by Ann Aguirre
Njål declaims in a strange language, the one he uses sometimes during our private moments, and now that I hear more, I realize I can identify it, even if I can’t understand. Some of the words are similar because he’s speaking ancient Skyr, an older version of the tongue we currently speak. That’s how old he is. I knew that before, but this is a different sort of knowing.
Can I possibly be enough for someone with such vast experience?
Uneasy peace settles on Bitterburn thereafter, but I’m aware that we’re biding our time. He shouldn’t hide here for the rest of his days, but he’s a bit strange and secretive. It seems that he’s hiding something from me again. There’s so much I want us to see and do, together, but perhaps he fears how the world will treat him.
A separate concern—with the curse broken, our supplies don’t replenish, and we’ll run out of food sooner or later. Bart and Agatha are already making deep inroads on the hay left in the stable. We leave the portcullis open so they can rove for forage as the mountain thaws, but it’s a stopgap solution at best.
Eventually, as winter trudges toward spring, at dinner I bridge the subject that’s been weighing on me. “Would you consider leaving with me?”
“I want to,” he says slowly. “But how can I? I don’t want to be hounded from villages or hunted like a—”
“Have you forgotten that I’m a witch?” I cut in.
I’ve been perusing my book of charms endlessly, and I found one that’s perfect. Illusions are difficult and costly to maintain, but a soft distraction spell could be bound to a talisman that Njål can wear. It would just mean that people won’t pay attention to him. When he passes by, they’ll register a large person, but no special details. With great excitement, I explain my idea.
“Would that work?”
“There’s only one way to find out.”
“You’re not the one who’ll have people screaming if it fails,” he mutters.
I ignore his skepticism. “Can I borrow something of personal value? It would help if you already have an attachment to the object.”
“My mother’s earring.” Njål produces a small silver hoop, the one he told me about that he didn’t sell for pocket money.
Perfect. I cup the jewelry in my palms and whisper the spell, imbuing it with the fullness of my intent. “You see him pass, but he is glass and you look through. Never see, never tell, he is not the one for you.” The tingle in my fingers tells me the charm took. Pleased, I regard Njål. “It’s done. Is your ear pierced?”
He recoils at once. “It is not.”
“It will be.” With a mock-menacing air, I step toward him.
Gods, but it shouldn’t be so funny when he runs. At first, I laugh so hard I can’t even breathe, let alone chase him, and then the goats get involved.
In the end, it takes all damn afternoon to get the hoop in Njål’s ear.
32.
As spring finally supplants winter, I succeed in convincing Njål that we gain nothing by huddling in this desolate ruin.
With the curse broken, Bitterburn is just a drafty old keep, nothing mystical about it. I’d wondered if the place would still retain its sense of sentience, but no. Pests creep in from the east wing and soon, there’s little I can do to staunch the flow of time. If we stay, we’ll only stand witness to the place’s swift deterioration, and it will break my heart to lose all those beautiful books.
“Is there anything you wish to take away from here?” I ask.
He brushes a tender hand across my hair. “Only you.”
I’m a bit more pragmatic and I take a few valuable texts from the library, including The Witch Within the Walls and a gorgeous illustrated book of fables. Then I choose some jewelry that we can sell to finance our new life. That done, it doesn’t take long for me to pack my things. My “new” clothes are no longer fit to pack, rapidly succumbing to the tides of time, now that the preserving magic has gone. I take only what I arrived with, one dress for work and another for good.
I’m not sure, of course, but I think Cradock went as well when I banished the baron and baroness to the other side of the mirror. Or maybe he lingered long enough to hear Njål recite the prayer for the dead in Old Skyr. At any rate, all three of them have vacated the premises, the curse ended at last. Soon the place will become unlivable, I suspect, and even the stones may tumble as the mortar crumbles.
We need to buy Njål a few things in town before we depart for good. Close inspection may strain the talisman, but there’s a rag and bone shop where he can purchase the bare minimum without submitting to measurements from a tailor. Since he’s large, the selection may be limited, but the smith is a burly man. If need be, I can ask his sizes and have something made.
I find Bart and Agatha in the stable, nearly out of hay. Luckily, it’s spring and they’ll find plenty to eat in the wild. If not for my wish, they might’ve frozen this winter, so I’ll forgive myself for the loss of their kid. They’re not bound to this place by magic anymore and I don’t own them, so I can only say farewell.
“Thank you for your company,” I say sincerely. “We’re leaving now, and you’re free to do as you please. Look after each other and farewell.”
The goats stare at me and then each other. I don’t know if they understood a word I said. Regardless, I’ve done what seems right. Njål’s waiting for me by the gate, eager to be off, now that he’s acclimated to the idea of going.
The weather is fine when we set out, and as it happens, we leave just in time, for we meet five men on the mountain road, armed with cudgels. They’re all lean and grizzled, barely hanging on after the hard winter. From the look of it, they mean to take what they can from Bitterburn or die trying. As we draw closer, I recognize Ezra Cooper. He’s a friend of the kindly miller who drove me up here last fall, and he knows me too.
“Amarrah,” he greets me. “Survived the long ice, did you?”
I wait for them to react to Njål but the charm works. The men each nod in his general direction, but their gazes slide away, back to me. “I did, yes. It’s a wreck, but you might find something worth selling if you search well.”
“That’s the plan. Did we really waste all that food for no good reason?” Cooper slaps his thigh in apparent outrage and disgust.
“I swear there was a monster,” another says in a small voice. “My uncle went in twenty years ago and didn’t come out.”
Someone else nods. “It wasn’t just stories.”
I nip this in the bud, as we need to move on. “Whatever was there isn’t anymore. Maybe it finally died. My man and I are heading to Kerkhof after we get supplies in town.”
“That’s a long journey,” Cooper notes. He shakes his head with a laugh. “Only you could storm off to a haunted castle and return triumphant with a strapping beau.”
Beside me, Njål smothers a laugh at this description.
“That’s me, lucky as they come. Good fortune in the looting.”
Cooper waves, the motion signaling the rest of his party that this conversation is done. “We may be at it for a while, so keep well, and my best to your family if I don’t see you before you take to the road.”
I return the salute, starting down the rutted track. It’s always much easier coming down the mountain than it is going up, but I won’t make this climb again. We walk for a few minutes in silence before Njål says softly, “It worked. They just . . . didn’t notice me.”
I take his hand. At some point after the fell magic died, he’s filed down his claws to make these intimacies easier and less risky for me. “You can travel as you wish and live as you please. This doesn’t change who you are, only how you seem.”
“It doesn’t matter where we go. Anything you deem worthwhile, I’m willing to follow you. My life is yours, and not because you saved it.” Njål swings our joined hands, taking pleasure in that simple gesture. “I can’t believe I’m out, walking in the sunshine.”
We’re halfway down the mountain when frenzied bleating makes me glance
back. Bart and Agatha come racing after us and they butt our legs like they can’t believe we left without them. I scratch both their heads in turn.
I laugh. “Lord Buck. Lady Doe. Did you decide to accompany us?”
“We should call them Bart and Agatha. Since we’re no longer living in a castle, it might seem pretentious to be escorted by titled goats.” Only the glint of his eyes gives away the gentle humor, and affection surges within me.
“You’re right. Bart and Agatha it is.” To the goats, I add, “Come along then.”
To my amazement, they follow us like dogs, all the way to the outskirts of town. Here, they stop to graze, and I decide that might be best. The main road veers west from here, so once we finish our shopping, we can be off.
“We’ll be back presently,” Njål says.
Our arrival causes a bit of a stir, not because of him, but because I crept off on a winter night, and I expect even my family thought I must be dead and frozen by now. We’re surrounded by neighbors who can’t believe I’m alive. It takes me a while to placate them and handle all their greetings. It seems that spring and sunlight have softened them toward me; nobody is calling me that strange Brewer girl anymore.
“Yes,” I say eventually. “It’s good to see all of you too. But if you’ll excuse us, Njål and I have some shopping to do.”
“Njål? Is that your man’s name? How did you meet him?”
I can’t even tell who asked the question, just one of the eager gossip mongers who hangs around the well, and I make up an answer on the spot. “He’s a hunter who spent the winter with me at Bitterburn.”
A host of suggestive chuckles, then one man says, “Aye, then you’re cleaved for life. Might already be quickening, lass.”
That’s enough of that. Njål seems to agree because he shoulders through the crowd, pulling me with him, and then I take the lead because he has no idea where anything is. “Have you ever been here?” I ask softly. “I mean, before?”
Before the curse. Before he changed.
He nods. “When I first arrived, I sneaked out and went with some of the castle staff. The town is . . . unrecognizable.”
“What was it like then?”
“The streets were mud, pig shit everywhere. All the houses had thatched roofs.”
Again, I’m assailed by the sense of how old he is. I’ve tied him so that he can’t leave me, but will he regret our bond some day? I put that fear aside as best I can and turn my attention to practical matters.
“Right, let’s get what we need,” I say.
First stop is the rag and bone shop, where I pick out the biggest trousers and tunics I can find. They’re rough but clean. His cloak will do as we’re heading into spring and summer. With any luck, we’ll reach Kerkhof by autumn and we can buy something better there. I can’t believe I get to see the great city. Excitement clamors in my veins like the strongest of spirits, leaving me giddy.
“What did you pack anyway?” I ask, indicating his rucksack.
In answer he shows me his ragged cloak, some stockings, a money pouch, and two bottles of ale. “I couldn’t leave this. You made it for me.”
It’s absurd how touched I am. “It’s not even very good,” I mutter.
“It’s the first gift I’ve had since I left home,” he says. “Unless I count your arrival, in which case, it’s the second.”
Gods, but I could get used to this sweetness. Quickly I stretch up and kiss him, then continue our quest for supplies. Hopefully nobody will steal our goats while we’re otherwise occupied, though I suspect Bart and Agatha won’t make it easy. They seem to have chosen us without magical inducement, and I’m glad.
There’s plenty of room in Njål’s pack for the clothes we bought. Before we buy dry goods, I talk to Deo, the peddler who settled here recently. If I recall correctly, he’s got a cart and mules to sell. Bitterburn is small enough that I track him down quickly, as he’s married a widow and moved into her cottage on the edge of town. Sure enough, his old peddler cart—a sturdy wagon with a canvas top—sits behind the house and the mules graze in an enclosure nearby. Mules are expensive to feed and he’s not using them anymore. I can probably negotiate a deal.
An hour later—after some intense haggling and in exchange for three gold bracelets—I take possession of our new home. The peddler even includes the odds and ends he used on the road, such as cookware, bowls and cutlery, cushions and bedding to make our life cozier. Our progress draws interest, as we lead the mules through town.
Last stop is the dry goods store; Njål pays for our provisions with a pocketful of antique silver coins, and the clerk loads our cart. Discreetly, I pinch myself to ensure that this is truly happening, and it stings. This is real. I’ve come into my power, and I’m truly leaving Bitterburn, going off with my true love to have marvelous adventures.
At the well, I fill a few jugs with water and stow them in the cart. The mules are restive, ready to get moving; I share their sentiment.
But before we make our escape, Tillie and Millie push through the crowd and they both hug me around the thighs. I gently disengage them, crouching to embrace each of my sisters in turn. As I’m snuggling them, I discreetly check with spirit sight and let out a relieved sigh.
Tillie’s fine, thank the gods. No more encroaching tendrils.
I may never know what happened there, if it was something I did unconsciously or if the baron and baroness reached that far to fuel their evil, possibly through that rumored connection to my maternal line. In life, not every question is answered, and sometimes it’s messy and inexplicable. For me, it’s enough that Tillie’s alive and she can get stronger.
“Love you both. Grow up well and be good to each other,” I say.
Then I step back and let them go. If Da and Catherine are lurking somewhere in the crowd, I don’t care and I don’t look for them. I never will either.
It’s time to move on.
33.
Njål figures out how to get the mules moving; otherwise my grand goodbye could have become humiliating.
We leave Bitterburn, moving at a slow clip to collect Bart and Agatha, who are well able to keep up with the cart’s pace. In good weather, we’ll get ten or fifteen miles behind us, depending on how motivated the team feels. They’ve rested all winter, and it’s a minor miracle that Deo didn’t kill and eat them. He must have a kind heart.
Mentally, I assess our preparations. We have food in our storage bins, fodder on board for the mules and goats, and all the animals can free graze as we travel. There’s fresh water and—oh, I might as well relax and enjoy myself. If any problems crop up, we’ll face them together. Smiling, I tilt my head back, basking in the sunshine.
Njål aims a gentle glance at me. “How long do you think it’ll take to get to Kerkhof?”
“I’m not sure. I’m guessing we’ll be there by fall, even allowing for rest breaks, adverse weather, and setbacks.”
“If possible, I’d like to spend the winter there and travel onward in the spring.”
I nod enthusiastically. “I’ve always wanted to visit the Splinter Isles.”
“From there, Maharabad, the jewel of the singing sands?”
I let out an excited shriek, startling a bird as we pass, and blue wings flutter in the greening boughs, flashes of color through tender leaves. “That would be incredible.”
“Do you suppose Bart and Agatha will enjoy seafaring?”
“Only one way to find out.”
To my witchy, new senses, the world feels alive in a way it didn’t before. I’m attuned to the mouse scampering toward his burrow, to the squirrels darting along the branches overhead. The new stimulus is a bit overwhelming, but I’ll learn to manage it. With any luck, I’ll find a mentor in Kerkhof and I can spend the winter in daily studies and nightly adoration of my Njål.
In the afternoon, we pause at a small stream that parallels the road, probably a tributary that feeds the lake below the abandoned keep. The mules drink and eat the tender shoots
on the riverbank while Agatha and Bart frolic in the rocky shallows. I smile watching them, and Njål offers me water in a metal cup.
“Should we name them?” he asks.
“The mules? Perhaps you weren’t paying attention during the negotiation, but Deo told me they’re called Bray and Bellow.” I indicate which is which with my free hand. The mules peer in our direction, ears flickering, proof that they know their names. I address the animals next. “It’s fine. Rest a bit more before we move on.”
With a delighted sigh, Njål sprawls in a dappled patch of sunlight. “How can this be real?” he wonders aloud. “It’s glorious.”
“You’re easily pleased.”
“Only because I’m with you.” He kisses my forehead to punctuate the sweet words.
The heat in my cheeks startles me. It’s because of the sun; I’m not blushing, not after everything we’ve seen and done. Embarrassed, I hastily pack the remainder of our meal while Njål hitches the mules to the cart. We keep moving until past nightfall.
Traveling southwest as we are, the road is a gentle slope from the mountains toward the foothills. We’re not far enough away to see a difference in the forest yet, but I bet the trees and bushes will change, the farther we get from Bitterburn. I never once left the town I was born in, until I went to the keep.
And that choice changed everything.
When the stars are up fully, Njål halts Bray and Bellow and we make camp in a clearing that’s been used by travelers before, enough that there are stones set and the remains of previous fires evident. I gather enough wood to build our own blaze, big enough to cook on. We have fresh veggies from the kitchen garden—I was a little sorry to leave it—and dried fish. I can make a nice soup to finish the day.
Belatedly, I wonder how my wards will impact the looters. Since I’m no longer in residence and they’re not trying to hurt me, it should be fine. In time, my magical mark on Bitterburn will fade since I’m not there to strengthen and feed it. One day, there will only be fallen stones, spiders, bats, and mice left. That’s a melancholy realization.
