Could it be Mairwen? Would she have been able to find fire? But she’d be louder, surely.
It grows nearer, growing in length: It’s a figure in white, walking slowly, its entire body covered in a sheer white veil.
Around it the air is hazy, thickening into a lovely mist that reminds him of sunrise, when the low fields gather fog and dew spreads like diamonds across the valley.
It approaches him, and Arthur steps out from behind the tree.
The veiled figure pauses. Beneath the veil he can make out a lovely face, a woman’s face. Or a girl. She’s smiling. The veil falls to the tops of her white feet.
Arthur Couch, she whispers.
Her mouth does not move.
The whisper comes again, behind him. He whirls around: nothing.
When Arthur looks back, the veiled girl is gone.
•••
THE FOREST IS NOT WHATRhun expected. He tracks Mairwen and Arthur on and on through the darkness, ignoring the whisper of movement all around him, the occasional growl. And then—then come the footsteps.
Hard, even thudding footsteps like heavy boots or massive paws.
It might be the devil.
Rhun moves faster. He keeps his breath even. He has to find Arthur and Mairwen before the devil does.
Unless this is the devil behind him, and Rhun can lead it away from his friends.
But how to know for certain?
He pauses when he realizes the path he was following diverges at the base of this wide yew tree: Arthur’s long-stride prints smeared against undergrowth leading northwest; the broken twigs off a bush leading northeast where Mair and her skirts passed so destructively.
Shadows crawl toward him.
He follows Arthur, telling himself it’s because he believes Mair is safer. The daughter of a witch and a saint, she can rely on her own power, but Arthur is vulnerable. Losing Arthur is a risk he doesn’t know how to take.
The path leads far; Arthur was running, and there are tinier prints around his, some like tiny dogs, others cloven-hoofed but in a two-legged pattern, some clawed like birds. He finds a bow and lifts it off the muddy ground. It’s Arthur’s, and Rhun holds it tightly, teeth clenched. “Arthur?” he calls, unconcerned with attracting attention. Better the forest notice him than attack Arthur.
There is only silence in response. He tracks on, making little enough noise himself, eyes wide for flashes of color or movement, ears open, senses alert for shifting light or cold.
The trail ends in a small clearing, signs of scuffle apparent in gouged bark and crushed leaf litter. A smear of mud. A broken arrow. The trees are narrow and black here, dripping sap a thick reddish-brown color. It’s more honey-like than the blood it resembles, and Rhun rubs his finger through it, pulling it away tacky and smelling like copper.
Scarlet catches his eye, on the forest floor.
Blood.
But not enough to stop Rhun’s heart. Only a few speckles across a spill of oak leaves.
Rhun stalks the perimeter, noting where the tiny footprints gathered and scattered, where they head off without Arthur, directly toward where Rhun is fairly sure the Bone Tree waits. It’s as if he can sense it, beating at the center of the forest. Part of him wants to follow that call, but Rhun rolls his shoulders, breaking the pull. He heads the other way through the dense undergrowth, hoping it’s the right choice to continue finding signs of Arthur.
Soon moonlight wavers ahead of him, in a pattern he recognizes as water. He hears no trickle or stream, and assumes he’s located a pond or such, wondering if he can drink it. Probably not, but he has a water skin strapped to his back.
It’s not too long before the trees shrink and thin, growing like elegant needles out of long grass. Orange light flickers from the earth. He smells dankness and rot, and a low wind groans, bringing a tang of burning iron with it. Not a pond, but a marsh.
Rhun’s boots sink into mud, and bright green grass clings to his calves with sticky fingers.
“Arthur!” he yells.
