Page 18 of The Moorwitch
Chapter Six
The road I follow through the wood that afternoon is dark and muddy, enclosed by a tunnel of intertwining branches. I pull my shawl tight and press on, carrying a valise in each hand, with my threadkit slung over my shoulder so that it knocks awkwardly against my thigh with every other step.
At least I am finally alone. No more faeries to hiss at me or pull my hair or look at me as if I might be tasty with a bit of gravy. Lachlan gave me two valises—one with my new clothes inside, the other bearing the precious spell bought at terrible expense from the Telarii—some final instructions and advice, and a manufactured tale to explain my presence. I’ve been walking for an hour now, approaching the village of Blackswire through its northern wooded border.
I review my predicament as I walk.
My birthday is in a little more than three weeks. In that time, I need to find the doorway to Elfhame, discover the spell to unlock it, sneak in, steal a branch, sneak out, and return to Lachlan. And to do allthat, I must first find someplace to stay in the village of Blackswire. Perhaps there is an elderly widow who could use a pair of helpful hands in exchange for a bed, or a farmer in need of some tracking spells for his wandering sheep. I have some money from Lachlan to pay for room and board, but my pride smarts at taking further charity from him. Even if Iamhere on his business, I am not without my own resources.
Doubt and dread are twin devils dogging my steps, mocking me from the shadows. I know my task will not be as simple asfind the doorway and steal the branch, and I suspect there is much Lachlan has not told me. But the occasional twinge of pain in my heart drives me forward like a cattle prod—as does the tantalizing hope of success.
If I can restore my magic fully, I can return home sooner. I won’t need an entire year to rest. I could be back in my classroom by the month’s end.
Lachlan gave me directions to find the Elfhame doorway, but they had been vague and will no doubt require some exploration. I consider forgoing my cover story and simply making inquiries in Blackswire—Pardon, but have any of you ever come across a gate to faerie?—but Lachlan explicitly forbade me from mentioning my quest to anyone. He’d warned that there might well be fae hidden about, ones hostile to him, and that if they knew I was looking for the doorway, I would soon find myself suffering some fatal “accident.”
“What did you do,” I’d asked, alarmed, “to incite so many enemies among your own kind?”
He’d grinned and replied, “Perhaps I killed and devoured too many snooping mortal maids.”
Shuddering, I shake away his words, press on, and think how different this place is than London.
Beyond the clean air and emptiness, there is a deeper, more essential difference that fills me with nervous excitement. In London, nearly all the green things have been tamed and pruned, shrubbery trimmed into hedgerows, gardens walled, trees cut to make way for new buildings. But here, energy flows unbounded, a roar compared to the whisper I grew up hearing. The plants grow wild, a vast tangle of clattering limbs and evergreen needles. And though the wood is dormant for winter, it takes only the slightest nudge of my sixth sense, and life awakens around me like ripples spreading over a still pool.
Oldmagic shivers beneath the ground. Wild energy, the life of the moors, washes over me like a dash of cold water, tugging at my senses.Power babbles in the deep roots, in drops from the tangled branches overhead. It curls in the dormant wood, and I feel as if a hundred unseen eyes are watching me from the shadowed depths of the skeletal winter trees.
For a moment, I shut my eyes and let my mind relax, opening the channels through my body so that I might feel this place better. Perhaps I can even sense the doorway to Elfhame itself, if it is close.
The magic rushes in, wild and green and whispering. It fills me up until my fingertips tingle and my hair follicles prickle. It pools on my tongue, a burst of crisp, cool flavor. Down to my very bones it seeps, like my entire body has been frosted over.
I channel too long. My heart squeezes in reproach, a sudden splinter of pain which shocks me back to my senses.
With a little gasp, I pull out a spool and unwind a length of thread, fingers Weaving a quick wind knot to release the magic into. Around me, leaves and branches sway in the release of a controlled gust that pours from me, magic turned to air. Energy returning to the earth. The wind rolls through the trees, clattering branches like a pack of elemental wolves, snarling and quick.
I hear a sudden whinny, as from a frightened horse, and a cry of pain around the bend. A veryhumancry.
Dropping my valise, I hurry ahead, lifting my skirt to free my steps.
Around the curve in the road, I come upon a scene of chaos: a horse on its hind legs, nostrils wide with panic, its saddle askew and reins swinging free. A large black dog is barking and leaping about as if possessed. And in the ditch lies a young man, unmoving.
“Easy!” I shout, running forward and Weaving before I half have a chance to think. I dart between horse and fallen rider, raising a cat’s cradle between my hands and channeling fast.
Fates be thanked; the calming knot works at once. The horse drops and snorts, its head lowering. I keep the Weave raised until the thread flakes into ash, and by then, the horse is standing still, breathing easily. The dog whines at me.
I turn to the young man in the ditch and find him limp on his stomach, eyes shut but, thank the Fates, breathing.
To my relief, he is entirely human. He must be in his mid-twenties, olive-skinned, with dark brows and full lips, facial bones rigid over shadowed cheeks. His ancestors might be Italian or Spanish, or hail from even further east—the Ottoman Empire or Persia. Raven-black hair hangs low over his forehead and curls slightly over his ears. His cheeks are rough, not quite bearded but in need of a shave. It is a handsome face, if a little stern and mud spattered; I study it curiously, breath held, moving a hank of hair to inspect a fresh cut on his temple. It doesn’t look too deep.
He’s dressed in riding clothes—wool tartan scarf, white shirt, and olive vest, with a heavy coat muddy from his fall. There is a short sgian-dubh sheathed in his right boot, its pale staghorn handle carved into the head of a raven.
His dog bounds forward and begins licking his ear, and it’s then I see the blood matted in his hair, where he must have struck his head when he pitched off the horse. He is no doubt concussed.
“Oh, fiddle and Fates!” I shoo the dog off him, then rub my temples. “Now what?”
I suspect it was my spell which startled his horse and knocked him from his seat. I cannot leave him lying in the mud with a concussion, especially since it looks as if it’ll start raining any moment.
“This is a fine mess, Rose,” I mutter, as I unspool more thread.
With grunts of effort, I manage to roll the stranger onto his back. There is mud smeared over the side of his face, and his dark lashes flutter softly on his cheeks. I wait to see if he will wake, but he doesn’t. His mouth is parted just enough to show a glint of his teeth, and his breath is a warm cloud over his lips.