There was only one stonecaster near Timbertop, and she was a reclusive older woman called Jelica, who lived in an isolated cabin and supported herself by trapping.
“She’s an odd one,” the Village Voice had told them, but Poppy took no notice of that. Her family were described that way, too.
“Not enough people around here to live on stonecasting alone, I imagine,” she said to Larch as they rode along the trail to Jelica’s house. The spring sun was bright but not warm, and it filtered through the big pine trees lining the path and slid over Starling’s hide, showing the warm red of his coat and how badly he needed a proper grooming. Poppy had brought only a small curry comb and a hoof pick with her, thinking that she’d be able to borrow what she needed, but they weren’t used to horses, out here on the edge of things. Horses needed too much care and feeding for too little return, where there was no plowing done and a one-man sled could take a whole year’s worth of trade goods.
The woods smelled of pine and water, of catchfly blossom and violets. Larch’s golden hair shone in the sunlight. Despite their serious purpose, Poppy felt a small bloom of happiness.
As they rounded a curve of track and saw the small gray cabin, an arrow thwanged into the tree trunk nearest to Larch. Instantly, Larch grabbed her bridle, rounded the horses and moved back along the trail, shouting, “Warlord’s messengers! Hold!”
Larch kicked the horses into a canter and didn’t stop until they were well out of arrow range, then halted, cursing under her breath.
“Pox-ridden backwood in-breds!” she said. Larch had never sounded so much like a soldier. But she was a soldier. She dismounted, strung her bow and nocked an arrow, loosened her sword in its scabbard, and her dagger in its boot sheath. Then she looked sternly at Poppy. “You stay here until I say it’s safe.”
Her head picked up the sun and she looked like a shield maiden in one of the old, old songs. Poppy felt both adoration and panic rise in her, and pushed them down, hard. This was no place for either. She obediently took the reins of both horses, her hand shaking. Larch nodded, face softening for a brief moment before she turned and slid back into the trees, making her way to the cabin silently and with great skill.
Her heart was pounding, her breath shorter now she was still than when they were fleeing. Because Larch was in danger? She started to count silently, to regain calm, to keep from calling out after Larch, and maybe putting her in more danger.
After two hundred and thirty-seven, Larch called her, sounding a little breathless, and she clicked her tongue to the horses, moving back up the trail at a walk. She had to force herself to breathe, her heart still pumping hard. When she reached the curve where the arrow had come, she could see the cabin again, and Larch, standing in front of it with an older woman, dressed in the trews and leathers of a trapper. Larch’s sword was at the woman’s throat. Although she was flooded with relief, Poppy bit her lip. Surely that wasn’t necessary?
But the woman—it must be Jelica—glared at her with real hatred as she rode up and dismounted. She had a knife of her own, but it was reversed, pointing at her own heart. Larch looked confused, as if she didn’t know what to do with a prisoner who threatened to kill herself.
“Here’s something new,” Jelica sneered. “A warlord’s whore sent as messenger.”
Some old and deep injustice there, which they had no time to investigate.
“The gods have sent me,” Poppy said simply.
Jelica slowly put down her knife and pushed a strand of her gray hair aside with the back of her wrist, ignoring Larch completely. Larch sheathed her sword with an air of relief.
“Tell me,” Jelica said.
The message from her mother, from the gods, was succinct, but the implications were large. Jelica thought them through.
“What d’ye need me for?”
Poppy smiled ruefully. “Because half of them think the same as you, that I’m the warlord’s whore, or his by-blow, or at best his wife’s granddaughter, and they won’t listen to a girl still wet behind the ears. But you—they’ll listen to a stonecaster.”
Jelica stared at the ground and scratched her head. She seemed disgruntled, or uncertain, or simply put out.
“Haven’t been to town these long years,” she said. “Do all for m’self, out here. Traders come out to get my trappings.”
“We’ll be with you,” Poppy said gently. Jelica’s eyes flashed.
“Doan’t need no striplings for comfort,” she said. “Stay here. I’ll cast and then we’ll know.”
She went inside. Larch moved uncertainly to follow her, but Poppy shook her head. Jelica’s bow was on the ground—what other weapons could she turn against them?
“If she’d really wanted to kill us, I think we’d be dead,” she said, her mouth quirking. Larch grinned.
“Aye,” she said. “She had a chance with me, a minute ago, but she didn’t take it.”
Jelica flung open the cabin door and came out.
“Come in, then,” she said.
“You Saw it?” Larch asked, as if she couldn’t help it.
Jelica stared her full in the eyes. “I Saw Cold and Ice and Death Herself flying on frozen wings.” She turned to glance sideways at Poppy. “And I saw Fire, too, and a redheaded girl.”
“Ember,” Poppy breathed. “She’s all right?”
“She’s heading for trouble,” Jelica said. “But aren’t we all?” She paused, fiddling with the strings of her pouch. “He wanted her?”
Poppy thought back to the terrible moment when Osfrid had died.
“He wanted something,” she said, “but I’m not sure it was her.”
Jelica relaxed a little, and pushed the pouch back more firmly, standing up straight.
“What will you tell them, at Timbertop?” Poppy asked.
“To get moving!” Jelica replied grimly. “Bolt for a hole like badgers, and dig ourselfs in, that’s what I’ll tell them.”
“The salt mines—” Poppy began.
“Aye,” Jelica nodded. “I Saw Salt, too, and Dark, and…” she paused, her eyes worried. “And the blank stone.”
“We’ll avoid the worst if we can get them to the mines,” Larch said firmly.
“Five towns,” Poppy said. “We have five towns to rally and get moving.”
“Tomorrow,” Jelica answered, frowning, casting an eye at the sunset sky. “First thing tomorrow, girl.”
“We could get halfway back to Timbertop by dark,” Larch protested.
“Aye, and freeze in the night,” Jelica retorted, stamping back to the cabin. “’Sides, there’s a thing I’ve a mind to do tonight.”
She stared at Poppy, and then at Larch, as if considering what she could say, then shrugged.
“There’s an altar here, just a bit of a one out back,” she said quietly. All her belligerence had fallen away, and her surety, too. She looked much younger, despite her gray hair. “I’m going to call Him.”
“Him?” Larch asked.
“Fire,” Poppy breathed, her skin turning cold. “He’ll kill us.”
“He’ll answer to me first,” Jelica said. “Woman and girl, I’ve lit the wildfire for Him, and He owes me truth.”
“Larch has no Traveler blood,” Poppy whispered. To take one of Acton’s people to Fire was to invite destruction.
“Um…” Larch hesitated. “My great-great-grammer was a Traveler, they say. Is that enough?”
Poppy and Jelica looked at each other, and it seemed to Poppy that neither of them were certain.
“Let’s hope it is,” Jelica said eventually. “It works best with three.”