“Courtesy!” The devil’s broad shoulders shake with laughing.
It makes Arthur’s mouth twitch with matching humor. He puts a hand on the devil’s shoulder, unprepared for the spark that passes between them. The binding on his wrist tightens, stinging his raw skin. Arthur doesn’t let go. The devil looks up with coal-black eyes, monstrous and lost.
“Why did you come here?” Arthur asks. “Let’s go, to Mairwen.”
“Yes, yes, Mairwen Grace, the Grace witch, where is she?” Baeddan whispers.
“Is it really Baeddan Sayer?” calls a woman.
Half the valley at least is here, and more arriving as word passes. There are the Lewises except for Haf—who might still be asleep at the Grace house—their youngest girl hiding her face in her mother’s shoulder; Cat Dee propped on her grandson Pad’s arm, too wrinkled to see straight; Sayer cousins and both Parry brothers, hungry as they stare at Arthur. The smith, the cooper, and all the butcher’s family, and men spilling out of the pub. Including his father, Gethin Couch.
“Yes, it’s Baeddan,” Arthur says.
“Baeddan?” A different woman haltingly approaches. Effa Crewe, pretty and lithe, a decade or so older than Arthur. Under his hand, the devil growls low and longing.
Per Argall, who Arthur would not have credited with such pluck, calls out, “Tell us what happens in the forest, Arthur. How did you do this?”
Arthur stands, using the devil’s shoulder for support. “I’d love to tell you, Per. But we’ll wait for the others.”
Lord Vaughn steps out of the crowd. He’s with the men who came out of the pub. The lord is dressed simply in brown velvet that blends well with the garb of the men around him, and his brown hair curls reddish in the afternoon sun. He seems younger than before to Arthur. Or maybe Arthur feels older. “How is Rhun, and Mairwen, too?” the lord asks.
Arthur shrugs. “They’ll be along. Tell you themselves.”
Vaughn puts on a sympathetic face as his half-gray, half-brown gaze falls to Baeddan. “Poor creature, poor saint. We would like to hear your story.”
Baeddan stands suddenly, staring at Vaughn, and Arthur almost thinks he’ll attack, but then Baeddan only huffs and laughs gently to himself, then covers the tiny bones sewn into his flesh with his hand. Spinning, Baeddan dashes away, leaving Arthur stunned. It’s not the exit he prefers, but Arthur takes off after the devil.
•••
RHUN IS TOO FAR AWAYto hear the scream, more than halfway up the wooded path to the Sayer homestead. His legs feel strong and steady, his heartbeat firm, though he’d almost rather still be thrashed, too tired to face the day, face his family or any truth.
Leaves fall gently, yellow and orange, pieces of sunlight chipped out of the sky. He walks with his habitual stealth, though he experiences a sudden wild desire to crash off the path, make all the noise he can manage to ruin the peaceful beauty of his home forest. Stopping, he forces himself to take several long, slow breaths. Autumn tastes sharp on his tongue, and the first freeze of winter tightens the back of his throat.This place is worth fighting for, he reminds himself. He has to believe that. The people are as earnest and honest as they were yesterday. As he was before he knew there was a lie at the heart of the forest. He had faith in the rituals, in the sainthood, in himself. He owes them that faith.
A sour smile turns his mouth. Arthur would say Rhun is the one owed, and Mairwen that he’s given enough. But he was made the saint, given the burden of seeing the bargain completed, no matter how much of it was a lie. It was intended as an honor, and he embraced it as one. He can’t let his little brothers down, at least, or his parents.
So Rhun Sayer tries to appreciate the golden atmosphere and merry birdsong, the tiny hints of life that were so absent in the Devil’s Forest. He hums, but only the first several notes of different songs. He can’t quite fall fully into one.
The front door of the Sayer house is open, smoke streaming gracefully from the chimney. If it were all shut up, he’d be able to slip in and grab clothes, assuming Baeddan is nowhere to be found.
“—won’t be long,” his mother is saying when he steps up onto the wooden floor of the house, narrowing his eyes as they adjust to the combination of sparse sunlight and hot firelight.
Silence falls, and a woman gasps. There are four of them sitting around Nona Sayer’s gouged kitchen table: Nona, his aunt Alis, Hetty Pugh, and Aderyn Grace. He has no idea what to say, and so remains quiet.
“Rhun, my God.” Nona stands up from her mismatched chair, but comes no nearer to him; it isn’t her way. Hetty smiles through the weariness scoured under her bright eyes, and Aderyn stares at him as if he’s a ghost, though she is not the one most gutted by their return this morning. That is Alis Sayer, Baeddan’s mother, who walks to Rhun and carefully puts her arms around his neck, hugging him so tightly she goes up onto her tiptoes. He hugs her back, lifting her slowly off her feet, giving what he can. “I’m sorry for the shock of it,” he whispers to her.
“I’m sorry for nothing today,” Alis whispers back, dropping away from the embrace with shining eyes and a damp, pretty smile. She puts her hands to either side of his face and shakes her head happily. “My son is alive. How could I be anything but grateful?”
Rhun isn’t certain how to answer without revealing too much of the tortured existence he suspects Baeddan has suffered these ten long years. He nods.
Nona wipes her hands on her apron. “Tell us now, Rhun. Your mothers have been desperate for too long, and you shouldn’t force us longer.”
“Isn’t it better,” Aderyn Grace says carefully, “to tell us now, before the feast, when there are no children to be frightened?”
It’s the only thing she could have said, perhaps, to solidify Rhun’s determination not to share anything he knows, especially with her, before Mairwen has a chance. His jaw clenches, his fists, too. He says, “Children are the ones expected to give all to the bargain, expected to sacrifice their lives. I think the children deserve this story more than any of you ever could.”
Aderyn pulls back, hands folding at her waist, and Hetty clicks her tongue. Alis Sayer touches her mouth, and her eyes drift shut to let a tear fall from each. Rhun’s mother plants fists on her hips and says, “You’ve changed, son.”
He rubs the binding on his wrist, relishing the sting. “I’m not a boy anymore, that’s all. I understand some things I didn’t before. About... people.”
