They went via a crooked little track that skirted the hillside and lead mostly in the right direction towards the cottage. The worn line of dirt among the heather was little more than a goat-way, and after half an hour they left the thin ruts, tracking eastward through low scrub until they found a wider, surer path. This was set with hard, little granite stones, all fitted together. It had clearly been a work of much labour in some year long past, but now there were places where stones were missing in patches. It was perhaps another of the works of the dweough-folk, though this was only a guess.
As they went, the three of them found that they had to step over regular runnels where trickles of water had eaten right through the little path and washed away its stones into the wide, shallow valley beyond. For all that it was a crumbling thing, the paved way did take them to a broad field of thin grass on which the cottage was perched. It led here with intent and purpose, and then the path went no further. Someone had bothered to build a road all the way to this small house on the side of the mountain. The expanse was flower-studded by tiny white-blue pinprick blooms, and there seemed to be some sort of ornamental garden in front of the cottage as well. As they drew nearer became more obvious that the garden contained lumps of mossy stone, or perhaps densely leaved plants: like cushion plants, or some sort of carefully cut box. Soon, what had seemed shapeless heaps of dark green gathered something like recognisable shapes to them. They were all reclining figures: it was hard to tell if they were statues overgrown with moss, or moss-like shrubs cut carefully into the shape of sleeping people and animals. The three of them stopped in the midst of the garden of sleeping moss-figures and Dapplegrim’s neck and mane shivered. “There’s ill-a-kind magic here and a bad smell too.”
“A bad smell?”
“A faint rot. Like carrion left out for wolves.” He snorted. “Hurm. Smells like people flesh.”
Caewen looked about, and as she surveyed the figures, the boy did the same. They all had something of a nasty look to them. There were some sleeping wolves and one or two bears, but much larger wolves and bears than the boy had ever dreamed existed. There were moss-shapes that formed themselves into a group of rough-looking men, all asleep complete with bilhooks and shortswords on their slumbering chests. There was a green shape like a reclining knight in ornate, sharp and cruel-looking armour, resting his head on a similarly armoured and prone horse.
Caewen nodded at what was visible of the cottage beyond the garden. “Someone is home at least.” A trickle of smoke leaked from the chimney.
“Hurm,” was all Dapplegrim gave for a reply.
They walked softly, going a little deeper into the garden, and the boy felt a gasp catch in his throat. He did his best to suppress it, covering his mouth. There was a sort of monster-thing beside the path. It was like carven moss also, but it was not human: the face had both a thin humanish and goatish cast to it, and its hair looked straggly. It wore a green armour of some sort of weird plaited material and its arms were heavily muscled and ended with nasty clawed fingers. But its legs were the strangest. They were like dog’s hind-legs, turned backwards from the way a human joint works.
“What is that?” whispered the boy.
“Boggart,” said Caewen, “or something close to that ilk. Foul-tempered at best, sometimes quite evil creatures. They used to be mostly in the service of Old Night and Chaos. Not so much these days. Largely gone feral.”
They moved on, among the sleepers in the garden. Some of them had been here a long time and were wind-worn with age and grown straggly, so that their outline was almost entirely lost. At the last curve in the path the cottage came into full view and it became possible to see that their approach had already been noted. An old woman in a green and burnt gold dress sat a little hunched up in a chair outside her cottage. She had knitting in her lap, and though she had seemingly noticed them, she didn’t look up to watch them approach. Even at a distance it was plain why: her eyes were puckered shut.
At this point, the garden of moss-statues gave away to a real witch’s garden: rank smelling, glossy green, fleshy and overgrown herbs grew everywhere. The boy recognised some of the plants, but they all seemed to be larger and more corpulent than any he’d seen before. There were dandelions as tall as he was. Woundwort and cat-o-gallows like thick, corded limbs sprawling over equally wild grasses.
Caewen dismounted, but she said in a low voice, “Child, keep yourself in the saddle, and both of you hold back a bit. None of the things in the garden were good or kindly looking creatures. I don’t think we should be fools.”
“Agreed,” nickered Dapplegrim, softly.
Caewen walked towards the old lady, and called out in a friendly voice, “Good day to you, Seeress of the Great Grey Mountain, who is called also Firinn Bodewell, who is called also The Grey Lady of the Hills, who is called also the Last Soothsayer in the North before Darkness.”
The old woman put down her knitting and her face took up a weary, friendly smile. “Now those are some pretty names. You must have listened far and wide to learn them, though I confess I long ago wearied of grandiose nomenclature. You have a smell of wizardry about you? Tell me, have you attended the moot? It has passed just recently, though I reneged on my obligations to attend. Just couldn’t be bothered, really.”
“We did.”
“And how was it?”
“Well,” whispered Dapplegrim, “as it turns out, someone tried to murder the whole silly lot of magicians in one go, and frankly any absence is a little suspicious.”
“It was fine,” said Caewen. “The usual.”
“Mnm. Good. Call me Firinn, for Firinn will do and I am Firinn as much as I am any last soothsayer of anywhere.” She sniffed. “You’ve another with you and… a horse? Not a horse? A thing? I hope you don’t mean me harm. You will have seen what happens to them that thinks a little old lady alone in the wilderness would be easy prey for robbery or murder.”
“Your garden,” said Caewen.
“Yes. You’d think such a garden would be warning enough, but I find I still need to add to it, every now and then. Not so often these days, but every now and then.” She resumed knitting. “Do you have a purpose to your visit?”
“We have questions.”
“Ah. Well, many people have questions. I can’t say as I always have answers.”
“It concerns the Winter King. Who is he? What is he? Why does he stir to war?”
“Ah. Ah. And ah again… now that is a question, or rather three.” She ran fingers over her knitting, considering it by feel and touch. “Charmed things come in threes, as they say. My mind indeed lately has wandered north over the sharp-toothed mountains, into the borders of the Twilight Land. I am aware of that one. His power grows. His ambition grows.” She got up, moving with slowness and pain. “You’d best come inside. Bleak things shouldn’t be discussed out here, where there are flitting birds and skittering, listening mice.” She waved a hand about. “Spies are not always easily seen, not even by me.” As she hobbled across her porch, making for the door she muttered. “Winter King, Winter King, what shall he bring? Is it a pipe for his hall? Is it the leaves in fall? It is but a lover’s kiss? Shall he, but shall he, and what shall I miss?” She smiled. “And who is he indeed, eh? You might as well drag the boy along inside with you too. I’ve some soup and oatcakes. And you can pour out a bowl of soup and oats for you… eh… ‘horse’ also if you like.”
Dapplegrim hadn’t said a thing. The boy had kept himself completely silent too. The old blind woman had her own uncanny ways to know things, that much was clear. And yet, for some reason, she still groped her way along the wall into the house, just as blind as anyone without eyes to see by.
The boy dismounted, gave Dapple a pat on his neck, and then followed Caewen through the front door. Inside he found a tidy, cosy and warm sort of room. The space he entered was a kitchen and eating room and sitting room all bundled together in one mass of jumbled furniture, cook-places and benches. There was a modest copper pot simmering with something that smelled good over the hearth and there were old but serviceable stoneware bowls, jugs, cups and plates stacked neatly on a bench.
“You can serve out a bowl of soup and crumble some cakes into it for your horse, lad. Mnm.” Then turning to Caewen, she eased herself into a chair and rested a moment before saying, “My old bones. I ought have gone south with all the other folk after the last fighting. I’m too old now to be out here alone. It gets cold in winter and the wolves are always prowling. They can smell old flesh, I think. They know I won’t last too much longer. I’ve lived too long.”
The boy heard Caewen clatter the spoon as she served herself some soup and say, “Thank you for your hospitality, Lady Firinn.”
“Just Firinn will do.”
“Firinn… but what can you tell me about the Winter King? What was that little rhyme?”
It was so warm in the cottage. The boy could already feel steam coming off his wet clothing. He could feel his skin and muscles warming. It was so good to feel something other than the wet, miserable chill. He focused his attention on the soup-pot, and didn’t catch any more of Caewen’s conversation. He took the big bowl of soup and broken-up oatcake outside for Dapplegrim, immediately feeling the chill the moment he was outside. He said, as he put the bowl down. “She seems nice. Not much like a witch. Not like I’d expect.”
“There are all sorts of sorcerers, wizards and witches in this world, little child.” He sniffed the soup, but seemed to decide it smelled good, and lapped at it. A twitch of one ear. “She makes a good broth at least.” After a moment, he added, “Some people would call Caewen a witch, or worse. Just like everyone else, some charm-workers are good. Some are not. Magic doesn’t make a fellow bad. It’s just a tool, and can be used for good or for ill.”
“That makes sense. Caewen does know a little bit more witch-work than she lets on, doesn’t she? I didn’t think she knew a lot of spells when we met, but now I’m not so sure. She’s certainly not a bad person though.”
“She is one of the good ones. And yes, she does know more than she lets on. Ever since the moot she’s been seeing secrets in the air and the fall of the rain, in bird flight and in leaves rustling. She’s properly magicked herself up now, I fear. A little too fast, and without caution, if you ask me. Hurm.” Dapplegrim sniffed at the bowl and took another taste. “Hur. Very peppery.”
“Are you all good out here?”
“Yes, I’ll be fine. Best to go back and keep an eye on Caewen. She is too trusting sometimes.”
The boy walked back inside. He could hear the seeress talking, and Caewen was listening intently as she ate. The boy wasn’t able to catch much of it because of the angle and his bad ear. To get a bowl of soup for himself he had to turn so that his deaf ear faced them.
As he poured out a bowl, he felt a weird prickling all over, as if someone had walked over his future grave. He shrugged it off and turned back to the table. He realised dimly that the seeress had just said something very loud, and wondered why, but when he looked at the table he paused. Caewen was slumped forward, apparently asleep at the table. A heavy thump came from outside, and the boy realised it must have been Dapplegrim falling over. The soup. The boy swallowed hard and wondered what to do.
“Now, you,” said the seeress as she rose to her feet–she seemed to move with much more youthful ease all of a sudden–“You! She pointed at Caewen. Go out and lie down outside beside your big horse-thing.”
Caewen lurched to her feet. Her eyes were not open–she was still asleep–and she walked, stumbling and mechanically towards the door, just like a sleepwalker.
“As for you, boy, I could use a house-servant and you’re small enough, and I dare say spell-slaved enough to do that job until it kills you. I do wear through them, my servants. First, put down that bowl. Don’t eat it. No point in you nodding off, and me having to wake you up.”
She thought he was under a spell.
Her voice was imperious and expected no argument. He put the bowl down and tried to look as much as possible as if his head were empty of thought. Maybe it was his lack of a true name, maybe it was the eyes of the eel-thing hidden in a pocket, or maybe it was that he never quite clearly heard the spell because of being deaf in the one ear. Perhaps it was all those things combined. The sensation of something running through him and been awfully strong. He had no idea what had transpired except that he was still in control of himself.
“Here,” and with that the seeress opened her eyes and they were completely grey, iris and whites and everything. “I hate stumbling about pretending to be blind. It is my lot, I suppose. For the time being at least. Blast that fool Prince Athairdrost. I won’t be treated this way forever. I’ll have my own back at him. Eventually.” She looked around. “But for now, take this.” She fetched down a pot from a high shelf and handed it to the boy. He took it and looked inside. It held a purple-black liquid. “Go outside and splash some on your sleeping friends. But mind you, only a little! It’s precious and only the old seer-witch knew how to make it. There’s no more where that came from.” She waved a hand carelessly. Oh, and don’t touch it or you’ll end up a charming little pile of moss too.” She waved a hand. “Use a branch or something, and just scatter a few drops. Afterward, you can make me something to eat. Can you cook? Ah, don’t answer that now. Go and do the task first.”
He looked at the witch and looked down at the pot in his hands.