Seven Endless Forests - April Genevieve Tucholke Page 0,72

shade of the fruit tree, enjoying the bittersweet taste of the black apple peel mingling with the crisp honey flavor of the white flesh underneath.

We picked several and savored them slowly as we crossed the wide plain.

From the edge of the Brocee Leon, the Skal ridge appeared to be a few miles away, no more … But it took us three days to reach the foot of the mountains, covering fifteen to twenty miles a day. We passed soft cobalt lakes and endless green meadows, saw countless herds of elk grazing and a white arctic bear eating berries with her cubs.

A small forest lay at the base of Imp’s Ear, not nearly as large as an Endless Forest, but pretty all the same—blue fir trees and red-tipped wick trees cradled the foot of the mountains like a crimson-indigo quilt.

“The hut will be here, in this woodland,” Gyda said. “I can feel it.”

The druid was right. I was munching on my last black apple when I saw it.

The wizard’s cottage lay between two lush wick trees, their large, fat, curving roots hugging its frame like a mother cradling an infant. It was thatched in the Fremish style, black reeds over a black door, yellow-painted stone walls.

It was decrepit, half ruined. I counted several large holes in the roof, and the whole building seemed to slant to one side, as if it were about to crumble into dust.

Madoc turned and pointed. “And there’s the blue troll-stone, just as Uther said.”

The troll-stone rose about fifteen feet into the air in front of the hut. I could just make out its features as we drew closer—eyes, long pointed nose, chin, hunched shoulders—though wind, rain, and time had worn away most of the details.

“It must be one of the few left from the sagas,” Ink said. “When the trolls came down from the Far North to fight in the first Witch War, they died by the hundreds. They fought heroically until the sun rose and turned their flesh to charcoal-blue stone. Dozens used to dot fields across Vorseland, but most have been eroded to unrecognizable lumps.”

I ran my palm across the giant knees of the troll as I passed. The cold stone had once been flesh and blood, and I still could sense it, the heartbeat that had once flickered inside.

I wondered if Esca’s tree would feel this way, like an animal caught in a stone cage.

The worn wooden sign on the door of the hut read: PUZZLES SOLVED AND QUESTIONS ANSWERED. In smaller letters underneath were the words KEYS, DOORS, POTIONS, PERFUMES, AND RESINS.

I glanced at my three companions and then knocked.

Despite what Uther had said, I still expected an older man or woman to come shuffling to the door, milky eyes, red-tipped nose, clawlike hands. When the heroes in the sagas went searching for oracles, or prophets, or sorcerers, the mystics they found were generally elderly and wise, with cunning eyes and a grim smile.

No one answered my knock, though I tried three more times. I turned and walked through the wick trees to the back of the hut. There I found a small, grassy area and an abundant, well-tended garden.

A young man was hanging linens on a rope strung between two blue fir trees. He saw me but made no move to come closer. He simply smiled and smoothed the edges of an undyed linen sheet with his palms.

He was very beautiful, with a willowy frame, wide eyes, straight, refined features, and thick, short brown hair that curled at his temples and the back of his neck. He wore a long, loose tunic made of fine wool. It was dyed a deep, rare shade often referred to as Fremish blue. The tunic had billowing sleeves and pockets of all shapes and sizes—the classic sorcerer’s robe.

I called out to my companions, and they joined me in the garden. The wizard finished with the laundry, then crossed his arms and scrutinized us. “And what do you all want, I wonder? Spells? Keys? Answers? I provide all these things.”

His words dripped with the silky Fremish accent—it was an inflection I’d always found lovely. Even Uther’s voice had been alluring, in its way.

Gyda pulled the half-owl, half-human figurine from her pocket and tossed it toward the magician. He caught it in one hand.

We drew closer as he gazed at the statue, which sat open on his palm. He looked up and met Gyda’s gaze. There was a mischievous glint in his clear brown eyes, and it