I shook my head.
“Let them be, Grandmother,” Goryn said, resting a hand on her shoulder. “Can’t you see that they don’t want our help? Let them find the border themselves.”
She shrugged him off. “Brash boy,” she muttered. “Are you certain, Daireds?”
Alastair nodded.
“Very well then.” The rest of the Mauntells began to slip back into the dark forest as Frega gestured to the surrounding trees. “I offered in all good faith and you refused, which means I cannot protect you. May the weald-wraiths grant you a swift and painless death.”
“What?” Alastair and Akarra said together.
“You have shed the blood of Old Maun, and while I may forgive, the Wood does not. Farewell, Fireborn,” Frega said with a bow, and disappeared into the shadows.
I exhaled, long and slow, and sheathed my dagger. It took two tries. “Alastair?” I looked to him, hoping for reassurance, but he was staring at the trees. The shadows deepened. Against the pale trunks of the trees nearest us, the strange dark streak writhed like a snake before sinking into the bark and out of sight.
“Akarra,” he asked slowly, “what are weald-wraiths?”
“I have no desire to find out.”
The leaves trembled overhead. One drifted down, just brushing my cheek. I yelped and swatted it away, making both Alastair and Akarra jump, but before I could apologize I saw my fingers. They were bright with bloodred sap. Alastair swore and helped me wipe it away with one hand, his expression tight with a new kind of fear. With the other hand he drew his axe.
The heartbeats within the trees quickened.
“Akarra, find the Mauntells,” Alastair said. “Now!”
She ran. Nameless terror followed. I clung to Alastair and tried not to listen to the crash of branches and stirring of leaves and the strange, high laughter that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, hidden just beneath the heartbeats. Weald-wraiths, not ghasts, I told myself in a vain attempt at comfort. They had given life to Goryn at a touch. Could they take it in the same way? A swift and painless death . . .
Akarra stopped hard, throwing me into Alastair. The shadows around us withdrew in a wave of, not light exactly, but the same kind of muddy twilight we’d seen when we first entered the Wood. A weight went with it. Beyond the rustle of leaves I thought I heard a sigh as the darkness withdrew, like a petulant child torn from its plaything.
“Second thoughts?” Frega looked up at us with a bemused expression.
“We accept your generous hospitality,” Alastair panted.
“A wise decision, Master Daired. Well then, come! Our fires will be the warmer for your company. I look forward to hearing your tales.”
“And in the morning, you’ll lead us to the edge of the Wood?” I asked as Akarra started forward.
“Morning is a long way away, young mistress. Rest first; then we shall talk of mornings.”
I didn’t need the pressure of Alastair’s hand to remind me how little choice we had. Akarra followed Frega deeper into the woods. The old woman walked close to us, her greatsword nearly brushing Akarra’s wing. Neither Alastair nor I dismounted. I wondered if Frega could feel the waves of heat roiling off Akarra’s side, or hear the low growl deep in her throat at every leaf that drifted across our path. Frega offered no conversation and neither did we, and in the intervening quiet I heard another telltale rustle behind us.
I leaned close to Alastair. “Two hundred paces to the right. Look.”
He looked. A trio of Mauntell archers kept pace with us beneath the shadow of the trees, their bows within easy reach. Not threatening, but not friendly. Akarra hissed.
“Something wrong, dragon?” Frega asked.
“You lie, Mauntell. We are not guests; we are prisoners.”
Frega glanced back at her archers and laughed. “Believe me, we have no use for prisoners. They are for you, and . . . not for you.”
“What do you mean?” Alastair asked.
“You have seen what would happen if you were to travel unaccompanied through these woods. Or you would have seen it soon, if you had not returned to me,” Frega said. “As I said, the weald-wraiths have long memories. If you wish to cross Rushless Wood from now on, you must travel with the blood of Old Maun or not at all. This is the price of the blood you shed, Master Daired, and Goryn knew it.” Her look grew thoughtful. “I’m sorry he goaded you into it.”
Alastair straightened in the saddle. “Lead on, Madam Mauntell.”
My head felt light, my stomach hollow as Akarra reluctantly followed Frega. I imagined we made for a strange procession: two humans, weak with hunger and terrified but pretending not to be, and an angry dragon who put on no pretense at all, ushered by what felt in one moment like an honor guard and in the next like a scouting party returning, despite what Frega said, with prisoners. The trees grew denser and the land sloped downward. Time meandered beneath the shadow of the Wood, but I guessed nearly an hour had passed before we spotted our destination. The glow of fires pricked the shadows ahead of us, and domestic noises filled the silence: the clank of a cooking pan, the sound of pouring water, the murmur of voices. My heart sank as our escorts ushered us into their settlement. I’d hoped for a clearing, perhaps a glimpse of the sky and a chance for Akarra to make good our escape, but we had no such luck. The trees of the grove grew farther apart here, but the roof of branches overhead was as thick as ever.
We followed Frega past rows of tented fires. Peat fires, I noticed. In fact, there was no wood anywhere. The shelters built against the trees were made of peat too, or animal skins draped over ropes. Torches burned in earthenware bowls, licking up oil instead of kindling. I glanced at the rows of archers marching next to us, Goryn at the forefront, and wondered again at the color of his bow. In the midst of this monstrous forest, among trees that protected their own, what had the Mauntells used to make such a weapon?
The other Mauntells looked at us as we passed, some with confusion, some with shock, some with outright hostility, but none offered a challenge. Frega stopped before the largest of the trees, directly in the center of their encampment. A low peat hut encircled the trunk, its roof draped in animal pelts and dead leaves, and high above the door, carved deeply in silvery bark, was the sigil of the Bleeding Tree.
Chapter 3
Wraiths of the Weald
Frega swept back the pelts covering the door and ushered us inside. “My own hut, Daireds. Rest here,” she said. “I will have my grandchildren bring ghrish and water for you shortly. And for you, dragon,” she added, leaning out of the doorway to speak to Akarra, “I have nothing yet, save my apologies. My hunters left this morning for meat. They’ll be back before nightfall.”
Akarra settled down against the wall of the hut so that her head was even with the door and Frega’s face. The old woman took a step back to escape the unapologetic heat dancing around her open mouth.
“As you please,” Frega said. “In the meantime, guests, refresh yourselves. Sleep, if you can. You will not be harmed. When you are ready, I will hear your tale.”
Alastair followed her to the doorway and watched as she headed for a distant fire. When she was out of earshot, he rested one hand on Akarra’s neck. “I know that look. You smell something, don’t you?”