Lost in their own private thoughts, everyone began drifting to their own beds. Elena stood up, heading for her cot in the next room, but Mycelle’s voice stopped her. Elena glanced back at her.
Mycelle stood before Kral, her riding packs over one shoulder. “Take this. You may need it.”
Kral stared sourly at what her palm held. He glanced up into her eyes. “Then I’ll need two,” he said. “In case I do find Meric.”
Nodding, Mycelle reached into a pocket of her riding pack.
Elena turned away, her heart shuddering. She recognized the pair of objects Aunt My was giving Kral: two jade pendants carved in the shape of tiny vials.
LATER THAT NIGHT, as the other members were settled into their beds, Mogweed still fiddled with his bags atop his cot, checking to be sure he had what he would need for the days ahead. As he fished through the contents, he pushed aside a dog’s muzzle made of iron. Long ago, he had collected it from the remains of the sniffer that had attacked Fardale in the og’re’s mountain domain. The chains clinked as Mogweed moved it aside. He glanced up. No eyes turned in his direction.
As he continued his search, his fingers brushed against the black stone of a shallow bowl buried deep in his personal pack. Mogweed had discovered the artifact among Vira’ni’s belongings in the foothill camp and had stolen it. At his touch, the bowl grew colder, almost icy. There was something strangely thrilling about its stone surface.
Still, he pushed the bowl aside. He did not know if the iron muzzle or the bowl would ever prove useful, but he was a pack rat and collected what interested him. He continued his search.
His fingers wormed through the other contents: a moldy acorn from the dead rimwood forest; a broken string from Nee’lahn’s lute; a sliver of windstone from Meric, given as a thank-you for saving his life. Finally, he discovered what he wanted—a small hide satchel hidden in the deepest corner of his pack.
His fingers wrapped around the bulging pouch.
He had not lost it!
He clasped his prize a moment, not even daring to remove the satchel to confirm its contents. He could not risk someone seeing him. He allowed himself a small smile in the darkness. His interminable wait was finally over. The time to act had finally come.
Though he didn’t know how his other collectibles would ever prove useful, here was something that would prove invaluable. With a seeker here in Shadowbrook, someone close to the lord of this land, Mogweed sensed a rare opportunity. If he could guide this seeker to Elena, give the wit’ch over to the Dark Lord while her magicks were choked by the vines, then perhaps as a boon, this king of black magicks might break the curse on Mogweed’s body, freeing his trapped spirit to shift again, to embrace his si’luran heritage—and finally be free of his twin brother!
For a moment, he thought of Fardale. He remembered his brother’s praise for his decision to stay. A flash of shame passed through his heart, but he hardened his will. Fardale was a fool. Time was running short. If they didn’t find a way to rid their bodies of the curse, then in less than four moons their forms would settle forever into their current shapes.
Mogweed stared down at his wan figure. That must not happen!
He let the satchel drop back into his pack. He must be brave these next few days. He must find this seeker hidden behind these demon rats and offer what he held in his pack: the shorn hair of Elena, proof of a wit’ch.
18
FROM THE END of the longest pier, Elena stared at the river. The dawn was too bright and cheery for such a somber departing, mocking the heavy hearts gathered at Shadowbrook’s docks.
The night’s storms had washed away the early-morning fog, and sunlight sparkled on the wide expanse of the river, a green snake that twisted toward where the sun rose. Across the river, a pair of alabaster cranes took flight, the tips of their wide wings tapping the water as they flew low across the sluggish current. Tall, bobbing reeds waved in the calm delta breezes that traveled up from the distant coast. Elena caught even a scent of sea salt in the crisp morning. She drew her cloak tighter around her. The morning still had an edge of the night’s chill, but from the clear skies, the summer sun would soon bake away the slight nip in the air.
Behind her, the town was already awake, intruding on the peace of the river morning. The gruff shouts of barge captains cracked across the waters as bales and crates were loaded. Snatches of work songs rose like vapors from the river as dock men hauled cargo and sailors secured the barges that were due to set sail today. The excited voices of passengers and families were like so many chirping birds around Elena.
Yet one voice broke through the cacophony. Kral was speaking to Er’ril. “So you’ll take the river to the coast? To the city of Land’s End?”
Mycelle answered him, interrupting any response from the plainsman. “Our specific plans are best left to our own. If you’re captured . . . well . . .” She did not have to finish her statement. If captured, their plans could be tortured or magicked from Kral.
At these words, a sudden worry arose in Elena. She turned her back on the bright river and faced the others clustered on the dock. “If they don’t know where we’re going,” she said, drawing their attention, “how will we ever meet up again?”
“I’ve been thinking on that,” Er’ril said. “If we—”
“We must travel separate paths,” Mycelle said dismissively. “It’s too risky. If we meet by luck, then we meet. If not . . .” Mycelle shrugged.
Elena stared at Kral, Tol’chuk, and Mogweed. Tears choked her words. “But—?”
Er’ril placed a hand on Elena’s arm. “Hear me out first.” He stared at Mycelle, then fished a folded map from a pocket and knelt on the ironwood dock. Spreading the map, he pinned it to the wood with one of his throwing daggers. The delta breeze tugged at the parchment’s edges. “Gather around me.”
“Careful what you say, plainsman,” Mycelle warned as she came closer.
Er’ril scowled at her. He used a second dagger to gesture vaguely to his map. “I have a friend who lives on a lonely stretch of the coast; I won’t say precisely where. That is where I plan to take Elena. We will rest, then hire a boat to travel to the Archipelago.” He raised his eyes to the trio who would remain behind to search for Meric. With his dagger, he pointed to a small town on the coast, its name scrawled in tiny letters.
Elena leaned down closer to read the name: Port Rawl.
“If we make it to safety,” Er’ril continued, “this is our rendezvous. In exactly one moon’s time, I will send Mycelle to look for you in Port Rawl.”
“I know that place,” Kral said with a scowl. “Swamptown. Not an easy place to meet.”
“I’ve been there before,” Mycelle said. A hard glint entered her eyes, confirming the mountain man’s words.
Elena studied the map, understanding now how the town had earned its nickname. The city was nestled in the center of the Drowned Lands, a pie-shaped wedge of coastline that lay lower than the surrounding countryside. Fed by rivers flowing down into it from the higher lands, it looked to be a desolate, inhospitable region of bogs, fens, and swamps, bordered to the east by brackish coastal marshes and locked from the higher lands of Alasea by a ring of towering cliffs called the Landslip. From anything she had ever heard, only the foolhardy traveled those poisonous, snake-infested lands.
The only town that laid claim to this territory was Port Rawl. Even Elena had heard tales of Swamptown. With its natural isolation and easy access to the maze of the Archipelago islands, it had become a haven for thieves, cutthroats, and those simply wishing to disappear from the world. It was less a town than a shabby gathering place for pirates and other hard men. Murderous tales of the warring castes that ruled the town and its ill-gotten bounties had thrilled many a cold winter’s night for Elena and her brother.
“Why meet there?” Kral asked sourly. He cradled his bandaged hand.
“No one asks questions in Port Rawl,” Er’ril answered. “Curiosity gets one killed in Swamptown.”
>
It was an old adage. Those words ended many tragic tales about the town.
“And where should we meet?” Tol’chuk asked. “Do you know an inn?”
“None I would dare recommend,” Er’ril said. “Just find a spot and wait. Mycelle will search you out with her seeker’s instinct.” He glanced up at the woman to confirm his statement.
Mycelle nodded. “I’ll also be able to tell if any of you’ve been corrupted here in Shadowbrook. The stench of black magicks is easy to sniff on one who has been turned.”
Elena straightened from her crouch over the map. “Then you’ll do it, Aunt My?”
“If I must. Er’ril’s plan is sound enough. If these others become tainted, I will know it from a distance and avoid contact. Even if they catch me in some trap—” She fingered the pendant through her thin shirt. “—they will learn nothing from me.”
Her words both chilled and comforted Elena. Since she and Joach had been chased from their home in Winterfell, this motley band had become her family. She did not want to see them cast to the winds, separated forever. Still, as much as the thought of reuniting with the others bolstered her spirit, the way Mycelle clutched the poison pendant spoke of the danger that lay ahead for all of them.
Er’ril yanked free his dagger and refolded his map. “We should be loading on the barge now,” he said, staring meaningfully at the others.
Kral nodded and stepped away. Even the name of their barge had been kept a secret from the others. Tol’chuk and Mogweed began to follow Kral.
“Wait!” Elena ran up to Kral and wrapped her arms around his waist, hugging him tight. The mountain man was so wide that her arms could not reach completely around him. She leaned her cheek into his belly. “Come back to me,” she whispered to his belt.
Kral’s voice thickened. “No tears, Elena.” He patted her head with his good hand, then broke her embrace and knelt before her. “My people are nomads. When we break our winter’s camp, we don’t say teary good-byes to each other. We say ‘To’bak nori sull corum.’ ”
Elena wiped at the tears in her eyes. “What does that mean?”
Kral placed a finger on Elena’s chest. “ ‘You are in my heart until the roads wind us back home.’ ”
Sniffing, Elena could not trust her voice. She just nodded and hugged him again. Then she went to the others.
Tol’chuk whispered in her ear as she hugged him, his breath tickling her neck. “I’ll watch over them. They will come to no harm.” Elena smiled gratefully at him. She left him so he could say his good-byes to Mycelle. Mother and son had spoken alone for a good part of the night, and Mycelle’s eyes now shone brightly with threatened tears as they hugged.
Elena approached Mogweed. The shape-shifter was his usual awkward self, plainly uncomfortable with her attention. He squeezed her once and stepped back. He nodded to his brother, touching Fardale briefly on his head before retreating. Mogweed’s eyes met Elena’s for a brief moment. “We will meet again,” he said.
Though his words were meant to reassure, Elena had a sudden foreboding. Here on this dock was the end of something. From here, different fires would forge each of them. When next they met, none would be the same.
Fardale nudged at her hand, and she absently scratched him behind an ear. The wolf sensed her pain and wished to share it. Beside her, Er’ril and Mycelle stared as the others left the docks and headed into the streets of Shadowbrook.
“To’bak nori sull corum,” Elena whispered as she lost sight of her friends.
ER’RIL SUPERVISED THE loading of their horses onto the barge; once they reached the coast, they would need their mounts again. The barge was a wide, low-slung ship with a makeshift corral for the animals built in the center. At first, the captain was reluctant to allow the beasts on his ship, but the quantity and quality of Mycelle’s coin quickly changed his mind.
From the rail of the barge, Elena and the swordswoman watched as Er’ril and the dockworkers worried the horses up the planking onto the ship. Elena’s mare, Mist, went first with little trouble, easily led by a proffered apple in the palm of one of the workers. Mycelle’s golden-skinned gelding put up more of a fight until a stern word yelled from the rail by Mycelle quickly doused the fire in the horse. The beast was then led by halter up the planking to the corral.
Er’ril’s stallion, though, proved most stubborn. Collected from the hunters murdered by Vira’ni in the foothill camp, it had still not bonded well to Er’ril, even after the long journey across the plains of Standi. He had selected the mount for himself because he knew good horseflesh. With its wide withers and thick neck, the bloodlines of this beast could be clearly traced to the great wild horses of the Northern Steppes, a most hardy and fierce breed. Its color also spoke its heritage: a dappling of golds, blacks, and silvers on a field of white, an inbred camouflage to blend with the snowy fields and rocks of the steppes.
While two dockhands hauled on a lead from the front, Er’ril took the risky position near the horse’s rear. He had his hand wrapped around the base of its tail and was twisting the tail up, trying to drive the horse forward. Each step was hard-won, and when a step was lost as the horse retreated, the dockworkers swore their frustration.
“Use a whip on it!” the captain yelled from the bow of the ship. He was a squat man with short, muscular limbs who always seemed to be tossing his arms in the air at the antics of his crew. He was doing so now. “We lose the light with this fool’s pursuit!”
A crewman ran up with a switch in his fist.
“Strike my horse,” Er’ril said coldly, “and I’ll plant that whip so far up your arse you’ll be tasting that switch for years.”
The deckhand hesitated. When the man saw the serious glint in Er’ril’s gray eyes, he backed away.
Turning his attention back to his mount, Er’ril found the stallion staring back at him. It studied Er’ril for a moment, then snorted and tossed its head; with no further coaxing, the great beast clambered the planking onto the barge.
Er’ril led the horse to the corral and made sure that all the water buckets were full, that the hay was fresh, and that their grain buckets were not overflowing. It wouldn’t do to have the horses get colic while on board. Satisfied, he patted his mount on the nose and crossed to join the others.
“We’re all set,” he said as he approached the group by the rail. While Er’ril had bedded down the horses, the barge captain had joined Mycelle and Elena. Elena had one hand on Fardale’s neck, absently running her gloved fingers through his ruff.
“Then we can be off!” the captain said. His face was flushed as he stalked away. Obviously whatever discussion he had been sharing with Mycelle had upset him, but Er’ril imagined the woman had that effect on most people.
Er’ril nodded to where the captain was blustering for his deckhands to cast off from the pier, his arms already shaking at the skies. “What were you talking about?”
Mycelle waved the question away. “He wanted full payment for the trip to Land’s End in advance.” She shook her head and turned to study the scurrying workers on the docks. “How dare he think me such a fool?”
“When you flash so much silver,” Er’ril said, “you’re bound to entice their greed.”
Mycelle turned around to face Er’ril. She leaned against the rail as the crew began to use long poles to push away from the docks. “You think me such a fool, too,” she said, her gaze sharp. “It was with forethought that I was so generous with my purse. Here among the poorly paid workers, talk of a rich couple and their son—” She laid a hand on Elena’s shoulder. “—voyaging to Land’s End will have spread along the docks. It is a good disguise in which to hide Elena. Like your circus, it is sometimes best to hide in the open.”
Er’ril could not fault her logic, but tried anyway. “Then to maintain this ruse, shouldn’t we just pay this captain our passage in full?”
Mycelle frowned at him. “And pay him for a voyage we are not taking?” She snorted. “Now who’s the fool?” r />
Er’ril lowered his voice. “So then you’re still considering my plan, the one that we discussed last night: to swap barges along the way.” He repeated his arguments from the night before. “It’s over an eight-day journey to the coast, and though changing barges may slow us down, it will help shake any dogs from our trail.”
Mycelle just stared at him. “That’s a daft plan,” she finally said, ignoring Er’ril’s darkening expression. “I have no intention of ever taking Elena to Land’s End.”
“Then what—?” His voice was sharp enough to draw the attention of a nearby deckhand.
“Watch your tongue, plainsman,” Mycelle warned.
Er’ril bit his lip to keep from another outburst.
Once the deckhand had wandered away and their corner of the ship was empty, Mycelle continued. Wisely, she still kept her voice low. “In two days’ time, we will off-load from the barge and head south to the Landslip.”
“The Landslip? But to follow the cliffs to the coast will take almost an entire moon.”
“We’re not going to follow the cliffs. We’re going to descend them.”
Er’ril’s hand clenched into a fist. Surely, this woman was mad! “You mean to take Elena into the Drowned Lands? Nothing lives among those treacherous swamps and bogs but creatures of poison. Not even trappers or hunters venture far into there.”
“You are wrong,” Mycelle said. “One person lives within the deep swamps: an elemental of strong magicks. I have sensed her in the past as I ventured along the Landslip. With the help of a swamp guide, I once tried to reach her, but she is sly and her lands confounding. After seven days, with my guide near death from an adder’s poison, I was forced to flee the swamps. I figured if I couldn’t reach her, then neither could the seekers of the Dark Lord. So I left her on her own, believing I would never need to search for her again.”
Mycelle paused as a pair of deckhands passed, hauling and rolling lines of rope.