Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

WREN

The village wasn't far, if you knew the right path to take. Of course, if you didn't you might never be seen again. But Wren had grown up here. The darkwood had been her playground as soon as she could walk and it had never turned on her. Not once.

Which should have been a warning in and of itself.

It sang to her, called to her. But she remembered what Elodie had always said and tried to only ever reach for the light. She just wished it wasn't so hard.

The village was quiet when she arrived. There was nothing sleepier than Thirbridge on a late summer afternoon. Devin Carter gathered the supplies on the list quickly, his careful chatter running past her. Elodie kept a monthly account at the village trading station, which made everything easy. Half the time she never paid anyway. Those she helped or those who owed her would often just deal with payment for her. Hedge witches were like that. They served the community beside which they lived. And that community looked after them.

If they know what's good for them , Elodie would sometimes mutter darkly. Wren was never entirely sure if she was joking. But they were not part of the village. They were always separate, always apart. If she hadn't known before, Pol had made that completely clear.

It was as if by thinking of him, no matter how briefly, she summoned him.

He lurched out of the door of the tavern as she passed, almost colliding with a taller, slender man, deep in discussion with the stableman about his horse.

‘Wren?' Pol shouted, her name slurred by ale. He'd started early then. ‘I want to talk to you.' She bent her head and hurried forward, holding back from running. Without Elodie here, with that much alcohol in him… The wind rose around her and the trees on the edge of the forest moved, beckoning her forward. If she could just get there before?—

‘Wren! Stop, curse you. You did this, didn't you? You did it on purpose. You cursed the child inside her. Admit it!'

The words brought her up short and she turned. Something was wrong with the baby? What did he mean? Pol bore down on her, tankard still clenched in his fist.

‘What?'

‘A girl,' he snarled, spittle flying from his mouth. ‘What am I going to do with a girl? And now they're talking about sending us to Farringdale. What am I going to do all the way out there? Do I look like a farmer? Lindie's already packing. All set for it, she is.'

Wren sucked in a breath. She had to get away from him. Now. As far away as she could until someone could make him see sense. Lindie's family maybe, or his father. Someone. Elodie would have to talk to them.

People did what Elodie said. They always had done. Anything else was unthinkable. If Elodie said they ought to go to the rich and fertile farmlands around Farringdale then that was what they would do. They'd be much safer there in the east than back here, where the darkwood could tempt him again.

And when a witch, even a hedge witch, told you to go somewhere, you went. Whether you wanted to or not.

And Elodie was indeed a witch. So was Wren, for that matter, though she might wish she could forget it.

We are witchkind. We will live free or die. That was what Elodie always said. Wren tried to think of it as a mark of dignity.

The wind blew harder, pushing him away from her abruptly. Pol cursed and he tried to keep walking, but the dust blew up into his face, leaving him spluttering in rage. Wren pressed onwards, as fast as she dared, making for the edge of the village. The tankard hurtled past her head, missing her by only a fraction and clattering on the ground.

And then he was on her.

Grabbing her by the scruff of the neck, he hefted her off her feet and shook her like a dog with a rat. She opened her mouth to cry out and felt the shadows rise between the trees, along the edge of the buildings. Just early evening shadows, pale things, but that didn't mean they were useless.

She'd promised she wouldn't use them. She'd sworn it to Elodie. She would reach for the light. That was what she had said all her life. She would always reach for the light. But there wasn't enough here and the darkness answered more readily.

That's the problem, Elodie had told her. It always does.

Pol's hand closed on her throat and he snarled. Darkness flared in his eyes, and she thought, just for the second before he tightened his grip, she saw something else in him. Something shadowlike, flitting like smoke behind his eyes, lurking inside him. They'd gone into the darkwood. Maybe he hadn't come back alone…

He was going to kill her. This drunken, miserable, bully was going to?—

Abruptly, Pol was jerked back from her. Wren dropped to the ground, down on her knees, gasping for breath, while a man like a shadow himself towered over them both. He grabbed Pol by one shoulder and punched him hard, just once, but with the full force of his body behind the blow.

Pol crumpled, but his cronies were already emerging from the tavern now, followed by others who wanted to see what the fuss was about. Others who wouldn't take kindly to a stranger flooring one of their own…

‘Are you all right?' the man asked, the one who had been talking to the stableman. He bent over her and she had a sense of a delicately handsome face, dark-skinned from the sun, concern making his blue eyes seem even brighter. He clearly wasn't short of coin judging by the travelling clothes, and the cost of stabling a horse behind the tavern.

He reached out his hand to help her up and she was about to let him, when she saw three of the men from the tavern behind him.

‘Look out!' she shouted.

He moved as if on instinct, even as she warned him, like he was made of water or wind, twisting aside and ducking to avoid attack, almost like a dancer. Wren watched in amazement as he effortlessly dodged the clumsy blows. Pol's friend Dale went down in a heap over her rescuer's feet and he whipped up his cloak to tangle around Owin's head, bringing him down too.

‘Gentlemen,' he said, barely out of breath. ‘There's no need for this. Why not go back to your drinks and leave the bullying to someone else.'

They scrambled to their feet again, but didn't look quite so sure of themselves now. Pol snarled at both Wren and the stranger but backed off, muttering darkly, ‘You'd want to keep going, good sir,' he called back. ‘No sense in getting into fights over a witch's bastard.'

Wren made her decision. She had to take the opening as it offered itself even if it meant deserting the stranger. There wasn't going to be another chance, not when Pol had got half the village riled up against her. She'd have to warn Elodie. She grabbed the bag of provisions she'd dropped and sprinted for the forest as fast as she could. The shouts behind her told her they'd noticed and they'd changed their mind about retreating now she'd left the stranger's protection. They were coming after her.

Cursing, she plunged through the treeline, struggling through the dense undergrowth and praying they wouldn't follow. Knowing they would.

They were that stupid, and drunk enough for the sense they'd been born with to have taken a leave of absence. Or maybe the dark spirit she had glimpsed was not just in Pol now.

Which meant she had only one choice. She had to make for the darkwood and hope for the best.

The forest closed around her. Deep, verdant greens and all the colours of the natural world, all the things that soothed her senses. Her heart still thundering, her breath coming only in gasps, she slowed her pace. If she kept running blind she'd fall afoul of the forest in no time. She knew this path, knew her way.

Those pursuing her did not. They might think they did. They'd be wrong.

She'd get home, tell Elodie what had happened and she'd sort it out. The village headwoman would take Pol in hand, she knew that, if Elodie demanded it. And if they didn't, Wren couldn't ever set foot in the village again, which Elodie would not take well.

If they cross me, they'll know about it, Elodie had said on more than one occasion. Wren could only hope that was the case now, that Elodie was right.

Tears welled up in her eyes, making the forest around her blur and twist as she made her way around the valley's edge and turned towards home. It wasn't fair. She'd loved Pol. She'd thought he loved her. She had made the mistake of trusting him with the truth about her magic, about the things she learned from Elodie and the wonders she could perform.

And he had been horrified. Truly horrified. He'd rejected her, and told them all she was a monster. No one in Thirbridge had ever looked at her the same way again.

Heartbroken, she'd admitted it all to Elodie who had listened, sympathetically enough, and then offered, in all seriousness, to curse him. His dick will never stir again , she promised.

Why hadn't she taken the hedge witch up on that offer right then and there? It might have saved everyone a lot of trouble. Especially Lindie.

Wren sniffed loudly, and trudged down a rabbit run of a path into the valley below, the trees pressing close around her. The shadows here were deeper, darker, and somehow that was a comfort.

It shouldn't be. She knew that. The forest here had always been a safe place for her. Not for anyone else. But the darkness in this area was different, the darkness of a womb perhaps, a place of shelter from the storm, the one place where, as a child, she could always hide.

She was still hiding.

Behind her, she heard horse hooves, and she froze. Someone was still following her. The villagers wouldn't, not this deeply, but the stranger…

Regret made her stomach clench. It wasn't safe in here, not for the unwary. Skill at fighting wouldn't help. This magic was old and strong. It was hungry. She turned back, ready to step out and warn him.

But the dark horse had no rider. It stopped when it saw her, snorting warily, pawing at the ground. The reins hung down, abandoned. Bags were slung from the saddle, and various weapons, all signs of a traveller rather than a local. Not that anyone local had a horse like that. Huge, black, with a long rippling mane and tail, a thoroughbred warhorse.

It had to belong to the man who had saved her. The way he'd moved, the way he'd avoided the village men and made them look like clumsy dolts, he had to be a trained warrior. A knight perhaps.

He'd come after her, right into the darkwood.