The Witchwood Crown

“Chieftain Makho, I beg you stop,” cried Saomeji. He stepped between the two of them, an act of bravery that impressed Nezeru almost as much as the fighting skill of the young mortal. “It is daylight now, which is the only thing that keeps the Furi’a from attacking us again. We must get farther from their nest, much farther, before the dark comes again. And we are already badly wearied.”

“Speak for yourself,” chortled the giant. “Goh Gam Gar has not had such sport since I ate one of the knights of old Asu’a during the Storm King’s fall. Let the two of them fight on!”

Makho never turned his eyes from Jarnulf. “This creature is a spy. Everything he says is impossible. Trained by Denabi himself? A mortal slave with no collar?”

“I told you. Denabi-z’hue himself took the collar from my neck.” Jarnulf looked at Makho again, then turned his gaze to the rest of the Hikeda’ya and deliberately set his blade point down against the snow, pushing it in until it stood on its own. “I will show you. You, the female—come and look.” He untied the cords at the top of his hide jacket, folded back the collar, then tilted his head forward like a victim readied for sacrifice.

Nezeru didn’t know what to do. Ibi-Khai lay dead, the rest were still listless from battle, and Makho only glared at the stranger like a wolf protecting its kill. She walked toward the stranger, waiting for her chieftain to order her to stop, but Makho said nothing.

The first surprise was that the mortal was only a little taller than she was. The second was his smell, a very strange mixture of scents she identified as typical of mortals, but strangely diminished, as well as a strong smell of pine sap. Nezeru leaned closer to examine him. A line of callused flesh ringed the base of his neck where it began to broaden into his shoulders, in exactly the place a slave-yoke would sit.

“He has a scar from the kuwa,” she reported.

“Which proves only that he was a slave once,” snapped Makho, “and perhaps still is, despite his fanciful tale of Denabi. How is it that a former slave roams free on the borders of Hikeda’ya lands?”

“Because I am Queen’s Huntsman and a slave-taker,” said Jarnulf, knotting his jacket closed again. “I capture those that try to flee the Queen’s lands. If you still doubt me, I suggest you ask my former master.”

“Denabi sey-Xoka went to wait for the Garden three circles of seasons ago,” said Makho. “But I’m sure you knew that, since it makes your story more convenient.”

A strange expression crossed the mortal’s face, one Nezeru did not entirely recognize: there was sadness in it, but something else as well. “No. I did not know that my old master had died. I have not returned to Nakkiga in many years. I do my business with the border castles.” Jarnulf’s hand rose and sketched the Hikeda’ya sign for Hopeful Return. “So the Weapons Master travels back to the Garden. May his road be straight.”

He had done it all so naturally, so much like any ordinary man of her people, that Nezeru could no longer doubt him. Even Makho had lost something of his usual certainty, but still stared at the newcomer as if he were some kind of wandering spirit or other dubious omen.

“Do you know the lands beyond our borders well, Queen’s Huntsman?” Saomeji suddenly asked.

Jarnulf almost smiled, but it was not a friendly expression. “Of course. I travel far in search of traitors and the queen’s other enemies. I know the lands beyond Nakkiga’s old walls as well as I know my own skin, my own bones.”

Saomeji turned to Makho. “Chieftain, perhaps this man does not bring us bad fortune but good. Ibi-Khai is dead. He was the only one told of our route—without him, we will not find our way to our destination. And if we turn back, it will take us at least a moon to return to Nakkiga and find another Echo.”

“You have your Songs, little sorcerer,” said Makho angrily. “All your precious secrets, your orders from your lord and master that you have not shared with me. You can lead us where we need to go.”

Saomeji made a sign of regret. “My only real master is my duty to our queen—but no, Makho, I cannot lead us where we need to go. And unless you wish me to talk about it in front of this mortal you so distrust, the reasons will have to wait until you and I are alone.”

Makho stared at him, eyes and face empty as a statue’s. “So what are you saying?”

“This queen’s huntsman knows these lands. We do not. Perhaps after what we have just suffered—and from which we still must escape—this is a stroke of good luck we should not ignore. Perhaps this one can help us find our way, so we do not have to go back to Nakkiga in defeat and failure.” Nezeru heard a gentle increase of emphasis before “we.” What he meant was “so you do not have to go back,” and Makho knew it too.

“None of you has asked me whether I have any interest in leading you anywhere,” pointed out Jarnulf. “To be honest, I am not sure I wish to spend so much time in your company, however exalted it might seem to an ex-slave like myself.”

Makho glared at him before turning back to Saomeji. “Come to one side then and speak your mind to me, Singer. But, mortal, remember this: even if you are a freed slave, the shadow of the kuwa will be on your neck forever. Remain here until I decide what to do with you.”

Jarnulf did not reply to this, but only smiled at him—smiled yet again at an angry chieftain of the Queen’s Talons, as though he feared Makho not at all.

Nobody should ever be that brave—or that foolish, Nezeru thought. What manner of odd creature has found us?



More than twenty years in the heart of Stormspike had taught Tzoja caution, and most of that had been in quieter, safer times, when the queen still slept. Now Utuk’ku had returned, and Tzoja could almost feel Nakkiga shuddering into its old, dark wakefulness.

She opened the door of her small room and peered out into the corridor, the dark, silent corridor that sometimes made her feel she had arrived at the very end of the earth, so far from everything she had known as a child that even memories could no longer reach her. She saw no one, and what was more important, heard no one. Relieved, she ducked back inside.

She grabbed the frame of her bed, which despite not being very large took up much of the space in the room. She pulled it away from the wall, then felt for the sliding panel hidden behind it. When she found it she took the griefstone key that hung on a chain at her neck, turned it in the lock, and slid the panel open.

Inside were her most precious things—a straw doll, a colorful head scarf, a coin—all bits of her childhood and the free life she had led, although they were no longer the only secrets she kept there. She pushed them to one side and removed her candle and two carvings, one a soapstone statue of the Green Mother, Frayja, and the other a Holy Tree made of polished wood, with the upside-down body of tormented Usires upon it. Over the years, some had tried to convince her there was only one god, but Tzoja could not afford to limit the scope of her prayers.

“Please, great ones in the sky, keep my daughter Nezeru safe from harm. Do not let the shadow of death fall upon her. Do not let evil men whisper in her ear, or sing to her songs that will make her heart grow fearful.

“Reward a mother’s devotion, Lady Fray. As no one may enter your sacred bower without your permission, let nothing that means Nezeru harm approach her.” Finished, she kissed the little statue and moved on to the Tree.

“Reward a worshipper’s devotion, Lord Usires. As you gave yourself to protect us all from your Father’s wrath, protect my daughter from the wrathful ones that would harm her.”

All prayers finished, she remained on her knees for some time watching the candle flame, which stood as steady in the breezeless room as if it were carved stone. She stared until she felt almost as though she could surround herself with that flame, could wrap it around her like a magical cloak and fly away from this place. Oh, if only that were true . . . !

Tzoja fought back pointless tears, then realized with a start that she had no idea how much time she had spent gazing at the candle. The noses of her captors were so sharp that the smell of it, small as it was, might be noticed by any Hikeda’ya who entered the corridor. She licked her fingers and snuffed it, then closed the sliding panel. She was just reaching for the goatskin bundle hidden at the very back, which was now her most precious possession, when the door rattled behind her. It was all Tzoja could do to stifle a cry of fear as she tried but failed to slide the panel closed and push the bed back before the door opened.

Her master stepped in. “My shining one, what are you doing?”

She was trembling all over, her relief unable to quiet her terror. She sank down onto her bed as the high magister closed the door behind him. “Oh, my lord Viyeki, you frightened me,” she said. “I was only looking at my things, those few odds and ends you have kindly let me keep.” She prayed he would not ask to see them: she had not been able to hide the goatskin bundle.

“You have lit a candle again,” he said. “I can smell it. That is foolishness, Tzoja—dangerous foolishness.” He knelt beside her, his heavy magister’s cloak rustling. “You are shaking.”

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