He slows, cants his head in my direction. A single curl tumbles across his forehead. “You can’t go back.”
“Why not?” I fiddle with the cord around my waist, tightening my grip to strangulation.
“It’s not that I won’t take you back. It’s that Ican’t. The only way to return is to go forward. Should you attempt to backtrack, you will find yourself helplessly ensnared in Under.”
“That makes absolutely no sense.”
“Doesn’t it?” He regards me for an uncomfortably long moment, and my cheeks heat. I do not think I imagine his eyes lingering on my dress, the damp fabric clinging to curves of skin. “Consider this: you are a mortal who has wandered into Under. The fair folk will do whatever it takes to prevent your escape. Why? Because they are bound to the shadows while mortals are gifted the sun.”
His claim rings with authority, and I dare not challenge it. Turning, I take in the scene. The black lake shines like oil beneath the scarlet glare. If I cannot go back, my only choice is to trust Zephyrus to lead me forward.
“Fine,” I manage, though my chest twinges. “We continue. But hurry, please.”
The crowd parts, and the grassy path unfolds as we veer from the shore toward a grove of trees draped in twinkling blue lights. They float in long strings, these lights, catching the air on the upswing, briefly suspended before drifting back into place. It is strange, yes, but any light is better than none.
Zephyrus strides ahead, limber and sure-footed. I am not certain how long we walk. An hour? An age? My clothes are nearly dry by the time he lifts a hand, signaling us to slow. I peer around him, and my jaw drops.
It is without a doubt the most beautiful tree I have ever seen. It sprawls in a field of darkness, its smooth, twisting trunk the color of fresh snow, innumerable branches clothed in strands of blue lights.
“It’s lovely,” I say, thoughlovelyseems an inadequate description of something soother.
“According to the fair folk, Willow is the heart of Under.” Ducking beneath the hanging lights, he calls back, “Ask, and you shall receive.”
Willow is not a person, but a tree. It makes sense, I suppose.
“So I just… speak?” When I push through the strands, a pale chime brightens the air.
Zephyrus lounges against the trunk, mouth quirked in mischief. “You may ask Willow anything you wish, but she will only answer the questions she believes to come from your true self.”
That, I can do. “Do you mind if I have a little privacy?”
His eyebrows lift. “You’re sure?” When I merely glare, he says, “I’ll be over there if you need me.” Pushing off the tree, he melts into the darkness beyond.
With Zephyrus gone, the burden eases from my chest. I want him far away when I make my request. I’m ashamed of my voice’s tendency to wobble under pressure, how easily it breaks beneath the great weight of the unknown.
“My face is here, child.”
The throaty command draws my gaze upward. What I had believed to be knots in the bark have cracked open to reveal lidded eyes, the curving seam of a mouth.
“There you are.” The bark creaks as the eyelids sink low. “It has been a long time,” Willow intones, “since a mortal woman has graced my presence. But tell me, child. What do you desire?”
This answer, at least, is easy.
“I would like to know what I must do to become the next acolyte.” And then, hushed: “How can I be seen as worthy?”
The tree’s mouth pinches into a dark whorl. “I can see your whole history in your eyes. Ten long years you have toiled. You wonder why your efforts have failed to bring about the opportunity you seek. You wonder why it has not been enough.”
My throat aches fiercely. Tears well, and the blue lights burn into brightest stars.
“What must I do?” I whisper. Shall I kneel? Shall I close my eyes and lift my hands to the Eternal Lands?
“My dear.” Willow sighs. “Your path is not an easy one. It is lonely, and long, and marked by conflicting desires.” The great tree pauses, her wooden mouth crimped in what I believe to be sympathy. “You ask whether there is anything you can do to bring about the change in station you so desperately desire? Unfortunately, there is not.”
I clasp my trembling hands at my front. “I see.”
“One cannot control another’s actions, but do not despair. This path is yours alone, and a time will come when you gain your heart’s desire.”
“When? Am I to work diligently for another five, ten, fifteen years before I’m granted the opportunity to become one of the Father’s most loyal shepherds?” A novitiate’s duty is to build a foundation upon which faith can rest, but an acolyte acts as the Father’s own messenger, traveling to far-reaching towns and communities to spread His word, the good of all that is holy. It is a privilege many never experience. The truest representation of belonging to the faith.
