THE BLACKBERRY WITCH: chapter 20

All chapters of The Blackberry Witch

XX. Daylight

“I don’t know much about human burials,” Cathán was saying from his perch on Thomas’s shoulder, “but that’s what I thought it looked like. Your people are typically wrapped up and placed in the ground or under some stones, aren’t they? Big piles of rocks?”

“Cairns,” Thomas replied. He was crouched before Sir Elbarion’s bones, gently prying some of the yellow-green lichen away from the knight’s ribs.

“Ah,” replied Cathán. “Yes. A cairn. Anyway, friend Thomas, you looked all wrapped up like you were prepared to be buried, but—well, I can’t quite explain it, but I wasn’t too worried about you. You looked . . . peaceful, I suppose. Like you didn’t mind being there. You weren’t struggling at all. I kept watch,” the Mouse Knight added helpfully. “Just in case. But you were only wrapped up for a few seconds.”

“Sir Elbarion said time was different inside the shroud,” Thomas said, finally pulling free a tuft of lichen as big as his fist. “I was frightened at first, but he was kind. Lonely, too. I might come back to visit him when this is all over.”

The water surrounding the dais trembled a little, and Thomas thought he could hear a dog’s howl from beyond the tomb. The sound urged him into motion. He stuffed the lichen into the bottom of his satchel, slung it over his shoulders, and straightened, looking down at the knight’s skeleton.

“He told me to take the sword,” Thomas said. “He said it would help lead us out of the bog. I hope he didn’t intend me to use it against the changeling. I’m willing to fight monsters, but he looks a little too human still.”

“Aye,” said Cathán, patting Thomas on the ear. “But perhaps it shan’t come to that. I think we can still outsmart him. And the sirens are confined to the water, I think, so they’ll be easy enough to avoid. The dog might give us some trouble. Perhaps he can be reasoned with.”

Thomas took a deep breath, then reached out and carefully eased the sword out of the skeleton’s grip. It slid free without difficulty. It was lighter than he’d expected.

“A true hero now in visage as you ever were in heart,” Cathán proclaimed. “It’s a weapon befitting your noble carriage, at least while we traverse this treacherous bog.”

“I wish I had a sheath for it,” Thomas muttered; but he was glad for the weapon, if only for the sense of security it gave. It was enchanted, after all.

Thomas crossed through the water and returned to the entrance of the tomb. He could hear the sounds of a scuffle somewhere outside, closer than they had been before he went into the shroud. He looked back at the skeleton.

“Farewell for now, Sir Elbarion,” Thomas said, raising a hand. He felt Cathán’s whiskers twitch against his neck.

Thomas turned from the tomb and stepped back into the hallway. Without torchlight to show the way, the passage was dark and filled with thick fog. The sword in Thomas’s hand gave off a faint glow, its light the palest green flecked with gold. It didn’t burn away the fog, nor even cut through it, but it was enough for Thomas to stumble forward and reach the end of the hallway and a gap in the ceiling that showed the sky.

Using the hazy yellow hanging over the bog to guide him, Thomas quickly made his way through the hallways toward more open ground. He was following the sounds of the scuffle, straining his ears for anything to indicate Avery was alive amid the barks and gravesong and other unidentified commotion. After a minute, he turned to meet Cathán’s eyes.

“Does that sound,” Thomas asked slowly, “like a lot of birds?”

“Aye,” replied the Mouse Knight, whiskers twitching. He sniffed the air. “Smells like them too. Hundreds. Flocks and flocks of them. Feathers and beaks and talons and screeching and all the rest. But that can’t be right, unless Saf the changeling boy has summoned more foul allies to hunt us. Among all bird-kind, I think only Avery is brave enough to enter the bog this deep.”

Thomas continued on. After a few minutes, with the sounds of birds growing ever louder, he stepped into a courtyard that opened onto the rest of the castle grounds, its walls and archways strewn about the ground so that the whole of the pale yellow sky was before them.

Thomas stopped at once and stared.

“Hundreds of birds,” he said to Cathán, gazing upward.

They filled the sky over the courtyard, their sleek bodies dark silhouettes against the yellow haze. There were hundreds of them, all ravens like Avery, but black and white and blue and even yellow, with white markings around their eyes and longer tail-feathers. They flew through the air above the castle ruins in a mad rush; not a one had stopped to roost in the remaining walls of the courtyard or forage for an afternoon snack in the trampled, dying grass. Instead they flapped and swooped and dived and soared in mad coordination, a storm of ravens come to Palewater Bog.

The noise of the birds was somewhat alarming. They squawked and flapped and chittered and sang; and while for the moment they seemed focused on other business, Thomas realized for the first time the primal fear of facing a large group of very angry birds. He’d experienced a fragment of this feeling during his time with the golden eagles, and he’d certainly seen a wild ferocity in Avery’s eyes on several occasions. But this was different, and the sword of Sir Elbarion grew a little heavier in his hands as he stared at the feathery cloud overhead.

Picking out Avery in this mess was impossible for Thomas, so he turned to Cathán. The First Captain of the Thistledown Kingdom lifted his mousy nose to the air, sniffed a few times, cleaned his whiskers with his paws, sniffed again, and then batted his tail against Thomas’s neck.

“Follow me,” said Cathán, leaping from Thomas’s shoulder. The Mouse Knight scampered forward across the courtyard. Thomas followed.

He had to duck once or twice to avoid a low-flying bird, and with every step his heart quailed in his chest, but Thomas survived the run to the other side of the courtyard. It seemed that the birds were truly unconcerned with the human boy carrying a sword and the Mouse Knight, at least for the present. Thomas was both relieved and worried that, although he could hear laughter and howling and the drumming sound of the gravesong echoing through the ruins, he and Cathán had not yet encountered the changeling, the dog Elwood, or the sirens.

They came to the other end of the courtyard and found Avery in the crook of a broken statue’s arms. The raven’s eyes were closed and his glossy wings were ruffled, a few bent out of shape, dust and grime making him blend in a little more with the statue and the yellow air of the ruins. Cathán ran up the side of the statue and slid down an arm to land just above Avery. Thomas leaned in close.

He could see at once that Avery was breathing—and also that Avery was clearly hurt, for a spot of fresh blood had trickled down the statue’s arms, and the feathers at the raven’s chest were puffed out and tangled. Thomas swallowed hard and reached out to run his finger lightly over the bird’s back. The feathers there were gritty with dirt. Thomas lifted his finger to touch Avery’s head, which rested on the statue’s upturned palm.

“Hey!” said Avery in a raspy voice.

It startled Thomas and Cathán both. Cathán let out a squeak that appeared to immediately embarrass him; Thomas jerked backward, and the sword of Sir Elbarion wavered in his grip.

“Heh,” said Avery. The raven opened one eye, blinking furiously, and then opened the other, raising his head off the statue’s palm. “Thought I was dead, did you? Alberich Sharpbeak, famed hero and warrior of the Blackhill Clan, felled by some shape-shifting boy and a mangy dog and a few slimy water-witches? I can’t believe you’d think that for a moment. Of course, I’m also a masterful actor with a sharp intuition for disguise and pretend, so I’m actually not surprised at all that you failed to see the truth. My own mother and sister would have thought me dead as well! But you two should have known better, having witnessed firsthand my valiant deeds.”

A smile fought with Thomas’s worried expression. “I’m glad you’re alive, Avery,” he said.

“Aye, true companion,” echoed Cathán, patting the raven on the head. “You’ve clearly held your ground against Saf and his friends.”

“Of course I have.” Avery shifted a little, holding himself up, though he still leaned into the statue’s arm for support. “You’ve gathered a talon for yourself, I see, human Thomas,” he added, nodding at the sword in Thomas’s hand. “Have you found that decorative bit of moss you wanted?”

Thomas laid a hand on his satchel. “Yes. And the sword will show us the way out of the bog, I think. But what about all these birds?”

Avery shifted again, beating one wing to hop up onto his feet. He made a noise that sounded like a birdlike wince. “I believe I may have some trouble flying like my companions up there,” he said, pointing at the cloud of birds still swirling above the ruins. “I did all my graceful drops and climbs while you were scavenging for forest-growth. They’re now trying desperately to imitate me. Anyway, I wonder if I might have a ride. The mouse makes it look so delightful. But I also have sore talons—from rending and tearing the flesh of my enemies, you understand, and hurling stones at their fleeing backs after utter defeat—so perhaps inside the satchel with the plants you collected?”

Thomas opened his satchel and held it up. Avery hopped from the statute to Thomas’s hand, and the boy could feel Avery’s trembling talons and the shudder running through his whole body. Overall, the raven was less injured than Thomas had feared but more than his attitude suggested. Thomas carefully positioned the raven inside the satchel, letting him nestle up on the lichen and other parcels therein so that Avery’s head poked out of the top of the satchel. Thomas slung the bag around his shoulders again, keeping it resting at his hip so that Avery could look both forward and back.

“Let’s find somewhere safer to rest another moment,” suggested Cathán.

They raced back across the courtyard and ducked inside an alcove with a bench just wide enough for Thomas to sit on. He set the sword down at his feet and held the satchel in his lap. Avery seemed comfortable inside the satchel; and though Thomas would never say as much to anyone, he noticed that the raven looked rather relieved to be worried about, and also somewhat comical with just his head poking out.

“So, the birds,” Thomas said.

“Yes, yes, that mad-flying squawk of birds up there,” Avery said, swiveling around to look up at Thomas and Cathán. “You see, I’ve attained such depths of humility as to know clearly when I should share glory with others, especially with those less fortunate than I. The downtrodden, I suppose. They’re such fragile things, those birds. But brave warriors to answer the call, I’d imagine, though not brave enough to have already come to the castle ruins with us at the first.”

“You called them here, then?” asked Cathán. “It must have been a mighty call to pull them from outside the bog.”

“Indeed it was, my friend: a loud and invigorating summons to come and fight and win!” Avery clacked his beak. “But actually these birds were quite close already. In the bog, in fact. They were blown off their course by a westerly wind and were looking for some food. I suppose I’ll have to point them in the right direction when this is all done. Poor wayward things. But yes, they came quickly at my invitation, and they’ve riled up that changeling thing and his friends into such a state. His skin must be half pecked off by now.”

That was a gruesome thought, and Thomas spoke to try to banish it: “So they’re helping us fight him?”

“Yes, for the moment,” Avery replied. He dipped his beak into the satchel, withdrew a small stone that had been stuck to his blood-matted feathers, and spat it away. “They’re not Blackhill, so I didn’t expect too much from them, but they’re friendly enough and competent. Perhaps as talented as the most lauded Mouse Knight of the Thistledown Kingdom, or as whatever heroes your people sing songs about, Thomas. That is to say: they’re average birds, nothing altogether special—some aren’t even ravens!—but they’re handy allies nonetheless. I think, though, that they’re leaving soon. They mentioned something about seeking a warmer climate somewhere north of the bog. Not very bright, perhaps, but loyal in helping us. They’ve proven a valuable distraction, no?”

“They have,” Thomas replied, and he stroked the silky feathers at the back of Avery’s head. The bird shivered but seemed pleased. “Thank you for your help. We couldn’t have escaped the changeling without you.”

“Aye, but we’re not free yet,” Cathán reminded them. “And Avery spoke true. Look! the birds are thinning out, flying away.”

Thomas glanced out into the courtyard. The maelstrom of birds was calming as more and more birds flew into the air and disappeared into the yellow haze of the bog. The feathery sounds of their frantic flight were gradually, steadily replaced by the thrum of the gravesong. To Thomas’s ears, it sounded more insistent, more violent. Hungrier.

“Where’s Saf now?” Thomas asked.

Avery gestured with his beak. “Over there somewhere, where the feathers and dust are thickest. I think we pushed him out of the courtyard, but he’s not far tangled in the hallways on the other side. And I can hear that Elwood barking but I don’t know where he’s gone.”

“We should hurry, then,” Thomas said. He stood. After making sure his companions and belongings were set, he started off at a jog through the hallway just outside the alcove, angling away from the courtyard.

The gravesong grew louder as he ran, but Thomas supposed that was a good thing, as it meant they were nearing the brackish watery moat that surrounded the castle ruins. They followed Cathán’s nose and Avery’s shouted directions for the first few minutes, until the ruins became twisted enough that neither mouse nor raven could determine the proper direction.

Thomas held up the sword of Sir Elbarion. He looked at his reflection in the naked blade. The boy staring back was covered in grime and sweat. Not knowing what else to do, Thomas inclined his head toward the sword and said, “Please show us the way out.”

The sword glowed in response. The glow was mellow and soft, pale green with flecks of gold, and it seemed to cast away the haze of the bog that hung thickly to Thomas’s clothes and hair. Thomas breathed a little easier then. He felt something tugging at his hand, as though the sword itself was trying to lead him along. It was a subtle sensation, easily overlooked, and Thomas steadied his breathing and firmed his grip on the sword’s hilt in order to properly discern its suggestions.

“This way,” he said after a moment.

The words came none too soon—a heartbeat later, Thomas heard laughter and snarling in his ears, the ragged sounds of the changeling boy Saf coming from very close behind him. Thomas gulped and bolted.

The way through the ruins was treacherous. Cathán held onto Thomas’s shoulder with his little mouse paws, and Thomas kept his free hand on the satchel to avoid jostling Avery too much, but he feared both his companions would be shaken senseless by the time they reached the castle’s outer walls. Thomas himself tripped once or twice, his shoes snagged by crumbling rocks or the rotted remains of doors and barrels, but he managed to keep from falling and to avoid losing hold of the sword.

At last they broke from end of the ruined buildings and came to a flat stretch of yellow grass before the outer walls that separated the castle from the rest of Palewater Bog. Thomas found his speed in the empty field, racing wildly for the sagging gate that promised escape from his pursuer—for he knew the changeling was close behind; Thomas could hear Saf’s angry shouts and promises of death and vengeance, could feel the pounding footfalls as the changeling ran after them.

Thomas came to an abrupt stop only a dozen feet from the gate. From the matted tussocks and tangled grasses rose the shaggy figure of Elwood, Saf’s canine companion.

The dog did not looked as pleased to see them as he had before, in the early hours of the morning. Elwood growled instead, baring long teeth, hackles prickling and tail flat. Thomas lowered the sword until the tip touched the withered earth, but he kept his wary gaze on the dog.

For a long moment neither party moved. Then Elwood took a step forward and let out a single bark, just as Thomas heard a rasping voice behind him say: “Easy now, Tom, or not even your skin will make it out of here.”

Thomas swallowed.

“I’ll watch the dog,” Avery said quietly from the satchel. “You deal with the changeling.”

Thomas turned around to face Saf. The boy stood a few feet away. He wore still the guise of a human youth, but his skin was ragged and bloody in a dozen places, the marks of hundreds of beaks and talons pressed into his stolen mask of flesh. He wasn’t smiling, but his lips were pulled back in a rictus that showed his white teeth.

“I’ll enjoy this very much, Tom,” Saf said, wiping blood from his mouth with a shirt-sleeve. “I’m going to feed your bird to Elwood, and I’ll eat the mouse myself—you’ve worked me into a hunger like I’ve rarely felt. And then I’ll strip your skin off and toss the rest to the sirens. They’ll sink your bones down into the depths of the bog. Your blood will feed Palewater, give it strength enough to stretch its greedy yellow fingers toward that little village to the south. And I’ll walk before the living bog, wearing your skin, and I’ll take Mídhel for myself.” Saf spat blood onto the yellow grass. “When I’m done, the bog can have the bones of the village too.”

“We’ll escape,” Thomas said. He felt very unsure of himself, and he knew Saf could hear it.

The changeling boy didn’t laugh. There was no humor left in him, no sardonic mirth, no repartee. He simply bared his teeth again. “I am going to kill you, Tom, and there won’t be anything left. You’re trapped in here with me. If you try to run, Elwood will stop you. If you make it past the dog, you’ll have to contend with the sirens—and they’re nearly as furious now as I am. Can’t you hear their song? They’re waiting, Tom. Let’s not put this off any longer.”

Saf took a step toward Thomas.

Thomas raised the sword of Sir Elbarion in response. Saf’s eyes turned to the sword and then back to Thomas’s. The changeling boy’s eyes were crimson, almost black. “Foolish mortal wretch,” Saf said, in a voice too deep to belong to a boy or a human: a voice full of knives and jagged stones, a voice like tree-limbs breaking in the snow.

Thomas felt a trickle of cold sweat run down his back. He heard Cathán let out a tiny squeak that sounded involuntary. Avery was shaking in the satchel slung over Thomas’s back. Thomas took his own step forward.

As he moved closer, he noticed something on the changeling boy’s wrist—a leather band with a gold emblem on it, a marking Thomas couldn’t perceive at a distance. Something in the sword tugged at Thomas again, an inkling or a premonition perhaps, a feeling that suggested the leather band was not merely decoration. It’s the best idea I’ve got, Thomas decided, screwing up the last of his courage into a tight knot in his chest.

He leapt forward with the sword of Sir Elbarion held high.

Quick as death responded the changeling, jumping to meet Thomas across the trampled yellow grass. Long silver claws burst from Saf’s hands, ripping through the skin like fast-growing roots, twice the length of any human’s fingers and curved to points that glinted in the hazy light.

Saf’s attack was faster than Thomas’s; the changeling swung with claws extended. Thomas barely had time to bring the sword of Sir Elbarion around, parrying the claws with a jolt that shuddered through his whole body. The changeling was batted away with a snarl. Thomas felt like dropping the sword, but he clenched it tight in both fists.

A tiny whistling noise twanged in Thomas’s ear. A moment later, the changeling howled in wordless anger and clapped his clawed hands to his right eye. Two great droplets of blood trickled between the claws, staining their silver. Leaping from Thomas’s left shoulder to the ground at his feet, Cathán nocked and loosed another dart; this one sank home in the changeling’s other cheek, eliciting a fiercer cry.

Thomas seized this brief opportunity. He jumped forward again, praying that the sword of Sir Elbarion was as gentle as it was true. The tip of the sword sliced cleanly through the leather band on the changeling’s wrist without blemishing the skin on either side. The band fell away—and puffed into thick smoke before it reached the ground.

Thomas stepped closer and pushed the changeling boy. Saf fell backward, still holding his bleeding eyes, his shouts of pain and anger more desperate now. The changeling was trying in vain to pluck the darts free with his silvery claws.

Behind Thomas, Elwood let out a sharp, full-throated howl. “Thomas,” said Avery urgently, “turn to the dog!”

Thomas spun around. Elwood remained at the gate of the ruins, raised to his full height, watching them, tail still. Thomas gave it only a moment’s thought and then ran toward the shaggy dog. When he was within a few feet, he stopped and bent his head down, holding out his free hand with the palm toward the dog.

Elwood looked at the hand, growled, and bared his teeth.

But Thomas saw something in the dog’s eyes, just a hint of a question. The boy set aside the sword of Sir Elbarion and extended his other hand, crouching down a little so that his head was level with the dog’s.

“I’m not your enemy, Elwood,” said Thomas kindly.

Elwood cocked his head, sniffed at Thomas’s hand. Tentatively, as though expecting a trick or a trap or some swift reprimand, the dog nuzzled his cold wet nose into Thomas’s palm. When Thomas smiled at the dog, Elwood responded with a long lick of his rough tongue that was longer than Thomas’s hand from wrist to fingertip.

The boy from Mídhel laughed. It was a clear sound and honest, so different from the still-throbbing gravesong of the sirens and the pained cries of the changeling that for a moment the sun seemed to pierce the hazy heavens and turn the sickly yellow of Palewater Bog to true gold. It was only an illusion, but the feeling was true all the same.

Elwood withdrew his cold nose and panted back at Thomas, his shaggy mouth parting to resemble a smile. He wagged his floppy tail; it brushed the edges of the yellowing grass.

Thomas glanced over his shoulder and called Cathán over. Saf the changeling remained on the ground, still fumbling with the darts in his eyes, apparently so weakened by the loss of the leather band that he was unable to rise. Cathán the Mouse Knight came at once, jumping from the ground to Thomas’s shoulder and then leaping onto Elwood’s head with a tiny merry squeak of delight. The dog barked, and this time it was cheerful, welcoming.

“Elwood, you’re free now,” Thomas said. He wasn’t sure how much hold the changeling had had over the dog, but it was clear that Elwood was pleased to have avoided a confrontation and was willing to let them pass. “If you’d like, you can come with us. We’re leaving the bog behind, going back out into the bright world beyond. You can accompany us as long as you wish.”

Elwood barked again, and his tail beat harder. “He says he’ll come,” Cathán translated unnecessarily. The Mouse Knight seemed well pleased. Avery too made a chirping noise that sounded like approval.

Thomas grinned. “Let’s get moving, then.”

They made their way through the crumbling gate and left the castle ruins behind. Saf’s cries faded as the small party hurried through the hazy, foggy, squelching bog. The gravesong was loudest now, a cacophony on all sides, and through breaks in the fog Thomas saw the flashing needle-teeth of the sirens. He jogged on as quickly as he could manage in the treacherous bog.

Elwood’s nose and the tugging sensation within the sword of Sir Elbarion led them steadily on. Whenever their path led them onto softer ground and too close to the sirens, Thomas flashed the sword toward them. The sirens recoiled from its soft glow with shrieks and shielding hands.

The enchanted sword led them true. Before too long, Thomas could see patches of green ahead, and for a moment his nose caught the scent of wildflowers and hay. His heart leapt and he ran harder, though he could barely keep up with Elwood’s loping strides. The gravesong had faded now to almost nothing as they outpaced the sirens and came closer to the light of day.

Then, almost of a sudden, Thomas and his companions stepped beyond the borders of Palewater Bog and reentered the world. The dawn-light of Monday flooded his vision, bringing tears to his eyes as he squinted and shaded them with a grimy hand. Before him stretched rolling hills of green grass dotted with trees and low shrubs. The sky was gold and blue and scudded with wispy white clouds. Birds chirped; a bumblebee, fat and slow, buzzed past Thomas’s head. Due south, beyond the rolling hills, a curl of smoke marked the start of Mídhel.

Thomas laughed. His friends joined him in his relief, with Elwood barking and turning circles on the rich brown earth, wagging his tail with such ferocity that it jerked his whole body from side to side.

Thomas felt another tug in the pit of his stomach. He looked down at the sword in his hand. Its blade-glow had faded, and it seemed to want to return to the hazy bog behind them. Thomas remembered Sir Elbarion’s instructions.

With a wordless expression of thanks to both knight and blade, Thomas tossed the enchanted sword in the direction of the bog. It vanished before it hit the ground. Thomas gave Palewater Bog one last look. Then he turned away and let his eyes drink in the sight of the fair green land before him and felt a smile stretch his face until his cheeks hurt.

The daylight was warm upon his face, the air was clean in his lungs, his companions—new and old—were safe and well, and within his satchel were three of the four objects he needed to save his sister and restore peace.

THE BLACKBERRY WITCH: chapter 19

All chapters of The Blackberry Witch

XIX. The Shroud of Sir Elbarion

Avery was the first to respond. The raven pushed off Thomas’s shoulder with a sharp pinch, a mighty flap, and a shrill tinny squawk that was half menace and half fright. Like a feathery black dagger the raven swooped toward the changeling, extending glossy wings and the last moment, talons and beak extended. Avery’s head jerked in a jabbing motion and the changeling recoiled, a hand to his face.

Avery flapped again and plunged toward the changeling’s ear, poking a talon into the soft flesh between throat and breastbone, flapping to stay aloft and out of the reach of groping hands. Saf the changeling cried out in anger and pain, leaning away from the bird’s attack, thereby clearing a way forward.

Thomas needed only a little urging from Cathán to take the chance. The human boy ran forward, pushing past Saf, who reached after him with a futile hand and a snarl. Thomas heard Elwood barking and growling, close behind, and realized the dog had climbed the stairs to the broken hallway.

But Thomas had no time for such thoughts. The gap over the empty hallway was three steps ahead—two—a single step, planted on the loose stones of the crumbling floor, already shifting with the rest of the defunct castle—and Thomas leapt into the air, Cathán gripping his shoulder tight, hands wheeling, satchel suspended behind him, Elwood’s howls echoing off the walls and over the open space of the castle ruins, Avery’s flaps and the changeling’s cries accompanying the steady pounding of blood in Thomas’s ears—the hazy air rushed past him as he flew over the gap—

Thomas landed on his feet on the other side of the broken walkway. His satchel thumped against his back. He felt Cathán’s fur brush his face as the Mouse Knight regained a steady grip. Thomas reached out a hand and placed it on the dripping stones of the castle, just for a moment, to catch his breath and make sure he’d truly landed on safer ground.

He spared a glance over his shoulder. Avery was a wild black halo around the changeling boy’s head, pecking and flapping and clawing, deftly avoiding Saf’s frantic swats and Elwood’s nipping teeth, though both seemed too close to evade forever.

Then Thomas turned away from the fight and ran. He knew Avery’s distraction would only last a few more moments, and then the changeling and his hound would be after them, following the scent of blood and led by the sirens’ gravesong, eager to rip away his skin and leave his meat and bones for the monsters outside. Monsters everywhere, Thomas thought, sliding around a corner and taking the staircase three steps at a bound.

There were monsters inside the ruins and monsters outside the ruins and, seemingly, monsters everywhere else, but for now Thomas had a lungful of air and a flat stretch of castle hallway before him, and he ran as he never had, fast enough that he felt Cathán’s tiny paws scrabbling for purchase on his shirt-collar and shoulder.

“Left here,” the Mouse Knight shouted in Thomas’s ear when they came to an intersection. Thomas didn’t hesitate; he turned left and kept running. And so they proceeded, left and left again, straight forward through a junction of seven hallways, a sharp right and then down another corridor. It wasn’t far, but the layout of the castle ruins was tangled and made worse by the decrepit state of the stonework.

Cathán’s nose led them true; Thomas could feel it in his bones. They had almost returned to Saf and Avery and Elwood, to where the changeling had indicated, though it was hard to tell with the way the sound echoed and carried through the ruins. They passed under wet, low-hanging roofs and ran through open courtyard and broken-down chambers. Thomas felt as though he must have tread a mile in the space of a dozen yards. The gravesong of the lusting sirens never abated. Somewhere behind him, or perhaps ahead of him, the changeling’s angry voice and yelps of pain reverberated through the hallways.

At Cathán’s direction, Thomas rounded a final corner and came to a lurching stop. He panted and narrowed his eyes, trying to pierce the heavy fog before them. The way ahead was straight and shrouded in gloom, gray and swirling, impenetrable.

“Just as the changeling said,” Cathán declared, hopping off Thomas’s shoulder. The Mouse Knight took a few tentative sniffs of the air, then darted away on all fours. He returned carrying a long slender stick in his paws.

Thomas bent down and took the stick. It was wet and mossy, but it was the best option they had, so he withdrew flint and tinder from his satchel and struck. The tiniest of sparks found the driest edge of the stick and caught fire in the yellowing moss that slept there. The flame was tender and weak, barely a candle-wick in the humid and hazy air of the castle ruins, wavering as though the mere thought of moisture would snuff it out: but it was enough.

As if by some spell or summoned gust of wind, the fog began to burn away before their eyes, receding into the cracks in the stone a few feet at a time until the entire hallway was clear and open. It was a single corridor, just wider than Thomas’s shoulders, stretching on and on farther than the boy’s eyes could make out; and it appeared free of enemies or traps, insofar as he could discern.

Trusting and hoping that Avery still fended for himself against the changeling and the dog, Thomas lifted Cathán into his palm, held the glowing stick up, and started down the hallway.

Quickly Thomas and Cathán came to the end of a hallway and an open door with darkness waiting beyond. Thomas stopped before the doorway to catch his breath and settle his nerves. The door was flanked by bands of rough-hewn stone and capped with a lintel bearing crude scrollwork and a floral design, perhaps some ancient crest. Both the lintel and the side-bands were inscribed with symbols or glyphs, short intersecting lines and swirls that were clearly some sort of language but which Thomas could neither decipher nor recognize. He gleaned their meaning well enough, however: “The tomb of Sir Elbarion,” he said softly, setting Cathán back onto his shoulder. “Saf wasn’t lying about that part, it seems. Let’s hope the rest of it is true.”

“Forward in bravery, noble Thomas,” Cathán said, patting Thomas’s ear. Thomas could hear the tension in the Mouse Knight’s voice.

With a deep breath, Thomas stepped forward, passing over the threshold and beneath the marked lintel-stones, entering the gloomy tomb.

The stick he carried guttered out almost at once, its tiny spark having fulfilled its purpose. Thomas set the smoldering stick aside. The interior of the tomb was lighted with its own kind of illumination, though Thomas could see no source, no skylight or torch or bioluminescence. The tomb was bathed in a gray pallor, uniform and faint, eerie under any conditions except by comparison to the yellow mire that filled Palewater Bog, against which it seemed only weak and melancholy; but it was enough for Thomas to see by.

The room was modest in size, twenty feet square. It was the only tomb Thomas had ever been inside or even seen, so it looked large to his eyes, certainly larger than was necessary for a single body. A walkway ringed the room, two feet wide, elevating Thomas and Cathán from a recess in the floor that was filled with six inches of still water. At the center of the room, rising from the watery recess, stood a dais bearing a thick circular column of stone laced with dried brown vines. The column reached upward into the black of the ceiling; it was smooth save for the foliage, perfectly rounded, glistening with the sheen of reflected water in the gray light.

A skeleton was slumped on the dais before them. Its back rested against the column and its bony feet dangling in the water, the head tipped forward onto its chest. It held a silvery sword in its arms, the blade still shining despite the status of its bearer. Yellow-green lichen grew on the body’s ribcage, tangled around the individual bones as though it were a breastplate or coat of mail. A rusted helm sat askew on the skeleton’s grinning skull. A tattered robe, probably all that remained of the warrior’s clothing in life, was draped over the skeleton’s shoulders.

Thomas shifted from one foot to the other. “Sir Elbarion,” he said quietly. He wasn’t sure if he was addressing the fallen knight or commenting to Cathán about the skeleton’s identity. Either way, the Mouse Knight squeaked his assent.

Thomas deliberated for a moment in his mind, not really considering other options so much as preparing himself. The hum of gravesong and the inscrutable shuffle and creak of others within the castle ruins came to his ears through the doorway of the tomb, though the sounds were faint and distant and muffled by the aura of preservation that hung over the watery chamber. The reminder of what had chased them here made up Thomas’s mind for him.

The boy from Mídhel removed satchel and shoes and set them on the dry walkway. He stepped into the recess. The water was cold against his skin. Not refreshing, exactly, but a relief from the clinging damp of the ruins and the bog—cleaner, if not pure in the strictest sense.

Thomas waded forward, Cathán still perched on his shoulder, whiskers quivering. Thomas stopped just before the skeleton and crouched closer, looking at the white bones and the gleaming sword and the color of the living moss, bright against the drabness of the tomb.

Holding his breath, Thomas reached out a hand toward the lichen. He needed a tuft, a fistful perhaps, a clutch of the yellow-green lichen to take to the witch and save his sister. He angled his hand beneath the skeleton’s crossed arms and reached for the ribcage.

Before he could grasp a fistful of the lichen, the skeleton stirred. Thomas yelped and withdrew his hand. The skeleton rattled into animation, its head drawing up, its fingers finding the hilt of the sword, its bony feet scrabbling on the stones beneath the water. Then it stood, creaking upright, sword lifted to point directly at Thomas’s chin.

Thomas fell backward into the water, eyes wide in terror. He felt Cathán’s warmth against his neck and the cold of the tomb-water seeping into his trousers. He tried to find his feet.

The skeleton leaned forward and touched the very tip of its shining sword to Thomas’s stomach. The movement was smoother than Thomas might have expected, as though the skeleton retained the fluidity and grace it had surely possessed as a warrior in life. The point of the sword was cold but not painful. It didn’t seem to have pierced Thomas’s flesh; he could feel it, in that single moment, poking through his shirt but just barely resting against his skin.

Thomas gulped a breath. The skeleton’s tattered robe suddenly fluttering wide to both sides, framing its shoulders like eagle’s wings, and then swooping around Thomas and swallowed him up.

Thomas felt like he was falling. The gray of the tomb was darkness inside the robe-folds, and there was no solid surface in any direction. His breath caught in his throat.

Then Thomas stood on his own feet again, upright, unharmed, and the feeling of the robe slid away from his body. He opened his eyes warily.

“Welcome to my shroud,” the skeleton said.

It was sitting on a tree stump a few feet in front of Thomas. It held the sword in its hands, running a whetstone along one edge in slow, methodical movements. The robe was gone from its shoulders and the rusted helm had been straightened. The yellow-green lichen still grew around and over and between its ribs.

Thomas looked around. He was standing in a strange place, a flat gray featureless land with only the stump and the skeleton and Thomas himself. He looked down at his feet and saw only the curling gray mist around them and beneath them. He had the sense of standing in a small closet at twilight.

“Are you all right, lad?” the skeleton asked. “First time in a shroud? You look a little pale.”

“Um,” replied Thomas.

“Only joking, dear boy; just a little humor among the dead. Here, let me accommodate you a touch.”

The skeleton rose to its bony feet and set the sword down on the stump, laying the whetstone beside it. Then it placed its hands together, bones clacking, and covered its face as though wiping dirt away. In a matter of moments, the skeleton was clad in flesh once more, and a royal knight stood before Thomas, a man with long curling hair and blue eyes and a full set of armor and a tunic that bore the image of a lion with a viper in its claws. The man sat down on the stump and resumed sharpening his sword.

“Is that any better? I know how difficult it can be to speak to the bones. Disconcerting and unnatural, at least for the living.”

Thomas took a step forward. Now that the skeleton looked more like a human, it was easier for Thomas to think of him as a person, not just a frightening collection of animated bones. But the boy could still see that something was not quite right about the knight, not quite alive: a grayness to the man’s cheeks, a frayed quality to his hands and feet.

“My apologies for staring,” Thomas said aloud. The knight looked human enough that Thomas felt politeness was in order, at least until some other course presented itself. “I’ve never met a talking skeleton before.”

“Nor have I, dear boy,” replied the knight with a chuckle. “I’d imagine it’s quite the show!”

“Where are we?” Thomas asked, glancing around again.

“The shroud,” the knight repeated. “My shroud, at that. My burial-shroud. I am, you see, dead.”

“Are you Sir Elbarion?”

The knight paused with his whetstone and his eyes gleamed brightly. “Indeed I am! Sir Elbarion of Dorrick! You must have heard the tales of my noble feats and valor, then?”

Thomas shook his head.

The knight seemed unperturbed. “Ah, well, that’s no trouble. You’re just a young boy; you probably haven’t read the right sorts of books yet. Lots of blood and monsters in my stories, yes; heroes often face dark foes in battle. You’ll know what I mean, of course: a warrior yourself, I can just feel it! And you’re on a noble quest of your own?”

Thomas nodded. Before he could reply further, Sir Elbarion continued: “Well then, dear boy, perhaps I can treat you with a few of my stories, the ones you haven’t read about in those books of tales you haven’t found yet. My deeds in life contain many valuable lessons about heroism and duty and bravery. Would you like to sit and hear a few?”

“I would,” replied Thomas truthfully, “but I am in something of a hurry, unfortunately. As you said, I’m in the middle of a noble quest myself. I’m trying to save my sister. And, well—right now I’m in a bit of danger. I don’t know if you know this, but we’re in some castle ruins in the middle of Palewater Bog, and there’s a changeling and some sirens outside, and they’re all trying to eat me and my friends.”

“Heavens!” cried the knight, still sharpening his sword. “Dreadful monsters indeed. Well then, dear boy, we shall forego the stories for now. But do watch out for them in the history books, where you’re sure to find many great tales of Sir Elbarion of Dorrick. You’ll be much profited of them, and I’d consider it a personal favor to know that such a brave and intrepid young hero as yourself has read and researched my own noble past.”

“It’ll be the first thing I do when my quest is finished.” Thomas promised. “I’m sorry to intrude upon your tomb and your—your shroud like this. I know it’s very sudden and rude. But as I said, I don’t have much time. The changeling is hunting for me even now.

“Well,” said Sir Elbarion, “you see, time is eternal within the shroud, so really you are quite safe for as long as you’d like to stay here. But I take your point; and besides, there’s very little to entertain a young boy here, as you can see, except for my stories perhaps, which we’ve already discussed. What do you need?”

Thomas had become somewhat distracted by his surroundings. He gestured to either side. “So this is your burial-shroud? And we’re . . . inside it?”

“Yes indeed,” replied Sir Elbarion, “much as you are currently inside your own clothes. But my shroud is bigger. As big as death, perhaps, though I am not really dead in the sense that most people mean. You see, for example, that I am still here, in some kind of mortal world, able to talk and interact with the living. Were I truly dead, I would not remain in my burial-shroud with my bones; I would have traveled on, to new lands and new adventures, to roam the wild countryside beyond. But, of course, I am dead in the sense that my bones are lying in my tomb beneath a burial-shroud, tattered though it may have become.” Sir Elbarion paused a moment. “I believe that is the result of the dampness of the tomb, though I am no cloth-master.”

“Why aren’t you truly dead?” Thomas asked. “This seems like a lonely placed to remain if you’re not fully alive.”

Sir Elbarion nodded, a little sadly. “Lonely, yes, and very boring. I amn’t here by my own choice, though I suppose that I would have volunteered if I knew that the task would have fallen to someone else otherwise. I don’t like to see other people suffer. I am not suffering right now, mind you, but I believe that there will yet be some future battle to fight here, and I’d rather participate myself and save others the risk.

“As for the why of it all, well, it’s really very simple. There is a curse placed over Palewater. This was once a fair and glorious kingdom, you know, with the castle at its heart a living gemstone of life and wonder. You have perhaps seen the yellowy haze that has taken over Palewater. Not pale at all—not in the sense that the word was first intended, like the paleness of lilies or dandelions or a soft blue summer sky or, naturally, the clear mellow waters that flowed throughout these hills. But then came war and darkness to Palewater, and a curse fell over the land and turned it into the bog that you have doubtless encountered during your own quest.”

Sir Elbarion set down his whetstone and appraised Thomas with a glance. “There’s a curse resting on Palewater, so I have remained behind to help remove it. There’s a prophecy as well, as there often is: old and filled with wisdom. It tells of a young boy, a hero, who will come to purge the bog and set me free so that together he and I may defeat the curse and cleanse these wicked waters.”

The knight looked at Thomas expectantly. Thomas, a little embarrassed, finally said: “I’m not sure I know how to purge the bog and set you free, Sir Elbarion. I’m just here on my own quest to save my sister . . .”

Sir Elbarion laughed. “Never you fear, young friend: just another trick to ease my lonely existence. You’re not the prophesied savior of Palewater anyway, so you’ve no obligation to help. You’ve got your own quest, as you say. It was just some fun for the moment. But now, what do you need to help you escape this changeling and these sirens?”

Thomas frowned. “I’m not entirely sure yet. I’ve actually come because I need your help with something else first. I’m suppose to gather some of that lichen that’s growing on your ribs—on your skeleton back in the tomb, I mean.”

Sir Elbarion’s heavy brows drew together. “The lichen on my ribs,” he said thoughtfully, taking up the whetstone again, applying it with slow and steady strokes. “You’re welcome to it, young hero. Might I ask why?’

Quickly Thomas related to him the essential details of his encounter with the witch and his subsequent quest for the four items.

“Ah, yes, I understand,” Sir Elbarion replied at the conclusion of the story. “A dark and dangerous quest indeed. You want to be careful around witches, young hero. They’re worse than they seem. They’re cunning, and they’ll make you forget who and what you are. Don’t let them.”

“I’ll do my best,” Thomas said, feeling the familiar dreadful anticipation of considering what would happen when he returned the four objects to the witch. He stamped it out as best he could and focused on his present situation. “Thank you for allowing me to take some of the lichen. I’ll be gentle with your bones.”

“Most kind of you, dear boy. And then you’ll be off to leave Palewater? An excellent choice. If it weren’t for the curse, I don’t suppose I’d stay here much longer myself. Fairer lands and fairer days beyond the bog.”

“That’s right,” Thomas said. “Though I’m not sure how to escape the castle ruins, as you mentioned. I’ve been so focused on getting the lichen that I haven’t figured out a plan to get free. I don’t even know the way out.”

Sir Elbarion rose and hefted the sword in his gauntleted hand, then gripped it by the blade and held the hilt out to Thomas. “You’re welcome to take my sword,” the knight said generously. “It will show you the way out of the castle and out of the bog. It’s enchanted, you see.”

Thomas eyed the sword. “Don’t you need it? for when the prophecy comes to pass?”

“Oh yes, certainly,” said Sir Elbarion, still holding the sword out. “But it’s an enchanted sword, remember. It’s tethered to Palewater, much as I am. Besides, it’ll always return to my side soon enough. You can take it and let it show you the way, and when you’re done and free of the bog, just leave it by the exit; the sword will find its way back to me after you’re safely away.”

Thomas took the hilt. The sword was lighter than he’d expected, but sturdy in his hand. “Are you sure?”

“Of course,” the knight said kindly. He rested a hand on Thomas’s shoulder. “I wish you all the best of fortune, young hero. I’d journey with you if I could, or at least try to provide some sort of protection against the changeling and the sirens. Alas, my powers in the halfway world are limited to my shroud, and although it is rather expansive”—he gestured to either side—“I am not sure I can lure them here. But you are a noble warrior, and you have friends with you in the ruins. I am sure you’ll accomplish your quest.”

Sir Elbarion knelt before Thomas, meeting his gaze directly, and clapped the boy’s shoulders warmly. “Safe travels and courage, young hero! Back to the world of the living for you! The shroud bids you away in hope!”

The gray shroud around Thomas fluttered and dropped away in tattered piles of nothing and faded into rippling water. The colors before him shifted; the image of the smiling, armored, flesh-clad Sir Elbarion faded, replaced by the skeleton on the dais. The sword remained in Thomas’s hands.

Thomas blinked. He looked around, at his own body, at the skeleton on the ground, at the sword in his own hands. Then he turned his head to look at Cathán, who was still perched on Thomas’s shoulder and regarded the boy with a baffled look.

Thomas shrugged. “I’m back from the shroud,” he said. “We can take the lichen now.”