The Iron Tree: Book One of The Crowthistle Chronicles by Dart-Thornton Cecilia

Author:Dart-Thornton, Cecilia [Dart-Thornton, Cecilia]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Macmillan
Published: 2006-02-06T16:00:00+00:00

Seven days later, Teague A’Connacht had passed through the fence of brooding pines. He was riding across the domains of Strang when he came to a yard overhung by chestnut trees. Their leaves had transmuted to burnished copper, and the ripe chestnuts hung in spiky clusters. A woodfire burned brightly within a circle of stones, giving off a black feather of smoke. Beneath the gently nodding boughs, a horseherd was pouring oats into the feed troughs of the magnificent herd of horses milling about in the yard.

“Good morrow, my man,” said Teague cordially. “Can you tell me where Castle Strang is?”

The horseherd stared dully at his questioner. “I cannot tell you,” he said, “but go on a little farther and you will come to a cowherd, and he perhaps might tell you.”

Teague looked at the horseherd, so patiently tending his beasts. He took in the yokel’s much-mended jerkin, his stained breeches, the wisps of straw stuck through his hair and beard. He noted these elements, then sliced off the horseherd’s head, for the words of the Storm Lord still echoed within his skull: He who wishes to succeed must kill every person he meets after entering the domains of Strang.

As the head of the horseherd rolled from his shoulders, the trunk and legs turned into a column of umbraceous vapor while the skull disintegrated to a spherical haze. These dim fogs dissolved and dissipated altogether.

“Ha!” laughed Teague, sheathing his sword Búistéir. “There’s one less tattletale to go running to the master!”

Within the circle of stones, the fire went out.

On rode Teague until he encountered the cowherd, whom he treated in the same fashion after receiving an answer to his question. After decapitation, the cowherd’s remains vanished in the same way as the horseherd’s. Teague cleaned the weapon and flourished Búistéir high in the air, the polished blade flashing silver in the sunlight. “Steel has bite and backbone, for certain!” he crowed triumphantly, abandoning the cattle and a fizzling heap of charcoal that had recently been a fire of green juniper wood.

He served the next three farmhands in the same manner and had much joy of the slayings. Then he came to the henwife.

“Goodwife,” said Teague to the crone warming herself at her modest wisp of sooty flame while the hens pecked around her feet, “can you tell me where Castle Strang is?” But even as he spoke, his aspect soured, for he had never struck a woman. He hesitated, even though he knew she was no true woman but a simulacrum, an appearance of something that was never there, shaped from delusions or mist by the sorcerer’s gramarye.

“Go ye on a little farther,” mumbled the wrinkled henwife, “until ye come to the top of that ridge. Then you will see the castle.”

Sensing his indecision, Teague’s horse fretted and pranced nervously.

“Goodwife,” said Teague, deferring the moment, “When I reach the castle, how shall I get in?”

“Go around it three times widdershins,” quavered the frail crone, “and every time say ‘Open gate! Open gate! and let me come in!’ and the third time the gate will open and you may go in.

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.