Winter Door (12 page)

Rage wondered if Fork had created the carvings to compensate for the loss of living plant life, once the winter sapped the green life threaded through it. If there
had
been plants, there would have been insects, birds, and maybe even animals, which would explain the ornate little drinking troughs along the front of buildings every few meters. Oh, how she would have loved to see a city with green streets where humans and little folk and animals lived in harmony!

Billy and Rage came to the meeting of roads at last, and despite the cold and her sore feet, Rage was dazzled to see that the monument was a fountain shaped like a huge, gnarled tree. Water trickled from under its leaves and down its trunk into puddles around its stone roots. Billy snuffled at the water, then lapped thirstily at it. Taking her lead from him, Rage scooped up a handful and drank, too, gasping at the coldness of the water. Only then did she notice that there was a thin crust of ice about the outer rim of the fountain. It occurred to her that the sluggish movement of the canals might mean the water there was beginning to freeze as well.

As she straightened up, a gust of wind whistled along the street and huffed coldly into her face. Rage thought she could feel tiny specks of ice in it. Shuddering, she wrapped her arms about herself and wondered if it was possible to catch pneumonia when you were dream-traveling. She was beginning to feel sick with cold. Billy leaned closer and sniffed at her anxiously. Then he shed his bomber jacket. Rage was too cold to resist as he put it on her.

“I should have given it to you sooner,” Billy said contritely. “I just forgot that I was not wearing fur.”

Rage frowned at him because the skin of his arms was already rising into gooseflesh. “We need to find somewhere to warm up,” she said. The trouble was that the streets leading away from the monument all looked the same: lovely, pale, and empty. Rage tried to imagine the kind of place she wanted to be. Her mind produced a memory of a tavern that she and Mam had visited before they went to Winnoway Farm to live with Grandfather Adam. It had been a rather dark place smelling of ale, stew, and fresh-baked bread, with a noisy, friendly press of people. The vision was very strong, and as it began to slip away, Rage felt that
something
had noted it. Then
something
nudged at her mind. Obeying the gentle push, Rage walked down one of the streets.

Billy followed, sniffing at her in puzzlement. “Where are we going?”

“I don’t know,” Rage admitted, but dreamily, because the compulsion was making her feel beautifully safe, like when she was a little girl and Mam held her hand to cross the street.

They came to a smaller side street, and Rage followed the prompt to turn into it. “I think Fork is taking us somewhere,” she murmured.

“Fork!” Billy said. He sniffed at Rage again, but she was walking faster now, despite the fact that her bare feet were beginning to feel tender. In a very little time, they turned another corner into a lane. They had not gone more than a few steps down it before Billy stopped with an exclamation that was more bark than shout. Rage stopped, too, slightly dazed to feel whatever had been shepherding her withdraw.

“What…?”

“I smell people and smoke and food!” Billy said, mistaking her word for a question. He caught hold of Rage’s arm and dragged her to the door of a building. Steps led darkly down, but there were lanterns hung on hooks. Now even Rage could smell food and smoke. They descended and found themselves in a short hall that led to a set of carved wooden doors. Rage hesitated, but Billy pushed at the doors, and in a moment, they were standing in what was clearly some sort of public tavern. It bore an astonishing resemblance to the tavern of Rage’s memory. Two girls were serving ale that frothed golden at the top, and another woman pushed out through a set of doors carrying a tray of fresh-baked bread.

Rage’s stomach rumbled, and she remembered that they had no money. Indeed, she hadn’t any idea what passed for money in Valley. Billy sniffed hungrily beside her, and she elbowed him to make him stop. The woman with the bread glanced over at them and stopped dead.

“Mercy me! What have we here?”

Everyone in the room turned to stare at them. Rage felt blood rise in her face, knowing that they would be seeing a barefoot girl in nothing but a thin nightdress and a bomber jacket, and a boy with no jacket and no shoes.

“Hello,” Billy said easily. “I am Billy Thunder and this is Rage. We are trying to find Elle.”

Concern passed over the woman’s red face, and strangely, she lifted her finger to her lips and shook her head. Then she turned and scowled at the gaping patrons. “Get on with your own business,” she snapped, sharply enough that most turned away. Those that continued to stare did so discreetly once she had turned her back. “Come and sit over in this wee corner. Truth to tell, you look froze, and isn’t the weather an awful thing? Our poor city does its best, but it’s a cruel winter and no mistaking it. Sit now and have a warm bit of bread. I’ll get some butter and soup, and that will put some color into you.”

The woman ushered them to a table in a niche, and when they were seated, she set down the tray of bread and hurried away.

“She smelled nice,” Billy said, helping himself to a chunk of fragrant bread. Rage took a piece, too, and made herself eat. Her face and hands ached as the warmth restored her circulation, and her feet felt bruised and sore. If she had been Billy, she thought wryly, she would simply have asked the waitress if she had any shoes, but being human, she could not bring herself to ask.

It occurred to her that they had done exactly what Mr. Walker had advised the last time they had come to Valley, based on his devotion to the fairy tales. They had found a tavern in order to ask directions. Rage smiled and some of her tension dissolved. After all, there was no need for them to hide their errand or their identities this time.

The waitress returned with two bowls and spoons, a steaming jug of thick soup, and a little pot of golden butter. Billy reached out at once, but Rage caught his hand. “You are very kind, madam, but we don’t have any way to pay for this.”

The woman laughed. “Why, wild things and witch folk don’t need tokens in such a time as this, child. Did no one tell you that on the ferry? Fork loves to have you visit us, and anything that makes our dear city happy is fine by us. Especially now.” A cloud passed over her features again, and she busied herself pouring the soup out. Billy thanked her and began to eat hungrily.

Rage opened her mouth to say that they were neither witch folk nor wild things, then thought better of it. There was something odd about the woman’s manner for all her kindness. It was this thought that prompted Rage to repeat their earlier question. “Do you know where the Lady Elle can be found?”

The woman all but cringed despite the softness of Rage’s question. “
Hsst.
You must not speak that name,” she hissed with genuine anxiety in her face. “Do not remind poor Fork of its despair, lest it further lose its will to fight this deadly winter.”

She glanced about and then in a loud, jovial voice bid them sup well. Rage caught at her apron and the woman gave her a look of impatience mingled with despair. “Can you tell us where the Valley council meets?”

The woman’s face cleared miraculously. “I am surprised that even outlanders don’t know that the council meets at the council house. Did you not ask the river folk? It’s close by the ferry port, and you all but passed by its door to come here.”

“It’s the mist,” Rage said vaguely.

The woman nodded sagely. “It is true that the mists grow thicker each day that passes, and I do suppose that one not accustomed to the city might lose themself. All you need to do is think of the ferry port and Fork will take you there, then one of the ferry folk can direct you to the council house.”

“Thank you,” Rage said.

The woman frowned a little. “I do hope it is good news you bring them from the witch Mother, for anything that lifts the heart of the city will serve us better than bad news.”

“I hope that what I have to tell the council will help,” she said.

“I hope so, too,” the woman said, and went away.

Rage ate a few spoonfuls of her soup, but she had no real appetite. She supposed this was because she was not truly in her body, but Billy finished his bowl off and looked so longingly at hers that she slid it over to him. She wanted them to hurry, but she was dreading walking again. It was not that the flagstones were so hard, but she was simply not accustomed to going without shoes.

“Let’s go,” Billy said.

Rage rose, wincing slightly. Billy frowned and sniffed at her.

“Stop that,” Rage whispered, seeing a man look over at them curiously.

“You need shoes,” Billy said decisively. Before she could stop him, he had turned and gone over to the bar. Rage stood there, feeling her face flush brighter and brighter, but Billy returned with a well-worn pair of slippers.

“It’s all she has, and she says that I must beg your pardon for her not offering them sooner, but she didn’t know folk like us needed such things.” He so exactly mimicked the waitress’s singsong way of talking that Rage’s embarrassment faded. After all, wasn’t it better that he had asked than that she had walked herself to a limp? She pulled the slippers on and sighed to feel their softness. She would have liked to thank the waitress, but she had vanished.

Outside, Rage pulled the bomber jacket more closely about her. The mist had grown thicker but so had the darkness. It was definitely night now. She closed her eyes, but before she could begin to summon up a memory of the ferry crossing, Billy elbowed her. She opened her eyes. “What is it?”

Instead of answering, he nodded, and Rage turned. Her breath caught because there was a black crow sitting on a jutting piece of stonework a little above their eye level. It watched them with its head cocked.

“It’s a crow,” Billy said.

“I know,” Rage whispered.

The crow launched itself from its perch and flapped to a lantern post alongside them. The lantern flared to life, throwing out a soft buttery light over the pale stone. The crow regarded them again for a long moment, then rose into the air with a grating
caw
and flapped away. Watching it blur and dissolve into the misty darkness, Rage wondered if it was one of the animals in Valley that could talk. Then she dismissed the thought and turned back to the task at hand, closing her eyes and envisaging the ferry. She held the image until the cold began to bite into her bare legs. Then she opened her eyes to find Billy peering worriedly into her face. Staggering back in surprise, she almost fell because the slippers were too big, but Billy’s hand shot out and he caught her. She was about to scold him when she felt
something
touch her mind again. She summoned up the image of the ferry port. At once she felt a nudge.

“Come on,” she told Billy, and began to walk.

They had not gone far when Billy gave a start. The ferry image slipped from Rage’s mind and she felt Fork withdraw. Billy was staring at a crow that was now sitting on a lamp just ahead, watching them. It looked like the same one from before.

“Good dusk, Master Crow,” Rage said politely. She was less frightened than curious. After all, what harm could a crow do them? It might dive and peck their heads, but both she and Billy had been swooped any number of times by magpies on Winnoway. “Can you talk?” she asked, for it looked both dignified and intelligent.

The crow only stared harder than ever.

“I guess you don’t, then,” Rage said, slightly disappointed.

“His name is Rally and he talks only when he has something to say. Not like humans, always talking about nothing.” Rage and Billy turned toward the voice. It came from a young girl so small that she could only have been one of the little folk. Slight of build and wearing a long cloak with the hood up, nothing could be seen of the girl but her small serious face, the toes of her pale boots, and a lick of golden hair falling across her forehead.

“I am Nomadiel,” she introduced herself imperiously. It was the name of Mr. Walker’s daughter. But this could not be her, for she had been born only a year ago.

Billy gave a cry of joy. “You smell of Mr. Walker!”

The severe little features softened. “Prince Walker is my father.” That meant she had aged in dog years, seven years to a human year!

“How did you know we were here?” Billy asked.

“Rally came and told me that there were two people asking about
a certain person
,” Nomadiel said, gesturing at the crow.

Rage frowned. “He heard me ask about Elle?”

“You shouldn’t speak of the Lady.” Nomadiel glanced about with real anxiety. Then she crooked a finger at them and strode off.

Billy and Rage exchanged a startled glance before following her. Rage hurried as best she could, but the slippers made her clumsy. Finally, she caught at Nomadiel’s cloak, forcing her to slow down. “You had better tell us where you are taking us.”

Nomadiel gave her a cross look. “You are Rage Winnoway, are you not? And he is Billy Thunder? You don’t look heroic, but things are not always what they appear to be.”

Rage gaped. “I am. I mean, we are. But how did you know?”

“From Rally’s description, and because of how you asked openly about…
a certain person
. No one from here would do such a thing.”

“Why do you keep calling Elle ‘a certain person’?” Rage asked impatiently, annoyed by the child’s disapproving manner.

“Please, do not name her again,” the child said in a pained voice. “I will explain why when we are—”

“You had better explain now,” Rage interrupted. She stopped.

“I
can’t
explain here without increasing the harm you have already done! We must go somewhere I can speak freely.” Nomadiel stamped her foot, looking so much like her father that Rage’s irritation was quenched.

“All right. But at least tell me, where are you taking us?” said Rage.

“We must go to the other side of the river, where Fork cannot hear us.”

“Fork? But why shouldn’t Fork hear us talk about—” Rage stopped at the anguished look on Nomadiel’s face. “All right, why shouldn’t we speak about
a certain person
?”