Here be Monsters

CHAPTER 5

“What indeed?” Cordelia finally met her gaze.

“It could not be a will o’ the wisp,” Quicksilver said, “or any other sort of marsh-fire, for they would recognize such things and avoid them.”

“Or banish them,” Cordelia agreed. “No, something has clouded their minds quite thoroughly.”

“What could so becloud a warlock’s mind?” Quicksilver’s brows drew down.

“Only a spell that they knew not of,” Allouette answered.

Quicksilver gave her a wary look. “How could such a thing be done, lady?”

Allouette reddened, realizing that in Quicksilver’s mind she was the authority on underhanded tricks, sneaky strategies, and hidden betrayals. Well, she deserved that—and the cure that Gwendylon had begun in her did not remove her knowledge. “Cast an enchantment on him while he is distracted,” she said.

“You mean while Gregory sits in meditation?”

“No, even in that state he is aware of the world about him,” Allouette said impatiently. “It would have to be a charm laid upon him when he is in the midst of battle, or when he has discovered a new idea in study.”

“Or when he has found a few minutes alone with you, I’ll warrant,” Quicksilver said.

Allouette paled. “You do not think that I would betray him now!”

“I do not,” Quicksilver returned, “but I do think that you can distract him and hold his attention far better than anything save battle.”

“Oh, study can—”

“He would far rather study your lips and eyes than any book,” Cordelia said with asperity.

“Well . . . there’s some truth to that.” Allouette tried to hide her smile, then lifted her head and said sharply, “But if any sought to enchant him while I was with him, I would know it and turn upon them!”

Cordelia’s head snapped up. “Do you say that you are not as riveted to him as he to you?”

“Even when we have time alone,” Allouette countered, “his well-being is my prime concern.”

Cordelia studied her a moment, then nodded. “I believe you—and that is a wholesale conversion indeed.”

“Why, because I sought his downfall?” Allouette asked sardonically. “Believe me, lady, that is all the more reason why I am determined to ward him now!”

“I wish you all luck in doing so,” Cordelia answered. “Truly, if the two of you are each intent on the other’s well-being, it should be a thriving marriage.”

Surprised, Allouette searched her face for signs of sarcasm or mockery, but there were none.

“I do not think, though,” said Quicksilver, “that you were the cause of his distraction in this. Indeed, this confusion-spell was laid upon him as the moutaineers kidnapped you.”

“Yes, that would hold his attention,” Cordelia agreed. “As to Alain and Geoffrey, battle of any kind would suffice to distract them.”

“So some enchanter has clouded their minds unbeknownst and leads them about in circles,” Quicksilver concluded.

“How certain a circle, think you?” Allouette asked. “Have we only to wait here ere they return once more?”

Quicksilver studied the ground. “The tracks are too old; they returned only twice, and the most recent was hours ago. No, whatever malicious spirit leads them, it has taken them farther into the wildwood.”

An awful thought struck Allouette. “Quickly, let us follow! It may be they travel toward the mountaineers’ home!”

The other two looked up, astonished. Then Quicksilver said, “That would be a good tactic, yes.”

Cordelia’s eyes were frightened, but she said, “If they are merely befuddled, not led . . .”

“They might still strike the mountaineers’ trail and follow it!” Allouette cried. “Especially since they seek me!”

Cordelia paled, then nodded. “Yes, let us track them.” She turned away with renewed purpose.

“Come, summon resolution!” Geoffrey clapped Gregory on the shoulder. “If you love the lass, trace their tracks and steal her back!”

Gregory’s face hardened. He rose, taut and determined. “Even as you say. Come, let us follow in their wake.”

He started forward, but Geoffrey caught his sleeve. “Softly, brother. They may be baiting a trap.”

Gregory froze, then gave a single nod. “Lead on, sir knight.”

Geoffrey took the lead. Alain, in prudence, fell in behind Gregory—if the scholar should do something rash, he intended to be handy to stop him.

Geoffrey led them in among the trees but within sight of the furrow the mountaineers had ploughed in the grass. Up the hillside they went, and the trees closed over the grassland.

Geoffrey stopped. “Ward me, gentlemen. I must walk in their steps now, for I shall not be able to see their tracks so far from the side.”

“All should be well,” Alain said, “so long as we go deliberately and with all due care. After all, they cannot ambush a telepath.”

Geoffrey gazed ahead, eyes losing focus for a few seconds; then he nodded. “They still flee. They have not yet thought to surprise us.”

“Not the ones whose thoughts you read,” Alain reminded him. “There may be others who have learned to hide what they are thinking.”

“That is somewhat sophisticated for a rough mountaineer,” Geoffrey said, “but so is their manner of ambush, or we’d not have fallen prey to it. Well, we shall walk warily.”

Gregory tried reading the kidnappers’ thoughts too, and anger burned in his eyes when he heard them.

“Do not deny them some feeling of triumph, brother,” Geoffrey said gently. “They shall not have it long.”

“No, they shall not!” Gregory glared at the trees ahead as though he could see through them to the kidnappers.

Geoffrey looked down and walked forward, tracking their enemies. Uphill they went, through the trees, with Gregory and Alain vigilant and ready for the slightest sign of danger. Then the ground began to fall away. They walked downhill steadily, until the trees thinned.

“Now we come to a clearing!” Gregory drew his wand, eyes flashing.

“But why do their thoughts still seem to come from a distance?” Geoffrey wondered.

They crept forth from the trees and had their answer. Gregory stared about him, slack-jawed. “We are back where we were ambushed! How could they lay so false a trail so quickly?”

“Is it false?” Alain asked. “Listen to every thought, wizards, whether it be of earthworm, squirrel, or bird! If a woodsman can call like a jay, he may be able to think like one, too!”

“Well thought,” Geoffrey said with surprised approval. Alain was the very soul of fairness, loyalty, and truth; he was steady as a rock, clear-headed in a crisis, and had an unimpeachable sense of judgment—but not much insight. Geoffrey hoped he was learning, although he had to admit Alain’s qualities were far more important to the monarch he would one day be, than great intelligence.

Gregory looked very pensive for several minutes, then shook his head. “None are near.”

“Then how did they lay a trail back here?” Geoffrey exploded. He hated being tricked.

They were still for a few minutes, looking at one another and trying to make sense of it. Then Alain said, “Was it truly them?”

“Who else could it have been?” Geoffrey asked with a frown.

“Some forest spirit?” Gregory gazed off into the woods. “It could be. I hear none, but magical creatures might guard their thoughts well.”

“If they have them,” Geoffrey said in disgust. “They may simply follow impulses.”

“You mean some sprite has led us astray on a whim?” Alain looked skeptical.

“Puck would,” Geoffrey pointed out.

“But he is our friend.”

“Not above playing tricks on a comrade, though. Besides, there are several other kinds of supernatural beings who think it is the height of humor to watch mortals go astray—especially if those mortals are in some haste, for hurry is a concept the faerie-folk lack.”

“Let us assume the worst and take it to be something of the sort,” Alain proposed. “Follow those tracks again, Geoffrey, and we shall see if there is a body to go with those footprints.”

They went off into the woods again, Geoffrey glancing keenly from the ground to the bushes and trunks around, alert for every slightest sign that someone had passed that way. He no longer watched for the path of a mass of people, but for the traces that a single being might have made in passing.

“How shall you distinguish between false tracks made by one sprite,” Alain asked, “and true ones made by a dozen human feet?”

“There is no sure way,” Geoffrey replied, “but the lone spirit might leave his own true track somewhere, which would not match the mortal ones—or have left a mark upon a tree trunk or broken a twig, in places mortals would not reach.”

“Then too,” said Gregory, “he might have been seen by a bird or fox or squirrel, so I shall read the mind of each as I come by.”

“If the one who saw him is still near,” Alain said, musing. “You cannot scan the mind of every dweller of this forest.”

“There is that,” Gregory admitted.

They followed Geoffrey deeper into the wood. This time, though, they noticed when they began to go downhill again.

“I have an unpleasant feeling about this,” Alain said.

“And I a rather wrathful one,” Geoffrey said, lips pressed thin.

“Let us press ahead quickly,” Gregory urged. “If we go where we think, there is no need for caution.”

“Our enemies would love to hear you say that!” Geoffrey answered, but he hurried forward too, sparing only glances for the tracks he followed.

They burst through the screen of leaves into the same churned-up clearing from which they had first come. Alain and Gregory listened with respect as Geoffrey set about cursing their unknown misguiding spirit with a vocabulary that was an eloquent testimony to the amount of time he had spent in the troopers’ barracks, learning their modes of fighting.

When he ran down, Alain offered, “We know in which direction our attackers fled. Let us follow a landmark that lies in that quarter.”

“Scarcely proof against a truly wily spirit,” Geoffrey growled, “but I know no better way.”

“It should serve,” said Alain, “though a goblin that could lay a false trail would also prove capable of setting up a false landmark, and moving it subtly to lead us even more astray.”

Gregory shook his head. “To make us think we see a mountain peak that is not really there would take substantial meddling with our minds. Distracted I may be, but I think I would detect such interference nonetheless.”

Alain nodded. “Onward, then.”

A third time, the trio set off to follow the original tracks of the mountaineers. Geoffrey pointed at a twisted rock on the summit of the slope. “Yon is our guide—like a monk with a hood.”

Alain nodded judiciously. “Brother Boulder shall be our quarry, then. We march!”

Whatever their misguiding spirit was, it didn’t succeed against determined line-of-sight navigation. An hour passed and they still had not come back to the clearing. On the other hand, they hadn’t reached the crest yet, either—the land fell away in a gully, one that twisted and turned like a double-jointed snake, forming curves and oxbows. At the bottom, way down, they saw water purling.

“What a poxy place to put a river!” Geoffrey said, exasperated. “Has our misguider found a way to lay a barrier in our path?”

“No, this stream has been here many years,” Alain said, “very many. See how it curves and twists?”

Geoffrey looked back over the course and nodded. “So many meanders mean years of water-flow—and it has cut thirty feet down into the soil.”

“ ’Tis an ancient river indeed,” Gregory agreed.

“Well, there’s no help for it—we shall have to climb down and find a ford.”

“How did the mountaineers pass it?” Alain asked.

“Most likely by a bridge they know of, and we do not,” Geoffrey answered, “or perhaps by climbing down, even as we do, but with slabs of rock placed as steps and camouflaged.”

Alain nodded. “We could spend our last few hours of daylight seeking such a place. Well, down we go!”

It was a skidding and perilous descent, for the bank was steep; the river had cut its own ravine. They caught at saplings and low branches and tried to discover roots to use as footholds. More quickly than they would have wanted, but with only one or two falls, they came to the riverbank.

“Yonder is our crossing!” Geoffrey cried, pointing to a large raft moored to a tree. A cable was tied above it, stretching across the river and running through two large holes in the raft’s railing. “It may be that this is the mountaineers’ route, after all!”

“It would seem you have guessed better than you knew,” Alain agreed. “Let us bring our horses aboard and shove off.”

The horses weren’t all that happy about such infirm footing, but they were well-trained war steeds, so they went. Gregory untied the painter while Alain and Geoffrey held fast to the cable. Gregory leaped aboard and prince and knight started hauling on the hawser.

“A novel idea, and a good one,” Gregory said, nodding in pleasure. “The ride is quite smooth.”

As soon as he had said it, they neared the middle of the river and the current caught the raft. Gregory and Alain shouted as the railing strained against the cable. Suddenly hauling was much more difficult.

Gregory went to the forward rail, peering out at the river. “Whence came such a sudden current?”

“From nearing the middle of the river, brother!” Geoffrey panted.

“ ’Tis not so broad a stream as that,” Gregory said. “It must have been . . .” He caught his breath, pointing, then managed to call out, “Hold! Freeze! Avaunt! Danger lies ahead!”

“What manner of danger?” Geoffrey turned, eyes alight at the prospect of action—and saw the circle of water in midriver, a circle that expanded and deepened into a funnel even as they watched, pulling the waters toward it, pulling every bit of floating wood toward it—including the raft.

Suddenly the rude craft was straining against its cable.

“Surely many have survived this before!” Alain called over the roaring of the water.

“Not if this whirlpool comes solely for our benefit!” Geoffrey called back. “Pull, Alain! Back to shore!”

They hauled as hard as they could, muscles bulging with the effort, but they might as well have been playing tug-of-war with a mountain; the raft stayed obstinately in midriver. Gregory ran to throw his weight against the current, pulling on the hawser with his new and powerful muscles, but even as he did, the whirlpool widened to its fullest diameter, its outer rim almost under the raft, and the roaring pressure strengthened. Gregory gave a quick glance down the funnel as it widened enough to show slimy mud at the bottom—and a bulb-bodied creature the size of a pony, with great buck teeth and burning eyes glaring up at them while its broad flat tail stirred the water to make the whirlpool and keep it formed. “Yonder is the spirit who has led us! ’Tis the afanc!”

Wood groaned from strain.

“Beware!” Geoffrey cried. “The whirlpool’s pull may break the cable!”

But it wasn’t the cable that broke—it was the railing. Wood burst apart with cracks like explosions and the raft surged toward the whirlpool. As they began to swing about it in a circle, the horses screamed, fighting to be free.

“Hold their heads!” Geoffrey cried in agony. “If they leap from here, they shall slide down the funnel and be drowned!”

“Peace, peace, my beauties,” Alain soothed. He held all three reins tight in one hand and stroked the beasts’ necks with the other. “We shall not capsize, for we have two powerful wizards with us. Endure in patience. There now, beasts so brave in battle cannot be afraid of a little water!”

On and on he went, and his soothing tone calmed the horses at least a little. They stopped fighting, but their eyes still rolled in fear.

Resolutely, Alain drew his sword. “Cold Iron is the bane of all creatures of faerie! If I can wound it badly enough to make it stop stirring the waters, we may live to swim to the surface.”

“If we can strike it.” Geoffrey, too, drew his sword, holding his horse’s bridle with his left hand, eyes fixed to his enemy the afanc. “Creatures supernatural have ways of evading our blows.”

“ ’Tis so,” Alain said heavily, then turned to Gregory. “You who have studied so much of faerie lore—can you not destroy this creature with your mind?”

“I have been willing it to dissolve,” Gregory said, face taut with strain, “but some other power holds it bound in form.” He raised his voice, shouting above the roar of the whirlpool. “Spirit of this river, hear! Come before us, we pray—appear! Your stream is invaded by a spirit impure! Banish it swiftly so your river endures!”

“But surely the afanc is the spirit of this river!” Alain cried in despair.

The raft tilted sharply and water cascaded down upon them. The horses screamed and fought the reins. The only thing that kept them on their feet was centripetal force.

“Aroint thee, malignant spirit!” cried a rusty but vibrant voice, and a woman broke through the wall of the whirlpool—an old woman, withered and wrinkled, hands hooked to claw the afanc. Her skin was olive-colored and her hair like silvered seaweed, floating about her head and shot with sparks. Her trailing green gown seemed to be made of river-weeds, and her eyes burned with anger. “Begone, monstrous creature! Get you hence! Away from my waters; pollute them no more with your pestilential presence!”

The afanc made a ratcheting noise, gathering itself to pounce—but the water-wraith sprang first, nails growing into claws even as she plummeted to the bottom of the funnel, claws that sank into the afanc’s neck. It screamed and bit in a frenzy, whipping about, trying to shake the crone loose. Its huge incisors sank into her shoulder but she only laughed. “Can you hurt the water? Can you damage the foam? Forfend, foolish furball! Go away! Get you home!”

But the afanc kept trying to shake her loose, its whole body whipping back and forth. Its broad tail ceased to stir the waters, and with a roar the whirlpool fell in upon itself, burying wraith and monster both and drenching the men and their mounts. The horses’ screams ended in gurgling, but their owners grabbed frantically for their nostrils, covering the velvet noses. The horses kicked out, but the raft rose beneath them, bearing them all back up to the surface. It popped into the sunshine, pitching from side to side. It was all the three could do to keep their feet. The horses tossed their heads, gulping air, and fought the reins frantically, hooves slipping on the sodden deck.

“Gently, O Prince of Horses, gently!” Geoffrey crooned. “The monster’s buried in the tide; you have naught now to fear!”

“All is safe, they are gone!” Gregory assured his mount in what he hoped was a soothing tone. “The river-mother has ousted the afanc and we are safe.”

“Aye, gallant warhorse, you have every cause for pride,” Alain assured his steed. “You have borne up nobly, you have faced the river-demon with stalwart courage! Be at ease, be placid!”

Slowly the horses calmed, even though the waves rocked them, slowly subsiding, but moving them even more quickly than they had planned toward the far shore. The steeds were almost restored when the raft struck the riverbank, nearly jolting them off their feet. Hooves scrabbled and men clung frantically to reins, voices rising in assurance all over again. Quickly they led the horses off the raft and sagged against rocks and tree trunks, striving to catch their breath.

“I had thought we would certainly be drowned!” Gregory said in a tremulous voice.

“I, too,” Alain seconded. “How did you know the afanc was not this river’s true spirit, Gregory?”

“Because it so resembles a beaver, Alain,” the younger brother said, “and beavers never stay overlong in any one river. They build their dams, eat all the fish their ponds catch, hibernate, waken, and move on.”

“True,” Geoffrey said thoughtfully. “They are visitors to any stream.”

“Then too,” Gregory said, “I suspect the spirits of every stream it visited chased it away whenever they found it, just as this one did.”

“A point,” Geoffrey said, frowning. “Therefore it would be feign to attack anything living that came in or on the water, would it not?”

“There is sense in that,” Alain said judiciously. “If the creature were supernatural, a surprise attack might win, and if it were mortal, it would be good to eat.”

“What a charming beast!” Gregory said with a shudder.

“Let us be glad the water-woman was not beguiled.” Geoffrey gave Gregory a narrow look. “I had not realized you knew the habits of beavers. How came you by such knowledge of game, O Scholar?”

Gregory smiled. “When I was a lad, I wished to learn all I could about everything, O Hunter. Do you not remember chiding me for spending long hours gazing at the river and whole days wandering the woodlands?”

“Truly, I do not remember saying it,” Geoffrey said ruefully. “So that was study? And all these years I had thought you had gone off to brood!”

“To meditate, perhaps,” Gregory said with a smile, “but not to brood.” He glanced back at the water. “I had thought this stream was old, for it has many ox-bow curves—but I had not realized it was ancient!”

“Certainly its spirit was,” Alain agreed, “but nonetheless powerful.”

“Old or young, I bless that river-crone for safe deliverance.” Geoffrey raised his voice. “Dame of the waters, we thank you for kind rescue!”

“May your stream always be pure,” Alain called, “and your watershed well-forested!”

They watched the river, half expecting the water-wraith to rise from the stream to scold them for being so foolish as to take a raft that was far too convenient. The stream only flowed past them, though, still choppy, but with no sign of supernatural intervention.

“Do you think the afanc set the raft in place for us?” Alain asked, frowning.

“We should have realized that the mountaineers would not have left us the means of passage,” Geoffrey said, chagrined.

“But the afanc had no hands!” Alain protested. “How could it have bound the tree trunks together?”

They were silent, staring at one another for a few minutes. Then Geoffrey stated the logical conclusion: “It had help, of course.”

“Surely,” Gregory agreed. “If the mountaineers are willing to aid an invading army for the promise of land, why would not one of their number be willing to aid the afanc against us?”

“Only one?” Alain asked, frowning.

“A witch-moss crafter,” Gregory explained, “for that raft was not built before the afanc sensed us nearing.”

“Either that, or the mountaineers did use it and have for weeks or years,” Geoffrey objected, “and the afanc needed only to push it back to the near shore in order to set its trap.”

The three were silent again, testing the idea. Then Gregory asked, “How did it tie the mooring rope?”

Geoffrey frowned. “You do not think the beast was telekinetic, do you?”

“That it tied the knot with its mind?” Gregory smiled. “Why not? Some ancestral projective telepath did craft Puck with all his magical powers. Why could not his descendant make witch-moss into a monster that was itself an esper?”

“An esper making an esper!” Geoffrey shook his head. “I shall have to think that one over for some days, brother! But let us mount and ride on, for I do not relish the thought of spending the night by that stream.”

“Nor I,” Alain said with a shiver.

Thus they led their horses up out of the ravine and on to the top of the slope, looking warily about them every foot of the way.

“The swine!” Cordelia jammed her fists on her hips and glared at the raft on the far side of the river. “To leave their craft where we could not reach it!”

“Patience, good lady,” Allouette advised. “Surely they do not know that you follow them . . .”

“Well, they should know!”

“. . . and Gregory thinks he is following me,” Allouette finished smoothly.

“There’s some truth in that,” Quicksilver allowed. “Not enough to excuse them, mind you, but some.”

Never in her wildest imaginings had Allouette dreamed she would be the voice of reason.

“Still, it is no great feat to bring it back.” Cordelia stared at the raft. After a moment, it lurched free of the bank and began to move toward them.

“How does it compare to a broomstick?” Quicksilver asked.

“Most unwieldy,” Cordelia answered. “Still, you have given me a thought—perhaps we should fly.”

“What, poor three of us, and three horses into the bargain? You would be worn out in minutes!”

Cordelia didn’t argue; indeed, her brows drew down in a scowl of concentration, and she muttered, “Water’s resistance is most maddening.”

“And wearying.” Quicksilver hiked up her skirts and waded into the river to catch the raft one-handed. “Aid me, Allouette!”

“I am here.” Allouette caught the other corner-post and turned, plowing her way back to the bank, skirts held up in her other hand.

The raft touched the bank and Cordelia staggered as she loosed her mental hold. “I thank you, damsels! That took greater effort than I had thought it would.”

“Board,” Quicksilver said. “There is no reason for you to get wet with us.”

“My enthusiasm for this quest is already dampened.” Cordelia stepped aboard the raft, then turned to glare fiercely at the bank. “Board,” she said between her teeth.

Allouette and Quicksilver stepped up to the bank again, then led the horses across to the boat. Both immediately sat, stretching out their legs to the sun.

“There is some advantage to their absence,” Quicksilver said.

“Pooh, damsel! Surely Geoffrey has seen your legs before this!” Cordelia scolded.

“That he has,” Quicksilver admitted, “but if he saw them now, we would cease to journey onward for some hours.”

Cordelia gave Allouette a wink. “She does not mind boasting a bit, does she?”

Allouette smiled but lowered her gaze. “I was thinking much as she was myself.”

“I too,” Cordelia said, “but there is no reason to speak it aloud.”

So trading verbal jabs, they drifted across the river and downstream until they bumped into the bank.

“I am dry now.” Quicksilver stood in a single lithe movement, catching her horse’s bridle. “Come, my lovely! You may have solid ground under your feet again.”

The horse whinnied as though to say that was a very good idea and came with her onto the bank. Allouette and Cordelia followed with their mounts. Then Allouette dropped the reins and told her mare sternly, “Bide!” and went to tie the mooring-rope firmly around a tree trunk.

“What good is that?” Quicksilver asked. “Our men are on this side of the river now!”

“At least the raft will not go drifting downstream to be lost,” Allouette said equably. “Besides, we may wish to return.”

“There is that,” Cordelia said. “Well! We have drifted downstream quite a way. Shall we not have to search for the men’s trail?”

They mounted and rode along the bank, Quicksilver’s gaze on the ground, Allouette watching the woods in case of danger, and Cordelia abstracted, mind searching for Alain’s—a more difficult task than finding Gregory’s or Geoffrey’s, since the prince was only a latent telepath. “Odd that we cannot find their thoughts.”

Quicksilver frowned. “If we cannot, they must be shielding themselves. What enemy do they fear who can read minds?”

Two experienced psis and one novice were silent a moment, contemplating the possible answers to that question and not liking them a bit. Quicksilver broke the silence by crying, “What happened here?”

Cordelia and Allouette looked down and gasped at the churned mud on the bank. “That raft certainly came to land with a great deal of force,” Cordelia said.

The ground was plowed up sharply where the logs had jammed into the bank. The mud was riddled with hoof marks, but the boot prints were fewer and more centered.

Quicksilver dropped to one knee, studying the signs closely. “The horses were quite upset, prancing about—trying to break free, I would guess—but the men seem to have calmed them.”

“What would so upset their steeds?” Allouette asked.

“Whatever it was, I hope it was not telepathic.” Cordelia gave a nervous glance toward the river.

The other two women followed her gaze. “It seems tranquil enough now,” Allouette said.

“What was it an hour ago?” Quicksilver returned. “Or was it longer than that?”

“Let us follow and see,” Allouette proposed.

“And keep your thoughts to yourself,” Quicksilver added.

Allouette’s gaze snapped to her, affronted.

“I mean no insult,” Quicksilver said, “only that if the men shield their minds, we should too. I’d rather not discover what stalks them by having it find us!”

“Oh.” Allouette looked sheepish. “Your pardon, damsel. I had thought—”

“I was careless in my wording,” Quicksilver said gruffly, “and it is I who should be asking pardon. Let us ride!”

They turned their horses and followed the trail into the woods.

Half an hour later, Cordelia reined in and looked at the trees about them. “Night comes on quickly and soon we shall not be able to see what obstacles lie in our path.”

“I know a spell for light,” Allouette offered.

“Do you not fear night-walkers?” Quicksilver asked with a frown.

Allouette barely managed to keep from saying that she herself had been a greater danger than anything else that walked by night. Instead, “Not with two such doughty companions,” she said.

Quicksilver eyed her askance. “Flattery, methinks.”

“But nonetheless pleasant for all that,” Cordelia said. “She has a point—one of us might be at risk, but together we can cope with any monster or hobgoblin I can think of.”

“Provided they do not come in packs,” Allouette qualified.

“Or that the packs are not too large.” Quicksilver nodded. “Still, it is well thought, ladies. The men shall no doubt be wearied from whatever happened at that riverbank and will pitch camp for the night. If we keep riding, we should catch up with them before they sleep.”

They were all silent a moment, each thinking about catching her lad before bedtime. Then Cordelia shook off the mood and said, “Press on!”

They turned back to business and set off after the men.

Before the twilight had quite ended, they came out of the forest into a wide lane, lined with low fieldstone walls on either side. Allouette stared at them and asked, “Who built these?”

“They certainly seem most strange in the midst of a wood,” Cordelia agreed.

Quicksilver shook off the mood and said, “We forget betimes that there are farms all ’round every wood. Simply because ogres have come out of a mist over a field does not undo all the building folk have done over the years.”

“But so high here in the mountains . . .”

“The mountaineers are not wild beasts, no matter their conduct to me,” Allouette said. “Like as not they have fields planted wherever the ground is level enough—and where there are fields, they must build lanes for wagons. Let us follow this path and see where it goes.”

They rode onward as the twilight failed. Finally Allouette scowled, concentrating, and a globe of light glimmered into life before them, casting just enough light to show them the next ten feet of road, albeit dimly.

Quicksilver gave her a sharp look. “Is that fox-fire yours, or a spirit’s?”

“Only mine,” Allouette assured her. “ ’Tis only necessary to excite the molecules of air until they heat enough to give light.”

“It will take some effort to keep it glowing, will it not?” Cordelia asked.

“Only a little.” Allouette turned to her. “I can brighten it, if you wish.”

“That would take more effort,” Cordelia said, “and we may have hours yet to ride. We can see well enough.”

They rode onward. Cordelia didn’t tell the others that she had learned the same spell from her mother years before. She was quite content to let Allouette do her part.

Suddenly Quicksilver pulled up. “Hark!”

Allouette and Cordelia stopped their horses, listening. “Only nightbirds and crickets,” Cordelia said. “What should I hear?”

“It has stopped now,” Quicksilver said, frowning. “I heard a sort of brushing noise behind us.”

“I heard nothing,” Cordelia said, but doubtfully.

“Nor I.” Allouette felt the first pricklings of fright, and her old response came instantly—simmering anger that anyone should beset her. “Let us ride on and listen as we go.”

They rode ahead for several minutes until finally Allouette said, voice low, “I hear it! A brushing sound indeed, as though something scrapes against the stone wall behind us!”

“I hear with it the rattle of chains,” Cordelia said, “but very faintly.”

“Whoa.” Quicksilver reined her horse to a stop as she spun to look behind her. Cordelia turned to look, too, but Allouette kept watch ahead, well aware that the sound could be a diversion. “What do you see, ladies?”

“Naught.” Quicksilver turned back to the front. “Only shadowed trees and stone walls stretching behind us into deeper darkness. Let us ride on but hearken well.”

They shook the reins and touched their horses’ flanks with their heels, moving ahead—and behind them, the sound began again: the whisk, whisk, whisk of something huge brushing against stone and, beneath it, the padding of great unseen bare feet.