15

SOGGYWEALD

The path to Soggyweald was no path at all. The three travelers pushed through bushes and ducked under branches until they came upon a faintly trodden deer run. Soon after, the trail became wet.

“It’s like pottage after the tenth day,” Drest said. Her father had often made a pot of it with old dried peas and slivers of smoked fish for flavor. Day after day, she and her brothers would add fresh water to extend their meal. “Pottage with wild greens that stick to your throat.”

“Pottage with a pebble,” Tig said. “That’s the way Idony makes it, always with a pebble she’s missed. You never know when you’ll break a tooth.”

“I’ve never eaten pottage.” Emerick’s boot slid on the mud. “Nor do I wish to if it looks like this.”

“It’s better than shore mud,” said Drest. To Emerick’s shocked look, she added, “Which I do not eat.”

“Or grains-and-dung,” said Tig with a smirk.

“Don’t tell me the people of Phearsham Ridge eat that,” said Emerick.

“No, but once when the farmers were spreading the fields, I picked up a handful and slipped it in Colum’s pottage. He never noticed. I was sure he would.”

The path turned into liquid mud, and the leaves and clustered tree roots that covered it were slick.

The first time Drest slipped, she stranded Emerick in a puddle, ankle-deep. The second time, he sprawled into the muck, his face a mask of pain. And once Tig sunk up to his knee in a swirl of mud and water. He withdrew his leg with a shake and a shrug.

“Refreshing,” the boy said, and quickly resumed his spot beneath the wounded man.

“Is this Soggyweald, then?” groaned Emerick.

“Have courage,” said Tig. “We’re nearly at the shore.”

At last, after creeping and slipping for hours, they were through. The ground became abruptly dry, and they saw before them a pair of wooden posts that marked the village. Just past, a stone hut stood with a series of short wooden stumps against its wall. Beyond it stretched a line of smaller huts.

“Soggyweald congratulates you for surviving,” said Tig. With Mordag on his shoulder, he held out his arm, encompassing the village. “And that”—he nodded at the stone hut—“is the healer’s home.”

Gasping, Emerick slid onto a stump.

“I’ll fetch her.” Drest walked around the hut slowly, taking care where she stepped. Woven sticks formed a wet, glistening path.

The door was open. She stole inside.

The reek of dead plants almost choked her. Drest sank to her knees, a cough echoing through her chest. Yellow dust was drifting down over her head. She crawled away, out of its path, and watched it spill in a slow stream from a basket at the top of the door. The back of her neck itched madly where the dust had fallen.

“Is anyone here?” Drest shook the dust out of her hair and struggled to her knees.

The hut seemed larger than it had from the outside. Pale brown weavings with patterns like the lines of the paths in the headland covered the stone walls. Clay bowls and jars, small rush baskets, and sheaths of herbs wound up in string were scattered on a table by a shuttered window. Halfway across the room, a circle of black ashes marked where the healer kept her fire. Past it, near the wall, a rope ladder led to an alcove in which Drest could just see the trailing edge of a cloak.

“Are you the healer?” Drest tried to stand, but nausea pulled her back to the floor, and she lay there gasping. “Your dust—it’s made me sick.”

No one answered.

Drest closed her eyes and focused on breathing. It was almost as if she were underwater in a placid cove with tendrils of sea plants winding around her ankles, holding her, pulling her, tightening—

She sat up, her heartbeat throbbing in her ears.

“Where’s the healer?” Drest muttered, and forced herself to rise.

Now that she was standing, she saw the hut clearly. The patterns in the weavings were just shadows and folds, nothing more. The bowls and herbs on the table had been shoved aside. And the cloak in the alcove—it was only a blanket.

The hut was empty.

A faint noise came from outside. It took her several moments to realize that Emerick was calling her name.

“Drest?” His voice was distant. “Lass, can you hear me?”

Her head began to throb. Staggering back, she carefully stepped over the spilled dust and darted outside.

A burst of fresh air cleared her head, leaving only a lingering ache. As Drest took her first step on the slippery woven path, she noticed a print in the dirt close to the hut. It was cloven, like that of a deer, and recent. It had not been there when she had entered.

A movement in the corner of her eye made Drest look up. She caught a glimpse of antlers as a huge tawny creature lumbered into the woods. A stag. It was almost as if the beast had been outside watching while she had been within.

Drest hastened back to her companions.

“We’ve been calling you.” Emerick reached out, and Drest stepped under his arm. “We heard you enter but then nothing, not for many minutes.”

“I was looking for the healer. That hut—it was strange.” Drest didn’t want to mention the dust, which was now burning on her neck, or the stag.

“All the huts are strange,” said Emerick. “We could see no movement in any of them.”

Tig stood next to him, frowning. His crow hunched low against his hair and cheek.

“Let’s look for the healer,” said Drest. “Or someone who can tell us where she is.”

Holding Emerick steady, Drest started on the path that led between the huts.

They had walked only a few steps when a raucous cheer rose from deep in the town. It made Drest think of the war cries that Wulfric had taught her.

“A celebration?” Emerick did not sound confident.

Drest led the way, her senses alert. Something about this town was wrong, yet nothing seemed to be out of place. Each hut was made of logs and sticks and topped with tight thatch. Lavish blossoms of white and blue billowed in gardens; others were planted with tender green vines. For a village stuck within a bog, it was surprisingly tidy.

Yet Tig’s eyes narrowed and he cast every house a suspicious look.

The path turned, and Drest found herself facing the back of a large crowd.

Gobin had once told her about the time that he and Nutkin, scouting ahead for the war-band, had run into a mob of villagers. It was the only time he’d been afraid.

“Do you smell that?” said Emerick. “There’s a bonfire ahead.” He staggered forward, dragging Drest, and tapped on the shoulder of a small figure who stood a little apart from the crowd, a fair braid down her back. “I beg your pardon, but what is this celebration?”

The maiden looked over her shoulder. She was barely older than Drest and wore the same kind of long brown tunic as Idony.

“We’re burning our witch,” she said. “Have you not heard? She’s been found guilty of all the charges.”

Drest was very still. Grimbol had told stories at the headland of how such things came to pass, and how important it was to stop them.

Emerick frowned. “This is a village of Lord Faintree, is it not? He would not take kindly to the burning of any person.”

The maiden shook her head. “It doesn’t matter; he’ll never know.” She added in a low voice, “But keep quiet if you don’t want the village on you.” It was as much of a threat as a warning.

Emerick’s face hardened, but he said nothing further to the maiden, who went back to the spectacle.

“We shouldn’t stand here,” murmured Tig.

“Nay,” said Drest, an idea beginning to grow in her mind. “We’ve work to do.”

Quickly, pulling Emerick along with her, Drest skirted the crowd and returned to the main path. She led them out to the top of a low hill where they could see the village square below.

The mob filled it, up to a narrow platform with a huge wooden post where a woman in white was bound. Her long hair—silver, it seemed, for it sparkled in the midday light—was loose upon the wind. Beside her stood a man with a staff who was shouting to the crowd. Another man stood at the foot of the platform, holding a torch aloft.

Go down there, Drest, or that woman will die, murmured Thorkill’s voice.

Honor and protect all matrons and maidens, said Gobin. Don’t forget the code.

Nutkin’s voice added, I know you didn’t, lass, but you need to show it now.

If I were beside you, said Wulfric, I’d teach these villagers what happens when they harm a woman.

If I were beside you, said Uwen, we’d make a thousand wee pieces out of all those pig-spotted rat innards.

Drest disengaged herself from Emerick’s arm. “Tig, take care of Emerick for me. Take him somewhere safe, and hide. I’ll catch up with you in the woods.”

“What are you doing?” Emerick grabbed for her, but she skipped out of his reach. “Drest, wait! You haven’t the strength to challenge a mob!”

“They won’t touch me if I’m quick. Take him, Tig!”

A look of fear and awe flashed in the boy’s face, and he slipped into Drest’s spot under Emerick’s arm.

“Drest, come back!” Emerick shouted.

But Drest had already dashed down the path toward the mob.