Fair Upon the Tor #35 (updates Mondays)

“Best not be touching those carvings. Not unless you want to spend the rest of your life listening to the voices and songs of them things that dwell in the icy voids between the stars. Of course, some folk do.” She looked up, frowning, as if she could see shapes moving high above in the evening sky. “They are ancient, them things that stir, half-awake, out there, in endless, lifeless cold, and they do speak of deep secrets, and magics, and truths.” Forming a gap-toothed sneer of a grin on her face, she said, “But their voices are the voices of madness also.” The creature then puckered up her unpleasant looking mouth. “Me? I wouldn’t want to know what those things think of you, or me, or this great green earth. It cannot be good to know such things. Better to continue in pleasant ignorance.”

Caewen managed to articulate a few clumsy half-thoughts through a mind that still felt bloodless and deadened. “Who are you?” she asked. It was true, she realised: an inhuman sense of coldness had seeped out of the stones and into her prickling flesh while she had been looking at the carvings. She glanced at the patterns once more, and regretted doing so. The feeling laced back into her mind, again, that terrible coldness. But, when she screwed her eyes tight and looked away, the awful mad, itching iciness started to recede much faster. She was able to take a deep and steadying breath. With forced calm, Caewen said, “Do you belong to the goddesses?”

“Me? Goodness, no. I am one such as she who died in the sea cave, and had my head cut away and placed in darkness under the earth. But that’s rather a lot to remember. Call me Moggie Moulach.” She scuffled closer, huffing as she came, lifting the leading hem of a ratty old dress of rough woven hemp.

“What are you then?” said Caewen. She took an almost involuntary step backwards. If the carvings gave off a sense of palpable wrongness, this strange bent creature was just about as bad–though the uncanny sensation was at the same time, wholly different. Where the carvings felt cold, dead and remote, full of an inscrutably vast perspective, this hobbling things had a warm deadness to her. Like a body mouldering in a muddy grave of leaves. Caewen’s flesh pricked up like a goose’s as she looked at the creature. Her marrow flashed with small flicks of warning and unease. “You can call youself whatever name you want, but… what on earth are you?” She took another backward step, knowing that it must look impolite, but not caring if she insulted the thing that was shuffling nearer. She simply did not want to be close to her, or it, whatever the creature might be.

“Not on earth, but under it, mortal lass. As I said, I am Moggie Moulach, and Moggie Moulach is what I am. As to my kith and kindred, it is not entirely within your ken to know entirely what I am, though you would call my folk, Faer.”

“Faerie,” said Caewen. “No goddess then, but one of the Faer Ones. Are you the kidnapper in the maze then?” Stealing people was something the Faer were well known for, at least in the bogle-tales of the mountains where Caewen had grown up. The Faer snatched away those they took a liking to: away under hills, and into strange otherworlds of grey warmthless light and endless dusk. So the stories went.

“Oh no. No, of course not. That’s them three goddess things, the lass-thievers. You must be careful of divinities. All confected to be a fairness of voice and complexion, but they run much fouler than worms and slugs down beneath the skin. Not like me.”

“I confess you strike me as uncanny on a different slant. Different, but the same. Dangerous through and through. If the goddesses are in their way foul, you are foulness’s self, surely.”

Spittle formed on her lower lip as she laughed. “Impolite. Direct. I like that.”

“I thought the Faer loved politeness.”

“Yeah, well, aye. Most of them. But I’m more honest. I wear my foulness proudly, you see. You know what you are dealing with, you talk to me. Course, that’s not true of all my folk.” She scratched at her nose using a claw-like finger on her hairy left hand. Then digging at the flesh on the inside of her left nostril, she seemed to find the itch she was after, sighed and added, “In my opine, it is lucky you ran across me, foul or not, and not some fairer looking beastie. Never trust creatures that choose to make themselves beautiful. There’s always some ulterior motive.”

“I suppose I have to agree. I have run into that sort of thing before.”


“The Wisht Folk, up and away north.”

“Ah. Them. Cousins to the Fane, but they made bad bargains, long ago, and now they have more than a little Faer blood in them, and slithering shadows too, and rot. Well and well.”

“Yet, I still have to wonder about a creature who choses to make herself weird and unpleasant. What is her ulterior motive?”

“Well, in my opine, such creatures are just being honest about how they see themselves. That is all.” She looked around. “This is growing tiresome. Now. Where were we? I’ve warned you not to touch the carvings of the nameless things that howl in the gulf between the stars. Aye.” She rearranged the hem of her ragged skirt. “So then, if I may be so bold, which way were you going to walk, from here onwards?”

“Just the way I was going.” Caewen indicated with a hand. The cleft they stood in was overrun to a riot with those convoluted carvings all up and down the walls, but it led, sure and straight into the near distance, where the way appeared to take a hard turn left. “There are no other ways to go.”

“Are there not now?” said the creature that called herself Moggie Moulach. She pursed her lips and frowned, then squinted and with a small huff, she said, “What about that door, then?”

Caewen started to say “What door?” but only got halfway through the question. When she looked she saw that there was indeed a door she hadn’t noticed before. How could she not have noticed it? It stood plainly the end of this straight length of crevice, just beyond where the cup and ring marks ended. Instead of turning left, she might push the door open and keep going straight on. Like everything in this place, it looked old and primitive: just a slab of wood on ancient hinges. Nothing decorative or remarkable stood out about it. Just a plain and very old door.

“Now where did that come from?” said Caewen at a whisper.

“It came from nowhere. ‘Twas always there… you just had to be told where to look. That’s all.”

“What is beyond it?”

“A more informative path. I cannot advise you past that, yeah or nay, whether good or ill, nor whether you ought take the veiled door… but you will certainly learn things from that path that you will not learn upon this path.”

Caewen took a couple hesitant steps down the crevice. The shadows were growing colder. A single large, wet star had already come out in the sky, promising a cold night. She tested her lips with the wet of her tongue, feeling the damp, and the chill. “Why would you help me? If this is help?”

“Ah, for the same reason that the Three Goddesses have taken an interest in you.” A long snuffle rattled through her hairy nostrils. “Think of the world as a great game of pieces, moving about, this taking that, that blocking this, always moving, outflanking, or being outflanked. Well, you, my charming mortal lass, as it turns out, are a free piece on the board–an uncommitted token, so to speak. Now, there are of course many such tokens; being all of them folks as are not a part of this machination or that one, but not all such pieces have the promise of being useful in the great worldly game. Frankly, my dear mortal lass, you have that potentiality. And so there is interest in you. From one quarter, or another, and another.”

“And what quarter are you in then? I didn’t think the Faer Folk took much interest in anything but their own revels and feasts.”

“Ah, such is true of the bulk of my kind, quite true, true. But… there are some of us who have longer term designs, and so we are rather in our own quarter, if you will accept that as an answer. Neither night, nor day, nor shadow, flame, nor waters, rains, storm, nor darksome earth. We hold to our own interests.”

“I have heard stories that the Faer Folk must speak the truth, and can never break oaths. Would you make a promise that you intend me no harm by sending me through some strange door in the maze?”

“And I’m sure you’ve heard that the Faer can be made to go away by throwing salt over your left shoulder, or walking sun-wise three times around a juniper bush, or by turning your stockings inside-out, or by tapping me with a wand made of twelve twigs of rowan bound up with a red ribbon, eh? I encourage you to try these things. You may find that the truth of the world is a vast long way from the fancies of tales.”

“Then why should I trust you at all? Why should I trust to the advice of some strange…” she searched for a word and finally just said, “thing, wandering about in this place?”

“Why? You only need one reason. Think on it: what should lie beyond that door, that the three goddesses of this hill desire to keep it concealed from mortal eyes? You could never have seen the way on your own. None who come here as walkers in the maze could have seen the way. It took Faer arts to reveal it to mortal eyes. That is a very well hidden door. So what does that mean, I wonder?” A predatory grin.

Caewen did turn to face the door then. Her brow knit, and she turned thoughts over in her head. “But what if–” she started and then said, “No, but it could be that–” and paused. “You twisted old wretch. I’m curious now, and I can’t help myself.”

Fair Upon the Tor #34 (updates Mondays)

“By what?” asked the old magess. Her wooly hair was making a dark cloud around her, so that her skin stood out, pallid against it. Night’s shadows were deepening the lines of her face.

“Just some voice on the air. I suppose this place is rife with them. Being a meeting of wizards, and everything.”

“A you a complete fool?” The magess shook here head. Seeming to soften a moment, Quinnya said, in a lower, less harsh voice. “Be careful. Voices on the air are not to be trusted. Not anywhere, and especially not here.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she replied, perhaps a little more sarcastically than she’d meant. Caewen tried to return some warmth to her voices as she said, “H’m. Sorry. Yes… thank you.” She turned to the maze. “So, do I just walk in then? There’s nothing more to it?”

“Nothing more than that, and nothing less. Walk into the shadows, find your way through the twists of the maze, discover your own and personal way out. You may find things along the way. You may not. It is always different.”

Feeling a prickling tenseness, a small wave-lap sense of resignation, Caewen nodded, and said for her own benefit, “There’s no point in waiting about then.” She took a few tentative steps towards the maze, passing under the massive lintel rock. She could have reached out and touched the damp pads of moss, the way was so narrow. Stringy roots hung from the crevices in the walls too, and scrabbly old gnarled thorns stood over the wall-tops on either side, darkening her already dim view ahead. She looked back, saw Quinnya watching her, tried a smile that was met with only a long cold expressionless glare.

She walked into the maze.


The ways were cramped and twisting. The walls on either side were roughly hewn from old living stone, and the half-patterns of ancient adzes and chisels showed up in the last light of the evening. A red glow from the sun was touching the tops of the walls now and painting sparks against the leaves of the scrubby trees that grew haphazard from the wall tops and overhangs above.

To begin, it seemed to Caewen that there was little enough to distinguish one narrow corridor from another. The air was cold and damply uncomfortable. Occasionally she found a small, carven flight of stairs. Once, she crossed a bridge that spanned an expanse of still, reed-choked pond. She searched around the rim of the pond and found that it had been cut into the stone. Was it decorative once, long ago? Or a reservoir for drinking water? Whatever its original purpose, it was a home only for a few sad sounding frogs now. The winter chill reduced their calls to a few scattered eruptions. She recognised them as striped marsh frogs, a sort that call all year round. After deciding there was nothing special about the pond, she moved on, leaving it behind. After the bridge she found a series short tunnels, burrowing in and out of the hill. Caewen followed the ways, picking left or right by whim. Nothing stood out to recommend one dark path over another. But, always, the narrow ways did curl uphill, drawing her by obscure approaches towards the tor’s peak.

The strangest thing in all this–and it took her some time to realise it–was that there seemed to be no dead ends. Every pathway appeared to go on forever, and, quite frequently, a way she as walking split itself into two or three new branches. Soon, it was hard to imagine how so many curling maze-ways could be crammed into the same space of the hillside.

Caewen moved on through cramped tunnels and narrow clefts in the stone, in relative silence. There were no sounds to accompany her, but the under-hush of wind in the branches, rattling and rustling, and her own footsteps against the gravel and clay surface. She tried scuffing her feet a few times, making arrows on the ground, but finding that she never came back across any of the markings, she gave up on that too eventually. It all just seemed to go on and on.

Suddenly, she had a thought that put a slight chilling effect into her blood: the maze did feel like a length of lifespan. You went forward. You went this way. You went that. You made the best choices you could, given what you knew, and what you had to hand, but in the end, it was mostly about following the path ahead of you, hoping for the best, and eventually, finding yourself at a way out of it all.

She had got so used to the feeling of sameness that when she did walk through a cleft and into a wider, more open space filled with carven walls, Caewen stopped short, and was taken aback for a moment. The walls were incised deeply with circles and rings. She ran her eyes over the nearest protuberance of stone. They looked something like the cup and ring marks that sometimes were cut into old outcrops of rocks in wild places. Very old symbols of a forgotten people, for a forgotten purpose. But these were more intricate, more heady somehow. The spirraling shapes cut into the stone almost seemed to move of their own accord, circling around themselves, and Caewen felt a little bit ill in her stomach as she looked. A disturbing sense of movement played up in her mind, while at the same time she found that she wanted to touch the spirals. Feeling a repulsion, she found herself reaching out, nonetheless, stretching her fingers towards a group of seven cup marks, run around with rings upon rings upon rings upon…

“I wouldn’t.”

The voice broke her from the draw of the carvings. She shook herself free, gasping, and feeling a terrible pain in her neck and shoulders, as if she’d twisted herself down to pick up something, and pulled muscles doing it. Stumbling, Caewen increased the distance between herself and the rock wall, before looking around to see who had spoken.

It was a woman–or something like a woman–only, short, squish-faced, black eyes, shining, a large-nose, with hair like rotten brown broom growing on a heathy moor. She was hunched, and her left arm hung strangely at her side. It was covered with a mat of thick and wiry hair, right down to the fingers and knuckles. When the creature moved, she revealed a hairy tail dragging behind her too.

Fair Upon the Tor #33 (updates Mondays)

Arising out of a subtle drift of mixed colours and shapes, the last of the three arrived. She was young, wonderfully beautiful, and hugely round in the belly: fully pregnant, apparently ready to drop a child any day, from the look of her. The woman let a serene sort of smile cross her face, she tilted her head and blinked her blue-stained eyes. “Now, is this a way to greet a goddess? You were rude to my sisters, but must you be impolite with me too? Uncouth.”

“Some goddesses you lot are. Murdering old men. Stealing the bodies of bakers. Sneaking about in the twilight like… like… I don’t know what. A magical ferret.” She scowled.

“Most postulants to the maze would abase themselves before a manifestation of just one of we three sisters. Most supplicants would count themselves blessed to hear my children laughing and playing, even just the once… a sound to haunt dreams and keep treasured and precious in the beating of the heart, for ever and ever. It would warm your old years, in your toothless, wrinkled agedness, if you would but let the laughter into you… Acknowledge it. Accept it. Be joyful of it.”

“No. I’ve had quite enough of old spirits of the earth worming a way into my mind.”

“I suppose that is true enough. I can taste that which was once inside your blood and sinew. Perhaps he left you frozen inside? Perhaps there is nothing warm and loving left in you to welcome in the laughter of children?” She tilted her head, curious. “Perhaps.”

“H’m. I’m warmer and more alive than you, I suspect. You can call yourself a goddess if you like. As for myself, I don’t know if there is much difference between you and a forest-imp, besides aggrandised names and ranks.” She waved a hand. “And whatnot.”

“Dangerous words,” whispered the goddess. But she laughed the moment after she said it, clear and pretty. As she did, she laid her hands gently on her belly, the way pregnant woman will sometimes do. Lowering her gaze, she said then, “It’s a brave mouse that snarls at a she-fox. A brave moth that flutters in the face of the nightjar.”

“Brave, or just plain tired of games. Sometimes a person isn’t brave. Sometimes a person is simply utterly worn out with fear and worry. Eventually, even a mouse gets sick of paws landing, this way and that.” She looked around. Quinnya was paying no attention to her. “Can’t they see you?”

“They cannot. Although, magicians often talk to unseen voices. It won’t seem strange to any of them. Weird things beset weird people.”

“That so?”

“That is so.”

“And your children?” She looked around. Now that she knew what to look for, she could just see the stirrings upon the grass, whisking over it, in little trailing lines. Small disturbances that betrayed a passing of something light-footed and airy. “Here now…” A frowning sensation passed over her lips. “Children require fathering.”

“What an impertinent point to raise. My sisters are right. You are delightful.” She tilted her head the other way, as if appraising goods. “But you also chafe. You are prone to be irritating. That will not do.”

“And yet you are refusing to leave me be.” Her fists clenched and re-opened. Hot and cold tinglings ran down her skin. “What is your purpose?”

“Ah. And that is another impertinent question, but, it is a question that follows old laws and rules.  The winter demon that was in your heart must have left some lore there. That question was well phrased, and it cannot easily be turned aside. Our purpose? Let me see. Our purpose is the keeping of the peacefulness of the tor, the moot, the accord. This hill–this was where the two great goddesses called truce, spoke each to the other in conciliatory whispers, made peace and made love. Did you know that?”

“What? Wait. What was that last thing you said?”

“Troves must be sealed. With blood. Or with death. Or with procreative acts. Or with love. Even if that love is loose-woven and ill-at-ease, symbolic only. The two goddesses could not truly love one another. There was too much pain and blood, loss, grieving and betrayal for that. And thus the pact was sealed in ritual only. Oaths made lightly are like mayflies dancing on a deep, dark pond. They do not last long. And yet, and yet, and yet… we three were left to keep the peacefulness of the tor and the accord. And that is our purpose. That is my purpose.”

“So, you are keepers of the peace? Between the two factions? Sun and moon. Day and night.”

“In some measure, more or less. Yes.”

“And your interest in me is what exactly? I cannot think that’d I’d be much help stopping a war. Oh,” she said. “But that was why I came here. It was my whole reason for coming here. I made a promise to speak at the moot, and try and get everyone to see some sense. Your interest as always going to fall on me. As soon as I promised to speak against a war…”

“We three heard your oath echo from a long way off. It is good that you work to keep it.”

“Or else?”

“You would be punished.” A momentary smile. “After all, you placed yourself within our sphere of interest, willingly and without lien or duress. We have a right over you. But… and yet, and yet, Cessation spoke first with you, and found you would not do her biding. Provenance spoke then with you, and found you obstinate. Inception speaks last with you, and finds you unpleasing to her thoughts, and an irritation to her mind. Whether you will do her bidding, she does not know for Inception does not bid others. She but allows them to act on her behalf.” There was that small knowing smile again. “But, we three agree that we three have our purpose, and so too do you. You are disobedient in the face of great power. That is both the good and the ill of you. Only time will tell if the good and the ill will go well with you.” Her smile was now a minnow-flash in sunlight. “We have spoken enough. Goodbye to you for now, Caewen of Drossel. The three have looked upon you, and found you wanting for their immediate uses. You will have other uses, we suspect… in the longer scheme of things… and we will talk upon that, ourselves, one among three, among one, among many. Before this moot is done we will have come to a final decision concerning you.”

“I see. Best be off with you then.” She frowned as she said it, almost to a scowl. “I certainly don’t need you adding to the mess of things.” She waved a hand. “Go, then.”

She laughed, pitching her tone upwards, into the grey limned sky. Already fading, she said, “You are an impertinent farmyard donkey, and imprudent.” With an almost hungering look on her face, she added, ghostly, “We three watch. We three wait. I take my leave of you, Caewen of Drossel, farm-ass and lumpish fool. Impertinent one. Disobedient one. Unwilling one. You’ve a keen talent for abrasiveness. I hope it doesn’t lead you into too deep a patch of briar-rose and thorn.”

And then she was gone.

Caewen was alone. She experienced a feeling something like coming up from deep underwater. A light pressure that had been on her ears, and which she had barely been aware of, released, and there was a sensation of being able to breath again, even though she had been breathing perfectly well the whole time she had been in conversation.

As she gathered her breath back within herself, she heard her name being called. Caewen turned. It was Quinnya, her storm-grey eyes lit with irritation. “Caewen of Drossel! I will not call again, well? If you do not enter the maze this moment, then your moment will be past. A seven year wait, then. You want that, well?”

“Sorry,” muttered Caewen, as she walked over, more than a little sheepishly. “I didn’t hear you. I was distracted.”

Fair Upon the Tor #32 (updates Mondays)

“Hello there,” said Caewen. She introduced herself then, and Dapplegrim too. He smiled his own sharp grin.

The young woman had quite the singular appearance to Caewen’s eyes. She blinked green cat’s eyes and ran a hand under hair like red snakes, clearing the locks away from her face. Her skin was dark, almost black, and twinned all over with tattoos that nearly matched the flame red of her hair. “Greet-good to you,” she said, voice low. An awkward smile followed. “Are you local? How are you standing this coldnessy? Always shivers, here.”

“I guess I was born to it.” Caewen was close enough now to more clearly see the animal that the woman was feeding. It was winged and serpentine, a sort of small draconic thing: though it had long, feathery scales at the fringe of its wings and its tail tip. “Oh.” Caewen was intrigued. “Is that a baby dragon?”

Laughter rung from her. “No, barbarian. No dragon. This is puk-drakeling only. Small beast. Good for housepet. Catches mice and little grain-thief birds, if sing the right song.” Her voice rose then into a piecing lilt–a twist of notes, harsh, full of meaning without words–it danced from her tongue, and the small winged creature arched its neck, reared and took off, flapping madly. It vanished into the nearest stand of old trees and underscrub. And only a few moments afterward, it returned, bursting out of a wall of leaves with a dead hedge sparrow in its claws. She laughed again, as it circled her, and once the small dragonish thing landed on her wrist, she took some of the sparrow blood on a fingertip and tasted it against her tongue tip. “Must partake of the food first. Elsewise, puk-drakeling will think he is the dominance. He is not.” She shot Caewen a hooded, emerald glare.

The sparrow was still twitching as the puk-drakeling manoeuvred it headfirst and then swallowed it, gulp at a time, like a lizard. Caewen tried not to let herself look disturbed by this little show of falconry. She didn’t enjoy watching something get swallowed alive, even if it was just a sparrow. Her dance with the wurum could easily have ended that way too, after all, and she experienced a brief harsh pang of imagining herself being swallowed, head-first, still able to twitch but not much else.

“Um,” she tried. “You are walking the maze?”

“Yes. I am the next. And you are after me. My name is Leske.” She looked at Dapplegrim. “And this is a bond-demon, then, yes? Powerful demon. Good bindings to you then?”

“After a manner of speaking,” said Dapple.

Caewen laid a hand on Dapplegrim’s neck. “Ah, well, Dapple is rather his own demon, and he is only part demon at that.”

Leske stared with a look of puzzlement, then threw her head back and laughed. Whatever it was that was funny, Caewen couldn’t decipher. In that moment, the young woman with the dark skin and red tattoos looked a little too much like her pet, mouth wide, flesh of the inner mouth and tongue red-pink, ready to swallow smaller, weaker prey.

They were saved from the growing risk that the conversation was about to mire itself into something quite uncomfortable when Quinnya called out Leske’s name and the young woman smiled a last time, saying, “I am called. I go. You go after me.” She whispered something to her little winged creature, and it took off, spiralling upwards, and shooting off towards the maze and over it, uphill.

“No pets in the maze,” said Dapplegrim, glumly.

“I suppose she sent it on to meet her on the other side. Look, Dapple, did you want to go and walk the other path around the maze-way too? It can’t be very much longer before I’m called, and I don’t know how long it takes to walk through or around. Through must vary, I guess.”

He dragged a furrow through the soft turf with a hoof. His skullish face developed some lines of worry. “I don’t know if I trust Quinnya not to keep you waiting here for hours yet, just out of spite. You might be standing around in the cold for a while.”

“I might.” She shrugged. “But that would keep Quinnya standing around in the cold too, and I can’t see herself doing that to herself for very long. Either way, I’d rather see your face on the other side when I get out of this thing.” She leaned over and gave him a hug around his neck. “See you soon?”

“Hur. Hurm. Sure.” He turned and trotted off then, stopping once to look back with scrutinising eyes that lit up the evening air and cast a faint red pallor across his bone-thin face. As if he suspect that she had some other motive for sending him away. “Don’t dawdle.”

“Why would I?”

She watched him go then, and felt alone. It was just her and the cold and the silence now. Waiting to have her name called. A glance over at the large and looming doorway. Had it been purposely built out of those massive slabs of stone to look intimidating, godlike, primeval? Probably.

Quinnya was standing beside the door without making any obvious move to invite Caewen, or even to check that Caewen was still there. Her hard face was turned downward, her brow half-hidden by the mass of the iron-wool hair of her head. Surely Quinnya wouldn’t want to stand around all night. Caewen felt the first stir of a shiver from the cold. Surely. Just wait patiently. Wait, wait… walk the maze. Speak at the moot. Be done with this.

Maybe she oughtn’t have asked Dapplegrim to leave. She might have been wrong about her suspicion. She cast a glance around the grey and grassy turf, then back to look at Quinnya. The old woman still gave off no sign of movement.

It was then, as she was watching Quinnya, waiting warily, that a brush of laughter, almost palpable, passed by her leg. Caewen spun, eyes open and staring hard, taking in all the detail of empty grass and cold blue evening shadows. More childlike laughter and small voices pipped up around her. It all seemed to come up from the soggy ground. “I knew I heard you,” she said. Caewen took a step, wishing that she had thought to bring her sword after all. It hadn’t seemed necessarily this morning in the bright sun.

Fair Upon the Tor #31 (updates Mondays)

For a time then, there was nothing for it, but to wait. So they chatted idly, watching as magicians-to-be were called, one after another, into the maze. Out of an urge to make conversation and pass the time, Caewen asked Keru and Keri why they wanted the status of magehood when neither of them seemed very inclined to magic. She had seen neither of them so much as talk about a charm or talisman. They told her that they came from a long line of sorcerer-chieftains. The family would consider it unthinkable not to attend the moot and walk the paths. “Early on,” said Keri, “when our people first washed up on the cold stony shores along the Foresetti woodlands, we were mistrusted, feared, oft attacked. But the moot has a rule that all comers are welcome. Our sorcerers and ghost-talkers were welcome here. It was the first point of acceptance in a strange land. All the old sorcerer families still walk the maze, even if they have little enough sorcery in the family any longer. It’s tradition, I suppose.”

Keru added, “And you know, a bit of fun too. Travel. See the moot. Walk the maze. People talk it up as dangerous.”

“Well,” suggested Caewen, “it sort of has been that.”

Dapplegrim just snorted out one, “Hurrrm,” in agreement.

About an hour passed before Keru’s name was called. They all got up, and walked with him down to the maze entry.

“Just him,” said Quinnya with a low, hard-lipped tangle of breath. The storm-cloud black and sleet-white of her ribbons and tatters stirred and moved as she spoke. She pointed at Caewen. “You are last, and your horse-thing cannot go with you, naturally, in case you were planning on it, well? One of the earlier supplicants, an upstanding young woman of clear potential warned me about you and your horse-creature. The rules are firm. No familiars, demons, spirits, no enslaved faer folk, no totemic beings, or gods, be they great or small, may be taken the maze. Only the mortal supplicant may enter.”

“Hurm. Hur. Hurrrr.” The pinpoint red lights in his cloudy black eyes flamed brighter. “I’m no enslaved spirit or demon.”

“And what are you then?” Quinnya raised herself stiffly, straightening her back and tilting her nose. “A talking pony? A cursed toy horse? A shrunken, skinned dragon who lost his wings?” A huff of irritation from her. “No pets either.”

“Pet. H’rm. Hur. Hurm. A friend, is what I am. I’ll not be happy if something unpleasant happens in there.” His sharp teeth shone. “Best remember that I am no magician, lady magess. I am not bound by the rules of this place.” His grin deepened. “I can murder whomsoever I like.”

“That is supposed to frighten me? I’ve been threatened by worse than you in my time. I’ve seen worse. I’ve scraped worse off the bottom of hobnails.” She waved at Caewen. “The other one, the Forsetti boy, he will go through now, but you must wait. Go away somewhere. I’ll call you when I’m ready to call you. As I said, you are last in line. That’s all you need to know. You can go away and eat griddle scones and strawberry jam for all I care.”

Keri gave her brother a quick hug, extracted a promise from him that he would be sensible and not do anything stupid, then let him go. He laughed, performing a dismissive little shrug before turning to the tall moss-crusted and damp-strewn doorway, and then walking directly into the darker space beyond. Soon enough, he turned a corner and was lost to sight.

An uneasy sense of foreboding came over Caewen then. She thought, perhaps, it was nothing more than nerves of the unknown, and shook herself free of it. “Did you want to sit down again?”

“Actually, would you mind if I walked by the old straight road to the maze end? I think I would like to be there when Keru comes out from the maze. He’ll probably have managed to trip over, graze himself, or something such thing that will give him a nice bit of hurt that he can make a fuss about.” She seemed to chew on some indecision before saying, “He’s tall for his age, and not as old as he looks. He’s still in that foolish space, where boys act like yearling calves and think they can’t be hurt by anything.”

“You go. Dapple will keep me company.”

“Thank you.” She grabbed Caewen by the hand, briefly, applying pressure to the fingers in a tight, warm squeeze, then hurried away. As she walked her face was turned down, taking in only the grass.


They were moving away from the door now, looking for a place to wait out the next span of minutes, hours or longer. “Was that true? What you said about the rules not applying to someone who isn’t a magician?”

“Old Mannagarm used to wring his guts out about it. He was cheated by a merchant at the moot he went to, years and years back. He had no way to get back at the fellow using the laws of the moot. The laws only apply to workers of magic. Of course, it works both ways. If the old witching-man had got his own back through dark spirits and evil spells, well… there was nothing to protect that merchant either. It’s a foolhardy soul that comes to the moot intending to get the best of wizards.”

“What about an intermediary then? If Samarkarantha sent his little grassy-haired creatures out to steal or kill, would the judgement come back to him.”

Dapple fumed air in and out of his nostrils. “I think so, yes. I don’t know for certain, but anything in your power, a spell-thralled servant, a spirit, demon or faer creature: it would be viewed by the three goddesses as an extension of the spellworker. At least, I’m guessing. Why do you ask? You aren’t thinking of sending me off to do something unscrupulous. I’m usually all in favour of unscrupulous things, but remember: I did pass to you from Mannagarm under old laws of exchange. I suspect the goddesses would look unkindly on using me as a means to doing murky work.”

“It’s not that, no. I suppose I was wondering about using a cat’s paw. There’s that man who Fafmuir said was an assassin. What if he was hired by a magician?”

“That might work? Gods and goddesses, even the ones who want sacrifices of gold and bronze don’t really have a good grasp on monetary exchange. It’s sort of outside their sphere of understanding. Although, I don’t really know, truth of it. So, maybe, yes.”

“I wonder then.” She looked around. The crowd waiting at the gate was thinning. As would-be mages filed into the dark door, one after another, their friends, retainers or servants also drifted away. Presumably to meet them on the other side of the maze. Finally, the shadows of afternoon gauzed out into shadows of early evening and there were only two supplicants left. Caewen and one other young woman, of outlandish dress and strange foreign appearance. The woman was alone except for some small creature of a pet she seemed to be feeding out of her cupped hands. As they were the last two waiting, and as the other young woman had no one with her, Caewen tried a friendly smile, and finding it returned, she walked over, Dapple loping along behind her, head low, red-black eyes aglow.

Fair Upon the Tor #30 (updates Mondays)

“Or… maybe Samarkarantha?” said Keru, himself puzzled. “He could he have sent a note ahead of us? Or his little woody faced servant things might have come in the night? That was clever of him–if he did it–he does seem to always be thinking ahead with things. Could’ve been him? I guess.” He didn’t sound much as if he had convinced himself.

Quinnya fell quiet. For a time she did nothing but focus on the page, screwing up her face, winking both her eyes in rapid succession. Perhaps she thought that if she wetted her eyeballs enough the offending line would simply go away. Then, evidentially reaching the conclusion that the name Caewen of Drossel was stuck where it was, and she could do no more to shift it than she could shift rock or river, she sputtered, “Fafmuir? Samarkarantha? What? Those fools. No. No. Nonsense. It is writ in my handwriting, and I do not recall it. I would recall.” Peering closer, her teeth grit now into a hard, yellow-stained line. She said, “Mnh. But I don’t recall… and how very strange is that, well?” Her gaze lit up with a lightning-glow of thought. Her eyes flicked up, and set on Caewen. “And yet, not through any mortal art, nor magic, nor cunning can this ledger be altered by any other than me.” On her next breath she seemed to come to a point of understanding. A quizzical little humorous light clouded her eyes, then spread downward, overtaking her lips and her off-white teeth. She looked around then, at the landscape, the air and the sky, squinting all the while as she did. “No mortal art. I see. Well, you may have got yourself a entry token into the maze today, but I wonder if you will get yourself out again, well? If Themselves Who Watch have added your name to my list, then, well, they will have done so with a purpose. And their purpose is seldom at alignment with the lives of we lowly mortals. I would wish you good luck, but I don’t think luck will help you much. Not one way. Not the other.”

She turned her nose up then, and with a sniff that seemed to Caewen a little too practised, she turned, and walked off towards the great stone gates. They watched her go, until at last Keru said, “What an old she-goat.” He turned to Caewen. “Don’t you worry about that. She’s clearly just mad that she’s forgotten about you. I bet it was Samarkarantha.”

Keri snorted a laugh. “Well, either way, that is the Quinnya I remember. She hasn’t changed any more than the oaks on the hill have changed. Come on. Let’s go down to the green and wait. Your names will be called. We have to wait until then. Nothing else for it.”

They couldn’t sit in the grass; it was still too wet with dew from the night, and chilled all over by a faint humid out-breath of coldness from the living green blades. A few low stones that did not seem to be part of the processional way peaked here and there, and, once Keru, Keri and Caewen were all quite sure no one was going to be angry about it, the three of them sat down, making themselves as comfortable as they could on the low slabs of gritty surfaced rock. The air smelled of coldness and dew and wet soil. Dapplegrim stood behind them, lurking, glancing around, now and then tearing at the grass, ripping it, chewing, eating distractedly.

“Oh, mlooth, ith our frienths from the wurum.”

“What was that?” said Caewen.

Dapplegrim swallowed a mouthful of grass. “Over there. It’s ours friends, the Modsarie. The kelpie fondlers. What was their lady princess’s name. Sgeirr?”

“Kelpie, what?” said Caewen.

Fondlers,” answered Dapplegrim.

She shook her head. “I’m not going to ask.”

They all looked over, squinting. Dapplegrim had remarkable sight, but Caewen could make out the shapes of four people dressed in the Modsarie fashion, standing near the maze gate. It wasn’t all of the Modsarie contingent, just a few… the young, chieftainess Sgeirr was standing in her arrogant, haughty way, hands on hips, sneering at everything that she wasn’t scowling at. After a moment, the Modsarie seemed to notice Caewen and her friends for the first time too. Presumably they saw Dapple, who was hard to mistake for anything other than himself. When the chieftainess turned to look at them, Sgeirr’s general appearance and countenance became still harder. She gave them an irritated glare. Sunlight flickered across her distant eyes and lit up the rivermud green of her clothing. After the prickly moment passed, Sgeirr hunched her back, turned away again, and seemed to start up a renewed conversation with her companions, looking back over her shoulder every few moments.

“Dapple…” said Caewen. “Can you–?”

“No.” He twitched his ears forward. “I can make out the words, but she’s speaking in the native tongue of Modsaire. I don’t know it.”

After a while the Modsarie were called and Sgeirr and two of her retainers walked over to the great stone gates. They were beckoned over by Quinnya as a group, and they spoke to her at the doorway. Although they gathered about in a loose huddle near the door, they were seemingly directed to enter the maze one-by-one. Sgeirr went first, and the others made a show of saluting her and kneeling. The performance took a tedious few seconds and gave the impression that had trumpets been available, these would have been called for. A few of the magicians who were standing nearby seemed amused by the show, but not overly impressed. Caewen wondered the Modsarie were aware that some of the more urbane looking magicians were hiding smiles behind sleeves.

About ten minutes after Sgeirr had vanished into the dark doorway, the shorter of the two men was called by Quinnya, and then the third, and then the last of them. As the last man entered the shadows, he paused on the threshold and cast a glance back at Caewen. She was still watching, intently, so she saw him fingering a hand up and down the length of a short war-axe at his hip. He was otherwise wearing the same green-brown woollen robes as the others in his band, and the axe would not have been visible at all, except that he absentmindedly ran a palm on it.

“Did the others have weapons?” she asked.

“Maybe. I don’t recall,” answered Keri.

Keru seemed to have been paying more attention. “I think the other fellow, the one with the beard, he had a short sword. And didn’t Sgeirr have a knife? Or a knife scabbard anyway. A big, broad leaf-bladed thing. Sort of old fashioned?”

“I didn’t notice,” said Caewen, now wishing that she had been paying closer attention. “It would be punishable, to try and murder someone inside the maze, wouldn’t it? As with the rest of the moot? Right? The rules still apply?”

“Actually, that… I’m not sure.” Keri gave her an apologetic half-smile. “I don’t know if anyone is sure how deep the rules lie in there. There are the disappearances, after all. And there are always rumours of other deaths and murders in the maze too… but proof is hard to come by. Maybe it used to happen, a long time ago, and the goddesses increased their watchfulness?”

“Could be,” said Caewen, doubtful.

Fair Upon the Tor #29 (updates Mondays)

As they went, Keri mused aloud, losing herself in half-words and half-memories, “Old Magess Quinnya. That one was a bit of a battleaxe. Always angry about something. Go there. Stand here. No, stand there! And stop looking at me like that. And don’t be so smug.” Keri affected a high, nasal tone–a sort of cultured and rangy nose-voice, throughout this mock rattling of instructions.

But no sooner had Keri finished, than they were all forced to a jolting stop: a discomfortingly similar nasal tone lowered itself out of the air, perching itself atop and around Keri’s parody, leaving an embarrassed silence, tattered. “If that is supposed to be a player’s pigwiggenry of me, it is poorly done, and you would be well advised to quit while you still have both arms, both legs, both eyes, a tongue and two ears.” The woman manifested out of nowhere. There couldn’t have been anywhere for her hide, and yet she was standing before them: tall, with hair as grey as wool in stormy light, and a face sketched out by long, chalky and hard lines. She wore a dress that seemed to be made out of rags and ribbons of black, white and grey. This old hard looking woman took a handful of quick strides towards them, closing the distance to an uncomfortable closeness. As she swung her legs, one ahead of the other, uphill, her dress of fragments and strips swayed and trailed. Each white ribbon danced in the morning light, lustrous. When Caewen recovered from her immediate surprise, she took advantage of the moment’s pause to look at this strange visage more carefully, noting that the white ribbons were marred by small black, scratchy lines of runes.

“Ah, Magess Quinnya.” Keri attempted a smile, but her whole face looked clay-baked. “Just a bit of harmless joking.”

“That so?” said Quinnya, eyeing her. “If I recall correctly–and in all truth, I never recall incorrectly–you walked the maze last moot, young little one. Seven years hence. What are you doing here? You cannot walk the maze twice, and I cannot let you. No matter how much I might wish certain folks might vanish in the maze, well?”

Keri’s head bobbed as she assumed an more polite and conciliatory tone. “My brother, Keru, presents himself to walk the maze, and claim the title, privileges and obligations of magehood. As so too does this other, too.” She indicated with a hand. “Caewen of Drossel,” after a pause, and seeming to decide that something more was needed she said, “A recent friend.”

“Hmmmmgrm.” The sound was like a rubbing of pebbles deep in the woman’s throat. Her storm-flecked eyes shot first to Keru, then to Caewen, then to Dapplegrim, where they rested for a good few flutters of seconds. “Now, I have this brother of yours, Ke-ru, on my lists, but I have no forward notice of this other… hrm, hrm, one, at all. Late entrance without notice cannot be accepted.”

“What?” said Caewen. But as she spoke, she twitched, then looked over her shoulder. Again, she was sure she had heard a burst of laughter of the sort that children make when they are up to some minor mischief hidden from adults. She was certain

“I said,” repeated, Quinnya, “if you will bother to look in my direction–that your late entry is without sufficient prior notice and therefore cannot be accepted, well? You must be on my list to walk the maze. You are not. Therefore you shall not.”

“But that was never a rule in the past,” said Keri.

“Rules change. As it is my privilege and position to make the rules, it is also, therefore, my pleasure to change the rules.” She looked Caewen up and down, critically. “Pigsty boots and a farm-girl dress? This farmyard muck-raker, straw-pitcher… pale-fetcher… oat-chaffer… this, this, personage… well, she will have to wait until the next moot.” Then, to Caewen, she pitched her voice into a high, false sugary slant. “Of course, I can note your name down now, if you find that convenient? Always good to get in early, after all.” Her smile was fog-thin and might as well have been smeared with honey and ashes. “Well?”

“I don’t… that is…”

A whisper at her shoulder. A young woman’s voice. Sweet. Delicate. Distant and resonant. “Ask her to look again.”

“Uh,” said Caewen.

“Is the young pig-herder deaf, tongueless, or simple?” Quinnya spoke louder and more slowly. “Shall I write your name into the ledger for the next moot, well? Seven. Years. Hence. Understand?”

“Actually, would you mind checking again? Just to be sure.”

“I do not need to check. I have a mind wrought of steel and sprung copper.” She was clutching a small cloth-covered book in one hand and opened it to a page that showed a list of little twisting scribbles. “Here, look! You. Are. Not. Listed.”

“Yes she is,” said Keri, squinting. “That looks like Caewen of Drossel. It’s writ in redletter, which I don’t cipher too well… but that looks right. Isn’t that it, right there?” She pointed squarely at a little line of scrawl among a jumble of other, similar scrawls. Caewen couldn’t read a word of it, but feeling embarrassed, she just coughed and looked down at a patch of dandelion by her feet. Did everyone outside her village expect folks to learn letters, or was it just magicians?

The magess pinned the paper with a frowning stare, as if somehow the fabric of the page and the ink were responsible for the unforgivable crime of having shown her to be wrong about something. “Hmmmgmmm.” The noise was now a flutter of irritation itching her vocal chords.

Only after the hot, rash noises coming out of the magess’s lips had fallen to silence did Caewen dare speak. “Someone must have added me to the list? Fafmuir did seem to have an interest in my walking the maze. Maybe he added my name?”

Fair Upon the Tor #28 (updates Mondays)

“You heard about that too? Wasn’t it an accident?” Keru held his words for a breath after he said it, reflecting, then adding, “I didn’t hear much, I guess.”

Keri skipped her voice in over his. “Oh, brother, you do love the sound of your own voice. When you don’t have anything to say, you still say what you haven’t got to say.”

“I do, yes.” He smiled, boyishly.

“Sometimes I wonder how we can be related.” A smile belied any irritation. “Anyway, yes, I did actually hear something about that fire. I was, um, gossiping with a merchant down at the market. Wasn’t it some sect of priests and their minor godling? They had an oracle in the tent, but it was all burned to the ground, priests, oracle, tent and everything: all ashes and bones. They had pitched camp in the soothsayer’s market, down at the far end of the fair. It’s not too far past the other stalls. We could go and have a look around, you know, after the maze.”

“Yes.” Caewen nodded. “I think we should. Fafmuir mentioned it to me. You know… I’m not sure if he’s trying to prod me towards discovering something, or if he’s trying to tie me in knots, or, maybe there is nothing to him at all? Just words and nonsense. It feels as if there is an intent in him, but I don’t know what it is.”

Now it was Dapplegrim’s turn to snuffle and snort, and give out a low huff of a laugh. “He is an odd one, but he is before all else an achimage of the moot.” His voice ground itself away into old wild tones. “You can stand assured, Fafmuir is not made of mere words and nonsense, hurm, hur. No archimage ever uses words merely. An archimage will be plain with words no easier than a horse can toast crumpets.”

“I suppose you would know,” said Keru, laughing.

“But then, if he is trying to nudge me towards something, why be so cryptic about it? He could just set me to a task. He still has that obligation over me. Unless he’s trying to get me to do something without resorting to calling in favours?” She started then, and looked around, hunting, but saw nothing that wasn’t just low scrabbly trees, soggy grass and the heaped mass of the earth and rock and twisted thorn trees that was the tor, standing above them. Had there been a sound of children’s laughter? “Can anyone else hear that?” she asked.


“Laughter,” said Caewen, looking around. “Giggling.” Maybe Fafmuir was about? Did he leave his tent with his wards in toe?

But the others agreed that they couldn’t hear anything. Dapplegrim seemed quite suspicious of the possibility. He looked at her quite hard with his dull red-on-black eyes. “I’ve a much better keenness of hearing that you,” he muttered. “There is no one laughing for some distance. Over the brow of the hill two drunk men are laughing at a rude joke. That’s the closest to laughter there is, and you could not hear that.”

If she had been catching sounds of children, they were gone now.

“I couldn’t no. I guess I was mistaken.”

“As for Fafmuir,” said Keri continuing her train of thought, “who can understand the minds of great wizards? Unfortunately, insanity threads itself alongside magic. That’s why it’s sensible to only learn a little in the way of charms and spells, old secrets, runes and suchlike. The deeper secrets will drive a person mad, in the end. There’s a reason some superstitious folks think wizards and witches are a wholly different race of being. Not human at all. Workers of miracles and magic end up changed in strange ways.” As Keri finished, she looked up, huffed, and said, with a note of pleasant foreboding, “Ah! Here we are then. The entrance to the maze. There’s a few people waiting to enter. We’re not too late then. That’s good. I wonder if old Quinnya is still in charge of the entrance?”

The view ahead was of a wide, shallow depression, running smoothly like a half-funnel towards the base of the tor, and then up to a wall of tall flat-faced stones that formed a sort of rampart against the green turf. Beyond the wall stood a jumble of stone, mossy heaps, and just visible wall-tops, disappearing into a web of half-glimpsed tunnels. The maze itself, visible in a few straggling pieces and peaks. The huge, primitive entry into the maze took the shape of a rough arrangement of uprights and one massive lintel that had been hauled into place by some ancient people. This set of stones formed a heavy, lichen-crusted doorway, softened by darkness and cobwebs behind and within. Carvings ran rankly all around that passageway, thick as weeds and twice as tangled: abstracted whorls, sweeps and lines, and primitive human figures too–though the distance was too great to make out details.

Downhill and across the grassy open slopes, were scattered smaller stones–misshapen and dwarfish looking–arrayed in rough lines. These looked as if they demarcated some forgotten processional concourse that had its origin off at the far end of the broad gully.

Nearer the maze entry, a milling of magicians, servants and attendants were gathered into small and clumpy flocks. They groups seemed to be keeping themselves well apart. There was little mingling among those who planned to walk the way, apparently. In Caewen’s assessment it wasn’t insanity that ran deep alongside magic, it was suspicion, and perhaps also guilt: for one tends to circle around the other, pairwise.

Caewen and her companions cut a quick decent downslope, into the gully, swishing noisily through the thickest patches of green. The expanse they strode into turned tufty with dandelion, clover, ragwort and cat’s ear. It had a weediness that settled against the part of Caewen’s mind that still dwelled on the work of running a farm. The dandelion and cat’s ear were useless for sheep or cows, and the ragwort was poisonous. These were not fields that any farmer had tended for long ages.

Fair Upon the Tor # 27 (updates Mondays)

“They must have walked paths I didn’t. For me, it was mostly just half-carven, unfinished stone walls.” Her brow knit, memories chased themselves around in her eyes, and she looked much more serious. “There were etchings on the walls, in places. Strange letters, but I couldn’t read them. A few rude faces carved in the stone. Some grasses and the odd sapling.” She concentrated, seeking inwardly, back through the short seven years since she was in the maze. “The walls were formed of the same rock that makes up the spurs hereabouts. What is that, limestone?”

Caewen wasn’t sure, but Dapplegrim, who had been trailing silently after the three of them, snuffled and declared himself abruptly knowledgeable about rocks. “It is most definitely limestone. H’m. Full of shells, if you look. From a long time ago.” His tail swished. “From before people. From before the wars of the goddesses. From a very long time ago. It takes a long age for fragile things to turn rock hard.” He cast a glance at Caewen then, his red eyes gleaming dully. “Even under great pressure.”

“And yet you know this how?” said Keru, amused. “How indeed? You’re not so old as that. And don’t lie to me.”

“Spirits remember. Spirits talk.” Dapplegrim threw his head around. “This was all a sea once, this place. If you dig deep enough there are still watery spirits here, deep, deep down, but they have tunnelled into the soil, into the wet caves far beneath, looking for darkness and coldness. The sorts of spirits who swam in the sea before there were humanfolk or gods are not the sort of spirits that like daylight and airy breezes.”

Keru’s smile played up around face. “Done a lot of wandering through dark wet tunnels yourself, have you?”

“Some,” replied Dapplegrim, but he didn’t elaborate, choosing instead to flick his ears and set a frown on his skullish face. “So you and Caewen will walk this maze? Then what? How long until Caewen can speak her piece, and her and me can leave this rotten mound of cunjorers and tricksleeves?”

With a slight shake of her head, Keri spoke, her words lighter than the lingering mists that still faintly roused and stirred in the cold hollows of the morning landscape around them. “Who knows? You have to take a lot to speak, and the lot could come up anytime. Could be later today. Tomorrow, or later still even, after the festivals.”

“What festivals?” Caewen had been thinking about the maze, but also, in flickering half-moments, about Fafmuir, about dead boys crushed by cages, and burnt tents. She came back to her focus as Keri turner her face towards her.

“The celebration of Uncreated Night, Firstborn Day, the Living Flames and the Dead Ashes. Four festivals strung out in a row, but it’s not as exciting as it sounds. I was bored and disappointed seven years ago. Went to bed early both nights. It’s all very…” she waved a hand… “rigid and formal. A touch too pious, for my tastes, anyhow.”

Her brother gave out his opinion, as he was wont to do. “I’d say very much too pious from everything I’ve heard. Getting towards a sort of fool-sacred. When does it start? Tonight?”

“Tonight would be the Festival of the Uncreated Night, yes.” Keri nodded. “Tomorrow is the Day of the Firstborn Daughter, the Day Queen. Then, the evening is the Time of the Fires for the Living, and in the small hours, the Red Ashes for the Dead. Flames for the living; embers for the dead. The fire-priests build up huge bonfires and let them burn down. Supposedly, the good dead come back to sit by the embers, but I slept through it all last time. I’m not much in the mood to talk to ghosts this time either, bad or good.”

“M’m,” said Caewen. “So there’s a series of self-important sounding festivals. That would fit. The magicians of this moot never do cease to surprise with their talent for being a little more uppity about themselves.”

A light curve of a smile touched Keri’s mouth, and ran up into her eyes. “I’m afraid it does often seem that way. It rather goes with the job, I expect.” A shrug. “Being magicians, and all.”

“Yes.” Caewen looked away, past her companions, at the tents passing by, at the bright morning sky full of mist of cloud in full, soft light, at the trees and the hills beyond them. “I’ve been thinking also about that escaped wurum. Here. I’ve a question… Keri, Keru: did you know the boy was a serpent-talker? He came from some lineage that could talk to wurums and dragons, snakes, and other things too, probably. Fafmuir told me.”

“I didn’t” said Keri. “But what of it?”

“Does’t is strike you as awfully convenient?”

“In what way?” she said.

“Well, I mean, think about it. Right there, we had a person who could have simply told the wurum to go back into its cage, or asked it nicely to go to sleep, or I don’t know, whatsoever he wanted it to do. But he was killed the very moment the wurum got loose.”

Keru snorted and puffed out his cheeks. “I would have described it as awfully inconvenient.”

As her head nodded in slow, thoughtful agreement, Keri said, “Inconvenient for us, but convenient for anyone who wanted a rampaging wurum. You think it wasn’t an accident then?”

“I’m just about sure that it wasn’t an accident. Only, I’m not sure to what end. There’s something murky going on here. I feel like there are shapes flashing just out of sight, like white-bellied eels coiling just under the surface of a muddy creek. A glimpse here. A rush of a shape there. But I can’t see the whole of it yet.” She sniffed the cold air through her nostrils, feeling the chill in her head and down the inside of her windpipe, turning her breath over, and puffing it out in one irritated whisper. “I want to go and look at the tent that burned down too. I think I must. I need to know what happened there.”