Stephen paused at that, but read on. What followed, however, was mostly a recitation of other names for the Raver, one of which was indeed Saint Horn the Damned, for it was said he had drawn the curse of the old gods upon himself by betraying them.
But Stephen kept returning to the reference to the Wicker Lord, and when he was done, searched for an entry concerning him. To his disappointment, the entry was slim.
The Wicker Lord is a false saint, doubtless an invention of the country folk, condensed from their fear of the dark and unfathomable forest that surrounds them. He is found most often in children’s songs, where he is an object of terror. His awakening is said to break the sky and is connected with a horn that accompanies him in his thorny barrow. He is perhaps connected with the tales of Baron Greenleaf and may be a confused version of Saint Selvans, for similar tales are told of them. In some songs he is known as the Briar King.
Excited, Stephen pored through similar sources, and found some of the children’s songs mentioned, but nothing that cast more light on the current situation.
The hour was late, and he alone remained in the scriftorium. Sleep tugged at the corners of his eyes, and he was near concluding that he had found all he was going to. One scrift remained, and it wasn’t promising, being little more than a book of children’s tales, but as he wearily unscrolled it, a small illustration caught his eye. It was of a manlike creature made up of leaves and vines, with limbs spreading from his head like antlers. In one hand, he gripped a small horn. It captioned a song he had already seen twice, a circle dance for children.
As he was about to put it away, his fingers brushed the margins, and he felt something—an imprint in the vellum. Intrigued, he examined it more closely.
It looked as if someone had written a note on another vellum or piece of paper, likely with a lead stylus, and the impression had gone through. Eagerly, he found a piece of charcoal and lightly rubbed the paper, as he had the stone markers on the Vio Caldatum, and faint characters emerged. When he was done, he sat staring at the results.
The characters were the same as those inscribed on Aspar’s horn, to the letter. Following it was a single word in the king’s tongue.
Find.
“I’d stay away from her, if I were you,” Brother Ehan remarked the next day as Stephen sidled nearer Angel.
“I’ve ridden Angel before,” Stephen said. “Haven’t I, girl?”
The mare looked dubious.
“Well, she may not be as crazy as the other, but she’s learned some wildness.”
“Shh. Angel.” He proffered the mare an apple. She sniffed suspiciously and her eyes rolled, but she took a step or two closer.
“That’s it, good girl. Come here.”
“I don’t see what the point is, anyway,” Ehan said.
“The point is,” Stephen said softly, “I want to ride her.”
“Why?”
“Because it would take too long to walk where I want to go.”
“What in Saint Rooster’s name are you talking about?”
The mare was almost close enough to touch now. Her flanks were trembling as she took another step, ducked her head, pulled it back up, and gently took the apple.
“That’s fine, girl,” Stephen said. “Remember this?” He drew a bridle from behind his back.
Angel eyed the thing, but seemed almost calmed by its presence. Stephen lay it against the side of her head, letting her get a good whiff of him and it, then gently started putting it on her. She didn’t object.
“That’s my sweetheart,” Stephen cooed.
“Tell me where you’re going,” Ehan demanded. “We’re supposed to be tending the orchard after this.”
“I know. If I’m missed, I don’t expect you to lie for me. I’m not going to tell you where I’m going for the same reason.”
Ehan chewed his lip and spat. “You’ll be back by vespers?”
“Or not at all,” Stephen assured him. “All right, girl, are you ready?”
Angel answered by not throwing him once he’d gingerly climbed on her back. She stamped a little skittishly, but then took the bridle. Stephen switched her into a brisk trot, which wasn’t all that pleasant bareback, for either party.
“Sorry, girl,” he said, “I couldn’t have brought a saddle out here without being noticed.”
It had taken him almost two days to drag Aspar White from where he had found him to the monastery, but in fact the distance was only about a league. Unencumbered and mounted, he covered the distance in under two bells. His memory was as perfect at mental mapmaking as in every other thing since his fanewalk, so he found the spot without much trouble.
He surveyed the scene, frowning, and dismounted. Dead leaves littered the ground, fallen from a tree that might have been lightning struck but there was no mark of lightning on it. Nevertheless it was dead, and so was a trail of ferns and undergrowth that wound into the clearing, stopped short of the remains of his fire, then continued off in a different direction. The point where the trail turned was exactly where he remembered the beaked creature standing.
“No lion did this, Angel,” he murmured. Not that he had ever accepted the fratrex’s rationalization.
He was still studying the unnatural trail when he heard voices in the distance.
Stephen had had plenty enough experience with strangers in the forest for one lifetime, so he began quietly leading Angel away. Remembering Aspar’s story, he went up a ridge where a line of thicker growth hid him from the valley. He tethered the mare on the other side of the ridge, then crept down where he could have a view of the place he’d found As-par White.
After perhaps half a bell, eight mounted men came into view. Stephen felt a cold shock when he saw who they were.
It was Desmond Spendlove and his men. They had their cowls down, and Stephen recognized several of them: the hulking Brother Lewes, Brothers Aligern, Topan, and Seigereik—the four nastiest of the bunch, according to Ehan. The others he had seen but couldn’t name. They were eight in all.
They stopped and examined the campfire and dead vegetation.
“What is it up to?” Lewes grunted.
Spendlove shook his head. “I don’t know. It was chasing someone. Maybe that holter Fend told us about.”
“Right. Then where is he?”
“Someone dragged his body out,” Seigereik said, examining the ground. “That way.”
“D’Ef is a league that way,” Spendlove mused. “How interesting.”
“But the greffyn didn’t follow,” Seigereik said.
“It probably left after killing its prey.”
“Are we to take up its trail again, then?”
Spendlove shook his head. “No. We’ve work to do in the west.”
“Ah. The queen?”
“The changeling in her guard bungled her killing. Now it’s our turn. We’re to meet with Fend in Loiyes.” He looked again at the greffyn’s trail. “But first I think we’d better stop in at d’Ef, to learn more about what happened here.”
“With the allies Fend has, he should be able to handle this on his own,” Topan said, his ice-blue gaze needling casually through the surrounding forest.
“Fend can fail, just like the changeling. They should have sent us to begin with, but ours isn’t to question.”
“Still, it could take us a month to get there,” Topan argued. “What if we go all that way for nothing?”
“There are other matters to tidy,” Spendlove assured him. “Besides, the country air will do you good.”
“I’ve had too much of that lately.”
“We do what we do,” Spendlove replied. “If you don’t want to do it anymore, you know the way out.” He started for his horse.
As they rode off, Stephen didn’t dare breathe. He lay there, teeth clenched, realizing that he had taken Aspar White to perhaps the most dangerous place imaginable.
11
The Womb of Mefitis
Anne dreamed of the light of the sun on the grassy Sleeve, of the furnace of sunset on the rinns, of the simple dance of a candle flame. She wrapped herself in the memory of color and shadow and hoped she wouldn’t forget the way the wind in the leaves of the tall elms along the canals shivered the light into pieces of phay gold. Not the way she had forgotten Roderick’s face.