“I’m a herald, I am, and heralds spread the news. Knew there must be news behind this, so here I am. What’s going on? Princess Flees Vengeful Stepstepfather? Anya Devotes Short Life to Transformed Amphibians?”
“How did you find me?” Anya persisted. She looked around the clearing, at all the oaks gathered close with the undergrowth so thick between them. If Gerald the Herald was already on her track, Duke Rikard’s assassins might be as well. She’d thought she would at least get the rest of the day and the night as a head start.
“Nose for news,” said Gerald, tapping his admittedly long nose with his forefinger. “And … ah … I was lucky. On my way to Trallonia to look into the story and thought I’d stop by Martha’s for some pea-and-ham soup. That is pea-and-ham soup I smell, right? Sometimes she makes leek and barley and I don’t like that half as much.”
“Not as good as pea-and-ham soup,” Ardent agreed.
It was entirely possible, Anya thought, that Gerald the Herald did have a nose for news—some inherent magic that led him to important events or people when things were happening, in much the same way that smiths could sense bad metal and could not be beaten in a fistfight fought at a crossroad.
Anya kept looking. There was something odd about Gerald’s hair and moustache, and his face for that matter. He didn’t quite look the same as he had the last time she’d seen him. Anya peered more intently, tilting her head on one side just like Gotfried did when he was in owl shape and thinking hard about something.
“You’re wearing a wig,” she observed. “And a false moustache. You’re not Gerald at all!”
“Oh, yes I am!” said the man indignantly. “I am one of the three duly certified and paid-up Gerald the Heralds for Trallonia, Revania, Monstonbury, and Trallon Forest.”
“What?” asked Anya. “There’s more than one Gerald the Herald?”
“Hundreds,” said the man. “Across the land. Always vacancies too, if you’ve a mind to become one. Dangerous profession, spreading the news. But honorable. Now tell me straight, Princess—what’s with the transformed frog and the newt?”
“None of your business,” said Anya. “Get out of that tree and be on your way!”
“News is my business,” said Gerald, holding up an admonishing finger. “A princess running away with two transformed humans is news. Big news. So what’s going on?”
“I can’t tell you,” said Anya stiffly.
“But you’re going to turn them back, right?” Gerald leaned forward eagerly and almost fell. Ardent reflexively jumped up at him, snarling, before settling back to watch, as if the man was a rabbit about to emerge from a hole. “I heard you talk about a magic lip balm. You’ll kiss them, right?”
“I have nothing to say,” said Anya. “Ardent, let Gerald down so he can be on his way.”
“Princess Anya Is the Frogkisser!” bellowed Gerald. “Transformees Flock to Princess for Chance to Regain Humanity!”
Anya looked at Denholm and Shrub. Hardly a flock, she thought. Which was just as well. She turned to Hedric.
“On second thought, perhaps we shouldn’t let the herald go. Can you keep him here for an hour or two, while we go?” she asked. “He’ll lead the Duke to us, even if he doesn’t mean to.”
“Aye, I can do that,” said Hedric. “I’ve no fondness for heralds. Too loud in the greenwood, they are.”
He strode over to the trunk of the oak and laid his hand against the bark. The tattoos on his arms shivered as he did so, the leaves moving as if in response to a sudden breeze.
“What are you doing?” asked Gerald nervously. “Dangerous Druid Frightens Herald!”
Hedric whispered something to the oak. A strand of mistletoe, previously unnoticed on the trunk or perhaps not even there before, shook in answer and began to twine its way up towards the herald, who squeaked and began to climb higher.
“Come on,” said Anya to Ardent and Shrub. “Lead the way, Master Newt.”
“What about the ham wrapped in cheesecloth?” asked Ardent anxiously, pointing with his nose towards the hut. “And shouldn’t Shrub say good-bye to his mother as well?”
“Quickly, then,” said Anya. “There might be assassins or hunters looking for us right now, if other Geralds have spread the news.”
“Mother!” called out Shrub, not bothering to go near the hut. “I’m off now. Bring the ham!”
“Go over there and ask her nicely,” said Anya. She still felt the long-ago loss of her own mother keenly and didn’t approve of treating any mother in such a careless manner.
“She heard me,” Shrub grumbled.
Ardent growled and lowered his head towards the newt. One bulbous eye rotated and looked up at Anya, who was frowning deeply. Her eyebrows were drawing together, the beginning of one of her stern looks forming on her face.
“I mean, I’m just going over now,” he said hurriedly, then lumbered over to the hut, sliding around the half-open door with a flick of his tail.
“Badly trained puppy,” said Ardent with a sniff.
“We’ll fix that,” said Anya. She was already having serious misgivings about taking Shrub with them and was wondering whether it might be better if she left him here and promised to stop past once she had made the lip balm. But then, he did know the way to his father, the ex-druid, and they would presumably be more likely to get four drops of blood if he was with them.
“Ble-blup,” said Denholm. Anya glanced back over her shoulder to the frog in his cage hanging from the end of her staff. She’d have to catch some bugs for him to eat soon, and pour some more water over him. Which reminded her they needed a bigger water bottle. She’d already had to refill the small one twice at the streams they’d crossed, and that with only her drinking from the bottle. Ardent drank straight from the watercourses, or in fact any old puddle, but there might not be so many ahead, particularly once they were on the downs heading to Rolanstown.