Copyright © 1992 by Emma Bull, All rights reserved.  First appeared in After the King (Tor Books).  For the personal use of those who have purchased the ESF 1993 Award anthology only.

Silver or Gold

by Emma Bull

Moon Very Thin sat on the raised hearth -- the only place in the center room out of the way -- with her chin on her knuckles.  She would have liked to be doing something more, but the things she thought of were futile, and most were undignified.  She watched Alder Owl crisscross the slate floor and pop in and out of the stillroom and the pantry and the laundry.  Alder Owl’s hands were full of things on every crossing:  clean clothes, a cheese, dried yellow dock and feverfew, a tinderbox, a wool mantle.  She was frowning faintly all over her round pink face, and Moon knew that she was reviewing lists in her head.
“You can’t pack all that,” said Moon.
“You couldn’t,” said Alder Owl.  “But I’ve had fifty years more practice.  Now remember to cure the squash before you bring them in, or there’ll be nothing to eat all winter but onions.  And if the squirrels nest in the thatch again, there’s a charm --”
“You told me,” Moon sighed.  She shifted a little to let the fire roast a slightly different part of her back.  “If I forget it, I can look it up.  It’s awfully silly for you to set out now.  We could have snow next week.”
“If we did, then I’d walk through it.  But we won’t. Not for another month.”  Alder Owl wrapped three little stoneware jars in flannel and tucked them in her wicker pack. 
Moon opened her mouth, and the thing she’d been busy not saying for three days hopped out.  “He’s been missing since before Midsummer.  Why do you have to go now?  Why do you have to go at all?”
At that, Alder Owl straightened up and regarded her sternly.  “I have responsibilities.  You ought to know that.”
“But why should they have anything to do with him?”
“He is the prince of the Kingdom of Hark End.”
Moon stood up.  She was taller than Alder Owl, but under that fierce gaze she felt rather stubby.  She scowled to hide it.  “And we live in Hark End.  Hundreds -- thousands of people do.  A lot of them are even witches.  They haven’t all gone tramping off like a pack of questing youngest sons.”
Alder Owl had a great many wrinkles, which deepened all over her face when she was about to smile.  They deepened now.  “First, youngest sons have never been known to quest in packs.  Second, all the witches worth their salt and stone have tried to find him, in whatever way suits them best.  All of them but me.  I held back because I wanted to be sure you could manage without me.”
Moon Very Thin stood still for a moment, taking that in.  Then she sat back down with a thump and laced her fingers around her knees.  “Oh,” she said, halfway between a gasp and a laugh.  “Unfair, unfair.  To get at me through my pride!”
“Yes, my weed, and there’s such a lot of it.  I have to go, you know.  Don’t make it harder for me.”
“I wish I could do something to help,” said Moon after a moment.
“I expect you to do all your work around here, and all of mine besides.  Isn’t that enough?”  Alder Owl smoothed the flap down over the pack and snugged the drawstring tight.
“You know it’s not.  Couldn’t I go with you?”
Alder Owl pulled a stool from under the table with her foot and sat on it, her hands over her knees.  “When I travel in my spirit,” she said, “to ask a favor of Grandmother, you can’t go with me.”
“Of course not.  Then who’d play the drum, to guide you back?”
Alder Owl beamed.  “Clever weed.  Open that cupboard over the mantel-shelf and bring me what you find there.”
What Moon found was a drum.  It was nothing like the broad, flat, cowhide journey-drum, whose speech echoed in her bones and was like a breathing heartbeat under her fingers, whose voice could be heard in the land where there was no voice.  This drum was an upright cylinder no bigger than a quart jar.  Its body was made of some white wood, and the skins of its two heads were fine-grained and tufted with soft white hair around the lashings.  There was a loop of hide to hold it with, and a drumstick with a leather beater tucked through that.
Moon shook her head.  “This wouldn’t be loud enough to bring you home from the pump, let alone from -- where are you going?”
“Wherever I have to.  Bring it to me.”
Moon brought her the drum, and Alder Owl held it up by the loop of hide and struck it, once.  The sound it made was a sharp, ringing tok, like a woodpecker’s blow.
Alder Owl said, “The wood is from an ash tree planted at the hour of my birth.  The skins are from a ewe born on the same day.  I raised the ewe and watered the tree, and on my sixteenth birthday, I asked them for their lives, and they gave them gladly.  No matter how far I go, the drum will reach me.  When I cannot hear it, it will cease to sound.
“Tomorrow at dawn, I’ll leave,” Alder Owl continued.  “Tomorrow at sunset, as the last rind of the sun burns out behind the line of the Wantnot Hills, and at every sunset after, beat the drum once, as I just did. ”
Moon was a little shaken by the solemnity of it all.  But she gathered her wits at last and repeated, “At sunset each day.  Once.  I’ll remember.”
“Hmph.  Well.”  Alder Owl lifted her shoulders, as if solemnity was a shawl she could shrug away.  “Tomorrow always comes early.  Time to put the fire to bed.”
“I’ll get the garden things,” Moon said.  She tossed her cloak on and went out the stillroom door into the night.
Her namesake was up, and waxing.  Alder Owl would have good light, if she needed to travel by night.  But it would be cold traveling; frost dusted the leaves and vines and flagstone paths like talcum.  Moon shivered and sighed.  “What’s the point of having an able-bodied young apprentice, if you’re not going to put all that ableness to use?” she muttered to the shifting air.  The cold carried all her S’s off into the dark.
She pinched a bloom from the yellow chrysanthemum, and a stalk of merry-man’s wort from its sheltered bed.  When she came back into the house she found that Alder Owl had already fed the fire and settled the logs with the poker, and fetched a bowl of water.  Moon dropped the flowers into it.
“Comforter, guard against the winter dark,” Alder Owl said to the fire, as always, as if she were addressing an old friend.  She stirred the water with her fingers as she spoke.  “Helpmeet, nourisher of flesh and heart, bide and watch, and let no errant spark leap up until the sun should take thy part.”
Firelight brushed across the seamed landscape of Alder Owl’s face, flashed yellow in her sharp, dark eyes, turned the white in her hair to ivory.  Tomorrow night, Moon thought, she won’t be here.  Just me.   She could believe it only with the front of her mind, where all untested things were kept.  The rest of her, mind and lungs and soles of feet, denied it.
Alder Owl flicked the water from her hand onto the hearth, and the line of drops steamed.  Then she handed the bowl to Moon, and Moon fed the flowers to the fire.
After a respectful silence, Moon said, “It’s water.”  It was the continuation of an old argument.  “And the logs were trees that grew out of the earth and fed on water, and the fire itself feeds on those and air.  That’s all four elements.  You can’t separate them.”
“It’s the hour for fire, and it’s fire that we honor.  At the appropriate hours we honor the other three, and if you say things like that in public, no educated person in the village will speak to you.”  Alder Owl took the bowl out of Moon’s hands and gathered her fingers in a strong, wet clasp.  “My weed, my stalk of yarrow.  You’re not a child anymore.  When I leave, you’ll be a grown woman, in others’ eyes if not your own.  What people hear from a child’s mouth as foolishness becomes something else on the lips of a woman grown:  sacrilege, or spite, or madness.  Work the work as you see fit, but keep your mouth closed around your notions, and keep fire out of water and earth out of air.”
“But --”
“Empty the bowl now, and get on to bed.”
Moon went into the garden again and flung the water out of the bowl -- southward, because it was consecrated to fire.  Then she stood a little while in the cold, with a terrible hard feeling in her chest that was beyond sadness, beyond tears.  She drew in great breaths to freeze it, and exhaled hard to force the fragments out.  But it was immune to cold or wind.
“I’d like to be a woman,” she whispered.  “But I’d rather be a child with you here, than a woman with you gone.”  The sound of the words, the knowledge that they were true, did what the cold couldn’t.  The terrible feeling cracked, melted, and poured out of her in painful tears.  Slowly the comforting order around her, the beds and borders Alder Owl had made, stopped the flow of them, and the kind cold air wiped them off her face.
At dawn, when the light of sunrise lay tangled in the treetops, Alder Owl settled her pack on her back and went out by the front door.  Moon went with her as far as the gate at the bottom of the yard.  In the uncertain misty land of dawn, Alder Owl was a solid, certain figure, cloaked in shabby purple wool, her silver and black hair tucked under a drunken-brimmed green hat.
“I don’t think you should wear the hat,” Moon said, past the tightness in her throat.  “You look like an eggplant.”
“I like it.  I’m an old woman.  I can wear what I please.”
She was going.  What did one say, except “Goodbye,” which wasn’t at all what Moon wanted?  “When will you come back?”
“When I’ve found him.  Or when I know he can’t be found.”
“You always tell me not to try to prove negatives.”
“There are ways,” Alder Owl replied, with a sideways look, “to prove this one.”
Moon Very Thin shivered in the weak sun.  Alder Owl squinted up at her, pinched her chin lightly.  Then she closed the gate behind her and walked down the hill.  Moon watched her -- green and purple, silly and strong -- until the trees hid her from sight.
She cured the squash before she put them in the cellar.  She honored the elements, each at its own hour.  She made cheese and wine, and put up the last of the herbs, and beat the rugs, and waxed all the floors against the coming winter muck.  She mended the thatch and the fence, pruned the apple trees and turned the garden beds, taking comfort from maintaining the order that Alder Owl had established.
Moon took over other established things, too.  By the time the first snow fell, her neighbors had begun to bring their aches and pains to her, to fetch her when a child was feverish, to call her in to set a dog’s broken leg or stitch up a horse’s gashed flank.  They asked about the best day to sign a contract, and whether there was a charm to keep nightshade out of the hay field.  In return, they brought her mistletoe and willow bark, a sack of rye flour, a tub of butter.
She didn’t mind the work.  She’d been brought up for it; it seemed as natural as getting out of bed in the morning.  But she found she minded the payment.  When the nearest neighbor’s boy, Fell, trotted up to the gate on his donkey with the flour sack riding pillion, and thanked her, and gave it to her, she almost thrust it back at him.  Alder Owl had given her the skill, and had left her there to serve them.  The payment should be Alder Owl’s.  But there was no saying which would appear first, Alder Owl or the bottom of the sack.
“You look funny,” Fell said.
“You look worse,” Moon replied, because she’d taught him to climb trees and to fish, and had thus earned the privilege.  “Do you know those things made out of wood or bone, with a row of little spines set close together?  They call them ‘combs’.”
“Hah, hah.”  He pointed to the flour.  “I hope you make it all into cakes and get fat.”  He grinned and loped back down the path to the donkey.  They kicked up snow as they climbed the hill, and he waved at the crest.
She felt better.  Alder Owl would never have had that conversation.
Every evening at sunset, Moon took the little drum out of the cupboard over the mantel.  She looked at it, and touched it, and thought of her teacher.  She tried to imagine her well and warm and safe, with a hot meal before her and pleasant company near.  At last, when the rim of the sun blinked out behind the far line of hills, she swung the beater against the fine skin head, and the drum sounded its woodpecker knock.
Each time Moon wondered:  Could Alder Owl really hear it?  And if she could, what if Moon were to beat it again?  If she beat it three times, would Alder Owl think something was wrong, and return home?
Nothing was wrong.  Moon put the drum away until the next sunset.
The Long Night came, and she visited all her neighbors, as they visited her.  She brought them fir boughs tied with bittersweet, and honey candy, and said the blessing-charm on their doorsteps.  She watched the landscape thaw and freeze, thaw and freeze.  Candle-day came, and she went to the village, which was sopping and giddy with a spell of warmer weather, to watch the lighting of the new year’s lamps from the flame of the old.  It could be, said the villagers, that no one would ever find the prince.  It could be that the King of Stones had taken him beneath the earth, and that he would lie there without breath, in silence, forever.  And had she had any word of Alder Owl, and hadn’t it been a long time that she’d been gone?
Yes, said Moon, it had been a long time.
The garden began to stir, almost invisibly, like a cat thinking of breakfast in its sleep.  The sound of water running was everywhere, though the snow seemed undisturbed and the ice as thick as ever.  Suddenly, as if nature had thrown wide a gate, it was spring, and Moon was run off her legs with work.  Lambing set her to wearing muddy paths in the hills between the cottage and the farmsteads all around.  The mares began to foal, too.  She thanked wisdom that women and men, at least, had no season.
She had been with Tansy Broadwater’s bay thoroughbred since late morning.  The foal had been turned in the womb and tied in his cord, and Moon was nearly paralyzed thinking of the worth of the two of them, and their lives in her hands.  She was bloody to the elbows and hoarse with chanting, but at last she and Tansy regarded each other triumphantly across the withers of a nursing colt.
“Come up to the house for a pot of hot tea,” Tansy said as Moon rinsed soap off her hands and arms.  “You won’t want to start out through the woods now until moonrise, anyway.”
Moon lifted her eyes, shocked, to the open barn door.  The sun wore the Wantnot Hills like a girdle.
“I have to go,” she said.  “I’m sorry.  I’ll be all right.”  She headed for the trail at a run.
Stones rolled under her boots, and half-thawed ice lay slick as butter in the shadows.  It was nearly night already, under the trees.  She plunged down the hill and up the next one, and down again, slithering, on all fours sometimes.  She could feel her bones inside her brittle as fire-blasted wood, her ankles fragile and waiting for a wrench.  She was afraid to look at the sun again.
The gate -- the gate at the bottom of the path was under her hands.  She sobbed in relief.  So close... She raced up through the garden, the cold air like fire in her lungs.  She struggled frantically with the front door, until she remembered it was barred inside, that she’d left through the stillroom.  She banged through the stillroom door and made the contents of the shelves ring and rattle.  To the hearth, and wrench the cupboard door open . . .
The drum was in her hands, and through the window the sun’s rind showed, thin as thread, on the hills.  She was in time.  As the horizon closed like a snake’s eyelid over the disk of the sun, Moon struck the drum.
There was no sound at all.
Moon stared at the drum, the beater, her two hands.  She had missed, she must have.  She brought the beater to the head again.  She might as well have hit wool against wool.  There was no woodpecker knock, no sharp clear call.  She had felt skin and beater meet, she had seen them.  What had she done wrong?
Slowly Alder Owl’s words came back to her.  When I cannot hear it, it will cease to sound.  Moon had always thought the drum would be hard to hear.  But never silent.  Tell me if you can’t hear this, she thought wildly.  Something else they’d said as she left, about proving negatives -- that there were ways to prove the prince couldn’t be found.
If he were dead, for example.  If he were only bones under the earth.
And Alder Owl, beyond the drum’s reach, might have followed him even to that, under the dominion of the King of Stones.
She thought about pounding the drum; she could see herself doing it in her mind, hammering at it until it sounded or broke.  She imagined weeping, too; she could cry and scream and break things, and collapse at last exhausted and miserable.
What she did was to sit where she was at the table, the drum on her knees, watching the dark seep in and fill the room around her.  Sorrow and despair rose and fell inside her in a slow rhythm, like the shortening and lengthening of days.  When her misery peaked, she would almost weep, almost shriek, almost throw the drum from her.  Then it would begin to wane, and she would think, No, I can bear it, until it turned to waxing once again.
She would do nothing, she resolved, until she could think of something useful to do.  She would wait until the spiders spun her white with cobwebs, if she had to.  But she would do something better than crying, better than breaking things.
The hide lashing of Alder Owl’s drum bit into her clenched fingers.  In the weak light of the sinking fire, the wood and leather were only a pale mass in her lap.  How could Alder Owl’s magic have dwindled away to this -- a drum with no voice?  What voice could reach her now?
And Moon answered herself, wonderingly:  Grandmother. 
She couldn’t.  She had never gone to speak with Grandmother herself.  And how could she travel there, with no one to beat the drum for her when she was gone?  She might be lost forever, wandering through the tangled roots of Grandmother’s trees.
Yet she stood and walked, stiff-jointed, to the stillroom.  She gathered up charcoal and dried myrtle and cedar.  She poured apple wine into a wooden cup, and dropped in a seed from a sky’s-trumpet vine.  It was a familiar set of motions.  She had done them for Alder Owl.  She took down the black-fleeced sheepskin from the wall by the front door, laid it out on the floor, and set the wine and incense by it, wine to the east, charcoal to the south.  Another trip, to fetch salt and the little bone-handled knife -- earth to the north, the little conical pile of salt, and the knife west, for air.  (Salt came from the sea, too, said her rebellious mind, and the knife’s metal was mined from earth and tempered with fire and water.  But she was afraid of heresy now, afraid to doubt the knowledge she must trust with the weight of lives.  She did as she’d been taught.)
At last she took the big drum, the journey-drum, out of its wicker case and set it on the sheepskin.  The drum would help her partway on her travels.  But when she crossed the border, she would have to leave body, fingers, drum all at the crossing, and the drum would fall silent.  She needed so little:  just a tap, tap, tap.  Well, her heart would have to do.
Moon dropped cross-legged on the sheepskin.  Right-handed she took up the knife and drew lightly on the floor around herself as if she were a compass.  She passed the knife to her left hand behind her back, smoothly, and the knife point never left the slate.  That had been hard once, learning to take the knife as Alder Owl passed it to her.  She drew the circle again with a pinch of salt dropped from each hand, and with cedar and myrtle smoking and snapping on their charcoal bed.  Finally she drew the circle with wine shaken from her fingers, and drank off the rest.  Then she took up the drum.
She tried to hear the rhythm of her breathing, of her heart, the rhythm that was always inside her.  Only when she felt sure of it did she begin to let her fingers move with it, to tap the drum.  It shuddered under her fingers, lowing out notes.  When her hands were certain on the drum head, she closed her eyes.
A tree.  That was the beginning of the journey, Moon knew; she was to begin at the end of a branch of the great tree.  But what kind of tree?  Was it night, or day?  Should she imagine herself as a bird or a bug, or as herself?  And how could she think of all that and play the drum, too?
Her neck was stiff, and one of her feet was going to sleep.  You think too much, she scolded herself.  Alder Owl had never had such trouble.  Alder Owl had also never suggested that there was such a thing as too much thinking.  More of it, she’d said, would fix most of the world’s problems.
Well, she’d feel free to think, then.  She settled into the drumbeat, imagined it wrapped around her like a featherbed.
-- A tree too big to ever see all at once, one of a forest of trees like it.  A tree with a crown of leaves as wide as a clear night sky on a hilltop.  Night time, then.  It was an oak, she decided, but green out of season.  She envisioned the silver-green leathery leaves around her, and the rough black bark starry with dew in the moonlight.  The light came from the end of the branch.  Cradled in leaves there was a pared white-silver crescent, a new moon cut free from the shadow of the old.  It gave her light to travel by.
The rough highroad of bark grew broader as she neared the trunk.  She imagined birds stirring in their sleep and the quick, querulous chirk of a squirrel woken in its nest.  The wind breathed in and out across the vault of leaves and made them twinkle.  Moon heard her steps on the wood, even and measured:  the voice of the drum.
Down the trunk, down toward the tangle of roots, the knotted mirror-image of the branches above.  The trunks of other trees were all around her, and the twining branches shuttered the moonlight.  It was harder going, shouldering against the life of the tree that always moved upward.  Her heartbeat was a thin, regular bumping in her ears.
It was too dark to tell which way was down, too dark to tell anything.  Moon didn’t know if she’d reached the roots or not.  She wanted to cry out, to call for Grandmother, but she’d left her body behind, and her tongue in it.
A little light appeared before her, and grew slowly.  There were patterns in it, colors, shapes -- she could make out the gate at the bottom of the garden, and the path that led into the woods.  On the path -- was it the familiar one?  It was bordered now with sage -- she saw a figure made of the flutter of old black cloth and untidy streamers of white hair, walking away from her.  A stranger, Moon thought; she tried to catch up, but didn’t seem to move at all.  At the first fringes of the trees the figure turned, lifted one hand, and beckoned.  Then it disappeared under the roof of the woods.
Moon’s spirit, like a startled bird, burst into motion, upward.  Her eyes opened on the center room of the cottage.  She was standing unsteadily on the sheepskin, the journey drum at her feet.  Her heart clattered under her ribs like a stick dragged across the pickets of a fence, and she felt sore and prickly and feverish.  She took a step backward, overbalanced, and sat down.
“Well,” she said, and the sound of her voice made her jump.  She licked her dry lips and added, “That’s not at all how it’s supposed to be done.”
Trembling, she picked up the tools and put them away, washed out the wooden bowl.  She’d gathered up the sheepskin and had turned to hang it on the wall when her voice surprised her again.  “But it worked,” she said.  She stood very still, hugging the fleece against her.  “It worked, didn’t it?”  She’d traveled and asked, and been answered, and if neither had been in form as she understood them,  still they were question and answer, and all that she needed.  Moon hurried to put the sheepskin away.  There were suddenly a lot of things to do.
The next morning she filled her pack with food and clothing, tinderbox and medicines, and put the little ash drum, Alder Owl’s drum, on top of it all.  She put on her stoutest boots and her felted wool cloak.  She smothered the fire on the hearth, fastened all the shutters, and left a note for Tansy Broadwater, asking her to look after the house.
At last she shouldered her pack and tramped down the path, through the gate, down the hill, and into the woods.
Moon had traveled before, with Alder Owl.  She knew how to find her way, and how to build a good fire and cook over it; she’d slept in the open and stayed at inns and farmhouses. Those things were the same alone.  She had no reason to feel strange, but she did.  She felt like an imposter, and expected every chance-met traveler to ask if she was old enough to be on the road by herself.
She thought she’d been lonely at the cottage; she thought she’d learned the size and shape of loneliness.  Now she knew she’d only explored a corner of it.  Walking gave her room to think, and sights to see:  fern shoots rolling up out of the mushy soil, yellow cups of wild crocuses caught by the sun, the courting of ravens.  But it was no use pointing and crying, “Look!”, because the only eyes there had already seen.  Her isolation made everything seem not quite real.  It was harder each night to light a fire, and she had steadily less interest in food.  But each night at sunset, she beat Alder Owl’s drum.  Each night it was silent, and she sat in the aftermath of that silence, bereft all over again.
She walked for six days through villages and forest and farmland.  The weather had stayed dry and clear and unspringlike for five of them, but on the sixth she tramped through a rising chill wind under a lowering sky.  The road was wider now, and smooth, and she had more company on it:  Carts and wagons, riders, other walkers went to and fro past her.  At noon she stopped at an inn, larger and busier than any she’d yet seen.
The boy who set tea down in front of her had a mop of blond hair over a cheerful, harried face.  “The cold pie’s good,” he said before she could ask.  “It’s rabbit and mushroom.  Otherwise, there’s squash soup.  But don’t ask for ham -- I think it’s off a boar that wasn’t cut right.  It’s awful.”
Moon didn’t know whether to laugh or gape.  “The pie, then, please.  I don’t mean to sound like a fool, but where am I?”
“Little Hark,” he replied.  “But don’t let that raise your hopes.  Great Hark is a week away to the west, on foot.  You bound for it?”
“I don’t know.  I suppose I am.  I’m looking for someone.”
“In Great Hark?  Huh.  Well, you can find an ant in an anthill, too, if you’re not particular which one.”
“It’s that big?” Moon asked.
He nodded sympathetically.  “Unless you’re looking for the king or the queen.”
“No.  A woman -- oldish, with hair a little more white than black, and a round pink face.  Shorter than I am.  Plump.”  It was hard to describe Alder Owl; she was too familiar.  “She would have had an eggplant-colored cloak.  She’s a witch.”
The boy’s face changed slowly.  “Is she the bossy-for-your-own-good sort?  With a wicker pack?  Treats spots on your face with witch hazel and horseradish?”
“That sounds like her... What else do you use for spots?”
“I don’t know, but the horseradish works pretty well.  She stopped here, if that’s her.  It was months ago, though.”
“Yes,” said Moon.  “It was.”
“She was headed for Great Hark, so you’re on the right road.  Good luck on it.”
When he came back with the rabbit pie, he said, “You’ll come to Burnton High Plain next -- that’s a two-day walk.  After that you’ll be done with the grasslands pretty quick.  Then you’ll be lucky if you see the sun ‘til you’re within holler of Great Hark.”
Moon swallowed a little too much pie at once.  “I will?  Why?”
“Well, you’ll be in the Seawood, won’t you?”
“Will I?”
“You don’t know much geography,” he said sadly.
“I know I’ve never heard that the Seawood was so thick the sun wouldn’t shine in it.  Have you ever been there?”
“No.  But everyone who has says it’s true.  And being here, I get to hear what travelers tell.”
Moon opened her mouth to say that she’d heard more nonsense told in the common rooms of inns than the wide world had space for, when a woman’s voice trumpeted from the kitchen.  “Starling!  Do you work here, or are you taking a room tonight?”
The blond boy grinned.  “Good luck, anyway,” he said to Moon, and loped back to the kitchen.
Moon ate her lunch and paid for it with a coin stamped with the prince’s face.  She scowled at it when she set it on the table.  It’s all your fault, she told it.  Then she hoisted her pack and headed for the door.
“It’s started to drip,” the blond boy called after her.  “It’ll be pouring rain on you in an hour.”
“I’ll get wet, then,” she said.  “But thanks anyway.”
The trail was cold, but at least she was on it.  The news drove her forward.
The boy was right about the weather.  The rain was carried on gusts from every direction, that found their way under her cloak and inside her hood and in every seam of her boots.  By the time she’d doggedly climbed the ridge above Little Hark, she was wet and cold all through, and dreaming of tight roofs, large fires, and clean, dry nightgowns.  The view from the top of the trail scattered her visions.
She’d expected another valley.  This was not a bowl, but a plate, full of long, sand-colored undulating grass, and she stood at the rim of it.  Moon squinted through the rain ahead and to either side, looking for a far edge, but the grass went on out of sight, unbroken by anything but the small rises and falls of the land.  She suspected that clear weather wouldn’t have shown her the end of it, either.
That evening she made camp in the midst of the ocean of grass, since there wasn’t anyplace else.  There was no firewood.  She’d thought of that before she walked down into the plain, but all the wood she could have gathered to take with her was soaked.  So she propped up a lean-to of oiled canvas against the worst of the rain, gathered a pile of the shining-wet grass, and set to work.  She kept an eye on the sun, as well; at the right moment she took up Alder Owl’s drum and played it, huddling under the canvas to keep it from the wet.  It had nothing to say.
In half an hour she had a fat braided wreath of straw.  She laid it in a circle of bare ground she’d cleared, and got from her pack her tinderbox and three apples, wrinkled and sweet with winter storage.  They were the last food she had from home.
“All is taken from thee,” Moon said, setting the apples inside the straw wreath and laying more wet grass over them in a little cone.  “I have taken, food and footing, breath and warming, balm for thirsting.  This I will exchange thee, with my love and every honor, if thou’lt give again thy succor.”  With that, she struck a spark in the cone of grass.
For a moment, she thought the exchange was not accepted.  She’d asked all the elements, instead of only fire, and fire had taken offense.  Then a little blue flame licked along a stalk, and a second.  In a few minutes she was nursing a tiny, comforting blaze, contained by the wreath of straw and fueled all night with Alder Owl’s apples.
She sat for a long time, hunched under the oiled canvas lean-to, wrapped in her cloak with the little fire between her feet.  She was going to Great Hark, because she thought that Alder Owl would have done so.  But she might not have.  Alder Owl might have gone south from here, into Cystegond.  Or north, into the cold upthrust fangs of the Bones of Earth.  She could have gone anywhere, and Moon wouldn’t know.  She’d asked -- but she hadn’t insisted she be told or taken along, hadn’t tried to follow.  She’d only said goodbye.  Now she would never find the way.
“What am I doing here?” Moon whispered.  There was no answer except the constant rushing sound of the grass in the wind, saying hush, hush, hush.  Eventually she was warm enough to sleep.
The next morning the sun came back, watery and tentative.  By its light she got her first real look at the great ocean of golden-brown she was shouldering through.  Behind her she saw the ridge beyond which Little Hark lay.  Ahead of her there was nothing but grass.
It was a long day, with only that to look at.  So she made herself look for more.  She saw the new green shoots of grass at the feet of the old stalks, their leaves still rolled tight around one another like the embrace of lovers.  A thistle spread its rosette of fierce leaves to claim the soil, but hadn’t yet grown tall.  And she saw the prints of horses’ hooves, and dung, and once a wide, beaten-down swath across her path like the bed of a creek cut in grass, the earth muddy and chopped with hoofprints.  As she walked, the sun climbed the sky and steamed the rain out of her cloak.
By evening she reached the town of Burnton High Plain.  Yes, the landlord at the hostelry told her, another day’s walk would bring her under the branches of the Seawood.  Then she should go carefully, because it was full of robbers and ghosts and wild animals.
“Well,” Moon said, “Robbers wouldn’t take the trouble to stop me, and I don’t think I’ve any quarrel with the dead.  So I’ll concentrate on the wild animals.  But thank you very much for the warning.”
“Not a good place, the Seawood,” the landlord added.
Moon thought that people who lived in the middle of an eternity of grass probably would be afraid of a forest.  But she only said, “I’m searching for someone who might have passed this way months ago.  Her name is Alder Owl, and she was going to look for the prince.”
After Moon described her, the landlord pursed his lips.  “That’s familiar.  I think she might have come through, heading west.  But as you say, it was months, and I don’t think I’ve seen her since.”
I’ve never heard so much discouraging encouragement, Moon thought drearily, and turned to her dinner.
The next afternoon she reached the Seawood.  Everything changed:  the smells, the color of the light, the temperature of the air.  In spite of the landlord’s warning, Moon couldn’t quite deny the lift of her heart, the feeling of glad relief.  The secretive scent of pine loam rose around her as she walked, and the dark boughs were full of the commotion of birds.  She heard water nearby; she followed the sound to a running beck and the spring that fed it.  The water was cold and crisply acidic from the pines; she filled her bottle at it and washed her face.
She stood a moment longer by the water.  Then she hunched the pack off her back and dug inside it until she found the little linen bag that held her valuables.  She shook out a silver shawl pin in the shape of a leaping frog.  She’d worn it on festival days, with her green scarf.  It was a present from Alder Owl -- but then, everything was.  She dropped it into the spring.
Was that right?  Yes, the frog was water’s beast, never mind that it breathed air half the time.  And silver was water’s metal, even though it was mined from the earth and shaped with fire, and turned black as quickly in water as in air.  How could magic be based on understanding the true nature of things if it ignored so much?
A bubble rose to the surface and broke loudly, and Moon laughed.  “You’re welcome, and same to you,” she said, and set off again.
The Seawood gave her a century’s worth of fallen needles, flat and dry, to bed down on, and plenty of dry wood for her fire.  It was cold under its roof of boughs, but there were remedies for cold.  She kept her fire well built up, for that, and against any meat-eaters too weak from winter to seek out the horses of Burnton High Plain.
Another day’s travel, and another.  If she were to climb one of the tallest pines to its top, would the Seawood look like the plain of grass:  undulating, almost endless?  On the third day, when the few blades of sun that reached the forest floor were slanting and long, a wind rose.  Moon listened to the old trunks above her creaking, the boughs swishing like brooms in angry hands, and decided to make camp.
In the Seawood the last edge of sunset was never visible.  By then, beneath the trees, it was dark.  So Moon built her fire and set water to boil before she took Alder Owl’s drum from her pack.
The trees roared above, but at their feet Moon felt only a furious breeze.  She hunched her cloak around her and struck the drum.
It made no noise; but from above she heard a clap and thunder of sound, and felt a rush of air across her face.  She leaped backward.  The drum slid from her hands.
A pale shape sat on a low branch beyond her fire.  The light fell irregularly on its huge yellow eyes, the high tufts that crowned its head, its pale breast.  An owl.
“Oo,” it said, louder than the hammering wind.  “Oo-whoot.”
Watching it all the while, Moon leaned forward, reaching for the drum.
The owl bated thunderously and stretched its beak wide.  “Oo-wheed,” it cried at her.  “Yarrooh.  Yarrooh.”
Moon’s blood fell cold from under her face.  The owl stooped off its branch quick and straight as a dropped stone.  Its talons closed on the lashings of the drum.  The great wings beat once, twice, and the bird was gone into the rushing dark.
Moon fell to her knees, gasping for breath.  The voice of the owl was still caught in her ears, echoing, echoing another voice.  Weed.  Yarrow.  Yarrow.
Tears poured burning down her face.  “Oh, my weed, my stalk of yarrow,” she repeated, whispering.  “Come back!” she screamed into the night.  She got no answer but the wind.  She pressed her empty hands to her face and cried herself to sleep.
With morning, the Seawood crowded around her as it had before, full of singing birds and softness, traitorous and unashamed.  In one thing, at least, its spirit marched with hers.  The light under the trees was gray, and she heard the patter of rain in the branches above.  Moon stirred the cold ashes of her fire and waited for her heart to thaw.  She would go on to Great Hark, and beyond if she had to.  There might yet be some hope.  And if there wasn’t, there might at least be a reckoning.
All day the path led downward, and she walked until her thighs burned and her stomach gnawed itself from hunger.  The rain came down harder, showering her ignominiously when the wind shook the branches.  She meant to leave the Seawood before she slept again, if it meant walking all night.  But the trees began to thin around her late in the day, and shortly after she saw a bare rise ahead of her.  She mounted it and looked down.
The valley was full of low mist, eddying slowly in the rain.  Rising out of it was the largest town Moon had ever seen.  It was walled in stone and gated with oak and iron, and roofed in prosperous slate and tile.  Pennons flew from every wall tower, their colors darkened with rain and stolen away by the gray light.  At the heart of the town was a tall, white, red-roofed building, cornered with round towers like the wall.
The boy was right about this, too.  She could never find news of one person in such a place, unless that person was the king or the queen.  Moon drooped under a fresh lashing of rain.
But why not?  Alder Owl had set off to find the prince.  Why wouldn’t she have gone to the palace and stated her business, and searched on from there?  And why shouldn’t Moon do the same?
She flapped a sheet of water off her cloak and plunged down the trail.  She had another hour’s walk before she would reach the gates, and she wanted to be inside by sundown.
The wall loomed over her at last, oppressively high, dark and shining with rain.  She found the huge double gates open, and the press of wagons and horses and pedestrians in and out of them daunting.  No one seemed to take any notice when she joined the stream and passed through, and though she looked and looked, she couldn’t see anyone who appeared to be any more official than anyone else.  Everyone, in fact, looked busy and important.  So this is city life, Moon thought, and stepped out of the flow of traffic for a better look around.
Without her bird’s eye view, she knew she wouldn’t find the palace except by chance.  So she asked directions of a woman and a man unloading a cart full of baled hay.
They looked at her and blinked, as if they were too weary to think; they were at least as wet as Moon was, and seemed to have less hope of finding what they were looking for.  Their expressions of surprise were so similar that Moon wondered if they were blood relations, and indeed, their eyes were much alike, green-gray as sage.  The man wore a dusty brown jacket worn through at one elbow; the woman had a long, tattered black shawl pulled up over her white hair.
“Round the wall that way,” said the man at last, “until you come to a broad street all laid with brick.  Follow that uphill until you see it.”
“Thank you.”  Moon eyed the hay cart, which was nearly full.  Work was ointment for the heart.  Alder Owl had said so.  “Would you like some help?  I could get in the cart and throw bales down.”
“Oh, no,” said the woman.  “It’s all right.”
Moon shook her head.  “You sound like my neighbors.  With them, it would be fifteen minutes before we argued each other to a standstill.  I’m going to start throwing hay instead.”  At that, she scrambled into the cart and hoisted a bale.  When she turned to pass it to the man and woman, she found them looking at each other, before the man came to take the hay from her.
It was hot, wet, prickly work, but it didn’t take long.  When the cart was empty, they exchanged thanks and Moon set off again for the palace.  On the way, she watched the sun’s eye close behind the line of the hills.
The brick-paved street ran in long curves like an old riverbed.  She couldn’t see the palace until she’d tramped up the last turning and found the high white walls before her, and another gate.  This one was carved and painted with a flock of rising birds, and closed.
Two men stood at the gate, one on each side.  They were young and tall and broad-shouldered, and Moon recognized them as being of a type that made village girls stammer.  They stood very straight, and wore green capes and coats with what Moon thought was an excessive quantity of gold trim.  She stepped up to the nearest.
“Pardon me,” she said, “I’d like to speak to the king and queen.”
The guard blinked even more thoroughly than the couple with the hay cart had.  With good reason, Moon realized; now she was not only travel-stained and sodden, but dusted with hay as well.  She sighed, which seemed to increase the young man’s confusion.
“I’ll start nearer the beginning,” she told him.  “I came looking for my teacher, who set off at the end of last autumn to look for the prince.  Do you remember a witch, named Alder Owl, from a village two weeks east of here?  I think she might have come to the palace to see the king and queen about it.”
The guard smiled.  Moon thought she wouldn’t feel too scornful of a girl who stammered in his presence.  “I suppose I could have a message taken to Their Majesties,” he said at last.  “Someone in the palace may have met your teacher.  Hi, Rush!” he called to the guard on the other side of the gate.  “This woman is looking for her teacher, a witch who set out to find the prince.  Who would she ask, then?”
Rush sauntered over, his cape swinging.  He raised his eyebrows at Moon.  “Every witch in Hark End has gone hunting the prince at one time or another.  How would anyone remember one out of the lot?”
Moon drew herself up very straight, and found she was nearly as tall as he was.  She raised only one eyebrow, which she’d always found effective with Fell.  “I’m sorry your memory isn’t all you might like it to be.  Would it help if I pointed out that this witch remains unaccounted for?”
“There aren’t any of those.  They all came back, cap in hand and dung on their shoes, saying, ‘Beg pardon, Lord,’ and ‘Perishing sorry, Lady.’  You could buy and sell the gaggle of them with the brass on my scabbard.”
“You,” Moon told him sternly, “are of very little use.”
“More use than anyone who’s sought him so far.  If they’d only set my unit to it...”
She looked into his hard young face.  “You loved him, didn’t you?”
His mouth pinched closed, and the hurt in his eyes made him seem for a moment as young as Fell.  It held a glass up to her own pain.  “Everyone did.  He was -- is the land’s own heart.”
“My teacher is like that to me.  Please, may I speak with someone?”
The polite guard was looking from one to the other of them, alarmed.  Rush turned to him and frowned.  “Take her to -- merry heavens, I don’t know.  Try the steward.  He fancies he knows everything.”
And so the Gate of Birds opened to Moon Very Thin.  She followed the polite guard across a paved courtyard held in the wide, high arms of the palace, colonnaded all around and carved with the likenesses of animals and flowers.  On every column a torch burned in its iron bracket, hissing in the rain, and lit the courtyard like a stage.  It was very beautiful, if a little grim.
The guard waved her through a small iron-clad door into a neat parlor.  A fire was lit in the brick hearth and showed her the rugs and hangings, the panelled walls blackened with age.  The guard tugged an embroidered pull near the door and turned to her.
“I should get back to the gate.  Just tell the steward, Lord Leyan, what you know about your teacher.  If there’s help for you here, he’ll see that you get it.”
When he’d gone, she gathered her damp cloak about her and wondered if she ought to sit.  Then she heard footsteps, and a door she hadn’t noticed opened in the panelling.
A very tall, straight-backed man came through it.  His hair was white and thick and brushed his shoulders, where it met a velvet coat faced in crewelled satin.  He didn’t seem to find the sight of her startling, which Moon took as a good sign.
“How may I help you?” he asked.
“Lord Leyan?”
He nodded.
“My name is Moon Very Thin.  I’ve come from the east in search of my teacher, the witch Alder Owl, who set out last autumn to find the prince.  I think now...I won’t find her.  But I have to try.”  To her horror, she felt tears rising in her eyes.
Lord Leyan crossed the room in a long stride and grasped her hands.  “My dear, don’t cry.  I remember your teacher.  She was an alarming woman, but that gave us all hope.  She has not returned to you, either, then?”
Moon swallowed and shook her head.
“You’ve traveled a long way.  You shall have a bath and a meal and a change of clothes, and I will see if anyone can tell you more about your teacher.”
Before Moon was quite certain how it had been managed, she was standing in a handsome dark room with a velvet-hung bed and a fire bigger than the one in the parlor, and a woman with a red face and fly-away hair was pouring cans of water into a bathtub shaped and painted like a swan.
“That’s the silliest thing I’ve ever seen,” said Moon in wonder.
The red-faced woman grinned suddenly.  “You know, it is.  And it may be the lords and ladies think so, too, and are afraid to say.”
“One of them must have paid for it once.”
“That’s so.  Well, no one’s born with taste.  Have your bath, and I’ll bring you a change of clothes in a little.”
“You needn’t do that.  I have clean ones in my pack.”
“Yes, but have they got lace on them, and a ‘broidery flower for every seam?  If not, you’d best let me bring these, for word is you eat with the King and Queen.”
“I do?” Moon blurted, horrified.  “Why?”
“Lord Leyan went to them, and they said send you in.  Don’t pop your eyes at me, there’s no help for it.”
Moon scrubbed until she was pink all over, and smelling of violet soap.  She washed her hair three times, and trimmed her short nails, and looked in despair at her reflection in the mirror.  She didn’t think she’d put anyone off dinner, but there was no question that the only thing that stood there was Moon Very Thin, tall and brown and forthright.
“Here, now,” said the red-faced woman at the door.  “I thought this would look nice, and you wouldn’t even quite feel a fool in it.  What do you say?”
Draped over her arms she had a plain, high-necked dress of amber linen, and an overgown of russet velvet.  The hem and deep collar were embroidered in gold with the platter-heads of yarrow flowers.  Moon stared at that, and looked quickly up at the red-faced woman.  There was nothing out of the way in her expression.
“It’s -- it’s fine.  It’s rather much, but...”
“But it’s the least much that’s still enough for dining in the hall.  Let’s get you dressed.”
The woman helped her into it, pulling swaths of lavender-scented fabric over her head.  Then she combed out Moon’s hair, braided it, and fastened it with a gold pin.
“Good,” the red-faced woman said.  “You look like you, but dressed up, which is as it should be.  I’ll show you to the hall.”
Moon took a last look at her reflection.  She didn’t think she looked at all like herself.  Dazed, she followed her guide out of the room.
She knew when they’d almost reached their destination.  A fragrance rolled out of the hall that reminded Moon she’d missed three meals.  At the door, the red-faced woman stopped her.
“You’ll do, I think.  Still -- tell no lies, though you may be told them.  Look anyone in the eye, though they might want it otherwise.  And take everything offered you with your right hand.  It can’t hurt.”  With that the red-faced woman turned and disappeared down the maze of the corridor.
Moon straightened her shoulders and, her stomach pinched with hunger and nerves, stepped into the hall.
She gaped.  She couldn’t help it, though she’d promised herself she wouldn’t.  The hall was as high as two rooms, and long and broad as a field of wheat.  It had two yawning fireplaces big enough to tether an ox in.  Banners hung from every beam, sewn over with beasts and birds and things she couldn’t name.  There weren’t enough candles in all Hark End to light it top to bottom, nor enough wood in the Seawood to heat it, so like the great courtyard it was beautiful and grim.
The tables were set in a U, the high table between the two arms.  To her dazzled eye, it seemed every place was taken.  It was bad enough to dine with the king and queen.  Why hadn’t she realized that it would be the court, as well?
At the high table, the king rose smiling.  “Our guest!” he called.  “Come, there’s a place for you beside my lady and me.”
Moon felt her face burning as she walked to the high table.  The court watched her go; but there were no whispers, no hands raised to shield moving lips.  She was grateful, but it was odd.
Her chair was indeed set beside those of the king and queen.  The king was white haired and broad-shouldered, with an open, smiling face and big hands.  The queen’s hair was white and gold, and her eyes were wide and gray as storms.  She smiled, too, but as if the gesture were a sorrow she was loath to share.
“Lord Leyan told us your story,” said the queen.  “I remember your teacher.  Had you been with her long?”
“All my life,” Moon replied.  Dishes came to roost before her, so she could serve herself:  roast meat, salads, breads, compotes, vegetables, sauces, wedges of cheese.  She could limit herself to a bite of everything, and still leave the hall achingly full.  She kept her left hand clamped between her knees for fear of forgetting and taking something with it.  Every dish was good, but not quite as good as she’d thought it looked.
“Then you are a witch as well?” the king asked.
“I don’t know.  I’ve been taught by a witch, and learned witches’ knowledge.  But she taught me gardening and carpentry, too.”
“You hope to find her?”
Moon looked at him, and weighed the question seriously for the first time since the Seawood.  “I hope I may learn she’s been transformed, and that I can change her back.  But I think I met her, last night in the wood, and I find it’s hard to hope.”
“But you want to go on?” the queen pressed her.  “What will you do?”
“The only thing I can think of to do is what she set out for:  I mean to find your son.”
Moon couldn’t think why the queen would pale at that.
“Oh, my dear, don’t,” the king said.  “Our son is lost, your teacher is lost -- what profit can there be in throwing yourself after them?  Rest here, then go home and live.  Our son is gone.”
It was a fine, rich hall, and he was a fair, kingly man.  But it was all dimmed, as if a layer of soot lay over the palace and its occupants.
“What did he look like, the prince?”
The king frowned.  It was the queen who drew a locket out of the bodice of her gown, lifted its chain over her head and passed it to Moon.  It held, not the costly miniature she’d expected, but a sketch in soft pencil, swiftly done.  It was the first informal thing she could recall seeing in the palace.
“He wouldn’t sit still to be painted,” the queen said wistfully.  “One of his friends likes to draw.  He gave me that after...after my son was gone.”
He had been reading, perhaps, when his friend snatched that quiet moment to catch his likeness.  The high forehead was propped on a long-fingered hand; the eyes were directed downward, and the eyelids hid them.  The nose was straight, and the mouth was long and grave.  The hair was barely suggested; light or dark, it fell unruly around the supporting hand.  Even setting aside the kindly eye of friendship that had informed the pencil, Moon gave the village girls leave to be silly over this one.  She closed the locket and gave it back.
“You can’t know what’s happened to him.  How can you let him go, without knowing?”
“There are many things in the world I will never know,” the king said sharply.
“I met a man at the gate who still mourns the prince.  He called him the heart of the land.  Nothing can live without its heart.”
The queen drew a breath and turned her face to her plate, but said nothing.
“Enough,” said the king.  “If you must search, then you must.  But I’ll have peace at my table.  Here, child, will you pledge it with me?”
Over Moon’s right hand, lying on the white cloth, he laid his own, and held his wine cup out to her.
She sat frozen, staring at the chased silver and her own reflection in it.  Then she raised her eyes to his and said, “No.”
There was a shattering quiet in the hall.
“You will not drink?”
“I will not...pledge you peace.  There isn’t any here, however much anyone may try to hide it.  I’m sorry.”  That, she knew when she’d said it, was true.  “Excuse me,” she added, and drew her hand out from under the king’s, which was large, but soft.  “I’m going to bed.  I mean to leave early tomorrow.”
She rose and walked back down the length of the room, lapped in a different kind of silence.
A servant found her in the corridor and led her to her chamber.  There she found her old clothes clean and dry and folded, the fire tended, the bed turned down.  The red-faced woman wasn’t there.  She took off her finery, laid it out smooth on a chair, and put her old nightgown on.  Then she went to the glass to unpin and brush her hair.
The pin was in her hand, and she was reaching to set it down, when she saw what it was.  A little leaping frog.  But now it was gold.
It was hers.  The kicking legs and goggle eyes, every irregularity -- it was her pin.  She dashed to the door and flung it open.  “Hello?” she called.  “Oh, bother!”  She stepped back into the room and searched, and finally found the bell pull disguised as a bit of tapestry.
After a few minutes, a girl with black hair and bright eyes came to the door.  “Yes, ma’am?”
“The woman who helped me, who drew my bath and brought me clothes.  Is she still here?”
The girl looked distressed.  “I’m sorry, ma’am.  I don’t know who waited on you.  What did she look like?”
“About my height.  With a red face and wild, wispy hair.”
The girl stared, and said, “Ma’am -- are you sure?  That doesn’t sound like anyone here.”
Moon dropped heavily into the nearest chair.  “Why am I not surprised?  Thank you very much.  I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
The girl nodded and closed the door behind her.  Moon put out the candles, climbed into bed, and lay awake for an uncommonly long time.
In a gray, wet dawn, she dressed and shouldered her pack and by the simple expedient of going down every time she came to a staircase, found a door that led outside.  It was a little postern, opening on a kitchen garden and a wash yard fenced in stone.  At the side of the path, a man squatted by a wooden hand cart, mending a wheel.
“Here, missy!” he called out, his voice like a spade thrust into gravel.  “Hold this axle up, won’t you?”
Moon sighed.  She wanted to go.  She wanted to be moving, because moving would be almost like getting something done.  And she wanted to be out of this beautiful place that had lost its heart.  She stepped over a spreading clump of rhubarb, knelt, and hoisted the axle.
Whatever had damaged the wheel had made the axle split; the long splinter of wood bit into Moon’s right hand.  She cried out and snatched that hand away.  Blood ran out of the cut on her palm and fell among the rhubarb stems, a few drops.  Then it ceased to flow.
Moon looked up, frightened, to the man with the wheel.
It was the man from the hay wagon, white-haired, his eyes as green and gray as sage.  He had a ruddy, somber face.  Red-faced, like the woman who’d --
The woman who’d helped her last night had been the one from the hay cart.  Why hadn’t she seen it?  But she remembered it now, and the woman’s green eyes, and even a fragment of hay caught in the wild hair.  Moon sprang up.
The old man caught her hand.  “Rhubarb purges, and rhubarb means advice.  Turn you back around.  Your business is in there.”  He pointed a red, rough finger at the palace, at the top of the near corner tower.  Then he stood, dusted off his trousers, strolled down the path and was gone.
Moon opened her mouth, which she hadn’t been able to do until then.  She could still feel his hand, warm and calloused.  She looked down.  In the palm he’d held was a sprig of hyssop and a wisp of broom, and a spiralling stem of convolvulus.
Moon bolted back through the postern door and up the first twisting flight of stairs she found, until she ran out of steps.  Then she cast furiously about.  Which way was that wretched tower?  She got her bearings by looking out the corridor windows.  It would be that door, she thought.  She tried it; it resisted.
He could have kept his posy and given me a key, she thought furiously.  Then:  But he did.
She plucked up the convolvulus, poked it into the keyhole, and said, “Turn away, turn astray, backwards from the turn of day.  What iron turned to lock away, herb will turn the other way.”  Metal grated against metal, and the latch yielded under her hand.
A young man’s room, frozen in time.  A jerkin of quilted, painted leather dropped on a chair; a case of books, their bindings standing in bright ranks; a wooden flute and a pair of leather gloves lying on an inlaid cedar chest; an unmade bed, the coverlet slid sideways and half pooled on the floor.
More, a room frozen in a tableau of atrocity and accusation.  For Moon could feel it, the thing that had been done here, that was still being done because the room had sat undisturbed.  Nightshade and thornapple, skullcap, henbane, and fern grown bleached and stunted under stone.  Moon recognized their scents and their twisted strength around her, the power of the work they’d made and the shame that kept them secret.
There was a dust of crushed leaf and flower over the door lintel, on the sill of every window, lined like seams in the folds of the bed hangings.  Her fingers clenched on the herbs in her hand as rage sprouted up in her and spread.
With broom and hyssop she dashed the dust from the lintel, the windows, the hangings.  “Merry or doleful, the last or the first,” she chanted as she swung her weapons, spitting each word in fury, “fly and be hunted, or stay and be cursed!”
“What are you doing?” said a voice from the door, and Moon spun and raised her posy like a dagger.
The king stood there, his coat awry, his hair uncombed.  His face was white as a corpse’s, and his eyes were wide as a man’s who sees the gallows, and knows the noose is his.
“You did this,” Moon breathed; and louder, “You gave him to the King of Stones with your own hand.”
“I had to,” he whispered.  “He made a beggar of me.  My son was the forfeit.”
“You locked him under the earth.  And let my teacher go to her...to her death to pay your forfeit.”
“It was his life or mine!”
“Does your lady wife know what you did?”
“His lady wife helped him to do it,” said the queen, stepping forward from the shadows of the hall.  She stood tall and her face was quiet, as if she welcomed the noose.  “Because he was her love and the other, only her son.  Because she feared to lose a queen’s power.  Because she was a fool, and weak.  Then she kept the secret, because her heart was black and broken, and she thought no worse could be done than had been done already.”
Moon turned to the king.  “Tell me,” she commanded.
“I was hunting alone,” said the king in a trembling voice.  “I roused a boar.  I...had a young man’s pride and an old man’s arm, and the boar was too much for me.  I lay bleeding and in pain, and the sight nearly gone from my eyes, when I heard footsteps.  I called out for help.
“‘You are dying,’ he told me, and I denied it, weeping.  ‘I don’t want to die,’ I said, over and over.  I promised him anything, if he would save my life.”  The king’s voice failed, and stopped.
“Where?” said Moon.  “Where did this happen?”
“In the wood under Elder Scarp.  Near the waterfall that feeds the stream called the Laughing Girl.”
“Point me the way,” she ordered.
The sky was hazed white, and the air was hot and still.  Moon dashed sweat from her forehead as she walked.  She could have demanded a horse, but she had walked the rest of the journey, and this seemed such a little way compared to that.  She hoped it would be cooler under the trees.
It wasn’t; and the gnats were worse around her face, and the biting flies.  Moon swung at them steadily as she clambered over the stones.  It seemed a long time before she heard the waterfall, then saw it.  She cast about for the clearing, and wondered, were there many?  Or only one, and it so small that she could walk past it and never know?  The falling water thrummed steadily, like a drum, like a heartbeat.
In a shaft of sun, she saw a bit of creamy white -- a flower head, round and flat as a platter, dwarfed with early blooming.  She looked up and found that she stood on the edge of a clearing, and was not alone.
He wore armor, dull gray plates worked with fantastic embossing, trimmed in glossy black.  He had a gray cloak fastened over that, thrown back off his shoulders, but with the hood up and pulled well forward.  Moon could see nothing of his face.
“In the common way of things,” he said, in a quiet, carrying voice, “I seek out those I wish to see.  I am not used to uninvited guests.”
The armor was made of slate and obsidian, because he was the King of Stones.
She couldn’t speak.  She could command the king of Hark End, but this was a king whose rule did not light on him by an accident of blood or by the acclaim of any mortal thing.  This was an embodied power, a still force of awe and terror.
“I’ve come for a man and his soul,” she whispered.  “They were wrongly taken.”
“I take nothing wrongly.  Are you sure?”
She felt heat in her face, then cold at the thought of what she’d said:  that she’d accused him.  “No,” she admitted, the word cracking with her fear.  “But that they were wrongly given, I know.  He was not theirs to give.”
“You speak of the prince of Hark End.  They were his parents.  Would you let anyone say you could not give away what you had made?”
Moon’s lips parted on a word; then she stared in horror.  Her mind churned over the logic, followed his question back to its root.
He spoke her thoughts aloud.  “You have attended at the death of a child, stilled in the womb to save the mother’s life.  How is this different?”
“It is different!” she cried.  “He was a grown man, and what he was was shaped by what he did, what he chose.”
“He had his mother’s laugh, his grandfather’s nose.  His father taught him to ride.  What part of him was not made by someone else?  Tell me, and we will see if I should give that part back.”
Moon clutched her fingers over her lips, as if by that she could force herself to think it all through before she spoke.  “His father taught him to ride,” she repeated.  “If the horse refuses to cross a ford, what makes the father use his spurs, and the son dismount and lead it?  He has his mother’s laugh -- but what makes her laugh at one thing, and him at another?”
“What, indeed?” asked the King of Stones.  “Well, for argument’s sake I’ll say his mind is in doubt, and his heart.  What of his body?”
“Bodies grow with eating and exercise,” Moon replied.  This was ground she felt sure of.  “Do you think the king and the queen did those for him?”
The King of Stones threw back his cowled head and laughed, a cold ringing sound.  It restored Moon to sensible terror.  She stepped back, and found herself against a tree trunk.
“And his soul?” said the King of Stones at last.
“That didn’t belong to his mother and father,” Moon said, barely audible even to her own ears.  “If it belonged to anyone but himself, I think you did not win it from Her.”
Silence lay for long moments in the clearing.  Then he said, “I am well tutored.  Yet there was a bargain made, and a work done, and both sides knew what they pledged and what it meant.  Under law, the contract was kept.”
“That’s not true.  Out of fear the king promised you anything, but he never meant the life of his son!”
“Then he could have refused me that, and died.  He said ‘Anything,’ and meant it, unto the life of his son, his wife, and all his kingdom.”
He had fought her to a standstill with words.  But, words used up and useless, she still felt a core of anger in her for what had been done, outrage against a thing she knew, beyond words, was wrong.
So she said aloud, “It’s wrong.  It was a contract that was wrong to make, let alone to keep.  I know it.”
“What is it,” said the King of Stones, “that says so?”
“My judgment says so.  My head.”  Moon swallowed.  “My heart.”
“Ah.  What do I know of your judgment?  Is it good?”
She scrubbed her fingers over her face.  He had spoken lightly, but Moon knew the question wasn’t light at all.  She had to speak the truth; she had to decide what the truth was.  “It’s not perfect,” she answered reluctantly.  “But yes, I think it’s as good as most people’s.”
“Do you trust it enough to allow it to be tested?”
Moon lifted her head and stared at him in alarm.  “What?”
“I will test your judgment.  If I find it good, I will let you free the prince of Hark End.  If not, I will keep him, and you will take your anger, your outrage, and the knowledge of your failure home to nurture like children all the rest of your life.”
“Is that prophecy?” Moon asked hoarsely.
“You may prove it so, if you like.  Will you take my test?”
She drew a great, trembling breath.  “Yes.”
“Come closer, then.”  With that, he pushed back his hood.
There was no stone helm beneath, or monster head.  There was a white-skinned man’s face, all bone and sinew and no softness, and long black hair rucked from the hood.  The sockets of his eyes were shadowed black, though the light that fell in the clearing should have lit all of his face.  Moon looked at him and was more frightened than she would have been by any deformity, for she knew then that none of this -- armor, face, eyes -- had anything to do with his true shape.
“Before we begin,” he said in that soft, cool voice.  “There is yet a life you have not asked me for, one I thought you’d beg of me first of all.”
Moon’s heart plunged, and she closed her eyes.  “Alder Owl.”
“You cannot win her back.  There was no treachery there.  She, at least, I took fairly, for she greeted me by name and said I was well met.”
“No!” Moon cried.
“She was sick beyond curing, even when she left you.  But she asked me to give her wings for one night, so that you would know.  I granted it gladly.”
She thought she had cried all she could for Alder Owl.  But this was the last death, the death of her little foolish hope, and she mourned that and Alder Owl at once with falling, silent tears.
“My test for you, then.”  He stretched out his hands, his mailed fingers curled over whatever lay in each palm.  “You have only to choose,” he said.  He opened his fingers to reveal two rings, one silver, one gold.
She looked from the rings to his face again, and her expression must have told him something.
“You are a witch,” said the King of Stones, gently mocking.  “You read symbols and make them, and craft them into nets to catch truth in.  This is the meat of your training, to read the true nature of a thing.  Here are symbols -- choose between them.  Pick the truer.  Pick the better.”
He pressed forward first one hand, then the other.  “Silver, or gold?  Left or right?  Night or day, moon --” she heard him mock her again, “-- or sun, water or fire, waning or waxing, female or male.  Have I forgotten any?”
Moon wiped the tears from her cheeks and frowned down at the rings.  They were plain, polished circles of metal, not really meant for finger rings at all.  Circles, complete in themselves, unmarred by scratch or tarnish.
Silver, or gold.  Mined from the earth, forged in fire, cooled in water, pierced with air.  Gold was rarer, silver was harder, but both were pure metals.  Should she choose rareness?  Hardness?  The lighter color?  But the flash of either was bright.  The color of the moon?  But she’d seen the moon, low in the sky, yellow as a peach.  And the light from the moon was reflected light from the sun, whose color was yellow although in the sky it was burning white, and whose metal was gold.  There was nothing to choose between them.
The blood rushed into her face, and the gauntleted hands and their two rings swam in her vision.  It was true.  She’d always thought so.
Her eyes sprang up to the face of the King of Stones.  “It’s a false choice.  They’re equal.”
As she said the words, her heart gave a single terrified leap.  She was wrong.  She was defeated, and a fool.  The King of Stones’ fingers closed again over the rings.
“Down that trail to a granite stone, and then between two hazel trees,” he said.  “You’ll find him there.”
She was alone in the clearing.
Moon stumbled down the trail, dazed with relief and the release of tension.  She found the stone, and the two young hazel trees, slender and leafed out in fragile green, and passed between them.
She plunged immediately into full sunlight and strangeness.  Another clearing, carpeted with deep grass and the stars of spring flowers, surrounded by blossoming trees -- but trees in blossom didn’t also stand heavy with fruit, like a vain child wearing all its trinkets at once.  She saw apples, cherries, and pears under their drifts of pale blossom, ripe and without blemish.  At the other side of the clearing there was a shelf of stone thrust up out of the grass.  On it, as if sleeping, lay a young man, exquisitely dressed.
Golden hair, she thought.  That’s why it was drawn in so lightly.  Like amber, or honey.  The fair face was very like the sketch she remembered, as was the scholar’s hand palm up on the stone beside it.  She stepped forward.
Beside the stone, the black branches of a tree lifted, moved away from their neighbors, and the trunk --  Not a tree.  A stag stepped into the clearing, scattering the apple blossoms with the great span of his antlers.  He was black as charcoal, and his antler points were shining black, twelve of them or more.  His eyes were large and red.
He snorted and lowered his head, so that she saw him through a forest of polished black dagger points.  He tore at the turf with one cloven foot.
I passed his test! she cried to herself.  Hadn’t she won?  Why this?  You’ll find him there, the King of Stones had said.  Then her anger sprang up as she remembered what else he’d said:  I will let you free the prince of Hark End.
What under the wide sky was she supposed to do?  Strike the stag dead with her bare hand?  Frighten it away with a frown?  Turn it into --
She gave a little cry at the thought, and the stag was startled into charging.  She leaped behind the slender trunk of a cherry tree.  Cloth tore as the stag yanked free of her cloak.
The figure on the shelf of stone hadn’t moved.  She watched it, knowing her eyes ought to be on the stag, watching for the rise and fall of breath.  “Oh, what a stupid trick!” she said to the air, and shouted at the stag, “Flower and leaf and stalk to thee, I conjure back what ought to be.  Human frame and human mind banish those of hart or hind.”  Which, when she thought about it, was a silly thing to say, since it certainly wasn’t a hind.
He lay prone in the grass, naked, honey hair every which way.  His eyes were closed, but his brows pinched together, as if he was fighting his way back from sleep.  One sunbrowned long hand curled and straightened.  His eyes snapped open, focused on nothing; the fingers curled again; and finally he looked at them, as if he had to force himself to do it, afraid of what he might see.  Moon heard the sharp drawing of his breath.  On the shelf of stone there was nothing at all.
A movement across the clearing caught Moon’s eye and she looked up.  Among the trees stood the King of Stones in his gray armor.  Sunshine glinted off it and into his unsmiling face, and pierced the shadows of his eye sockets.  His eyes, she saw, were green as sage.
The prince had levered himself up onto his elbows.  Moon saw the tremors in his arms and across his back.  She swept her torn cloak from her shoulders and draped it over him.  “Can you speak?” she asked him.  She glanced up again.  There was no one in the clearing but the two of them.
“I don’t -- yes,” he said, like a whispering crow, and laughed thinly.  He held out one spread and shaking hand.  “Tell me.  You don’t see a hoof, do you?”
“No, but you used to have four of them.  You’re not nearly so impressive in this shape.”
He laughed again, from closer to his chest this time.  “You haven’t seen me hung all over with satin and beads like a dancing elephant.”
“Well, thank goodness for that.  Can you stand up?  Lean on me if you want to, but we should be gone from here.”
He clutched her shoulder -- the long scholar’s fingers were very strong -- and struggled to his feet, then drew her cloak more tightly around himself.  “Which way?”
Passage through the woods was hard for her, because she knew how hard it was for him, barefoot, disoriented, yanked out of place and time.  After one especially hard stumble, he sagged against a tree.  “I hope this passes.  I can see flashes of this wood in my memory, but as if my eyes were off on either side of my head.”
“Memory fades,” she said.  “Don’t worry.”
He looked up at her quickly, pain in his face.  “Does it?”  He shook his head.  “I’m sorry -- did you tell me your name?”
“No.  It’s Moon Very Thin.”
He asked gravely, “Are you waxing or waning?”
“It depends from moment to moment.”
“That makes sense.  Will you call me Robin?”
“If you want me to.”
“I do, please.  I find I’m awfully taken with having a name again.”
At last the trees opened out, and in a fold of the green hillside they found a farmstead.  A man stood in the farmhouse door watching them come.  When they were close enough to make out his balding head and wool coat, he stirred from the door; took three faltering steps into his garden; and shouted and ran toward them.  A tall, round woman appeared at the door, twisting her apron.  Then she, too, began to run.
The man stopped just short of them, open-mouthed, his face a study in hope, and fear that hope will be yanked away.  “Your Highness?”
Robin nodded.
The round woman had come up beside the man.  Tears coursed down her face.  She said calmly, “Teazle, don’t keep ‘em standing in the yard.  Look like they’ve been dragged backwards through the blackthorn, both of them, and probably hungry as cats.”  But she stepped forward and touched one tentative hand to the prince’s cheek.  “You’re back,” she whispered.
“I’m back.”
They were fed hugely, and Robin was decently clothed in linen and leather belonging to Teazle’s eldest son.  “We should be going,” the prince said at last, regretfully.
“Of course,” Teazle agreed.  “Oh, they’ll be that glad to see you at the palace.”
Moon saw the shadow of pain pass quickly over Robin’s face again.
They tramped through the new ferns, the setting sun at their backs.  “I’d as soon . . .”  Robin faltered and began again.  “I’d as soon not reach the palace tonight.  Do you mind?”
Moon searched his face.  “Would you rather be alone?”
“No!  I’ve been alone for -- how long?  A year?  That’s enough.  Unless you don’t want to stay out overnight.”
“It would be silly to stop now, just when I’m getting good at it,” Moon said cheerfully.
They made camp under the lee of a hill near a creek, as the sky darkened and the stars came out like frost.  They didn’t need to cook, but Moon built a fire anyway.  She was aware of his gaze; she knew when he was watching, and wondered that she felt it so.  When it was full dark and Robin lay staring into the flames, Moon said, “You know, then?”
“How I was...?  Yes.  Just before...there was a moment when I knew what had been done, and who’d done it.”  He laced his brown fingers over his mouth and was silent for a while; then he said, “Would it be better if I didn’t go back?”
“You’d do that?”
“If it would be better.”
“What would you do instead?”
He sighed.  “Go off somewhere and grow apples.”
“Well, it wouldn’t be better,” Moon said desperately.  “You have to go back.  I don’t know what you’ll find when you get there, though.  I called down curse and banishment on your mother and father, and I don’t really know what they’ll do about it.”
He looked up, the fire bright in his eyes.  “You did that?  To the king and queen of Hark End?”
“Do you think they didn’t deserve it?”
“I wish they didn’t deserve it.”  He closed his eyes and dropped his chin onto his folded hands.
“I think you are the heart of the land,” Moon said in surprise.
His eyes flew open again.  “Who said that?”
“A guard at the front palace gate.  He’ll probably fall on his knees when he sees you.”
“Great grief and ashes,” said the prince.  “Maybe I can sneak in the back way.”
They parted the next day in sight of the walls of Great Hark.  “You can’t leave me to do this alone,” Robin protested.
“How would I help?  I know less about it than you do, even if you are a year out of date.”
“A lot happens in a year,” he said softly.
“And a lot doesn’t.  You’ll be all right.  Remember that everyone loves you and needs you.  Think about them and you won’t worry about you.”
“Are you speaking from experience?”
“A little.”  Moon swallowed the lump in her throat.  “But I’m a country witch and my place is in the country.  Two weeks to the east by foot, just across the Blacksmith River.  If you ever make a King’s Progress, stop by for tea.”
She turned and strode away before he could say or do anything silly, or she could.
Moon wondered, in the next weeks, how the journey could have seemed so strange.  If the Seawood was full of ghosts, none of them belonged to her.  The plain of grass was impressive, but just grass, and hot work to cross.  In Little Hark she stopped for the night, and the blond boy remembered her.
“Did you find your teacher?” he asked.
“No.  She died.  But I needed to know that.  It wasn’t for nothing.”
He already knew the prince had come back; everyone knew it, as if the knowledge had blown across the kingdom like milkweed fluff.  She didn’t mention it.
She came home and began to set things to rights.  It didn’t take long.  The garden wouldn’t be much this year, but it would be sufficient; it was full of volunteers from last year’s fallen seed.  She threw herself into work; it was balm for the heart.  She kept her mind on her neighbors’ needs, to keep it off her own.  And now she knew that her theory was right, that earth and air and fire and water were all a part of each other, all connected, like silver and gold.  Like joy and pain.
“You’re grown,” Tansy Broadwater said to her, but speculatively, as if she meant something other than height, that might not be an unalloyed joy.
The year climbed to Midsummer and sumptuous life.  Moon went to the village for the Midsummer’s Eve dance and watched the horseplay for an hour before she found herself tramping back up the hill.  She felt remarkably old.  On Midsummer’s Day she put on her apron and went out to dig the weeds from between the flagstones.
She felt the rhythm in the earth before she heard it.  Hoofbeats, coming up the hill.  She got to her feet.
The horse was chestnut and the rider was honey-haired.  He drew rein at the gate and slipped down from the saddle, and looked at her with a question in his eyes.  She wasn’t quite sure what it was, but she knew it was a question.
She found her voice.  “King’s Progress?”
“Not a bit.”  He sounded just as she’d remembered, whenever she hadn’t had the sense to make enough noise to drown the memory out.  “May I have some tea anyway?”
Her hands were cold, and knotted in her apron.  “Mint?”
“That would be nice.”  He tethered his horse to the fence and came in through the gate.
“How have things turned out?”  She breathed deeply and cursed her mouth for being so dry.
“Badly, in the part that couldn’t help but be.  My parents chose exile.  I miss them -- or I miss them as they were once.  Everything else is doing pretty well.  It’s always been a nice, sensible kingdom.”  Now that he was closer, Moon could see his throat move when he swallowed, see his thumb turn and turn at a ring on his middle finger.
“Moon,” he said suddenly, softly, as if it were the first word he’d spoken.  He plucked something out of the inside of his doublet and held it out to her.  “This is for you.”  He added quickly, in a lighter tone, “You’d be amazed how hard it is to find when you want it.  I thought I’d better pick it while I could and give it to you pressed and dried, or I’d be here empty-handed after all.”
She stared at the the straight green stem, the cluster of inky-blue flowers still full of color, the sweet ghost of vanilla scent.  Her fingers closed hard on her apron.  “It’s heliotrope,” she managed to say.
“Yes, I know.”
“Do...do you know what it means?”
“Yes.”
“It means ‘devotion.’”
“I know,” Robin said.  He looked into her eyes, as he had since he’d said her name, but something faltered slightly in his face.  “A little pressed and dried, but yours, if you’ll have it.”
“I’m a country witch,” Moon said with more force than she’d planned.  “I don’t mean to stop being one.”
Robin smiled a little, an odd sad smile.  “I didn’t say you ought to.  But the flower is yours whether you want it or not.  And I wish you’d take it, because my arm’s getting tired.”
“Oh!”  Moon flung her hands out of her apron.  “Oh!  Isn’t there a plant in this whole wretched garden that means ‘I love you, too?’  Bother!”
She hurtled into his arms, and he closed them tight around her.
Once upon a time there ruled in the Kingdom of Hark End a king who was young and fair, good and wise, and responsible for the breeding of no fewer than six new varieties of apple.  Once upon the same time there was a queen in Hark End who understood the riddle of the rings of silver and gold:  that all things are joined together without beginning or end, and that there can be no understanding until all things divided are joined.  They didn’t live happily ever after, for nothing lives forever; but they lived as long as was right, then passed together into the land where trees bear blossom and fruit both at once, and where the flowers of spring never fade.