“Cutting down trees,” she said. “Now come on. Cave-in or no, I mean to find the witch before she finds me. And I am not leaving here without my sword.” Saturday paused and turned away from the dragon. “Wait, a real cave-in? You mean, where the ceiling collapses and there’s a giant gaping hole to the outside world?”
“That’s exactly what I mean,” said Peregrine.
Saturday jumped; stone skulls shattered beneath her boots. “Then that’s our way off the mountain!” She grabbed him by the cheeks and kissed him heartily.
His pleasure at her vigor was tempered as he realized the flaw in this plan. Like she, he hoped they would survive, against all odds, so that they might experience the rest of their lives together. But if they did survive, he still had a promise to keep. To Elodie.
Damn the gods and their sense of humor.
Peregrine sighed and reluctantly led Saturday into the caves of the witch’s lair. It was a short distance from the dragon’s chamber, under a small archway and through a tunnel with only one turn. At that turn the air grew freezing.
Saturday, flushed with energy, gave no indication that the chill affected her. She slowly crawled up the enormous pile of rubble, all the while staring at the sky. “I wasn’t sure when I would ever see daylight again,” she whispered.
Peregrine found purchase on a nearby boulder and climbed to the top to see the sky for himself. Rife with deadly frost or not, there was nothing like fresh air after breathing in a cave. “I hate to disappoint you, but that’s not daylight,” he said.
“It’s too bright to be starlight,” said Saturday. “What, then? Dusk? Dawn?”
Peregrine motioned for her to join him at the top of the boulder. “In the far north, especially during the White Months, the skies fill with ice clouds shot through with color. We call them the Northern Lights.”
“I see that now . . . look at all the colors! It’s like a strange rainbow.” Her raised chin revealed the graceful lines of her neck and the cords of muscles that ran down into her broad shoulders. “It’s so beautiful. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Peregrine might have said the same thing to her. But he didn’t. Nor did he take her hand again, despite the nagging, incessant need to do so. It was enough for him to sit beside her, shoulder to shoulder, and share the moment.
Like most moments, it didn’t last long.
In a blue flash, the giant fallen pillars and rubble blocking the old entrance glowed brightly before dissolving into ash. A flame-yellow Cwyn flew through the newly opened space and circled over Saturday’s head, presumably speaking to her the same way Betwixt spoke while in fully animalian aspects.
“Don’t apologize,” Saturday told the bird. “She was going to find me eventually.” Saturday brought her gaze back to the hole in the ceiling. “I need wings.”
“And a thicker skin,” said Peregrine. Slowly he stood up, reluctant to go. “I must leave. It will only be worse for you if she discovers me here.” He rolled off the boulder with practiced grace and landed on the opposite side of the pile, near the entrance to the witch’s bedchambers.
Saturday leaned down to him. “I’ll try to keep her distracted as long as I can. Find my sword. Please.”
Peregrine curtseyed. He would have given her his heart had she not already possessed it. “As you wish.” The raven descended and beat her wings in his face to hurry him along.
“JACK WOODCUTTER!” he heard the lorelei shriek. Cwyn disappeared; she did not want her mistress seeing what should not be seen.
Needing no further prompting, Peregrine crept stealthily back to the far wall, disappearing down a tunnel similar to the one that led to the dragon. The rubble caught his feet but he stumbled only once. Thankfully, the racket the lorelei was making hid his missteps. He only hoped he found Saturday’s sword before the lorelei rendered her unable to wield it.
“Congratulations,” he heard Saturday reply calmly. “You’ve found me.”
The lorelei’s response was muffled as Peregrine quickly and quietly crawled his way to the witch’s bedchambers.
He needed to hurry, but it wasn’t easy. The caves were in a state of chaos. They had not looked this bad when he and Betwixt had pulled Cwyn and the witch from the wreckage. Every artifact had been swept off every shelf, leaving only a fur-covered bed surrounded by piles of broken rubbish.
Logically, the bed was the only place here that could conceal something as large as Saturday’s sword. Peregrine kicked through the piles gently, so as not to injure himself, but as quickly as he could manage. He stepped over an array of broken vials; his footsteps smeared their contents across the floor. With a giant shove he flipped the witch’s bed over, fur sheets, pallet, and all. There was one deep clang followed by many other higher-pitched ones as the pile on the far side of the bed spilled and scattered. Peregrine ripped the covers away to reveal something he expected and something he didn’t. The first was Saturday’s sword. The second was a small golden cup.
He bent down and gingerly lifted the cup from the furs. It seemed so innocent, this instrument of his demise. He’d assumed it had been left beside the stream where he’d disappeared. His fingers remembered clutching it in his frozen hand. The dim lantern light drained the color from the gold, but he could tell it still shone. The gems along the edge matched the gems in the ornamental dagger at his hip. These were the only artifacts left from his life before, and both were stamped with the arms of Starburn.
He slipped the golden cup into the pocket of his skirt. Then he bent and retrieved Saturday’s sword.
His temples throbbed mightily. The sword sizzled in his hand, though it did not burn. “No!” he cried. In his haste he had forgotten to cover the sword before touching it.
There was a new smell in the air, a burning not of flesh but of spices he’d forgotten how to name. The image of the sword in his hand wavered and shrank, shifting into something else. He only hoped that Saturday would be able to change it back into a sword. He also knew that, whatever object the sword became, it would be inextricably tied to Saturday’s destiny, as the ax had been, as he now was.
The lantern began to flicker. In that dying light, Peregrine watched Saturday’s once-majestic sword solidify into a ring.
He closed his fist around the golden band and held it to his chest, to the other ring there. “She’s going to kill me.”
Beneath his feet, the mountain began to tremble.
15
Wicked and Whole
“JACK WOODCUTTER!” shrieked the witch. She stood, glorious, triumphant, and almost naked amidst a sea of dust as vivid blue as her skin. Cwyn, her feathers a sunset fire of orange, hovered above her like a flame above a fairy candle.
Saturday forced herself to remain calm. She needed to stall as long as possible so that Peregrine had a chance to search for her sword. “Congratulations,” she said. “You’ve found me.”
“You should know by now you can never hide from me.” The witch sniffed the freezing chamber air. Her tongue darted out to taste it. The powerful magic with which she was suffused emanated from her in waves. Around her, the cold, wet air turned to snow, falling in fat white flakes to the blue cave floor.
“Stealing your eyes hindered you for a while,” Saturday guessed.
“But not for long,” said the witch. “Never for long. Just as it will not be long now before I finish my Grand Spell. Do you have the ingredients I asked for?”
Saturday raised the sack. “Spiced moss and mushrooms, as requested.”
“And the seeds?”
A cold gust whipped down her back and froze her feet inside her boots, but Saturday maintained her balance atop the boulder. She had forgotten about the seeds . . . but Peregrine had not. She hadn’t eaten all the tomatoes, and she knew there was at least one pomegranate left from the small harvest he’d picked for her in the garden.