Prologue: The Cure
Something in the air had changed. The Spruce Witch watched them, uncomfortably still, from the finished ritual circle in the middle of the crossroads. Only the crackling fire punctured the thick silence between the five travelers. The moon would rise soon, and there was nothing left to wait for. No time left to lose. And they all knew it.
Rubir, calm and steady, was the first to stand up from the circle around the campfire. At his nod, the young farmhand rose hastily to bring the wagon around. Ellis, whiskey in hand, lingered until he felt Rubir's hand on his shoulder, summoning him away to talk in the shadows. It gave Marius and his daughter a chance to say goodbye.
Quenby sat with her father at the campfire. Dusk was falling fast, and frogs had begun to croak on the riverbank. The clearing had grown smaller and smaller as the daylight faded, and now it was suffocating. Henley was already hitching the horses behind them, and although the two smugglers were in quiet conversation by the trees, Quenby always had the feeling Rubir could see in all directions at once. There was nowhere to hide. The witch was waiting. This was the end, and there was no way back.
Next to her father, she still felt safe. A thousand words tried to burst out at once and yet she hated every one of them. They all felt stupid, childish, useless, wooden in her mouth. None of them were the right place to start. What could she possibly say that would change anything now? She was adrift, but Marius was ready.
He wore a sharp, steely expression. Looking out over the campfire, across the river, he'd spotted a doe stealing a drink through the reeds. A Lenspire doe, two winters old, good size for the season. He tried, just one more time, to budge a finger on his bow hand, but of course nothing happened.
He turned to Quenby, "let me say it again.”
“No, you don’t need to. I understand already.”
“You don’t.” His tone was final. “And you won’t for many years. And I won’t be around to remind you.”
Squaring his shoulders as best he could, he looked his daughter in the eye. In his mind, she was always four years old, with a tousle of dark hair—and no scars. But she was thirteen now. He took in her long, narrow face, searched her deep brown eyes... so heavy with sadness but he found no sign of doubt.
He continued, “Rubir trusts this Ellis to take you in, teach you, but you’re going to be on your own... I can’t—” His voice broke. “—protect you anymore.”
“No, Papa…” Quenby’s eyes brimmed over and she buried her face in his chest. “You did everything for me.… I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“Don't be, Guppy." He pulled her in tight with his one good arm. "That wasn't you. I know that.” He leaned his head back, but tears overflowed and streaked past his ears. “You’re gonna be okay. You're gonna be so much better now...”
He nestled his head on top of hers. Quenby tried to memorize every detail of this moment, but her mind drifted—to the witch at the crossroads, to the restraints. She curled her toes in her boots and looked at her father’s smooth, limp hand. She didn’t blame the precautions.
"Ma and Nobella and me, we're gonna look after each other. Promise to live a full life, because we're doing the same for you." He dropped into a thick whisper, "Swear you'll fight for the life you should have had."
Quenby's voice had never felt so small and tight. "I swear."
Finally, Marius lifted his gaze and locked eyes with the dark haired man in the shadows.
Rubir spoke evenly, "Henley."
The young farmhand sprang off the wagon and trotted over to lift the once-formidable huntsman to his feet. With Henley's muscled arm held tight around his ribs, Marius hobbled towards the readied wagon.
Every time her father stumbled, Quenby clenched her fists tighter. Only a few months prior, the tendons in his right heel had been bitten clean through, and the claw plunged in his back had severed all feeling in his right arm, which now swung uselessly in his sleeve. Henley politely studied the grass as Marius winced to get seated, then he climbed into the driver's seat. Rubir came to the side of the wagon and held Marius in a firm handshake until the wagon started to roll away. Away, until the trees swallowed him.
Quenby watched a little longer, just to be sure, but he kept his word. If anything went wrong... she couldn't hurt him, and he wouldn't have to watch her die.
"How old are you, kid?" an unfamiliar, velvety voice startled her from behind.
Quenby's jaw tightened. She turned stiffly to cast a painful glare, usually quite effective in combination with her scars, but the short, soft-featured man held her gaze with ease.
"Thirteen I reckon?" Ellis asked.
She didn’t look away.
"Rube's got business. I'll teach you the basics at Echovale depot. Good food there." He paused. "That's where we're headed. Y'know. When it's over.”
Her eyes broke off to burn a hole through the blanket on her lap. “I know.”
“Guess you didn’t have much choice.”
“I do have a choice,” she said through gritted teeth and lurched to her feet. She towered over him, at least a head taller. Ellis stepped back, but his small, coarse hand remained to escort her.
"S'pose it's time."
Quenby searched his face, and her eyes softened at his sincerity. She unfastened the clasp at her throat and looked to Rubir, who gave a single nod in reply. With a long, shaky breath, she dropped her cloak over Ellis’ hand, and turned to face her destiny alone.
Quenby’s disjointed legs swung forward of their own volition, like a puppet’s. The remaining distance felt impossibly far, yet dreadfully short. The witch raised her chin slightly as Quenby approached; pale, cloudy eyes peered out behind dull, mossy hair. She didn't speak, just held out a length of cloth. Quenby stole one desperate glance at Ellis and Rubir—near strangers—and the only people left in her world.
With the blindfold secured, Quenby strained to absorb her surroundings.
Cold, hard-packed dirt under her body. Fumbling with a leather strap near her waist. The swish of treetops in the gathering breeze. Cart wheels approaching.
The witch called out, “Listen to the words of the Dark Mother...”
Her feet numbing. Footsteps and twigs snapping. Her heart thudding roughly against her ribs.
“Fear hath no place in my mysteries...”
Her mind racing futily in blackness. Wheels leaving quickly. Something heavy sliding across grass.
“...for I am the clouded mirror in which you scry your own soul...”
Her blindfold slowly dampening with tears. A clap. Retching. The strike of a match.
“I meet you at the crossroads, my hand you grasp in the passage between the worlds....”
Candle smoke. Warmth in the air. A bucket sloshing, pouring out onto the earth.
"Hecate, hear us! Stand vigil on the bridge of Natures!"
A crackling hum of energy in the air. Icy agony. Ropes cutting into her contorting body. The deafening reverberation of silence. No smell, no taste; only darkness. Then, nothing at all.
A century passed. Or perhaps it was only a minute. Quenby awakened slowly to the sound of small, wet footsteps walking off the road, through dewy grass, away towards the river…
Rubir broke the air with a ragged whisper, “we thought it would be kinder if she couldn’t see the—.”
“Rube, what the fuck.” Ellis growled. “What the fuck. You said I take this kid in, and we’re even. Said she'd be cured, yeah, by fucking blood magic, but you did NOT MENTION THIS.”
The blindfold was cement on Quenby’s eyelids. She wanted to leave, but wasn’t sure which direction that would be. Dense, sticky air clogged her nose, so she wrenched her jaw open slightly to breathe.
“I didn’t tell you everything...” Rubir’s voice faltered, “I thought Marius would back out when—”
“—I am never. Gonna owe you shit. Ever. Again," Ellis could barely form words through tightly clenched teeth. "We fucking clear on that?"
“I know,” said Rubir in a fragment of his usual voice, “I couldn’t say no, Ellis.”
“Guess that makes two of us,” Ellis replied flatly.
Quenby strained to lift an arm. The ropes were gone, but her wet clothes clung to the table. Her hand searched for her eyes and bumped her chin instead. She tapped fingers around her head, looking for the knot of the blindfold.
“Shit. Rube, quick. Fuck.”
“Take this. Cover it and start the fire. I'll get the kid.”
The spice in Rubir's cologne wasn’t strong enough to cover the heavy metallic odor that invaded Quenby's nose; his arms slid under and lifted her from the table. A canvas tarp snapped open and fluttered down next to them. Quenby finally pushed the blindfold up over her forehead and tried to make sense of the scene through hazy eyes. The tarp had settled unevenly, leaving nearly half of the grisly scene uncovered.
Dark pools of blood coagulated on the road in huge, thick crescents. In the center, long strings of red dripped off a dagger balanced on a silver bowl. Inside—a tiny organ—a heart. Tufts of black fur quivered in the breeze and under the edge of the canvas—just exposed—was the delicate paw of a young dog, perversely still. Ellis jerked the tarp to cover it completely, but it was too late. Black splotches darkened her vision as she retched and lost consciousness again. This time, she didn’t awaken until they reached Echovale.
