Hero (17 page)

“Welcome back,” said Betwixt.

“Where—” But Saturday didn’t need to ask. The answers came and disappointed her as quickly as they had upon waking. “Right. Sorry.”

“I hit her and
she
apologizes!” Peregrine said far too loudly. “I was going to congratulate her on not having lost her mind, but now I’m not so sure.”

The food settled in her nauseous belly and sanity slithered back under her skin. Saturday watched Peregrine’s mouth as he spoke, imagining what it would be like to kiss him once more and telling herself to stop.
Warm,
she thought. It had been warm in his arms. She’d like to be warm again.

“Her brain’s still addled,” said Betwixt.

Saturday was inclined to agree.

Peregrine handed her another rough bread roll and the cup, which he’d replenished from the helmet at his feet. She drained the cup again and inhaled the roll while he refilled the cup once more. Peregrine emptied the bags of fresh moss and scattered it across the clean room while she chewed and drank and slowly came back to life.

“I’m okay now,” she said finally, glad that he had goaded her into conversation before she was conscious enough to worry about what to say. Actions spoke louder than words and he was helping her, despite the fact that she was about to be the cause of his death. “The witch gave me new tasks. She wants me to find her mushrooms and seeds and some sort of spiced moss.”

“No brownie teeth?” asked Peregrine.

“She must already have some,” said Betwixt.

“What’s a brownie? Wait, no . . . If it has teeth, I think I saw one earlier. What’s spiced moss? And where am I supposed to find seeds in a cave?”

“Don’t worry. I’ll help you with all of it,” said Peregrine. “But first things first. Are you okay enough to help me lug these bags across the mountain?”

Saturday groaned.

“I have a wagon,” he said.

“Really?”

Peregrine shrugged. “It’s a small thing, more of a litter or a wheelbarrow, I suppose, but it’s useful enough. And it functions! Sort of.”

“Sort of?”

“When it doesn’t, he fixes it,” said Betwixt.

“Works for me,” said Saturday.

“And I’ve brought you a change of clothes for that bath I promised.”

“
Gods,
yes.” Those were the very words she’d wanted to hear. She expected some small retort from Peregrine at her blatant enthusiasm, but when none came, she turned to find him staring at her like an idiot. Seizing the opportunity, she moved to return his earlier favor by slapping him out of his dazed state. He caught her hand before it connected.

“Don’t start,” he said, shaking off his brief catatonia. “That look on your face just reminded me of . . .” He shook his head again and dropped her wrist. “I’ll explain later. Let’s go.”

Saturday jumped up. “Yes, sir!” She wavered a bit as the blood rushed to her head. That was dumb—she should have remembered to rise more slowly. Mama called it the curse of the tall folk.

Peregrine shot her a look. “Remember who you’re addressing, Woodcutter.”

“Yes,
ma’am?
Whatever.” Saturday tapped her temple. “Addled brain, remember?”

“Fools,” said an exasperated Betwixt.

“Cats,” mocked Peregrine.

The cat in question stuck out his large pink tongue.

Now that her belly was temporarily sated, Saturday’s muscles complained as she hefted the bags onto Peregrine’s strange cart. It had been stupid of her to faint and lie still on such cold ground for so long—the frost from the unforgiving icerock had seeped into her sinew and frozen her limbs stiff once more. As much as she longed to be clean, she loathed the thought of bathing from a metal helmet-basin the same temperature as the walls, but she’d suffer through it if it meant not having to smell herself for another night. Peregrine might even take pity on her and let her sleep by a fire again. If she didn’t open her gob and screw it up first.

Peregrine’s “wagon” had been cobbled together from what looked like the broken wooden handles of axes, spears, and maces. She’d noticed a dwarf’s hammer or two in the armory before their sparring match, but she wondered what Peregrine had used for nails. The wheels of the wagon were shields, hammered down and reinforced with leather straps. It wasn’t the smoothest device she’d ever pulled, but it was indeed functional.

Once the cart had been filled, Saturday grabbed the handles and began jogging down the corridor. “Where are we off to?”

“Let me carry that for a while,” said Peregrine. “You’ve already done enough for today.”

Why was he being nice to her? She’d been nothing but rude to him, and that was before the pyrrhi had come bearing tidings of doom. When Peter was nice to Saturday like this, it was always because he wanted something.

“I need to stay warm,” she told him. “I’ll hand it back over to you when I tire. I promise.”

Peregrine agreed, silly boy. Peter never would have accepted such a deal. He knew that Saturday never tired.

True to her word she ferried the moss all the way to their destination. Peregrine called out twice to get her to stop and change direction, and twice to pick the mushrooms and moss for her second task.

“Do you think it’s wise to collect these ingredients for a spell we’re trying to stop?” she asked him.

“With the amount of magic at her disposal, thanks to your presence, I suspect the ingredients don’t matter much,” he said. “And fulfilling her task will keep you alive long enough to fulfill your destiny.”

“Destiny” was a kind word for the chaos Saturday was meant to unleash here. She only hoped she found her sword first. It would be a shame to die without it.

Saturday did not recognize any part of these caves. She had no idea where they were. It hurt her head less to concentrate on stretching and keeping her footing instead of the twists and turns around and through as their path gently sloped heavenward.

She was grateful that most of the way had been level and wide enough for the cart—only once did they have to unload and reload the wagon, after moving it to an opening several feet off the ground. The air was considerably warmer here. Her muscles relaxed even as her boots slipped on the perspiring rocks beneath her.

Once Saturday was able to relieve herself of her burden, she looked around and lost her breath at the sight.

They had climbed all the way to paradise.

12

OF ALL the nooks and crannies Peregrine had discovered in the caves, the garden felt the most like home. Under different circumstances he would have kept this room from Saturday, but their time on the mountain had been cut short. In a fortnight, the garden might no longer exist.

The walls here were solid quartz crystal instead of cloudy calcite and icerock. Ironically, these towering, flowering crystals looked more like ice to him than the rest of the rime-ridden caverns. The ceiling came to a point, creating a clear pyramid, with walls thin enough to let the sunlight through when there was any and the starshine in when there wasn’t. Currently, there wasn’t.

Not that one could track days reliably under this skylight by any means. In Starburn the sun came for summer days and fled for the winter ones, but the Top of the World lay even farther north. If one truly meant to monitor the passing of time, this room would only be good for marking seasons instead of days. Peregrine knew this because, eventually, he had given up on those as well.

He rubbed out the simple ward he’d drawn on the floor to keep the brownies away—something he’d learned from Leila’s book—and led Saturday over the threshold with the wagon. Betwixt carried the lantern he clenched in his beak to a pillar on the far side of the room.

“The garden was here when I arrived,” Peregrine said to Saturday’s stunned silence. He removed a dagger and flint from inside his skirt pocket and set about lighting the torches he’d wedged in between various crystals on the wall. “It was much smaller then, but the rudiments had been started. We’ve built up the soil from the detritus of the other plants that can’t survive this environment and Cwyn’s used peat. That silly magicked rake turned out to be useful after all.”

Saturday paid him little mind. She focused instead on the greenness around her, the life that this garden brought to the dead mountain as it stretched up to the crystal peak. Peregrine remembered feeling that same reverence once, so very long ago, and he hadn’t been born and bred in a forest as she had. It meant the world to him that he could share this with her.

“This garden was Leila’s alone; I’ve never heard the witch mention it, and we’ve never brought it to her attention. I suspect it was one of the reasons Leila devised her plan to escape. Being here does make one miss—”

“Everything,” finished Saturday. Her voice filled with more emotion than he’d thought her willing to share. “The Wood. My family. So much work to do.” The wistfulness in her voice trailed away with the thought. She reached out to caress a leaf of the closest plant. “Seeds. Where did you get the seeds?”

“The same place I got the swords and lanterns: from the dead.” She did not shudder at his words as he might have, but she was a warrior, not he.

“Provisions,” she deduced.

“Most of what they carried was rotted to nothing, but some desiccated seeds remained dormant. Whatever dust I found, I scattered here.”

“Any dust is fair game for compost,” Betwixt added. He flew to a crystal outcropping above the garden and stretched out like a sphinx. “Since most of the dust here is of a magical origin, seeds that might never have sprouted were convinced to do otherwise.”

“We had a garden at home,” said Saturday, “and the Wood has its own bounties, but I don’t recognize many of these plants.”

“Nor did I,” Peregrine admitted. “Some are still a mystery. Many times I didn’t recognize the skeletons from which I took them. Some of the fruits of my labors—”

“
Our
labors,” corrected Betwixt.

“ . . . 
our
labors—my apologies—have been tested by good old trial and error. Most are palatable. Others are just beautiful. There was a particular inedible orange specimen with incredibly tough skin that stank of sour milk when it blossomed.”

“Trollish,” said Betwixt. “Had to have been.”

“That’s the only plant I’ve ever weeded on purpose. There’s a goblinfruit here that’s unappetizing to look at but delectable on the inside . . . like goblins themselves, I suppose. I was lucky to cultivate a patch of wheat and corn for grains and tea for . . . well, tea. Then there are the more familiar vegetables: the potatoes and gingerroot took quite well, as did the onions and the—”

“—beans,” Saturday finished for him, tilting her head back to admire the winding stalks that grew farthest up the wall, twining in and out and around crystals all the way to the peaked roof. This time she did shudder, but Peregrine hadn’t the faintest idea why.

“But this is my
pièce de résistance.
” Peregrine moved aside the large leaf that hid his tomato plants from view. Saturday’s eyes widened. She quickly snatched one of the fattest ripe red fruits and sank her teeth into it. Her eyes closed in bliss and she made that face again, the same one she’d made when he’d offered her the bread and the bath.

She had yet to thank him in so many words, but at the moment he’d forgotten what a pest she could be. She couldn’t argue with him if her mouth was full. Peregrine vowed to keep her clean and fed so long as she kept making that face.

Saturday groaned in delight and bit into the tomato once more. Peregrine smiled so hard, his cheeks hurt.

“Behave yourself,” Betwixt said to him.

Peregrine raised both hands innocently. “She’s the one making noises, not me.” He took a full step away from Saturday for good measure, though, in case he accidentally ended up kissing her again.

Saturday took another bite and scowled at them both for interrupting her delightful communion with the divine fruit. She made to wipe the juice from her face with her sleeve and then stopped, no doubt reminded of exactly how disgusting she was from head to toe. “It’s warm in here,” she said with her mouth full, as if she’d only just realized that the change in temperature wasn’t solely from the effort she’d exerted in lugging the cart far longer than she should have.

“The heat, damp, and sun make this spot ideal for growing things,” said Peregrine. He motioned for her to follow his outstretched arm. He did not trust himself to touch her—let her think his need for space was because of the smell.

Their destination lay beyond a thick, low wall of crystal and stone that looked solid but for the steam that rose up from behind it, betraying the true breadth of the cavern. Saturday led the way around the wide outcropping, startling a colony of ice bats. The torchlight caught their clear wings, showering the floor beneath them with sparkles of light. Peregrine tried to stop her as she reached out to the crystalline wings, but he was not close enough to grab her filthy arm in time. Saturday flinched and pulled away fingertips scored with lines of blood.

“Sorry. Should have mentioned those. Crystalwings. They’re as beautiful as they are sharp, and completely useless as a food source. Don’t put that in your mouth.” His fingers slid in the slime that covered her elbow and he quelled his gag reflex. He wasn’t sure how she’d been able to stand herself this long. “Just wash it off.”

The boulder they stood on overlooked a vast chasm, but one could guess from the steam that it was a real lake and not a mirage. Still, Saturday tossed a small handful of the pebbles from her pocket and watched the ripples mar the ceiling’s reflection in happiness.

“Clever girl,” said Peregrine. It had taken him much longer to come up with the same trick.

The water was clear as far down as the meager torchlight permeated. Now that the ripples had dispelled the deceitful reflection, the crystals under the water could be seen. Those at the perimeter were beautiful and sharply pointed. But unlike in most lakes, there was no wildlife, and no discernible bottom.

Peregrine attempted to coax Saturday forward with his voice in an effort to refrain from touching her again. “It’s deep. Impossibly so. The water is heated from the heart of the mountain. This high up it’s tolerable. Pleasant. Blissful, even.”