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  Maybe the Huntress had an army of servants at her command, I thought, hope rising in me again. Human servants, instead of beasts. A human could be coerced into compassion.

  My eyes scanned the room for further proof of human hands. The floor bore no marks of broom or mop that I could see, but good servants left no evidence of their passage.

  At the foot of the bed I found a chest. I ran my hand over the curved top, thinking of chests full of silk sinking to the bottom of the sea. The metal bindings were cold to the touch, but the latch lifted easily, revealing neatly folded clothes and the smells of lanolin and old perfume.

  I hesitated before touching them, suddenly afraid. The room echoed with half-heard voices, the former occupant watching me from the shadows behind the drapes.

  Don’t be an idiot, I told myself. You have much larger things to fear than ghosts.

  I lifted the first garment from the chest. A lambswool long-sleeved tunic, dyed hunter green. Warm. I set it aside. Chamois leggings; leather breeches; soft, wool undershirts; and thick stockings. A winter wardrobe, and at the bottom, beneath the sweaters and the folded cloak, two dresses.

  I pulled them out, Aspen’s voice in my head as the wool ran through my fingers. The first was dyed a deep dark green, the bodice picked out in pale gold thread. Deer and foxes were embroidered along the sleeves, and the fabric was softer than anything I’d touched since we left the city.

  The second dress was red.

  Color flashed across my mind. Roses in my mother’s garden, blood spilled across snow, and last, absurdly, the Huntress’s lips, her smile mocking my father as he raised his sword against her.

  I folded it up hastily and shoved both gowns back to the bottom of the trunk, piling more garments on top of them. My hands paused over the wool tunic, leggings, and breeches. My own clothes were not suited to this cold. Feeling the stranger’s eyes on me, I slipped out of my red skirt and folded it carefully, thinking about the red dress at the bottom of the chest.

  I pulled on the wool stockings, leggings, and breeches, relief rushing in to fill the absence of my old clothes, which had smelled strongly of bear. In the city, women wore what they wanted, not like the cloying, backwater village I’d just left. My legs felt free without the skirt. I laced my boots up over the pants, wishing I had found a pair of sturdier boots in the chest as well. The green tunic fit, as did the soft, clean undershirt, and the sweater had a heavy collar that rested comfortably against my neck, promising to block out drafts of icy air.

  Once on, the stranger’s clothes made me feel a little better. Perhaps this was why knights made such a fuss about their armor. It wasn’t just the physical protection it offered, but the act of girding oneself up for battle that made the difference. These new clothes felt braver than my old ones.

  The door was unlocked, I knew. The tray of food I had retrieved was proof of that. All I had to do was open it, and then . . .

  Then what?

  Find someone.

  The urgency in the thought had another cause. I had to use the latrine, and I had no desire to test the limits of the chamber pot I had found in my search of the tower room. I lifted the latch on the door, pushing past the panicked voice that warned the door would now be locked and I would be trapped here until I starved to death or froze.

  It opened.

  On the other side, curled up on the landing of the spiral staircase that went on in both directions, lay the white wolf.

  I shut the door and threw my weight against it, panting. No sound came from the hall. It might have been the same wolf that had watched me from across the clearing. Then again, the features about the wolves that tended to grab my attention were their size, speed, and the length of their teeth. Aside from the black wolf, that didn’t leave a lot of room for differentiation. They all looked huge, they were all unnaturally fast, and there was not a single one among them not in possession of teeth that could disembowel a lamb or a man in one snap. Now one of them was outside the door for reasons I could only assume were not in my best interests.

  I lost track of how much time passed while I debated whether or not to risk opening the door again. Long enough for me to decide that the only thing worse than opening the door was remaining trapped in the room indefinitely while my bladder threatened to burst. I took a deep breath and lifted the latch.

  The Huntress stood on the other side with her hand raised to knock. She looked just as surprised as I felt, green eyes widening as they took in my change of clothes.

  “You ate,” she said.

  I glanced at the wolf beside her. Golden eyes met mine, revealing nothing.

  “Yes.”

  You ate? That is all you have to say to me? I thought. Up close, we were almost of a height, for all that she was broader through the shoulders and more powerfully built. She had seemed much larger standing beside the bear.

  “Follow me.” She turned and walked away, the wolf trotting at her heels.

  My mouth shut slowly as she rounded the bend in the staircase, leaving me alone in the dark hall.

  “Wait.” I walked as quickly as I could after her, my boots making more noise than the Huntress and the wolf combined. “I need . . . I need the latrine.”

  She looked at me as if I had just spoken gibberish, then pointed toward a narrow door in the center of the staircase’s spiral.

  The latrine was spare, nothing more than a board over the long chute, but it had a mirror of polished brass hanging on one wall. I rubbed it with my sleeve. Tangled hair and wild eyes stared back. I tried to straighten my hair, then gave up. It was matted with sweat and long-since melted ice, and no amount of finger brushing was going to undo it. I needed oil, a hot bath, and a comb, none of which seemed likely. You’re as vain as Aspen, after all, my reflection seemed to say. I licked my lips and braced myself for the sight of the wolf beyond the door.

  I tried to keep track of our progress so that I could find my way back to the tower room which, now that I had left its confines, felt safe and secure, but the wolf trotting beside me drove all sense of direction from my mind. I tried to pretend it was a dog, but there was nothing dog-like about it; the paws were too big, the tail too short, the head too narrow, the snout too long. Every hair on its body rippled with predatory potential.

  The corridors blurred together, lit by the dim light of the arrow slits. Shadows that might have been unlit torches and wall sconces passed me, but the Huntress moved with such surety that I half wondered if she could see in the dark like a wolf.

  What light there was illuminated floors littered with dead leaves and the occasional bone, more like an animal’s warren than a place of human habitation. It made my skin crawl. Despite the debris, the curious lack of dust persisted. Everything smelled cleanly of animal and snow.

  Where are we going? I did not ask.

  The keep seemed larger inside than it had looked from the frozen lake, and I wondered if she was intentionally trying to disorient me.

  As we walked, the air grew warmer.

  “In here.”

  The corridor came to an abrupt end. A large, stone archway opened into a dark space beyond, and the Huntress struck a spark against an oil lamp. It flared against my eyes, much brighter than it had a right to be, and she lit more lamps until the cavern sparkled. The walls were hewn from the mountain— that much was clear, and stalactites encrusted with crystal dangled from the ceiling. In the center of the cavern, encircled with black and white stones, stood three pools. They bubbled softly, and the air smelled faintly of sulfur.

  “What . . .?” My question trailed off.

  “Hot springs. The mountain keeps them warm. You may bathe if you wish.”

  A bottle of oil, a comb, and a towel lay by one of the pools. I stared at them suspiciously, wondering if she could read minds.

  “I will return for you in an hour.”

  I listened to the faint whisper of her boots until they passed beyond hearing, leaving me alone with the weight of the mountain above me. I shivere
d. Steam rose from the water, and I thought about how vulnerable I would be, sitting naked while some unknown beast with fangs and claws prowled the cavern’s depths, thirsting for blood.

  An hour.

  How long did she expect me to bathe?

  I placed a hand in the water. It was hot, and felt faintly oily, like the public baths in the city. I withdrew my hand slowly.

  I did not have to bathe. I could run, stumbling down the castle halls until something caught me. I could wait here, fully dressed and dry, until she came back. Or I could sink below the surface of the water and breathe it in, ending this nightmare.

  It was the last thought that made up my mind. I did not want to die here, but I stood a much better chance of convincing someone to help me if I looked presentable. I shucked off my new clothes and folded them carefully within reach, then bathed myself with a vengeance. I was dry, combed, and clean by the time she returned, hurried along by the thought of her eyes on my bare skin. She did not register any emotion at my improved appearance.

  “Are you hungry?”

  I wanted to go back to my room, where I could pretend to be brave.

  “Yes,” I said instead.

  We went back up the stairs, coming again to the kitchen. “You don’t eat in the hall?” I asked, remembering the tables shoved against the walls and the empty dais.

  “I don’t hold court. The kitchen is warmer.”

  “Where . . .” I took a deep breath and blurted out the question I needed answered most. “Where do the servants eat?”

  She turned, and I nearly walked right into her. This close I could count the shadows of her eyelashes on her cheeks.

  “Servants?”

  “I thought . . .”

  “You will not find any servants here. You will have to see to your needs yourself, my lady.”

  The mockery in her voice was unmistakable.

  “That’s not what I meant,” I said, but then the meaning of her words sank in. If there were no servants, then who would help me?

  “What did you mean?”

  She was so close to me. I wanted to step back, but my body refused, rigid with terror.

  “Is there anyone else here besides you?” I hated the desperation that leaked into my words.

  Her eyes gleamed, as feral as her wolf.

  “You’re here,” she said, and her smile cut deeper than the north wind.

  Red berries on a dark limb.

  The Huntress paused, the bear shifting beneath her.

  Rowan.

  She had never realized how many rowan trees grew in the mountains, or how bright the berries gleamed against the snow. They pricked the eyes like blood.

  Fresh tracks beside the tree.

  Deer. She could smell them, a faint musk that spoke of hunger and chewed bark. She moistened her lips, tasting the air.

  Not far.

  The branches of the rowan tree tangled in her hair as the bear lumbered forward. She tugged, and a few berries spilled into her lap.

  They had served rowanberry jam with game. The sauce was bittersweet, a sharp tang against the honeyed roasts. Old laughter rang in her ears, and the remembered stench of sweating, breathing, feasting men and women overpowered the smell of deer.

  She had sat with her Hounds at the high table. Masha— quick-tempered, first to throw words or knives. Neve— first to the ale, last to bed. Brendan— big-fisted, big-hearted, favorite among puppies and children. Lyon— faster on foot than a horse, but slow to laugh. And Quince. Small, sharp Quince, her shadow, her right hand, the last of her Hounds to fall to the witch’s spell. Which of them had the hunters taken? Which of her kin had they cut down, with their crude crossbows and steel traps?

  She threw the berries from her. They scattered on the snow like drops of blood.

  The deer were upwind.

  She slid off the back of the bear and hefted her spear. Without the bear’s height, the berries faded from sight, and with them, the memories.

  Snow, ice, thorn.

  Within the briars, the Hounds lived on.

  The witch smiled in the Huntress’s memory. She broke into a run, her long stride swallowing the drifts, until the smell of the deer drove away all else.

  Chapter Six

  I pulled another carrot, the dirt crowding underneath my fingernails. Carrots, in the middle of winter. The pile in the basket beside me grew. One onion. A handful of potatoes. A leek. Greens. Too many things that should not be, even with the glass ceiling filtering the pale sunlight as it lit the winter garden. My mother had taken me to the great glass greenhouse in the city, but this was nothing like that towering edifice.

  Seven carrots total. One for each day I’d been here. I leaned back on my heels, staring around at the rows of plants. The pungent smell of crushed herbs clung to my fingers.

  I was no closer to an escape than I had been that first day. If anything, I was farther, and the only thing I had managed to accomplish was to find my way from my room to the garden, the kitchen, and the baths. When I strayed beyond this narrow path, a wolf inevitably appeared around the next bend. They never snarled at me or came too close, but I was not stupid. I had been allotted my territory, and they guarded theirs. I felt like a sheep, and right now I even smelled like one, the steam from the spring in the corner of the garden leaving a fine mist over my wool tunic. As with the rest of the castle, the hot spring kept the garden from freezing, and I had come across warm pipes while digging. It would have impressed me more if I had not been a prisoner.

  At least the garden gave me something to do. It was heavily overgrown and in need of a firmer hand than whoever had been tending it. Each day, I brought my small harvest to the kitchen, and each day the stew was there, meat broth bubbling, waiting for me to scrub and dice the vegetables. There were knives aplenty; the Huntress did not seem to consider me a threat. She hardly seemed to consider me at all.

  I saw her, now and then, from a window or in passing. Once she carried a young deer over her shoulder, another time a brace of hares. Twice I came across her frowning at something out of sight, only to have that frown transferred to me.

  “Tonight, she will speak to me,” I told the carrots. They turned blank, orange faces towards me, their green tops brushing my forearms.

  She was not in the kitchen when I entered, but the stew was there, simmering away.

  “It would be nice to have something besides stew,” I told the pot as I set about preparing my harvest. “A roast, maybe. With roasted potatoes and herbs and garlic.”

  The pot was as silent as the carrots, but the hair on the back of my neck prickled.

  “I’ll lay out some boar, then,” the Huntress said.

  I spun around, dropping the onion I was halfway through slicing onto the floor. Snow melted on her hair and shoulders, and her usual entourage of wolves ranged behind her, watching me with idle curiosity.

  “Do you like boar?” she asked as I bent down to retrieve the onion. Thinly veiled mockery shone through her words. “Or would you prefer suckling pig? Maybe a rack of lamb?”

  “Roast duck, actually.” I sliced the onion more viciously than was necessary, her tone getting under my skin. “With candied cherries in a wine sauce.”

  Her lips twitched in what might have been a smile or a frown, and she pushed off from the door frame she had been leaning against to stand next to the fire.

  “Wine, I have.” She poured some into a small pot and set it over the flames. “Care for it spiced?”

  “Um, yes, please.”

  At my halting reply, the mockery, and any trace of levity, vanished from her tone.

  “Spiced it is then.”

  I took a chance. “I was wondering where the wine came from,” I said.

  “Someplace expensive, I expect.”

  I narrowly missed my finger with the knife. “My father served a similar vintage.”

  “He didn’t seem like the sort to keep a table that could support it.”

  “He was a merchant,” I said,
my pride stinging.

  “Was?”

  “Well,” I said, attacking a potato, “you don’t think I ended up in that village by choice, did you? Shit.” The knife nicked my finger.

  She moved, quick as a cat, and pressed her sleeve against the cut to staunch the blood. After a week of nearly perfect solitude, her touch sent a shiver down my spine.

  “You’re not from the mountain?” she asked, examining the cut.

  “It’s my mother’s village, but I was born on the coast.”

  “It was bad luck, then, that brought you here.”

  Yes, I thought. A mountain of it.

  “Did your father have ships?”

  “Three.”

  “This isn’t deep,” she said, releasing me. “But be careful shedding blood here. What did he trade?”

  The casual way she mentioned blood set my heart racing, and I glanced at the wolves. None of them seemed to have scented my blood, but perhaps there were other, hungrier things about.

  “Cloth, mostly.” I tried not to let her see my fear. Animals could smell that, too. “He wanted to sell furs from the mountains after we fled the city.”

  Her silence warned me long before she spoke.

  “A poor choice.” It was all she said, but the temperature in the room dropped.

  “It was,” I said, rushing to fill the frigid air. “Nobody would touch his goods. That’s why he needed the Locklands. He wanted to trade through them, but no city merchant would take someone from the mountains seriously. And now . . .”

  “Now he trades bones for more bones.”

  It was an odd phrase, and I braced myself for the question I had to ask. “Did you kill them?”

  “Who?”

  “The other two men with my father.”

  The Huntress turned away from me and poured the wine into two horns.