Why was it always the brave and honorable and hopeful who got hurt the worst in this world?
The girl promised she would tell her father, and he would warn other leading men in the village, and they would do something. The one-eyed man would not claim his new slaves. She hugged Merrigan and hurried away. The youngest boy thanked her again, quite gravely, and insisted she take his apple before he ran off to tell his brothers.
Merrigan decided now might be a wise time to get up and leave. No matter how careful the good boys and girls were, they always told the wrong person what they knew, and who had been helping them. Something about that man made Merrigan quite sure he would hurt her if he knew what she had done. That really wasn't fair, she silently complained, as she hurried down the road. After all, she had only passed on what the frog said.
How desperately she wanted to stay around and watch the feathers fly. Just imagining the ruckus that would soon enfold the village occupied Merrigan's thoughts for at least an hour. She chuckled and hurried along the road, grateful that all the walking she had to do had restored her youthful vigor and endurance. Not that she thought she would need to dance until dawn any time soon. She considered lingering in the general area to find out what happened to the blacksmith. As a child, she had found it entertaining to eavesdrop on the nobles of her father's court, or ambassadors, or ministers in the council, and then stir up trouble by leaving notes, revealing what everyone's rivals or enemies had said or planned.
"Why not?" she muttered, after glancing over her shoulder for at least the twentieth time since hurrying away from the village.
Merrigan stopped and looked back the way she had come. Did she really want to go back? One village looked pretty much like another, which was depressing enough in itself. She needed to move on from small villages and towns and find decent-sized cities. Some place large and sophisticated enough that when she mentioned Avylyn and Carlion, people actually knew what she was talking about. She needed to find an ambassador or diplomat with the intelligence to believe her, and help her get home. Once she returned to Avylyn, surely her father could find someone with enough magic to break Clara's curse. What use was it being the most powerful king in Armorica if he couldn't get a curse lifted?
Still, wouldn't the leading men of this village feel some obligation of honor and arrange to get her to the nearest city? She had helped defenseless boys escape slavery, hadn't she?
"They owe me. Four brothers with hammers against one nasty, loud-mouthed uncle who might not even be their uncle? They should have stood up for themselves long ago. Their father died under mysterious circumstances. Shouldn't someone have been suspicious about the convenient timing? Idiots like that don't deserve any help. Especially from someone like me, who certainly needs far more help." With a snort and a sharp nod for punctuation, Merrigan set off down the road, back the way she came.
Dizziness washed over her. For several unpleasant moments, she felt as if she had been turned toes-over-nose. The sunlit road around her vanished in a haze of gray, with silvery sparkles at the edges. The bread and cheese she had eaten turned into hard lumps that bounced around in her stomach.
Drat and double drat!
Too late, Merrigan remembered Clara's confounding and contradictory words.
She went to her knees in the grassy verge along the side of the road. Merrigan knelt there, gasping, until the ground steadied underneath her. When she raised her head, the oaks that had lined the road had changed to pines. The sunshine of early afternoon had faded to evening, with low-slanting rays and that bluish tint in the air that always promised a refreshing chill. Or at least, a refreshing chill when there was a palace to retreat to, and servants who brought warm shawls without being told.
Merrigan struggled to her feet and took several steps up the road. A much nicer road than the one she had been on two minutes ago. No deep ruts from wagons traveling in rainy weather, churning up mud. This road had large quantities of gravel ground into it, creating a sturdy surface. Amazing how much she had learned about road construction just from trudging down one road or cow path or trail or mislabeled king's highway after another.
It just isn't fair!
The momentary urge to weep made Merrigan realize how thirsty she was. She fumbled in the bag that bobbed and bumped against her bony hip with every step and pulled out the apple the boy had given her. The sweet-tart juice filled her mouth and she paused, stunned to discover she had a full set of teeth. All the gaps and loose teeth that threatened to snap if she bit into anything harder than week-old bread—fixed. For all she knew, Merrigan had her own good, firm, white teeth back.
"Well, what do I make of this?" she murmured, after chewing the mouthful of apple and thoroughly enjoying it. In fact, she hadn't enjoyed a fresh, firm, juicy apple in far longer than she could remember. The problem with Leffisand's rebellious magical apple tree had quite put her off apples. What had she been missing? "Is this a reward, or just another nasty trick?"
Merrigan gnawed on the puzzle of what had happened, why, and the implications for her as she trudged down the road. After all, evening was coming and she had no intention of spending the night in this unknown forest with nothing but the remains of this apple, the extra clothes in her bag, and her walking stick. She had to find a town. Surely this visibly better road meant a good-size town of some wealth or standing had to be
