Burn

Elanor’s shoulder was bleeding. The wound pulsed like a second heartbeat, blazing hot beneath her jacket before turning heavy and cold, blood soaking the bandage again. Rhys had removed the arrowhead days ago, but his hands had been shaking. For someone so proficient with a sword, he wasn’t very fond of the sight of blood.

They should stop. Elanor looked over in Rhys’s direction. They hadn’t spoken since sundown, moving at a punishing pace through the forest, and in the moonlight she could see him slumping under the weight of his pack, his chin dipping toward his chest.

He was exhausted. They both were, but these woods weren’t safe for those who needed a place to rest. There were wolves and bears and other beasts, but mostly there were huntsmen. Josetta’s huntsmen. And nothing ceased their searching.

Elanor knew they wouldn’t be safe until they were past the barrier. Until they were home. The Queen had sought out their hidden camp for years, filling the woods with spies and soldiers. And if not for the magical barricade constructed by the Elders, and for the Orphans’ constant, watchful eye, Josetta would have found them many times over. Only the Mountain was safe, and Elanor had learned long ago not to trust the world beyond it.

They were close. Elanor could smell it. The faint scent of fire and iron. Home. Her face tingled in the chilled air. Snow was on its way. That, too, she could smell, fresh and clear and sharp.

To keep herself awake, Elanor assessed her injuries. There was her shoulder, of course, but there was a host of other pains that would need to be healed. Her legs ached, and she couldn’t remember when she had last removed her shoes. Every inch of her exposed skin was cold and stiff. Her face, her ears, her fingers. Winter had come on quickly during their journey; neither of them had been prepared. Elanor had a hood, but it lay limply against her neck. Pulling it up over her head might warm her, but it would also limit her sight and hearing. With exhaustion already threatening her senses, she couldn’t risk another distraction. There had been too many of those already.

Elanor swallowed the bitter taste that came with the memory of the ambush. She should have been paying attention. She should have heard the huntsmen coming. Instead she had let herself be distracted by the princess and her magic. By the trees rustling and the welcoming sunlight and the bright slash of rainbows dancing across Aislynn’s and Thackery’s faces.

And when Elanor had finally come to her senses, it had been too late. Even now, Cinnamon’s howl echoed in her ears—the low, mournful call of trouble. Why hadn’t her bow been drawn? Why hadn’t she reached for one of her many knives? Why had she just stood there until an arrow cut through the air and through her shoulder?

She had stumbled, might even have fallen if it hadn’t been for Rhys.

Ellie! he had said.

How she hated that nickname.

The pain was nothing. She’d had much worse, but it was the shame of getting caught that stung. Of being surprised by a group of huntsmen so large that a hibernating bear would have heard them coming.

It was later, when she was wiping their attackers’ blood from her weapons, that Elanor realized how truly unnerving the attack had been. The others seemed mainly concerned about who the huntsmen were looking for, but Elanor knew that wasn’t what really mattered.

I’ve never seen Josetta’s huntsmen this far north before, she had said, knowing she had to turn back. The Elders needed to know what had happened.

That had been several days ago. Rhys had decided to return with her and hadn’t questioned the pace Elanor set for them. They were close.

Suddenly Elanor’s skin tingled with the sensation of magic. It was a bittersweet feeling, one she missed the moment it was gone. Like forgetting thirst until drinking a single drop of sweet water and then thinking of nothing but your parched tongue. That was how magic always felt to her. She heard Rhys let out a sigh of relief. They had reached the barrier.

Wide-awake now, Elanor sped up. Rhys matched her stride and they moved through the trees together, the surroundings familiar even in the dark. The branches above them began to thin, sending soft beams of moonlight onto the forest floor. Then Elanor saw it. The Mountain. The scent of it, of fire and iron and cedar and stone, now filled her senses. For a moment she lost herself in the wonderful smell. But not enough to miss the rustle of footsteps behind her.

Quickly she spun around, her knife finding the man’s throat. Ioan grinned, his teeth gleaming in the light of the moon.

"I could have killed you," Elanor said to her brother, quickly regretting how loudly her voice echoed. This was neither the time nor the place for conversation. She frowned and returned her knife to her belt.

Ioan’s smile only deepened, showing all his dimples. He shared that grin with Rhys, who could only shake his head. Without another word, Ioan squeezed Elanor’s arm, stepping out of the moonlight and back into darkness.

He wouldn’t be the only person on guard tonight. At all times there were at least half a dozen well-armed Orphans protecting the expanse of land around the Mountain’s entrance. Because even though they were inside the barrier, even though it was past midnight, even though it was winter, the Orphans took no chances when it came to protecting their home.

The energy that had carried Elanor this far began to flag as she followed Rhys toward the Mountain’s only point of entry. To the ignorant eye it might look like any other felled trunk, resting on the rock face at the edge of the forest. It looked like a dead end, nowhere to go but back. Elanor had once questioned the wisdom of living so close to Queen Josetta’s palace, but it wasn’t long before she realized that the Mountain’s impenetrable sides and single, well-guarded entrance provided more strategic protection than any distance could offer them.

In the clearing between the Mountain and the forest, the stars and moon shimmered in the satin blue sky above them. The last leg of their journey revealed, they made their way toward the tree, its twisted roots facing them, spread like outstretched fingers. Elanor stepped inside the trunk, her hand finding the familiar ridges in the wood. Even though she knew that following the cuts on the wall would lead her inside the Mountain, to its warm, inviting glow, Elanor still hesitated before stepping into the complete blackness of the tunnel. She hated the dark.

But in she went. Twelve steps straight ahead and then twenty-two down into the earth. When she reached the bottom, Elanor could see the faintest hint of illumination ahead. Two dozen steps more and then twenty up and into the light.

The entryway was quiet except for the soft echo of faraway water and the crackle of magic-lit candles melting into the rock ledges. Everything around her seemed to hum with magic, and the chill left her skin. For the first time in weeks, Elanor felt safe.

Carved into the entryway was an altar to honor the Four Sisters. Once upon a time, they had been legendary warriors who gave their lives in battle. As a reward for their bravery, they were allowed to remain in this life, but in different forms.

They had each thought carefully about what they would become. One of the sisters, known for her cunning, chose to become a fox. Another, known for her wisdom, asked to be an owl. The bravest of the sisters was transformed into a noble wolf, while the gentlest of the four became a swan.

Captured forever in stone, the Four Sisters were seated together, each wearing a mask that depicted the animal they had become. Each Orphan pledged loyalty toward one of the sisters. Kissing his fingers, Rhys touched the carving of Sister Swan and then brought his hand to his forehead. Elanor did the same to the statue of Sister Fox.

Behind the altar was a series of four tunnels. It was late, but Elanor knew Bronwyn would still be awake. She looked over at Rhys, who was doing his best to keep steady on his feet. In the candlelight she could see for the first time how truly exhausted he looked.

You should have Dimia look at your head, she told him, though his bandage showed no signs of continued bleeding.

Only after she looks at your shoulder.

In the excitement of returning home, Elanor had pushed aside her pain, but now it came roaring back, like an angry giant. She shook her head.

I need to speak to Bronwyn, she said.

I’ll go with you.

I can manage on my own, Elanor said firmly. Go to the infirmary. When he hesitated, she drew herself up to her full height, still a head and a half shorter than he was. Go see Dimia and then head immediately to the mineral pools. You stink.

Rhys smiled then, the expression softening the hard lines of weariness on his face. He bowed. Yes, Your Majesty, he said.

Elanor watched him head straight down the tunnel where the infirmary and most of the sleeping quarters were. When he was out of sight, she gritted her teeth, adjusted her pack, and took the tunnel farthest to the right, toward the kitchen, dining cavern, and lodging for the Elders.

Elanor could hear an argument as she approached Bronwyn’s quarters. She paused just beyond the threshold.

You’re being selfish, Wren was saying, her annoyance audible.

I could say the same thing about you, Heck answered, calm as always.

Then Bronwyn called out. It’s rude to hover, she said. Come in if you have something to say.

Her neck hot with embarrassment, Elanor pushed aside the curtain and entered. Wren was standing with her arms crossed, while Heck leaned casually on his crutches, one pant leg pinned neatly beneath his knee. The air was tense, the argument lingering in Wren’s flushed face and Heck’s frown. Only Bronwyn, seated in her chair, remained impassive, as usual.

Next time you want to spy, she said, avoid casting a shadow in my doorway.

I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, Elanor said.

Bronwyn waved Elanor’s apology aside. You’ve returned.

Yes, Elder, Elanor said. Her pack was like a bag of rocks on her back, her feet and shoulder aching. We came across a large party of huntsmen. Near the border of the Northern Kingdom.

How close to the border? Wren interrupted, her hand smoothing back short, brilliant-blond hair.

Less than a day away.

How large was the group?

Nearly a dozen, said Elanor. She didn’t need to point out that this was more than double the usual size for one of Josetta’s patrols.

This is good news, said Heck.

Elanor was sure she had heard him wrong.

You and I have a very different understanding of what good news looks like, Wren said, echoing Elanor’s thoughts.

If you would stop being stubborn and look at it from a different perspective, you might understand why I see it that way, Heck responded.

I understand exactly why you see that way. I still think you’re wrong, Wren snapped, glaring at him.

What do you think it means? Bronwyn stood, directing her question toward Elanor.

That Josetta wants to expand her rule beyond the Midlands. Beyond the Western Kingdom.

What would you recommend we do?

Elanor was startled by the question. That was not something she was usually asked. That was the job of Orphans like Wren and Heck, who were both several years older than Elanor and offered counsel to the Elders.

I think we should find out how far the patrols are going, she said.

It doesn’t matter how far they’re going, said Wren.

It doesn’t? Heck asked, one dark eyebrow raised. I think it matters quite a lot.

It matters to you, she shot back.

Both of you can leave, Bronwyn said abruptly. I have heard what you have to say. I will discuss it with the other Elders.

Heck and Wren bowed their heads respectfully and made their exit, continuing their argument the moment the curtain fell behind them.

As their voices faded, Elanor turned back to Bronwyn, who had returned to her chair. Her twisted gray dreadlocks were up and circling her head, exposing a graceful neck scarred by age and war. Her hands were clasped in her lap, nearly disguising her missing fingers, two from her left hand and one from her right. She never referred to them, except once in a rare instance of humor, when she had joked that she should cut off one more to make it even. She had been drinking. No one had laughed.

Did you at least retrieve the intended item? Bronwyn asked. The Elders had not been pleased when they’d learned that four able-bodied rebels had intended to help one royal. But they had done nothing. Orphans were free to make their own decisions, something that set them apart not just from Josetta’s followers but from other commoners who were at the mercy of royal commands.

Rhys and I departed before the mission could be completed, Elanor said.

I assume the others are still with the princess? Bronwyn’s disapproval was evident.

Yes, Elder.

We lost two Orphans during your absence, said Bronwyn. Two more were injured.

If Bronwyn’s intention was to make Elanor feel guilty, she had succeeded.

Josetta’s huntsmen targeted a village toward the south end of the kingdom. The royals had already abandoned it, leaving most of their servants behind. Most pledged loyalty to the Wicked Queen willingly.

But not all, Elanor said, knowing exactly what came next.

Not all. We attempted to help those who had been captured, hoping to free them before they were transported to the palace. The minute the huntsmen spotted us, they slaughtered their prisoners.

Elanor clenched her teeth. The treatment of disloyal commoners had become more and more vicious. And the Queen?

What of the Queen?

Was she there?

Bronwyn shook her head.

It’s been years, Elanor muttered to herself. The Orphans had not seen Josetta for many seasons. Wren argued that the Queen was surely present at each new acquisition of land or followers, most likely in disguise. Lately, however, even Wren was forced to admit that it was possible the Queen had not been outside her palace in some time. Her expansion into new territories, however, had accelerated.

This concerns you? Bronwyn asked.

No, said Elanor quickly. "It’s just—it’s