The woman they called Dwalia had proceeded to the sleigh. She was already in the back, making a fresh nest in the furs and blankets. I was handed up to her, and she set me between her legs, facing away from her, with my back warmed by her front and her arms around me. I did not like being so close to her, but I was wedged there. Shun they loaded like freight, and then heaped blankets over her. Once they let go of her she ceased struggling and lay like dead meat under the mounded wraps. Part of her skirt had snagged on the edge of the sleigh. The flap of red was like a mocking tongue.
Someone spoke to the horses and they moved off. I was facing backward. I listened to the sounds of their hooves dulled by the falling snow, the squeaking of the wide wooden runners, and the fading crackle of the flames that ate the stable. The folk of Withywoods, my folk, were slowly reentering the house. They did not look at us. We left the light of the burning stables behind and entered the long carriageway that led away from Withywoods. The lanterns swung and a bubble of light danced around us as we flowed down the avenue of arched, snow-laden birches.
I did not even realize the fog man was in the sleigh until he spoke to Dwalia. “It’s done,” he said and heaved a big sigh of satisfaction. Definitely a boy, I realized. He spoke with a boy’s voice as he added, “And now we can go home, away from the cold. And the killing. Lingstra Dwalia, I did not realize there would be so much killing.”
I felt her turn her head to look at him where he sat, up front with the driver. She spoke softly, as if I were asleep. I wasn’t. I didn’t dare try to hide in sleep. “We did not intend for there to be any killing. But we knew that the chances of avoiding all killing were nearly impossible. We had to use the tools we had, and Ellik is a man full of bitterness and hate. The wealth and comfort he expected in his elder years escaped him. He lost his position, his fortune, and all his comforts. He blames the whole world for that. He seeks to rebuild in a few years what it took him a lifetime to acquire. And so he will always be more violent, more greedy, more ruthless than he need be. He is dangerous, Vindeliar. Never forget that. He is especially dangerous to you.”
“I don’t fear him, Lingstra Dwalia.”
“You should.” Her words were both a warning and a rebuke. Her hands moved, pulling more blankets over both of us. I hated the touch of her body against mine but could not find the will to shift. The sleigh lurched forward.I stared at the passing forests of Withywoods. I did not even have the heart to bid it a tearful farewell. I had no hope. My father would not know where I had gone. My own people had given me up, simply standing and going back into Withywoods manor. None had shouted that they would not let me go. No one had tried to take me back from my captors. I faced what my strangeness had done to me: I had never really belonged to them. Losing me was a small price to pay for the invaders to leave with no more bloodshed. They were right. I was glad they had not fought to keep me. I wished there had been a way to save Shun without having her carted off with me.
The corner of my eye caught a movement. The swaying lanterns made the trees at the edge of the drive seem to cast iron bars of blackness on the snow. But this was not a movement born of that light. This motion was standing snow, gripped by a hand black with blood, and above all a pale face with staring eyes. I did not turn my head, or cry out, or catch my breath. I let nothing in me betray to anyone that Perseverance stood in my Elderling cloak and watched us pass him by.
Chapter Four
The Fool’s Tale
When winter’s clutch is cold and dark
And game is scarce and forest stark,
This songster to the hearth retreats
To warm his cheeks and icy feet.
But on the hill and in the glen
Are hunters hardier than men.
With lolling tongues and eyes that gleam
They surge through snow with breath like steam.
For in the hunt there is no morrow,
Time does not wait. There is no sorrow
As blood spills black and snarls are rife.
For life is meat, and death brings life.
—A song for Nighteyes and his friend, Hap Gladheart
The stairs seemed steeper than I remembered. When I reached my old bedchamber, I entered it as cautiously as befit an erstwhile assassin. I closed and locked my door, put wood on the fire, and for a short time considered simply getting into the bed and going to sleep. Then I drew the curtains shut and inspected the area where they were fastened to the rod. Yes. I saw it now, as I had not in all those years. Another tug on the drapery pull triggered the door panel, but no sound or crack betrayed it. Only when I pushed on it did it swing silently open and the narrow black staircase appear before me.
I climbed the risers, stumbling once when my curly toe hooked on the step. Up in Chade’s old workroom, Ash had come and gone. Our dirty dishes had been tidied away, and a different pot simmered at the edge of the hearth. The Fool had not moved since I left him, and I crossed the room anxiously to lean over him. “Fool?” I said softly, and with a cry he flung his arms wide and sat up to cower behind his raised hands. One flying hand glanced off my cheek. As I stepped back from his bed, he cried, “I’m sorry! Don’t hurt me!”