“Something is on fire,” Nimue said, riding beside Kaze, who steered Maha to a promontory from where they could overlook the entire mountain valley.
Morgan rode up behind them. “Do you smell that smoke?”
Nimue nodded. She’d expected to see fiery crosses, but what they found instead was more confusing.
There were multiple fires raging over the wide pastures, filling the sky with a swollen, mushroom-shaped black cloud and giving the air a sickly yellow hue.
“A wildfire. Maybe from lightning,” Kaze offered.
Nimue sensed a greater malevolence at work. “No, those are farmlands. Barns. Look how the fires are spaced apart. Those were set on purpose.”
Nimue and Morgan shared a look.
“Our food,” Morgan said.
“They’re burning the farms.”
Kaze nodded. “They cannot find us, so they will starve us out.”
Nimue could taste the smoke on her tongue as tiny embers fell around them from the sky.
The population of the refugee camp appeared to have doubled overnight. There was no space on the floor for the new arrivals. On every rock and patch of dirt, three or four Fey Kind huddled, eyes tired and dull. The children were no longer singing, for there was no space to dance. The altar of the Joining ceremony had been broken and dismantled, the wood used for fires and to create new totems for clans to stake out smaller and smaller territories. The air was hot and thick with the stench of illness and blood and unwashed bodies. And unlike before, where the suffering was shared, there was a new sense of hostility as Nimue noticed frightened human families mixed in with Fey Kind. Nimue guessed they were farmers caught harboring Fey Kind. Regardless of their sympathies, young Snake males and young Tusk males, always quick to temper, paced around the Man Bloods in a threatening manner.
A child took Nimue’s hand as she entered the cavern. Nimue was unnerved at first by the sackcloth the child wore over her face, except for a small tear to allow her sight through one blinking eye. Nimue could only imagine the disfigurement beneath, and what horrors must have caused it. She squeezed the child’s hand and knelt beside her. “And what’s your name?”
The child was silent.
“Oh come now, if you don’t answer, what do I call you?”
“Ghost,” she whispered, though her voice was muffled.
“Ghost, is it? I’m not sure that’s the name your mother gave you, but it will suffice for now.” Nimue took her shoulders. “You’re safe here, Ghost, do you understand? I won’t let anyone hurt you here.”
Ghost nodded. Winking at her, Nimue stood and led her through the oppressive atmosphere of the camp, and within a few moments they found Squirrel tucked in a nook in the wall. He hopped down and gave Nimue a hug, glancing sideways at Ghost.
Nimue made introductions. “Ghost, this is Squirrel, who often gets into trouble but is otherwise a lovely little fellow. Squirrel, can you show Ghost around?”
Squirrel looked up pleadingly at Nimue, who smiled at him sternly in return.
“Fine,” Squirrel sighed. “Come on, I found some dead rats this way.” Ghost was reluctant to let go of Nimue, but after a brief tug-of-war, she resigned herself to Squirrel’s care.
Squirrel dashed ahead of Ghost, who struggled to keep up, although Squirrel jabbered as though she were right next to him. “It’s gotten crowded, so I keep to the deep tunnels. This cave is huge! I must’ve crawled a mile. I found a spider as big as my fist. He tried to run straight at my face. My papa told me all the animals get quite fierce in the caves because there isn’t enough food, so they’re hungry and mean all the time.” Squirrel got down on his hands and knees, preparing to wiggle into a dangerously narrow crevice. He turned back to Ghost. “Do you want to see the rats or not?”
Ghost hesitated, then climbed down onto her hands and knees to follow Squirrel. Together they squeezed along for several feet until the caves opened up, allowing them to sit upright. All along, Squirrel kept talking: “I mean, it’s the same as around here, isn’t it? The Tusks are mean to begin with. Now that we’re down to one bowl of porridge a day, they’ll fight with anyone. I’d never met Tusks before. Have you? You’re not Tusk, are you?”
Ghost shook her head.
“So, what clan are you with?” Squirrel asked.
Ghost shrugged.
“You don’t know?” Squirrel said, incredulous.
From the way they were seated, Squirrel could see strange scars on Ghost’s right calf. Four slashes and a half moon. They looked man-made. Like a branding.
“What’re those?” Squirrel asked, pointing to her leg.
“Squirrel, are you in there?” called a familiar voice.
Squirrel sighed. “It’s Morgan. That woman gives me no rest.” As Squirrel turned his head to address her, Ghost picked up a sharp rock and raised it to strike the back of his skull. “What is it?” he shouted back.
“You were supposed to fill these water buckets while I was gone!” Morgan answered.
Squirrel began crawling back the way he’d come and Ghost missed her opportunity. She lowered the rock. “You said it could wait!” he argued.
“I never said that!”
As Squirrel wriggled back to the main cavern, Ghost pulled the sackcloth from her head to breathe easier. The flesh that had melted over her mouth and her ruined nose made breathing difficult, just as her burned left eye kept her vision weak, but Sister Iris smiled all the same. She had found the witch’s nest, and now she would kill her.
THIRTY-NINE
NIMUE, MORGAN, AND KAZE ENTERED the chamber where tribal elders weighed camp decisions. The mood was tense. The farm fires had pushed the camp to its breaking point. Cattle had been slaughtered and hundreds of barns were burning and with them any hope of food for the starving refugees. Making matters worse, the fires were spreading to the surrounding forests, the smoke driving deer and smaller game out of the Minotaur Valley, forcing the Fey hunters to travel farther and farther into Red Paladin territory.
Morgan returned from giving Squirrel his orders and stood in the back, ignoring the glares of some of the Fey Kind about the presence of Man Blood at their tribal meeting.
In the meantime, Gawain tried to find common ground with the Elders. “Staying here is no plan,” he reminded them.
Wroth of the Tusks slammed a fist upon the boulder that had become the Druids’ council table. The blow echoed through the uneven ceilings of the caves. “Gar’tuth ach! Li’amach resh oo grev nesh!”
One of Wroth’s sons—Mogwan—interpreted: “He won’t lead what’s left of his kind to slaughter on the open road.”
Cora of the Fauns stood her ground. “And what you suggest? That we sit and starve like newborns?” Cora, like Nimue, was the daughter of her clan’s Arch Druid and had become the de facto leader of her kind. She also shared her clan’s deep antipathy for Tusks.
Wroth slammed a fist on his chest. “Bech a’lach, ne’beth alam.”
“We forage. We survive,” Mogwan said.
“On our land! Stealing our food!” Cora rebuked.
Gawain pinched the bridge of his nose as the arguing between clans resumed. At issue was a Faun proposal to escape to the south by hugging close to the King’s Road and using Moon Wings and Plogs as scouts and spies to spot Red Paladin checkpoints. The only problem was, there was no guarantee that Fey refugees, having safely crossed the Minotaurs, would be met with any less violence by the Viking warlords who held the southern ports and therefore the Fey Kind hopes of exodus by sea.