Fer grabbed his chin and made him look at her. His eyes were wide. “Rook, stop it,” she said. “I’m just trying to help.”
He blinked and focused on her. “Oh, it’s you.” He frowned. “Weren’t you here before?”
“I’m still here,” Fer said. She raised the cup to his lips. “Drink this, all right?” She expected a fight, but, his fever-bright eyes fixed on hers, Rook drank down the tea.
“Okay, put him down again,” Fer said, and turned to look over her poultice ingredients.
“He’s all sleepy,” a guard said as they lowered Rook back onto his bed of hay.
“That’s good,” Fer said. She glanced at Rook, who lay with his eyes closed, one arm flung out. The valerian root. It must have been stronger than she’d realized, even the tiny amount she’d had left. “Get his coat and shirt off,” she ordered.
While the wolf-guards obeyed, she made up a poultice, ignoring the wolf-guards’ comments about toast when she added the butter and the honey. After mixing it she recited the nine-herbs charm—mugwort, betony, lamb’s cress, plaintain, mayweed, nettle, crab-apple, thyme, fennel—once in each of Rook’s ears, the way Grand-Jane had taught her, and once over the poultice. She didn’t have the nine herbs, but the charm should still have power. When the poultice was ready, she applied it to the festering bites that slashed across Rook’s chest and arms, then wrapped up the wounds with strips of her T-shirt.
“How’d he get those bites?” the she-wolf guard asked. They were both hovering by the stall door.
“They look like wolf bites,” the other guard said.
Fer rolled her eyes. Stupid wolves. “That’s what they are,” she said. She packed up her things, wiped a smudge of honey off her fingers, and got to her feet. Phouka rested his head on her shoulder and they both stood looking down at Rook, who lay sleeping peacefully.
“You keep an eye on him, okay, Phouka?” she whispered.
The horse snorted, his breath warm on her neck.
She couldn’t stay and watch over Rook. Anyway, he wouldn’t want her to be there when he woke up. It wasn’t just the valerian that had extra power here. All the herbs did, and the healing spells, and so did she. She’d always hated learning herb lore and spells, but those things, she realized, had real magic in them. She really was a healer, just like Grand-Jane.
And that meant she’d just saved Rook’s life. For the third time.
Chapter Sixteen
The next morning, as the dawn turned the darkness in her tent to dusty gray, Fer sat on the edge of her camp bed and reread the note in her hand.
Another note from her grandma, this one left in its wax-sealed bottle on the floor beside her bed. She’d found it when she’d woken up.
Jennifer, you must come home at once. If the Lady has polluted the land somehow, then you are in terrible danger from her. She is absolutely not to be trusted. Any wrongness there can be traced to whatever evil she has done, and it is not something you can fix. You must come through the Way and close it behind you, keeping the wrongness on the other side.
The flooding and storms here have gotten even worse, and they are spreading beyond just near the Way.
Come home now, Jennifer.
—Grand-Jane
Reading the note over again, Fer shook her head. Did Grand-Jane know what she was asking? Fer couldn’t leave the troubles here and just slam the Way closed behind her and then forget it all. She couldn’t leave Rook bound to the Lady, or the wolf-guards in their wildling, or frightened Burr and Twig, or her dear, bad Phouka. She couldn’t leave the land to suffer under the Lady.
The over-long winter here and the storms at home were caused by something the Lady had done—that was clear. The wildling was, too. Fer could fix the wildling with her herbs and spells, so maybe there was a way to fix the Lady’s evil. Fer still wasn’t sure what her place in this land was, but she knew her parents would have wanted her to help.
What she needed was to find out what the Lady had done to bring wrongness into the land. It had something to do with her mother, Fer felt almost certain, and with her father. With their deaths. Maybe the Lady had killed them for some reason.
But maybe it had nothing to do with them at all; maybe it was something done to this Leaf Woman they kept talking about.
Fer stood, her stomach jumping with nervousness. She shoved Grand-Jane’s note into her jeans pocket. “Don’t worry, Grand-Jane,” she said aloud. “I’ll be careful.”
Now she had the Lady’s test to deal with. Whatever it was. Fer put on her warmest clothes and her patch-jacket and slung the quiver of arrows and her bow over her shoulder. Then she took the Lady’s black feather out of the OWEN box and tucked it into the end of her braid. To leave it off would make the Lady suspicious.
She took a step toward the tent flap and then stopped and turned back. Opening the OWEN box again, she took out the letter her father had written to Grand-Jane and read it over. One part of it jumped out at her.
She is more beautiful and more wonderful than you could ever imagine, even without the glamorie . . .
The glamorie. Fer felt the power of the Lady’s glamorie every time she looked at her. Like getting tangled up into a net. The glamorie’s power was to compel obedience, Fer guessed. To make the one who wore it seem like something other than what she was. Fer hadn’t seen what was hiding behind the Lady’s glamorie, but she’d caught glimpses. And what she’d seen wasn’t beautiful or powerful; it was a wildling thing, dark and terri-fying.
Maybe . . . maybe the Lady wasn’t really the Lady at all. Maybe she was using the glamorie to hide what she really was.
Fer knew how to see through to the truth. Her hands shaking, she dug the seeing-stone out of the box and put it into her jacket pocket. She kept her hand there, gripping the stone for courage.
As she ducked out of her tent, she bumped into somebody dressed in a black coat. “Rook!” she exclaimed, stepping back. In the gray morning light he looked a little gray himself. But a lot better than yesterday. “Are you okay?”
He didn’t answer her question. With narrowed eyes, he looked her up and down. “Ready?” he asked.
“I am,” Fer said. “You’re all better, aren’t you? I healed your wolf bites?”
Rook shoved his hands into his coat pockets and glared down at the snowy ground. “You did, yes,” he said. “Now I owe you a thrice-sworn oath for my life saved three times.”
“I don’t want a thrice-sworn oath from you, Rook,” Fer said. “You know that.”
“It doesn’t matter whether you want it or not.” One of the Lady’s crow spies spiraled down and landed on Rook’s shoulder. It squawked hoarsely into his ear. “All right, I’m coming,” he muttered, then he roughly pushed the crow off; shedding feathers, it tumbled into the snow. Rook turned and headed down the path. “She sent me to fetch you,” he said over his shoulder. “Come on. It’s time.”
Taking a deep breath, Fer gripped her bow and followed Rook along the snowy paths to the trampled area before the Lady’s tent. A crowd was gathering, the Lady’s people on one side, dressed in their ragged furs and their masks, their mounts held by badger-men among the shadowy pine trees beyond. Fer stopped and stood on her tiptoes, looking for Phouka. Not there yet. Her heart pounded with a mixture of excitement and fear. Whatever the Lady really was, she was going to find out today.
Other people besides the Lady’s were waiting in the clearing. Little old men who looked like gray balls of yarn with red caps, and droopy old men with icicles in their ragged beards, and tall, slender young men with blond hair. All of them stood quietly, watching.
“Who are they?” Fer asked.
When Rook answered, his voice wasn’t angry any more, just flat. “They are the Huldre’s people. She is a Lady of this land.”
Standing beside the doorway to the Lady’s tent were two of the wolf-guards. Seeing Fer, they started across the clearing.
Rook stepped half in front of Fer, almost like he was protecting her. “Ba
ck off,” he said to the approaching guards.
The female wolf-guard grinned at him with yellow teeth. “Hey-ho, Pucky-toast!” She reached out and shoved Rook into a snowbank, then turned her grin on Fer. “Hey-ho, Fer-girlie.”
“Hi,” Fer said, trying to look past them to the Lady’s tent.
“Need any butter or hot water or anything?” the female wolf-guard asked.
Fer shook her head. Her heart beat faster. She wasn’t sure she could talk to the Lady without giving away her suspicions.
“All right. Good luck today.” The female wolf-guard grabbed the other’s arm—“Good luck!” he added—and dragged him back to their post by the tent flap.
“Thanks!” Fer called after them.
Rook stepped up beside her, scowling, brushing snow off his coat. “You’re friends with the Lady’s guards now?” he asked in a low voice.
“Not exactly friends,” Fer said. She was about to explain about healing their wildling when she heard a snort. In the trees beyond the clearing, a badger-man held Phouka by his silver bridle. Fer smiled as Phouka jerked the bridle out of his groom’s grip and, pushing two of the Lady’s people out of the way with his nose, pranced across to Fer with his ears pricked.
“Hello, you bad horse,” Fer said, reaching up to pat him on the velvety-soft nose. He would be her ally today. She needed one, at least. He whuffled into her hand, saying hello.
“Oh, sure,” Rook said, glaring at Phouka. “Now you’re friends with her too?”
“Yes, he is.” Fer laid her cheek against Phouka’s warm neck. The smell of horse was such a good smell. “Rook, you’re my friend too.”
“No, I am not,” he answered.
“Yes, you are, whether you like it or not.” Before he could argue with her, she pulled the seeing-stone out of her pocket. “Rook, my grandma told me that pucks have good vision. Can you see through the Lady’s glamorie?”
He glared at her, staying stubbornly silent.
“She uses the glamorie to stop me from asking questions, doesn’t she? And to make me see what she wants me to see. I’m wondering what I’ll see if I look at her through this.” She held up the seeing-stone.
Rook stepped closer, speaking in a fierce whisper. “Don’t tell me anything, Fer. I’m bound. I’m not your friend. I can’t help you.”
Fer shoved the seeing-stone back into her pocket. “There’s one more thing, Rook,” she whispered back. She opened her mouth to tell him about the dying crown she’d found in the Lady’s tent, when the Lady herself emerged from her tent followed by a wizened old woman wearing a stained white dress with dusty fur at the hem.
“Ah, Gwynnefar,” the Lady called, catching sight of Fer.
“Fer, be careful—” Rook said.
Over by the tent, the Lady beckoned.
“I will, Rook,” Fer whispered back, and she left him and crossed the clearing to the Lady, who bent to kiss her on the forehead. Fer felt the Lady’s chill magic settling over her; she blinked and shook her head, fighting to escape the net of her glamorie. She put her hand in her pocket, felt the smooth, cold seeing-stone under her fingers.
Straightening, the Lady saw Rook. “Join the others, Robin,” she ordered, and Rook bowed and went to wait with the rest of the Lady’s people.
Taking Fer by the shoulder, the Lady turned her to face the old woman. “This is the Huldre,” the Lady said. “A Lady, as I am, who has begged for our help to bring the spring to her part of the land.” She spoke to the Huldre. “This is Gwynnefar. Today she faces a test to see if she will take her place at my side as one of my most trusted people.”
The Huldre, who had long, tangled white hair framing a rosy, wrinkled face, leaned closer, inspecting Fer. “She will bring us the spring, then?” she asked.
The Lady gave a sharp nod. “The thing we discussed?”
The Huldre sighed. “All has been prepared, just as you ordered. You will pick up a trail in the forest to the east of here.” She hobbled away to join her people on the other side of the clearing.
The Lady turned to speak to her own people. “We will begin soon. Gather your mounts and await me in the field.”
As her people obeyed, Rook with them, the Lady turned and put her hands on Fer’s shoulders. “You are ready?”
Fer gazed up at her. She shook her head to clear it. The Huldre had talked about a trail. And the Lady’s people were all carrying bows and arrows, or sharp spears, she’d noticed. “Is this test a hunt?”
The Lady shook her head, as if in sadness. “Again you demand answers from me. I am not your enemy, Gwynnefar. I brought you here to this land because I need your help. My people tell me you like to help, is that right?”
Fer blinked. “Yes, I do,” she answered.
“Good,” the Lady said. “You are a warrior, as your mother was, and you alone can complete the ritual that will bring the spring, both here and on the other side of the Way.”
Fer frowned, her suspicion growing. “I thought you brought the spring.” That’s what Rook had told her, anyway.
The Lady’s face stayed still and cold. “My power is . . . not what it once was. You can help renew my power. Then all will be as it should. You have learned quickly; you can ride and shoot. You were born to take your mother’s place by my side, Gwynnefar.”
Fer wrenched her eyes away from the Lady’s intent face. It wasn’t time to use the seeing-stone—not yet. First she had to be strong; she had to think. She held up her bow. “Your test is a hunt. I’m not killing anything, even if my mother was a huntress.”
The Lady’s hands gripped harder. “The test is a ritual, as I told you,” she said sharply. “You will do as you must when the moment comes. Your mother would have done the same for me. Now, we must hurry.” She released Fer’s shoulders and stepped back.
A badger-man came up, leading the Lady’s white horse. The Lady swung gracefully onto its back, then took the bow and quiver of arrows the badger-man handed up to her.
More weapons. Fer shivered, partly with cold, partly with nervousness.
The Lady took a deep breath. “I know you suspect that something is wrong here. You are correct. We both want the same thing, Gwynnefar. We want to right what is wrong.” She looked away, then fixed Fer again with her glimmering eyes, turning the full force of her glamorie onto Fer. “It is your duty to help me.”
Fer closed her eyes against the spell. The Lady was dangerous. But she was convincing, too. She and Fer did want the same thing—they both wanted to bring the spring, here and at home, to fix the wrongness in the land that Fer could feel with every breath, with every step she took on the frozen ground. If passing the test and completing the spring ritual would fix the wrongness, then she would do it. Fer still didn’t trust the Lady, but she would go along with her—for now. Opening her eyes, Fer nodded. “All right,” she agreed. “I will help you.”
Chapter Seventeen
Just as the Huldre had said, they picked up a trail in the forest to the east of the field, not far from where Fer and the Lady had ridden their horses the day before. The sun came up, and the sky turned brilliant blue. The air was bitterly cold as they set off.
The Lady led the way, her crows flying overhead. Fer rode at her right, finding her balance on Phouka’s back, gripping his mane and her bow, which was strung and ready, feeling the weight of the quiver full of arrows over her shoulder. Behind them rode the rest of the Lady’s people, mounted on tall horses and shaggy ponies, and on the backs of deer and curly-horned goats. The three wolf-guards were among them. Rook was there too, riding behind a badger-man on a chestnut horse.
The Lady had Fer dismount to check the trail. They crouched in the snow, looking at it. To Fer the trail looked not like footprints, but like scufflings in the snow. They didn’t look like the hoofprints of a deer, anyway.
The Lady pointed with a gloved hand. “You see here, Gwynnefar? The distinct edges? The distance between the prints?”
Fer nodded.
“This indicat
es that the trail is still fresh.” The Lady stood and brushed the snow from her knees. Her people and their mounts waited like shadows among the trees; her crows wheeled overhead, cawing.
“What are we chasing?” Fer asked, but the Lady was already turning away, mounting her horse.
Fer belly-flopped onto Phouka’s back and found her place riding beside the Lady. They rode without speaking, and the forest around them was silent except for a wind that hissed in the tops of the pine trees. After a while, the trail led them out of the dark forest and through a valley to a wide plain bare of trees. On the plain the wind grew even more bitter, sweeping up plumes of snow before it. In the distance, Fer saw low hills building to rocky foothills and, beyond them, mountain peaks. Seeing them, her heart lifted. She’d sensed them the day before, but she’d never actually seen real, live mountains.
They rode on. Fer’s fingers were stiff with cold. She slung the bow over her shoulder with the quiver and alternated holding Phouka’s mane with one hand while putting the other hand in her patch-jacket pocket to warm it up. Phouka himself snorted out clouds of steam and kept steady pace with the Lady and her horse, while the rest of the Mór’s people strung out behind them as their mounts tired. Fer felt the Lady’s eyes on her, watching, waiting, Fer guessed, to see what she would do.
At midday they entered another forest, and the Lady got down to check the trail. “We have time for a short rest,” she said.
Fer slid down from Phouka’s back and patted his neck. Her legs felt a little stiff, but not too bad.
“You are doing well on the test, Gwynnefar,” the Lady said. “It is good to have you riding at my side, just as your mother once did.”
Fer knew she was doing well. Still, she felt like a rope inside her chest was twisting tighter and tighter as the hunt continued.
The wolf-guards caught up and dismounted and handed around food from their saddlebags: bread and cheese, which Fer ate, and strips of dried meat, which she didn’t. The rest of the Lady’s people straggled in too. The badger-man and Rook came in at last on their chestnut horse. Rook kept his head down, not meeting Fer’s eyes when she looked over at him.
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