Thrice Sworn: A Short-Story Prequel to Winterling (3 page)

“Are they dead?” the Mór demanded of one of the wolf-guards, who shuffled over to the two broken, blood-covered lovers.

“They are dead!” he cried.

Spitting the shifter-bone into his hand, Finn fell to his knees, retching.

His movement caught the Mór’s attention.

At the touch of her heels, the white horse, its eyes rolling with terror, shied and then crossed the clearing to him.

The Mór stared down from her horse’s back. “Where is the baby, Puck?” she shouted, to be heard above the sound of the rain and wind.

Finn wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and climbed shakily to his feet. “What baby?” he said.

The Mór’s face went even whiter with fury. “Do not try your puck tricks on me.”

Finn shrugged. “There’s no baby here,” he told her, and spread his arms wide to show her that he wasn’t hiding a baby anywhere on his person.

Her movements swift, the Mór swung down from her horse and yanked a short whip from beside the saddle. As she turned she brought the whip around, slashing a stripe of fire into Finn’s face; he felt the sting and the blood seep from the wound, mixing with rainwater. The Mór jerked her chin, and two of her wolf-guards climbed down from their mounts and grabbed Finn’s arms.

The Mór stepped closer. Finn flinched as she laid the length of the whip against the slash on his cheek. “Puck,” she said, her voice a steely thread. “Tell me now or die. Where is the Lady’s baby?”

Finn shook his head.

Her voice grated. “I ask you a third time, Puck.
Where is the baby?
”

A question asked three times must be answered, even by a puck.

Finn spoke past a lump of fear. “She’s in the human world. Beyond your reach.”

“And you took her there,” the Mór finished for him. Her mouth twisted into a smile. “You have allied yourself with the Lady and her human lover. You will regret it.” Again she nodded at her wolf-guards. “The shifter-bone. Make him swallow it.”

No!
Finn struggled, but the wolf-guards gripped him too tightly. One of them found the shifter and pried it out of Finn’s hand. He clenched his teeth until one of them struck him hard across the face—the whip-cut burned. As his mouth opened, one of the guards held up the shifter-bone.

“When I put this in your mouth, you will swallow it,” the wolf-guard grunted.

Wordlessly Finn shook his head. His brothers told stories about what would happen if a puck swallowed his shifter. He didn’t know for certain that it was true, but he didn’t want to find out. If he swallowed his shifter-bone, the stories said, he’d never be able to shift back again; he’d always remain a horse.

The wolf-guards bore him to the soggy ground. One of them put a knee on his chest and gripped his chin; the other covered his mouth and pinched his nose with a callused hand.

Finn struggled, trying to gasp a breath of air.

The wolf-guard’s broad face loomed in his vision. “Swallow it or die,” he threatened.

Finn felt tears leaking from his eyes. As a horse he’d never tell another story to his puck-brothers around the campfire. He’d never speak ever again, to anybody. He’d be a Phouka, a horse, and not Finn any longer.

But he didn’t want to die. He opened his mouth and the wolf-guard dropped the little lump of the shifter-bone on his tongue. Finn swallowed, and it slid easily down his throat. The shift into his horse form happened at once, and the wolf-guards scrambled away as he flailed his legs and struggled awkwardly onto his four hooves. He tried to spit out the bone to shift back, but he could not. His mane hung heavily down, soaked with the rain, and his bedraggled tail trailed on the ground.

As quickly as it had begun, the storm stopped. A few last drops of rain fell, and the wind died; the sky, though, stayed dark with clouds.

The Mór regarded Finn and gave a pleased nod. “We have our first prey,” she announced to the hunters gathered in the clearing. With the short whip, she pointed at Finn. “A hunt to the death!”

Finn trembled in fear. He was already tired from his run to the human world and back again. If the Mór hunted him, he’d not elude her for long.

Then someone else stumbled into the clearing. Rook, his dark hair plastered to his head by the rain. He ran across the grass and put himself between Finn and the Mór.

Oh, no, no, no,
Finn wanted to cry. He gave a shrill whinny.

Rook cast him a quick, wide-eyed look over his shoulder. He turned back to glare at the Mór.

“
Another
puck?” the Mór mocked. “A particularly young one too. What do you think you can do, puppy, to stop me from hunting him until I run him to ground?”

Finn saw Rook’s hands clench. He shoved at Rook’s shoulder with his nose.
Stop, Rook,
he wanted to say.
You can’t stop her. Just get away from here.

Without looking, Rook shoved Finn’s nose away. “I’ll do anything,” Rook said fiercely. “You can’t kill him.”

“Anything?” the Mór said, drawing the word out.

Rook’s thin shoulders hunched. Then he jerked out a nod.

“Hmmm,” the Mór murmured, and stepped closer to Rook and put the end of the whip under his chin to tilt his head back. She examined his face, then looked him up and down. “What is your name, youngling?”

“Robin,” Rook answered.

“Your true name,” the Mór demanded.

Rook shook his head. “Robin,” he repeated stubbornly.

The Mór regarded him for a long moment. “Having a puck bound to me,” she mused. “That would show how powerful a Lady I am.” She gave a nod, decided. “Yes. You are young, and I think you can be broken to my will. I will take your oath, Robin, and in exchange I will spare the horse here.”

Rook opened his mouth to agree.

But the Mór interrupted. She smiled and tapped his chin with the end of her whip. “Your thrice-sworn oath, Robin.”

No
. An oath sworn three times was unbreakable and never-ending. Rook would be her slave forever. Finn felt his words of protest trapped in his throat. He whinnied again.

“Be quiet,” the Mór ordered, almost absently. “Well, Robin?”

When Rook spoke, his voice was almost a whisper. “I will swear it.”

The Mór gave a triumphant smile. “Good,” she breathed. She pointed at the ground. “On your knees, swear it, once, twice, three times to bind yourself to me, to serve me in all things.”

Finn could see Rook shaking as he knelt on the wet grass. “I swear,” Rook started, and when his voice broke on the words he started again. “I swear to bind myself to you, the Mór, and to serve you in all things. Once, twice, three times I swear it.”

Finn bowed his head. His brother would never be free of the Mór.

The Mór reached into a pocket and pulled out a black feather. With fingers that seemed almost gentle, she knotted the feather into Rook’s wet hair. “There,” she murmured. “Now you are mine.”

Slowly Rook got to his feet.

“Come, stand at my side,” the Mór ordered. Rook did as he was told, standing with his head lowered. The Mór looked around the clearing, at her rain-soaked people on their bedraggled mounts. “No hunt today, it seems. You may bow to your new Lady and then retire to care for your mounts.”

With mumbled obedience, the people bowed to her and led their horses and other mounts out of the clearing. The Mór went to her own mount, the tall, white horse, and unbuckled the bridle and took the bit out of his mouth.

The bit, Finn noted, was cruelly spiked.

The Mór handed the bit to Rook. “Now that I have you, young Robin, the horse will serve me, too, for he will not leave you. Put this on him.”

Rook looked at the spiked bit in his hands and then stared up at the Mór, horrified. His eyes filled with tears.

“You may not weep,” the Mór said harshly. “Just do as you are bid.”

Rook brought the bit and bridle to Finn. “You have to get away from her, Finn,” he whispered. “Run away. Please!”

But Finn simply lowered his head.

“Do it!” the Mór ordered.

Woodenly Rook pulled the bridle over Finn’s ears and with shaking fingers put the cruel bit into his mouth. “I’m sorry,” Rook whispered. “Brother, I’m sorry.”

Finn felt the words swell inside him. Then he felt the spikes digging into the soft skin at the corners of his mouth. He tasted blood. He would never speak again. He would never tell a long and rambling story. Even whinnying would cause him pain.

And, alongside his thrice-bound puck-brother, he would serve the Mór.

Only one person could free them. But she was far away, and just a tiny baby, and she was lost to them in the human world.

And so they would serve. Forever. Unless, one day, Gwynnefar could find her way home.

Excerpt from
Winterling

Follow Finn and Rook’s story in
Winterling
,
Summerkin
, and
Moonkind
by Sarah Prineas.
Are they bound to the cruel Mór forever?
What consequences does the Mór’s treachery have
for the Summerlands? And what happens to Laurelin
and Owen’s baby—Gwynnefar?
Read this gripping trilogy and find out.

Find out how Fer’s journey begins.

Prologue

The dog fled. He raced down a shadowy forest trail lit by the full moon. Hearing the howl of the wolves that pursued him, he left the path for the darker forest, struggling through brambly bushes, dodging trees that grabbed after him with long, twiggy fingers.

A stream, or running water to throw the wolves off his scent—that’s what he needed.

On he ran, panting with the effort.

The Mór demanded loyalty from all her creatures. He was bound against his will to serve her, but unlike the others who served her, he could see what she truly was. When she had ordered the hunt of one of her own people, he’d refused. He’d been stupid—
stupid
—and now he was the one they hunted.

The wolves howled again, closer.

They were going to catch him. And when they did, they would kill him, if that was what the Mór willed.

He was stumbling now, nearing exhaustion. Then he heard the rush of water over stones, smelled the fresh scent of water—a stream. He made for it, gasping for breath, his tongue lolling.

The water felt cool on his scratched paw pads. He stumbled up the stream until it got too deep, then scrambled out and found the path that ran alongside it. From behind he heard the
yip
of one wolf calling to another, and then they were there, rushing like gray shadows from the dark forest, surrounding him.

Snarling, he ducked away, and a wolf lunged and raked its fangs across his shoulder. He ran, feeling the burn of the wound, and they pursued. One wolf bounded alongside him and slashed at his foreleg, then fell back.

Despairing, he limped along the narrow path, seeing light ahead, an opening in the forest where the stream flowed into a perfectly round pool that reflected the full moon overhead. With a last, desperate bound, he leaped for the pool, the wolves surrounding him, snarling, biting, their teeth bitterly sharp.

He expected water, and then a bloody death.

Instead, he fell through the pool into darkness deeper than any night he had ever known.