To hunt.
Winter snows might have covered thehumans' tracks, but Nimbolk found a trail in the name Honor spokethat night:
Volgo.
At first, he'd hardly needed thename. A man who traveled in such company could not stay hidden. Alarge party of men traveling the forest would hunt, and lightfires, and build rough shelters. When they left the forest theywould pillage farmsteads and crofters' cottages. They would stop invillages to buy where things were sold, they would drink and boastin the smoky halls where humans gathered. And when their trail ledto the edge of the northern sea, the dwarves who dwelt in the seacaves and knew every ship by its sails had added a destination: Sevrin.
Sevrin, with its endless scatteringof islands and its hundreds of tall, blond-bearded men. Even thename-trail cooled, for Volgo was not an uncommon name among theislands' humans.
Nimbolk rose from the boat,stretching muscles stiff from long disuse. He paced along theshore, so intent upon the pleasure of movement that a heartbeat ortwo passed before he sensed what he'd sought for solong.
The Thorn's magic rode the air likemusic, like perfume. It had been here, on this island among manyislands, and not long ago.
In the distance, a stone keep roseabove the cliffs. The wind carried the rumble of angry shouts andgrief-edged keening. Something dire had happened there, somethingthat involved the Thorn.
Nimbolk pulled the hood of his cloakover his ears and headed for the keep. Someone there would give hima new name, a new trail.
A new hunt.
Chapter 5: The Green Witch
Rhendish Manor formed a city withina city, a fortress town covering most of Crystal Mountain. At thetop stood the adept's home, a white stone mansion surrounded by awalled garden.
Vine-covered trellises encircled theadept's garden, and the flowers on them grew so abundantly thatsome spilled over the top of the wall. Honor suspected that morethan a few people saw the foliage as a less conspicuous way toenter Rhendish's estate. She wondered, briefly, what had become ofthose who'd survived the green guardians.
She slipped through the garden andcrept along the deep shadows that clung to the wall, past vinesthat raised painful welts or left poisonous oils on the skin. Suchplants were well known in the deep woodlands. The forest folk usedthem to protect secret places from outsiders, or to warn each otherof hidden dangers.
An arbor crowned with three-fingeredyellow blossoms caught Honor's eye. Memory overtook her, and for amoment she stood beneath ancient trees, reading the message writtenwith flowering vines upon the corpse of a fallen pine. Any elf whosaw this vine would know something dangerous had made its den inthe hollow-in this case, a wolverine and her litter ofkits.
Honor's hand moved to her belt, tothe place where her seed bag should hang. Most forest elves carriedseeds and learned a ritual that would speed their growth, so thatthey might leave wards and warnings of their own.
How had Rhendish come by theseseeds, this knowledge?
She hoped they hadn't come from her,but who knows what secrets the adept might have wrested from her inten forgotten years?
A troubling thought, but she turnedher mind to more immediate concerns. She took a deep breath andheld it as she passed under the arbor. If a night breeze shookenough pollen from the little flowers, the adept's guards wouldfind her asleep under the arbor come morning.
Just ahead, a trellis carried aprofusion of vines and roses to the top of the wall. Fox hadclimbed the over-spilling branches just days before. Most humanswould have avoided the thorny plants in favor of a lesspainful-looking option, but Fox had been raised at the forest'sedge by a mother who knew nearly as much green lore as the forestelves.
Climbing the trellis with only onegood hand proved more challenging than Honor had expected. Shemoved slowly, easing from rung to rung, from one thorny branch tothe next. When she reached the top of the wall, she rolled overquickly and hung by one hand as her booted feet soughtfootholds.
There were none to find. Someone hadtrimmed the vines and roses away.
Honor dropped, hoping her metal kneewas equal to the impact. She rolled as soon as her feet touched theground, but not before a cold, sharp pain flashed from knee tohip.
No. Surely Rhendish hadn't replacedher thigh bone with metal. That couldn't be possible.
But then, how wasany of it possible? Howcould she be flesh and clockwork, elf and machine?
Such thoughts were dangerousdistractions. She thrust them aside and crouched in the deepshadows near the base of the wall to study hersurroundings.
Dim lamplight pushed at thedarkness. More lamps gleamed in several of the windows in the long,low stone building where future alchemists learned their trade. Afew of Rhendish's apprentices hurried between storehouses andworkrooms.
There was no way to get through thecourtyard unseen. Her best hope lay in convincing the apprenticesshe was someone to avoid.
Gatherers, the far-traveling rogueswho stole and slaughtered to keep the adepts' storerooms supplied,were frequent visitors to Rhendish Manor. Just last night she'dwatched from her window as a couple of sun-browned men supervisedthe unloading of crates from a handcart. One of the apprentices haddropped a crate, releasing several snakes patterned in red andyellow and black. When the pandemonium subsided, all of the snakeswere safely crated and two young alchemists lay dead. No one hadquestioned the gatherer's priorities.
Honor pulled up the hood of hercloak, rose to her feet, and strode boldly through the yard, givingher walk the rolling gait of someone whose boots spent more time ona ship's deck than city cobblestone.
Some of the apprentices glanced inher direction, but the deep cowl shielded her face and no oneseemed inclined to take a closer look. Alchemists might considergatherers a necessary evil, but all evils seemed more daunting atmidnight.
She walked through the courtyardwithout incident and entered the twisting maze of streets leadingdown the hill.
The daytime bustle had calmed withnightfall, but Honor was by no means alone on the streets.Rhendish's creations required metal, fuel, leather, wire, stronghempen twine, minerals, oils, and a hundred other things. Many ofthe artisans who supplied the alchemist made their homes on CrystalMountain. Merchants kept shop here, innkeepers supplied ale andentertainment.
A trio of youths staggered out of atavern, arms draped over each other's shoulders for support. Two ofthem sang with drunken enthusiasm and no discernible talent. All ofthem wore the long, pale blue tunics of apprentices in the art ofalchemy.
Honor slipped into the narrow alleyseparating the tavern from a bakery and hurried down a series ofstreets leading to a cooper's shop. Behind it she found a courtyardpaved with large, flat stones and cluttered withbarrels.
A pile of newly cut barrels stavesblocked the stone she wanted. She moved them aside and then pickeda broken copper hoop out of the wreckage of an oldbarrel.
The thin metal strip slid easilyinto the crevice surrounding the stone, but Honor could not findthe clasp that unlocked the door. She probed the entire perimeterof the stone with the copper strip, twice, before admittingdefeat.
Delgar had blocked the tunneldoor.
No doubt there were others nearby,but this was the only one Honor knew. And without it, she had noway to warn Fox-if indeed he was still on Sevrin.
Honor tossed aside the copper stripand retraced her steps to the tavern. The windows had been thrownopen to catch the night breeze. She leaned against the wall nearone of these windows and listened for news of the City Fox,anything that might help her find him.
For good or ill, the tavern'spatrons seemed to talk of little but the thief who'd breachedMuldonny's Stormwall fortress and left the adept dead in the ruinsof his workroom.
"And a dark day that was," said aman with the thin, querulous voice of someone who had lived longand approved of little. "Muldonny kept the gate to Sevrin thesetwenty years. Where will we be if some southern king or warlordtakes a notion to set an army afloat and come calling?"
"We'll be at the shore to gr
eet themwith sharp steel, that's where," a younger man said. "There'splenty on these islands who remember what a sword's good for. Asfor Muldonny, he wasn't the worst of the lot, but he was none toogood. I say good riddance to him and those metal monsters ofhis."
An uneasy murmur followed thesewords. "Even a fool remembers which side his bread is buttered on,"the old man snapped. "I didn't teach you blacksmithing and sell youmy shop to have you lose it all, and your head beside!"
"Have a care what you say, Benjin,"a woman said in a soft, worried tone. "You know our adept doesn'tlop off heads."
"And if he did," the young smithsaid, "he'd be quick to give you a fine new one in your choice ofcopper or tin."
No one seemed to know how to respondto this bitter little jest.
"A generous man, our adept," Benjinsaid, a little too loudly. "His health!"
Several voices echoed the toast in aragged chorus. After a moment of silence, tankards clattered backto the table. Someone belched.
"The storyspinners are making a heroof this City Fox," the blacksmith said. "Might be I agree withthem."
Benjin huffed. "Do you, now? Whatabout his mother, the herb woman? If the adepts are so bad, whatsort of hero would leave her inside Rhendish's walls?"
Honor leaned closer. This was aquestion worth asking, an answer worth knowing. When Rhendish toldher that Fox's mother was alive and in his employ, she'd assumedmother and son had chosen opposite paths. Humans were known to dosuch things. But perhaps there was something more to thetale.
"Might be she wouldn't leave," thewoman said. "Not that she'd have any reason to leave," she added hastily."Not because of the adept, least-wise. What sort of woman choosessage and mint over her own son, is all I'm saying."
"True enough," Benjin admitted. "RedKeefin knows her herbs, I won't say she doesn't, but there'ssomething amiss with her."
"You think so?" the woman said in avoice heavy with sarcasm.
"They say her wits were addled whenEldreath died," the young smith said. "They say the sorcerer's webcaught up everyone on the islands who had a bit of magic. They saythat's why so many green witches and shamans and priestesses diedor disappeared. They say those who survived are a little mad andshouldn't be trusted."
"Might be you should listen tothem," grumbled Benjin.
"Oh, they do a fine job ofexplaining why the old ways died so quick, I'll give them creditfor that. A fine job! Why, with such a fine, tidy answer so closeto hand, what fool would bother to look around for thetruth?"
A chair scraped across the floor assomeone pushed away from the table. "I've heard enough nonsense forone night," Benjin snapped. "Coming, Greet?"
The old man stormed from the tavern,an equally wizened and hard-faced woman close on his heels. Chairsrattled and coins clinked against the table as several otherpatrons prepared to follow.
Honor leaned toward the window for aquick peek at this kindred spirit. A young man with broad shouldersand work-hardened hands sat alone, surrounded by empty chairs andhalf-drained tankards. He finished his mead, tossed a few coins onthe table, and rose to leave.
She circled the tavern and met himat the door. "Excuse me, but might I ask you aquestion?"
The smith paused and looked herover. "Seems you just did, and with anaccent I've not heard before. Mainlander?"
"Yes."
His gaze sharpened."Gatherer?"
"No. I'm a hire-sword." She held outher sword arm and pushed back the sleeve to reveal the cut that ranfrom wrist to elbow. A couple of stitches had torn during her fallfrom Rhendish's garden wall, and the arm looked none tooclean.
The smith gave a long, low whistle."You won't have a sword arm to sell if you leave thatuntended."
"I'm looking for someone who canclean and stitch it. A poultice probably wouldn't do a bit of harm,either."
"Then you'll want Keefin, the herbwoman. Don't let her odd ways put you off. She knows her work. Shejust doesn't know she knows it."
Honor frowned in feigned puzzlement."I don't understand."
"You will." He pointed westward. "Gothree streets down, past Howarth the cooper's place, and turnsouth. It's two, maybe three houses down. There's no sign on hercottage, but if you follow your nose you won't goastray."
She thanked him and retraced hersteps to the cooper shop. The hidden door's location made a bitmore sense, now that she knew Fox's mother lived close. Most likelythere were more portals nearby. Even if Keefin Winterborn wasunaware of them, Honor had seen enough of Delgar's handicraft toknow what the dwarf needed.
The faint scent of herbs reached heras she turned south past the cooper's shop and led her to the thirdhouse. As the blacksmith promised, there was no mistaking thecomplex green scent of gardens and drying shed and stillroom.
At first glance, the herbalist'scottage did not look promising. The tiny building was half-timberedand finished with wattle-and-daub. A wooden fence surrounded it,and herbs and shrubs filled every inch of the small yard. Therewas, in short, not much for a stoneshifting dwarf to workwith.
Honor pushed back the hood of hercloak and knocked. After a few moments the door swung open toreveal a haggard figure.
This wasthe green witch of Glimmergold Vale, whose beauty moved even elfinbards to poetry?
A few passing years could bringremarkable changes to a human, but this Honor had not expected. Theherbalist had become a shell, a shadow. Nothing remained of theyoung woman Honor had met ten years ago but a braid of brightauburn hair.
"Keefin?" Honor said. "KeefinWinterborn?"
No memory lit the woman's eyes, nordid she seem particularly surprised to see an elf on her doorstep."May I help you?"
Honor presented her sword arm. "Ifell earlier tonight."
The green witch took Honor's handand raised her arm to sniff at the wound. "It might look like agutted deer, but it's healing clean. A poultice and new bandageswill set you straight."
She pointed Honor to a chair in thetiny front room and headed out to the garden. In short order shereturned with a tray laden with a small wash basin, a bowl offragrant green ointment, thread and needle, and clean bandages. Sheset this down on the small table and took the chair across from herpatient.
While Keefin tended her with swift,sure hands, Honor tried to find words that would clothe hard truthsin comfortable garb. But diplomacy was her sister's art. Honor knewhow to command. She'd never really been called upon toexplain.
She took a deep breath and gave it atry. "Are you familiar with binding spells?"
The woman looked up sharply. "I'm nowizard. This is not magic that I do."
"I'm not one who thinks there'sanything wrong with magic," Honor said. "In the right hands,binding spells are good and useful things Elves use binding spellsto lengthen a dragon's long slumber, to keep trolls in theirmountain caves. There is such a spell at work here."
Keefin pushed to her feet, her eyeswild. "I'm no elf, either!"
"I don't think you cast a bindingspell, Keefin," Honor said gently. "I think a binding spell wascast on you."
"No!" The green witch shook her headin frantic denial. "No elf has reason to bind me. The forest folkhave shown me nothing but friendship. Hestis taught me. Fillariashowed me where spicemoss grows. Ziharahpulled my boy from the river and brought him safe home."
Honor waited for Keefin to make theconnection, to recognize her as the elf who'd saved ten-year-oldFox from drowning. But Keefin continued to shake her head and backslowly away.
"Binding is an elfin spell, buthumans can learn to cast it," Honor said. "I think Rhendish cast itto hold you to this garden."
Keefin's retreat halted. "Rhendish?There was a boy by that name in my village. A tall boy? Fair hair,eyes as green as an elf's in midsummer?"
"I wouldn't call him a boy. He'slived at least forty winters, probably closer to fifty."
"So old," she mused. "Imagine that.Well, if anyone from our village could cast such a spell, I supposeit would be Rhendish. But why would he do such a thing? Why wouldhe bind me here?"
"He has a use for you."
The green witch's hand flew to hermouth, cutting short a gasp of horror. "I'm his whore?"
"No!" At least, Honor hoped shewasn't. "He's an alchemist, and you're an herbalist who supplieshim with things he needs for his work. Also, I suspect he has youwatched in hope of finding your son."
"He never will! Fox ran to theforest! He escaped!" Panic gave way to uncertainty. "Didn'the?"
"Fox escaped." Not to the forest,perhaps, but to the tunnels of Sevrin. "Would you like to seehim?"
Tears filled the woman's eyes andshe began to pace the tiny room. "I can't. Not as long as I carrythe amulet. Eldreath gave them to all hiswomen. I tried to throw it away so many times, but every time I.. forgot. I just forgot. Like an old woman who goes into the nextroom to fetch something, only to have it slip from her mind beforeshe takes a dozen steps. That's how it was with Eldreath's amulet.I can't rid myself of it. As long as I carry it, he can find me.He'll find me. Notmy boy, not Fox."
"Eldreath has been dead for twentyyears."
Keefin agitation dropped from herlike a cloak. She sank back onto her chair and blew out a longbreath.
"Good," she said flatly. "That'sgood."
"You can be free, Keefin. I can undothe binding, if you wish."
The green witch sat in silence forseveral long moments. "Some things are best forgotten," she said ina small, subdued voice. "Somehow I. . I feel certain that I musthave forgotten many such things."
Honor leaned forward and placed onehand on the woman's shoulder. "Your son is in danger, Keefin. Youmight know something that will help me find him and helphim."
She shrank away from Honor's touch."But. . I don't know you. Why should I trust you with myson?"
"Do you trust Ziharah?"
"Oh yes," she said withouthesitation. "But Ziharah was killed by the gatherers. Or. . ormaybe not entirely killed. But there was so much blood, and her arm. . Her arm was shattered beyond anything I could repair.."
Her brow furrowed as she piecedtogether fragments of memory. "I tried to repair her arm. She musthave lived after the gatherers took us. And Fox! Gods above andbelow! He didn't escape to the forest, did he?"
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