Never After

He said it with a straight face. Sally frowned, unsure what to make of them. They were most certainly dangerous, but not rough or coarse, which was an odd contradiction—and an odd atmosphere between them all. She had always considered herself to be a good judge of character, but that had been at home—and she had never, not once in seventeen years, been on her own beyond the protection of her father’s lands. Sally was not entirely certain she could trust her judgment. And yet she thought—she was quite sure—that she was safe with these men.

For now. She thought of her dream, her dream that had felt so real: that little girl with her ancient eyes, and the children in the trees. A shiver ripped through her, and she gritted her teeth as she glanced behind at the woods—feeling as though someone was watching her. The hairs on her neck prickled. It was not quite the afternoon, and the weather was chilly, though clear. If she could backtrack to the Tangleroot…

“I should go,” Sally said reluctantly. “But thank you for your help.”

Patric’s hands paused. Rumble gave her a quick look of surprise. Mickel, however, reached inside his coat for a small metal spoon, which he waved his hand over. It appeared to bend. “Are you ru

“Of course not.” Sally peered at the spoon, trying to get a closer look. Mickel hid it in his fist, and when he opened his hand it had vanished.

“You’re a trickster,” she said. “Sleight of hand, games of illusion.”

“Not magic?” Mickel placed a hand over his heart. “I’m shocked. Most people think I have u

Sally tried not to smile. “You have an u

Rumble grunted, picking at his teeth. “Won’t be safe with mercenaries still out there. Not for you, lass.”

“Too many of them,” Patric said absently. “More than I imagined.”

Chilly words. Her father was losing control over his land. For a moment Sally considered returning home, but stopped that thought. She would have to make a choice soon—but not yet. Not until she stepped into the Tangleroot and discovered whether a power was there that could make a difference.

Sally forced herself to stand. Her legs were still unsteady. Mickel stood as well, and kicked dirt over the fire. “We were also leaving.” Rumble and Patric stared, and he gave them a hard look. “What direction are you headed?”

Sally folded her arms over her chest. “South.”

“Remarkable. Fate has conspired. We’re also headed that way.”

Rumble coughed, shaking his head. Patric sawed at the deer a bit harder. Glancing at them, Sally said, “Really.”

“And tomorrow we’ll begin ambling north.” Mickel tilted his head, his gaze turning thoughtful. “Where are you from?”

“I don’t think it matters,” she replied curtly. “If I asked you the same question, I suspect you would feel the same.”

“Home is just a place?” he replied, smiling. “You’re jaded.”

“And you smell,” Rumble said, peering up at her.

“Like manure,” Patric added. “Very alluring.” Sally frowned. “You three… saved my life. I think. And I appreciate that. But—”

“But nothing. No harm will come to you. If you travel with us, you are one of us.” Mickel held her gaze, as if he wanted her to understand. When she finally nodded, he turned away to nudge Rumble with his boot. “Come on, then. We’ll go to Gatis. It’s not far.”

No, not far at all. Only two days’ ride from home. She could be recognized, or her father might find her there—assuming he had begun looking.

But it was also close to the Tangleroot.

Sally held out her hand to Mickel, who stared for one long moment before taking it with solemn dignity. His grip was warm and strong, and a tingle rode up her arm. From the way he flinched, she thought he felt it, too.

“My name is Sally,” she told him.

“Sally,” he said quietly. “Welcome to the family.”

She began seeing ravens in the trees as they drew close to Gatis. Hardly noticeable at first, until one of them launched off a branch in a burst of black feathers, cawing in a voice so piercing, the sound seemed to run straight down into her heart. Images flashed through her mind—ravens and horns, and silver frozen water—making Sally sway with dizziness. She leaned hard against the edge of the rickety wagon, holding her head.

Mickel rode close on a swift black mare that was surprisingly fine-boned and sleek; a lovely creature, and a surprise. She had seen such horses only once before, those from a trader who had come from south of the mountains. The Warlord’s territory.

She would not have guessed a mere performer would have such a horse; nor Patric or Rumble. Rumble’s mount was tied to the back of the wagon. He sat up front, holding the reins of the mules.

Sally caught Mickel’s eye. “You said you found me near the Tangleroot.”

“Yes,” he said, drawing out the word as though it made him uncomfortable. “You were unwell.”

“Unconscious, you mean.”

Mickel rubbed the back of his neck. “Not quite.”

“You were screaming,” Rumble said, turning to look at her. “It’s how we found you. Just standing as you please in front of the border of that cursed forest, making the most bloodcurdling sound I’ve ever heard. And I’ve heard plenty,” he added, a moment later.

Sally stared at him. “I was… screaming.”

“Quite a fighter, too,” Patric said, guiding his horse past the wagon.

She blinked, startled. “And I fought?”

“You were delirious,” Mickel told her. “Simple as that.”

“You were trying to enter the Tangleroot,” Rumble said. “Almost did. Took all three of us to hold you down.”

“Stop,” Patric called back, over his shoulder. “You’ll scare her.”

“No,” Mickel said slowly, watching her carefully.

“No, I don’t think you will.”

Sally, who had no idea what her expression looked like, had nonetheless been thinking that it would have been a great deal easier if they had just let her go. Perhaps more terrifying, too, given what she remembered of her dream. If it had been a dream.

But she did not like having her thoughts written so clearly upon her face. She studied her hands, noting the dirt under her nails, and then looked back up at Mickel. He was still watching her. She studied him in turn, and suffered a slow rush of heat from the boldness of his gaze—and her own.

Gatis was a rambling village built into the high hills of a river valley, a place that had belonged to shepherds for hundreds of years, and still belonged to them; only now they lived in comfortable cottages with fine large gardens bordered by stone, and fruit orchards growing on the terraced hills that dipped down to the Ris, its winding waters blue and sparkling in the late afternoon sun.

Sally had been to Gatis years before with her family—while her mother was still alive. The villagers were known for the quality of their yarn and dyes, and the fine craftsmanship of their weaving. Her cloak and vest were Gatis-made, and likely the cloth of her dress, as well. She pulled up her hood as they neared the village, hoping that none would remember her face. She had been only ten at the time. Surely she looked different.

The road sloped upward around a grassy hill covered in boulders, and at the crest of it, Sally saw the border of the Tangleroot. It was far away, but there was no mistaking those woods, however distant. The border was black as pitch, a curving wall of trees that looked so thick and impenetrable, Sally wondered how it would even be possible to squeeze one arm through, let alone travel through it.

Seeing the forest was like a slap in the face. She had known that one of the borders to the Tangleroot was near this village, but looking at it in broad daylight twisted in her gut like a knife. Sally felt afraid when she saw the faraway trees; fear and hunger. She closed her eyes, hoping the sensation would fade, but all she saw was the little girl, ru