The Unholy Cause

In the end, by pawning the necklace the girl from the other world gave them, they're able to buy passage on a ship from Greycove up the coast, where they board another ship that takes them across the small sea to Dana. It cuts their journey by weeks, and means they're sheltered for the worst of the last winter storms, rather than camping out in the elements.

Sagramore, it turns out, still gets seasick. He spends most of both voyages either clinging queasily to the railing of the ship and vomiting over the side, or hiding belowdecks in his wolf body, curled up in a tight circle with his nose buried in his fur. Sometimes Szarka lies alongside him loyally, but she loves following Laertes around, too, barking at the ship's cat and chasing the gulls that settle on the railing and go up in a white flurry when she dashes towards them. Despite her best efforts, she never manages to herd them anywhere. Laertes, meanwhile, seems born to the sea, and the sailors all warm to him quickly. They tell him tales of the worst monsters they've encountered in the waters, and invite him to patrol the decks late at night in case of any unexpected encounters; a few offer him tobacco and other, less wholesome substances.

When they finally reach the port city in Dana, Sagramore's more than ready to get shut of the ship forever; it's all he can do not to transform and bound down the gangway. Now that he's gotten so fluent at shifting between shapes, he does struggle not to change his ears or his nose just to get a better vantage, and when Laertes grins at him as they light on shore again his tail almost rips through his trousers to start wagging.

Faborg is a charming city. The streets are full of people in spite of the cold spring -- more people than Sagramore has seen in one place for a long time, at least outside of a city like Castletown of the North. The houses and shops are painted cheery colors, and everywhere there are smells of good food and hot drinks, vendors on the corners of each block. It doesn't look like a place that's been ravaged by monsters, although there are a few tell-tale signs: new paving in the streets that covers up old craters, new builds amongst the antiquated architecture. The druids' shops advertise amulets and protective spells.

It's easy to find an inn. The proprietor winks at Sagramore as she writes their names in her ledger, and taps the side of her nose. "A homecoming, eh?"

The world is on the cusp of winter.

Winters are harsher and longer since the change: more days when the sun is blotted out by snow, more nights when a person could freeze to death. Many kinds of monsters go to ground to wait it out, which means work is hard to find, although Sagramore can track some things to their burrows to be killed in their sleep, so perhaps times won't be as lean as they could be.

Right now, though, they're two months out from Greenhollow, and the sky is grey and heavy with clouds. Days ago they fought a winged serpent that sank its fangs into Sagramore's thigh; now they're hiding in a cave hoping his fever breaks soon, because if it doesn't there's not much hope for him (the snake was beautiful, though, coral-red and black with the glossy speckled wings of a starling, and when Laertes shot its skull to fragments there was a ruby inside, smooth as sea-glass, as if instead of brains the snake had a head full of crashing waves and sand. Druids say the jewels inside snakes cure their poisons, so Laertes crushed it, never mind how many crowns it would have fetched, and fed it to Sagramore in spoonfuls of broth made from boiled rabbit, wild onion and chickweed).

(Sagramore's fever dreams have been glittering and fragmented as the ruby. He dreams about his mother and father fighting, about old Lot and his wife drinking tea in the study together and talking about the marriage mart and how to find a good prospect for Mordred. He dreams about asking old Lot whether Mordred couldn't make a love-match, and the look Lot gave him, as if he'd never heard a stupider idea. He dreams about how seasick the voyage from Rheged made him, and how he was constantly dizzy and vomiting, and then he thinks that part might not be a dream. He dreams about a black and white magpie plucking out his only eye and setting it in a ring as if it were a gemstone.

Before the change, it was customary at weddings to exchange woven crowns, made from supple twigs and threaded through with whatever flowers and grains were in season. The very rich might have a replica made from gold or silver to keep; the very poor might use whatever was handy. A druid would counsel the couple before marriage; they still do. For those with land, there are contracts to be drawn. In Rheged, the druid would tattoo a birch knot, like an eye, on the back of the left hand. Sagramore dreams his arms are covered with birch eyes, like a staring forest. He dreams Laertes weaves a crown around his neck like a collar so he can't run away under the full moon. He dreams about a little house with thick walls, a little house in a safe town, and his husband inside waiting for him.)

Szarka curls up against his chest, barely willing to leave him even to eat or relieve herself. Outside the cave it rains; it's a cold rain.

(Since Seven Stars, he's had something in his pocket that feels like a glowing coal, and every time he slips his fingers in to make sure it's still there his chest aches for everything he's afraid of.)

Outside the cave it rains, and Sagramore shivers and sweats, waiting for it to break.

Before the change, there were a dozen cities called Castletown, probably because there were plenty of castles and towns built around them, circles spreading out concentrically like ripples, each ring less densely populated with houses and people. These days, there are two: Castletown of the East, and Castletown of the North.

Castletown of the East is a hellhole. Sagramore's been there, and it's overrun with earth magic, but not so much that the people who live there haven't convinced themselves they can still manage -- yes, all right, sometimes the vines snake through their windows in the night and pull sleepers from their beds, and yes, whole houses have been known to disappear into sinkholes, and yes, if you don't walk in a group ants the size of kittens will swarm you and pull little pieces of you away until there's not a mouthful left to take back to their nest, but there aren't monsters. Nothing hulking and huge with teeth like blades, so it's fine.

Castletown of the North is a hellhole, too, but it's a hellhole in a way that's familiar. After weeks of sleeping rough in ditches on the side of the road or the gutted interiors of abandoned farmhouses, Sagramore is thrilled to discover that Castletown of the North has an inn. He needs it. He's sick of waking up hard, his nose full of Laertes' scent, of dreams about Laertes' hand in that soft, soft leather wrapped around his prick. He doesn't mind sleeping on the ground, or not having had more than a quick scrub in a cold river for a month, or eating half-burnt, half-raw squirrels cooked on a spit for five meals out of seven. He just wants his own fucking room for one night.

They haven't had much work on the journey north, and their purses are lighter than ever. Laertes harrowed a water monster in Bredigan, but there was no head so they didn't get paid, and Sagramore tore the throat out of some kind of bloodsucker outside of West Veltri, which they at least got thirty marks for, but they've had to spend most of it along the way. As soon as they get to the inn, Laertes is chatting with the barkeep, in the same easy way he chatted up Sagramore when he first came to Spindlecairn, and Sagramore's good mood abruptly vanishes.

It's annoying. It's just annoying.

Sagramore glowers into his mug of beer and lets Laertes do the talking, since he's so good at it. Let them wonder what his fucking problem is. Let Laertes find a monster to hunt, it's his job, and when that's ready Sagramore will follow, like he always does.