“Karlach, don’t eat that.”
Karlach stops, her teeth just cracking the surface of the apple Right had handed her. Her eyes, as well as Right’s and Fray’s, land directly on Shadowheart. Fray clears his throat softly. “Why?”
“Something isn’t right,” Shadowheart says, hand still outstretched as if to grab the apple. Her eyebrows furrow together as she casts around the sun-dappled glade. Fray follows her gaze, doubtful. As far as he’s concerned, this place is the loveliest they’ve visited since all this began. The water is clear and ripples gently, the flowers that bloom in every corner are vivid and healthy, and the path toward Auntie Ethel’s house is clear and well-marked. Even the sheep that dodder aimlessly along the edge of the water seem fat and content. This is, of course, far too much for him to actually say, even with the throat-soothing honey candy Halsin gave him.
Fortunately, he does not seem to be alone in this. “Seems fine to me,” says Karlach, though she does pull the apple from her mouth. Right and Fray nod along in agreement. “But what’s got you in a twist?”
“It’s not any one thing,” Shadowheart says. A frown curls her face. “Can’t you feel it? There’s magic here. It’s strong, too.”
“Ethel blinked,” Fray offers. “Hers?”
“It must be. It’s strong, but I can’t even tell what kind of magic it is.”
“Group huddle,” says Right, but makes no move to actually perform such a thing. “Do we think she’s actually a hag? That letter the men had said as much, too.”
“She’s old, but I don’t think calling her a hag is necessary,” protests Karlach. When everyone gives her a furrowed brow or confused expression she hums thoughtfully. “All right, what’s a hag if not just a nasty old lady, then?”
“Faerie,” supplies Fray. “Liars, tricksters.” And before he can stop himself: “Eats people. Evil.”
Karlach studies him for a beat before turning to the other two for confirmation. It stings, but at least Fray is confident in this. “More or less,” Right says, which soothes his ego further. “At least from what I’ve heard. Never dealt with any myself. I try to keep clear of faerie.”
“Which is rarely a bad idea,” says Shadowheart. “But I do know they love to bargain, and that matches the letter, too. I think it best if we proceed assuming that’s what she is. And be very, very careful about touching anything.”
This, at least, is agreeable to everyone. Fray and Karlach take the lead (Karlach because most things hesitate to antagonize something that looks like her; Fray because he would not risk anyone before himself), while Right and Shadowheart pick their way after.
Irate bleating grows louder ahead of them. The sheep. Fray looks them over more carefully as they make their way deeper into the bog, seeking any giveaways that they might be magical. Perhaps they have humanoid intellect, or have been transfigured into carnivores. Perhaps they’re dragons in disguise.
All of this is blown clear out of his head when Karlach claps her hands together. “I’ve always wanted to talk to sheep,” she says with a grin. “Stupidest things alive, they’ve got to be a laugh. Hang on a tic.”
Before Fray can question the wisdom of such an action—not that he would question Karlach—she has cracked her knuckles and started a simple spell with quick and orderly gestures. Efficient, martial. “Appreciate you lot letting me talk to every critter we meet, too,” she says, beaming. “I learned this one weeks before I got sucked down into the Hells, and there sure aren’t any normal animals there. Been fantasizing about talking to birds and foxes and shit for years!”
“Sheep, though?” Fray hears Right mutter, but if Karlach hears she pays no mind.
There’s a brief flicker in the very air itself, like something shifted in reality. A fetid scent stings Fray’s nose. He shakes himself, startled, but the smell is gone as quickly as it has come.
Then Karlach is crouched by one of the sheep. The words she says are not quite common, and not quite bleating, and definitely incomprehensible. Despite his terrible desire to watch everything Karlach does, he turns to Shadowheart.
For her part, Shadowheart stands very still, with her eyes in a constant back-and-forth across the wetlands. “Anything?” he asks quietly.
“It’s like an itch in the back of my mind,” says Shadowheart. “Like I can brush my fingertips against it, but I can’t catch hold.”
Right chimes in. “Some places are just innately magical.”
“Not like this,” says Shadowheart. “Here. I want to look at that tree.”
Fray cannot imagine what she could possibly learn from a tree, but follows her anyway. It is a very pretty tree, a stout old thing hung with a dozen each of bird houses and wind chimes. Right does as well, and soon they are boosting Shadowheart between them so she can get her hands on something she glimpsed in the fork of its branches. She’s not terribly heavy, especially not with Right splitting the load, but Fray finds it tiring to keep her aloft. The magic that facilitates his ability with a weapon does not, apparently, count her as one. Right doesn’t seem to be doing much better. When Karlach returns from her rendezvous with the sheep, the two of them give her such pleading eyes that she snorts and steps between them. A surprised Shadowheart is effortlessly hoisted onto her shoulders, leaving Fray and Right to step back and sigh in relief. “Was the sheep as funny as you thought?” asks Right.
“I don’t know,” says Karlach, frowning. “I talked to all the ones I could catch up with, but none of ’em really had much to say.”
“What did they have to say?”
“‘Baa.’” At their blank looks, Karlach shrugs (and Shadowheart scrabbles to stabilize herself). “Seriously. Just bleated at me! Baaaa!”
“That stupid?” suggests Fray.
“Maybe,” comes Shadowheart’s voice, above, and then a grunt of effort. “There. Look at this.”
Karlach carefully hefts her down, and then all three of them crowd to see what Shadowheart has in her hand. They are all startled to find a humanoid skull staring back. It is old and brittle-looking, spattered with bird droppings and remnants of leaf litter. More interestingly, some kind of rune has been scratched into the forehead. “The magic felt weaker here,” Shadowheart says, clearly pleased with herself. “This was buried in a hollow. I found other bones as well.”
“Could just be coincidence,” says Right, though their voice is doubtful.
“It could,” agrees Shadowheart, “but I doubt it. I figured out the school of magic after I found it. Not as well-disguised. It’s illusion magic—very, very competent illusion magic. But, I think, if I pull on this bit …”
She produces a knife, and Fray grimaces as she scratches a new curve into the skull. He gets little time to worry over this, though, for around them the world begins to bubble and drip. Karlach grabs her axe, and Fray’s hands hum with magic, but no immediate harm arrives. Instead, the beautiful wetlands shiver and darken. Healthy plants become sickly, the water around them clouds over, and even the sky dims to a weak gray. The tree behind Shadowheart grows gnarled with heavy, ugly leaves. The bright objects hanging from its branches pale into more bones. That fetid reek surges back into Fray’s nose, and this time it does not fade. The wetlands have become a nightmarish marsh.
“Well,” Shadowheart says brightly as the rest of them stare mutely at their true surroundings. “A hag it is, then.”