Chapter One

1.

The Gilded Woods took their name from the way sunlight honeyed the treetops at dawn and dusk, twice a day transforming the rolling forest into a vast, golden ocean.  Only a handful of folk from Wilhem’s village knew that was the real explanation though.  Most Thimble Downers thought the woods had been named for a treasure that lay buried somewhere deep in its untraveled northern reaches, hidden away there long ago by the ancient lords of House Breylock.  Few Downsfolk ever ventured more than a few paces into the woods, and only a small number of those that had ever went far enough to reach this spot on the edge of Ganther’s Bowl, where a man could stand high enough over the treetops to watch the sun transform them into gold.   

“What do you think, Skreeander?” Wilhem reached down to pat the grey palfrey’s neck. “Shall we tell them what the treasure truly is?”  The horse nickered, attempting to back away from the precipice, ears twitching nervously.  Wilhem dug in his heels, insisting they stay put.                     

An arm’s length from the palfrey’s nose, the blue-veined rock of the cliffs fell away in a straight drop beyond measure.  Three screams high.  Wilhem had once heard an old snow bear hunter from Bordenwall describe it that way.  Three screams high do Ganther’s Bowl be, mi’boy—as were a man to fall over the edge he’d surely have time to scream thrice before dying.  It wasn’t much of an exaggeration.  The depression in the forest was deeper than most mountains were tall, with walls that were terrifyingly sheer.  At the spot where the cliffs at last stopped plummeting, the woodlands resumed as though that part of the forest had been pushed down into the earth by a thumb ten miles wide.  The bowl was crisscrossed by its own streams and deer runs and was dotted from end to end with copses of the same towering black spruce trees that grew in the rest of the forest above.

  From his perch on Skreeander’s back, Wilhem could just make out the spot on the horizon where the sides of the bowl curved around to almost touch.  They formed more of a horseshoe than a circle, yet still left no place where a man or horse could safely navigate his way down.  The sanctity of the bowl was therefore untouched; on a clear day anyone with sharp eyes could peer down and see that its grasslands were still flush with fowl and its ponds churned with sloefish.  There was probably no patch of land in all of Triton more pristine or tantalizing, and plenty of hunters and trappers from fifty miles around would have gladly traded their toes for a chance to exploit it.  

That was why so far, Wilhem had told no one, not even his father Cob, about the secret path down he’d discovered earlier in the year.  If word of it got into the wrong ears, the bowl would be stripped bare of game within a few moons. 

“Can’t have that,” he mumbled, sliding out of his saddle. “Best we keep the secret to ourselves a while longer, Skree.”  

His booted feet crunched down on the rock, startling the horse.  He grabbed the palfrey’s halter.  Skreeander’s dolorous brown eyes rolled toward him and Wilhem stroked a patch of white fur on the ridge of his nose, soothingly.  “By Spirits—you’re funny this morning.  Bet you’ll cheer up if we come across another one of those carrot patches we found last time though, eh?” 

Wilhem gave the horse a final pat, then stepped up to the edge of the cliff until there was nothing but air beneath the toes of his boots.  He leaned out carefully but without fear and looked straight down, trying to gauge his location.  There was little to see but swirling mist and the gold-touched tips of the bowl’s tallest trees.  It was like gazing down upon Necartha, the netherworld where a man’s soul was said to walk after it departed the lands of flesh and blood.  

Wilhem shook his head, recalling his thoughts from a place he was in no mood to visit.  He took a breath of the crisp, sap-laced air and started off down the ridge on foot, wanting to work some of the soreness from his legs.  The horse watched him go, inert as a stone carving.  After about ten paces Wilhem glanced over his shoulder and let out a short, high-pitched whistle.  Skreeander began to plod after him, grudgingly.  Wilhem waited until the palfrey fell in step and glanced at him sidelong.

“Still pouting over that mare we passed back on the Rainbow Bridge, is that it?”  They walked at a brisk, steady pace, flanked by a wall of towering trees on one side and a void of open sky on the other.  Skree’s iron shoes clopped loudly on the rock, metering time.  The horse gave no response to Wilhem’s questions, but he persisted with them anyhow. “The girl was pretty too, wasn’t she?”  It was a habit of his to talk to Skree like he was a person, one he’d taken up after his only real friend, Potts Walther, had fallen from a hayloft and died of cutrot a year before. “I think they were Irathi.”  

Wilhem pictured the girl in his mind.  She’d locked eyes with him for only a moment before she’d disappeared behind the silken curtains of the merchant’s stall.  He’d never seen an Irathi before.  She’d been almond-eyed and sun-bronzed, with hair like a halo of yellow fire that threw back the sun. The look she’d given him had been wary, wild, and proud all at once, just like a valecat’s.      

“Cob says all of Irath is nothing but sand and heat, with palaces that rise so high they pierce holes in the clouds.  He says the deserts are filled with serpents that can swallow a goat whole and that the queen rides around on a lion, with teeth as long as swords.  What do you think Skreeander, maybe you and I will take a ship there some day and see for ourselves?”  

Skreeander hung his head morosely.  Wilhem laughed.  Sometimes he was convinced the horse understood every word.          

The sun rose slowly higher and the mists in the bowl dissipated, exposing patches of forest.  Glancing down over the edge again, Wilhem saw hawks circling over a still black pond far below and knew they’d nearly reached their destination.  He’d made a camp near here on his last journey and had spent a while tossing bigger and bigger stones into the water.  It was such a long way down he’d never heard any of them make a splash.  As he stared he thought for a moment that he saw a tendril of cookfire smoke rising from the valley below the pond, but when he glanced again the mists had shifted and it was gone.  A trick of the eyes, he told himself.  No cookfires ever burned in the bowl.      

 Around the next bend the ridge angled skyward and became muddled in a pile of massive boulders topped by twisted trees and briars.   Wilhem lengthened his stride to account for the incline.  Skree followed him up to the base of the rocks, his ears quivering at the roar of rushing water.  Somewhere underneath the boulders a stream raced, unseen.  At the point where the water ran out of ground to tunnel through, it shot like a geyser from a hole in the face of the cliff, forming a slender arc that fell endlessly to the tiny outline of the pond.  Wilhem stopped there and turned, taking them back into the trees, away from the edge of the bowl. 

When he had first discovered the underground stream a moon before, he’d been thirsty and had wanted to refresh his water skin, so he’d looked for a way to get at the flows through the cracks in the boulder heap.  There’d been no openings big enough for him to crawl into, but he’d felt the rush of the current when he’d pressed his cheek to the stones and the cool breath of mist on his fingers when he’d stretched his hand into the dark gaps between them.  Knowing that the stream was so close by and yet still eluded him had brought out his stubborn streak, so instead of giving up he’d tracked the faint rumblings of the current further and further back into the woods.  Eventually he’d found the spot in a hushed grove where the exposed stream first plunged down into a cave.  That was how he’d discovered the secret path.

Since that day he’d gone back to the grove several times and had left himself a trail to follow.  Taking hold of Skree’s reins he retraced it, at every fork clinging to the branch marked by a stone until the path came to a sudden end.  There a wall of thorny bushes laden with crimson berries seemed to block any further progress, but he shoved through between two of them anyhow, coercing Skee into following him with tugs and whistles.  

 On the far side the brambles at last thinned out, giving way to more of the straight-trunked spruce trees.  Now that Wilhem knew them, it was obvious to his eye that the way they were arranged was unnatural.  They were spaced too evenly and formed too neat a circle, as though they’d been posted there like sentinels to guard something.  He still didn’t know who had planted them that way—it must have been done a hundred years before or even more—but he did know now what they’d been meant to conceal.  

He led Skree between a pair of trunks, then another and another, all lined up in neatly staggered rows, before emerging into a solemn clearing.  The grove was a rough circle blanketed with a thick layer of needles.  At its center a silver ribbon of water flowed in a lazy arc toward the back of a rock escarpment.  When it got there it disappeared into a large, vine-draped cave mouth.  The sound the water made as it dropped into the cave filled the grove like whispers in a chapel and a thousand fingers of sunlight poked through gaps in the canopy overhead, dappling the bed of needles and the surface of the water with coins of light.  

Wilhem brought Skee to the bank of the stream, recalling the day he’d first found it.  At first he’d thought that he’d discovered the Breylock gold and had been so excited that he’d let out a yelp of triumph, rushing in to collect all the coins.  Then his heart had sunk as he’d realized they were only sunspots.  Kneeling on the bank of the stream in disappointment, his eyes had roamed to the cave and encountered another set of eyes, enormous and savage, staring back at him.  

He smiled at the memory, remembering how he’d gasped like a tavern girl and fallen on his rear trying to run backwards out of the grove.  He’d nearly made it back to the trees before he’d realized that the ghastly eyes were made of stone.  He looked at them again now. 

At one time the carving must have been impressive, representing a winter bear perhaps or a timber wolf—but wind and rain had long been about their work of erasing the statue from the rock.  What remained protruded from an overhang above the mouth of the cave and had been ground into obscurity, leaving nothing but the ferocious pair of eyes, a set of overlarge fangs, and one clawed foot.   

Around the sides of the cave mouth there were several more carvings, these ones even more eroded than the first.  They’d been left there as a warning Wilhem supposed, meant to discourage wanderers like him from entering.  But on him they’d had an opposite effect.  His fear had been nothing compared to his curiosity. 

He unlaced his boots and pulled them off, then tied them together and slung them over Skree’s neck.  Where the stream entered the cave the water was deep enough to reach his belly, so he shed his shirt and calfskin breeches as well and stuffed them into a leather pack strapped to Skree’s flanks.  Naked but for his small clothes, he stepped to the bank and braced himself for the plunge into the frigid water.  He was just working up the courage to jump when he felt Skree’s hot breath on his back and a hard nudge between his shoulder blades sent him stumbling into the stream.  For a moment he sank all the way under and then came up spluttering.

“Skreeander!” he shouted at the horse.  “You dolt!  Think that’s funny do you?”  Skreeander tossed his head, nickering.  Wilhem shook his fist at the horse and swam to the cave entrance, his teeth clacking from the cold.  “No carrots for you,” he grumbled, “you hear me?  No carrots today.  No carrots tomorrow.”  

The palfrey snorted, pawing at the bank with a hoof, then abruptly charged into the water.  Once he’d caught up to Wilhem, his eyes wide and nostrils flaring, he slobbered the boy’s cheek.  “Oh no,” Wilhem pushed him off with a scowl.  “I mean it.  No carrots.”  Skree nipped his shoulder.  “Ow!” Wilhem shouted, punching the horse in the neck.  Skree bellowed and tried for a bigger bite but Wilhem dodged.  “Enough!” he barked.  “Come on.”  Skreeander settled, cowed by the note of real anger in Wilhem’s voice.  Wilhem parted the slimy curtain of vines covering the cave entrance and they entered.    

The vines settled back into place behind them, shutting out much of the light.  Wilhem waited for the greenish shadows in font of his eyes to take shape.  Gradually the darkness transformed and he could see the stream running through the middle of a straight, dim tunnel of rock, sloping downward at a gentle angle.  In the distance there was a faint glimmer of light.  

The hiss of the current and the damp smells of earth and stone grew stronger with every step.  It was difficult at first to keep his footing on the uneven bed of pebbles, but as he pushed ahead the tunnel widened and the stream grew shallower.  Despite the gloom it was easy to see that the walls of the tunnel were too neat and regular to be natural.  A great deal of the rock had been carved out to form a smooth archway overhead.  It must have taken ages to carry out all that stone, Wilhem thought.  

After a few minutes they reached the source of the faint light, a shaft of sun streaming down from a circular hole in the roof of the cave.  Somewhere far above there must have been an opening in the needle-strewn ground of the forest.  The tang of fresh air mingled with the dank and stale breezes of the tunnel.  Water dripped steadily from the hole, hitting Skree square in the forehead as they passed underneath.  The horse bolted ahead indignantly, outpacing Wilhem, who hurried to catch up.  

Past the light shaft the tunnel continued much as before, with more of the sun columns spaced at regular intervals.  It took perhaps quarter of an hour to reach the last one.  Then the floor of the cave veered steeply upward, directing the stream up a ramp.  The water roiled violently as it switched directions, but on either side of the tunnel two sets of steps carved from the rock rose out of the water—the walls they made forced the stream’s chaos to into a sort of channel.  Wilhem carefully led Skee up the left set of steps, glad to finally be escaping the frigid water.  Below the waste his entire body was numb with cold.

 The steps took them up into inky blackness.  It was so dark that Wilhem could see nothing of the walls or ceiling, but even if he’d never visited the cavern before the flat, dead echoing of the water’s roar would have told him he was in a vast space.  

“Hold, Skree.”  He groped for the satchel on the horse’s back.  By feel he undid the buckles and reached within, his fingers sifting through an assortment of familiar shapes and textures until they encountered the cylindrical weight of the huntsman’s lamp his father had given him.  The lamp was cleverly wrought in two layers of pounded tin.  Its top compartment was designed to hold live embers while the bottom half was an oil reservoir.  A long, wooden wick ran through the middle of both chambers.  To light it, Wilhem twisted the top chamber clockwise, which exposed the oil-coated wick to the coals.  Then he blew a little air through pinholes in the upper chamber until the flame jumped to life, casting a flickering bauble of greasy light into the blackness.  Wilhem held the lamp aloft.  

The cavern truly was large, but not so big as he remembered.  It always seemed to grow in his mind after he’d left it for a while.  It’s ceiling was maybe thirteen staffs high, a hair shorter than the steeple of Ganther’s chapel at the center of Thimble Downs.  Below it the black floor of the cave was pitted with puddles and waist-high spires of rock.  Off to his right the stream channel continued.  As it approached the center of the cavern it forked into two separate branches; these flowed around either side of a gigantic circular shaft, curving neatly to rejoin with each other at the far end.  From there they continued to the back of the cavern and disappeared into a blank wall of rock.

Wilhem guided Skree over a small stone bridge that crossed the left branch of the channel.  There were strange symbols carved into the bridge, most of them badly worn away.  More shadows dispersed as Wilhem carried the light deeper into the cavern, revealing a huge, iron-barred cage suspended above the great shaft by a colossal chain.  The chain ran up toward the ceiling where it circled around an enormous pulley wheel, as wide across as Wilhem was tall.  The long end then shot down into the dark of the chasm.  

The cage itself was rectangular, large enough to hold twenty men or perhaps half as many horses.  It had a doorway-like opening in its front and three wooden planks bound together jutted out of it, forming a bridge to the edge of the shaft.  The entire thing swayed slightly to and fro, buffeted by updrafts of warm air from the void below that smelled of minerals and damp.

It had taken Wilhem a little while to figure out how the cage worked the first time, as he’d never seen another contraption like it.  The Breylocks used pulley lifts to heft logs out of the river behind their mills, but it took a team of horses and several men to operate them.  The cage on the other hand utilized the power of the stream and could be raised and lowered by just one person, simply by pushing and pulling a couple of levers.  

The first lever rose up from the floor of the cave adjacent to the plank bridge.  When Wilhem shoved it forward, two weir gates in the stream channels opened, directing some of the churning water into narrow stone troughs.  The troughs stuck out horizontally into the black void of the chasm and sprayed jets of water into an enormous iron-banded bucket affixed to the back of the cage.  

The purpose of filling the great bucket was to add enough weight to the cage for it to outweigh a tremendous boulder on the other end of the chain.  The difficult part though was getting the balance just right.  If Wilhem added too much water then when he released the lock the cage would fall too fast, making for a frightening descent with a bone-jarring stop at the bottom.  If he added too little the cage would descend at a maddeningly slow pace, wasting time that could have been better spent hunting in the bowl. 

After some trial and error that first day, riding the cage up and down, he’d worked out the ideal water level—at least for himself and Skreeander.  There were forty distinct hash marks scored into the wood along the inner walls of the tank.  Thirty-five and a half marks was the perfect amount.  Wilhem was feeling a touch impatient this time though, so he let the water rise to nearly thirty six marks before yanking the lever back.  

“Ready?”  Skreeander gave no response.  Wilhem took hold of him anyhow and walked the palfrey onto the plank bridge, sending up a billowing cloud of dust.  Skree was less reluctant to board the cage now that they’d done it a number of times, but his eyes still darted wildly when he saw the endless black void looming on either side of the plank bridge.  Wilhem led him across briskly before either of them could lose their nerve.  Once they were safely in the cage he pulled in the boarding planks and the contraption began to pendulum back and forth over the abyss, creaking ominously.  Skree stamped his hooves and whinnied.  

“Easy,” Wilhem soothed, “We’re almost there.”  

All that remained for him to do now was to release the lock mechanism that stopped the chain and held the cage in place.  He did so by gripping a second lever built into the floor of the cage and leaning on it with all his might.  Every part of the cage in was coated with rust so it took a hearty push to move the lever.  When it finally sprang forward, Wilhem heard a telltale click and rattle from above.  With a stomach-dropping lurch the cage plunged down into the black.  

By the glow of his lamp Wilhem extracted his clothes from the satchel on Skee’s back and put them on, grateful for the warmth.  All around the cage the dancing yellow light met with only darkness.  There was nothing to look at on the way down except black stone and the oily glimmer of Skeeander’s eyes; nothing to hear but the clack-clack-clack of the chain.  Once he was dressed Wilhem dug out his father’s crossbow and set it in a leather sling hung from the horn of his saddle.  It was a small bow, its span no longer than his arm, but it was well made and powerful enough to bring down even a stag with the right shot.  Wilhem was very fond of the weapon and knew its every curve and all the nicks and scrapes in the stock by heart.   

He got out his quiver of bolts as well and sat down cross-legged to inspect the fletching.  He set the lamp on the floor of the cage in front of him and held the quarrels up in the light, slowly turning them.  The worst of them he put back in the satchel to be re-feathered once he returned to the Downs.  The rest he left in the quiver, which he hung in place opposite the crossbow.  He was just finishing up tightening a buckle when the cage abruptly jerked to a halt, causing Skree’s forelegs to fold at the knees and knocking the both of them to the floor of the cage.  The horse squealed loudly and Wilhem grunted as the impact robbed him of his breath.  

Stupid, he thought, lying on his back.  Getting to bowl a few minutes faster wouldn’t do him much good if he lamed his horse or broke his own neck on the way.

Groaning, he used the bars of the cage to drag himself upright.  Skreeander clambered up as well, his hooves slipping erratically.  Wilhem dusted them both off and picked up the lamp from where it lay, toppled over but still burning.  Holding it high, he walked to the opening of the cage and peered down.  They were hovering about a halfstaff off a floor of bare dirt. The walls around it were a smooth circle.  Directly ahead there was a darkened tunnel opening, much like the one above that led into the cavern. 

He shoved the plank bridge, pushing it out the cage door with his boots until it teetered on its axis and the far end sagged down to the dirt.  Then he swung up into his saddle with one hand while cradling the lamp with the other and urged Skree onward down the ramp. 

The tunnel twisted its way through solid rock, bending this way and that.  There were more symbols carved into the stone here, thousands of them, but most were so worn it wasn’t possible to discern their true shapes.  There were paintings too—the remnants of them anyhow, faint blobs of red and green and yellow that had lost all shape.

After a time they rounded a sharp corner and a burning circle of daylight appeared in the distance.  Wilhem felt cool air on his cheeks, smelled fresh pine sap, and heard the far off screech of a hawk.  Skree’s ears picked up at the noise.  Ignoring Wilhem’s hold on his reins, he broke into a trot.  “E-ya—”  the boy admonished, but he didn’t bother to try and slow the horse.  He too was eager to escape the dank of the tunnel.  

When they emerged into the light the colors were so vivid that Wilhem saw spots and forced Skee to a halt.  He twisted the hunter’s lamp to douse the flame and tucked it away.  They’d come out next to the pool at the base of the cliffs where the waterfall splashed down.  The silver cascade struck a bed of stones and churned to a white foam that oozed outward to cover a third of the pond’s surface.  From above the water looked blue as sapphires, but below it was almost black, the surface shining like a mirror.  The rolling banks surrounding it were draped with bright green moss, and a fractured rainbow arched through the remnants of morning mist that hovered over everything.  Wilhem took it all in with his mouth gaping in awe.  No matter how many times he came to this spot he couldn’t get used to the sight of it.  It seemed unreal, a place where gods ought to live.  While he was gawking Skreeander loped up to the edge of the pool and lowered his head to drink.  Wilhem’s eyes caught on a pair of dragonflies skimming over the surface and tracked them as they whirled in tandem, drifting towards the trees opposite the falls.  They began to rise once they reached the wood and Wilhem’s gaze followed them up until he realized that the flicker of movement he’d just seen looming between two stout trunks was a doe picking her head up.  She stood motionless and alert, waiting to see what Wilhem and Skeeander were about.

Wilhem’s breath stopped in his throat.  Very slowly, he reached down by his knee for his crossbow.  The doe watched him, her ears rigid.  Wilhem felt the tension rise in his blood along with a familiar rush of excitement.  He lifted the bow and held it out, aligning with the bottom portion of the doe’s chest.  The crossbow’s aim wasn’t perfectly true—it had a tendency to buck, sending the bolt high, so he had learned to compensate.  He aimed low on her breast so the shot would take her just below the throat.  His finger reached for the trigger.

At the same moment, Skreeander nickered, having just finished his drink.  Like lightning the doe bolted, her tail flashing white as she fled into the woods.  “No!” Wilhem swore.  He gave the palfrey a hard swat.  “After her now, lummox!”  

Skreeander obeyed, charging up the bank and into the gap between the two trees just as the doe’s tail flitted out of sight.  There was no trail to follow but the forest was sparse in this part of the bowl, leaving room for the horse to forge his own path.  

As stubborn and difficult as Skreeander could be when there was nothing for him to do, when it came to a chase he was as fast and relentless as any lord’s horse.  He was also clever.  When they came flying over the top of a heave in the forest floor and saw the doe up ahead, bounding straight toward the upturned roots of a fallen tree, Skree automatically slanted to the right, reading which way she would be forced to turn.  Wilhem let out a yell of encouragement.  Sure enough the doe cut to the right and her lead on them shrunk by half.  Wilhem brought up his crossbow again, fighting to keep it level as Skree’s hooves churned up the irregular terrain.  There was no way to make the shot at such a breakneck pace, not with so many trees getting in the way and the doe hopping over rocks and fallen trunks like a rabbit.  Wilhem fought the urge to fire wildly.  Reloading the crossbow at a run was next to impossible.  He’d have to be patient.  

The doe seemed tireless though.  There were no brush thickets for her to hide in so she darted left and right as they closed on her, moving too erratically for Skree to anticipate every move.  Wilhem pushed the palfrey as hard as he could yet the doe kept them at bay until Skree’s sides were heaving and his coat was lathered with sweat.  Trees swept past in a blur and the forest rolled up and down.  Wilhem was beginning to think they were going to lose her when the woods suddenly gave way to a steeply-canted field filled with knee-high grass.  The doe tried to shift course while taking the slope at full speed and stumbled.  Wilhem looked ahead and saw that the animal had run out of luck.  At the bottom of the field there was a pond, too wide for her to leap and too deep for her to ford.  She would have to turn completely when she reached it, exposing her broadside to him.  

No sooner had Wilhem had the thought than it was happening; the doe sprinted up to the pond and veered hard to the right to follow the bank.  His arm moved instinctively, bringing the crossbow to level and firing in the same motion.  He watched in frozen time as the bolt flew, catching the doe in thick of her torso, just behind her foreleg.  She dropped in her next stride, skidding helter-skelter into the pond and throwing up a splash.

Wilhem shouted, incredulous.  He shook his crossbow in the air and reined up, slowing Skree to a trot.  He wanted to go straight to the deer, but after a run like that he knew he needed to keep the horse moving a while so he guided him into a sweeping circle.  He did a few laps from the pond to the woods and back, gradually working the horse down to a walk.  At the same time his own heart was calming, though a tide of exhilaration still coursed powerfully in his veins.  He went over the shot again and again in his mind.  It was chance, mostly, he had to admit.  He’d never even had time to take aim.

“How about that?” he laughed, patting Skree’s shoulder.  “A good start, a good start!”  He guided the horse back to the doe and slid from the saddle, drawing Cob’s hunting knife from his belt.  The animal was still twitching as he approached her, her nostrils wet and flaring.  Wilhem felt a pang of remorse but crouched down and drew his blade across her throat, ending her pain.  The smell of her blood was metallic and sour, making Skree skittish.  The horse pranced sideways, casting his shadow over the deer.  Wilhem glanced up to admonish him but then something in the distance caught his attention.  

At the far end of the field, behind a hill where the grass met yet another wall of trees, a plume of smoke was rising.  It was faint but steady, and as the breeze shifted Wilhem could taste the scent of it in his nostrils.  His mouth went dry.  He stood up, his knees cracking, and wiped the knife clean on his thigh.  Who could it be?  And how did they get down here?  The bowl was supposed to be his place, his secret.  There wasn’t supposed to be any way down but the one he alone knew about.  Had someone else discovered it?  If they had used the cage to reach the bowl, he felt sure they would have left it waiting at the bottom of the chasm, as he had, rather than sending it back up to the top.  But there was no other way into the bowl.  He chewed his lip.  Not that you know about.  That doesn’t mean another way can’t exist.   

Suddenly he began to worry.  If the strangers were Lord Breylock’s men, he’d be beaten mercilessly for the deer.  They might even bring him back to Whitestone Keep and throw him in a hanging cage.  It was common for Thimble Downers to hunt in The Gilded Woods; for the most part Lord Breylock tolerated it, but the unwritten rule was that poachers should be discreet, lest it become widely known that the lord was soft on lawbreakers.  Jandel Breylock was fair, but woe to him that was so brazen as to be caught red-handed hunting on his land.  

Feeling exposed, Wilhem climbed up atop Skree’s back and rode to the edge of the woods, taking cover in the trees.  He stopped there to think, reluctant to leave the doe behind.  Venison fetched a good price at the better inns and taverns in the Downs.  He and his father needed that coin to provision for winter.  He debated.  I could go sneak a look at the camp.  If he spotted Breylock blue anywhere he could slip away, and if he was so unlucky as to get caught, he could always make up a story about how he’d gotten lost while exploring a cave and ended up in the bowl. . .

It wasn’t a great plan, but as usual his curiosity was getting the better of him.  “I’m going to check things out,” he announced to Skreeander, hopping down to the ground.  “You stay here.”  He unknotted the palfrey’s reins and tied them off to a tree branch, leaving enough slack for him to reach the edge of the field but not enough for him to enter it and be seen.  “And keep quiet, hear me?”  The horse blinked at him and lowered his head to the grass to graze, for once compliant.  Wilhem reloaded his crossbow and set off toward the smoke.  

He made his way furtively along the tree line, keeping to the shade.  It took twice as long that way but he wasn’t really in a hurry; he needed time to steel his nerves.  At the far end the field narrowed, tapering toward the hill that perched over the narrowest part of the pond.  The source of the smoke appeared to lie just on the other side.  When he got the base he stalked up as quietly as he could, darting from tree to tree.

From the summit he could see the camp laid out beneath him as plainly as his own two feet.  The smoke rose from a shallow fire pit dug into the ground, right where the hill flattened beside the pond.  The odd thing about the camp though, was that it was deserted.  And odder still, there was a rolling cart abandoned near the fire, just like the ones that traveling bazaars used to cart valecats and bears around.  It hulked forlornly in the grass, partly in the shadow of the forest.  The ground all around it was churned up, presumably by the draught horses that had pulled it there, but as to the horses themselves and whoever owned them, there was no sign.  

Wilhem stayed where he was behind the shelter of a fir trunk, waiting.  Nothing moved in the camp but the smoke.  A true bazaar wagon would have been gaudily painted in loud colors, but this one was grim and rusted, like a smaller version of the cave cage.  It had a long wooden tongue which rested on the ground and four huge, studded wheels banded in iron.  It didn’t look like there was anything in the cage, but he couldn’t be certain.  Not without getting a closer look.  

I’ll be quick, he told himself.  He stepped out from behind the tree, every muscle in his body taut and ready to flee, and walked a few paces out into the open.  No alarms were raised and no one appeared to challenge him.  Whoever had left the wagon, they were gone. 

Wilhem continued down the hill, pausing when he reached the fire.  Most of the coals had gone to ash but a few still glowed, giving off weak flames that lapped at a charred piece of branch.  A dented tin cup sat buried in the outer edge of the coal bank with a bit of brown liquid bubbling in it.  Bean tea, he guessed—the kind soldiers drank to stay alert.  Perhaps it was Breylock men after all.  He lifted his crossbow and moved toward the wagon.  He still didn’t see anything inside but he wasn’t taking any chances.  Treading a few paces closer, he noticed a lump of mouse-colored cloth piled in a corner of the cage.  A piece of the ragged fabric trailed between two of the iron bars, fluttering listlessly in the breeze.  There was something inside, he realized.  It was too small to be a valecat or a bear though.  Another few steps brought the tip of the crossbow bolt to within inches of the bars.  Wilhem leaned close and peered in.

At first he didn’t understand what he was looking at.  A lithe, pale limb protruded from one end of the drab cloth while a nest of wild black hair stuck out the top.  He stared for a few seconds, then lowered the crossbow with a guilty jerk of his arm.  The lump was a woman, sleeping on her side beneath a crude blanket.  The shape of her torso was unmistakable now that he’d recognized it for what it was. 

“Mi’ lady,” he whispered.  The woman did not stir.  “Psst,” he persisted, “Mi’lady?”  Wilhem couldn’t tell if the woman was even breathing.  Her face was completely hidden behind the tangled veil of her hair.  Slowly, he extended his arm between two of the bars and tried to expose her face.  His fingertips touched her hair, feeling the warmth of her cheek beneath, and then he felt. . . . . .pain.   

The woman reacted like a striking snake, snatching his wrist and flying out from under the blanket in a single fluid burst of movement.  She knelt in front of him now, wrenching his elbow and using the iron bars to apply pressure.  His arm was afire and his nose was crushed against the cage.  Judging by the taste of metal trickling down his throat, it was leaking blood.  

“Stop!”  Wilhem begged.  “I meant no harm!”  The woman’s eyes hovered inches in front of his own, studying him.  They were the shape of mint leaves but the color of ice, like a winter bear’s.  He saw straight away that she was not from the Hinterlands and in a vague corner of his mind thought of the Irathi merchant girl, marveling at how strange it was that for the second time that day he was gazing upon a foreigner unlike any other he’d ever seen.  This one’s fair skin and raven hair shared nothing in common with the sun-touched Irathi, but her gaze was equally fierce.  The rest of her face was so covered in grime that he couldn’t tell how old she was or what she really looked like; she might have been pretty but she stank of sweat and something else, something faintly rotten. 

“Please,” Wilhem whimpered, sensing that his arm was near to breaking, “I’m sorry.  Please!”  The woman slowly brought a finger to her lips.  Wilhem shut his mouth and nodded.  Holding him pinned to the bars, she sent her strange eyes on a survey of the camp, swinging her head from left to right.  She wore nothing but a man’s filthy half breeches and a tattered rag of shirt.  Ropes of muscle writhed under the skin of her thighs and forearms as she shifted, pivoting to look behind her.  She scanned the woods on the other side of the cage and turned back to him.

At the same time, Wilhem remembered the crossbow dangling from his free hand.  He started to raise it.  He’d just gotten his fingers around the trigger bar when unexpectedly, the woman smiled.  Her teeth were coated in a film of filth, yet straight and even.  Wordlessly, she let go of Wilhem’s wrist.  Before he could withdraw his arm though, she clapped her hand around the back of his neck and pulled him close.  Unaware of what was happening Wilhem succumbed, going stiff with shock as her mouth pressed against his.  A flush of excitement and confusion swept through him, dashing his wits to pieces.  His eyes fluttered shut and a pleasant heat opened in his gut, pulling him down.  Then he felt the tip of her tongue fleck against his lip and a bolt of cold panic pierced the fog in his mind like a needle through a soap bubble.  Instinctively he lurched backward, reaching up to touch his mouth as though he’d been stung.  

Something passed through the woman’s eyes, a flash of anger and disappointment.  She licked her lips and then abruptly laughed, bringing color to her cheeks and a brightness to her eyes.  She’s mad, he thought.  

“What in Ganthor’s name did you do that for?” Wilhem demanded, wiping blood from his mouth with the back of his hand.  Ignoring him, the woman scrambled to the end of the wagon, waving for him to follow.  Wilhem did so in a daze.  When he came around the back of the wagon she pointed to a heavy lock hanging from a latch on the outside of the cage.  With both hands she made an overhead slashing motion, miming bashing it.  The boy frowned.  So that was why she kissed me.  She thinks I’ve come to free her.

“No,” he blurted.  “I’m sorry.  I can’t.  I shouldn’t even be here.”  The woman made the motion again.  Wilhem shook his head.  “No.  I can’t.  I have to go.”  He took a few steps back, growing anxious.  A spark of anger flashed in the woman’s eyes.  She pointed at her neck and then at the camp.  Wilhem wondered why she refused to speak.  She made another gesture, dragging her thumb across her throat like a knife. 

“I don’t understand,” he said.  “They’re going to kill you?”  The woman closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against the bars, shaking her head in frustration.  

“Pleth,” she croaked.  It was a strangled sound, barely a whisper.  She opened her eyes and they were filled with pleading.  “Plethe.”  She was mimicking him, Wilhem realized, begging for his mercy.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated.    

But he didn’t leave.  For some reason he couldn’t look away from the woman’s eyes.  They leapt out at him from behind the bars of the cage, as luminous as a firebug’s tail.  Their energy seemed to tug at something inside him, holding him in place.   His mind churned.  The cart had nothing to do with Breylocks—he was almost certain of that now.  Lord Breylock would never allow his men to treat a woman like an animal, no matter what she’d done.  Even if she’d murdered someone he’d of had brought her to his hall—bound possibly, but not in a cage.  Then he’d have tried her, and if she’d been found guilty his justice would have been a swift trip to the gallows.  It must have been brigands or criminals of some kind that had captured the woman then, and in that case the she was probably telling the truth.  They likely would kill her.  And not until after they’d done worse. 

Hesitantly, he stepped forward to inspect the lock.  It was sturdy and made of good iron, but the hasp wasn’t very thick.  As he took it in his palm the woman’s arm shot out of the cage and she took his hand in hers.  Her eyes bore into his, radiating with an intensity that made him self-conscious.  She squeezed his fingers fiercely.  After a moment, Wilhem nodded. 

“All right,” he said.  “I’ll try.  If I can break it open though, you’re on your own.”  The girl grinned, but Wilhem got the feeling all she’d understood was his nod.

It was madness, but he ran to the edge of the pond and dropped to all fours to search for a suitable stone.  He set his crossbow down next to him and thrust both arms into the water.  By Spirits, said a voice in his head, what do you thing you’re doing, Wilhem?  Are you really so eager to die for some half-mad stranger?  He stared at his reflection in the pond as his hands groped in the mud underneath.  His soot-dark hair was tousled, his grey eyes were wild and his mouth and nose were smeared in blood.  The sight of it sobered him.  He wasn’t sure if the voice had been his own or if his mind was just mimicking his father, Cob, but either way, he knew it was right.  This was folly.  

His fingers found and rejected several small stones before coming across a larger, more solid one. As he strained to pull it up from the muck, a second reflection appeared in the rippled surface of the water, hovering over his shoulder.  It was a slender figure in a dark robe, the face hidden within the shadows of a hooded cowl.  

“I’m afraid I can’t let you do that, Child.” the figure spoke, in a calm, strange accent.  “The girl is in the cage for a reason.  If you’d set her free she’d have torn your throat out for your trouble.”  

Wilhem shouted and lunged into a sideways somersault, snatching up his crossbow.  When he’d stopped rolling he sprang to his feet with his back to the pond.  There were two strangers between him and the cage wagon now, one of them the robed figure, the other a towering, heavily-muscled soldier with a glistening bald head.  That one stood by the dying fire a few paces behind the other, wearing a deep red cloak over a scarred leather hauberk and leaning on the hilt of a broadsword.    

Wilhem swung the crossbow up to point at the soldier’s chest.

“Wh—Who are you?” he stammered.  “How did you come here?”  The soldier laughed.  He had handsome eyes, the blue-grey of stormclouds, but the rest of him was fiercely ugly.  His cheeks were stubbled crags, his brow was too heavy and one side of his face was dotted with teardrop shaped scars, as though he’d be burned by a spray of molten steel.  Behind him, Wilhem saw the woman in the cage slump down to her knees with her hands gripping the bars, her mouth twisted in rage and disappointment.  

“We’ve been wondering the same of you,” said the soldier.  His voice was harsher than the other’s, his accent thicker.  “Now lower that crossbow.”  Wilhem shook his head. 

“You’re no Breylock.” 

“That’s true.”  The soldier took a step forward.  “Whatever a Breylock is, I’m not one of them.  But if you don’t lower that weapon I’ll do it for you, and take half your arm along with it.”  

Wilhem crept backward, feeling water seep into his boots as he backpedaled into the pond.

“Stay back.” he warned, thrusting the crossbow out threateningly.  The soldier took another step toward him.

“Syros,” interrupted the hooded figure.  “You’ve just seen this boy take down a running doe while on horseback at long rein.”  Wilhem’s eyes jumped back and forth, trying to watch the both of them at once.  “Do you think it likely he’ll miss?”  The soldier halted, sneering.  They saw me kill the deer, thought Wilhem.  They’ve been watching all this while.  No wonder the camp was deserted.  How could I have been so stupid?

“A lucky shot, Matha.  Toss a hundred coins on a table and one is bound to land on its edge.”

“Are you certain that’s all it was?”  The soldier shrugged.  

“It makes no difference.  He’s a greenling child.  Killing a deer is one thing, Dreanalai.  Killing Syros is another.  He doesn’t have the stones to put a bolt in my chest.”  The soldier leered at Wilhem.  “Eh, boy?”

Wilhem swallowed, fighting to hide his terror.  

“I’m not aiming for your chest,” he boasted.  “I’m aiming for your eye.”  The soldier threw his head back and roared.  A silver buckle holding his cloak in place flashed in the sun and Wilhem saw that it was star—not just any star but the unmistakable thirteen-pointed star of Altaria.  Wilhem’s hand began to tremble.    

“Look, Matha?  How his hand quakes fear.”  

“He’d be a fool not to fear you,” the one called Matha said matter-of-factly.  “As you would be a fool to underestimate him.  Did you not notice, Syros, how he chose to point his bolt at you, though I was the closer and more urgent mark?”  The soldier shrugged.

“What of it?”

“A greenling would have gone with his instinct and aimed for me as I am closer.  This one did not.  He’s had instruction.  Haven’t you, child?  Father is a soldier, perhaps?”  Wilhem blinked in surprise.

“No,” he denied.  “He’s a cobbler.”

“A cobber!” Syros laughed.  “Oh, the boy’s definitely had some training then.  We should keep him around Matha, he can mend my boots!”

“His father may be a cobbler now,” said Matha.  “But I’d wager my hand he was a soldier before that, wasn’t he, Child?  If you put the boy’s life in the balance Syros, he will loose that bolt at you.” 

“Well then.  So be it.” The soldier raised his sword.  “It’ll take more than that to stop me.”

“No!” Matha snapped.  “We have no time for you to take a wound.  Boy—”  The face inside the hood turned to Wilhem.  “We won’t harm you, I swear it.  Lower that bow.  Now.”  There was an edge in the stranger’s voice so chilling that Wilhem nearly obeyed.  He didn’t know how he was going to do to get away and his arm was trembling.  Altarians.  What were Altarians doing in The Hinterlands?    

“I won’t,” he said, weakly.  “He’ll cut me down.”  Matha laughed, darkly. 

“That’d be a blessing compared to what I could do to you if I wanted to, child.  I need no sword to bring you worse pain than death.  You are outnumbered and outmatched.  Be wise.”  Wilhem shook his head.

“I won’t be put in a cage.  Tell him to put down his sword.”  

The robed figure raised his arm straight out exposing a pale wrinkled hand.  His fingers danced.  Instantaneously the wooden handle of Wilhem’s crossbow came alive; he shouted in alarm as it leapt out of his hands, spinning through the air in a neat arc.  It landed smoothly in the stranger’s palm.  Wilhem’s yell turned to a scream as pain like a thousand dagger points stabbed through his palms and began crawling up his forearms. 

“I warned you, child,” Matha hissed.  “Not all weapons are made of steel.  Now—” he pointed to a log beside the fire, “Sit.”  

The soldier Syros, who was closer to the log, took a seat and patted the spot next to him, inviting Wilhem to join him.  Wilhem obeyed, stumbling to the log in a stupor of pain.  Once he sat down the agony spreading up his arms abruptly ceased.  He flexed his fingers, panting in relief.  Matha moved to stand across the fire, smoke curling up between them.  

“I have questions for you,” he said.  “Lie to me or try to run and I’ll revisit that same pain upon you ten fold, understand?”  Wilhem nodded, knowing he had little choice now that they had his weapon.  Matha lowered himself to a rock, gingerly, as though it was difficult to bend, and set down the crossbow.  He raised his arms and pulled back his cowl, revealing long white hair, clouded blue eyes and an ancient, wrinkled face.  

Wilhem cursed himself for a fool.  The face was too delicate to be a man’s, too soft along the jaw and brow.  Matha was a woman.  He should have been able to tell from her stature, but the crone spoke with such a sense of authority that he’d assumed she was a man.      

“Witch,” he whispered.  She smiled, appearing almost grandmotherly.  

“No, child,” she said.  “In our tongue I am called Dreanalai.  Have you heard that name before?” 

“No.”  

“I see.  You are a bit green then I suppose.  What are you called?”    

“Wilhem,” he mumbled.

“Is that all?”  Wilhem dropped his eyes, looking at the grass between his boots.  “Speak up.  What’s your surname?”   

“Ashfall.  Wilhem of Ashfall.”  Out of the corner of his eye, Wilhem noticed the soldier stiffen.

“Is that meant to be a joke?” 

“What?”  Wilhem glanced up to find the man glaring at him, the cast of his mouth threatening violence.  Beneath the warning though he looked weary, his was face drawn and grimy as though it had been a long time since he’d last slept.

“He’s lying.”  

“It’s the truth. I don’t care if you believe me or not.”  

“I do believe you, child,” Matha said.  She was staring at him intently.  “Tell me though—do you know the true meaning of your name?”

“What meaning? It’s just a name.”

“A name is never just a name.  Do you know what Ashfall is?” Wilhem shrugged. 

“A place somewhere across The Rift.  My father brought me back from there when I was a babe.”  Matha nodded.

“Your father—he isn’t your birth father then?” 

“It doesn’t matter,” Wilhem snapped, more fiercely than he’d intended to.  “He’s my father.”  The witch laughed at him. 

“I see.  Wilhem—Ashfall is not a place.  It is the name of a battle.  The last battle of the Orchard War when Triton fell to Altaria.  Your name is a jest.  It means you are a war orphan.”   Wilhem shrugged again.  Even it was true it didn’t make much difference to him, he’d already know Cob was not his blood father.

“So?  An orphan’s an orphan.” 

“Not quite.” Matha laughed. “Most orphans don’t have Phaeon blood running through their veins.” 

“Phaeon?” Wilhem echoed quizzically.

“A question for your father, perhaps,” Matha said.  “Syros—bring me my wasps, please.”  The soldier cocked his chin.  

“You’re going to test him?”    

“Suratha brought him to us for a reason.  It is unusual that he is Phaeon and named for Ashfall.  He may be one of those we seek.  The wasps, if you will.”  

Syros climbed to his feet.  He lumbered to the wagon and tugged on a latch that was concealed in the wooden part of the frame, below the bars.  The woman in the cage was lying down with her back facing the camp now, much as Wilhem had first found her; she did not stir despite the noise Syros made as he opened a hidden drawer.  It slid out smoothly and after a moment’s rummaging around within the soldier lifted out a plain brown satchel.  Wilhem’s heart began to pound.  He understood nothing of what was happening except that the witch intended to test him in some way.  That was enough to make his blood run cold.

“Here,” mumbled Syros, bringing the satchel over to Matha. She took it and shuffled around the fire to join them on the log, leaving Wilhem’s crossbow behind on the rock.  Her nearness turned the boy to stone.  Syros sat on his other side, boxing him in.  

“Wilhem,” said the crone,  “have you ever had a dream that seemed to go on for hours?  A dream that was so real you can still remember everything about it?”  As she spoke she lifted a slender black case from the bag.  It was made of a richly grained wood that had been stained ebony and lacquered to a high shine.  A delicate golden clasp holding its two halves together was in the shape of a gnarled tree.  Matha flicked the latch with a shriveled thumb and opened the case across her thighs.  “Wilhem?  Have you ever had such a dream?”  

“No,” he said.  

Matha frowned.  Inside the case a scrap of black silk covered several objects.  She folded the cloth back and removed a brooch cast to resemble a large mud wasp.  Its head and wings were made of silver but the body and stinger had been forged in glass.  The stinger was as long as Wilhem’s small finger and looked deadly sharp.  

“Are you certain?”

“Yes,” said Wilhem, fearfully.  “I’ve never had a dream like that.” 

“Give me your hand please.”  Wilhem hesitated.  Matha glanced at him sideways.  “I won’t ask again.” Reluctantly he offered her his wrist.  The old woman took it in her grasp and twisted until his palm faced upward.  She started to lower the wasp’s stinger toward the pad of his thumb.

“No!” Wilhem blurted, pulling his hand away.

“Syros, hold him,” Matha ordered.  The soldier slapped one of his thick arms around Wilhem’s shoulders, pinning him to his flank.  The man's torso was like a block of rippled stone.  Wilhem opened his mouth to scream but Syros’ other hand clamped over his jaw, locking it shut.  He struggled vainly as Matha plunged the stinger into his skin and watched in horror as a bright red stream of his blood flowed up the glass into the thimble-sized body of the wasp.  Once the chamber was full, Matha withdrew the device and Syros released his hold on Wilhem.  

“Be calm,” the crone said, holding the brilliant redness of his blood up to the sun.  “This is all I needed.”  Wilhem bit his thumb, dizzy.  Matha removed the rest of the black silk from the case, revealing a flat rectangular stone and a second silver wasp.  She took the polished stone and turned it over.  It was as long and about as wide as her forearm and there were thirteen depressions in its surface, like tiny bowls.  Each one was marked with a strange symbol, and all were the same size except for three of them.  The first depression and the last depression were half again as large as the others, and the depression in the very middle was the largest, half again as large as the first and last.  One of the symbols Wilhem thought he recognized, the very first one.  It showed five stars grouped in a familiar constellation, that of the golden stag.  Matha lowered the wasp’s stinger over the first depression and pressed down on the head until a drop of Wilhem’s blood fell to the stone.  She then repeated the motion, wetting the next tiny bowl and the next.  “Wilhem,” she said as she worked.  “Do you know of Ganther?”

“Ganther?”  He scoffed.  “Of course.”

“What do you know of him?”

“He was the King of the Tritons.  And he saved the world.  A long time ago.”

“I see.  And is he your god?”  Wilhem shrugged.

“He’s everyone’s god.”

“No.” Matha finished filling all the bowls except the big one in the middle and lowered the wasp back into its place in the case.  “Only Tritons believe Ganther was a god.  The truth is he was barely more than mortal.”  She picked up the second wasp.  As she turned it in her hand, Wilhem saw that the glass chamber was filled with a glowing blue liquid that swirled like smoke.  “There are twelve true gods that reside in the spirit realm.  Like brothers and sisters they are bound by blood but separated by their differences.  They are always struggling against each other  and from time to time they choose a man or woman to help them pursue their interests in this world.  In Altaria we call these chosen ones Dreanalai.  Ganther was one of those chosen.  But there have always been others.  One babe in a thousand receives the blessing.”  Matha turned to stare at Wilhem, letting the meaning of her words settle in.  Then she lifted the wasp and nodded at the blue liquid within.  “This substance is dreana, Wilhem.  The lifeblood of the spirit realm, the blood that flows in the veins of the gods.  It will tell me if any of the gods has claimed you.  Wouldn’t that be exciting, child, to discover that you have a god at your back?”

“I do,” Wilhem said defiantly.  “Ganther.”  

Matha gave him a sympathetic smile.  Bringing the dreana-filled wasp to the first bowl she pressed the head and released a drop of the blue liquid.  It fell into Wilhem’s blood.  When the two substances mixed they began to fizzle.  

“Adova,” she whispered.  She waited a moment.  Once the mottled liquid had burned away she moved on to the second bowl.  “Deodin,” she said, letting another blue droplet fall.   Again the liquids fizzled and evaporated.  Matha moved on, speaking ten more strange names in succession.  The result however, never changed.  When she was finished she wiped the bowls clean with the scrap of silk and placed it back in the box.  

“I’m sorry, Wilhem,” she said.  “You belong to no god.  You are ordinary.”  Wilhem breathed a sigh of relief—but felt a twinge of disappointment as well.  

“You didn’t try all of them.”  Matha laughed.

“The thirteenth bowl is for Monmut, child, god of gods.  It would be a waste of dreana to test for his claim.  He has not chosen any man or woman since the dawn of time, thousands of years before even Ganther.  Be thankful for that.  The last time Monmut chose the whole world burned to ash.  Now—”  Matha turned her own palm up and brought the dreana-filled wasp down towards it.  “Be silent a moment.”  

To Wilhem’s astonishment, the crone closed her eyes and swiftly slashed the meat of her own thumb with the wasp.  A fine, white-edged cut opened and seconds later a droplet of blood welled from the wound.  Matha held the wasp steady over and pressed on the head three times, admitting three drops of the blue liquid directly into the open cut.  As they mingled with her blood her eyes flew open.  The wound absorbed the dreana and it began to spread up her thumb, glowing faintly beneath her skin.  Then it raced outward up her hand and wrist like a spider web.  She gasped and her whole body began to tremble.

Right before Wilhem’s eyes, Matha transformed.  The creases in her forehead and cheeks smoothed away and the slack under her chin tightened.  Color returned to her hair, tinting it a ruddy brown, like the coat of a fox, and her eyes gleamed—still blue but a much brighter shade, even more vivid than the eyes of the girl in the cage.  “Ahh,” she sighed.  “I had waited too long, Syros.  You must chasten me next time.”  

The soldier frowned.  “If I did you’d tell me to mind my own affairs.”  

“Nevertheless.”  

Wilhem felt a shudder work its way down his spine, his panic renewed by the sight of Matha’s metamorphosis.  

“Can I go now?” he asked timidly.  The witch tucked the dreana wasp back into the case and closed it.

“Not just yet.”  She stood up, moving much more nimbly, settling her robe around her.  Wilhem had thought at first that the robe was black, but as it caught the sun he saw that it was in fact a very deep purple.  Beneath its folds Matha’s body was still changing, becoming fuller and more defined, filling out the slack that had hung from her formerly bony frame.  By the time she finished adjusting the sash that encircled her waist she had shed easily thirty years.  “Wilhem,” she said, casting her now comely gaze upon him, “there is a town near here that sits between a river and the base of an oddly shaped mountain.  Do you know its name?”

Wilhem glanced from her face to Syros’s, wondering if the question was meant to be a trick.  Their expressions were both hard.  

“That’s my village.” 

“Ah,” Matha replied.  “Is it now?  Perhaps that is why Suratha brought you to me.  What is the name of your village, Wilhem, and where exactly does it lie?”  Wilhem could not stop staring.  Matha was almost a completely different woman, yet she acted as though nothing at all had happened.  Wilhem hesitantly pointed, picking out a spot just to the east of the waterfall that hid the entrance to his secret cave.  

“Thimble Downs,” he said.  “It’s that way, two hours by horseback.”  

“Good,” Matha said.  “Very good.  One more question for you, Wilhem.  You came here through a cave I expect?  And in this cave there is an iron cage that hangs on a great chain that can be used to travel up and down, yes?”  Wilhem tried to hide his surprise, but knew that he’d done a poor job of it.  Matha’s face brightened.  “Where?” she said excitedly.  “Tell me.  Where is the cave?”  Again Wilhem pointed, this time straight at the waterfall.

“Just there.  Hidden behind some rocks at the base of the falls.”  He cursed himself as he spoke, sensing that he was giving away more than he ought to.  The witch smiled widely at Syros.  

“Do you hear that, Syros?”  The soldier’s face was a mask of shock.  He began to laugh, a deep laugh that shook through the muscle of his chest and arms, yet still it did not warm his eyes.

“Wonderful, Child,” said Matha,  “We’ve spent too many days searching for this blessed cave.”  She turned to Syros.  “Gather the captains.  At once.”  

  The soldier stood, pulling a slender silver pipe from his sword belt.  He brought it to his lips and blew, releasing a loud, short burst that echoed shrilly through the bowl.  

“The lift cage, Wilhem—is it large enough to hold that wagon?” Matha spoke in a rush.  Wilhem eyed the wagon.  The girl was sitting slouched now with her back against the bars, glowering out at him. 

“I don’t think so.”  In truth he wasn’t quite certain, but he figured he’d aided the witch enough.  And it wasn’t a lie if he couldn’t be sure, he told himself.  “I think it’s too tall.”  Matha scowled.

“We shall see,” she said, “we shall have to see.” 

She turned away from him then, staring into the trees expectantly.  Syros did the same.  Wilhem was just starting to wonder what they were waiting for when all at once half a dozen men appeared, emerging from the woods as stealthily as a pack of wolves.  Each of them wore a red cloak the same as Syros’s and an Altarian star on the breast, forged from bronze rather than silver.  Though no two of them could have passed for brothers, their stern, impassive faces all exuded the same ruthless air of self-possession.  Without a sound they approached Syros and dropped to one knee with their heads slightly bowed.  Some of them held steel helms beneath their arms, all identically rounded with a scarlet stripe painted along the ridge line.    

“We have found the forger’s cave,” said Syros.  “Break down your camps and divide your men into squads of ten.  Bruntus, will have the lead, Sulla will take the rear and have charge of the blood thief.”  

“As you command, High Captain,” the men murmured in unison.  They began to rise.

“Sulla--” interrupted Matha.  The soldiers froze, resuming their downcast gazes.  Matha took a step toward them and cupped the chin of the captain at the end of the row closest to her, compelling him to raise his face to her.  He was younger than the rest of them, Wilhem noted, his unlined cheeks showing no more than twenty years.  For all his youth, however, the captain seemed no less hardened, gazing up at Matha with dark, cruel eyes that betrayed no emotion.  “This child tells me the blood thief’s wagon may be too large to pass through the forger’s cave.  If he is telling the truth, you and your command will stay here and guard her until we return.  She must remain alive, do you understand me?  Should she escape or any harm befall her I will hold you alone accountable, and you will suffer as no man has suffered since Ganther fell into Razodin’s maze.”  The young captain nodded.

“Of course, Dreanalai,” he said blankly.  “I pledge my life and the life that lies beyond.  I will not disappoint you.”  The suggestion of a smile turned Matha’s mouth.

“No,” she said, seeming satisfied.  “I suspect you will not.”  Before releasing Sulla’s chin, Matha stroked his jawline with a long fingernail, almost like a caress.  As she did so Wilhem saw Syros’s eyes tighten and his jaw flex.  

“We march within the hour,” he barked.  “Go.” 

The captains were quick to obey, rising smoothly to their feet.  The one called Sulla glanced toward Syros as he stood and nodded deferentially.  Syros gave no acknowledgment of the gesture, but Wilhem saw the tic at his jawline deepen.  His eyes burned into the younger man’s back as he and the others melted into the woods.       

Wilhem glanced at his crossbow sitting on the rock across the fire.  Syros seemed preoccupied with his dislike, and Matha had her back to him as she bent down to collect the box of her dreana wasps.  There was a chance he might be able to get to the crossbow before either of them remembered him.  Cautiously, he started to stand.  

Before he’d moved so much as an inch, Matha swiftly turned on him.  “The crossbow stays where it is,” she says.  “But you may go.”   Wilhem sprang to his feet, needing no further encouragement.

“Dreanalai—” Syros intervened, snapping out of his thoughts.  “Wait.”  He grabbed Wilhem by the back of his neck.  “Is it wise to let the boy go?  He will alert the villagers of what he has seen.”  

“She said I could go,” Wilhem protested.  “Let me go.”   

“Let him,” said Matha.  “No one will believe him, and if they do it matters not.  When they see Queen Selthena’s seal on my orders and five thousand Altarian soldiers at my back even their lords will line up to aid me, docile as sheep.”

“Matha—”

“The boy was a gift from Suratha, Syros.  If the goddess wanted him harmed she’d have spoken to me.  Let him go.”  Matha’s tone silenced any further argument.  Syros abruptly shoved Wilhem away from him.  “Child—” the witch said, “Be warned—if that iron cage isn’t waiting for us when we get to the cave, you and your father both will pay for it dearly.  You cannot hide from me, wherever you go in the world I will know where to track you.  My reach is far longer than a sword, ”  Wilhem glanced at his hands, the memory of what the witch had done to them still fresh in his mind.   “Off with you, then.”  Matha waved her arm dismissively.

Wilhem ran.  He reached the top of the hill before he’d taken his third breath and didn’t slow his pace until he’d reached the spot across the field where he’d left Skreeander.  By the time he reached the horse his lungs were burning and the last bursts of strength had ebbed from his legs.  He leaned feebly on the tree Skee was tied to and gulped at the air.  The horse watched him lazily.  Wilhem freed the reins from around the branch and vaulted up into the saddle.  

“Ride!” He ordered the palfrey.