3
They were the Traveling Troupe of Twister Riddle, which was a name that Sally told them made no sense, but that (when they prodded her for additional commentary) was rather catchy, in a crazed sort of way. The juggler was supposed to be Lord Twister Riddle himself, though his real name (or as real as Sally could only assume it to be) was Mickel Thorn.
The small bear of a bearded man was called Rumble, and the giant - when he returned from the forest with a deer slung over his shoulders - introduced himself as Patric. Neither seemed capable of performing anything more complicated than a good beating, but Sally knew better than to judge.
"There used to be more of us - " began Mickel.
"But there's no such thing as loyalty anymore," interrupted Rumble. "One little whiff of gold - "
"And the years mean nothing," said Patric, who folded himself down upon on a fallen tree to begin skinning the dead animal. "They left us for another troupe. Without a word, in the night. I nearly drowned in tears."
He said it with a straight face. Sally frowned, unsure what to make of them. They were most certainly dangerous, but not rough or coarse, which was an odd contradiction - and an odd atmosphere between them all. She had always considered herself to be a good judge of character, but that had been at home - and she had never, not once in seventeen years, been on her own beyond the protection of her father's lands. Sally was not entirely certain she could trust her judgment. And yet she thought - she was quite sure - that she was safe with these men.
For now. She thought of her dream, her dream that had felt so real: that little girl with her ancient eyes, and the children in the trees. A shiver ripped through her, and she gritted her teeth as she glanced behind at the woods - feeling as though someone was watching her. The hairs on her neck prickled. It was not quite the afternoon, and the weather was chilly, though clear. If she could backtrack to the Tangleroot...
"I should go," Sally said reluctantly. "But thank you for your help."
Patric's hands paused. Rumble gave her a quick look of surprise. Mickel, however, reached inside his coat for a small metal spoon, which he waved his hand over. It appeared to bend. "Are you running from something?"
"Of course not." Sally peered at the spoon, trying to get a closer look. Mickel hid it in his fist, and when he opened his hand it had vanished.
"You're a trickster," she said. "Sleight of hand, games of illusion."
"Not magic?" Mickel placed a hand over his heart. "I'm shocked. Most people think I have unnatural powers."
Sally tried not to smile. "You have an unnatural gift for words. Anything else is suspect."
Rumble grunted, picking at his teeth. "Won't be safe with mercenaries still out there. Not for you, lass."
"Too many of them," Patric said absently. "More than I imagined."
Chilly words. Her father was losing control over his land. For a moment Sally considered returning home, but stopped that thought. She would have to make a choice soon - but not yet. Not until she stepped into the Tangleroot and discovered whether a power was there that could make a difference.
Sally forced herself to stand. Her legs were still unsteady. Mickel stood as well, and kicked dirt over the fire. "We were also leaving." Rumble and Patric stared, and he gave them a hard look. "What direction are you headed?"
Sally folded her arms over her chest. "South."
"Remarkable. Fate has conspired. We're also headed that way."
Rumble coughed, shaking his head. Patric sawed at the deer a bit harder. Glancing at them, Sally said, "Really."
"And tomorrow we'll begin ambling north." Mickel tilted his head, his gaze turning thoughtful. "Where are you from?"
"I don't think it matters," she replied curtly. "If I asked you the same question, I suspect you would feel the same."
"Home is just a place?" he replied, smiling. "You're jaded."
"And you smell," Rumble said, peering up at her.
"Like manure," Patric added. "Very alluring." Sally frowned. "You three... saved my life. I think. And I appreciate that. But - "
"But nothing. No harm will come to you. If you travel with us, you are one of us." Mickel held her gaze, as if he wanted her to understand. When she finally nodded, he turned away to nudge Rumble with his boot. "Come on, then. We'll go to Gatis. It's not far."
No, not far at all. Only two days' ride from home. She could be recognized, or her father might find her there - assuming he had begun looking.
But it was also close to the Tangleroot.
Sally held out her hand to Mickel, who stared for one long moment before taking it with solemn dignity. His grip was warm and strong, and a tingle rode up her arm. From the way he flinched, she thought he felt it, too.
"My name is Sally," she told him.
"Sally," he said quietly. "Welcome to the family."
She began seeing ravens in the trees as they drew close to Gatis. Hardly noticeable at first, until one of them launched off a branch in a burst of black feathers, cawing in a voice so piercing, the sound seemed to run straight down into her heart. Images flashed through her mind - ravens and horns, and silver frozen water - making Sally sway with dizziness. She leaned hard against the edge of the rickety wagon, holding her head.
Mickel rode close on a swift black mare that was surprisingly fine-boned and sleek; a lovely creature, and a surprise. She had seen such horses only once before, those from a trader who had come from south of the mountains. The Warlord's territory.
She would not have guessed a mere performer would have such a horse; nor Patric or Rumble. Rumble's mount was tied to the back of the wagon. He sat up front, holding the reins of the mules.
Sally caught Mickel's eye. "You said you found me near the Tangleroot."
"Yes," he said, drawing out the word as though it made him uncomfortable. "You were unwell."
"Unconscious, you mean."
Mickel rubbed the back of his neck. "Not quite."
"You were screaming," Rumble said, turning to look at her. "It's how we found you. Just standing as you please in front of the border of that cursed forest, making the most bloodcurdling sound I've ever heard. And I've heard plenty," he added, a moment later.
Sally stared at him. "I was... screaming."
"Quite a fighter, too," Patric said, guiding his horse past the wagon.
She blinked, startled. "And I fought?"
"You were delirious," Mickel told her. "Simple as that."
"You were trying to enter the Tangleroot," Rumble said. "Almost did. Took all three of us to hold you down."
"Stop," Patric called back, over his shoulder. "You'll scare her."
"No," Mickel said slowly, watching her carefully.
"No, I don't think you will."
Sally, who had no idea what her expression looked like, had nonetheless been thinking that it would have been a great deal easier if they had just let her go. Perhaps more terrifying, too, given what she remembered of her dream. If it had been a dream.
But she did not like having her thoughts written so clearly upon her face. She studied her hands, noting the dirt under her nails, and then looked back up at Mickel. He was still watching her. She studied him in turn, and suffered a slow rush of heat from the boldness of his gaze - and her own.
Gatis was a rambling village built into the high hills of a river valley, a place that had belonged to shepherds for hundreds of years, and still belonged to them; only now they lived in comfortable cottages with fine large gardens bordered by stone, and fruit orchards growing on the terraced hills that dipped down to the Ris, its winding waters blue and sparkling in the late afternoon sun.
Sally had been to Gatis years before with her family - while her mother was still alive. The villagers were known for the quality of their yarn and dyes, and the fine craftsmanship of their weaving. Her cloak and vest were Gatis-made, and likely the cloth of her dress, as well. She pulled up her hood as they neared the village, hoping that none would remember her face. She had been only ten at the time. Surely she looked different.
The road sloped upward around a grassy hill covered in boulders, and at the crest of it, Sally saw the border of the Tangleroot. It was far away, but there was no mistaking those woods, however distant. The border was black as pitch, a curving wall of trees that looked so thick and impenetrable, Sally wondered how it would even be possible to squeeze one arm through, let alone travel through it.
Seeing the forest was like a slap in the face. She had known that one of the borders to the Tangleroot was near this village, but looking at it in broad daylight twisted in her gut like a knife. Sally felt afraid when she saw the faraway trees; fear and hunger. She closed her eyes, hoping the sensation would fade, but all she saw was the little girl, running fleet-footed down the moonlit path.
It made Sally wonder, briefly, about her mother - if it was true that she had been inside those ancient woods; and if so, what she had seen. The young woman wondered, too, if coming to Gatis had bothered her mother, what with the Tangleroot so close. She had died soon after that trip, though until now, Sally had never thought to associate the two. Perhaps there was still no reason to.
A hand touched her shoulder, and she flinched. It was Mickel, riding close beside the wagon. He looked away from her at the distant forest, sunlight glinting along the sharp angles of his face, and highlighting his brown hair with dark auburn strains.
"Not all trees are the same," he murmured. "Something I heard, growing up. Some trees are bark and root, and some trees have soul and teeth. If you are ever foolish enough to encounter the latter, then you'll know you've gone too far. And you'll be gone for good."
Sally had heard similar words, growing up. "It seems silly to give a forest so much power."
He shook his head. "No, it seems just right. We are infants in the shadows of trees. And those trees... are something else."
"Some say they used to be human."
"Souls stolen by the forest of a powerful queen. Roots that grew from bones and blood, and imprisoned the spirits of an entire people." Mickel smiled. "I've heard it said that red hair was a common trait amongst them, and that descendents of those few who escaped the curse, who battled the queen herself, still bear that mark."
Sally brushed a strand of red hair self-consciously from her eyes. "You and your stories. How could something like that be true?"
"Maybe it's not. But either way, something about you is affected by that place, even by looking at it."
She began to deny it. He touched a finger to her lips. The contact startled her, and perhaps him. His hand flew away as though burned, and something unsettled, even pained, passed through his gaze. Sally suddenly found it hard to breathe.
"You think too much in your eyes," he said quietly.
"I can practically read your thoughts."
"How terrifying," she replied, trying to be flippant; though hearing herself was quite different: she sounded serious as the grave.
A rueful smile touched his mouth, and he stroked the neck of his horse. He hardly used a saddle, just a soft pad and a molded piece of pebbled leather. He held the reins so lightly that Sally thought he must be guiding the horse with his legs. "Yes, it is frightening."
Sally fought the urge to touch her warm cheeks. "Why do you do this?"
"Perform? Create masks for a living? Haven't you ever wanted to be someone else?" Mickel's smile deepened. "No, don't answer that. I can see it in your eyes."
Sally thought she should start wearing a blindfold. But before she could ask him more, he said, "So what are you useful for? Are you good for anything?"
"I can read," she said, stung. "Garden, cook, ride a horse - "
"All of which are admirable," he replied, far more gently. "But I was referring to skills that would be useful in a... performance setting."
"Performance," she echoed, eyes narrowing; recalling overheard discussions between her father's men about "performances" involving women. "What kinds of skills do you think I might have?"
Rumble, who had been silent, began to laugh. Mickel shook his head. "Reading, I suppose, would be enough. Precious few can do that. If you know your letters, you might earn your keep writing messages that we can carry along the way."
"Earn my keep? You expect that I'll be traveling with you for much longer?"
Rumble glanced over his shoulder and gave the man a long, steady look. As did Patric, who was suddenly much closer to the wagon than Sally had realized. Both men had messages in their eyes, but Sally was no good at reading them. Mickel, however, looked uncomfortable. And, for a brief moment, defiant.
It's all right, she wanted to say. I'll be gone by tonight.
Ahead, a small boy stood in the road with several sheep and a dog. He stared at them as they passed, and Mickel's hands were suddenly full of small colorful balls that flew through the air with dazzling speed. He did not juggle long, though, before catching the balls in one large hand - and with the other, tossing the boy something that glittered in the sun. A silver mark, though the cut of it was unfamiliar. The child stared at it with huge eyes. Sally was also impressed, and puzzled. The coin, though foreign, would buy the boy's family at least a dozen fine sheep, or whatever else they needed.
"You run ahead," Mickel said, in a voice far deeper, and more arrogant, than the one he had just been speaking with. "Let your village know that the Traveling Troupe of Twister Riddle has arrived for their pleasure, and that tonight they will be dazzled, astonished, and mystified."
The boy gulped. "Magic?"
"Loads of it," Mickel replied. "Cats chasing kittens will be coming out of your ears by the end of the night."
"Or more silver!" he called, when the boy began running down the road, halting only long enough to come back for his sheep, which had scattered up the hill behind him, herded by the much more diligent dog.
Patric chuckled quietly to himself, while Mickel gave Sally an arch look. "Warming up the crowd is never a bad thing."
"That was an expensive message you just purchased."
"Ah," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "We've performed for many important people."
"I'm surprised, then, that the rest of your troupe left you behind, even for the promise of yet more riches." Sally frowned. "I also thought actors were supposed to be poor."
"We're immensely talented."
"Is that how you afford such lovely horses?"
Rumble coughed. "These were a gift."
"A gift," she echoed. "You've been south of the mountains, then."
Mickel gave her a sidelong look, followed by a grim smile. "You have a keen eye, lady."
"I have a good memory," she corrected him. "And I've seen the breed."
"Have you?" he replied, with a sudden sharpness in his gaze that made her uncomfortable. "So go ahead. Ask what's really on your mind."
She frowned at him. "The Warlord. Did you see him?"
Rumble started to chuckle. Mickel gave him a hard look. "We performed for him."
Heat filled her, fear and anger and curiosity. Sally leaned forward. "I hear he sleeps with wolves in his bed and eats his meals off the stomachs of virgins."
Patric laughed out loud. Rumble choked. Even Mickel chuckled, though he sounded incredulous, and his nose wrinkled. "Where did you hear such nonsense?"
"I made it up," she said tartly. "But given how other men speak of him, he might as well do all those things. Such colorful descriptions I've heard. 'Master of Murder. ' 'Fiend of Fire' - "
"Sex addict?" Rumble said, his eyes twinkling. "Ravisher of women? Entire villages of them, lined up for his... whatever?"
Mickel shot him a venomous look. Patric could hardly speak, he was laughing so hard. Her face warm, Sally said, "You disagree?"
"Not at all," he said, glancing at Mickel with amusement.
Sally drummed her fingers along her thigh. "So? Was he truly as awful as they say?"
"He was ordinary," Mickel said, with a great deal less humor than his companions seemed to be displaying. "Terribly, disgustingly ordinary."
"Or as ordinary as one can be while eating off the stomachs of virgins," Rumble added.
"This is true," Mickel replied, his eyes finally glinting with mischief. "I can't imagine where he gets all of them. He must have them grown from special virgin soil, and watered with virgin rain, and fed only with lovely virgin berries."
"Now you're making fun of me," Sally said, but she was laughing.
Mickel grinned. Ahead, there was a shout. Children appeared from around a bend in the road and raced toward them. The boy who had been given the silver mark was in the lead. Sally thought they resembled little sheep, stampeding.
"Damn," Rumble said, slowing the mules as Patric whirled his horse around and galloped back to the wagon. "You and your bright ideas."
"Brace yourself," Mickel said.
But Sally hardly heard him. She had looked up into the sky, and found ravens flying overhead; a handful, soaring close. She swayed, overcome with unease, and touched her throat and the golden chain that disappeared beneath the neck of her dress.
Two of the birds dove, but Sally only saw where one of them went - which was straight toward her head. She raised her hands to protect herself, but it was too little, too late. Sharp claws knocked aside her hood and pierced her scalp, ripping away a tiny chunk of hair. Sally cried out in pain and fear.
Her vision flickered. Inside her head, she glimpsed images from her dream, which swallowed the wagon, and Mickel, and the sun with all the steadiness of something real: a silver frozen lake, and a woman sleeping within a cocoon of stone, her head dressed in a crown of horns. An unearthly beauty, pale as snow.
But the woman did not stay asleep. Sally saw her again, standing awake within a dark, tangled, heaving wood, gazing from between the writhing trees to a castle shining in the sun; an impossibly delicate structure that seemed made of spires and shell, built upon the green lush ground. But in the grass, warm and still, were the fresh bodies of fallen soldiers, so recently dead that not even the flies had begun buzzing. Amongst them stood women, strong and red-haired and bloody. Staring back with defiance and fury at the pale queen of the wood.
Sally felt a pain in her arm, a sharp tug, and the vision dissolved. She fell back into herself with a stomach-wrenching lurch, though she could not at first say where she was. The sun seemed too bright, the sky too blue. Her heart was pounding too fast.
Mickel's fingers were wrapped around her arm. She peered at him, rubbing her watery eyes, and was dimly aware of the other men watching her, very still and stunned; and the children below, also staring.
"I wasn't screaming, was I?" Her voice sounded thick and clumsy; and it was hard to pronounce the words.
Mickel shook his head, but he was looking at her as no one ever had; with surprise and compassion, and an odd wonder that was faintly baffled. Blood trickled down the side of his face. He looked as though he had been pecked above the eye.
"You're hurt," she said.
"I got in the way," he replied, and reached out to graze her brow with his fingers - which came away bloody. Sally touched the spot on her head and felt warm liquid heat where part of her scalp had been torn off. Pain throbbed, and she swallowed hard, nauseous.
"You are a curious woman," Mickel said quietly. "Such a story in your eyes."
"Magic," Rumble muttered. "When a raven sets its sights..."
But Patric shook his head, and the older man did not finish what he was going to say. Mickel murmured, "The raven who attacked you spit out your hair. I could almost swear he simply wanted to taste it... or your blood."
The children scattered, melting away from the wagon. Perhaps afraid. Sally did not want to look too closely to know for certain. She shut her eyes, feeling by touch for the hem of her skirt. She tore off a strip of cloth, and bundled it against the wound in her head.
"I should go," she mumbled.
"Rest," Mickel replied. "Dream."
No, she thought. You don't understand my dreams.
But she lay down in the wagon bed, thinking of ravens and her father, and her mother, and little girls with wild hair and wilder eyes; and slept.