golden plates and cups fit for any luxury-loving jarl, each of them shining sun yellow in the firelight.
I smelled incense, fruity with a hint of herbal earthiness, and noticed a plume of white smoke rising from a thurible that hung in the corner.
Ten children watched us, none older than twelve, each with long hair coiled into tight braids.
A girl with bright red hair stood in the center of the group. She had a grave, melancholy air about her and bright, intelligent eyes.
“Did we just enter a fairy tale?” I asked.
Gyda laughed, and the girl joined her—she had a charming, infectious giggle that contrasted with her stoic demeanor.
“I’m Pellinore,” she said. “You’ve wandered into our home.”
I noticed she had three small pale green dots tattooed at each of her temples. I scanned the other children and saw the same.
“You are Jade Fells,” Ink said. “You are Mountain Witches. You sleep during the day and prowl the night like wolves. You drink blood and eat the hearts of your dead.”
The girl put her fist to her heart. “No. We are rogue Jade Fells. We have forsaken our people, and we make our own way. We roam the caves under the Skal Mountains, searching for ancient, forgotten treasure.”
I held out my hand. “I’m Torvi. This is Madoc, Ink, and Gyda. We are trying to free a sword.”
* * *
Pellinore invited us to share their meal—fire-roasted cave mushrooms and a simple wild-garlic broth. We dined on golden plates and drank mountain ale from golden cups, like gods.
My three companions and I smiled our way through the supper—we were all feeling merry and lighthearted, having left a dark tunnel and entered a dazzling, magical cavern.
The rogue Jade Fells did not ask us questions as we ate, instead laughing and joking among themselves in the selfish, sweet way of children everywhere. They were drinking too much mead, but I wasn’t about to tell them so.
As the leader, Pellinore kept her attention on us and only partially listened to the others.
“Do the Jade Fells truly eat the hearts of their dead?” Gyda asked after Pellinore poured her another mug of mead. “What does human flesh taste like?”
I kicked the druid under the table, but she merely winked at me.
Pellinore gazed at Gyda, eyes bold and unashamed. “Yes, they do, but it is ceremonial. It is not vulgar and violent, and it’s not why we left our band of Fells.”
“Why did you all leave?” Ink sat next to Pellinore. The two of them looked like sisters, same red hair, same bony frame. I noted with interest that Ink was less shy than usual.
The children seemed to like Ink’s question, and their answers were swift and varied.
“We left because the Fells are murderers.”
“We left because it was dull.”
“We left because we wanted to find treasure.”
“We left because we wanted to find adventure.”
“We left because a Fell prophet told Pellinore we would rule a jarldom one day.”
I exchanged a look with Ink. Her eyes were dancing. She liked children, as did I. I missed the Arrows suddenly, though I’d known them for only a brief time. I wondered if they’d run off again to fight wolves or if their father was keeping them in line.
“Vorselanders wanting to rule a jarldom … I’m hearing a lot of that lately.” Madoc gave Gyda a wry look.
The druid grinned, and the children went back to their food and drink. They began to discuss their next cave exploration in high, excited voices. Many of them quoted the lyrics of an Old Vorse song called “Mountain Hoard,” which had several lines about a golden girl who sat on a golden throne in a cave under the Skals.
Madoc took a sip of his broth, eyes on Pellinore. “How do you find food, living down here?”
Pellinore gestured to a corner of the cave. “That tapestry with all the warriors feasting at a long table—it conceals a passage that leads to a hidden alpine meadow. We get what we need from there, and from the caves themselves. Does the mead taste familiar, Butcher Bards? It’s your own, left in one of the caves on the southern side of the mountains.”
Madoc and Ink laughed.
“Yes,” Madoc said. “I knew it was moongold cider, though it’s aged past the fiery stage and mellowed a bit. It must be twenty or thirty years old.”
“Older, even,” Ink added. “It’s been in that cave since our grandmothers were young, I think.”
“How long have you all been living here?” I asked. I was still enthralled