Moonkind (Winterling) by Sarah Prineas Page A

had to find some help. Getting to his feet, he went to the doorway and peered out. The carved hallway was empty and dim, lit only by one crystal in a niche in the wall.
    Hmm. The trick would be finding somebody to help the Birch-Lady without getting caught himself. He could get to Old Scrawny’s rooms from here; he’d tell the old villain and then get out. He flicked his shifter-tooth into his mouth and, in his dog shape, slunk like a shadow along the edge of the hallway and up a winding set of stairs.
    He paused to sniff the air, to smell the way to Old Scrawny’s rooms.
    Then he smelled something else—willow branches and bow and arrow and sharp knives. Nathe-warden.
    “There’s the puck!” came a shout.
    Without even a glance over his shoulder, he leaped into a run, bounding down a corridor, his paws skidding on the smooth floor as he rounded a corner.
    “This way!” came another shout.
    Curse it. He’d spent time in one of the nathe’s prison cells deep underground, and it wasn’t someplace he wanted to visit again.
    He skidded to a stop at a place where five passageways met, not sure which way to go. Then, down one long hallway, one of the short stick-people that acted as servants in the nathe leaned out of a shadow and beckoned to him.
    From behind him came more shouts and the pad-pad-pad of quick feet running over polished wood.
    They’d have him in a moment.
    Hsst!
    His ears flicked toward the sound. The stick-person waved wildly and hissed again.
    Nothing else for it. Quickly he dashed down the hallway. With surprising speed, the stick-person led him on, its green-tufted head bobbing along before him. It swerved and he scrambled to keep up, heading along another hallway and then up a winding stair to an ornately carved door that he recognized.
    Arenthiel’s room.
    From the stairs came the sound of feet coming up.
    Rook spit out the shifter-tooth and stowed it in the pocket of his long, embroidered coat. Then he threw open the door, reached back and dragged the stick-person inside, and snapped the door closed behind them. He froze, listening. The wardens’ footsteps paused outside the door. He held his breath.
    “He’s not up here,” he heard after a long moment, and the footsteps went down the stairs again.
    He leaned against the door and breathed a sigh of relief. Then he looked around the room. It was the same as before: dark, polished walls, crystals for light, and Arenthiel—Old Scrawny—huddled on a couch made of plump, green cushions.
    “Young puck!” Arenthiel said with a cackle. “In trouble again, are you?”
    A stupid question, not worth answering.
    “I told my servants to keep an eye out for you and Gwynnefar once you were done talking to the High Ones. Where is she?”
    Rook shook his head.
    “Not here? Well, you come here. Sit down.” Arenthiel patted the cushion beside him with a gnarled hand. “I want to talk to you.”
    “Well, I don’t want to talk to you,” Rook muttered. He didn’t want to sit next to Old Scrawny either, so he sat on the floor by the door instead. He waited a stubborn moment, and then added, “One of the Forsworn is . . .” Not injured, exactly, or sick. “She’s lost her glamorie,” he continued. “She needs help.”
    Old Scrawny straightened. “Where?” he asked briskly.
    “Nathewyr,” Rook answered.
    Arenthiel nodded and summoned his stick-people servants, who scurried off to find the Birch-Lady.
    Rook gave a ragged sigh and put his head down on his knees. What a mess this all was.
    He was a puck, which meant he shouldn’t mind mess, but this was different.
    “What’s the matter?” Arenthiel asked in his high, creaky voice.
    Rook gave him a baleful look. “It’s not your business.” He was only hiding here until the nathe-wardens got tired of searching for him. He put his head down again.
    “It is too my business,” the old creature huffed, and went on as if talking to himself. “It’s my business more than anybody’s.”