Thornghost (16 page)

O
dar stared down his snout at Kepler's still form. They had put the ferret on the long table while Castine scrambled off to wake Too, and Odar stood beside him, brewing up a storm.

“Don't be, uh . . .” Niklas cleared his throat as Odar shifted his smolder-coal gaze to him. “I meant to say it was my idea to go into the garden.”

Odar kept him squirming for a little while, then sighed. “I know you're trying to be brave. No wonder he likes you so well. He loves nothing more than to admire himself in a mirror.”

“It was never to show off.” The voice came from the fireplace, where Secret sat as close to the flames as she could get without singeing her fur. “Not once he saw the ship. He wanted to bring back information he thought you should have.”

“Well, then.” Odar kept his voice gruff, but Niklas thought he saw surprise on the raccoon's face. “Tell me what you learned.”

They did, Niklas speaking for the most part, Secret adding her observations where she thought Niklas was too hasty. Especially she described the vine that had entangled Kepler in detail: inky, withered skin, hooked thorns that could be retracted. Odar pulled his whiskers. “You don't think that vine belonged in the brambles.”

“No,” Secret said.

“Neither do I.” Odar sat down on the bench, watching Kepler's chest rise and fall. “This morning, just before you came home, there were strange tremors in the ground. No injuries, just a tumbled shelf and some shed roof tiles. But I think the shaking came from the Rosa Torquata itself.”

The stairway rattled, and Too came blustering into the common room with thunderous steps for one so small. She carried her doctor's basket, and her eyes were black circles. “What happened?”

“Trolls,” said Niklas. “They cut him. He's full of some sort of sticky liquid, too. I think they made him drink it.”

“All right.” Too walked around the table, lifting Kepler's lids and feeling his nose. She winced at his black chin and swollen ankle, but looked pleased when she prodded his belly. At last she undid the buttons of Kepler's vest. “Oh,” she said. “Stitches won't do for this. Not by a far cry.” She turned to Odar. “I'll need the book.”

Odar blew air out his nostrils, but he went into the kitchen and fetched a book with bloated covers.

“Don't worry, Kepler.” Too riffled through the pages. “I have something that will help.” She cracked the book open on a page and put it on the table, facedown. “I need to rinse the cut first. Try and stay still.” She glanced up at Niklas as she shook a blue flask. “If you want to help, you could try talking about something else.”

Niklas understood. When his mother died, it helped when strangers came to the farm and talked about random things that had nothing to do with her death. It didn't much matter what, as long as some of their normal life rubbed off on him.

“So, Too. How did you get your name?”

Too poured the liquid over Kepler's chest. “My boy, Magnus, named me. He was only six when they picked me up at the shelter. His mother pointed out another kitten, but Magnus said, ‘That one is cute, too.' And it stuck.”

Niklas laughed and Too nodded. “It's very funny, my name. But you don't know what it can do.”

She turned the book over. The open page had a mark on it that Niklas thought must be a kind of rune. Not the harsh cuts of a troll rune, but softer, swirlier lines with dots and flourishes. Beneath it a word was printed:
heal.

“You know healing magic?”

“Not exactly.” Too picked a quill and a bottle of ink out from her bag. “My boy was very sick when he got me. We
were a good match, because it turned out I was sick, too.” She lifted her medallion briefly to her cheek. “We spent most days tucked up in bed. He read to me and I listened. Odar says he's never met another Petling who knew books
before
they came here.” She smiled. “I learned lots of things from reading. How to bake pies, stitch wounds.”

“So that's how you picked up your doctor skills,” Niklas said.

“One day Odar asked if I wanted to try it with a magic book.” Too grimaced. “I think you need special tools, though, because the runes never work when I draw them myself. But I figured out how to do this.” She dipped the quill in the ink and drew an
&
sign right beside the pretty rune, hooking the double loop so it bound them together. “See? Now the rune is mine.”

Niklas was impressed. “You take other people's magic and make it your own?”

Too shrugged. “All Brokeners are thieves. I just happen to steal runes.” She tore the page out of the old book. “Only problem is, it uses up the rune. After this, we'll have no more healing magic.”

She tried to put the page on Kepler's chest, but he curled up into a ball.

“Please,” Too said. “I need you to stay still for this.”

Somewhere in the pain, Kepler heard and understood. But he couldn't keep from flinching, not until Secret came over to the table. He smiled at her. “I knew you'd come, lady fair. You wouldn't give up on our team.”

“What team?”

“You know, our raiding team. You'll be the eyes and ears, I'll be the . . .” He whimpered as Too tried to put the book page on his cut.

“Idiot,” Secret finished for him. She put her big paws on Kepler's shoulders and held him down. “I'll finish you myself if you don't stop squirming.”

That helped. Too placed the paper perfectly on top of Kep­ler's wound, closed her eyes, and said, “I, Too, call this rune.”

The sign blazed bright. Smoke stung Niklas's nose, and when it cleared, a scorched blotch had replaced the
heal
rune.

Kepler breathed a long sigh. “Thank you.”

Too stroked his cheek. “Just don't tell a real rune master, if you ever meet one. I don't think I'm supposed to be able to do that.” But Kepler had already fallen asleep. The rune had healed his chest completely, and his ankle looked much better.

“He's all right now?” Secret pulled her paws back.

“As well as I can make him,” Too said. “He needs to rest.”

“Good.” Secret left the room and slipped up the stairs. She must be exhausted. They hadn't exactly gotten a lot of sleep last night. Niklas was about to excuse himself, but Odar put a hand on his arm. “Not so fast, boy. I'd like to hear that story one more time. You carried a prisoner out of the troll barracks without being noticed?”

The front door banged open, and Castine came running into the room. “Odar! Too! You have to come quick.”

The raccoon frowned. “Can't it wait?”

“No.” Castine's eyes bulged. “Gidea's hurt. Too, bring your bag!”

And just like that, Niklas's interrogation was over. Odar and Too followed Castine out into the morning, leaving Niklas alone with the sleeping patient.

Kepler's wound may be healed, but he still cried softly in his sleep. Niklas tucked a pillow under the ferret's head and sat down beside the table. There he waited until Kep­ler's breath grew steady.

• • •

W
hen Niklas entered the turret chamber, Secret wasn't sleeping at all. She waited bolt upright by the fire, ear turned back, beating her tail on the floor.

“It
was
your fault, you know.” She met his eyes.

Niklas froze. Here he thought things had taken a turn for the better. Kepler was healed and they had made it out of the garden alive and with crucial information. But Secret looked every bit as mad as she had been when they found Kepler in the pens.

“With the lamb, it was bad luck mostly,” she said. “You were too blind to see that the woods had changed. But this, tonight?” She bared her teeth. “You knew it was stupid. You knew Kepler would do anything to make you believe what he believes. You could have stopped him in the garden, in the jewel orchard, in Lostbook, under the brambles. All those times, you could have called it off.”

She was right. Even about Rag. Niklas had been so busy blaming the trolls and even Mr. Molyk, but they hadn't let the lambs into the woods. He had. Guilt sluiced through every part of his body, cold and deadening. “I didn't mean for anyone to get hurt. We were just playing dare.”

Secret turned away, but this time Niklas was pretty sure it was a gesture of disgust. “Why do you do that? Put on that false mask and pretend you're not afraid?”

“I don't—” Niklas began, but Secret cut him off.

“You forget I can hear your heartbeat.”

In the silence that followed, Niklas's heart betrayed him terribly, kicking so hard, he thought all of Broken must hear it. But he never got around to figuring out an answer, because someone clicked their tongue behind them.

“Save your quarrel for later.” Odar stood in the doorway. “We have bigger problems. I didn't want to say this in front of the others, not while they're heartbroken over Kepler. But while you went on your little expedition, I went back to the canyon. Your gate should have closed behind you, but it's wide open.”

Niklas already suspected that, since Rafsa had come through there. But what he said was, “Oh.”

“Oh yes.” Odar narrowed his eyes at him. “And Gidea? She swears a thorn cut her while she was sitting outside her den, minding her own business. Almost took her eye out.” Odar turned his back and started down the stairs. “We're going to see the Greenhood.”

O
dar wasn't all bad, Niklas decided.

The raccoon may have dragged them out into the Nickwood again, but at least he had brought breakfast. The bread was made with spices and walnuts and still hot from the oven. Every tenth step Niklas stopped to take a bite. It wasn't safe to walk and eat at the same time.

Secret hadn't said anything to him since the Second Ruby, but Niklas noticed that she had eaten the bread with relish, even repeating to herself the flavors Odar said he'd added to the dough, aniseed and maple syrup, as if they were a magic spell.

The ground fell away beneath them in overgrown cracks and gulleys. White roses still bloomed here and there, but there were also roots that poked through shelves in the rock. Odar drew to a stop before a dense net of thorns. “I
will take you inside to see the Greenhood, but you must swear never to tell anyone where this place is.”

“All right,” Niklas said.

“Not even the other Brokeners.”

Secret gathered her whiskers. “Why not?”

“The task of the Greenhoods is to tend the Rosa Torquata, on behalf of all the Realms. Our Greenhood can't be burdened with the Brokeners' problems. She doesn't belong to them.”

“But she belongs to an old smuggler?” Secret swished her tail.

Odar lifted an eyebrow. “Many years ago, when I was a
young
smuggler, I made a deal with her. I promised I would bring her food and news, help messengers from her order find their way, guard her back. In return I was allowed stay in the Nickwood. And that's the only reason there is a Broken. She lets a ragtag band of thieves hide under her skirts because if she didn't, they would be lost. You included.”

The raccoon let the thorns prick his palm. They drew aside like a stage curtain, revealing a cavern carved into living wood, lit by the twinkling lights of the Rosa.

“Idun?” Odar's voice frayed into echoes, even if the room was lined with branches. Niklas had the feeling that the Rosa Torquata whispered back to them. “Idun Greenhood, are you there?”

A squeak sounded, and a figure in a deep green cowl emerged from behind a table. “Odar? Is that you?”

“Of course it is.” Odar stepped into the room, belly first and grin fixed. But Niklas noticed how he wrung his hands behind his back. “Why are you hiding?”

“Oh, no reason.” The Greenhood stood up, holding on to the table with knuckled fingers. “I heard the thorns rattle, and . . .” At the sight of Niklas, she startled. “A Twistrose!”

Idun pushed her cowl back. She was a brown rodent, a gerbil, Niklas thought. Her creaky voice told him she must be ancient. “Where did you come from, child? And how?” She took a step forward, but sank back against the table to steady herself. She favored her arm, which was wrapped in bandages.

“Easy now.” Odar opened his backpack and took out a small flask. “You shouldn't be down here alone, Idun. You need someone to help you shoulder the burden. An apprentice.”

“Perhaps.” Idun accepted the flask with a nod. “Yet it is no small responsibility to bring an apprentice down here. It can get a bit . . .” She made a small gesture.

Niklas peered around at the giant roots and snaking vines. They made him feel like an insect, tiny and squashable. “Dangerous,” he suggested.

“I was going to say overwhelming, but you are right. This is not a place for the weak of mind.” The Greenhood took a swig. “Real starmead! I've not tasted that in years.”
She wiped her mouth. “Now tell me. How and why did you find your way here, young man?”

“Through a crack in the mountain,” Niklas said. “It was a coincidence more than anything. I didn't know it led here.”

“We discovered him in Sebastifer's canyon two nights ago,” Odar said. “Alone with his Wilder here. They say they came together.”

Idun's eyes never left Niklas. “Where is your key?”

“That's one of the reasons I brought him here. He says he doesn't have one.” Odar stepped close to Idun and murmured into her ear. Her eyes grew wide, then narrow.

Niklas glanced at Secret, who kept her face carefully blank.

Idun hobbled over, put her bony hands under Niklas's chin, and lifted his face. “What is your name?”

“Niklas,” Niklas said, and when the Greenhood waited for more, he added, “Rosenquist. Niklas Rosenquist.”

Idun nodded to herself. “Odar, my friend,” she said, handing him the flask. “It may be my ears playing tricks on me, but I think I hear someone outside. Would you please make sure you were not followed here?”

Looking none too pleased, Odar disappeared back through the curtain.

“Come.” The old gerbil led Niklas and Secret into a smaller alcove of arched branches around a massive stem. A square of the stem had been cleared of bark, like a window. Along the frame there were intricate runes carved, the swirly kind Too had used to heal Kepler. The
bare wood within looked soft and alive, pulsing with golden light. Niklas wanted very much to put his hand against it.

“Do not touch it,” Idun said sharply. “This is a speakwood. A place to commune with the Rosa Torquata. It can only be used by a Greenhood.”

“All right,” Niklas said, putting his hand in his pocket.

Idun's fingertips danced across the speakwood, and the air shimmered between her black claws and the white wood. “When a Twistrose plea comes, this is where I feed it the key,” she said. “I press it against the speakwood and ask for help on behalf of the Realm who made the request. The Rosa Torquata absorbs the key and sends it through to your world.”

She opened a small casket that sat next to the speakwood. It was full of crumpled gold. “These are keys I tried to send through this spring. The Rosa Torquata crushed and spat out each and every one.”

“It wouldn't help?” Secret's good ear had turned out, and her mangled one hung low.

“Wouldn't or couldn't, I don't know which.”

“Maybe the Rosa didn't like whoever asked,” Niklas said.

“I hope that is not the case,” Idun said. “Because I did the asking. For the first time in Greenhood history, I saw no other solution.”

She turned her black eyes to Niklas. “Only those with a key in their possession can pass through a gate from Earth
to the Realms. Whoever tries it without a key, will burn. So tell me the truth this time. Where is yours?”

Niklas suddenly remembered something the old voice inside the mountain tunnel had said right before it let him pass.
He is just a boy with a dead key . . .
He opened his satchel and brought out Uncle Anders's handkerchief. “The only thing I can think of that I carry is this.”

He unfolded the fabric. A whiff of aging wood tickled his nose as he opened it, revealing the thorny twig he had found inside his mother's statue.

Idun let out a faint hiss. “May I?”

Suddenly Niklas didn't want to give it up, this briar his mother had hidden in her heart for all those years. But Idun didn't wait for his reply. She snatched it and held it up against the light. “Decades old.” She gave him an appraising look. “Where did you get this? Was it delivered to you?”

“I found it,” Niklas said.

“This is a Twistrose Key. Or it was, before it withered.” She smelled the shriveled twig, then put the key back into the handkerchief. “But apparently it still works for you. You had better hold on to it, Niklas
Summerhill.
”

Niklas held his breath, thoughts racing. How did she know?

“No need to be scared,” Idun said. “Your secret is still yours. Why do you think I sent Odar away? But I know who owned this key.”

The gerbil limped over to a bookcase and picked out a heavy ledger. “This is the Book of Twistrose. We keep records of all who have been called.” She let the pages flow past her fingers, and Niklas saw hundreds of entries sift by, names and years and places.

“Here.” Idun let the pages come to rest, laying her knuckled hand next to an entry. “Erika Summerhill. She was called October third twenty-five years ago, by the realm of Jewelgard. But she never came.”

Niklas stared at the page.

Twenty-five years ago, his mother would have been his age. Like the statue. Like the Erika of his latest dreams. He felt woozy as the pieces clicked into place. His mother's twig was a key. The key was a call for help, a call to become a Twistrose. But . . .

“But the Breaking happened twenty-five years ago,” he said.

“It did,” Idun replied. “That is why she was called. To stop the troll invasion.” She moved her hand and revealed the last part of Erika's entry.

Secret went rigid beside him. “Your heart! Cub, say something.
What is wrong?
”

But Niklas couldn't speak for the thunder in his ears.

A word was written behind his mother's name.

Thornghost.