Never After

It made Sally wonder, briefly, about her mother—if it was true that she had been inside those ancient woods; and if so, what she had seen. The young woman wondered, too, if coming to Gatis had bothered her mother, what with the Tangleroot so close. She had died soon after that trip, though until now, Sally had never thought to associate the two. Perhaps there was still no reason to.

A hand touched her shoulder, and she flinched. It was Mickel, riding close beside the wagon. He looked away from her at the distant forest, sunlight glinting along the sharp angles of his face, and highlighting his brown hair with dark auburn strains.

“Not all trees are the same,” he murmured. “Something I heard, growing up. Some trees are bark and root, and some trees have soul and teeth. If you are ever foolish enough to encounter the latter, then you’ll know you’ve gone too far. And you’ll be gone for good.”

Sally had heard similar words, growing up. “It seems silly to give a forest so much power.”

He shook his head. “No, it seems just right. We are infants in the shadows of trees. And those trees… are something else.”

“Some say they used to be human.”

“Souls stolen by the forest of a powerful queen. Roots that grew from bones and blood, and imprisoned the spirits of an entire people.” Mickel smiled. “I’ve heard it said that red hair was a common trait amongst them, and that descendents of those few who escaped the curse, who battled the queen herself, still bear that mark.”

Sally brushed a strand of red hair self-consciously from her eyes. “You and your stories. How could something like that be true?”

“Maybe it’s not. But either way, something about you is affected by that place, even by looking at it.”

She began to deny it. He touched a finger to her lips. The contact startled her, and perhaps him. His hand flew away as though burned, and something unsettled, even pained, passed through his gaze. Sally suddenly found it hard to breathe.

“You think too much in your eyes,” he said quietly.

“I can practically read your thoughts.”

“How terrifying,” she replied, trying to be flippant; though hearing herself was quite different: she sounded serious as the grave.

A rueful smile touched his mouth, and he stroked the neck of his horse. He hardly used a saddle, just a soft pad and a molded piece of pebbled leather. He held the reins so lightly that Sally thought he must be guiding the horse with his legs. “Yes, it is frightening.”

Sally fought the urge to touch her warm cheeks. “Why do you do this?”

“Perform? Create masks for a living? Haven’t you ever wanted to be someone else?” Mickel’s smile deepened. “No, don’t answer that. I can see it in your eyes.”

Sally thought she should start wearing a blindfold. But before she could ask him more, he said, “So what are you useful for? Are you good for anything?”

“I can read,” she said, stung. “Garden, cook, ride a horse—”

“All of which are admirable,” he replied, far more gently. “But I was referring to skills that would be useful in a… performance setting.”

“Performance,” she echoed, eyes narrowing; recalling overheard discussions between her father’s men about “performances” involving women. “What kinds of skills do you think I might have?”

Rumble, who had been silent, began to laugh. Mickel shook his head. “Reading, I suppose, would be enough. Precious few can do that. If you know your letters, you might earn your keep writing messages that we can carry along the way.”

“Earn my keep? You expect that I’ll be traveling with you for much longer?”

Rumble glanced over his shoulder and gave the man a long, steady look. As did Patric, who was suddenly much closer to the wagon than Sally had realized. Both men had messages in their eyes, but Sally was no good at reading them. Mickel, however, looked uncomfortable. And, for a brief moment, defiant.

It’s all right, she wanted to say. I’ll be gone by tonight.

Ahead, a small boy stood in the road with several sheep and a dog. He stared at them as they passed, and Mickel’s hands were suddenly full of small colorful balls that flew through the air with dazzling speed. He did not juggle long, though, before catching the balls in one large hand—and with the other, tossing the boy something that glittered in the sun. A silver mark, though the cut of it was unfamiliar. The child stared at it with huge eyes. Sally was also impressed, and puzzled. The coin, though foreign, would buy the boy’s family at least a dozen fine sheep, or whatever else they needed.

“You run ahead,” Mickel said, in a voice far deeper, and more arrogant, than the one he had just been speaking with. “Let your village know that the Traveling Troupe of Twister Riddle has arrived for their pleasure, and that tonight they will be dazzled, astonished, and mystified.”

The boy gulped. “Magic?”

“Loads of it,” Mickel replied. “Cats chasing kittens will be coming out of your ears by the end of the night.”

“Or more silver!” he called, when the boy began ru

Patric chuckled quietly to himself, while Mickel gave Sally an arch look. “Warming up the crowd is never a bad thing.”

“That was an expensive message you just purchased.”

“Ah,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “We’ve performed for many important people.”

“I’m surprised, then, that the rest of your troupe left you behind, even for the promise of yet more riches.” Sally frowned. “I also thought actors were supposed to be poor.”

“We’re immensely talented.”

“Is that how you afford such lovely horses?”

Rumble coughed. “These were a gift.”

“A gift,” she echoed. “You’ve been south of the mountains, then.”

Mickel gave her a sidelong look, followed by a grim smile. “You have a keen eye, lady.”

“I have a good memory,” she corrected him. “And I’ve seen the breed.”

“Have you?” he replied, with a sudden sharpness in his gaze that made her uncomfortable. “So go ahead. Ask what’s really on your mind.”

She frowned at him. “The Warlord. Did you see him?”

Rumble started to chuckle. Mickel gave him a hard look. “We performed for him.”

Heat filled her, fear and anger and curiosity. Sally leaned forward. “I hear he sleeps with wolves in his bed and eats his meals off the stomachs of virgins.”

Patric laughed out loud. Rumble choked. Even Mickel chuckled, though he sounded incredulous, and his nose wrinkled. “Where did you hear such nonsense?”

“I made it up,” she said tartly. “But given how other men speak of him, he might as well do all those things. Such colorful descriptions I’ve heard. ‘Master of Murder. ’ ‘Fiend of Fire’—”

“Sex addict?” Rumble said, his eyes twinkling. “Ravisher of women? Entire villages of them, lined up for his… whatever?”

Mickel shot him a venomous look. Patric could hardly speak, he was laughing so hard. Her face warm, Sally said, “You disagree?”

“Not at all,” he said, glancing at Mickel with amusement.

Sally drummed her fingers along her thigh. “So? Was he truly as awful as they say?”

“He was ordinary,” Mickel said, with a great deal less humor than his companions seemed to be displaying. “Terribly, disgustingly ordinary.”

“Or as ordinary as one can be while eating off the stomachs of virgins,” Rumble added.

“This is true,” Mickel replied, his eyes finally glinting with mischief. “I can’t imagine where he gets all of them. He must have them grown from special virgin soil, and watered with virgin rain, and fed only with lovely virgin berries.”

“Now you’re making fun of me,” Sally said, but she was laughing.

Mickel gri