Another magician, a man in a red and black robe, and sporting a purple turban, answered her. “The rumours are too many, young princess of the muddy horses. And too much in agreement. The north is massing armies. We are certain of it.” He drew up an angry scowl upon his face. “No doubt your own father is sending spears and swords aplenty. Do not lie to us here. Falsehoods do not become the hour, nor the place, nor the spirit of the tor.”
“Nonsense,” spat Sgeirr. “You are the one gibbering with filthy lies and nonsense. Fables spun by south-folk and sun-lickers to drum up their own hostilities.”
A low hum of argument started to rise and foment. People knotted themselves off into defensive groups: suddenly scolding, bickering, snapping at each other.
“Hold now,” spoke a clear and resonant voice, cutting the air, bringing the angry chatter to a still. It was the Harper again. His pale eyes were sharp and bright, and he was looking intently at Caewen. “I would hear more. And I think there is more: you said it is a mystery who summons and amasses these armies, but that is not the full truth, is it? I have heard these rumours too. There are whispers of a name.”
“There are,” conceded Caewen. “But I do not much wish to waste the time of the moot with half-truths and baseless stories.” She shifted, uncomfortably. She didn’t want to be laughed at for naming a thing that no one had seemed to take very seriously. “In truth, all I can tell you for certain is a name. After a sort.” Clearing her throat, she said, “The Winter King.” And then she shrugged, apologetically and tried her best not to look like an idiot. “But no one seems to have any clear notion who–or what–he may be. If indeed he is anything more than a story, for that matter.”
More than one person broke out in quiet laughter. There was shaking of heads and eye-rolling.
“A name for babes in the crib,” said one.
“The Winter King? Perhaps we should all be telling our own favourite bogey-tales then, and fireside yarns?” declared another.
Harper smiled. “Aye. It is a ghost of a phantom of a very old story. But we should not make jest about old stories. There can be truth in guizers and mockeries. I should know. And besides–perhaps this so-called Winter King is merely some mortal warlock pretending to that name? After all, it would not be the first time that a mage took a grandiose name to dress themselves up.” He smiled.
“No.” Everyone turned and looked, for this voice had come down from the stone thrones. It was Fafmuir. He stood, easing himself up, as if in pain. “No. I am afraid the young woman is right.” He rubbed at his balding pate and gave out his thin, gnomic smile. In his amiable, plodding tone he said, “Now hear me, if you will listen. I have it on good authority that this personage who calls himself the Winter King is quite real, and quite ancient too. We deal not with some mortal sorcerer in fancy dress. This is something else again. Something quite out of the days of ancient wars, that has kept itself hidden in shadowy vales for years upon years. And now, for what reason I cannot guess… he stirs. He comes forth. He summons armies and commands them. The truth is, vast armies are gathering to him in the dark lands of the north.” Fafmuir waved a gloved hand. “All this is secret, concealed from the watchful glare of the sun. His fortresses are many-fold already, and each of them is thronged with troops. And yet he still keeps himself hidden in the night-shrouded realms, concealed by mask, by art and pretence.” His voice lowered. “And furthermore, no one wants to say it, but we all know it–there are grim happenings at the moot that are not unconnected to this matter. There have been murders. Murders! Here! At the moot! How? How? And does the Triple Goddess exact justice? No. She does not. The person–or yes, the thing–that is responsible must be of substantial power to turn aside the justice of our good and watchful goddess. I tell you, as sure as my head is on my shoulders, I am assured of this. This nameless rabble-rouser of the north is behind the murders as well. To what end?” He performed an elaborate shrug. “Who knows. But the so-called Winter King intends ill for the folk of the sunlit lands. Bleak times lie ahead indeed.”
The man in the robes of stars and black sky sneered. “You should keep your speeches to that which you know something of, old rascal. You may be on the Broadtable, Old Fafmuir the Songbirdman, but I am not inclined listening to such fretful fancies and lying dread-tales.” A pause. “No matter who vomits them up.”
Fafmuir turned crimson in the face. He even waved a clenched fist at the other magician, though it seemed to be for show. It didn’t even look intimidating. Because Fafmuir was wearing thick fur gloves against the cold, the whole gesture actually just looked comical. Seated between them, the lady in the dress of green and gold leaves stood up and held her hands outward, waving at them both, and hushing, as if they were truculent children. The rest of the moot exploded into a still louder mass of yelling, accusations and denials. Caewen tried to speak louder, to talk them down, but it seemed like the only three people in the whole assembly who were still paying her any attention were Harper, his friend the Old Riddler and Quinnya herself. And everyone else was accusing everyone else of treachery and lies at the top of their lungs.
It was only when a loud clack-thud broke on the air, and a booming voice spoke from behind Caewen’s shoulder, that the rage diminished, then stilled. Caewen looked to her left. It was Dapplegrim. He had climbed up the steps behind her, and dropped a hoof loudly against the dead wood. His eyes were aflame with a red light that bled into the air, drifting like eerie smoke.
“You do not know her, hurm, but listen, and know me, and hark well. I am the only son of that which dwells in the Woods of the Bone White Trees. I am not bound by the rules of this moot. I can do as I please. And it pleases me to listen. Caewen has more to say. You will listen to her.” He snarled and it sounded like the growl of starved wolves. More than one magician sat down promptly with a flop, like toddlers being told off.
“Thank you,” said Caewen. “It seems I’ve done more harm than good. I came here to speak and draw you together. To remind you that nothing good comes of mindless anger. Wars do not beget anything but more wars. Has the poison of lies and suspicions already seeped so deep? Are you all such fools that you want to rush headlong into a battle, here, right on the tor itself?” She looked away, up at the clouds, then closed her eyes tight, to the point of causing tears to fringe the edges of her eyelids. “I swear this here, and now. If there is a hand moving behind this. If there is a secret malice at work, I will find it. And I will put such a blow to it, that whatsoever it is: man, woman, god or demon–it will never think to stir up such discord again. Never in the whole of the turn of this world. This I vow upon the trunk of this dead tree.”
The air grew sharply darker and colder. Somewhere, far above, a splinter of lightning spat, and thunder dimly echoed. When Caewen opened her eyes there was a woman standing before her, now freckled and red-haired, now dark with frizzy curls of black hair, now with tea-coloured skin, now with skin like ivory in moonlight, now in a red dress, now in blue, gold, green and grey. Her voice, when she spoke was the voice of a hundred voices, all chiming together in perfect unison. “They cannot see me, Caewen of Drossel, but I see you, and I hear you. Crimes have been worked against my divine integrity that I cannot avenge. There is a secret malice. This is true. So, I accept your vow, and I hold you to it.” A narrowing of her eyes. “Things are not as you think they are. You are deceived. Look to the north. Look to the old great spell. Look to the flames.” In a blink she was gone.
Everyone seemed to have been struck dumb. Words had been sucked out of the air, and no one in the assembly–except for Caewen–was sure what had just happened. Something momentous had just passed through them, and around them, and yet they were unable to unravel what that monumental event had been. There was simply a weird after-sense of it. A faint echo in the skull, behind the eyes.
In an extremely small and quiet voice, Caewen said, “Bugger. That was stupid.”
Dapplegrim eyed her, both confused and worried. “Did you just make a vow while standing on the dead stump of the nine great magi of ancient days, here, before the whole assembly, in the sight and earshot of the goddess herself?”
“Yes.”
“And…”
Quietly, too hushed for anyone else to hear, she answered him. “She was here. Just for a moment.
“And…?”
“She said, alright then, or something to that effect.”
“Bugger,” said Dapplegrim. But then a smile shot over his sharp white teeth. “You know, when we first met, I thought I was going to have to work to draw you out of your shell. You seemed so unsure of yourself. Here, I thought, the best we’d manage would be to get into a few scuffles and adventures. Maybe we’d hunt troldes. Rescue a merchant’s daughter, or something like that. But you just vowed to bring down a god. Or something as close to a god as doesn’t matter. This is amazing. We are going to have so much fun, uhm, hurm… well, up to the point when the Winter King drops a mountain of ice on your head. Or sends forth a thousand snow-wurums to eat you. Or whatever he does to mortals who get in his way.”
“Yeah. Should be fun.” She turned and stepped down from the stump.
No argument or anger renewed itself. Whoever had been planning to speak next seemed to have lost the desire. The assembly milled around, uncomfortably. It felt like a cold change had driven through all of them, leaving them all in a place of muteness and chill introspection. They started to drift off, quietly and slowly at first, then with a sort of sombre determination. Caewen hoped the magicians might collectively have discovered some newfound wisdom in the moment, but she was not overly hopeful. They all did seem a bit in shock. But as Caewen and Dapplegrim looked this way and that, wondering what to do now, the man in the starry black robes approached them. He was trembling, and his naturally greyish skin had paled to the colour of chalk in cloudy light. “You are a fool! A grand fool! You make oath to pit yourself against him? You vow to put yourself between him and that which he desires? He will destroy you. A thousand knives of a thousand assassins will seek your heart. A torture of a thousand years will be yours. He will destroy you and keep your ghost in his halls as a patheric toy to play with, forever and ever. You think you can harm him. Bah! Nothing but the hottest fires of earth’s deep demons, nothing but the breath of the greatest dragons of air and flame that could undo him. You. Are. Neither.”
“I’m a bit demon,” said Dapplegrim. “Only, not of the fiery sort. Hurm. So, yes. Quite right. You have me there, I guess. I’m almost certain Caewen isn’t a dragon either.” He looked at her. “You’re not, are you? I think I’d have noticed.”
“Urgh! Insolence! Foolishness! By tide and stars and moon, oh, you will suffer.” He gathered his cloak around his chest, and in a chilly huff, he walked off. He was visibly trembling as he went.
“He’s afraid,” said Caewen, watching him go.
“And so he should be.” It was Fafmuir, passing by, smiling. He tapped two fingers of a hand to his brow and said, “Wotcha,” before waddling off downhill. Alone among everyone, he did not seem to have been ruffled by the momentary visit of the goddess.
“They’re all mad,” said Caewen.
“That, we have already established,” agreed Dapplegrim. “Here, where did the harpist and his riddling friend go? Best to keep an eye on those two. I do not trust them at all.” In a conspiratorial voice, he added, “Never trust a creature that talks like a person, but is not a person. They are always up to no good. Hurm.”
“Really, Dapple?”
“Really what?” He seemed genuinely perplexed.
“Uhg. Anyway, look–two men with a penchant for songs and riddles are the least of our troubles. And they were actually sort of helpful. Harper especially. I wonder if they might be allies, if approached carefully?”
“Not men,” Dapplegrim reminded her, “but,” he conceded, “you may be right. We could do with some more friends, and as long as we don’t actually trust them,” a shrug of his fore-flanks, “they could be useful to us.” He whisked his tail. “So what was next on your list of things to arse-up terribly?”
“I thought we could go to the tent of gifts.”
“Ohh, good. Maybe we could set it on fire.”
“Dapple.”
“Or murder the guards and try to steal the whole horde, but get caught in the act. Red handed. The red handedness will be because of the fire. The one we set earlier. It will cast a beautiful ruddy glow on our hands. Your hands. My, hurm, hooves, I guess.”
“Dapple! We are not setting the tent on fire. Why would you even joke about that?”
“It would be a good way to arse things up. I mean, you came to the moot hoping to get them lot to talk and be nice, but really, I think you just convinced them all that war really is coming, and they better be prepared for it. Hur. There will be messages dispatched tonight. Shields burnished. Swords gathered.” He seemed to consider this. “And, you know, well, there must be some new way to make things worse. Oh, oh, hurm. Maybe we could also set ourselves on fire while trying to burn the tent down? Maybe we could try to steal all the gifts, and then set the gifts on fire? One big beautiful bonfire of flaming oil, gold and gems. That would definitely qualify as a right royal arse-up.”
“I’m not listening to you anymore.”
“Suit yourself.” He started to hum to himself.
“Where’s Quinnya?” said Caewen, suddenly remembering, and looking around. “And you know… I don’t see Harper or the Old Riddler either. Where did they get to?”
They looked around, searching the crowd, but had no luck and gave up. Within a minute or so, they had joined the rest of the crowd that was already threading down the long, winding path, back to the tents and fairground below.
Though, as it happened, despite the path being crowded, everyone else gave them such a wide berth, that they there was plenty of empty path in front, behind and all around them.
Caewen had a distinct feeling that they were completely alone in their walk back down the hill.