Ash & Bramble

  She blinks. “I suppose I can try.” She pulls the thimble from her pocket, puts it on her finger, and crouches. With a pale, shaking hand, she reaches out to touch one of her footprints. She closes her eyes. “It’s as you said. It likes warmth better,” she murmurs. “Cold is for the Godmother.” She is silent for another long moment. Snow sifts down around them. “I think I can make it work,” she says at last.

  As he watches, a faint, warm wind swirls out from the tip of the thimble, brushing over the ground like an invisible broom. Where it touches, their footprints melt away. The wind sweeps back along their path, erasing their trail.

  Pin plucks the thimble from her finger; Shoe bends and helps her stand. “That should help,” she says, and casts him a brief smile. Seeing the grimness in his face she adds, “I know, you think we don’t have a chance.”

  “We didn’t last time,” he says.

  “I wasn’t there last time,” she reminds him.

  Yes, Shoe decides. It’s definitely better that he stays silent.

  CHAPTER

  31

  COR COMES BACK TO URGE US ON. “PEN,” HE PANTS. HIS black hair is dusted with snow. In the gray light, his eyes look pale, like ice.

  “Yes, we’re coming,” I say. Scraping up the last of my strength, I straighten my spine.

  “You need food,” Cor says, and shares some dried apples. Without speaking we eat them and then drink ice-cold water from the bottles I’ve been carrying.

  We turn to continue down the forest path when a creature, wraithlike and gray in the snow, appears on the path before us. It is man-shaped, with a dog’s muzzle bent to the ground, sniffing; on its paw-like hands and feet it wears leather booties.

  “Tracker,” Cor says, drawing his knife. “Stay behind me.”

  Seeing us, the tracker freezes. Its muzzle sniffs the air. It is wearing a sort of rough woolen jacket buckled over its belly.

  “Wait,” Shoe says from beside me. “I think—”

  A second tracker appears. It halts and cocks its head, alert.

  Cor steps forward to meet them, his whole body tense, ready to fight; it is clear he’s had training and knows what he’s doing. His knife glints in the gray light.

  “No,” Shoe says more loudly. “Stop, Cor.”

  “What are you doing?” I ask, and try to grab Shoe’s arm.

  He twists out of my grasp and pushes past Cor. “Put the knife away,” he says, and goes to the trackers, who pant up at him, their hot breath turning to smoke that wreathes their heads. “Jip, Jes,” Shoe says. He peers down the path. “Where’s your master?”

  The trackers seem to grin up at Shoe; if they had tails, they’d be wagging them.

  Shoe glances back at us. “They’re friends,” he says. He opens his mouth to say something else, when another dark shape looms out of the snow.

  It is a huge man with a bristling mustache crusted with snow and ice, a knitted cap on his head, and an ax slung across his back. Without hesitation, he seizes Shoe’s hand and shakes it, then claps his other hand on Shoe’s shoulder. “I thought it must be you,” he says in a deep, gravelly voice.

  A friend?

  Shoe turns back to me and Cor. “It’s the Huntsman.” He sees my questioning look and explains. “The one I told you about, who has the hideout in the forest.” He turns to the big man. “I didn’t think we’d find you.”

  “Well, we’ve been keeping an eye out,” he says. Both of the trackers are grinning up at him; he pats their heads. “This your girl? Pin?”

  To my profound lack of surprise, Shoe flushes. “No,” he says shortly. “Her name is Pen.”

  The Huntsman gives him a searching look, and then nods to me, then to Cor. “A prince, I’m thinking?”

  Cor nods back and sheathes his knife. “You may call me Cor,” he says.

  “Right, well,” the Huntsman says. “The forest isn’t happy about them that are tracking you. We’ve got a clear line out if we go now, and they’ll not be able to follow. Do you have another few hours in you?”

  “Yes,” I answer. I can find the strength somewhere if there’s a promise of rest and rescue at the end of it.

  “Yes, of course,” Cor adds.

  The Huntsman nods at Shoe. “He’s not running into trees yet, is he?” he asks me.

  “No,” I answer, not sure what he’s talking about.

  “Not yet,” Shoe answers.

  “Stubborn, your lad Shoe,” the Huntsman says to me.

  “I’ve noticed,” I say, and as Shoe turns an even more interesting shade of red, the Huntsman gives me a beaming smile. Suddenly I like him enormously and give him a wicked grin in return. Because Shoe is wrong—there is escape, and we have found it.

  “We’d best get on, then,” he says, and takes the water bottles from me, and both Cor’s and Shoe’s packs, and slings them over his broad shoulders. “By night you’ll have a hot fire and dinner in your bellies.”

  I WAKE UP in the morning and lie still, savoring the comfort of being warm and relatively safe, with the prospect of a good breakfast ahead of me. Far overhead is the rugged ceiling of a cave, the stone pale, like sand. Natural light is coming in from somewhere, and there are torches, too, the flickering flames making shadows dance against the cave’s rough walls. I can hear the crackle of a fire and the murmur of voices. And I can smell sausages cooking.

  I only remember snatches of the night before, trudging with my head down through the snow, the Huntsman and his trackers leading us on, Cor’s strong arm around my shoulders toward the end, helping me along. Then a climb, my fingers numb against the rungs of a ladder, and the cave and a wooden bowl full of stew that I can’t remember actually eating, and then nothing else. I must have fallen asleep.

  “She’s awake,” says a harsh-sounding voice.

  Stiff in every muscle, I sit up, pushing tangled hair out of my eyes.

  Crouched next to my blankets is a young woman whose face matches her voice. She is sturdy and short and has pockmarked brown skin and straight black hair pulled back into a braid; a jagged scar runs across her cheek almost to her ear; her dark eyes are narrowed, assessing me. She wears trousers, a close-fitting leather vest, and a shirt with the sleeves ripped off. Her bare arms ripple with muscle. “I’m Templeton,” she says, and stands. She jerks a thumb over her shoulder. “That’s Zel.” The girl she is pointing to nods at me, and I blink. She’s the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen, blonde and blue-eyed, and taller than her friend, slim, and smoothly muscled. Her hair is shaved short, revealing the cool poise of her head and her long, slender neck.

  “Breakfast?” Templeton asks.

  “Yes indeed,” I answer, and scramble out of bed. The floor of the cave is made of sand that feels soft under my bare feet.

  Templeton looks me up and down. “Expect you’d like to clean up first.” My dress is ragged around the hem and stiff with dirt and pine needles.

  But breakfast . . . ! My stomach growls.

  Templeton grins. “It’ll still be there when you’re done. Come on.” She leads me into a corner of the sleeping area—which is curtained off from the rest of the cave with blankets pinned to a rope—where there’s a wooden bucket full of water. Zel hands me a cloth and a cup full of slimy soap, and I strip down and wash, even sticking my head in to do my hair. “You’re about Zel’s size,” Templeton says, coming up with a pile of folded clothes in her arms as I’m toweling myself dry. I put the clothes on—a shirt with cloth thin from washing, a leather vest like Templeton’s that comes halfway down my thighs, and trousers, which I like, though I don’t ever remember wearing them before, only dresses. I lace up my boots again, comb my fingers through my wet hair, and feel ready for anything.

  They lead me into the rest of the cave. I can see now that the natural light is coming from a wide, flat opening high in one wall; a ladder leads down from it. In the middle of the cave is a bright fire with smoke drifting up to a natural chimney, a crack in the ceiling. People, all strangers except for Cor
and the Huntsman, are sitting around the fire on sawed-off logs for chairs. The trackers are there too, curled together with another dog; all three look up alertly as I come in. Some of the people are drinking something hot from tin cups; others are eating sausages and thick slabs of toast with cheese. My stomach growls again.

  “Good morning, Pen,” Cor says, coming up to me, taking my hand. He looks hardly affected by our long flight; even his curly hair is neatly combed.

  “Good morning,” I say, looking past him. “Is there breakfast?”

  The Huntsman gets up from his log chair. Now that he’s not wearing his woolen cap, I can see that his head is completely bald—except for his eyebrows and his drooping mustache. “There is,” he says in his deep voice, and hands me a plate of sausages and toast slathered with jam.

  “Thank you,” I say through a mouthful of toast. “How did you know I like jam?”

  “Who doesn’t like jam?” the Huntsman asks, and sits down again.

  “I don’t,” Cor says. “I prefer butter.”

  While eating and listening to the Huntsman and Cor talk about toast, and about the dog and the trackers, I look around. The other people are watching me. None of them are Shoe. I open my mouth to ask where he is, but the Huntsman beats me to it.

  “He’s out with Tobias having a scout around,” he says. “He’ll be back soon.”

  “Come and sit down, Pen,” Cor says, and guides me to a stool.

  I sit and give my breakfast the attention it deserves. The sausages are delicious. The jam is raspberry. I eat every crumb, and the Huntsman hands me a cup of something hot that is not tea. I take a sip. Coffee. Mmm. I can’t remember the last time I had coffee. I take another sip and finally pay attention to the others in the cave.

  There is the Huntsman, talking quietly with Templeton and Zel by the fire. I see four redheaded girls who must be sisters—“there used to be twelve of us,” one of them tells me—and a little hunchbacked old man with crooked fingers sits next to an old woman with a creased, smiling face. Another woman with a dress cut very low and tousled hair as if she’s just gotten up from a long sleep bends over the fire, pouring herself a cup of coffee. Farther from the fire, two men are sitting shoulder to shoulder, their knees touching. One of them is ordinary-looking; the other has a wide, ugly mouth, a flat nose, a collection of warts on his chin, and a twinkling smile in his eyes. As I look at them, the ugly one gives a welcoming nod. There are a few others, too, and they all look . . . confident, somehow. Sure of who they are.

  “He says they’re people who have escaped from Story, or were hurt by it,” Cor says to me in a low voice. “They are rebels, and the forest hides them from the Godmother.”

  “And now we’re rebels too,” I say, and drink more coffee.

  “I am a prince,” Cor corrects gently, “and I will make my way to East Oria.”

  “Story’s not going to let you escape that easily, Cor.”

  “Nevertheless,” he says. “I will go, and you should come with me. My mother, the queen, must know of these happenings.”

  I don’t answer. At the mouth of the cave, two figures are climbing inside and down the ladder. They are both wrapped in warm coats with hats and scarves over their faces; I can tell which one is Shoe by the quick competence of his movements. He and the other young man come to the fire, pulling off their hats and unwrapping their scarves.

  Shoe’s face is bright with cold; seeing me with Cor, he nods. “Good morning, Pen. Did you sleep well?”

  “I don’t remember,” I say, and smile at him. I am strangely glad to see him.

  He blinks and swallows. “Um, this is—”

  “I’m Tobias,” says the boy who came in with him. He is taller than Shoe, and broad, with straw-colored hair and brown eyes. “Marya was my girl. A seamstress, like you.”

  I give my head a little shake.

  “I told you, she doesn’t remember,” Shoe says to him. “Marya was another Seamstress in the Godmother’s fortress,” he explains. “Pin knew her.” He glances aside at Tobias, who looks away.

  Over by the fire, Templeton claps her hands loudly. The others around the fire stop talking; we all turn to face her. The Huntsman gets up from his seat and folds his arms.

  “Well now,” he says. “You’ve all seen our newcomers. Pen, there”—he points at me—“and you’ve met Shoe and Prince Cor.” The others nod.

  “The Godmother is tracking you,” Templeton adds in her harsh voice. “Any sign of them?” she asks Shoe and Tobias.

  “Nothing,” Shoe answers. “It’s cold out there, and quiet.”

  “Forest has taken care of ’em for now,” Tobias adds.

  “For now,” Templeton repeats. Her eyes narrow and she studies me and Cor and Shoe. “She doesn’t come after somebody that hard unless she’s got a good reason. Actually, we’ve never seen her this keen on a hunt. Even when she was searching for past storybreakers.”

  “What do you mean—storybreakers?” Cor asks.

  Templeton gives him a look of strong dislike. “Those who break the story they’re in,” she says disdainfully. I can almost hear the you idiot tacked on to the end of her sentence.

  “The storybreaker must be me,” I say. I pull the thimble out of my pocket and hold it up. It glimmers in the firelight. All of the others stare at it. “I can use it to do magic.”

  “Interesting,” Templeton says. “But it’s not you.” She points at Shoe. “It’s him.”

  Shoe, who has been studying the sandy floor under his feet, looks up, startled.

  “There aren’t many of us,” Templeton goes on. “Not that survive it, anyway. We’re the ones who mess things up, and the Godmother hates mess, doesn’t she? We get into Story and jam up the wheels. When the wheels get caught, they grind. We usually have scars to show for it. Right?” she asks Shoe.

  To my surprise, he nods.

  “We do it for love, mostly,” Templeton says. “But there are other reasons, too.”

  “I don’t quite understand,” Cor puts in. “Despite the amazing clarity of your explanation.” His voice is sharp enough to cut glass. “Can you give us an example?”

  “Well, like you,” Templeton says. “The pattern was set. You and Pen were supposed to fall in love at first sight, right? Girl gets prince, turns into princess? Happily ever after? And Shoe here got in the way of it.”

  “It wasn’t—” I start to interrupt.

  “We are—” Cor says at the same time.

  Shoe is looking intently at the floor again.

  “Never mind,” Templeton says, waving her hand. “I’ll give you a better example.” She nods at Zel, who, I realize, has not yet spoken a word. “Zel is gorgeous, as you can see. From birth, like an affliction. The Godmother took her away from her family, brought her here, did the thing with the thimble, you know what I mean?”

  I nod, and so does Shoe.

  “Takes her memories. Puts her in a little room in a tower like a pretty doll,” Templeton goes on. She braces her hands on her hips and I notice again the strength of her arms. “So the Godmother’s got a prince all picked out. He’ll climb up the tower, rescue her, true love, the end. Doesn’t matter what the prince really wants, or the pretty doll really wants. This is Story at work, you see?”

  Cor and I nod. Shoe, I think, has already guessed how it comes out.

  Templeton reaches out and takes Zel’s hand; Zel’s beautiful mouth quirks into a smile. “But I got there first. I’d been visiting her every night. Zel grew her hair out long as a rope.” She gives her arm muscles a proud flex. “We fell in love, and we wanted to be together, no matter Story’s intentions. So I became a storybreaker. I climbed up, cut off her hair, and we used it to escape. Had a bit of a tussle with the prince first.” She draws a finger along the scar that slashes across her cheek, and it makes me realize why she doesn’t like Cor very much—all princes are the same, to her. “The forest led us here, and here we’ve been, ever since.”

  “Not exactly a happily-
ever-after,” I say.

  “Oh, we’re happy,” Templeton says. “But it’s not Story’s ending, either.”

  Cor is shaking his head. “You call yourself a storybreaker. But Story is not actually broken, is it?”

  “Zel’s is,” Templeton puts in. “But there are lots of stories within Story. It grinds on, even when one story falls out of the pattern.”

  “What about me?” I ask, and hold up the thimble, reminding her.

  “You,” Templeton says, nodding. “It’s most likely that you are something else altogether. Where did you get that thimble?”

  “It was my mother’s,” I tell her.

  The Huntsman nods. “That’s what we figured. Your mother worked inside Story. Trying to change it from within.”

  Shoe’s head jerks up, and he stares at me as if something has clicked into place. He’s smart, I realize. Always thinking one step ahead.

  “That’s right,” Templeton says. “The Godmother works inside Story too, but her purpose is to make the right endings happen. Your mother opposed her.”

  “Pen’s mother was the Witch?” Shoe interrupts.

  Templeton cocks her head. “You’ve heard of her?”

  Shoe nods. “From Natters and his Missus. They’re friends of mine in the city. They told me how Story works and about the Godmother and the Witch.”

  My head whirls. “What does . . .” My voice shakes. “What does that mean, that she was a witch?”

  “Not a witch,” Templeton corrects. “The Witch. Your mother worked inside the stories, trying to prevent Story from gaining too much power. She did it by turning the Godmother’s strengths against her. The Godmother likes thorny brambles—so your mother became the bad fairy, and used brambles to hide the sleeping girl in a tower, to protect her from any man passing by.” Across the fire from me, the woman in the low-cut dress nods. So she was the sleeping girl? Templeton goes on. “The Godmother likes turning people into animals, so your mother used her thimble to turn a prince into a frog, to hide him from Story’s intentions so that he could find out who truly loved him.”

  “And it wasn’t a princess, either,” puts in the man across the fire, the ordinary one who is sitting next to the man with the ugly, flat face. Had he been the frog?