Around mid-morning, the crone led them off the road. The sun had cleared Deverath’s walls and Raomar longed to throw back the hood of his cloak. He hadn’t been abroad in daylight since reaching the city, and the sun’s warmth on his cloak made him want to feel more.

  More comforting than wine-soaked oblivion, he thought, and didn’t notice how his steps grew lighter.

  Leaving another of the stone-walled bridges behind them, the crone led them swiftly from the road and onto a small track running along the edge of the river. No more than a goat track, its usual traffic consisted of the local deer and shepherds.

  Looking to see who might have seen them change course, Raomar was relieved to find the landscape empty. No-one fished from the bridge or riverbank, and the road stretched emptily in both directions.

  Perhaps we are too far away from the city for fishermen, Raomar thought, glancing around at the others, pleased to see they, too, remained watchful.

  The crone didn’t hesitate or stop. She led them around a bend in the path and, as soon as bridge and road were out of sight, off the path and into the tree-line.

  So far, Raomar noted, glancing once again at the city walls, and realizing they’d reached the forest bordering the western edge of Deverath’s fields.

  Wild and largely uninhabited, it stretched to the river marking the country’s borders. A few feet into the trees and the trail disappeared, leaving the crone to navigate the thickets and trees that soon made the forest feel like a maze.

  Twigs and branches plucked at their clothes and Raomar began to wonder how far they would have been able to penetrate, without the crone whispering to the plants blocking their path. At her words, the bushes pulled back to grant them passage through walls of leaves and thorns.

  It didn’t take them long to leave the forest fringe behind. After the warren of small paths invading the first few yards, a thicket of brush and berry bushes made navigating a route almost impossible. It was a relief to leave the secret hollows frequented by travelers who needed to relieve themselves.

  The crone crossed several of these paths and spaces, before stopping in front a wall of raspberry bushes. Here she muttered a small plea to the plants and, this time, the branches bent and twisted out of their way, while runners removed their foot-tangling stems from their path.

  A hall of green formed before them, and Raomar caught sight of berries beginning to ripen among the leaves. The crone indicated they should follow it. She remained in place, the flat of her hand resting on the greenery as they passed.

  Only when they had safely entered the forest beyond, did she murmur a prayer of thanks and remove her hand from the foliage. As she stepped into the leafy corridor she’d created, the branches swished back into place and the ground behind each of her steps writhed with life as the runners resumed their places.

  By the time she’d reached where they were waiting on the other side of the thicket, all evidence of their passage had disappeared.

  An equal span of time saw them reach the banks of another river. The water bubbled over rocks in the shallows closest the bank, and swirled in mysterious currents farther from the shore.

  The crone led them to its edge, beckoning them to follow when they paused at the tree-line.

  “You can drink a little,” she told them, and Raomar realized how thirsty the night and early morning of flight had made him.

  A sudden dryness plagued the back of his throat and he wondered if the old woman had enspelled them. Casting a curious glance to see if his companions had been affected the same way, he saw Brianda swallow as though her mouth had unexpectedly dried. Grunwol’s throat moved, also, as though he sought to moisten it and the Northman frowned.

  After a quick scan of the river, the tree-line and the ground on the other riverbank, the Northman padded to the water’s edge. Seeing him move against the natural backdrop, Raomar noticed a certain animal grace returning to his movements.

  It took him back to an earlier time, when he and the warrior had traveled the northern plains and then through the forests of the south. The Northman had moved like that all the time. He’d only adjusted the way he moved when they reached Toramar’s capital…where he needed to blend in.

  In Deverath, he’d moved more like other men, as though his connection with his hunter-self had been suppressed. With the journey he sensed before them, Raomar was glad to see a hint of the hunter returning.

  He watched as Grunwol crouched on the river bank. The Northman glanced warily across the water, then up and down the flowing current, before scooping water with his hand, then raising it to his mouth.

  He reminded Raomar of some wild beast coming down to drink, his stance bringing to mind the plains antelope…or, more aptly, the wolves that drifted in packs through the north plains’ grasses. He watched the Northman drink, and waited, a restraining hand on each of his apprentices’ shoulders.

  Only when the Northman had finished, did Raomar release Ghost, giving the elfling a gentle push toward the water. Noticing the girl style her movements after the warrior’s, he glanced at Grunwol and was rewarded by the flicker of amusement that crossed the Northman’s face.

  It vanished as quickly as it came, and the warrior quickly returned his attention to the area around them, including Ghost in his surveillance as she drank. When she was done, Raomar guided Varan to the river, reaching out to steady the boy.

  The apprentice stretched out on the river bank, plunging his face and head into the shallows. Raomar frowned with puzzlement as the child followed this ducking with another, then pulled his head clear and shook it, sending droplets of water showering around him.

  Only then, did he slick his hair back, and scoop water into his cupped palms to drink. Raomar waited until the boy was done and knelt, silently watching the shifting reflections beneath the water’s surface.

  The child was so taken by the patterns he saw there that Raomar had to nudge him to get his attention.

  “It’s time,” he said softly, jerking his head toward the trees.

  He glanced over at Grunwol as he went, noting how the Northman’s gaze flitted between their surroundings and each member of their group, and how it was diverted each time one of them moved. It looked like he wasn’t missing a thing, but Raomar couldn’t help but follow his observations.

  Ghost had gone to join Brianda, the crone stood to one side, and the other side of the river stood clear of threat. Raomar frowned.

  “Best drink Briar,” he said, and the girl gave a sharp nod of acknowledgement, before moving down to the water.

  Grunwol waited until she had slaked her thirst, before looking pointedly at Raomar.

  “Now, you,” the big man stated, and Raomar set Varan beside Ghost and Brianda before returning to the riverbank to quench his thirst. The first drops of water tasted sweeter than any he’d had in a long while, and his second mouthful was just as good. Scooping a third palmful from the river, he sipped slowly, feeling the scratchy dryness in his throat begin to fade.

  The crone waited silent beneath the trees, and spoke only once he’d returned to their shelter.

  “There’s food at my cottage, and a place to rest.”

  She said no more, only waiting a moment, before turning from the river and walking deeper into the woods. In the silence of growing exhaustion, Raomar and his small group followed her through the forest shade. It was a shade whose greenness grew brighter as the day wore on.

  The crone’s cottage was well hidden. It stood in a clearing surrounded by forest giants, hidden behind another barrier of thorny berry bushes. Raomar wondered how the forest giants had avoided the loggers, and guessed the crone had her own means of protecting her secrets, since berry bushes alone would not have been enough to deter a merchant woodsman.

  As he watched, Brianda reached out to trace her hand along the moss-covered bark of one of the trees, only to suddenly snatch her fingers back from its trunk. Judging by the way she shook her hand afterward, Raomar guessed she’d been stung by the power he sensed surging just below the surface.

  He smiled in wry amusement when the girl wrapped her hands in the folds of her cloak and continued walking, giving the trees a wary look as she passed. This time, she gave them a wide berth, frowning slightly as she did.

  Fallen leaves, still soft from lying in the misty shade, made no sound beneath their feet, and the elder oaks arched over them until Raomar felt as though he’d stepped into an ancient temple, or some other stronghold of the gods.

  A sigh escaped him as they left the shelter of the forest and the corridor created through the thorns to enter the clearing. His gaze was drawn to the stand of saplings that had sprouted around the old woman’s cottage, their young branches reaching for the gap of sky above it.

  They ended at a narrow, bark-covered path that formed an inner circle in the cottage’s clearing before leading from its edge to the crone’s front door. The crone led them onto it, then bade them stand still while she approached the door alone.

  Raomar was sure she was speaking to the door, or perhaps the timber that formed it. It was hard to tell since the language she used was as unfamiliar to him as it had been before. From what he could gather, it was not the language of sorcery, or the druids, and it wasn’t the tongue used by priests, or that of wizards.

  Those he might have identified, but this one? He frowned.

  A witch? he thought, thinking over what else he’d seen, and considering the idea.

  Witches were the sons or daughters of the elements, similar to sorcerers, save that witches had an inherent gift to communicate with elementals, and the sorcerers sold a piece of themselves or something they held dear, to another entity who would give them power to use, mostly, as they wished.

  Witches were also similar to druids, but druids cared only for the piece of land they were sworn to protect, and usually limited to their territorial borders, unless they were tasked beyond them.

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  No, his frown deepened. The crone wielded her power, both in the city and near her home. She’s no druid…

  He was betting on her being a witch, and he hoped she could bring something to the battle that the king had no way to combat. Unless he did, for who knew what power he served.

  As he watched the crone disarm the safeguards she’d set about her home, Raomar remembered the elemental he’d seen ion the palace dungeons, and realized he’d been mistaken about the king.

  I’m wrong, he thought. Anyone who can twist an elemental to such a form, might very well be familiar with the witch kin.

  The more he thought about it, the more likely it became that the king, and his master, might not only know about the witch kin, but might even be their sworn enemy…and an enemy to the druids, foresters, and all those who held the natural world in high regard.

  Perhaps we really have found an ally, he mused, looking up in time to see the witch woman make one final gesture at the door.

  “This way,” she called to them. “It’s safe for you to enter.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, Raomar led them forward, almost stopping when he heard the crone’s next words.

  “And only you,” she added as soon as Grunwol had crossed her threshold.

  Turning to watch her, Raomar waited. Outside the sun had reached its zenith, and he was sure the midday sun had also dispelled the shelter of the crone’s magic as surely as it had dispelled the mist. Now, the king and any others who wished to scry them, could do so.

  The crone looked over at him and smiled, then, as if catching his thought, she answered.

  “You and yours are safe as long as long as you remain in the cottage,” she told him. “None can scry you here.”

  “Thank you,” he replied, watching as she bustled over to the fire and stirred its embers.

  “You’re sure your goddess will not aid you?” she asked, as she fed more wood and gently coaxed the coals to flames.

  She glanced over at him when he didn’t immediately answer, taking a battered iron kettle from beside the hearth and hanging it from a hook beside the cauldron already dangling there.

  In the silence that followed, Varan fetched more wood from the box, passing her a piece each time she held out her hand. The crone nodded her thanks as she took the first one, her coal-dark eyes noting the momentary pain that drifted across Raomar’s face.

  She remained silent, until he could give her his answer.

  “She will not,” he confirmed, his voice trembling. He took a breath, his voice grating with pain as he replied, “She refuses to acknowledge me.”

  He paused, fixing his gaze on a distant point on the wall, and clearing his throat as he added, “She would not even tell me who had murdered my successor.”

  Again, he paused, then closed his eyes and lowered his head, his next words starting as a whisper, and slowly hardening to a growl.

  “She cast me out, saying I was no longer one of her own.”

  His voice caught, drawing a sharp breath at the sudden, sharp grief piercing through him. When he had fought enough of it back to speak, he continued.

  “Not her own,” he repeated, “even though I have served her faithfully for the past ten years, never failing to do what she asked, or faltering in my devotions. She cast me out. Told me my answers were at Wildejun. Answers?”

  His voice rose, then dropped in pained denial.

  “I need no other god.”

  He allowed his voice to trail into silence, bowing his head to hide the tears threatening to spill from his eyes.

  The crone studied him a moment longer, then turned to the cauldron, stirring it briefly before breaking a handful of dried leaves from one of the bunches hanging from the ceiling, and tossing them into the kettle.

  That done, she dusted her hands, then crossed to stand before him. Taking one of his hands in her own, she reached up to touch one of the strands of blue marring his pale-yellow hair with the fingers of her other hand.

  “She has not rejected you completely,” she told him, stroking her fingertips along the blue. “If she had, she’d have erased all sign of her favor.”

  Raomar drew a shaky breath, feeling the truth of her words, but not willing to open his eyes and meet her gaze. She continued, regardless.

  “I see the signs of your faithfulness,” she assured him. “The fact they are still there means that whatever forced her to reject you was something too great for her to refuse.”

  She paused, letting her words sink in, before adding, “Her summons to the Wildejun meet points to that.”

  “Then why…” he managed, his voice breaking.

  She squeezed his hand.

  “I asked more for myself,” she explained. “Those to whom I owe my allegiance bade me ask, and if you are indeed, the chosen of the gods, they will be well-pleased by your summons to Wildejun.”

  “They will?” Raomar asked, then snorted. “Well, they’d be the only ones.”

  “Truly?” the crone asked. “Even though they’re the very ones who order you receive all aid to reach the temple there…and that Alessia Mistlewood is retrieved from the king’s dungeon?”

  “But why would they care?” Raomar asked. “What could Alessia possibly mean to them?”

  “She means a great deal,” the crone replied. “You already know she is a talented wizard, but what none knew, until the two days just past, was that she could tap the plane of magic itself.”

  “But…” Raomar was confused. “She’s shown no ability to do so, before…”

  The crone smiled. “My masters inform me the discovery came as a surprise to her, as well.”

  “And why does that make a difference?” Raomar wanted to know. “If your masters would have let her be taken, before, why would they save her, now?”

  “Because before,” the crone replied, “she would only have provided a boost to the Old One’s power. Now, she can provide him enough power to break free of the prison that currently holds him, and if he manages that, there is no-one left who can contain him.”

  “You mean there used to be?” Raomar prodded, and she nodded.

  “There did,” the crone confirmed, “but when they departed this plane, they did not look back…and we do not know if there are any who can convince them to return.”

  “And have they tried?” Raomar wanted to know.

  Again, the crone dipped her chin.

  “They are in the process of trying,” she assured him, “but they say their chances of success are slim to none.”

  “So, they need me,” Raomar continued, and the crone regarded him with a dark-eyed stare.

  “My masters have ordered me to take Mistress Mistlewood and her apprentices from the Old One’s altars, so he does not escape his prison before the gods’ chosen can reach him. Without the wizardess, we can give you the best chance of doing that.”

  “And you are assuming I’ll have a deity’s support by then,” Raomar added bitterly.

  “That is why you have been sent to Wildejun,” the crone confirmed.

  “I had a deity’s support,” Raomar snarled, “and, for this, she has rejected me.”

  The crone indicated the blue locks in his hair.

  “Unwillingly,” she reminded him, “Which means that whatever task lies before you, it is worth the cost of being forced to give you up.”

  “And if I don’t agree?” he asked.

  The crone regarded him darkly.

  “Then the Old One will have ten years in which to escape before the world has a chance to be free of him.” She gave him a stern look. “Or ten years in which to hunt the Mistress Mistlewood and secure his freedom earlier.”

  “She would know no peace.” Varan said, horrified by the idea. He laid a hand on the kevarag’s arm. “Master…”

  Raomar glanced down at the child’s anxious face, then laid a hand over the boy’s.

  “She is my friend,” he reassured the child. “I will not let her suffer that fate.”

  The crone cut in. “Without the Mistress Mistlewood, the gods’ chosen can hope to reach and contain the Old One before he can escape, because, without her, the power he takes is barely enough to hold open the small breach through which he projects himself into the world.”

  “That is a heavy burden to lay on any man,” Raomar stated. “Tell me, again, why you think the gods have passed that task to me?”

  The crone gave him a sly and secretive smile.

  “My masters have their own means of discovering some of what the gods might plan,” she replied. “But they would rather those means remained their secret.”

  “And retrieving the wizardess?” Raomar asked. “How do your masters expect us to do that, if the Old One has recently been strengthened.”

  For a moment, he saw, again, the altar and the pillars and the shrieking sacrifices from the night before.

  The crone’s answer momentarily banished it from his mind.

  “Just as he had to remove the wards in order to give his master access to last night’s sacrifices,” she replied, “so, too, will the king have to remove them to give the Old One access, tonight. If he does not, the god will not be able to make the gap in his prison wide enough to take it all in…and the sacrifice will be wasted…and he cannot risk that. The Old One is desperate for more power.”

  “But how will we reach them?” Raomar asked. “I have never seen those dungeons before. I have no idea how to reach them…and, now, I am no longer guildmaster, I no longer have the means to find it.”

  “We already know the way in, and have the means to access it,” the crone told him.

  “But, how?”

  “We will fly,” she answered, “and the masters will lead the way. My lords have agreed to send people of the air to carry your friends from the temple.”

  “People of the air?” he asked. “You mean, elementals?”

  “Of course,” the witch woman replied. “They will carry us inside and the wizardess and her apprentice out once we have freed them. The only drawback is that those who enter the temple will then have to find their own way out.”

  “If the temple connects to the palace or the sewers,” Raomar declared, “then I will find a way out.”

  “But you are needed to defeat the Old One, himself,” the crone protested.

  “Then the gods had best keep me safe,” Raomar snapped. “For if you don’t give me your word that I will be assisting in Alessia’s rescue, then I will leave, now, to find my own way into the temple without your help.”

  “But you can’t” the crone argued. “You wouldn’t reach the gates before he found you!”

  “So, I have your word I’ll be assisting in the rescue,” Raomar pressed, and the crone stared at him.

  Her mouth worked silently for a short moment, and Raomar gave her a grim look, before heading for the door.

  “I’ll take that as a ‘no,’” he told her, laying his hand on the latch.

  Grunwol, Brianda and Varan followed him, and the crone closed her mouth with a snap. She found the words a few seconds later.

  “You don’t know what you’re facing,” she managed to protest. “You’d be dead before nightfall, yours the lives feeding the god the energy he needs in order to attend tonight’s sacrifice.”

  “At least, we wouldn’t be late,” Raomar quipped back, starting to lift the latch.

  “Stop!” she commanded, and he looked back at her, his face grim.

  “We need your word, Crone.”

  “That promise is not mine to make,” she explained, desperately. “Even if I agreed, my masters might not, and the elementals would still leave you behind.”

  “They’d dishonor your word?” Raomar asked, pressing her with, “In a matter such as this?”

  The crone opened her mouth, then closed it.

  “I would have to ask to know what answer to give,” she insisted, “and I will not forswear my masters in a matter as important as this.”

  Seeing the determination in her face, Raomar sighed.

  “Can we ask them, now?” he asked, relieved when she nodded in reply. “Then we will come with you, and place our petition ourselves.”

  The crone moved to stand in front of him.

  “I cannot conceal you all,” she told him, looking at them. “You, Master Filameth, and perhaps the wolf, but the others would have to wait in the shelter of the hut.”

  “I am no more wolf than he is a priest,” Grunwol argued his voice dangerously soft.

  “Nevertheless,” the crone answered, “You will come.”

  “And Briar’s daughter and the apprentices will remain here,” Raomar decided.

  “Brianda and the apprentices will do no such thing,” Brianda declared, and looking toward her, Raomar saw three defiant faces.

  “Brianda and the apprentices had better,” the crone declared, “because not only will I turn them all into frogs and drop them in the butter churn, but I will set it against the fire until I return with their master.”

  Three sets of eyes widened at her threat, and three gazes darted to the fire and then to find the butter churn set against the wall on the other side of the hut. The crone continued as though they were giving her their full attention.

  “Or they could remain in the cottage so I can ensure their master and his guardian remain undetected as they petition my masters directly.”

  The three exchanged glances, and Varan sighed.

  “As long as they are safe, and don’t leave us behind,” he stated. “I don’t want to be left alone.”

  Looking at him, Raomar wondered if it was being left alone, or being left alone in a witch’s cottage that bothered him more. He didn’t ask, but glanced at Ghost.

  The girl scowled briefly, before adding her own reply.

  “I’ll stay with you,” she promised, curling a hand through Brianda’s.

  The spymaster’s apprentice frowned, then sighed.

  “Fine,” she said. “I’ll stay with them, but…”

  Raomar lifted an eyebrow, and she hurried on.

  “I will be coming, tonight,” she declared, sounding more determined than defiant.

  Raomar nodded. “Agreed.”

  Seeing all arguments settled, the crone led Raomar and Grunwol out of the cottage, and into the clearing in front of it. As they stepped onto the path leading to the open space between the cottage and the clearing’s edge, she stopped.

  Raomar and Grunwol came to a halt behind her.

  “Be still,” she commanded, weaving her hands in a spell that summoned the leaves from the ground around them.

  As Raomar watched through narrowed eyes, the leaves swirled into two small clouds and whirled toward them.

  “Still, I said!” the crone snapped, when Grunwol started warily back. “They will conceal you from any who might be watching. The glade is not far from here, but I don’t know how far into the forest the king was able to trace us.”

  The pair stilled, letting the leaves settle over them. Raomar tensed, but the swirling foliage shrouded them, leaving space around their mouths and nostrils and gaps for them to see by.

  The crone’s glade was just a short walk from the cottage and her masters were waiting when they arrived.