by Kara Jaynes
Silvan glanced at her wryly. “Maybe because she isn’t a real wolf?”
“What?” Isabelle frowned at him. “What are you talking about? Of course she’s a wolf.” She patted Ash on the head, but she recalled a memory where Ash tracked down a witch in the forest. Villagers and their hounds had tried to track her, to no avail. Isabelle tilted her head, considering Ash. “How did you find us, Ash?”
The gray wolf watched her, golden eyes unblinking. Isabelle felt the hairs rise on the back of her neck. “If she isn’t a wolf, what is she?”
Silvan tsked. “Is that really important? She’s loyal to you, and a friend.” Ash swung her head toward him and the two looked at each other for a long moment, both silent.
Ash broke eye contact first, bumping her head against Isabelle’s leg with a soft whine. Isabelle patted her. “It’s okay, girl.”
After a cold meal of bread and dried meat from Isabelle’s rucksack, Silvan made a fire using flint.
The fire cast its orange light, causing shadows to flicker and dance. Silvan watched the flames, his eyes catching the light, making them glitter.
“So,” Isabelle said, watching him, “A few months ago, before the tournament, you mentioned you were searching for something. And that whether or not you found it depended on me. Did you find it?”
“No,” Silvan replied, still watching the fire. He looked sad. “No, I don’t think I did.”
“Why?” Isabelle asked, feeling disappointed. “Was it something I did?”
Silvan shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. There’s still time.”
“For what?” Isabelle frowned at him. “You’re being awfully cryptic.”
Silvan’s lips quirked upward in a half-smile but didn’t respond to her comment. He stood. “Ash still needs time to rest. I’ll keep watch.”
He walked away from the fire, the shadows of night swallowing him up.
12
“So tell me more about Glacia,” Isabelle said for what was probably the fiftieth time. “What do you know about her?”
Silvan shrugged. “She and I met a long time ago. It’s a long story.” He then dropped the matter like a flaming hotcake.
Isabelle bit her lip to avoid heaving a sigh of frustration. It was like that every time.
“Well,” Silvan said, changing the subject like he did every time Isabelle asked about Glacia, “we’re making excellent time. We should reach the city before Tyro does, anyway.”
Isabelle nodded. She and Silvan had been traveling for a couple of weeks, taking a more direct route to the heart of the Province, and while that meant crossing through more wilderness than if they’d taken the road, it was definitely faster, even on foot, especially if Jack had decided to continue freezing the roads.
They’d come across a handful of villages, each one too small to have a name. They were in one such village now, a collection of small houses and ramshackle sheds. Isabelle shivered, wrapping her red cloak closer. It was late summer, yet it felt like early winter. Jack’s doing, she was sure of it, even if she didn’t see any sign of him now.
She wore her old clothing now, hoping to not draw too much attention to herself if Tyro caught up to them. She hoped Tyro would stick to the roads. He was a skilled tracker, however, and if he decided to go after her instead . . . Goosebumps traveled down her arms, and it wasn’t from the cold. Tyro was not an individual to anger. She very much hoped she would reach the king and explain things before he did.
They stopped at the small market square. It was almost empty, with only a few people buying and selling. An old man sitting at a rickety stall was selling some potatoes and Isabelle purchased a few, planning to cook them when she and Silvan were on the road again.
“Are we moving fast enough, Silvan?”
“I think we’re going to have a hard time catching Jack, to be honest,” Silvan said. He took the root vegetables Isabelle handed him, sticking them in the rucksack. They left the square.
“We could fly,” Isabelle suggested, looking at him meaningfully, but Silvan shook his head.
“Not a good idea to risk it,” he said. “It wouldn’t be safe for anyone I come in contact with, especially you.”
“You seemed okay last time,” Isabelle countered.
Silvan shrugged. “I was able to hold it back, true.” His expression grew serious. “But only just.” He laughed humorlessly. “I having a hard enough time keeping the curse at bay in my human state. Please don’t ask me to shift again, Isabelle. Besides,” he added as an afterthought, “we’d have to leave Ash again.”
“True.” Isabelle exhaled heavily. She didn’t want to do that. She sneezed, wiping at her nose.
Silvan frowned at her. “You’ve been sniffling and sneezing for the past two days. Let’s see if we can find you a healer. Most towns have one.”
“I’m fine,” Isabelle protested, but Silvan had already stridden back to the old vendor, asking for directions to the village healer.
Less than ten minutes passed before they were in front of a small house, Silvan rapping his pale knuckles on the door.
A few moments later the door opened, and a young woman peered out at them. “Yes?”
Silvan smiled at her. “Hello. We’re just passing through the village, but my wife has come down with a terrible cold. I’m wondering if you have some herbal remedies that might give her some relief?”
Isabelle resisted the impulse to roll her eyes, ignoring Silvan’s good-natured wink. Wife, again? The last time he’d pulled this stunt he’d almost got her killed. But still . . . Silvan. She bit her lip, hiding her pleased smile.
The girl hesitated a moment, but when Isabelle sneezed again she nodded and opened the door wider. “Very well. Please, come in.”
The house was one large room on the inside. A small fire burned in a hearth on one side, with a couple of beds and a large copper tub on the other. Bunches of dried herbs hung from the rafters, their scents mingling with the smell of ash and smoke. A large table stood in the center of the room, cluttered with herbs, bottles, and books.
An older woman stood at the table, tying fresh herbs into bundles. She looked familiar to Isabelle. The woman looked up and smiled at her. Her hair was plaited into several braids, and she wore a dress heavy with embroidery. “Ah. I’m glad to see you’re not dead,” the woman said.
Isabelle then remembered. “You helped me. In the city Mortim.” Isabelle had almost been murdered there. It was due to the quick thinking of the woman standing before her that she had not.
The woman nodded. “Aye. The name’s Marta. And it looks like you took my advice to leave the city, or I highly doubt you’d be here.” She had told Isabelle to run, or risk becoming the next victim in a string of murders.
Isabelle shifted uncomfortably. She didn’t feel like explaining that Lady Ebony, the late Baroness of the Eastern Province, had been the one responsible for the murders. “What brings you here?” she asked instead. “I thought Mortim was your home.”
“No, I live here,” Marta said. “I traveled the Eastern Province for a time, to study and bring home some of the plants that grow there.”
A cough sounded from one of the beds, and the healer looked over worriedly. Isabelle realized that what she’d thought was a bundle of blankets on the bed was, in fact, a human body. A woman lay huddled on her side, motionless as if asleep. “What’s wrong with her?” Isabelle asked, lowering her voice. She sneezed again and rubbed her nose. Her head was beginning to ache.
The healer noticed. “Laurie, get this woman a cup of sage tea.”
The young woman who’d opened the door nodded and darted over to the fire, busying herself with heating water.
Marta walked over to check on the sleeping woman. She sighed. “She has the wasting sickness.” She saw Isabelle’s puzzled expression and explained. “It’s not uncommon for women who are expecting to have a difficult time keeping food and water down, but in some cases, it’s almost impossible. It’s nothing short of a miracle that Selene
has carried her child this long. She’s nearly due.”
Marta placed a hand on Selene’s forehead. “No fever. Not yet.”
“What’s the cure for it?” Silvan asked, concern in his features. He’d crossed the room unbidden and was now peering intently at the sick woman.
“There are two cures. Either she delivers the child, or we find her some bitterweed,” the woman said. “But it’s only to be found on the western and northwestern coastline. It doesn’t grow so far south.” She hesitated a moment before adding, “Except in Alinor’s garden.”
Bitterweed. That grew everywhere in Seabound and Isabelle’s home village, Stormview. Maybe that was why Isabelle couldn’t recall hearing about the wasting sickness; every pregnant woman drank bitterweed tea until they delivered.
Laurie walked over to Isabelle, handing her a steaming mug of tea. The sharp scent of sage reached her nostrils and she took a small sip. There. With the steam wafting up into her face she could breathe much easier. “Who’s Alinor?”
“She’s an enchantress,” Marta replied. She placed a blanket over Selene, trying to make her more comfortable. “What kind of magic she works, I don’t know. Few have seen her, but she’s always been there, as far as I know. Some say she’s immortal.”
Silvan’s head snapped up to look at Marta. “That’s impossible.”
Isabelle studied him over the rim of her cup. What was that expression on his face? Alarm? Incredulity?
Marta shrugged. “Who can say? I’ve been to her garden once, at her invitation, to bargain herbs. I saw the bitterweed myself, but unfortunately I didn’t choose some at the time. I wish I had.”
“Maybe I can go,” Isabelle said. She ignored the glare Silvan directed at her. “I’ll reason with her.”
Marta shook her head, braids swaying. “You can’t reason with the enchantress. Magic that be, you can’t even get into her garden, unless she wishes it.” She frowned, looking at the fire. “And she’s not safe, either. I was lucky. I got out of her garden. Most who go in never go out.”
Witch was the word everyone was thinking and not saying. Enchantress was probably too kind a term. Isabelle glanced at Selene. The woman’s breathing was shallow, her eyes still closed in restless slumber. Her skin was dark like Isabelle’s, her black hair pulled back in a loose tail. She didn’t look to be much older than Isabelle, but she reminded her of her own mother.
There had to be a way to help her. Isabelle pursed her lips, thinking. If she could find a way in the garden, she could find the bitterweed and help the sick woman. Surely the enchantress, this Alinor, couldn’t object to giving aid—if she had a drop of human blood. If not, she was surely a witch, and if she was a witch, one of Isabelle’s arrows had Alinor’s name written all over it. Isabelle took another sip, drinking the rest of the tea. If she could get a letter from Marta after all this was over, admitting Isabelle had helped, that would go well in proving her case when she had to plead with the king. She smirked. Tyro would learn she was a true Fabled Hunter. She was every bit as good and noble a Hunter as he.
She looked over and saw Silvan frowning at her, his blue eyes like augers boring into her. Isabelle ignored him. Handing the empty cup to Laurie, she gave her some coppers for the drink, and murmured her thanks for their hospitality. She left the small house. She hadn’t taken more than four steps into the street when Silvan caught up to her.
“Isabelle.” His pale fingers wrapped around her wrist. “I know what you’re thinking. You’re not going into that garden.”
“You saw that woman,” Isabelle countered, gesturing toward the healer’s house. “She could die if she doesn’t get that bitterweed.”
“There’s something off about that enchantress,” Silvan said. “I could feel it when Marta spoke of her. Alinor’s not safe.”
Isabelle chewed her lower lip, thinking. If she hurried and continued traveling, she might catch up to Jack before Tyro did. On the other hand, if she helped Marta, that would grant her more favor in the eyes of the king, potentially protecting her against Tyro. Healers were held in high esteem in the Four Provinces. Silvan had said they were still ahead of Tyro. There was time. The delay would be worth it.
“There’s another way,” she said slowly.
“What?” Silvan asked, his blue eyes full of doubt.
“Bitterweed grows all along the coast. If you were to fly . . .” She trailed off.
Silvan’s eyes narrowed in anger. “I thought I told you not to ask me again.”
“It’s that or break into Alinor’s garden, Silvan,” Isabelle said, her anger rising. “Which will it be? I’ve got to regain favor with the king.” She clenched her jaw. That came out wrong. “We need to help this woman.”
“No.” Silvan cut his hand through the air like a knife. “Even if I can break through her enchantment, we don’t know what the repercussions will be. It’s not worth it.”
Isabelle clenched his fists, tilting up her chin to glare at him. “Jack wouldn’t be afraid. Jack would help. He’d do whatever it took to help a poor defenseless woman.”
Silvan’s face darkened, his eyes flickering violet. “Isabelle—”
“Jack didn’t turn his back on people who needed him, or on me.”
Silvan took a deep breath, his nostrils flaring. He was silent for a moment. “If I fly to the west coast,” he said at last, “It’ll take me four or five days to get to the coast and back. That’s flying all day. He pinned her with a stare, violet eyes full of anger and . . . an emotion Isabelle couldn’t tell. “Promise me you won’t go into the witch’s garden. No matter what.”
“I promise.” If he could collect the bitterweed himself, so much the better. She wouldn’t have to risk her neck. “Just . . . try and control it. Your curse.”
Silvan snorted. “Try and quit breathing, you’ll see how easy it is.” He closed his eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath. When he opened them, they were blue again. “I’m going to shapeshift in the woods so I don’t alarm anyone. Be careful, Isabelle. Stay here in the village.”
Isabelle watched him go.
13
Marta placed a hand on Selene’s forehead. “She has the fever.” She turned to Laurie. “Boil water and get me some comfrey root and primrose oil.” She went to the table and began looking through one of her books.
“What’s going to happen?” Isabelle asked. The village was too small to have an inn, so Isabelle had paid Marta to give her a place to stay while they waited for Silvan. The silver haired man had been gone for five days, and now it looked like he would be too late.
“I’m going to try and deliver her baby early,” Marta said. Her lined face was grim as she started chopping the root Laurie had fetched for her. “If we can do that, there’s hope.”
“What if we had some bitterweed?” Isabelle asked. “Would that help?”
“Yes,” the healer replied. She sounded distracted, like she was only half listening. “Obviously, that would be best. It would bring back her ability to eat, and it would dispel the fever. But we don’t have any. Laurie, find that primrose oil!”
Isabelle glanced at Selene. The woman moaned softly, eyes still closed. Her face looked ashen. “Marta, where can I find the enchantress’ garden?”
“What?” The healer paused her chopping to stare at Isabelle, eyes wide with incredulity. “Why would you want to know that?”
“Because I’m going to go get some.”
Marta shook her head. “It’s east of here, a couple miles off. There’s no path. You won’t get in.”
“I’ll find it,” Isabelle said. She had to. She couldn’t let the woman die. She knew Marta would write a letter confirming Isabelle’s actions, which would be vital in restoring the king’s favor if Tyro tried to sway him.
She ducked out of the cottage, slinging her bow and quiver over her shoulder. It was nearing twilight. It would be dark in a couple of hours.
At the edge of the village, she found Ash. “I need to find the enchantress’ garden,�
�� she told the wolf. “East of here.”
The shaggy gray beast growled softly, but turned and trotted into the sparse southern wood, picking up a scent only she could detect. An hour later they stood before a large stone wall, towering over Isabelle’s head. It surrounded a large perimeter of land and didn’t have a gate. The stones looked too smooth for her to climb.
Isabelle tapped her chin, studying it. “There must be some way of getting in.”
Ash snorted and trotted over to a section of wall that looked the same as the rest. When Isabelle looked at it blankly, Ash rolled her eyes and stuck her head in the wall, half her body disappearing. She pulled into view again and wagged her tail. What she’d done was impossible. Unless . . .
“It’s an illusion,” Isabelle breathed. Well, that section of it, anyway. The wall that Isabelle had touched felt quite real. She smiled at the wolf. “Thanks, Ash.”
Sitting back on her haunches, Ash watched with large golden eyes. When Isabelle began to walk through the wall, the wolf growled, a warning rumbling in her chest.
“I don’t have a choice,” Isabelle whispered back. “When Tyro rats me out, I need to show that I’ve been helping the kingdom. Don’t worry, I’ll be careful.”
The wolf whined in response but didn’t follow. It was with apprehension that Isabelle realized Ash wasn’t entering because she feared what lay beyond.
The garden was massive, and sprawled everywhere. Every kind of tree, plant, shrub, and herb that Isabelle had ever seen was here, including several she didn’t recognize. She walked down a pebbled path slowly, looking around carefully. She didn’t want to miss the bitterweed.
Up on a slope, she saw a small house, smoke rising from the chimney. She stayed away from it, not wanting to attract the attention of Alinor, whoever she might be. Night had fallen, and the immense vastness of the garden was swathed in shadow.
After several minutes of searching, Isabelle found it. The bitterweed stalks stood up, its green leaves thin and straight. Isabelle knelt down next to one of the stalks and, taking out her belt dagger, began to dig in the soft dirt, trying to pull up the roots. It was the roots of the bitterweed that would be used to make a tea that would halt the wasting sickness.
