“Who sends gifts on Sovvan?” Herald Wil asked.
“A madwoman, that’s who,” Herald Lyle said.
“Lyle.”
Lord Grier ignored their banter, studying the box instead. It had arrived at Baireschild Manor this morning. No one knew its origin, it had simply . . . shown up on a kitchen table next to a bowl of wyncrisp apples, accompanied by a foreboding note: Happy Sovvan, Lord Grier. Your beloved sister, Madra.
Grier prepared to open it, armored in a leather coat, gloves, and special spectacles. They gathered in his apothecary, the wisest place to examine any gift from his “beloved” sister, his audience watching from behind a shield of thick metal.
“I still don’t understand,” said Khaari, the Kal’enedral Scrollsworn. “What is Sovvan?”
“Sovvan is a holiday for ancestors,” Wil said from his chair. He’d not yet fully recovered from his last encounter with Madra. Worse, her poison had seemingly stripped him of his Gifts and ability to communicate with his Companion, Vehs. But he’d prevented a war in Valdemar, and thanks to Grier, he hadn’t died. It helped that before Grier had taken on the mantle of Lord Baireschild, he’d been a Master Healer of some renown.
“Sovvan is when we light candles for the dead,” Lyle said. “Midwinter’s when we get festive. Good food, lots of presents, dancing. . . .”
“. . . dressing up in a skull and cloak,” Grier said, “chasing children around until they give you treats. . . .”
“You what?” Lyle sputtered.
Grier chuckled grimly. “It’s a Baireschild Midwinter tradition. And there’s a reason I head for Haven and leave the country traditions back at the manor. Anyway, Khaari—Midwinter and Midsummer are the seasons for giving gifts. Sovvan is . . . more retrospective,” he said. “Madra’s up to something.” He picked up a long, slender knife. “Ready?”
Three voices murmured assent.
Grier pulled up the stiff collar of his coat. “Here we go.”
The plain, square box came tied with a piece of twisted green twine, but other than that it looked entirely unassuming. The card had clearly been written under less than favorable conditions—dirt smudged the paper, and the ink had run.
Grier cut the twine and used the knife-tip to flip open the lid.
No explosion. No cloud of smoke. Adders did not spill out.
A swath of black velvet trimmed in silver nestled inside, atop which rested a single white candle. A little card tied to the candle read Herald Wil.
His mouth went dry.
“Did she send us roses?” Lyle called.
“No,” Grier replied. “A threat.”
“I’m not going back to the quarry, right?” Lyle asked as they filed back into Wil’s room.
“You’re going back,” the older Herald said. “The armory needs to be destroyed.”
Grier started mixing Wil’s afternoon tonic.
“But what if she—”
“Listen to me, Lyle. Dismantling the armory is our priority, period. And yes—Khaari is still going with you. Someone needs to record this. If your report is accurate, then Madra’s weaponry had only one goal. She meant to kill Companions. That should terrify Selenay.”
“But, Wil—”
“‘But, Wil’ nothing. You’re both going.”
“There’s a lunatic with a giant flying construct out there threatening your life,” Lyle said. “One of us should stay.”
“No, Khaari should take Vehs,” Wil said, “finish her diagrams, and come back fast.”
“You want her to take your Companion?” Lyle said.
“Well, I don’t want her taking Aubryn. Someone’s got to stay and protect Ivy.” Wil smiled wryly. “I’m still convalescing.”
“Or you would be, if you’d take your tonics,” Grier said, looking pointedly at the cup in his hand.
Lyle just gaped.
Wil pinched the bridge of his nose. “Exactly what is Madra going to do, Lyle? Mount a full-scale attack on the manor? This is—a distraction.” He waved a hand at the air. “We’re leaving for Haven soon anyway. Isn’t that right, Grier?”
“My hope is someone in Haven can better help you than I.” He swirled the cup. “Are you going to take this or not?”
Wil took the tonic from him, but he did not drink.
“Well, that at least sounds like a step in the right direction,” Lyle said. “The cousins would love to be done.”
“I know I say it every time,” Wil said, “but truly, they saved the realm.”
“And they know it.” Lyle chuckled. “Think the Herald Captain could award them a mercenary’s commission for all they’ve done?”
“I can speak to the Greater Council about it,” Grier said. “But only if Wil drinks that gods-be-damned tonic.”
Wil downed it in one gulp. “Spicy.”
“I added beesbalm syrup after you complained last time,” he said.
Lyle raised his brows at him. “Look at you, swinging your lordly might.” He stood up with a groan, his knees creaking. “All right, back to the mines.”
“Dismantle everything, Lyle,” Wil said. “And don’t die doing it. Okay? Madra is tricky. I’m honestly more worried about you than a bloody candle with my name on it.”
“Yes, yes. Stay safe. I know. Bright Havens, it’s like we’re on Circuit together again.”
Wil sighed. “Except now I’m old.”
“Oh, come now,” Lyle said. “You were old then, too.”
“Get out.”
Lyle doffed an imaginary hat and danced out the door.
“He is Lelia’s twin, isn’t he?” Grier said.
“Seems more like it with every passing year,” Wil said.
“Has anyone seen Ivy?” Khaari asked.
“If she’s not in your tent, she’s either in the kitchen or with the Companions.”
“Ah.” Khaari nodded. “So good that she has a . . . stable place to be.”
Grier and Wil stared.
“Did you—” Grier said.
“Was that—” Wil said.
“Gentlemen,” Khaari said, “Kal’enedral never pun. Now excuse me, I must pack.” With a smirk, she stepped out.
Alone with Wil, Grier turned to him and said, “I’m sorry—”
“Don’t.” Wil held up a hand. “I don’t hold you accountable for your sister’s actions. Not when I owe you my life. Just do me a favor.” He lowered his voice. “Protect Ivy. She’s what matters.”
Grier nodded. “Like my own.”
“Good.” Wil pointed to the door. “Now get out.”
In her life, Ivy had known many beds. Boxbeds, stable stalls, sturdy Palace canopy beds, and one carved magnificently by her grandfather, but the beds at Baireschild Manor had a feature she’d come to love—she fit under them.
Best of all, Lady Drusillia tended toward the kinds of duvets that slopped over and dragged on the floor. Ivy didn’t know why—it got them all dusty—but it meant that looking under the bed required lifting the covers. Most people didn’t bother.
So when she wanted to be somewhere she shouldn’t be, she went under the bed.
“It’s safe, Ivy,” Wil said.
She rolled out from under her father’s bed, bouncing up to sit beside him.
He brushed dust out of her hair. “Won’t be awake for long. What shall we read?”
She had a book in hand—one of the many from Milord Healer’s library. Cuddled up beside her father, they recreated their old, familiar microcosm of warmth and security. As they read, he pointed to words and she sounded them out—mostly.
“Your reading’s getting better,” he said, closing the book.
“Thank you,” she said.
He kissed the top of her head. “Gonna sleep now. I love you,” he said. “Don’t forget to lock the door.”
“I won’t, Dada,” she said.
She opened the door carefully, peeking out to make sure no one was in the hallway. Then she opened it fully, and for just a moment she thought she heard—something. Like little nails clicking on the stones. But the darkness that aided her departure also prevented her from seeing whatever made the noise. She strained her ears, but she didn’t hear it again.
She focused on locking the door with her father’s key, and the odd noise soon slipped her concern. So long as it wasn’t a person, she didn’t care. A manor like this teemed with small living things. Pantry cats took care of many of them.
Besides, she’d overhead a great many things, and she needed to say goodbye to Khaari.
Most nights Ivy did not sleep in her assigned room. She picked other places, like the stables, or down in the wagons and tents.
Now those options seemed to be narrowing.
The cousins had taken the wagons to the quarry with Lyle, and Khaari would soon follow, though her tent remained: a squat structure of brown and dark blue out in a nearby field. What it lacked in color, it made up for in practicality and comfort. She had a little traveling desk for her writing and ample pillows and blankets.
A box and two cards currently occupied the desk. Khaari studied them intently, peering at them with a little piece of glass.
“Will you sleep here tonight, child?” she asked as she worked.
“Without you?”
“I’m leaving the tent, so you’re welcome to it. Just don’t—”
“Touch anything on your desk, I know.” Ivy shrugged. “Maybe. Or with Aubryn.” She scowled. “Wish I could sleep in Dada’s room.”
“Ah, Milord Healer is still keeping you away, eh?”
Ivy screwed up her face, affecting a haughty voice. “Little girl, you shouldn’t be here. The tonics I give him and you have a nice room and Drusillia picked all the curtains and blah blah blah.”
Khaari laughed. “You do a good impression of the long-haired lord, kechara.”
Ivy puffed a little. “Thank you.” Then she deflated. “My room gets so cold. And I miss him. But I should be grateful.” She smiled shyly. “Aubryn says so, at least.”
“Maybe Aubryn should stay there, then.” Khaari locked the box and cards into a drawer on her desk. “I should be going.”
“Will I see you again?”
Khaari paused in the way that meant an Adult Was Thinking Carefully About What To Say Next. “You know why I am here, yes?”
Ivy nodded. Madra. The Bad Lady her Dada had been chasing. And there had also been some . . . thing calling itself “Lord Dark.”
“That task is still mine. I had hoped your father would pursue what you call ‘Lord Dark’ with me . . .” She glanced away. “Perhaps I’ll join you going to Haven. Perhaps not. The prey may rest, it may dream. Best to catch it then.”
“But you don’t know where they went.”
“True.” Khaari brushed her braids back over her shoulder. “But—a thing as big as Lord Dark doesn’t have many hiding places, nor can it go unnoticed for long.”
“What is Lord Dark anyway?” Ivy asked.
“A construct. An abomination. I suspect your Madra woke it. I intend to return its bones to sleeping, once and for all.”
Ivy shivered. “What’s a con—”
“If I stay and answer your questions, I will never get to the quarry!” Khaari said, half-scolding, half-laughing. “Time for this when we make our slow way to Haven. So slowly, I might add, for I have seen how Drusillia packs.”
Ivy wrinkled her nose. She didn’t know much about Lady Baireschild, but of her children she knew plenty. They liked to throw forks at her head at dinnertime. Like a lot of noble families, children of a certain age dined separately from the adults, so no one stopped the teasing.
Still, it didn’t feel right, complaining. Lord Grier had done a great kindness, saving her father’s life. Better to avoid than complain.
Another night eating kitchen scraps. At least they were good scraps.
Khaari hugged her, and then Ivy once more found herself alone, wandering across the field back to the manor, where the windows glowed bright but cold.
Grier routinely rose before his wife on those rare occasions when they slept in the same room.
Like her children, Drusillia was a product of an arranged marriage and an arranged life. They hadn’t married for love, and they hadn’t grown into it. But they at least respected each other. And she respected that he had a seat on the Queen’s Greater Council to fill.
A seat I should be filling right about now, Grier thought. He opened his eyes to the weak morning light coming in through the diaphanous bed curtains. Usually, they’d be in Haven by Sovvan. Not this year. Not with a half-dead Herald in the house.
On this morning he woke to Drusillia beside him, her red hair spilling over a naked body pleasantly softened by three seasons of childbearing. He ran a light finger over her hip. She sighed and rolled over, yanking the duvet up.
“It is much too early for that, milord,” she said into her pillow.
Grier chuckled. “Good morning, milady.”
“At least get me a pot of milk tea first.”
Instead, Grier left his wife drowsing, heading downstairs to check on his patient.
He unlocked the door, saying, “Good morning, Wil!”
From the bed, he heard a faint wheeze of protest.
Grier pushed open the curtains. “We’re going to hold off on the tonic until after breakfast. Maybe take a stroll. Sound good?”
The wheeze turned into a wet, gurgling gasp.
At that moment, Grier’s nose picked up on a smell. A mix of stale sweat and urine. And—
Smells like death.
Grier turned around.
Light streamed in through the open window, giving him a full view of Wil. The person he had left last night didn’t look a thing like what he saw today: jaundiced, diaphoretic, laboring to breathe.
“Hellfires,” Grier hissed, running over and ripping off the soaked covers. Wil had lost control of his bladder sometime in his sleep. His eyes didn’t respond to light, his skin felt clammy, and his body raced with fever. Grier’s Healing touch indicated a raging infection—no, something worse.
Grier yelled at a passing servant, “Get Lukas! Tell him to get my kit! Now!”
Lukas, his steward, would know what he meant.
There would be no leaving for Haven now.
“I for one cannot wait to leave for Haven,” Trudi said.
“Oh, you city folk,” Adrande said, huffing as he slid loaves of bread out of the oven with a massive bread peel.
“Yes, us city folk,” Trudi said, rolling her eyes.
The adults were so busy talking they didn’t notice Ivy stealing half the apple bowl.
“Milady all packed?” Adrande asked, shuffling the loaves onto a rack over on the sideboard.
Trudi snorted. “Milady’s been wearing last year’s dresses for a week. She’d drive the coach herself if milord would let her.” She leaned against a table as she gossiped, lazily stirring a cup of milk tea. She had her back mostly turned to Ivy, which meant no one had eyes on the apple bowl. The wyncrisps easily fell into Ivy’s palm, then her smock pocket.
“Well, if you wait much longer, you’re wintering here.”
“Gods, no. You country folk and your Midwinter traditions are atrocious.”
“Aw, you don’t like the ol’ Maralud?”
“No one likes the Maralud!”
Adrande laughed. Ivy had no idea what they meant by their lively exchange, but it meant one more apple. She started to reach out—
One of the kitchen cats hopped up on the table and mewed at her. She froze, then batted at it. The cat recoiled, confused, then mewed again. “Go away!” she whispered furiously, and she snatched an apple quickly as the cat stepped forward and tried to get a headrub in.
Ivy counted her plunder. Six. It seemed like a good number.
“Ivy!” Adrande said, his voice cracking across the kitchen.
She started, then adopted the most innocent expression she could muster.
“Do you know where the butter crock is in the pantry?” he asked.
She nodded and ran off, relieved she hadn’t been caught. Not that she’d be punished. Cook would know who she meant the apples for. The fun came in not getting caught.
Her feline companion trotted behind her as she fetched a lantern and hauled open the door to the pantry. There were two pantries in the manor: one above and one below. Above was meant for temporary storage and the cavernous below-ground one for longer term. She ran down the stairs, found the crock, and delivered it to Adrande.
“Can I go?” she asked.
“Yes you—” he said.
She ran out before he could finish.
“They won’t let me see him,” Ivy said, passing apple after apple to Aubryn.
:Why not?: She could hear the Companion, even though she couldn’t directly talk back to her as her uncle could and her father used to do. She didn’t know why. She wasn’t Chosen or anything. Aubryn told her not to worry about it, so she didn’t.
“I don’t know.” She slumped on her hay bale. “I can’t even sneak in.”
:Perhaps the Healer wants to make sure your father is extra rested. Have patience.:
A tear trickled down her cheek, but she gulped and nodded. “Wait, wait, wait. What do we do when we wait?”
:Go for a ride?:
“It’s too cold.” She scratched Aubryn’s withers. “Can Companions read?”
:I think we should leave that as something you do with your father.: She nibbled the second to last apple out of Ivy’s pocket. :Why not the kitchen?:
“I’m sick of the kitchen.” She smiled up at Aubryn, holding the last apple. “There is this locked room in the south tower . . .”
The Companion eyed her warily. :You shouldn’t be going into locked rooms.:
“So . . . turns out . . . Dada’s key worked when I tried it on the door. . . .”
The Companion stamped her hoof. :Ivy!:
“It’s just full of old furniture! And . . . um . . .” She lowered her voice. “Toys!”
After a long, judgmental minute, the Companion leaned forward and nipped the apple away.
:Don’t. Break. Anything.:
The thing about rooms you weren’t supposed to be in is that they were always the room you wanted to be in.
The storage chamber was as she remembered it: full of dusty cupboards and canvas-covered furniture. No one had touched the chests full of toys. Ivy found wooden swords and shields in one trunk, button-eyed dolls in another. Hobbyhorses leaned in a canister.
Armed with one of the swords, she set up a battlefield of dolls, imagining herself at the first war of the Border with Hardorn. In this version, it was Ivy alone who stopped Ancar’s demons. She waded into the button-eyed masses, swinging her wooden sword two-handed and—
Pop! One of the doll’s head flew off across the room.
She ran after it, dodging around canvas-draped furniture, and as she lunged around a set of end tables she stopped—because the polished walnut wardrobe before her wasn’t covered, and its intricacy stole her breath. Inlaid white ash created scenes of wintertime: delicate snowflakes, leaping stags, holly boughs, and—oddly—pouncing gryphons.
She lifted the latch and pried open the door. It swung open on oiled latches, revealing its contents.
A monster crouched inside.
She wanted to scream. Instead fear clutched her throat, overwhelming her so that she stood paralyzed and blinking up at the horror looming over her.
And then she realized—this was no monster. This was something of mortal construct that hung from hooks inside the wardrobe. Tentatively, she reached up and touched it. It swayed softly, creaking in the quiet. The beaked skull regarded her somberly, the mantle of black and green feathers gleaming against the heavy crimson cloak.
“You’re a false-face costume,” she said, her fear vanishing in a delightful shiver. She knew this well. The cousins sometimes played at this.
Ivy closed the wardrobe and presently left the tower altogether, now more certain as to why this room had been forgotten.
“You look a sight,” Drusillia said as Grier dragged himself into the bedroom to slump in a chair.
“I do?” he whispered.
She walked out into the antechamber, returning with a decanter. He waved it away. “No spirits, please.”
“Have you eaten?”
“Lukas put a loaf of bread and cheese in me.”
“Impressive. What’s wrong?”
“Everything. I—I think he’s stabilized, but. . . .” Grier passed a hand over his face. “I don’t know. Last night Wil was fine. Something’s gone horribly wrong.”
Drusillia’s face went still. Then she picked up a glass and poured herself a cup of claret. “Is the Herald dying?”
Grier clutched the bottom of his face, staring off into the distance.
“Yes.”
Her knuckles whitened. “Grier, if you’re about to tell me we’re delaying our departure again—”
He blinked. “Excuse me?”
“—I’m not waiting any longer. We should have left weeks ago. The passes will close, and we’ll be stuck here.”
Grier stared at her. “I’m . . . very tired. Maybe I didn’t speak loudly enough. Herald Wil is going to die. Did . . . did I say that part? Did you hear me?”
Drusillia drank her claret. “I heard you.”
“Really? This is what you care about?”
“You wear Green. I understand your devotion to that. But you have a realm-wide commitment to the Greater Council. So, yes. This is what I care about.”
“Okay.” Grier blinked. “Then, uh, go. And while you’re at it, please take Ivy with you.” He put his head in his hands. “I don’t want her to watch her father die horribly.”
“Take her?” Drusillia looked at him, confused. “We can do that?”
“Yes?” Grier spread his hands. “Wil hasn’t regained consciousness and probably never will. Her uncle is off at the quarry. Who’s going to make decisions for her? That Companion? Do you know what it will do to her, seeing her father die like this?” Something flickered in his brain as he talked, but he was too tired to sort it out.
“Fine. We’ll escort her to Haven and let the Heraldic Circle sort out what to do with her. And you’ll—?”
“I’ll stay,” he said, quietly. “I trust you and Lukas can manage the Greater Council in my absence. I’ll . . . write instructions.” He passed a hand over his eyes, anticipating the long night ahead of him.
Drusillia looked pained. “You take on too much.”
“I’m trying to save his life. Or at least, minimize his pain.”
“At least you’ll get to dress up for the villagers this Midwinter.”
He glowered at her. “Really?”
“You know I jest.” She finished her claret. “I seem to be a thorn in your heart tonight. I’ll sleep in the Rose Room.”
“You aren’t—”
“Good night.” She kissed his cheek, lips sweet with honey and spice, and he found himself alone by the fire.
He thought of the white candle. Three nights to Sovvan.
We underestimated her, he thought.
“Ivy!”
Ivy started from her daydream, clutching her cornbroom. She’d been thinking about her father and how’d she’d like one visit, just one.
This time there was no Trudi and no apples. No cats, either. She hadn’t seen a cat in the kitchen in days.
Adrande waved dough-covered hands. “I need the walnut crock.”
“In the cellar?” she asked, casting a dubious eye at the open doorway.
“G’awn. Not like the Maralud is down there waiting to eat you up or something.”
The more I hear about this Maralud, the less I like it, she thought.
Still, orders were orders. Down the steps she went, lantern swinging in her hands.
She got halfway down the steps when she heard—something. Like little nails clicking on the stones.
Ivy paused. A gulf of emptiness separated her from the kitchen’s warmth and the oppressive darkness below.
It’s a rat, she assured herself, aiming her lantern at the source.
The light licked over a shape, and what she saw did not look like a rat.
It snarled silently at her, frog’s eyes wide and angry. It only stood there a moment before it sprang off into the darkness on bowed legs.
She ran up the stairs and into the kitchen, shrieking, “The Maralud!”
Grier delivered the bad news to Lukas and Adrande in his study the next morning.
“Do you mind?” he asked.
Adrande looked pleased. “You know how I feel about Haven, milord. The reasons are miserable, but you’re doing me a favor, the way I see it.”
“Then it’s settled. Go let your underchef know about her temporary promotion.” He turned to Lukas as the cook hustled off.
The tall steward folded his hands in front of him and sighed. “I wish you’d let me stay.”
“Drusillia will need you to run the household in Haven. Who can you spare here? I’ll need help with the Herald.”
Lukas inclined his head. “I know precisely who and how many.”
“Thank you. Also, have you seen Ivy?”
Lukas pursed his lips. “The kitchen, perhaps?”
“I’ll check.”
“Milord, you shouldn’t have to do that. I can—”
“I have to check on her father anyway. It’s all right.” Grier smiled tenderly. “You have always been a good and faithful friend, Lukas. Take care of my family.”
“Take care of yourself, milord.”
Wil’s illness had reached a stalemate; since the initial deterioration he hadn’t gotten worse . . . but he hadn’t gotten better. His fever stayed constant. He took no food and showed no signs of awareness. His hair had turned brittle and white. Grier poured what he could into him, and by the end of the day he seemed to improve, but by the next morning he’d be back to square one. Grier kept a servant stationed at his side constantly to freshen him. And to keep Ivy away.
She mustn’t see him like this. With that thought in mind, he set out to find her.
Not in the kitchens. Why is she never where she should be? he thought as he started searching through the expanse of the manor. Three stories and two towers, though surely not the south tower, as it was locked tight. Still, it would take candlemarks to visit every room, and she could be anywhere.
Outside, he could hear voices shouting and the creak of wheels. He watched from one of the few unshuttered windows as the Baireschild coach rolled out.
She should be in there. So should I.
And his sister should never have tried to kill a Herald.
Grier’s eyes skipped over to the stables.
The Companion. The quarry.
Vehs.
Grier moaned. “I’m an idiot.”
Grier marched into the stable, his words echoing through the mostly empty structure. “I need Vehs back.”
Aubryn leveled a pair of stern blue eyes in his direction.
“Wil is dying. His Companion should be here.”
She took a step forward, shaking her mane in what he thought might be anger, though not directed at him.
“Help me, Aubryn. Where is Ivy?”
She shook her mane again and blew a furious whinny.
Grier pointed out the open doors. “You don’t understand—I’m doing this for her own good. It isn’t too late to catch up with my family. If you can find her—”
The Companion turned around, presenting her rump.
“She’s already watched her mother die. Don’t let her watch him die, too.”
Slowly, the Companion turned back around.
“Please,” Grier said.
With measured, stately steps, the Companion walked out of the stable and out the doors. Then she pointed with her nose toward the manor.
It took him a moment to figure out what she pointed at.
When he did, he swore.
The costume in the wardrobe didn’t scare Ivy anymore. She even admired it. The sturdy construction, the intricate embroidery around the hem of the clever cloak that concealed the wearer. She couldn’t wear it—much too bulky and heavy—but she could imagine it would fit well on Milord Healer or her father.
She heard the door to the tower open and started, heart pounding. She looked around quickly for a place to hide—under a canvas, in a chest—but before she could, Milord Healer came around the corner, straight to her.
“Ivy,” he said, and stopped when he saw what she’d found.
“Milord,” she replied, meekly.
“The Maralud,” he said, his eyes on the bird-skull mask.
Her eyes widened. “That’s its name?”
“Her name.”
“The Maralud’s a girl?”
“Once, the Pelagirs extended deeper into Valdemar than they do now.” He ran a finger down the costume’s deep crimson cloak. “The Baireschild family has held these lands . . . a long time. Our oldest Midwinter tradition is meant to scare off the things that come out of the hills during the cold months. The Maralud comes a-knock-knock-knocking, as the song goes. You’re supposed to feed her, or she’ll gobble you up.”
Ivy’s eyes widened.
“Except she doesn’t,” Grier said, gently. “She’s . . . a good monster. The kind of monster that’s meant to only gobble up the bad things.”
“I—thought I saw her,” she said. “But if that’s what she is, then I didn’t see her at all.” She put her chin in her hands. “I don’t know what I saw, now.”
Grier looked at her sharply.
“What did you see?” he asked.
“In the cellar,” she said. “I think it was a . . . comb-stuck.”
It took him a moment. “Construct?”
She nodded. “I called it the Maralud, though, and Cook said that I was being silly.” She scowled. “I told Lukas, but he just wanted to put me in the coach. And then Aubryn said to stop telling your folk anything because you wanted to take me away, so I hid.”
She didn’t add that Aubryn had also said she was going to send for real help. She figured Grier didn’t need to know about that.
Grier regarded her a long moment and then said, “Show me.”
Adrande lit the wall lanterns as they descended the cellar. Grier brought a shillelagh from his great-grandfather’s collection, a comforting weight in his hand.
“This is a waste of good oil,” Adrande muttered.
“Humor your lordship,” Grier said.
The cellar spanned a generous three-quarters of the manor’s floorplan, cool and cavernous. A series of shelves ran along the walls, and barrels and more shelving created neat aisles throughout. Cool air came in through shafts that had been dug into the rock, keeping the whole chamber at a constant temperature. Thanks to Adrande, Trudi, and Lukas’ efforts, the supplies were kept tidy and organized. They were also the only people—outside of Grier and Drusillia—with keys.
The perfect place to hide, assuming you could get in.
They moved aisle by aisle, and only when they got to the second to the last aisle did they find the pantry cats.
Adrande swore. Ivy made a small sound.
They lay curled on their sides, claws extended, stiff and cold. Grier crouched down to examine them, cautious not to touch anything.
Their fur had turned brittle and white.
“Milord!” Ivy whispered, pointing her lantern light.
Grier looked up. Squatting like a frog above them on a shelf sat a bug-eyed monstrosity about the size of a small dog. It had fully articulated hands and legs, and slick, pebbly skin.
It peeled back its lips and hissed, lifting one greenish-gray hand to block out the light.
Then it leaped off into the darkness.
“Are we safe?” Adrande asked, as Grier locked the pantry.
“We should be. It can’t get out—”
He stopped.
It can.
The many, many shafts cut into the rock. He turned around, mind racing. His eyes went to Adrande.
“You fought at the Border?” he asked.
The cook nodded.
“Catch.” He tossed the shillelagh at him. “We’ll—”
At just that moment, two figures strode into the kitchen, dusty and sweaty from a long ride.
“You understand what kidnapping is?” Lyle spat the words through gritted teeth as Ivy ran over to him. “Regardless of what happens to Wil, she’s my niece.”
“Lyle!” Grier said. “Right now isn’t the time—”
“I think you have time to talk to us, milord,” Khaari said, stroking Ivy’s hair. “We rode very hard to talk to you.”
“There’s a construct in the cellar!” Ivy said excitedly. “And it’s not the Maralud!”
That got their attention.
“There’s what?” said Lyle.
“You heard her,” Grier said. “If this thing isn’t responsible for Wil’s sudden illness, I’ll eat Adrande’s butter crock.”
“How big is it?” Khaari asked. “Can we catch it?”
Adrande shuddered. “Ain’t getting near that thing.”
“It’s about the size of a dog,” Grier said, holding his arms out. “Why?”
She rubbed her chin. “Describe it in detail. If we can corner it . . .”
As she spoke, something in Grier’s brain lit up. “Maybe find something that it’s afraid of. Something custom-made to frighten the things that come out of the Pelagirs.”
She cocked her head. “Do you know of such a thing?”
Grier nodded. “I might.”
It came at night because, inevitably, someone fell asleep.
It only needed a moment. The humans often left the door open when they aired out the room or changed Wil’s bedclothes, and so it waited—and then shot through the gap, sliding under the bed or into the hallway.
At night, it need only bide its time for the watching human to nod off. They always did.
It hadn’t meant to kill the cats, but they’d been a nuisance—their hissing, their claws. One touch had put an end to that. It only had two explicit orders: deliver the box and death to the one named Wil. But not a fast death, no. As close to the Night of the Candles as it could get.
And it knew that night came soon, so—
The construct snuck into Wil’s room early tonight. The encounter in the cellar meant it needed to act fast. Still, it waited under the bed, biding its time for the right moment, knowing not to rush. It had little in the way of a mind, and no other weapons save for its poison, so waiting did not bother it.
At some point the door to Wil’s room opened, and someone came in. Low voices murmured. And then, softly, “He’s passed.”
“Milord?”
“Herald Wil has died,” the voice said, and the construct jolted as if electrified. Yesyesyes, it would have sung, if its creator had made it with vocal chords. “Help me. We’ll move him to the cellar for now.”
The door opened. And in that moment, the construct peeked out from under the bed.
It seemed safe. . . .
It shot out in a flash.
Something stepped into the doorway, skull-headed and feathered and crimson. Prey recognized apex predator and for a moment the construct thought GRYPHON GHOST! and cowered.
And then darkness dropped down, trapping it.
“The Maralud,” Khaari said, holding up the horse-sized skull in bemusement. “Do you know, I don’t think this came from a normal bird?”
“I’ve often wondered,” Grier said. “But not too hard.”
“Your ancestors built a custom on interesting times, I’ll wager.”
“Well, their interesting times aided ours,” Grier said.
The black metal box with the construct inside rattled from time to time, emitting angry hisses. In Grier’s apothecary, Khaari, Lyle, and Grier gathered round.
“Lord Dark surely commanded this,” Khaari said. “But Madra sent it. They’re working closely, it seems.”
“What . . . is it?” Lyle asked.
“Hm. The name is—I think it would translate to poison-frog-little-thing. They secrete a toxin on their skin. They must touch you.” She nodded to Grier’s gloves. “You were wise to wear those.”
“And why aren’t we squashing it?” Lyle asked.
“Because it knows where Madra and Lord Dark are.”
They gave her startled looks.
“Once I open this box, its first action will be to go back to them,” she said.
“Oh,” Lyle said. “Oh.”
“I think Wil should stay dead for now. He needs time to recover.”
Grier nodded. “And you?”
“I will not rest this winter. Lyle, will you join me?”
Lyle shook his head. “Once I’m done with the quarry, I need to go back to Selenay with this.”
Khaari nodded. “Then alone I go.”
“Khaari—”
“It’s all right. I’ll find them. I won’t necessarily engage.” She winked. “I’m not Wil.”
Lyle suddenly looked embarrassed. “Grier, about that kidnapping accusation, I’m—”
Grier cut him off. “No apologies, please. I’m sorry I didn’t think sooner to have Aubryn reach out to your Companion.”
Lyle looked relieved, then worried again. “Wil . . . will he . . . ?”
“Now that he’s not being poisoned nightly? His odds are better. But so much damage has been done. . . .” Grier took a deep breath. “Time will tell. Let’s hope Midwinter is a happier holiday.”
In a dusty tower, the Lord of Baireschild remembered.
She loved these dolls, these books. He touched the chests he’d packed away ages ago. His own children never played here. They hadn’t been interested in these cracked and ancient things.
He opened the old wardrobe and looked again on the Maralud. She loved wearing you, too. She’d always been angry that only the men got to dress up in the costume on Midwinter. Their parents had been strict about that.
Grier had promised her that he’d let her wear it once the mantle passed to him, but he’d never gotten to follow through on it. She’d become Madra before he’d become Lord Baireschild.
I guess you found your own monster to court, he thought.
“Going to be a real honor, having you wear the mask this year,” Adrande said, huffing slightly from climbing the tower steps. “Ready, milord?”
Grier nodded. “Let’s get it over with.”
Down in the Great Hall, the remaining manor staff and locals from Solmark came to dinner for Midwinter, Wil and Ivy among them. The Herald looked like a ghost come to the feast, his Whites hanging loose and his head shaved. What hair grew back came in white. He ate like a horse, though, and he even smiled at the Maralud’s antics.
Grier ran around the room, clacking the articulated jaw of the Maralud’s skull, and the children squealed and laughed, tossing knotted ribbon “treats” at him and patting his nose for good luck. They sang around the Midwinter hearth, and Grier stamped his boots, specially shod in iron so they clattered on the tiles.
Later, the costume once more stowed, he sat beside the Herald and casually set a single white candle down in front of him.
Wil’s white eyebrows lifted. “You Baireschild folk are rotten at gift giving, you know that?”
“Just wondering what we should do with it.”
Without a moment’s hesitation, the Herald picked it up and flung it into the roaring hearth.
“To hell with it,” he said. “It’s just a bloody candle. Holidays.” Wil snorted. “Did Lelia ever tell you about Midwinter . . . ? No? Well, let’s just say holidays have not been kind. Know what I celebrate, Grier?”
Grier shook his head, amused. “Tell me.”
Wil pointed to where his daughter danced. “Her birthday. That’s a holiday I’ll gladly celebrate, year after year.”
Grier raised a glass to him. “Happy Midwinter anyway, Wil. To your health.”
Wil raised his back. “Is there beesbalm in this?”
Grier laughed. “Will you ever drink it and find out?”
Herald and lord clinked glasses, as nearby the children danced and sang: “The Maralud comes a-knock-knock-knocking. . . .”