“It’s a long story, better told on a dark night in front of a roaring fire.”
I turned and rested my cheek on my arm, blinking in the sharp sun. “Tell me what you know of Uther, then. I want to learn more about this wolf leader who is burning Cloven Tell.”
Gyda rose and began to dress, sighing with pleasure as the clean, well-made clothes slid over her skin. “Uther is one of the Fremish bishops—meaning she leads her own wolf-priest pack. The bishops answer to no higher moral power, no pontiff, no jarl. They drink yew berry juice, they practice their wolf magic, and they burn. They are unorganized bands of marauding beasts and thus have never posed much of a threat to Vorseland. But Uther is different. She isn’t as addled with poison as the rest of the Skroll followers and hence is much more dangerous.”
I began to dress as well, unconsciously running my eyes across the circle of green hills that surrounded our farm, searching for dark shadows. “What does she want?”
“What all the bishops want—more power, more priests, more flames for their god. Only, Uther wants it more than the rest.” Gyda paused. “Uther has a way about her, something that draws the girls in—a look in her eye, a way of holding her head, a tone to her voice…”
Gyda pulled wool leggings up over her knees and then flicked her chin northward. “Uther and her wolves plan to set up camp along the shores of Lake Le Fay, some fifty miles north. She will head into the Skal Mountains by winter—she wants to recruit among the Jade Fells.”
Morgunn and I looked at each other, eyebrows raised. So the wolf-priests were going to leave the Middlelands. This was good news.
A cloud moved, and a ray of sunlight hit my cheeks. I turned my face back and forth, letting the light pass over my eyelids, across my nose, to the tips of my ears. “Aslaug once told me that the people on the Iber Islands live in perpetual summer,” I said. “Azure skies encircled by an azure sea. And no one dies from the snow sickness, because there is no snow.”
“Could such a place exist?” Morgunn knelt by the stream, dipped in her palm, and drank the cold, clear water. “Could anything be so beautiful?”
Gyda nodded. “The Boar Islands do not lie as far south as the Iber Islands, but even we have better weather than Vorseland—sunny summers and gentle winters of rain instead of snow.”
“Maybe we should all travel to Iber.” Morgunn’s voice was soft, almost lazy, but I felt the determination behind it. “We can make our way to the edge of Vorseland. Hop a ship to the islands and never leave.”
“The thought has also occurred to me,” I said.
Morgunn’s eyes met mine. “You want to wander? I thought you wanted to live and die in these Ranger Hills.”
“I’ve considered taking to the road, just as you have, Morgunn. What is left here for us? Just know that if you and I became roamers, if we leave this steading, we will have nothing. No land, no home, only each other. The gold from last year’s wool harvest might get us as far as Elshland or Frem, but once there, we’d have to find a way to earn food and shelter.”
Morgunn stared at me for a moment, then laughed in a carefree, open way. “It’s still a risk I would take, Torvi. We could always come back to these hills. We aren’t losing our home forever. You’re making too big a thing of it.”
I smiled at this. “You would say that about practically anything. If a pack of Drakes arrived on our doorstep, and I hesitated to drop everything and join them in their mystic rambles, you’d call me timid, just as Mother used to do.”
Morgunn laughed again. “I wish a pack of Drakes would wander by. I would welcome them.”
I turned to Gyda. “And what about you? Will you go rambling with us?”
Gyda shook her head. “I would go with you south, but my path lies north, past the Skal Mountains, into the seventh Endless Forest.” The druid tilted her head and looked at me. “You are Elsh, yes?”
“Our mother was. How did you know?”
“I saw the fresh graves by the rowan trees. I tripped and fell over the second mound last night in the rain.” She paused. “You could join the Butcher Bards.”
The Butcher Bards were bands of nomadic artists from Elshland, so called because of the knives they wore around their necks. They were something like our Vorse Quicks—though they roamed from town to town instead of forest to forest, seeking artistic commissions rather than the next hunt. Some were painters, some weavers, some musicians, some mystics, some storytellers. The groups changed as members found long-term employment, while others finished projects and took to the road again. Most were young, and many were women.
One of the tapestries in our Hall depicted a scene of five wolves howling into the night sky, white moonlight on a black field, gray stones stained with blood. Mother had bought it from a handsome Butcher Bard some years ago, and I’d often caught Morgunn staring at it, an odd expression on her face, and her eyes full of yearning.
It gave her the same feeling it did me—a longing to stand at a lonely crossroads and pick a path based on nothing more than gut feeling and a shift in the wind. A desire to climb a tree town’s steps and drink with strangers. An ache to travel through dark forests and witness great magic. An urge to see the Sea Witches in the Merrows, to visit a Night Wild, to take up a blade and fight monsters.
Viggo had been right. He’d known me better than my own mother had. A love of peace did not quench a hunger for adventure.
“The Bards often travel this way in the spring,” I said. “I’ve heard they take in anyone who can claim Elsh blood, as long as the person is brave and honest and has an art to share.” I turned to my sister. “I could tell stories. I know all of Aslaug’s tales by heart.”
Morgunn clapped her hands and spun in a quick, tight circle. “And Mother taught us all the old Elsh steps, the Lone Traveler spins, the nomadic dances. I could teach them to the other Bards.”
I shrugged. “It might work.”
“It might, Torvi.”
A band of Butcher Bards came to the Ostara festival in Trow the year before, traveling east. A mystic was with them, one with bright red hair. Some people shunned him—it’s said the redheaded mystics often go down dark paths and bring forth dangerous magic. This Bard didn’t seem to notice the stares or the whispers. He wandered the festival with his companions, drinking mead from large, polished horns. I took an instant liking to his quick smile and the sharp look in his green eyes.
On the second day of the festival, he set up a blue tent at the edge of the stalls, near three twisted, ancient oak trees.
“Sit down,” he said when I entered. “Hold out your hand.”
His voice hummed with the low, purring accent of the Elsh. He sat on a plain wooden bench next to a small table covered with a simple linen cloth. I sat down on the opposite bench, hooked my feet behind its legs, and held out my hand.
He wore no hood, letting his red hair flow straight to his shoulders. It flashed a dozen shades of scarlet in the light from the three candles on the table—wine, brick, cherry, ruby, blood. He took a stack of Elsh Fortune Cards from the pocket of his wool cloak, leaned forward, and placed them in my palm.
I looked down at the pile. The backs of the cards were painted black, with a yellow-eyed owl in the center of each, staring out at the viewer. They felt warm, as if they’d been left out in the sun. I itched to turn them over and see the beautiful illustrations on the other side.