“Then Titania and I have sealed our own fate,” Oberon said, “and we can only hope that the mountain folk will have mercy on the people of the Arden…as refugees.”
I sucked in a deep breath and pushed my shoulders back. “What is it you need me to do?”
Oberon led me to the closest tree, a twisted, knotted pine streaked through with darkness extending down through its roots. Standing only a few feet away from the infection was unsettling—a pervasive, unscratchable itch beneath my skin.
“Place your hand on the trunk,” he instructed, “as close as you can without touching the Rot, then reach inside with your power. It cannot hurt you if you only use your magyk. I want you to tell me what you feel.” Another deep breath, and I slowly reached out, careful to avoid the tendrils of black death splitting the bark. Once my hand was in full contact, I closed my eyes and pushed my shadowsout, searching for some kind of current or life force, like I’d been practicing all morning on the rowan trees.
But all I felt was rage.
It struck me like a hammer strikes an anvil, without mercy or hesitation.
Following in quick succession came waves of grief, hatred, sorrow, betrayal, guilt, loneliness, and bloodlust such as I’d never felt before. They drowned out everything else I had ever felt, dragging me down into endless darkness, a vortex of misery and pain. Screams filled my ears, and the scent of death rushed in again, choking the air from my lungs. Cold hands pulled me downwards, into the desiccated earth, and I had no strength to fight them. Finally, a strong arm wrapped around my waist, jerking me backwards, and then a soft, heavy pressure fell over my heart. When I opened my eyes again, I was sitting at the base of a cottonwood tree, curled into its roots with tears stinging my face. Two of Sir Toby’s three heads rested on my chest, while the third looked up at Oberon. The faerie king crouched in front of me, his breathing panicked.
“Are you hurt?” He wrenched my arms from where they were wrapped around my body, searching every inch of my skin for signs of the Rot.
“No,” I managed to gasp. “It…it didn’t touch me, but…” Worry and guilt marred his face as he pulled me up so I could lean my forehead against his shoulder. For several minutes, all I could hear was my own sobs, and my own pounding heart, still attempting to grapple with what I’d felt. Slowly, one battered breath at a time, I came back—the drumbeats of Oberon and Sir Toby’s hearts bring a small measure of steadiness.
“Can you tell me what you saw?” he finally murmured, just as I leaned away to wipe a sleeve across my face.
My voice broke in a hoarse whisper. “I saw nothing, but I felteverything. Anger and hate and grief, pulling me down into a grave. Bloodlust, like I wanted to hurt…or kill. Loneliness, and guilt, and fear too. Every horrible thing under the sun, all mixed together.”
“I’m so sorry, Marina,” Oberon grunted, falling back to sit on the forest floor and covering his face. “That was not supposed to happen. I never would have asked you to attempt it, had I known.”
“W-what was supposed to happen?” I asked softly. My body was still trembling from the assault on my senses, so I put my arms around the gigantic hound and pulled him across my lap. His weight and warmth was an instant balm on the wounds left by my contact with the Rot.
“For me, and for others, touching the Rot with our magyk is certainly not a pleasant experience,” Oberon said, “but it is not that intense. I have only ever seen it react that way to you.”
His dark eyes met mine, and I took a shuddering breath. “Which means that your theory is likely correct. I might be the only person who can get rid of it.”
Back in my new room, I allowed Ceres to fuss over me for a few minutes. She delivered a steaming mug of nettle tea, along with a few soft rosemary biscuits and honey to soothe my nerves and throat. Oberon said that it was me who had been screaming, and my voice was raw now, so he ordered me not to speak more than was necessary. Appearing strained and exhausted, he retired to his library again, leaving Sir Toby and I alone in bed. Once the tea and biscuits were gone, I tried settling into my luxuriously soft feather mattress and closing my eyes, comforted by the hound’s presence at my side.
But as soon as I drifted into a shallow sleep, the Rot found me again. Dozens of cold hands returned, covering my mouth and eyes, closing around my wrists and ankles, dragging me beneath a suffocating wave of sorrow and soil. I struggled, thrashed, and tried to scream, but no sound came out. Dark shapes with empty eyes, twisted limbs, and rasping voices crept in from my periphery, waiting for their chance to tear me apart. I tumbled, head over heels, through the dirt and the tree roots, grasping desperately for anything that might slow my descent, but there was no help to be found. My only saving grace was the light—pale and glimmering, it appeared above me, forcing back the freezing darkness until I could lift myself to the surface again.
“May!” The voice was familiar, but full of fear. “May, wake up!”
“Devil!” I sat bolt upright and slammed into his chest. Out of sheer panic, I pressed myself against him, clutching at his shirt and burying my face in it. I could feel his fireflies brushing against my skin, as if examining me for wounds, and their warmth helped slow my breathing, holding me back from the edge of terror.
“What’s the matter?” Devil breathed. His hands closed on either side of my head and he tried to tilt my face back, but I jerked out of his grip and hid my face in his chest again, so he stroked my hair instead. Over and over, he whispered, “I’m here. You’re safe,” until my body began to relax.
“Just a nightmare,” I finally murmured. His arms encircled me and he shifted, sitting on the bed with me curled against his side. Whining softly, Sir Toby crawled up beside us and dropped his heads into my lap. I rubbed one of his soft ears between my fingers, like a child might rub a comforting blanket.
“I see you’ve been introduced to the true King of the Bower,” Devil said, brushing curls away from my face.
“Indeed,” I laughed softly. “I think Sir Toby might just supplant you as my most faithful companion.”
“Let’s not make any hasty decisions, now,” Devil admonished. “He does not enjoy bathing, and makes a rather smelly bedfellow.”
“Oh, and you make a better one?” I asked, finally peering up at him.
“You tell me, princess,” he said with a smirk, eyes flickering down my body. I sat up and moved away, face burning. Despite the jokes, a crease appeared between his brows, deep and full of worry. I suddenly recalled Oberon’s words from the day before:He cannot truly care for you. If this wasn’t care, it certainly was a convincing imitation, and I did not want to reject it. Not now, anyway.
“Oberon took me to the Rot,” I told him quietly. “I…I felt it.”
Devil let out a low growl of frustration. “Did it hurt you?”
“Not my body, but…it felt terrible, and I did not expect it to find me in my dreams.” His fists balled and the fireflies burned brighter. I peeked over his shoulder and saw that it was nearly dusk now. I’d been asleep for hours.
“Let me talk to him,” said Devil. “He cannot do this to you.”
