27 
THE WITCH’S GIFT
“Can we stop?”
The wind tore away Emerick’s words, but Drest heard them—barely.
“Aye,” she said. “We’re far enough now.”
The three halted, breathing hard, still soaked from the moat. The road hung black and empty around them. Gusts of icy air whipped across the moonlit meadows on either side, chilling them to their bones.
“Might we have a fire?” Tig said, his jaw shaking. “It would make everything so cozy.”
Drest eased Emerick to the ground while Tig gathered twigs for tinder. She sank to her knees before the small pile and with trembling hands took her steel piece from her pouch.
“Here.” Tig handed her a stone. “This one’s nice.”
Emerick lay on his back, his fists clenched against his shivers, while Drest raked her chunk of steel against the stone. A few sparks fell, but the wind gusted and blew them out. She leaned over the twigs and tried once more.
A single spark fell, and widened into flame. In seconds, the tinder began to burn.
“Well done.” Tig yawned, and curled up beside Emerick.
Drest added more sticks. When the fire was high, she lay down with her friends, her legs and shoulders aching.
She needed to sleep. Yet she had only one more day—two if that pilgrim was right. Her father and brothers were waiting.
Scraps of images filled her head: Jupp’s tormented eyes; those frightened, eager children; Tig’s furious face in the stocks. And Emerick, his eyes fixed on Jupp, his voice low and steady, somehow at that moment nobler than she could have ever imagined.
Drest looked up. The road stretched empty behind her like the sea. The sea, the headland, and her father too—all seemed so far away.
She closed her eyes, but woke in what seemed to be only seconds later. The fire had snuffed itself out, leaving behind a wispy trail of smoke; and the silver-white moon had risen above the black-tipped trees at the edge of the meadows.
Then she heard it: hooves on the road from Launceford.
Drest started. Someone was coming after them on a horse.
She looked at her companions. Tig was limp with sleep, and Emerick was shuddering with every breath. They were in no state to flee, and the meadows gave them no place to hide. She could only hope that the rider would not notice them in the intermittent moonlight, or would see them only as a bundle of ragged travelers.
The hoofbeats were getting close.
Drest scrambled to her feet and slid Borawyn from its scabbard.
A cloud shifted away from the moon, lighting the road, and she saw the rider who was drawing near: a black-cloaked figure on the massive, antlered stag.
Merewen. Drest lowered her sword with a rush of relief.
The stag slowed, drew even with her, then stopped.
Gray eyes gazed down at her from under the shadowing hood.
“I saw your bandit on the road, in the other direction,” said the witch softly, “and knew you would be here, or slain in Launceford. There was no trace of you in town, but there was a story: of a thief, an escape, and a grubby youth with a sword.”
“Aye,” said Drest, “that was Tig and me. He didn’t steal anything.”
“Of course he didn’t; that’s not his way. But I think I know your way. You frightened that bandit for good, didn’t you. Your father would be proud.”
She gazed in silence upon Drest, then turned around and untied a bound black cloak from her stag.
“Here, this is for you. Have you any idea, Drest, of what lies ahead?”
Drest sheathed her sword and took the bundle. “I’ve already told you I’m not afraid of anything.”
“Perhaps you should be. Do you know what a castle is? A mouth of doom for people like us. A sword flashing. Your life cut down before you feel the blade. If you continue on this journey, you will see that for yourself.”
Drest stiffened. “Da wouldn’t fall. And I won’t, either.”
“Your father, child, is mortal. He is as vulnerable to a sword as anyone. And so are you. Think carefully. Do you wish to go on? You will die if you do.”
“I don’t plan on dying.” Drest set her jaw, and tried to hold in her shiver. “I’ve come this far, and I’m not about to turn back. I thank you for the cloak, but I don’t want your advice.”
The witch gazed at her, her eyes gleaming in the light of the moon. “I wonder—you are so strong. Could that castle be something else for you?” A faint smile came to her face. “I thought I’d help you, but you don’t need my help, do you. You never did.”
The witch leaned over and reached out her hand. It curved around Drest’s chin and held her, a gesture both warm and soft.
“I have a boon to ask: Remember me kindly, Drest, as but a witch who tried to help you on your way.”
Merewen drew back.
“Good-bye. And good luck.”
The stag turned toward Launceford and broke into a trot. Soon it was a run, and they seemed to be flying: back up the road, then into the meadow, and then they were gone.
A pang filled Drest as she watched the witch disappear. Then she shook herself and carried the bundle back to Emerick and Tig. As she slipped it from its rope and began to unfold it, the pang disappeared.
Four round, flat loaves of hearth bread appeared after the first fold, strips of smoked meat between them. After another, a stone jug. After the third, a roasted hen, blackened by a fire. After that, fold after fold of the cloak itself—a huge woolen cloak that would cover all three of them.
The witch must have stolen it all in Launceford.
Drest woke her friends. She did not tell them of Merewen’s strange words, only that she’d come with food for them, and they ate, tearing at the bread and meat like starving animals. They took turns drinking new ale, sweet and cold, from the jug. Soon nothing was left but stains on the cloak.
“Let us doze for another hour,” Emerick said. “I pray that this gift will give us the strength to walk for the rest of the night. We are very nearly there.”
He was pale, however, despite his smile.
“It will take us just a night?”
“We’ll find a crossroads ahead, and by that point it is only an hour by horse to the castle. Even with my slow steps, if we leave soon, we’ll be there just past dawn.”
“Nay, but it’s good that we’re careful,” said Drest. “We shouldn’t rush.” But what she meant was that, for the first time, she could not rush. Merewen’s words had shaken her. For the first time, she was afraid.
That night, it began to rain.