Winterling

by Sarah Prineas

  After a few minutes, the Lady gave the order to mount up again, and they were off, trotting through the bare-branched trees. They rode for the rest of the afternoon over the forested hills, following the muffled trail.

  As the shadows grew longer, Fer caught a glimpse ahead of them of something moving among the trees, a flash of gray against the white snow.

  “There!” The Lady pointed, then shouted something over her shoulder at the rest of her people.

  Fer gripped Phouka’s mane and held on as he leaped into a fast gallop. Beside her, the Lady crouched over her horse’s shoulders, urging it to go faster. The sudden wind blew tears from Fer’s eyes. She blinked them away and focused ahead, watching between Phouka’s ears for another glimpse of the thing she’d seen before. From behind came the high, thin call of the hunting horn.

  The thing had dodged off to the side. “That way!” the Lady shouted, pointing. Fer gave Phouka a nudge with her knee, following. The horse leaned as he turned, and she leaned with him. They zigzagged among the black trees, right behind the Lady, silent in the snow except for the horses’ snorting breath. The other riders and their mounts fell away as they raced faster through the trees. Another glimpse of gray, of something running, sending up clouds of snow.

  The setting sun crouched at the top of the hill, shedding fiery light over the forest. At the base of the hill was a clearing bound on one side by a steep cliff of rock. Phouka burst from the trees at the edge of the clearing, and Fer saw the thing they chased scramble up the cliff face to a narrow shelf about six feet off the ground.

  In the shadows, against the gray cliff, the thing was hard to make out. Was it an animal? Phouka halted, breathing hard.

  The Lady pulled up beside her. “Ah,” she panted. “It is at bay.”

  “What is it?” Fer asked, squinting to see better.

  “Our prey,” the Lady said sharply. She reached back into her quiver and drew out an arrow, which she held out to Fer. “Here. Use this.”

  Fer took the arrow. It was fletched with black crow feathers, the shaft smooth and black, the point made of blackened, barbed steel. Fer gripped the arrow and looked up at the Lady. Her heart started pounding. “But I told you. I can’t kill anything.”

  “This is the ritual,” the Lady said. “You must complete it to bring spring to this land.” Behind the Lady, the other hunters, riding their exhausted mounts, entered the clearing and halted, waiting silently, watching. Rook was among them.

  The prey. It cowered against the cliff face above her, panting, every breath sending out gusts of steam in the icy air. Blood foamed at its mouth, as if it had run until its lungs were bursting. Its skin was lumpy and gray, and it had long arms wrapped around its barrel-shaped middle. Its legs were as thick as tree trunks and its head was like a boulder with a rough, heavy-browed face carved out of it. A troll.

  Holding her bow, Fer climbed down from Phouka’s back.

  From behind her, the Lady spoke. “Kill it, Gwynnefar. It is just a thing, a base creature, a blood sacrifice. If you truly wish to serve me as your mother did, to help drive winter from the land, you must complete the ritual.”

  Fer felt the full power of the Lady’s glamorie fall over her like a spiked silver net. With chilled fingers, she fitted the black arrow onto the string and raised the bow, then drew back the string and sighted down the arrow at the gray troll on the cliff. She felt the shot settle within her. She would release the bowstring and the arrow would fly straight and true to its target.

  The troll turned to the wall and ducked to hide its face in its hands.

  Fer closed her eyes and saw again the stag in the moon-lit clearing, its frightened eyes, the hunt that had ended with blood and death at the hands of the Lady.

  “Spill its blood,” the Lady said, her voice pulsing with command. “You must.”

  Fer lowered the bow and turned to face the Lady. Raising her hand, Fer felt a sudden surge of power, and she brushed the glamorie away, just like brushing a sticky cobweb out of her eyes. “I won’t do it.”

  The Lady stared down from her horse’s back, her face white and set. “You would fail me, and all my people, and this land because you are afraid to shed blood?”

  “It’s not because I’m afraid,” Fer said, shivering. She tore her gaze away from the Lady’s beautiful face and looked down at the black arrow, smooth and sharp and deadly. Her mother, Laurelin, had never done anything like this. If the Lady had to kill something to bring the spring, then her magic was broken. It was wrong. Spring was about life and green buds and birdsong, not about hunting a living creature to a bloody death.

  Slinging her bow over her shoulder, Fer gripped the arrow at both ends, broke it across her knee, and dropped it in the snow. Behind her she heard a scuffling sound, and turned to see the troll jump down from the cliff and shamble out of the clearing, dragging its knuckles through the snow. The Lady’s people stirred, as if they wanted to go after the troll, but the Lady raised her hand, holding them.

  Then, with a jolt, Fer remembered the seeing-stone in her patch-jacket pocket. It was time to use it, to see what the Lady truly was. With shaking hands she pulled out the stone and held it up to her eye. As she looked, the Lady flinched away and her horse reared, and Fer glimpsed only a swirl of ragged feathers and the Lady’s sharp, darting eyes, not beautiful at all, not a Lady, but something terribly wrong.

  Fer stumbled back. She felt a nudge against her shoulder, then warm breath on her neck. Phouka, like a sturdy wall behind her. She shot a glance at the Lady’s people. In the shadows at the edge of the clearing, dressed in furs and rags, with their fanged and horned masks, they looked like wild creatures. Through her connection to them, she felt how their strength was fading. Soon they’d be nothing more than wild animals, completely lost to themselves.

  Rook stood among them. She caught his eye.

  He gave a slight nod toward the edge of the clearing, then mouthed an urgent word. Run.

  “The hunt must go on,” the Lady said. She sat like a pale, stone statue on her horse’s back. She was still beautiful, but the glamorie no longer had any power over Fer. Deliberately the Lady reached over her shoulder and drew an arrow from her quiver. A black arrow, just like the one she’d given Fer to use on the troll. She fit the arrow onto her bowstring and raised the bow. “Blood must be spilled,” the Lady said coldly. “If you will not serve me, Gwynnefar, then you must become prey.”

  “No!” Fer shouted. The Lady drew the bow. Trem-bling, Fer backed into Phouka, then ducked right under his belly. Reaching up, she grabbed his mane and flung herself onto his back. “Go, Phouka!” she shouted, and before she could sit straight he was off and running, jolting into a gallop as she dragged her leg over his back. Looking over her shoulder, Fer saw an arrow speeding toward her. She flinched, hunching into her patch-jacket, hoping it would protect her, and the arrow bent away and buried itself in a tree. The Lady drew another black arrow from the quiver, and then Phouka dodged around a tree and the clearing was gone. The gray twilight closed in around them.

  “Take me to the Way, Phouka,” Fer gasped. “Take me home.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “After her!” the Mór shrieked. She wheeled her horse, which took two stumbling steps and then stopped, its head hanging. The rest of her people and their mounts stirred, but they, too, were exhausted from the day’s hunt. Even her crows, hunched in the trees, looked bedraggled and tired.

  Rook edged behind the brown horse he’d been riding. A crow perched in a nearby tree cackled, drawing the Mór’s eye, and she saw him.

  She jammed her arrow back into the quiver. Rook saw that her face was pinched and white, her hands gripping her horse’s mane like shriveled claws. “Robin,” she croaked. “Come here.”

  His thrice-sworn oath felt like a weighted chain around his neck. He stepped away from the rest of the Mór’s people.

  “You, at least, are fresh,” the Mór muttered. She dug into her trouser pocket, pulled something out, and toss
ed it to him.

  His shifter-bone.

  “Shift,” she ordered. “Go after the traitorous girl and your twice-traitorous puck-brother, and hold them until I arrive.”

  Rook clenched his fists, feeling the shifter-bone bite into his palm. He shook his head. “Just let them go.”

  The Mór leaned forward. “You are bound, Puck,” she snarled. “Catch them and hold them!”

  His oath tightened around him; he had to obey. He whirled away from the Mór and took two running steps, then popped the bone into his mouth. As it settled under his tongue he felt the wonderful, free feeling of the shift, falling forward and catching himself on four hoofs, his mane and tail unfurling in the wind.

  Leaving the Mór and her people behind, he galloped through the trees, following the trail Phouka had left in the snow. As the night closed in around him, the trail went up a wooded hill and disappeared and he followed it, leaping up into the sky in great bounds, the stars shooting past him, the air bitterly cold.

  Ahead, he knew Fer was clinging to Phouka’s mane, cold and frightened, but, if he knew Fer, she was feeling brave, too, and ready to fight. She was trying to get to the Way. He had his orders, and he was bound. He would catch her if he could.

  On he raced through the night, the wind rushing past him. His four hooves pounded the sky as he flew through clouds, darkness yawning below him. After a long time, the sky around him turned gray. His legs grew tired; his stride faltered and his breath came in snorting gusts.

  A sudden jolt and he was galloping through a blurred gray and brown forest. The world spun around him and he fell into a trot on the path leading to the Way. Gnarled branches arched overhead. Fog hovered knee deep over the ground like the ghost of snow.

  Ahead he glimpsed Phouka, Fer crouched and clinging to his back. Putting on a last burst of speed he reached the clearing. The Way waited for Fer, shimmering pearly white in the foggy morning light.

  Rook stumbled to a halt.

  Fer slid off of Phouka’s back and leaned against his shoulder, looking cold and stiff. Phouka stood with his head hanging down, his ears drooping.

  Rook found the shifter-bone under his tongue and spat it out, then felt the blurring dizziness of the change and caught the bone in his hand, standing on two legs. He shoved the shifter-bone into his coat pocket.

  “Rook?” Fer gasped. Her wild, honey-colored hair was tangled, her eyes bright, her cheeks chapped pink from the cold. Beside her, Phouka gave a low whinny. She patted his neck. “Is she coming?”

  Fer looked as weary as he felt. He took a shaky step toward her. “She is, yes. I’m under orders to hold you and Phouka until she arrives.”

  Her face went pale and her eyes widened.

  “I told you I wasn’t your friend,” he said roughly. But no, she hadn’t listened. She didn’t understand how strongly an oath sworn three times bound one of his kind. He had no choice.

  Fer glanced over her shoulder at the Way.

  Rook edged closer, ready to spring after her if she tried to use the Way to escape.

  But she didn’t move. “Rook,” she said. “I snuck into the Lady’s tent and looked in the box where she keeps her stuff. I found a crown made of leaves.”

  He nodded. “The Lady’s crown.” She was stalling, trying to distract him, but it wouldn’t work. He edged closer. Beside her, Phouka snorted a warning.

  “Rook,” Fer said urgently. “The crown was dying. The Lady has done something evil, and it’s hurting her people and the land.”

  Rook nodded stiffly. Yes, he knew. He couldn’t tell her, but he knew.

  Fer went on, her gray eyes intent. “Rook, things are wrong here. The wildling, the Leaf Woman missing, this terrible hunt ritual the Lady, or whatever she is, uses to bring the springtime. You know it’s wrong. She was ready to kill me. I think you know what she did before. You have to tell me!”

  Rook shook his head, feeling dizzy and sick. “I’m under orders, Fer,” he said wearily. “There’s nothing to be done.” He’d been stupid to think maybe this girl from the other side of the Way could help. She’d proven to be surprisingly powerful, but he should have realized that it had been too late from the start. The blood had been spilled. The land had fallen under a shadow, and not even Fer could lift it. All was lost.

  From not too far down the path, Rook heard a howl. The wolf-guards would be here in a moment. All was lost, and Fer was to become the next sacrifice.

  Fer stepped toward him. “Then come through the Way with me, Rook. You’ll be free of her there.”

  “Fer, I am bound,” he warned. She should have flinched away, but she stood steady, trusting, holding out her hand.

  He reached for it. Instead of taking her hand, he grabbed her wrist.

  Fer pulled away, but he gripped her tightly.

  From behind him, out of the fog, came three gray shapes. The wolves loped into the clearing with their tongues lolling, fog swirling around them. Rook saw Fer grope in her patch-jacket pocket. Feeling for her bag of spelled herbs, he knew, so she could force the wolves to stay away. But no, she’d used the herbs to heal him. She had no protection.

  The wolves paced closer.

  Fer glanced over her shoulder at the Way. The surface of the pool was as clear as glass, the fog drifting away. “Let me go,” she panted.

  He wanted to, more than anything. “No,” he growled.

  “Rook, you know the Lady is evil. She can’t be the real Lady! Doesn’t that mean you’re free of her?”

  No matter what the Mór had done, he was still bound by his oaths to her. He shook his head.

  She pulled away and kicked him in the shin, but he tightened his grip and dragged her farther from the pool. In the distance, he heard galloping hoofbeats. The Mór, coming with her bow and her black arrows.

  From behind Fer, Phouka gave a high whinny; then he stepped past her and nudged Rook’s shoulder with his nose.

  “Get off,” he snarled, shrugging the horse away.

  With an angry snort, Phouka reared back and kicked with his front hooves, knocking Rook’s grip loose. Fer jerked her arm out of his hands and stumbled away. Rook reached after her, but Phouka lunged forward and shoved him to the ground, then dropped his heavy hoof on his shoulder, holding him down.

  Growling, one of the wolves circled Phouka, coming for Fer. The horse kicked out with a back hoof, and the wolf went flying with a yelp.

  The other two wolves snarled and leaped toward Fer.

  Look out! Rook wanted to shout.

  A wolf tore at Fer’s jacket, its teeth slashing into her arm. Blood spattered.

  Fer whirled, took two steps, and jumped into the Way.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Fer landed in rushing, dark water. She caught a wet gasp and was swept along. The world was loud with the sound of racing water and wind and thunder. Her back bumped against something and she flung out an arm and grab-bed for it. Slick, wet branches—a bush. She held on against the water’s strong pull and slowly dragged herself out, her patch-jacket sodden, the bow and quiver of arrows heavy on her back, her hair dripping.

  A fierce flash of lighting rent the sky, followed a second later by a roar of thunder. Greenish-black clouds were piled in a dark mass overhead; the wind shrieked; rain pelted down. Coughing, Fer blinked the rain out of her eyes and dragged herself farther from the rushing water. Her arm burned where the wolf’s teeth had slashed her. She climbed shakily to her feet, clinging to a wet tree trunk to steady herself, and tried to get her bearings.

  The Way was pounded by the rain. The stream leading into it was now a dark, swift, rushing river. She waited a moment to see if the wolves, or Rook, or the Lady would follow her through. But nothing came through the flooded Way.

  Safe. The Lady had tried to kill her, and Rook had betrayed her, and she’d left poor Phouka behind, but she was safe. For now. With a sob, she stumbled back, and brambles clung to her patch-jacket. Tearing herself free, her feet slipping on mud and wet leaves, she ran along the edge
of the swollen stream until she hit the path, then followed that out to the culvert and the straight gravel road.

  Thunder bellowed again, and Fer flinched. Over her head the clouds boiled, and bitter hail pelted down. The fields, as far as she could see in the murky light, were flooded. In the distance she saw the Carsons’ farm like an inkblot on the watery horizon. But it didn’t look right—the dark shape of the barn was missing. Lashed by wind and hail, Fer ran along the edge of the muddy road, cutting across a soggy field that left her splattered with mud up to her knees, then to the long, puddled driveway to her house. Two of the oak trees were down across the driveway, their leafless branches spread like tangled nets to catch her. Dodging them, half panting, half crying, she ran around to the back door, up the steps, and burst into the kitchen.

  Grand-Jane appeared at the door to the stillroom. Seeing Fer, her eyes widened. Two steps and Fer was across the kitchen and in her grandma’s arms, and Grand-Jane was hugging her tightly, saying, “Oh, my dear girl.”

  Fer clung to her for a long time, until she caught her breath and felt Grand-Jane’s hand stroking her wet hair. She sighed and stepped back.

  Grand-Jane rested her hands on Fer’s shoulders. “You’re all right?”

  Fer nodded and scrubbed the tears out of her eyes. “My arm.”

  Grand-Jane gently took the bow and quiver of arrows from her, then guided her to a chair and sat her down. After helping Fer take off the patch-jacket, she went to the stillroom to mix up a healing poultice. She said a few words, but Fer heard a whirling in her ears, the sound of the wind when she and Phouka had ridden through the sky all night long, and then everything went black.

  She woke up in the dark, snug and dry and safe in her own bed under her patchwork quilt. Rain pounded on the roof over her head and wind howled around the house, shaking the windows in their frames. Slowly she sat up, feeling the ache in her bones of the hunt and the long ride after it all. She switched on the lamp beside her bed. Around one forearm, where the wolf had bitten her, was a clean white bandage. Under it, the wound ached. Around her right wrist was a nasty blue-black bruise from where Rook had gripped her.