“I think you know very well that I will never believe it best you or your unborn baby be drowned. Nor come to harm of any kind, for that matter.”
She thrust her cup aside, setting it on the table with such force it threatened to spill, and reached for Lowen, pulling her from her chair and into her arms the way she had when she was a child. Lowen went to her, careful not to place too much weight on her small body. She rested her head against the old woman’s shoulder and let the long white wisps of her hair drift across her face. It was soft, fragrant with the scent of cinnamon and star blossom honey.
“I am sorry you had to see those revolting hags,” her grandmother said, moving to rock the chair. Lowen’s legs no longer left the floor with each swing of the rocking chair as they had when she was small. She swallowed a sharp pang of disappointment.
“I have never seen the wraiths,” she went on. “I can only imagine how dreadful they were. If they called to you, maybe they could see the child within. But if they yearned to grip you in their wretched talons and drag you down into the water with them, it was not to rid the world of an evil.
“I have told you before, Lowen, your child will be unlike any the world has seen for a hundred years. There are many who would dearly love to take such power for themselves; the keening wraiths are no exception. This is all the more reason why you should leave as soon as possible. Make the journey through the Deep Forest to the court of the Green King. Only there will you find some measure of protection.”
Lowen tried to interrupt but Koth Conwen pressed on, her words falling in an urgent rush. “You’re going to show soon, my love. Then all manner of chaos will break about your ears. It will be best for all concerned if you are far from Kree by then.”
“Are you trying to get rid of me, Grandmother?”
She felt her grandmother draw a deep breath. “No, of course not. My weak, blue-tainted heart will break when you leave. But I want the best for you, Lowen. I want you to have a good life. I want that child you’re carrying to have a good life. Hiding here and pretending none of this is happening won’t work for much longer.”
“I only wish I could pretend none of this was happening.”
Before her grandmother could reply, a small, black and white shape darted into the room. Smooth, tapered wings created their own draught as it passed, lifting the hair from their faces. Lowen disentangled herself from her grandmother’s embrace and watched Odelin land on the edge of the table. He hopped up and down, his fathomless black eyes locked on Lowen’s own.
“What is wrong?” she asked him. “Where is Nicanor?”
Odelin hopped up and down once more before launching himself back into the air. He flew to perch on her shoulder, worrying at strands of her hair.
A sick feeling of dread began to tighten across Lowen’s chest. She pressed a hand to her stomach, attempted to still her mind and interpret what the agitated bird was trying to tell her. Her concentration was shattered by a loud scream. It split the languid silence of the forest and sent a beating cloud of birds wheeling into the sky.
“What’s happening?” she cried.
Her grandmother shook her head, perplexed and worried.
A second scream echoed against the trees. They weren’t screams of pain or fright, they were screams of war. Jubilant Scrat battle cries, emanating from the heart of the village.
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Lowen turned back to her grandmother, words dying in a throat that felt too tight.
“Go,” Conwen implored. “Quickly, child.”
Lowen did as she was told. She ran from the hut and out into the brilliance of the day, not pausing to stop for breath as she turned towards Kree. She ploughed on through the trees—pushing errant branches heavy with fragrant blossom away from her face—and skidded down an incline through slick spring grass.
At the village centre, a posse of Scrat surrounded a satyr. Lowen knew it must be Nicanor; no other satyr would dare to enter the Wild Scratgrounds.
In her mind she was crying out, imploring the Scrat to stop, to let her go to him. Her mouth remained clamped shut. Nicanor turned towards her, hemmed in on all sides by the long spears aimed at his chest. His eyes were wild, his usually strong and placid face distorted, pulled out of shape by pale, stricken fear. For one terrible moment, Lowen thought he recognised her beyond the ring fence of spear points. She baulked, expecting him to call out, expecting the spears to be turned on herself, but his eyes rolled in his head and he stumbled back, so panicked he was unable to focus on anything.
Lowen tried to push through the slow, rolling shock that had stolen her voice and fixed her feet to the floor. She had to think fast, to find a way to explain this impossible situation, but plain thought flew from her when she glimpsed Jenifer and her mother in the ring of seething Scrat. They were both holding spears, their eyes narrowed at Nicanor, faces taught with suspicion and anger.
Talwyn ran to her side, flushed and breathless. “Can you believe this, Lowen?” she gasped. “Cade was right. A satyr ripped up that boar and look, here he is.”
“He didn’t kill the boar.”
“What other explanation is there?”
Jenifer darted forward, spear grasped firmly in both hands. She jabbed at Nicanor’s prone side and he cried out, staggering towards the sharp points of the spears held at his back. He only just managed to turn and avoid them before they pierced him too. Lowen ran towards him.
“Leave him alone!” she screamed, her voice panicked and shrill.
Her cry shocked everybody into silence. Even Nicanor stopped bucking and turning. All eyes rested on Lowen.
“We have no time for one of your flights of fancy, Lowen,” Kerra said. “You can see we have an intruder in the village. Pick up a weapon and help us.”
“No.” Lowen’s pulse was ratcheting. Heat flushed across her clammy skin. “This man has done nothing wrong.”
“What are you talking about?” Jenifer said. “He is no man, he is a satyr.”
“He is, but he has done no wrong.”
“How can you be certain of that?” Kerra shook her head, eyes briefly closing, and turned to Cade. “Cade, have you more of those boar traps you’ve been making? They may just be large enough to hold this beast.”
“I will make one ready immediately.”
Cade jammed his spear into the ground before disappearing beneath the trees. He had been constructing pens all season. They were the width of two Scrat men, large and hardy enough to capture and keep three boars at a time.
“No, Mother. I beg you, do not do this,” Lowen persisted, knowing this marked the end of the only life she knew amongst her own people. Knowing, yet no longer caring.
“Lowen,” Kerra said, staring her down with the steely look only a mother can muster, “you will go back to the hut and you will stay there until we—”
“He loves me, Mother.”
Lowen strode towards the tight ring of raised spears and faced her mother. She balled her sweating palms into fists, willed her legs to stop trembling.
“He loves me, and we are with child.”
A stunned hush rippled through the clearing, fanning through the village and up into the very leaves of the forest. Arching branches seemed to lower, bending to hear every word of what was being said.
Lowen was panting, her gaze darting wildly from her mother to Jenifer, then back to Nicanor. A burning desire to have her grandmother by her side flared so brightly she bit back tears.
Eventually, Kerra spoke, her voice low and dangerous. She addressed the Scrat but her eyes never left her youngest daughter’s face. “Get that animal into Cade’s cage,” she instructed them. “And you, Lowen, are coming with me.”
As Kerra turned, clearly expecting Lowen to follow her, Lowen could see her mother was shaking with barely controlled rage. She looked again at Nicanor, her resolve becoming steely when she saw he too was trembling, though from fear rather than anger. Lifting her head and deliberately keeping her eyes from the ring of onlooking Scrat, Lowen slowly picked her way across the clearing, towards the house of the Scrat Chieftain.
