“Aye,” she said, as Will hung the kettle up again. She stirred honey into each mug, and handed him one. He cupped his aching hands around the warmth and cradled it to his chest.
“Whom do we ask, my Queen?”
She smiled at Will over the rim of her mug, flecks of mint dappling her upper lip. “The things that listen in the crevices and quiet places, of course. And the things that listen to the things that listen there.”
Morgan led them speedily over frost‑rimed beech leaves, to the edge of a talking brook that trickled between glassy walls of ice. She turned at the frozen bank and followed it upstream; Murchaud steadied Will as they scrambled in her wake. Despite his worry, Will straightened his spine and breathed the cold scent of crunching leaves, drank deep the welcome air of Faerie and felt its strength fill him up.
They came up to a little plank bridge with darkness beneath. The icy brook chattered louder there, echoing from the underside of the arch. Ridiculous in the season, but Will could have sworn he heard a frog chirp. Morgan stopped short where the slick silver boles of the beech trees still broke the line of sight into slices. “Go on ahead, sweet William,” she said, tossing her long red hair over her shoulder.
“There’s something across the bridge?”
“Perhaps,” she answered. “But thy business is with the one who lives under it.”
With one doubtful glance at Morgan, and ignoring the low, uncertain noise that issued from Murchaud’s throat, Will shuffled down the bank. The slope was rocky and slick with frost. He clung to flexing twigs and underbrush to steady his uncertain descent, his bruised hip aching when he slipped.
And faintly, over the singing of the brook, he heard other singing: “For thy delight each May‑morning, hurm, If these delights thy mind may move, harm …”
“Come live with me and be my love,” Will finished, under his breath. Strange he–it?–should be dinging that.“Hello, the bridge!” he called, feeling silly. Icy silt crunched under his boots.
“Hurm, harm,” a slow voice answered. Something shifted in the dark archway. It might have been mottled a greeny‑brown like weedy water, shining with healthy, slick highlights in the reflected light. “Master Poet,” it said, in reedy tones of slow delight, “have you also come to offer me a poem for passage?”
“No,” Will said. A bridge‑troll. What else could it have been?“What would you take in trade for the answer to a question?”
“Ask me the question and I will tell you the price.”
“Tell me the price and I will tell you if I wish the question answered,” Will said, having some little idea of how such bargains worked.
“Hurm,” the troll said. “Very well. ‘Twill serve, ‘twill serve. Quest your question, then.”
Will drew a breath. “Where is Sir Christofer Marley, that I may find and rescue him?”
“Ah. Harm. No charge for that one, Master Poet. No charge. For knolls troll what trolls know, and I know I cannot answer it: there is no person by that name.”
Will let his head fall back upon his shoulders. “Too late,” he said. “Kit’s dead.”
The troll coughed, and Will got a glimpse of long fingers as it demurely covered its gaping, froggy mouth. “Perhaps a different way of phrasing the question, hurm?”
Will blinked. Never ask me,Kit had said, and now Will thought he understood. “Where is – ” my lover?But that was a question “with too many answers to serve Will’s purpose, to his sudden chagrin. “Where is the poet whose song you were just now singing, Master Troll?”
The troll chuckled, seeming pleased at his care, and trailed long fingers crooked as alder in the water. “And on to the matter of payment, froggily froggily. Would give me a song?”
“Any song I have,” Will said without hesitation.
“A bauble?”
“Nothing could be as precious to me as Kit’s life, Master Troll.” Will thought of Hell, and a quiet garden, and tried not to let the troll see the cold sweat that dewed his forehead. An animal was picking its way cautiously through the brush not too far away. Leaves crackled while Will waited.
“Hurm, harm.” The troll lifted a crooked finger and pointed. Give me the ring in your ear.
Automatically, Will reached up and let his fingers brush the warm, weighty gold. “It’s magic,” he said, though he was already fumbling with the clasp.
“Trolls know what trolls know.”
“It lets me stay in Faerie without being trapped here.”
“Then you’d better hurry home, hurm.”
Farther upstream, beyond the bridge, a stag crashed out or the underbrush and paused at the top of the bank. It gave Will a wild look, then bounded through the stream.
“Stag,” the troll said, following his gaze. “Good eating. The earring, harm?”
Will tossed it gently, underhand. The troll picked it out of the air like a flycatcher after gnats and popped it into his mouth. He belched a moment later –a toadlike, bubbling sound–and croaked: “Look down wells and look in the dark wet places. Look in forgetful places, and for forgotten things. Ask those that know the secrets whispered under earth and between stones.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s all I know,” the troll said. “Don’t drink the water, mortal man. Go home now.”
Will refused Morgan’s tisane, over her smile, when they had returned to her cottage. She said nothing about the troll’s pronouncement, but Murchaud grumbled. “He told us nothing but riddles.” He rubbed his hands as if they still ached.
Will shook his head. “Nay. He told us everything he needed to. Ask those that know the secrets– ” He stood. “He’s a Faerie. Do youexpect him to play straightforward?”
Murchaud looked up. “Where are you going now?” Will smiled. “To strike a bargain with a snake.”
Act V, scene xiii
Faustus: When I behold the heavens then I repent And curse thee wicked Mephostophilis, Because thou hast depriv’d me of those joys.
Mephostophilis: ‘Twas thine own seeking Faustus, thank thy self. But thinkst thou heaven is such a glorious thing? I tell thee Faustus it is not half so faire As thou, or any man that breathe on earth.
– Christopher Marlowe, Faustus,Act II, scene ii
When the rasp of the hinges heralded Baines’ return, Kit was again huddled around the rough, round shape of the scold’s bridle. He’d lost track of the comings and goings, the feedings and tauntings, and could now think only, of the ever‑rising pain, and wonder when it might release him. Curled tight as a caterpillar, his fingers laced through the bridle as if the touch of iron could ease his agony, he still flinched when the light struck his face. “Puss,” Baines said. “I’ve bread and cheese and a little ale for thee.”
Kit whimpered. The thought of food made burning bile rise in his throat.
“None of that, puss.” A gentle voice, as something struck the floor far enough away to pose him no threat. “Mehiel won’t let thee perish. And thou’lt need thy strength for our little ritual, wilt thou not?”
He did not want to cringe in front of Baines, skin welting and hair matted with filth. He got a fist against the earth and shoved himself to his knees, raising a face that Baines grimaced to see. “And I see thou’lt need cleansing beforehand.”
“It’s a hazard,” Kit mocked, finding the ghost of his voice, “of residence in a filthy dungeon. What day is it?” Then – “Oh–!” a cramp like an uppercut to the belly doubled him over. He bit down on a whimper and a flinch.
“Near on Hallow’s Eve,” Baines said. “Only another week or so of our hospitality to look forward to.”