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“
Green, eh?
Not the best colour but it
’
ll do, aye, it
’
ll
do.
”
She worked the thong
into the weave, seeming already to know the measurements
needed.

“
What
’
s wrong with
green? I like it, its my favourite colour, I thought it would work
well.
”
Her tooth made a
painful indent of the soft flesh of her lip.

“
Don
’
t sulk, its
unbecoming. As I said, green
’
ll do. Sometimes a colour can help focus intent, or denote
meaning. Green is for healing, obviously, green, green things a
growing, cures and potions. And poisons
too
…
Do they teach you
nuthin
’
in that grand castle
o
’
yours? Lean
forward.
”

She obeyed,
holding her unruly curls back from her eyes.
“
Of course they teach me, if I
don
’
t run off that is. Yes,
I know green is for healing, it
’
s why them healers wear green, right?
It
’
s not hard. But then I
thought rowan is really powerful, right?
Isn
’
t that stronger than a
colour? And isn
’
t letting me
see truly like a healing? I mean, if I
couldn
’
t see properly
before, isn
’
t that like an
ailment? And so, this is like a healing.
”

She sat back
on her heels, gazing through the masque, red and gold fringing her
peripheral vision. The crone seemed enthroned by the vast tree, the
roots rising up and curling round her, merging with her skirts.
Some trick of the light revealing half her face softly, the other
lost to shadows. Yet both dark eyes were clearly set on Meredith
and the shadows could not hide the surprise fading into
contemplation, dark knowledge and a shifting sense of hope. In that
moment the crone appeared both far older, and far younger than Mera
had imagined. The moment grew heavier, reaching out, new paths and
possibilities stretching forth, all encompassed in that dark
contemplative gaze. The crone turned her head, settling her deep
hood, her face lost to darkness. A smile playing about her lined
lips, she turned fully into the half light.
“
You have an interest in such
things, eh, child? A keen mind too, when
you
’
re not rambling on. Help
me up, these bones need a warm fire to settle next to. And no doubt
the dancing
’
s calling to
young feet such as your own. Let us be way from this place,
t
’
night tis for others to
make merry in.
”

The crone
placed a gnarled hand upon her shoulder, huffing as Mera helped her
to her feet. She planted her stick firmly in the ground with each
step, so that they created a rhythm as they made their way through
the darkling woods. Details and colour were absorbed into the
gloom, forming strange shapes. Nothing extraordinary, merely
transformed, made eerie by some alien quality. The shadows were
pierced by subdued splashes of light, glowing fungus climbing trees
like
phosphorescent
steps.
Strangely they never once stumbled, never found a stray rock or
root to trip blind feet. It was almost as if the woods themselves
gently guided them out.

Mera had to admit that had she been alone she
would probably have ran home, just in case some boggle was laying
in wait. But walking beside the crone, stoic and calm, it was
impossible to be afraid. In the dark the sounds of the night washed
over her; animals settling, or rousing sleepy heads, ravens barking
as they came to roost and told one another of their day, the sweet
song of some night bird in the distance, the gentle passing of the
wind, the burble of an unseen brook, and their own steady
footsteps.

They came to the edge of the woods and
ascended the rolling greens. She looked over her shoulder and saw
the last remnants of the sun laying in thick bands of purple above
the tree line, hints of green giving way to the deep velvet blue,
and finally endless back, lit with the cold fire of the stars. The
woods themselves were a solid wall of shadow, their tips moving as
if the surface of some vast lake, faint glimmerings of dancing
lights in the depths. For a moment the distant song of the night
bird sounded like the sweet, haunting voice of a woman before being
carried away into the night.

Again she
entered the thorn corridor, the tall walls curving overhead to cut
off such fantastical sights. Here the darkness was deep, almost
palatable, the white stones gleaming against such nullity. . . For
awhile they walked through the burgeoning dark, the quiet of
evening now holding them in embrace. The moon rose higher overhead,
beams framing the darkness rather than dispelling. Into this lull
the crone
’
s voice dropped
like a stone to a well.
“
I
would make ye an offer, child. It seems to me ye be of quick wit
and a keen interest in the arts of herbal lore. It so happens that
I do be knowing something o
’
tha subject, and tha I
’
ve a firm hand. I
’
ve
also an inkling ye need one of those. Firm but fair, mind ye. My
offer would be t
’
meet
wit
’
ye on occasion and
share what I know.
”

Mera looked
askance at her. Firm? That didn
’
t sound very good. But then the crone
had
listened to her,
had spoke to her like an actual person. And she did want to know,
to understand.

“
Why? Why
would you want to?
”

“
Because
I
’
m an old
woman.
”

“
That
’
s not an
answer!
”

“
Tha
’
s all the answer
ye
’
ll be
havin
’
,
child.
”

Guess
that
’
s the firm, she thought
to herself, and mysterious. She did wonder who this crone was. She
was fairly familiar with the keep folk, and some of the town as
well, yet had never seen, nor heard of her before. She had a
feeling that she was someone who would be notorious. Someone who
would not appreciate prying questions. She considered the offer; to
be taught and treated like an adult, to learn a skill beyond be a
pawn, to have a purpose. The idea was very appealing, yet she knew
that it was not offered lightly, there would be a price. She had
seen clearly that there was always a price. Yet what harm could
come of it? Surely learning how to heal could only benefit the
kingdom she was part of. Her thoughts drifted onto the loss of her
father. If she had been with him, had known how to heal, if any
healer had been with him, he might still be alive. She concentrated
on the offer at hand, ignoring the questions that nagged at her.
The ramifications were unclear to her young mind, but she could see
no bad, only something that she could finally have as her own,
something worthwhile. Her mind aching from the magnitude of her
thoughts she decided to follow her heart.

“
I would be
honoured if you would teach me, Mistress.
”

The crone
looked at her, not having to look down too far, searched
Mera
’
s face, though for what
Mera was not sure. The intensity of it made her want to squirm or
look away, but she held her ground, meeting her gaze, letting her
see whatever it was she was looking for. A smile broke out over the
crones face, her wrinkles deepened, the many lines arcing to fold
around her smile and merry eyes. She reached out a hand to smooth
away a wind tousled curl.

“
My name is
Cerid Wren, child, seems you ought to know it
now.
”

“
Pleased to
meet you Mistress Wren. My name is
Meredith.
”

“
I know tha,
child. I
’
ll be leaving ye
here. Meet me again in t
’
rowan copse when t
’
first frost do be arriving, I have business to be about
till then. You are too keep this t
’
yeself, mind. It
’
s
best for now if its just you and I. And call me Cerid,
child,
‘
Mistress
Wren
’
makes me feel
old.
”

“
But
…
.
”

The crones laughter barked once more, and
with that she turned and headed towards the Townsway. The darkness
swallowed her hunched form, the thump, thump of her stick growing
fainter.

For awhile
Mera stood, staring at the place the crone, Cerid, had been,
running through what had just happened in her mind. It suddenly
didn
’
t seem real, how could
a dare end so strangely? Through her puzzlement crept a slow joy;
this would be her secret. Llew could have his swords, she would
have her healing. She would learn something useful!

Her fierce
grin quickly faded when she realized it was full dark and growing
later, how long had she been standing there?! She was late, late
again, and going to be in trouble. With a sigh she hiked up her
skirts and ran down a different turning in the thorns, the one that
led to the northern most gate of the palace, the one that led to
the kitchens. It meant she
’
d
have to walk right across the gardens, but at least
they
’
d think she had just
got sidetracked in the palace. Just lately she had overheard a few
conversations in which her mama thought she was spending too much
time with the children of the keep, that she was picking up bad
habits. She didn
’
t want her
to think she was late because she
’
d been running
‘
round town with them. They were the only friends she had.
Only a few of the noble houses had been in residence lately, the
rest having been away through harvest, but they would be back now
and her mama would expect her to
‘
make an effort
‘
. But
the noble kids were all brats anyway. The boys, well were boys.
Being silly or trying to copy their fathers and knights, which Mera
thought was much the same thing. The girls, primping idiots, always
talking about dresses and who they were going to marry, always
talking about prettiness like it was everything. Oh, and always
following Llew around, laughing when he teased her, then teasing
her more to try and impress him. Or trying to be her friend
thinking that would get them near him. She just
didn
’
t understand, he might
be the Prince but he really was incomparably annoying. Mera scowled
behind her masque.

The path
curved around the curtain wall, one of five near half circles that
formed the defences, build of red sandstone, old and worn smooth.
The walls rose high, obscuring the view of the palace beyond. Their
tops were terraces overflowing with plant life. In the dark they
hung like shadowy impressions; long, dangling Sleeping Ivy lay like
splashes of black, the Honeysnares
’
large white flowers glowed, their beguiling scent mingling
with that of the Itch in the Mist to coat the night air with
delicate perfumery. Although beautiful, she knew, as all were
informed, that their beauty hid a deadly nature.

The Sleeping
Ivy would bind anything large that touched it, the
Honeysnare
’
s perfume sought
to draw in prey, which it then stupefied before piercing flesh with
tendrils seeking nutrients. If disturbed the Itch in the Mist
released spoors that clung to anything that touched it. Spores that
at first would merely itch, but would rapidly burrow into the skin,
the sensation so unbearable that the victim would often tear
through their own skin and flesh. A deadly beauty indeed. It was
this knowledge that first led to her fascination with plants, and
with their possibilities.

Within the
vast central oculus, poised like a bud on the brink of unfurling,
light blazed. She wondered if the Royal house took the name
Rosalind, and the sigil of the Rose, because of the palace, or it
was merely coincidence
…
obviously they had nurtured the idea when they built the
outer walls, seeking to echo the original style, as much as humanly
possible. But right now she didn
’
t need to worry about the decisions of the kings of old but
of those of the present one. If he noticed how tardy she was then
he and her mama would both be breathing down her neck. She chewed
on her lower lip. That would be bad.