Winterling Read online

  Leaving the fur and bones of his breakfast, he took the limp body of the other rabbit in his jaws and loped back to the clearing.

  Fer was just waking, sitting up with her damp blanket wrapped around her and her hair sticking up around her head. “Hi, Rook,” she said. Her voice sounded rusty with sleep.

  He bounded up and lay the rabbit before her.

  She blinked, then shifted away. “What is that? A dead squirrel?”

  No, it’s a rabbit, stupid. He pushed it closer to her with his nose.

  “Oh, it’s supposed to be breakfast?”

  It is. Eat it. We have to get moving.

  She climbed to her feet, shedding the wet blanket. “Um, Rook? I don’t eat meat. Ever.”

  She didn’t eat meat? He’d never heard of anything so stupid. Still, it meant more breakfast for him. He leaped on the rabbit and tore into it.

  “Ugh,” Fer said, and turned away while she finished eating her own breakfast.

  Once they’d finished, she packed her things again and sat on the log. “Rook, do you know why I came back?”

  He knew. When she’d first come through the Way, she’d just been a girl, but now she was bound to the land and its people. She’d come back to save them, even though her cause was hopeless. The land was doomed, and its people would turn wildling one by one as the Mór grew more depraved. Fer would never defeat the Mór. Still, he would help her until the Mór caught him and punished him for pushing at the boundaries of his oath. This time she’d kill him for it, he knew. But that didn’t matter anymore.

  Fer went on. “I read in a book about the ritual, the bringing of spring. It’s the Leaf Woman I saw, and that I kept hearing about. She is the one who’s supposed to bring spring, not the Lady. I’m going to try to find her and see if she’ll help me, or maybe if I can help her. The land has a stain on it, and I have to get it out.”

  Yes! That was a very good idea. After the Mór had seized power from the true Lady, Leaf Woman had flown into hiding because she could not live in a land stained by the blood of the Mór’s hunts. Fer was right—if she wanted to cleanse the land, she needed to find Leaf Woman. And he knew just where to look for her.

  “I really did see her before,” Fer said. “In the forest, when I first got here.”

  That was a very good thing. Come on, Fer, let’s go. I’ll lead you to her.

  “Hold on a second, Rook,” Fer said, slinging her backpack and her bow and quiver onto her shoulders. “There’s something else.”

  He trotted back to her.

  She crouched down, at eye level with him. “Another reason I came back is because I have to help Phouka. And you too, Rook.”

  He stared at her. That’s a terrible idea, Fer. Don’t be stupid.

  She reached out her hand and he growled and backed away. With a sigh she got to her feet. “Rook, I don’t have much practice at being friends with anybody. But I’m sure that I am your friend, and Phouka’s. And I’m going to help you whether you like it or not.”

  For just a second Rook wanted to knock Fer down and bite her to make her pay attention. To help him and his puck-brother she was going to walk right up to the Mór, wasn’t she, and then more terrible things would happen.

  But he wouldn’t bite Fer. Not now, anyway, no matter how much she made him want to.

  Rook led the way out of the clearing, pausing at the edge of the path to snuff the wind. No wolves, no smell of pursuit. The Mór would still be hunting him, though. After she had changed him, she’d made the mistake of ordering him, in his dog shape, back to the camp, but not saying he should wait there for her. So he’d done exactly, precisely, as she’d ordered. He’d gone back to the camp to sniff around, then he’d left again and gone into hiding. The Mór’s wolves would find him eventually—they always did—but in the meantime he could help Fer.

  Fer followed four-legged Rook down a path that got more and more narrow, closing in around them. The sun came up, but the day stayed cloudy gray and damp. After a couple of hours of walking, Fer wanted to stop for a rest, but Rook kept going, trotting ahead, panting.

  In the distance, a wolf howled.

  Fer’s head jerked up, fright tingling through her nerves. The wolf-guards. Rook bounded back to her, growling.

  “I’m coming,” she told him, then followed as he raced along the path. Another wolf howled, closer. On they ran, as the path grew narrower and branches whipped across Fer’s face. She tripped over a root and fell hard, then scrambled to her feet and pelted after Rook.

  Finally he paused, waiting for her to catch up. “Okay,” she panted. “Keep going.”

  Instead of racing on, he nudged her leg, pushing her toward an oak tree at the edge of the path. Unlike all the other trees on the hillside, which were winter-dead, the oak had fresh green leaves sprouting from every twig. The tree grew right out of the hillside and its roots grew down to the path, supporting it like thick table legs. From under its moss-draped roots flowed a trickle of water that went across the path and down the hill on the other side.

  Fer caught her breath. “We don’t have time for a drink, Rook.” Two wolves howled, a chorus. Fer’s heart gave a little jolt of fright. They were close.

  Rook rushed to the tree and pointed his nose under the roots, then looked back at Fer with his ears pricked.

  Fer frowned. No, this wasn’t about a drink. She crouched and peered under the mossy roots. It was like a cave in there, a hollowed-out place under the tree. She squinted, but all she saw was darkness. When she pulled her head out, she heard the wolves howling louder, closer.

  Quickly she ducked into the cave to hide. She crawled farther in, the smell of dirt and moss thick in her nose, water soaking the knees of her jeans. She turned her head to call for Rook to follow when she heard a rumbling growl, right outside the tree. Wolf. Rook needed to hide—now!

  She crept back toward the entrance.

  Snuff-snuff-snuff.

  She froze. A gray-furred muzzle sniffed along the edge of the cave. One step closer and the wolf would see her, where she was hiding in the dark.

  Snuff-snuff.

  Then, from farther away, came the sound of a dog barking. The gray muzzle disappeared, and a moment later the wolf howled. Fer heard a rush of wind and paws on the trail as the wolves raced past.

  Crouching, she peered from under the tree’s roots to see the wolves running down the path, Rook fleeing before them.

  Rook was leading them away from her. She had to help him. She started to crawl out of the cave. Then she felt the same tingling in her fingers that she’d felt when she’d opened the Way that brought her from her world into the land. The power grew, and she felt a release, like a door opening, and the ground crumbled away beneath her.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Fer got to her feet. It hadn’t been a long fall, just enough to knock the wind out of her when she landed. She was in a cave; its dark ceiling arched above her.

  The light in the cave brightened. Fer turned around. Before her lay a rooty, mossy floor; ferns grew out of dark crevices. Beyond that she saw a bright, open space the size of a door, surrounded by ferns. From the door came a breeze, soft and warm.

  A warm breeze? The forest she and Rook had been running through had been grim and gray and slipping back into winter.

  Fer made her way over the slippery roots to the door and, blinking in the bright light, peered out.

  She saw a forest of gray-barked beech trees, tall and slim, with leaves shivering at the tips of delicate twigs. Shimmering sunlight filtered down through the leaves, and pollen drifted like golden dust through the long, slanting sunbeams. The ground was covered with unfurling ferns and moss and tiny white flowers that glowed like stars.

  Catching her breath, Fer stepped out into the forest. It was spring here, but concentrated, as if all the springs that were supposed to follow winter in the other lands were here, waiting to be called forth.

  “I came through another Way,” Fer whispered. Leaf Woman. This must be h
er place. Rook had meant for her to come here.

  She looked over her shoulder. The oak tree stood there like a broad, green queen among the slender beech trees. Huge roots twined around the cave door.

  Fer gulped down a knot of worry. Oh, Rook. What would happen if they caught him? Probably the same thing that had happened the last time the wolves had caught him, only this time she wouldn’t be there to save him.

  She shook her head. She had to do what she’d come here to do, which was find the Leaf Woman—and find her fast.

  Fer turned to face the forest. A few steps away stood a cairn, a moss-covered pile of stones like a marker. Just beyond that, a path wound through the ferns. Shrugging her shoulders under her pack and her quiver and bow, Fer set her feet on the path.

  She expected a long walk, because all of her walks through the lands had been long, but the path led to another cairn, then another, and then ended in a meadow surrounded by laurel bushes in full bloom. The white flowers lay like drifts of snow over the glossy green leaves. Fer went to the middle of the meadow and slipped her backpack and bow and quiver from her sore shoulders, setting them down in the soft, knee-high grass.

  Taking a deep breath, she looked around. Golden sunlight lay warm across the grass. Bees buzzed in the laurel, making a low, sleepy hum. In the meadow bloomed yellow cinquefoil flowers, and a few tall stands of mullein, and fragrant red clover. Magical herbs, for anybody who knew how to use them and say the right spells.

  “Hello,” Fer called. The drowsy, humming light swallowed up her words. “Hello!” she shouted again, louder.

  Nothing. She wasn’t alone, though. Somebody was there. She couldn’t see anybody, but she had that prickly feeling of being watched.

  Fer gnawed at her thumbnail. “I need your help, Leaf Woman,” she said to the blooming laurel.

  No answer.

  “Or maybe I can help you. I’m not going away until you talk to me.”

  Fer paced through the meadow, worry about Rook making her stomach jump. Had the wolves caught him? Were they taking him to the Lady?

  The sunlight grew more golden as the day grew later. Bees droned in the laurel. Tired after running from the wolves, Fer finally sat down, her back against the cairn in the middle of the meadow. She sighed, so tired, too tired even to dig in her backpack for food. Her eyelids grew heavier and heavier, almost like she was falling under a magical spell, until she fell asleep.

  Rook raced down the path with the wolves pursuing. He heard panting and looked aside and saw a wolf bounding along beside him. It caught his eye and its fanged mouth leered; a wolf running behind yipped, and the wolf at his side yipped back. Laughing at him.

  Stupid wolves. They were under the Mór’s orders, but they didn’t have to enjoy the chase. Rook swerved and shoved the wolf with his shoulder. The wolf was much bigger than he was, but he caught it in mid-stride; it tripped, crashing into the bushes at the side of the path. Rook raced onward, the breath tearing at his lungs. A wolf nipped at his flank and he tripped, then tumbled to the ground, his paws flailing. He rolled to his feet and the wolves closed in. He backed up, snarling. A wolf darted in, its fangs bared, nipping at him, driving him onward. Rook gathered himself and stumbled on.

  Fer woke up feeling the chill of evening settle over her like a dewy blanket. Blinking, she sat up. The meadow was full of milky mist, and shadows crept in among the bushes. Overhead, the first stars twinkled in the blue-black sky, and a giant golden moon had climbed above the trees, shedding its light across the meadow.

  Fer shivered.

  “Cold, are you?” said a voice that seemed to rumble out of the ground around her.

  Fer jumped to her feet. She’d heard that deep voice before. “Hello?” She looked around the meadow. “Leaf Woman?”

  Bushes rustled behind her. Fer whirled and saw nothing. “Are you there?” she asked loudly.

  The bushes rustled again. Fer stepped closer, but saw nothing but leaves and shadows.

  “I am here,” said Leaf Woman’s waterfall voice. “What do you want?”

  “I have to fix what is wrong, if I can. The Lady has brought something evil to the land, and it’s spilling over into my world too. I have to hurry. Can you help me?”

  “The Lady,” Leaf Woman grumbled. “She is no Lady of the land. She is the Mór, and no better than a carrion crow. She was the true Lady’s huntress, and she has spilled blood in her foul rituals. She poisoned the land, and I cannot return there.”

  Fer nodded. Her suspicions were right—the Lady wasn’t the true Lady of the land. “I can go back there,” Fer said to the rustling bushes. “I can stop the Mór, if you’ll show me how.”

  Glistening in the moonlight, a clump of bees zoomed across the meadow. Fer followed their flight, and there at the edge, where the grass met the laurel bushes, squatted Leaf Woman. Fer stepped closer to see her better. She looked like a stump, as if she’d just grown up there out of the ground. Her skin was leaf green, shading to darker mossy green in the creases of her elbows and in the wrinkles on her broad face. Oak leaves sprouted out of her head like hair and grew over her chest and belly and hung down over her legs like a dress. Her hands and bare feet were gnarled like tree roots.

  Leaf Woman pointed with a sticklike finger. “If anyone can fix what is wrong, it is you, not I. It is your duty and your power. But I will help you, because of your mother. Look.” She pointed at Fer’s feet.

  Fer bent down and picked up the stick Leaf Woman was pointing at. It was straight and had green bark and leaves sprouting from one end. The other end looked as if it had just been broken off a tree. The bark felt cool and smooth under her fingers.

  “The Mór made a terrible choice,” said Leaf Woman. “She sacrificed all—love, duty, loyalty—for power, and now that power is fading. When you touch her with that green stick, the remainder of her power will leave her. When her wrongs are righted, the blood will be cleansed from the land, and I will return to bring the spring.”

  Fer stared down at the stick in her hand. Sacrificed all for power. The Mór had killed her mother and father, she felt sure. Their blood was what stained the land, and the stag’s, and all the other creatures the Mór had sacrificed to keep her hold on her power. And she, Fer, was the only one who could fix the wrong that had been done. She held up the stick. “I’m supposed to just walk up and touch her with this?”

  “If you truly wish to set things right, you must do this,” Leaf Woman said. “And you must hurry. She will be seeking another sacrifice. The spilling of more blood will renew her strength. If she spills that blood in a hunt, her power will grow strong again, and the land will weaken.”

  Fer felt a jolt of fright. Rook. The Mór was hunting Rook.

  Fer whirled and raced out of the meadow.

  At the queen oak tree, Fer shoved the green stick into her quiver with her arrows and ducked through the rooty doorway, stumbling over the bumpy floor of the dark cave to the wall in the back. She found roots and crevices and climbed up, her feet and fingers slipping on moss, until she reached a ledge at the top. Catching her breath, she reached out and felt open space—a tunnel. She started crawling. Her shoulders brushed against the dirt walls. The backpack and bow and quiver bumped against the ceiling and dirt sifted down onto her face. Darkness pressed in around her. She closed her eyes and kept going, feeling like a mole digging its way through the ground. Finally she came to a place where her hands reached out and felt nothing. Her fingertips tingled, and she opened the Way.

  Taking a deep breath, she leaned forward and slipped off the edge.

  She fell through darkness. Dirt folded in around her, pressing up against her face, her arms and legs, covering her like a blanket. She tried to shout, and dirt filled her mouth. With her hands she pushed the dirt away; it moved, like heavy water. Holding her breath, squeezing her eyes closed, she kicked her feet and felt herself moving through the dirt. She reached out again and, like parting curtains, she brushed the dirt aside. Light streamed in. Fer fell into t
he light, then tumbled down a bumpy slope, out from under the roots, landing on the path before the oak tree.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Rook ran until his paw pads ached, until his breath came in desperate gasps, until his four legs quivered with exhaustion.

  As he slowed, the wolves closed in around him, a guard. They forced him into a clearing, where they let him collapse, panting, onto the wiry brown grass.

  They waited. His heart pounded with fright, then settled. He was too tired to be frightened. The Mór was within her rights to kill him for tricking her, for running away again. Just so long as she didn’t find out about Fer.

  The wind grew chillier, a cold that got in under his fur and made him shiver. The gray clouds covering the sky grew thicker. The wolves paced around him, alert. Finally, just as a freezing drizzle began to fall, the Mór came.

  She rode Phouka, who stumbled with weariness. She jerked him to a halt. Her people filtered into the clearing behind her, all of them far gone with wildling, dragging themselves on four legs or two, half-covered with fur or feathers or scales, their eyes rolling with fright. The Mór’s crows settled in the trees around the clearing, perched like rotting fruit on the bare branches.

  Rook got shakily to his four feet. He tried to meet his puck-brother’s eye, but Phouka stood with his head lowered, blood dripping from a barbed bridle she’d put into his mouth.

  The Mór slid down from Phouka’s back. Her stolen glamorie had failed; even her other people could see what he saw, the Mór as she really was. She stood hunched, gazing down at him with eyes that looked like holes burned in old paper. The skin on her face was yellowed, cracking, as if it was about to slide off the bones of her skull. Her hair was dusty black feathers.