Sally weakly.
The mercenaries looked at each other, and then at their dead companions on the ground, both of whom had finally stopped twitching.
Slowly, carefully, they put down their swords, unbuckled their knives, dropped their helmets and then their trousers (at which point Sally had to look away, because a nude man was not nearly as startling as one that appeared to have never washed), and pulled off the rest of their raggedy clothing, which gave off a remarkable odor that would have been funny if Sally had not still been so shaken by everything she had just witnessed.
“Run along,” said the juggler, when they were finally disarmed and disrobed. “I hope you meet some lovesick bears. ’Tis the season, and you would make excellent fathers.”
The mercenaries ran. Sally watched them go, but only until she was convinced they would not be returning. Humans, she thought, were far more attractive with clothes than without.
She sagged against the wagon’s edge, unpeeling her fingers from the knife hilt. Her knees felt shaky, and she was breathless. She glanced at the dead, who were being searched by the bearded man, and had to look away.
A water skin was shoved in front of her face. It was the juggler, peering down at her with a peculiar compassion that was utterly at odds with the coldness she had seen in his face, or the wolf’s smile, or the cheerful, even madcap glint that had filled his eyes while distracting those mercenaries with his tricks.
“You’ve been ill,” he said. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”
“I would be sorrier if I hadn’t,” she replied. “Who are you?”
“Oh,” he said, with a grin. “We’re just actors.”
CHAPTER THREE
They were the Traveling Troupe of Twister Riddle, which was a name that Sally told them made no sense, but that (when they prodded her for additional commentary) was rather catchy, in a crazed sort of way. The juggler was supposed to be Lord Twister Riddle himself, though his real name (or as real as Sally could only assume it to be) was Mickel Thorn.
The small bear of a bearded man was called Rumble, and the giant—when he returned from the forest with a deer slung over his shoulders—introduced himself as Patric. Neither seemed capable of performing anything more complicated than a good beating, but Sally knew better than to judge.
“There used to be more of us—” began Mickel.
“But there’s no such thing as loyalty anymore,” interrupted Rumble. “One little whiff of gold—”
“And the years mean nothing,” said Patric, who folded himself down upon on a fallen tree to begin skinning the dead animal. “They left us for another troupe. Without a word, in the night. I nearly drowned in tears.”
He said it with a straight face. Sally frowned, unsure what to make of them. They were most certainly dangerous, but not rough or coarse, which was a contradiction—and created an odd atmosphere among them all. She had always considered herself to be a good judge of character, but that had been at home—and she had never, not once in seventeen years, been on her own beyond the protection of her father’s lands. Sally was not entirely certain she could trust her judgment. And yet she thought—she was quite sure—that she was safe with these men.
For now. She thought of her dream, her dream that had felt so real: that little girl with her ancient eyes, and the children in the trees. A shiver ripped through her, and she gritted her teeth as she glanced behind at the woods—feeling as though someone was watching her. The hairs on her neck prickled. It was not quite the afternoon, and the weather was chilly, though clear. If she could backtrack to the Tangleroot . . .
“I should go,” Sally said reluctantly. “But thank you for your help.”
Patric’s hands paused. Rumble gave her a quick look of surprise. Mickel, however, reached inside his coat for a small metal spoon, which he waved his hand over. It appeared to bend. “Are you running from something?”
“Of course not.” Sally peered at the spoon, trying to get a closer look. Mickel hid it in his fist, and when he opened his hand, it had vanished.
“You’re a trickster,” she said. “Sleight of hand, games of illusion.”
“Not magic?” Mickel placed a hand over his heart. “I’m shocked. Most people think I have unnatural powers.”
Sally tried not to smile. “You have an unnatural gift for words. Anything else is suspect.”
Rumble grunted, picking at his teeth. “Won’t be safe with mercenaries still out there. Not for you, lass.”
“Too many of them,” Patric said absently. “More than I imagined.”
Chilly words. Her father was losing control over his land. For a moment Sally consid
ered returning home, but stopped that thought. She would have to make a choice soon—but not yet. Not until she stepped into the Tangleroot and discovered whether a power was there that could make a difference.
Sally forced herself to stand. Her legs were still unsteady. Mickel stood as well, and kicked dirt over the fire. “We were also leaving.” Rumble and Patric stared, and he gave them a hard look. “What direction are you headed?”
Sally folded her arms over her chest. “South.”
“Remarkable. Fate has conspired. We’re also headed that way.”
Rumble coughed, shaking his head. Patric sawed at the deer a bit harder. Glancing at them, Sally said, “Really.”
“And tomorrow we’ll begin ambling north.” Mickel tilted his head, his gaze turning thoughtful. “Where are you from?”
“I don’t think it matters,” she replied curtly. “If I asked you the same question, I suspect you would feel the same.”
“Home is just a place?” he replied, smiling. “You’re jaded.”
“And you smell,” Rumble said, peering up at her.
“Like manure,” Patric added. “Very alluring.”
Sally frowned. “You three . . . saved my life. I think. And I appreciate that. But—”
“But nothing. No harm will come to you. If you travel with us, you are one of us.” Mickel held her gaze, as if he wanted her to understand. When she finally nodded, he turned away to nudge Rumble with his boot. “Come on, then. We’ll go to Gatis. It’s not far.”
No, not far at all. Only two days’ ride from home. She could be recognized, or her father might find her there—assuming he had begun looking.
But it was also close to the Tangleroot.
Sally held out her hand to Mickel, who stared for one long moment before taking it with solemn dignity. His grip was warm and strong, and a tingle rode up her arm. From the way he flinched, she thought he felt it, too.
“My name is Sally,” she told him.
“Sally,” he said quietly. “Welcome to the family.”
She began seeing ravens in the trees as they drew close to Gatis. Hardly noticeable at first, until one of them launched off a branch in a burst of black feathers, cawing in a voice so piercing the sound seemed to run straight down into her heart. Images flashed through her mind—ravens and horns, and silver, frozen water—making Sally sway with dizziness. She leaned hard against the edge of the rickety wagon, holding her head.
Mickel rode close on a swift black mare that was surprisingly fine-boned and sleek: a lovely creature, and a surprise. She had seen such horses only once before, those from a trader who had come from south of the mountains. The Warlord’s territory.
She would not have guessed a mere performer would have such a horse, nor Patric nor Rumble. Rumble’s mount was tied to the back of the wagon. He sat up front, holding the reins of the mules.
Sally caught Mickel’s eye. “You said you found me near the Tangleroot.”
“Yes,” he said, drawing out the word as though it made him uncomfortable. “You were unwell.”
“Unconscious, you mean.”
Mickel rubbed the back of his neck. “Not quite.”
“You were screaming,” Rumble said, turning to look at her. “It’s how we found you. Just standing as you please in front of the border of that cursed forest, making the most bloodcurdling sound I’ve ever heard. And I’ve heard plenty,” he added, a moment later.
Sally stared at him. “I was . . . screaming.”
“Quite a fighter, too,” Patric said, guiding his horse past the wagon.
She blinked, startled. “And I fought?”
“You were delirious,” Mickel told her. “Simple as that.”
“You were trying to enter the Tangleroot,” Rumble said. “Almost did. Took all three of us to hold you down.”
“Stop,” Patric called back, over his shoulder. “You’ll scare her.”
“No,” Mickel said slowly, watching her carefully. “No, I don’t think you will.”
Sally, who had no idea what her expression looked like, had nonetheless been thinking that it would have been a great deal easier if they had just let her go. Perhaps more terrifying, too, given what she remembered of her dream. If it had been a dream.
But she did not like having her thoughts written so clearly upon her face. She studied her hands, noting the dirt under her nails, and then looked back up at Mickel. He was still watching her. She studied him in turn, and suffered a slow rush of heat from the boldness of his gaze—and her own.
Gatis was a rambling village built into the high hills of a river valley, a place that had belonged to shepherds for hundreds of years, and still belonged to them; only now they lived in comfortable cottages with fine large gardens bordered by stone, and fruit orchards growing on the terraced hills that dipped down to the Ris, its winding waters blue and sparkling in the late-afternoon sun.
Sally had been to Gatis years before with her family—while her mother was still alive. The villagers were known for the quality of their yarn and dyes, and the fine craftsmanship of their weaving. Her cloak and vest were Gatis-made, and likely the cloth of her dress, as well. She pulled up her hood as they neared the village, hoping that none would remember her face. She had only been only ten at the time. Surely she looked different.
The road sloped upward around a grassy hill covered in boulders, and at the crest of it, Sally saw the border of the Tangleroot. It was far away, but there was no mistaking those woods, however distant. The border was black as pitch, a curving wall of trees that looked so thick and impenetrable, Sally wondered how it would even be possible to squeeze one arm through, let alone travel through it.
Seeing the forest was like a slap in the face. She had known that one of the borders to the Tangleroot was near this village, but looking at it in broad daylight twisted in her gut like a knife. Sally felt afraid when she saw the far-away trees; she felt fear and hunger. She closed her eyes, hoping the sensation would fade, but all she saw was the little girl, running fleet-footed down the moonlit path.
It made Sally wonder, briefly, about her mother—if it was true that she had been inside those ancient woods, and if so, what she had seen. The young woman wondered, too, if coming to Gatis had bothered her mother, what with the Tangleroot so close. She had died soon after that trip, though until now, Sally had never thought to associate the two. Perhaps there was still no reason to.
A hand touched her shoulder, and she flinched. It was Mickel, riding close beside the wagon. He looked away from her at the distant forest, sunlight glinting along the sharp angles of his face, and highlighting his brown hair with dark auburn strands.
“Not all trees are the same,” he murmured. “Something I heard, growing up. Some trees are bark and root, and some trees have soul and teeth. If you are ever foolish enough to encounter the latter, then you’ll know you’ve gone too far. And you’ll be gone for good.”
Sally had heard similar words, growing up. “It seems silly to give a forest so much power.”
He shook his head. “No, it seems just right. We are infants in the shadows of trees. And those trees . . . are something else.”
“Some say they used to be human.”
“Souls stolen by the forest of a powerful queen. Roots that grew from bones and blood, and imprisoned the spirits of an entire people.” Mickel smiled. “I’ve heard it said that red hair was a common trait among them, and that descendants of those few who escaped the curse, who battled the queen herself, still bear that mark.”
Sally brushed a strand of red hair self-consciously from her eyes. “You and your stories. How could something like that be true?”
“Maybe it’s not. But either way, something about you is affected by that place, even by looking at it.”
She began to deny it. He touched a finger to her lips. The contact startled her, and perhaps him
. His hand flew away as though burned, and something unsettled, even pained, passed through his gaze. Sally suddenly found it hard to breathe.
“You think too much in your eyes,” he said quietly. “I can practically read your thoughts.”
“How terrifying,” she replied, trying to be flippant, though hearing herself was quite different: she sounded serious as the grave.
A rueful smile touched his mouth, and he stroked the neck of his horse. He hardly used a saddle, just a soft pad and a molded piece of pebbled leather. He held the reins so lightly that Sally thought he must be guiding the horse with his legs. “Yes, it is frightening.”
Sally fought the urge to touch her warm cheeks. “Why do you do this?”
“Perform? Create masks for a living? Haven’t you ever wanted to be someone else?” Mickel’s smile deepened. “No, don’t answer that. I can see it in your eyes.”
Sally thought she should start wearing a blindfold. But before she could ask him more, he said, “So what are you useful for? Are you good for anything?”
“I can read,” she said, stung. “Garden, cook, ride a horse—”
“All of which are admirable,” he replied, far more gently. “But I was referring to skills that would be useful in a . . . performance setting.”
“Performance,” she echoed, eyes narrowing; she recalled overheard discussions between her father’s men about “performances” involving women. “What kinds of skills do you think I might have?”
Rumble, who had been silent, began to laugh. Mickel shook his head. “Reading, I suppose, would be enough. Precious few can do that. If you know your letters, you might earn your keep writing messages that we can carry along the way.”