Peregrine curtseyed. “As milady wishes. But you can’t have so little faith in your abilities. I’m sure you’ve had teachers more recently than I.”
“My sword was my nameday gift. As you know, it’s enchanted. I’m not so good without it, despite my teachers’ attempts.”
Peregrine indicated the pile of swords. “So choose another one.”
Saturday put her hands on her hips. “None of them is my sword.”
“But many of them are enchanted,” said Peregrine. “Most of them, I’ll wager. One doesn’t hear many tales of men going up against beasts like our dragon with only their wits and cold steel.”
“Unless those tales are about Jack Woodcutter,” she said under her breath.
Peregrine had heard few tales of such men as a boy in Starburn; bedtime stories in the north typically ventured into the realms of gods and monsters. But having met Jack, he could imagine the kinds of stories that confident swagger left in its wake. As many hearts broken as curses, he’d wager.
“Well, then, let’s see if you live up to your reputation, Mister Woodcutter.” Peregrine pulled a sword from the pile at random and unsheathed it. The hilt’s basket was ornate and set with dull jewel chips. The blade was thin and glowed a red that tinted the crystal walls around them a sinister pink.
“What does that sword do?” asked Saturday.
“No idea,” said Peregrine. “Hurry up and pick one so we can find out. Who knows? You might decide you like something here better than the one you had.”
“Doubtful.” Saturday took a little longer over her selection. The sword she chose was far less decorative, with only crude runes etched haphazardly into its pommel, grip, and cross guard. It looked ancient, and heavy, and didn’t have much of an edge. She’d have more luck using it as a club. Perhaps that was her plan.
Peregrine took up the stance his father and swordsmaster had taught him: arm held up and blade pointed down. Conversely, Saturday held the hilt at her center of mass with blade pointed skyward. He tried to remember which of the regions of Arilland Jack had said her family was from. “En garde.” He hoped she knew what he meant.
He did not expect her to say, “This grip is warm.”
“You’re welcome to choose another sword,” he offered. “We have all day, night, afternoon, and evening, or until the witch finds us.”
“No, this sword is fine. It’s just . . .” As she spoke, the sparkling runes from the hilt duplicated themselves on the skin of her hands, her wrists, and then her arms. She drew in a sharp breath, but she did not let go of the blade.
Peregrine worried for her safety. “What’s happening? Saturday, talk to me. Are you all right?”
She looked up from her silver rune-covered arms and her bright eyes flashed above that impish smile. The dirty locks of her hair framed her face. “I’m perfect,” she said, and struck out at the red blade.
Peregrine dropped his sword.
He did not drop it on purpose; he’d fully intended for the two of them to fight evenly and fairly. But what Peregrine had just seen beyond that ancient blade, atop smelly limbs and a neck now covered with glowing runes, was neither the face of Jack Woodcutter nor that of his far less likeable sister.
The face that had grinned at him with those bright eyes was the face of the woman from his visions.
Betwixt had been right: Elodie of Cassot was not the woman of his dreams after all. The image he’d been seeing for most of his life had been that of Saturday Woodcutter.
The familiarity he’d been sensing crashed like a wave in his heart. No words sprang to mind to describe the feelings this epiphany swept through him, but the ones that came closest were not meant for mixed company.
“Peregrine?”
Peregrine snapped out of his trance. “I’m sorry,” he said to the chimera, and he picked up the sword again. “You’re completely covered in those runes now,” he said to Saturday. “Are you sure you’re all right?” He was amazed he was all right enough to string coherent sentences together.
“Perfectly lovely,” Saturday said pettily. “Are we doing this or not?”
He wanted to stop the argument, sit her down, and ask her a barrage of questions. But more, he wanted to watch her, to see the face burned on his soul bearing down on him in real life. Peregrine resumed attack position. “Best two out of three?” he asked cheerfully.
“Prepare to die,” said Saturday.
9
Decision
“TELL ME what to do!” Saturday screamed up at the catbird.
Betwixt took wing and dropped down to where Peregrine now lay dying at her feet. “I don’t know,” he answered.
“I didn’t mean it,” she said, “when I told him to die. I didn’t really mean it.”
“I know that. So did he. It’s all right.”
“This”—Saturday pointed at Peregrine’s prone form—“is not all right.” She was a killer. She’d killed Trix and heavens knew how many innocent people, and now she’d killed Peregrine, when she was just starting to like him.
Saturday’s mind spun. She begged the gods to hear her: she hadn’t really meant it. Mama’s oft-spoken warning repeated itself in the back of her mind: Words have power.
The message had always been meant for her little sister, or for Mama herself. It had never applied to the ax-wielding giantess who traded quips in the Wood with her father and brother all day but couldn’t tell a proper story to save her life. Yet here she stood, over a boy she’d threatened to kill, watching him die.
“Think, Saturday, think!” She tossed the heavy blade aside and felt the runes fade from her body. He’d been right; the feeling was reminiscent of her own sword, not that it could ever take its place. The symbols had turned her skin into armor, impervious to any blow. By all rights, Peregrine should have won first blood with his ruby blade, but thanks to her magical protection, he had not.
They had fought long and hard, longer than she should have and not half as hard as she’d wished to. They were well matched: he was as rusty with his weapon as she was untrained. After much teasing and taunting and running and jumping, she’d turned the tables and scratched him first instead. Peregrine fell to his knees almost immediately, but not in mock defeat as she’d first supposed.
Saturday’s blade hadn’t just been decorated with enchanted runes. It had also been poisoned.
The moment Peregrine’s hand left the hilt of his sword, the blade’s red glow faded and the walls around them regained their shimmering powdered-sugar whiteness. Similarly did the blood leave Peregrine’s face, rendering him deathly pale. It had been only a scratch on his wrist, but he was already beginning to shake.
Saturday’s hand instinctively moved to the bag that was not at her side. “If I were in the Wood, I would have crushed jewelweed,” she told Betwixt. “Is there anything like that here?”
“Maybe in the witch’s caves,” he said. “But they are far from here and difficult to reach. And it wouldn’t be a plant.”
“Right.” Proper plants couldn’t grow in caves. Saturday didn’t know the first thing about magic spells, but she knew a little bit about poison. There was one option left.
Saturday removed the ornate dagger Peregrine had sheathed in his belt and used it to cut deeper into the angry wound. Moving his confounded skirt out of the way, Saturday lowered her lips to Peregrine’s wrist.
The gryphon put a paw on her shoulder. His dark fur was soft and his feathers tickled as they brushed her dirty skin. “You might be poisoned too.”
“I’ll be fine,” said Saturday. She hoped the catbird took her at her word. She didn’t have time to explain her recent indestructibility, though it would have been nice to have her sword to help her on that front. She sucked the blood from Peregrine’s wound and spat it onto the icy stone floor. She could taste the poison’s taint amidst the copper on her tongue. Peregrine’s eyes rolled back up into his head.