Thrice Sworn: A Short-Story Prequel to Winterling Page 2

  Protecting the young ones—that was something Finn could understand. Really, it was something that pucks understood better than anyone.

  But he knew what a Huntress was too. “She’ll find the baby if she decides to hunt it,” Finn said. “That’s what she does.”

  “I know,” Owen answered. “But there’s a place we can go where she can’t follow.” He nodded, then strode toward the Lady Tree. “Wait here for a minute, Robin; I’ll be right back.”

  While the human climbed to the house in the tree’s branches, Finn got his shifter-bone out of its little leather pouch and popped it into his mouth, and blurred into his horse shape. He tossed his mane and pranced in place, his legs ready to run. In the distance, he heard a shout—one of the Lady’s people calling out a warning.

  Lady, Lady, you are betrayed! The Hunt comes for you!

  Up in the tree, Owen hurried out of the house, speaking urgently to two of the fox-girls. Then he took a baby-shaped bundle into his arms. Carrying it carefully, he came down the ladder and across the grass to Finn. As he paused to shove a folded piece of paper into his pocket, Finn nosed a flap of blanket aside to have a look at the Lady’s baby.

  Before this he’d only seen squalling, flame-eyed, black-haired puck babies. The Lady’s baby wasn’t all that different. Not squalling at the moment, but pink-faced and wrinkly, with a rosebud mouth and a tiny fist curled under her chin. Finn snorted out a breath and she blinked up at him. He felt a thread of connection, stronger than spider silk, spin out between his heart and hers.

  The Mór would not stick any arrows into this baby—not if he could help it.

  Finn lowered his head and Owen grabbed his mane. “We have to hurry, Robin,” Owen said as he climbed awkwardly onto Finn’s back with the baby. “We have to take Gwynnefar to my mom and then get back here to help Laury fight off the Mór.” He pointed. “We’re going to the Way that goes to the human world. Do you know it?”

  With a snort Finn leaped into a gallop, feeling the human start to slip from his back, then cling on. The Way to the human world would open for a human at any time. Perhaps they would make it out before the Mór tracked them. Finn pounded along the forest paths, feeling the human’s urgency, and a faintly buzzing feeling of alarm that seemed to come from the land itself. The Lady was hunted; the land itself was in danger. Hurry, hurry, hurry, his hoofbeats said, as he dodged around trees and jumped streams, his tail streaming in the wind of his passage.

  “Here!” Owen shouted, and Finn dropped into a walk, his breaths snorting from his nose, his muscles quivering. He brought the human and the baby into a clearing with a perfectly round pool in the middle of it. “That’s the Way,” Owen panted, pointing at the pool. “Go!”

  Without hesitating, Finn gathered himself and leaped from the mossy bank straight into the middle of the still waters of the pool. As his front hoofs touched the water, the Way opened and he sailed through for a long, cold, suspended moment, then felt his hoofs crunch into a hard crust of snow.

  The human world. It was a winter here: a patch of scrubby forest with black trees, white snow, and the dark blue shadows of approaching night. Finn felt the wrongness of the place at once, like a fogginess in his head. It wasn’t a place where a puck could live. He shook his head and felt the skin under his pelt prickle with dread.

  “Follow the path,” Owen ordered, and Finn trotted along a clear line of snow through the woods, along the bottom of a ravine; then he climbed a bank and up to a road ridged with icy tracks. “Keep going,” Owen said.

  His hoofs slipping on the ice, Finn trotted along the edge of the road, his snorting breaths coming in steamy clouds now from his nose. He hoped the baby was warm enough in her blanket. He wished he could talk to Owen while they rode, but that was the problem with his horse shape—no talking.

  At last they reached a square house at the end of another long, narrow road. As night fell, the air had gotten colder. Shivering, Owen slid from Finn’s back, holding the blanket-wrapped baby close to his chest. Finn spat out his shifter-bone, keeping it in his hand because he’d need it again soon. “What’re you going to do?” Finn asked.

  Owen nodded toward the house. “That’s my mom’s place.” At Finn’s blank look, he added, “My mother, Jane. She’ll take care of Gwynnefar until I can come back for her.” He pulled the paper out of his pocket and tucked it into a fold of the baby’s blanket; he added a few other things too—a black feather, a small, flat stone with a hole in it. Then he stared down at her for a long moment. Gently he kissed her forehead and then covered her with the blanket again. “I’ll be right back,” he said to Finn.

  With his head down, Owen hurried through the growing darkness to a door at the back of his mother’s house. Crouching, he set Gwynnefar on the doorstep, knocked loudly, then turned and ran back to where Finn was waiting.

  Quickly Finn popped the shifter-bone into his mouth and fell into his horse shape, ready to run. Owen waited, one hand on Finn’s mane, one on his back, keenly watching the back door where he’d left the baby. Finn felt his own connection to the baby just as strongly as before. This baby. This one. He almost couldn’t bear to leave her, even to keep her safe.

  They waited for one breath, and another, and then the door cracked open and a shaft of golden light spilled out. Finn saw a shape silhouetted there: a tall, straight-backed woman who bent to pick up the bundle of baby. The woman stood abruptly and stared out into the night. “Owen?” she called, her voice sharp with fear.

  For just a moment, Finn felt Owen rest his forehead against his back. “I have to go back to Laury, Mom,” he whispered, though he knew his mother would not hear. A second later, he’d swung onto Finn’s back. “Let’s go,” he whispered urgently into Finn’s ear. “Hurry.”

  Finn galloped as fast as he could through the cold winter night, back to the Way and then through to the Summerlands again, where almost no time had passed since they’d left, because time ran so much faster in the human world. It was still early morning. But the sun was dimmer now—clouds were rolling in, a sudden summer storm. The air felt still, but taut with danger, the threat of thunder, lightning, betrayal, disaster.

  Finn raced through the forest to the Lady Tree. He came to a stop and Owen slid from his back and ran up the ladder. A quick look into the house and he tumbled down the ladder again and back to Finn. “She’s not here,” he reported, looking wildly around.

  In the distance, echoing through the forest, came a sound. Finn jerked up his head, his ears twitching. The sound came again—the high, thin call of a hunting horn.

  “Oh, no,” Owen panted. “We’re too late.” He’d gone stark white, his eyes wide and frightened.

  Finn snorted. Come on, Owen. Let’s ride.

  As if understanding, the human scrambled onto Finn’s back; at once Finn was off, following the sound of the Mór’s hunt. The wind of the coming storm roared out of the air behind them. The tops of the trees thrashed in the wind, and thunder joined the sound of the horns in the distance.

  It was on a roll of thunder and a gust of wind that Finn and his rider crashed into the clearing surrounding the other Way out of the land, where the Lady and her loyal fox-girl maids had fled, trying to escape the Mór’s hunt.

  But this Way was closed. Would stay closed until sunset, and that was still hours away.

  Finn spared a thought for his young brother-puck, who he’d sent here to hide. Stay hidden, Rook, he thought desperately. Stay safe.

  “Thank you, Robin,” Owen breathed. He slipped from Finn’s back and raced across the clearing to where the Lady stood, supported by the fox-girls. Owen went to her side and she leaned against him. The fox-girls backed away, trembling with fear, and bloody from their fight to protect their Lady. The Lady’s moonlight-colored hair hung long and tangled down her back; she wore only a white shift stained here and there with blood, and her face was pinched and pale. Her body was weak from giving birth and from the hunt, but her eyes were fierce.

  Facing he
r, high on the back of a tall, white horse, was the Mór, clad all in black silk, her stern face as white as bone, her silver eyes gleaming in the stormy light. The Mór had hunters with her: the people she’d tricked into her service, wolf-guards riding mounts of their own, and others, too, all ranked against the Lady. Laurelin pushed herself away from Owen and faced her Huntress. “Why do you do this? You are sworn to me, and to this land. You know you cannot break your oath without consequences.”

  Slowly, with grim inevitability, the Mór reached over her shoulder, pulling a long arrow fletched with black feathers from the quiver on her back.

  “Stop!” Laurelin cried. “Stop before it is too late!”

  Without speaking, the Mór nocked the arrow and drew back the bowstring.

  In the center of the clearing, Owen whirled to embrace the Lady, turning his back to the Mór.

  “Owen, no!” the Lady cried out.

  No, Finn wanted to shout at the same time, but he was still in his horse shape, and he felt frozen with fear.

  A flash of lightning ripped through the boiling clouds above the clearing. As the crash of thunder followed it, the Mór released her arrow. It flew, swift and sure, straight for Owen’s back, piercing him through and the Lady Laurelin with him.

  There was a short cry, cut off. Then silence.

  Green-black clouds pressed down over the clearing. The Mór lowered her bow. For just a moment, she bowed her head, shuddering as her oath to her Lady shattered into pieces. She would pay a price for this betrayal. But what price, she could not know.

  Pinned together by the arrow shaft, the Lady and Owen fell.

  Finn whinnied a shrill protest. Beneath his hooves, he could feel the change in the land as the Lady’s blood seeped into the ground. A wave of wrongness spread out from the clearing. The trees shivered with the horror of it; the grass trembled with dread. Then the clouds overhead opened and the rain poured down.

  “Are they dead?” the Mór demanded of one of the wolf-guards, who shuffled over to the two broken, blood-covered lovers.

  “They are dead!” he cried.

  Spitting the shifter-bone into his hand, Finn fell to his knees, retching.

  His movement caught the Mór’s attention.

  At the touch of her heels, the white horse, its eyes rolling with terror, shied and then crossed the clearing to him.

  The Mór stared down from her horse’s back. “Where is the baby, Puck?” she shouted, to be heard above the sound of the rain and wind.

  Finn wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and climbed shakily to his feet. “What baby?” he said.

  The Mór’s face went even whiter with fury. “Do not try your puck tricks on me.”

  Finn shrugged. “There’s no baby here,” he told her, and spread his arms wide to show her that he wasn’t hiding a baby anywhere on his person.

  Her movements swift, the Mór swung down from her horse and yanked a short whip from beside the saddle. As she turned she brought the whip around, slashing a stripe of fire into Finn’s face; he felt the sting and the blood seep from the wound, mixing with rainwater. The Mór jerked her chin, and two of her wolf-guards climbed down from their mounts and grabbed Finn’s arms.

  The Mór stepped closer. Finn flinched as she laid the length of the whip against the slash on his cheek. “Puck,” she said, her voice a steely thread. “Tell me now or die. Where is the Lady’s baby?”

  Finn shook his head.

  Her voice grated. “I ask you a third time, Puck. Where is the baby?”

  A question asked three times must be answered, even by a puck.

  Finn spoke past a lump of fear. “She’s in the human world. Beyond your reach.”

  “And you took her there,” the Mór finished for him. Her mouth twisted into a smile. “You have allied yourself with the Lady and her human lover. You will regret it.” Again she nodded at her wolf-guards. “The shifter-bone. Make him swallow it.”

  No! Finn struggled, but the wolf-guards gripped him too tightly. One of them found the shifter and pried it out of Finn’s hand. He clenched his teeth until one of them struck him hard across the face—the whip-cut burned. As his mouth opened, one of the guards held up the shifter-bone.

  “When I put this in your mouth, you will swallow it,” the wolf-guard grunted.

  Wordlessly Finn shook his head. His brothers told stories about what would happen if a puck swallowed his shifter. He didn’t know for certain that it was true, but he didn’t want to find out. If he swallowed his shifter-bone, the stories said, he’d never be able to shift back again; he’d always remain a horse.

  The wolf-guards bore him to the soggy ground. One of them put a knee on his chest and gripped his chin; the other covered his mouth and pinched his nose with a callused hand.

  Finn struggled, trying to gasp a breath of air.

  The wolf-guard’s broad face loomed in his vision. “Swallow it or die,” he threatened.

  Finn felt tears leaking from his eyes. As a horse he’d never tell another story to his puck-brothers around the campfire. He’d never speak ever again, to anybody. He’d be a Phouka, a horse, and not Finn any longer.

  But he didn’t want to die. He opened his mouth and the wolf-guard dropped the little lump of the shifter-bone on his tongue. Finn swallowed, and it slid easily down his throat. The shift into his horse form happened at once, and the wolf-guards scrambled away as he flailed his legs and struggled awkwardly onto his four hooves. He tried to spit out the bone to shift back, but he could not. His mane hung heavily down, soaked with the rain, and his bedraggled tail trailed on the ground.

  As quickly as it had begun, the storm stopped. A few last drops of rain fell, and the wind died; the sky, though, stayed dark with clouds.

  The Mór regarded Finn and gave a pleased nod. “We have our first prey,” she announced to the hunters gathered in the clearing. With the short whip, she pointed at Finn. “A hunt to the death!”

  Finn trembled in fear. He was already tired from his run to the human world and back again. If the Mór hunted him, he’d not elude her for long.

  Then someone else stumbled into the clearing. Rook, his dark hair plastered to his head by the rain. He ran across the grass and put himself between Finn and the Mór.

  Oh, no, no, no, Finn wanted to cry. He gave a shrill whinny.

  Rook cast him a quick, wide-eyed look over his shoulder. He turned back to glare at the Mór.

  “Another puck?” the Mór mocked. “A particularly young one too. What do you think you can do, puppy, to stop me from hunting him until I run him to ground?”

  Finn saw Rook’s hands clench. He shoved at Rook’s shoulder with his nose. Stop, Rook, he wanted to say. You can’t stop her. Just get away from here.

  Without looking, Rook shoved Finn’s nose away. “I’ll do anything,” Rook said fiercely. “You can’t kill him.”

  “Anything?” the Mór said, drawing the word out.

  Rook’s thin shoulders hunched. Then he jerked out a nod.

  “Hmmm,” the Mór murmured, and stepped closer to Rook and put the end of the whip under his chin to tilt his head back. She examined his face, then looked him up and down. “What is your name, youngling?”

  “Robin,” Rook answered.

  “Your true name,” the Mór demanded.

  Rook shook his head. “Robin,” he repeated stubbornly.

  The Mór regarded him for a long moment. “Having a puck bound to me,” she mused. “That would show how powerful a Lady I am.” She gave a nod, decided. “Yes. You are young, and I think you can be broken to my will. I will take your oath, Robin, and in exchange I will spare the horse here.”

  Rook opened his mouth to agree.

  But the Mór interrupted. She smiled and tapped his chin with the end of her whip. “Your thrice-sworn oath, Robin.”

  No. An oath sworn three times was unbreakable and never-ending. Rook would be her slave forever. Finn felt his words of protest trapped in his throat. He whinnied again.


  “Be quiet,” the Mór ordered, almost absently. “Well, Robin?”

  When Rook spoke, his voice was almost a whisper. “I will swear it.”

  The Mór gave a triumphant smile. “Good,” she breathed. She pointed at the ground. “On your knees, swear it, once, twice, three times to bind yourself to me, to serve me in all things.”

  Finn could see Rook shaking as he knelt on the wet grass. “I swear,” Rook started, and when his voice broke on the words he started again. “I swear to bind myself to you, the Mór, and to serve you in all things. Once, twice, three times I swear it.”

  Finn bowed his head. His brother would never be free of the Mór.

  The Mór reached into a pocket and pulled out a black feather. With fingers that seemed almost gentle, she knotted the feather into Rook’s wet hair. “There,” she murmured. “Now you are mine.”

  Slowly Rook got to his feet.

  “Come, stand at my side,” the Mór ordered. Rook did as he was told, standing with his head lowered. The Mór looked around the clearing, at her rain-soaked people on their bedraggled mounts. “No hunt today, it seems. You may bow to your new Lady and then retire to care for your mounts.”

  With mumbled obedience, the people bowed to her and led their horses and other mounts out of the clearing. The Mór went to her own mount, the tall, white horse, and unbuckled the bridle and took the bit out of his mouth.

  The bit, Finn noted, was cruelly spiked.

  The Mór handed the bit to Rook. “Now that I have you, young Robin, the horse will serve me, too, for he will not leave you. Put this on him.”

  Rook looked at the spiked bit in his hands and then stared up at the Mór, horrified. His eyes filled with tears.

  “You may not weep,” the Mór said harshly. “Just do as you are bid.”

  Rook brought the bit and bridle to Finn. “You have to get away from her, Finn,” he whispered. “Run away. Please!”

  But Finn simply lowered his head.

  “Do it!” the Mór ordered.

  Woodenly Rook pulled the bridle over Finn’s ears and with shaking fingers put the cruel bit into his mouth. “I’m sorry,” Rook whispered. “Brother, I’m sorry.”