Read Thrice Sworn: A Short-Story Prequel to Winterling Online
Authors: Sarah Prineas
Thrice Sworn: A Short-Story Prequel to Winterling
Contents
Finn was bored.
A bored puck is a puck looking for trouble.
He decided to visit the Summerlands. If he couldn’t find any trouble there, he would make some trouble of his own.
He’d been born in the Summerlands, after all, or that’s what his puck-brothers had told him. When Finn was newly born it was clear to his mother that her baby was a puck—not something anybody would miss, his puckishness, for he had the black hair and flame-colored eyes of all his kind. Once he’d been seen to be a puck he was tossed out of the place of his birth, just as all pucks were, wrapped up in a bit of blanket and sent through the nearest Way for the other pucks to find.
Or not find. That happened sometimes too.
Since then, he’d had no family except for his brother-pucks.
Still, even though he’d been cast out, the Summerlands always drew him back. There was
something
about the land itself, the dense forests lapping up the slopes of snow-topped mountains, the half-wild people and their strange, half-wild Lady that made it feel more like home than any other place he’d seen in all his wanderings.
So when he was bored and restless and his puck-brothers were ready to drown him to stop his chattering, that’s where he went.
Usually he lurked about the Summerlands for a while in his dog shape. In that sleek, black, furry, flame-eyed form he slunk through the deep forests, spying on the moon-luminous Lady, Laurelin, and her Huntress companion, the Mór. The Lady and the Huntress roamed the land together, moonlight and midnight, the one quick to smile and the other a silent watcher; the one an open hand and the other a keen arrow fletched with black feathers.
Then he’d corner some fox-boy or fox-girl or one of those skittish deer-women or a badger-man for some conversation—somebody to talk to, even though they didn’t listen, but glanced nervously aside at him and tried to sneak away.
He always followed them. He had things to say, after all!
After a bit, he’d leave to go back to his brother pucks until the next time the Summerlands called to him.
But
this
time—this time was different.
At sunset, Finn came through the Way into the Summerlands. It was high summer and the forest was lush and green. A lazy stream wound along the edge of the clearing, and fireflies hovered in the growing darkness. He popped his shifter-tooth into his mouth and shifted into a dog. He had a bit of bone, too, that he could use to change into a horse—a black horse without even a hair of white, with flame-colored eyes and a long mane and a tangled, black tail. As a dog he loped through the forest paths until he reached the Lady Tree, the huge beech whose broad branches held the Lady’s little wooden house.
What he saw surprised him. His dog-ears twitched and he crouched, his belly brushing the dewy grass, and edged closer to see better. His long dog-nose twitched. Something smelled strange.
Below the Lady Tree was a grassy space overhung by the tree’s branches and its heavy, copper-brown leaves. On a blanket on the grass, lit by lanterns that hung from the tree’s branches, sat the Lady. When Finn had been here before, Laurelin had been lithe as a willow twig, but since then she’d grown round, like the waxing moon.
The Lady, Laurelin, was with child.
In his surprise, Finn spat out the shifter-tooth—no, he didn’t want to swallow it by accident—and, in his person shape, crawled closer. Babies were rare and precious among the people of the lands, who lived a long, long time and seldom had offspring. In all of the Summerlands there might not be a single other baby. It was a curious thing.
On the blanket, the moon-round Lady smiled at a young man sitting next to her. As Finn watched, she carefully lay down and pillowed her head against his leg, then reached up to tickle his chin with a long blade of grass.
“Stop it,” the young man said. He was tall and lanky, with a shock of sun-bleached hair and bright, blue eyes. He was the source of the strange smell. What was he?
The Lady quirked a smile and tickled again with the grass.
“Laury,” the young man protested again. “I’m serious. We need to be careful. I don’t trust her. Something about her feels wrong.”
The Lady nibbled at the end of the grass stem. “Owen, I have known the Mór for a long time.” She glinted a sly grin at him. “For far longer than you’ve been alive, dear one. She is my Huntress. She is sworn to me and I trust her completely.”
From his hiding place, Finn stared. The young man—Owen, she’d called him—smelled strange because he
was
strange. He wasn’t from the Summerlands; he was from that other land through the Way. He was
human
.
Oh, was
this
going to be trouble! Delicious trouble! Finn snorted out a laugh.
At the sound, the Owen-human looked up alertly.
Oops. Finn froze into stillness, hoping his dark head blended well with the night-shadows at the edge of the forest.
Owen shook his head and gazed down at the Lady. “I still don’t understand how this oath thing works, Laury. She swears, and then you just trust her?”
“Yes. Oaths bind us together, and nobody would ever break a sworn oath. The consequences would be too terrible for everyone, including the oath breaker. Do not worry, Owen.” The Lady ran her hands over her round belly and gave a happy sigh. “It is natural that you don’t understand oaths. You and I need no oaths between us.”
Then there was some soppy kissing that Finn didn’t really feel much like spying on. Far better would be to track down the Mór. The Owen-human didn’t trust the Lady’s Huntress; that was clear. Finn hadn’t ever much liked her himself—any more than he’d like a cold, black arrow fletched with crow feathers. Maybe the Mór was up to something.
This could be fun, and it might make a good story to tell his puck-brothers, or anybody else who would listen.
It didn’t take Finn long to find the Mór, because he knew where to look. In a grove of slender ash trees the Huntress had her own pavilion—a tent made of silk that glowed whitely against the night, open on one side to the evening breezes. Nearby was another tent, this one made of canvas, which was where the Mór kept the tall, white horse she rode during her hunts.
The Mór lounged on a camp stool in her tent. She wore her usual black silk, but her short, black hair was tousled and her feet were bare. Two of her extremely annoying wolf-guards knelt on the grass before her.
“Not yet,” the Mór was saying to the stupid wolves, her voice with an edge on it sharp enough to cut. “We must wait.”
Wait for what? Finn crawled closer, his ears pricked.
“But the human suspects, Huntress,” one of the wolf-guards said, her voice low, subservient.
The Mór gave half a shrug. “No matter. The Lady will birth her baby very soon. She will be weak then, and distracted, and her powers will be directed elsewhere. That is when we shall act.”
“And your oath to the Lady, Huntress?” the wolf-guard asked. “What of that?”
“My oath is not your concern,” the Mór said coldly.
Finn shivered; his dew-soaked clothes felt heavy and chill. The Mór was plotting something, and it smelled deeply, horribly wrong. Oath breaking affected everyone, even the pucks.
This wasn’t fun after all.
Keeping his head down, Finn edged away from the Mór’s tent and melted into the night-dark forest.
He could keep what he’d heard secret and then watch it all unfold. That’d be a pucklike thing to do. But this time, he couldn’t do the pucklike thing. He needed to speak, and this time—oh, yes,
this
time—he would be heard.
Shifting to his dog form, he raced through the forest and back to the Lady Tree. There, the Lady and Owen had just gotten to their feet; the human was shaking out the blanket they’d been sitting on. They stood in a little cone of light: just one lantern still glowed; the rest was darkness.
Finn ran into the clearing and spat out his shifter-tooth, catching it in his hand.
The human-Owen dropped the blanket and stepped half in front of the Lady. “What is
that
?”
The Lady stepped up beside him. “He’s a puck, Owen,” she answered. “Tricksy, not to be trusted. Or so I’ve heard.” She rested a protecting hand on her round belly and asked Finn, “What are you doing here, Puck?”
“It’s well you should ask, Lady,” Finn answered. Carefully he stowed his shifter-tooth in the little leather bag he kept on a string around his neck. “I’ve been here before, as happens, and I don’t think you have any cause to complain of me, even though I
am
a puck as you’ve noted and I could’ve brought you any amount of trouble, if I’d wanted to.”
“Mm,” the Lady said. “That is so. Though my people have complained to me of a puck-chatterer who likes to trap them and tell long stories they don’t understand about people they’ve never met.”
“I haven’t done them any harm,” Finn protested. “And I tell a good story.”
“Answer the Lady’s question,” the human-Owen growled. “What are you doing here?”
“I am here talking to you, Human-man,” Finn continued, “because you were right, what you said before, and—”
“You’ve been spying on us?” Owen interrupted.
“So what if I have?” Finn shot back. “I am
here
, as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted by this human-person, that this unmannerly human is right, Lady, and the Mór, your Huntress, is plotting against you.”
“Do you see, Laury?” the Owen-human put in. “It’s what I told you. Even he can see it.” He pointed at Finn. “Something is wrong here.”
“All you have is a feeling about it, Owen,” the Lady said, shaking her head. “What about you, Puck?” she demanded. “What proof of this do you have?”
“I heard her say it,” Finn answered promptly.
“Laurelin . . . ,” Owen began.
The Lady was shaking her head. “He’s a puck, Owen. That means by nature he is a trickster and will say anything to stir up trouble. That is what he is doing now: trying to sow discord between me and my most trusted ally.”
Owen frowned.
“Here, I’ll show you.” She nodded at Finn. “Puck. What is your name?” In a lower voice, she spoke to Owen. “Watch, he’ll lie about it.”
Finn scowled. His
name
was Finn, but no puck would ever tell his true name to a Lady. “Robin,” he answered sullenly.
“Did I not tell you?” the Lady said to the human-Owen.
The human blinked, confused. “Is his name not Robin?”
“No. It’s the name all pucks use with anyone who is not a puck. They’re all Robin. It’s just another one of their tricks. It’s best not to listen to pucks.” The Lady turned away.
Finn glared after them. “Stupid Lady and your stupid human-man.”
“Just ignore him,” the Lady said.
Owen looked at Finn, as if he had some human power to see straight into the truth. It made Finn feel strange. “I think there’s more to him than tricks, Laury, but okay,” Owen said finally. Then he stopped the Lady with a hand on her arm. “But I’m still worried. What about this: Will you at least wear the glamorie until after the baby is born? That would protect you, just in case the Mór really is plotting something.”
The Lady was already shaking her head. “No,” she said firmly. “You know how I hate the glamorie. I will not give birth to my daughter while wearing that false thing.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Be gone from here, Puck. Try your tricks and trouble somewhere else.” She gave a wave of her hand and the last lantern went dark.
Finn skulked into the midnight forest. The Lady could order him to leave all she liked, but he was a puck and her orders had no power over him. Trouble was coming—not puck trouble, something worse—and he wasn’t going anywhere until he found out the ending of this story.
He found a place under a tree and curled up in his dog shape to wait until dawn.
Finn’s eyes popped open. He’d fallen asleep. The sun was rising. He got to his paws and stretched, and then spat out his shifter-tooth. As he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, he realized that he wasn’t alone.
Crouched on a gnarled tree root nearby was one of his puck-brothers. Rook. He must have come through the Way at dawn. “Hello, Brother,” Rook said with a wary grin.
“Brother,” Finn replied slowly. Rook was the youngest of the pucks, far from full-grown—still a pup, really. He wore a pair of ragged shorts and nothing else except a layer of dirt. He had a patch of sunburn on his nose, and he had a scab on one knee.
He looked normal, but Rook had always been different from his puck-brothers. All the other pucks were like Finn—they had been cast out of their birth-lands as tiny babies. Not Rook. One of his parents must have loved him—wanted him despite the fact that he was obviously a black-haired, flame-eyed puck—because he had been older, a tear-smudged, hungry little boy when Finn had found him stumbling through a rocky land far from the nearest Way. Someone had raised Rook from a baby and then left him, or maybe lost him. Rook said he didn’t remember any mother or father, but still, he had been loved for a time and so he was strange, for a puck. Rook was a wanderer, a seeker, though Finn didn’t know what he was looking for. Maybe Rook didn’t know either.