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One stands up on its hind legs, all eight feet of him, stretching his front paws up the tree trunk. I frantically tuck my feet away, not wanting to take chances. It opens its mouth to show me its teeth in what feels like a promise. But I’m safe up here.
At least until Cebba comes back.
I decide I’ll try to wait them out for a bit, hoping they might soon get bored and slink away. But I realize it’s too much to hope for when twenty minutes later they’re still circling the bottom of the tree, whining in frustration and looking increasingly agitated.
It doesn’t take them long to start taking running leaps at me. They manage to go far, powerful hind legs driving them upwards, increasingly close to where I’m perched. I look up, wondering if I should climb higher, but the next branch is a bit too far away for comfort and I could fall.
Think Eleanor, think. I wonder if I could throw the knife at them—if I hit one maybe the others would scatter in fear. But I don’t trust my aim enough. I shout down at them, but all they do is twitch their huge ears.
That’s what makes me remember. When the gryphon attacked me, Ruskin used a call to scare it off. “The alpha gryphon,” he said—adding that most creatures in the forest are scared of it.
I cup my hands around my mouth and try to mimic it now, releasing my breath in a long, high screech. As soon as I hear it, I know the call isn’t quite right. When Ruskin did it, it was even higher, and the gryphon reacted immediately. Down below me, the wolves just seem confused. I clear my throat and try again. This time they start to whine, lowering their heads and looking up to the sky. Encouraged, I call again, and again, making it louder.
The whines turn to yelps and the wolves take off running, their bushy tails disappearing in between the trees as I hear their steps quicken, fleeing the noise.
Luckily, they head back north, in the opposite direction to where I want to go. Once I’m sure they’re gone, I scramble down the tree and start running myself. The wolves might circle back round once they think the coast is clear, and I imagine they have a pretty good sense of smell too. I don’t think they’d find it hard to track me. So, when I hear the sound of running water, I eagerly follow it.
It brings me to a rushing river, its choppy surface almost sparkling in the moonlight. The wolves won’t be able to track my scent through the water, and I doubt they’ll want to cross it. I brace for the cold, and plunge in.
Chapter 34
The river is actually warmer than I expected, after childhoods spent playing in the rivers of Styrland, and I thank Faerie for its balmy climate. The current isn’t too strong either, and it helps me move quickly, even with the drag on my skirts. But the bandage on my leg is immediately soaked through and the wound beneath it stings fiercely. I make a note to clean it as thoroughly as possible when I have the chance. What use would be surviving this, just to die of some infection from a dirty cut?
I’m two feet from the other bank, with water nearly up to my hips, when a patch of the river in front of me starts to move strangely. The surface breaks and a stick-thin figure unfolds itself from the depths, its pointy limbs unhinging to make two legs and two arms. Its taller than me, its greenish-gray skin mottled like a frog, and it blinks down at me with bulbous eyes.
“Halt,” it says, its voice like the squelch of a boot in a muddy puddle.
I’d already stopped moving the moment I saw something odd in the water, but I nod anyway.
“Please, I’m just trying to get across.” I size it up, wondering how much damage my knife could do if it came to it.
“This is my stretch of the river.” It crosses its arms and I notice that while its hands are webbed, the tips end in pointed, bony protrusions.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know,” I say, taking a step back. “I’ll just find somewhere else to cross.”
“This is my river for miles,” it hisses, and I see the sharp points of its seaweed-colored teeth. Honestly, did everything in Faerie have to have fangs?
“If you want to cross, you have to answer my riddle.”
This creature is some kind of nixie, I guess. I’ve never seen one before, but they’re known to like riddles, and also to be even trickier than your average fae. I doubt this offer is as straightforward as it sounds. I sigh, looking up at the sky. North is definitely behind us and to the left. If I want to stay in the right direction for the palace, I need to get across this river, and I only risk getting lost if I try to detour.
“All right, then,” I say, “give it to me.”
The nixie looks about as pleased as a tall, gray frog-creature can.
“In order to live I must consume, but feed me water and I meet my doom. What am I?”
I’m relieved. It sounds like one of the ones we used to pass around at school—far from impossible to solve. I concentrate for a moment, and the imp’s eyes gleam in the moonlight at my silence.
“A fire,” I say firmly, and the creature’s face droops.
“I’m right, aren’t I?” I say, stepping forward, but the nixie hisses at me.
“You must answer three riddles.”
“What?” I snap, outraged. “That wasn’t part of the deal!”
The creature emits a guttural sound, baring its teeth.
