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The blood sense tracked along forest trails until it met the Great North Way. The spellweaver abandoned that road when it veered out of the forest, choosing a less-traveled byway. When that became an animal trail, Fenric worried that the enchanter had sensed pursuit and evoked a misdirection spell.
Yet he didn’t sense any spells on the ground.
Caution kept him from evoking a glamour for concealment. That Fae magic would be sensed by the enchanter, just as Fenric would sense any spells woven by the enchanter. Power might be a trap. Mortal weapons and a sentinel’s stealth would suffice.
He quickly caught up to the enchanter, staying well out of sight. He caught an occasional glimpse of the spellweaver when he slowed to navigate a tricky pass around fallen limbs or a tangle of vines in the undergrowth. The cloaked figure walked steadily, not rapidly, unhurried ... as if the enchanter was safe on this byway.
At sunset the trail crossed a trickling brook. He thought he lost the deer-killer, but the track picked up a few feet from the running water. The enchanter traveled with no caution to his backtrail. He had no expectation of pursuit. His prey occasionally flagged, but the pace soon resumed. And Fenric grinned evilly, for safety had vanished.
Whoever this enchanter was, they had no fear of the sheriff’s rangers. They were far from the usual trails of the outlaws.
This creeping trail wove between forest and tilled ground. It crossed a meadow or field and ventured to a distant stand of trees, an offshoot from Sherwood. Fenric lost sense of the Faerie realm of Underhill when he ventured across the man-tilled land, yet the Fae energy returned as soon as he re-entered the bright wood.
As they ventured farther along the forest verge, the acrid smell of soot crowded in. Fenric slowed. The enchanter continued without pause into a meadow. The odor strengthened. There, nestled beyond the trees, was a burnt-out cottage.
Blackened roof beams had tumbled into the ruins. The rock-built chimney leaned inward, edging toward a fall. Fenric had a good look at the cottage, for the forest bent around the meadow, little more than an old clearing. The trees arching over the cottage stood away from the forest propre although their canopies linked with Sherwood. The upper limbs showed fire damage, limbs burned at the tips, leaves lost or scorched or burnt away.
The trees’ connection to Sherwood felt stunted, cut and weeping, hurt and sap-deprived, tangible but ebbing. Eventually, without the life of the forest, the trees would fall, dying at their tops, hollowed inside the trunks, empty.
The enchanter headed for the cottage. He stopped before the gaping hole where a door had stood. And he tossed back his hood.
White-headed. An old man, then, one who should know not to blood deer for spells. Gauged against the height of a remaining cottage wall, he stood taller than most.
Fenric crept closer, hoping for a better view of his prey.
The man had a strong profile, with a sharp nose and a high brow, a jutting chin above his thin neck. His skin was pale. He avoided the good sun.
He lifted his hands, long-fingered with bony wrists. He wove a spell in the air then cast it over the cottage ... and the smoke smell vanished. A haze came over the ruined building, blending the cottage into the trees around it.
The enchanter lowered his hands, nodded, then crossed the rest of the meadow and returned to the forest.
Fenric gaped at the vanished cottage. Here, in the disappearance of the ruins, hidden from sight and smell, here was evidence of the enchanter’s power, stronger than Fenric had expected.. When the chimney fell, the crash would attract attention, if anyone heard it. No doubt a walker might stumble into the ruins, breaking the spell—if anyone came this way. By his reckoning, they were far from Nottingham, the wilder forest at his back, uninhabited lands before him, cleared long ago. Deaths in the dispute between King Stephen and Empress Maud had stained the free-held lands, and few humans had returned to inhabit them.
Without sight and smell, who would find this cottage?
The spell had also masked any corpse that kept its rest in the ashes and charred wreckage.
A breeze too cold for summer wafted over him. Fenric shivered. Aye, the enchanter hid this black deed that was more than arson.
He sped up to catch the enchanter while his mind turned over reasons for this death and destruction. He hadn’t sensed a residue of other magic, but he hadn’t looked for it. After he had the stag’s vengeance, he would investigate more.
Again he considered a glamour and again rejected it. He didn’t want any use of magic to alert the enchanter. He would follow. He would let the enchanter settle for the night, thinking himself safe, and then he would strike.
He wondered about the destination, for twilight deepened. He closed the distance a little, for the dark cloak blended into the darkness under the trees.
The trail left the forest again. This time a whiff of clean woodsmoke and savory cooking tickled Fenric’s nose. As he hesitated at the verge, the enchanter walked into a distant stand of trees. He marked the entrance to this stand. The trees looked cut-off from Sherwood, and the forest gaped with a vacuum where the connecting line should be. Above the trees was a trickle of smoke, a faint sooty column rising to the heaven.
He worked around the yawning emptiness.
Once, ages ago, trees had streamed out from the forest to meet the stand. Weathered stumps marched in a wide swath across the meadow. Sturdy saplings had once sprung up, only to be cut at the roots, preventing regrowth. A few stumps were charred, old fire used to kill stubborn life.
No one had sprinkled salt, though. The grasses grew lush, thick with summer wildflowers, bees and butterflies still visiting the sweet flowers. He crossed the meadow there, sprinkling sparks of magic on the ground and the stumps. The erratic sparks wouldn’t alert the spellweaver. Without human interference, the forest would win its old battle to embrace the lonely trees.
He worked around the little wood until he reached where the enchanter had entered. That was a beaten trail, straight to the heart of the wood. Wary, Fenric stole ells away from the trail, tree to tree.
A thatched cottage hunkered beneath the trees. An open door, open windows, a chimney with puffing smoke, a stream trickling off to one side offering easy access to water. This cottage reminded him of the destroyed cottage, only this one bloomed with life. A stone’s throw away, in an unshaded patch, grew a kitchen garden. On the other side of the clearing, shade-loving flowers flourished.
He sensed three heartbeats within.
After hours of pursuit, he could identify the enchanter’s heartbeat. The other two were females, one still young, with a light rhythm that knew no fear. The other heart beat rapidly, but he sensed no emotion to explain that.
The enchanter had to be known to these two. Did they know the reason he’d ventured into Sherwood? Did they know the evil he’d committed? Did they smell the blood reeking off him? The deers’ lifeforces had faded, used up when he healed himself. The enchanter had gained nothing from those deaths.
The door shut. Then the windows shut. They closed the cottage for the night.
Fenric climbed an oak and perched on a lower branch. No magic burst from the cottage. The enchanter was home, safe, without a need to weave a protective spell. The Fae sentinel propped his shoulder against the trunk and half-lidded his eyes, prepared to drowse. He didn’t want to invade the cottage and battle the enchanter in front of the women. Better to wait until the man left the cottage to relieve himself before retiring for the night.
Dark fell, increased. He sensed the moon and the stars although the thick canopy obscured the sky. A squirrel on its journey through the branches scurried past. Birds rustled overhead then settled to sleep.
A sharp jolt struck his heart.
