They left the she-boggart sitting by her fire, musing over her thoughts.
As a last departing farewell, the old witch had told them how to find a secret path that twisted its way above the ivy-dens so that they would not need to trespass into her tribal lands again. “And if you ever return, permission must be sought to enter our secret realm of ill-light and shadows,” she told them flatly. “No coming and going hither-nither, without leave nor pass.”
Caewen bowed to her. “Be assured that if we ever come this way again, we will ask leave. We are grateful.”
The witch snorted and waved a hand in a gesture that said: get on with you.
So they left.
They walked for a time, single file, along a twisting path, drawing ever farther away from the fire. They were stuck in an amber of silence for a time, so it seemed. But, as the stars wheeled overhead, as the cloud-wrack shifted endlessly above harsh peaks, a few thoughts and words simmered up again. Dapplegrim and Caewen exchanged a few soft patterings of conversation: talking of this or that. Days gone by. Places visited.
At one twist of the path, a wide open gap appeared to their right, giving a view westward over darkness-filled valleys and forests as small and grey as crusts of lichen on rocks. At a great distance, the lights of campfires were visible.
Caewen stood for a time, staring that way. Her hair snapped in small threads around her wind-reddened cheeks. A look of faraway longing eased itself about her face, and settled in her eyes.
“Who are you thinking of?” said the boy who’s name was Ode.
She did not break her gaze from the west. “How do you know I’m thinking of someone, and not some other thing. A place. Or a house. Or a pleasant brook. Something.”
“Just the look of your expression. That’s all.”
Dapplegrim snorted and hurred to himself, as if to say: I know who.
I am thinking of what’s left of my family. The people I loved in my little village. And the people I didn’t. And one person in particular whom I left behind. Where is he now? In darkness. In shadow. Alone. She shrugged hers shoulders, and hunched them against the cold. The wind was bitter here, out in the open. With a smile that looked more than a little forced, she turned to the boy, Ode. “Come, let’s keep moving.”
They trudged on.
Later they heard boggart-howls in the darkness, a little too nearby for comfort. All of them paused again, and looked around. Caewen laid fingers across the hilt of her sword, but did not draw it.
“You know, hurm,” said Dapple, “There’s more than one boggart-clan in the mountains. We might have safe passage from one, but that doesn’t meant we’ve safe passage from all of them.”
“True,” replied Caewen.
There were sounds like invisible creatures of strange proportions moving about, just out of sight. But whatever they were, it seemed they did not want a fight. The things moved away, howling and scurrying, then vanishing somewhere behind a ridge. Their downward walk resumed, more uneasily, but steadily all the same.
After moving under a fitful light of half-seen stars and cloud-cut moon for about an hour, the boy, Ode, cleared his throat and said, “What now?”
“What now indeed,” answered Caewen. “We will go south for a while, follow the great southern way, but keep off it. The spell-in-the-bowl pointed south-east. I think we can travel south for a time. At least get out of the mountains.
The boy, Ode, was persistent. “And then what?”
“And then we will discuss what is best done. I am afraid we may have to part ways. Someone must go south and be sure that the sunlit kingdoms are warned. Brae is directly south of the disputed lands, I think?”
“It is, said Dapplegrim, “And beyond that, Nordinghame and Angeln, Tallown and Westrun. If any will take the warnings of a child seriously, though, hur, hrmmm: this I doubt.”
“Which is why it would have to be a boy and his talking night-charmed horse. That would be harder to ignore.”
Dapplegrim twitched his ears. “And also easier to shoot arrows into. That I do not like.”
She shook her head. “It is the path of best hope. Samakarantha said he would endeavour to meet us in Brae.”
“Perhaps the old storyteller is there already,” said Dapplegrim. “We might not be needed.”
“But he is a foreigner, a long way from home, and among folk who would not be accustomed trusting strangers. He might need help convincing the King of Brae of the urgency. A refugee child from a northern village and a runaway night-demon would go a long way to adding some truth to the tale.”
“Half-demon,” said Dapplegrim. “I am half-horse remember. And if you think they might not trust a stranger from the lands of sun and lions, I don’t know why you think they’d trust me.”