The slighter man runs a hand over his short brown hair. He winces. He shakes his head. “I’m not sure.”
“It’s hard. I know what some are saying.” Rhun starts to walk past, thinking of his mother’s words.Any folk who’d try that don’t deserve my son’s life.
“I just want my son to live, or my daughter,” Ben presses.
Rhun turns back. “You want me, or some other boy, to die so yours will live, Ben. I understand that. Until he’s fifteen or so, and then maybe it’s his turn. Only, you’ll know there’s no chance that he’ll run back out of the forest. If your son is the saint.” Rhun steps closer, holding Ben’s gaze. “I’m sorry.”
“Without it, he might die before he’s even born,” Judith whispers, holding her small belly.
“I know.”
“What are we going to do about it, then?” Ben holds his wife tight.
The bracelet on Rhun’s wrist tightens suddenly. He freezes and pushes back his sleeve. The braided hair and vines constrict and crumble, turning to ash.
It’s gone. Rhun splays out his hand, then makes a fist, concentrating on the strength in his arm. There’s no magic.
Eyes widening, he looks north to the forest. It hasn’t even occurred to him the voice has been silent for a long while, asleep or dull or just uninterested in seducing him back to the Bone Tree.
But that’s not the problem. Their binding isn’t slowly weakening, falling apart.
Something just broke it.
•••
IN VAUGHN’S BEDCHAMBER, MAIRWEN ANDHaf discover a bed the size of Mair’s entire loft. Its posts are built of the solid trunks of trees, dark wood and polished to a shine. The mattress is thick and moves with feathers, not straw, and smells of pine and an earthy fragrance Mair can’t quite put a name to besides “autumn.” Haf runs her fingers along the edge of a narrow silk pillow and reaches up to touch the fringe decorating the dark-blue curtain.
Though she intended to explore the small pile of letters atop the table in the corner, and the lacquered box beside them, Mairwen stops as she crosses the floor at the foot of the bed. A long gray stone is embedded among the smaller stone tiles, and when she crouches, it’s slightly warm to the touch.
Just like the hearthstone in her house, and just like the Bone Tree’s altar.
“Mairwen,” Haf whispers, though there’s nobody around to hide from.
A chill creeping up her spine, Mairwen glances at her friend. She’s pointing to the cold hearth, and a small oval painting set against it. It’s a painted portrait of a little girl.
Mairwen rushes to it, lifting it carefully. The paint is old, cracking along the border where it meets the thin gold frame. But the gaze of the girl is as intense as looking in a mirror. Round brown eyes, a thin pink smile, blotchy pink skin, and dark hair with hints of sunlight red.
It’s her. When she was five or six years old.
Before Mairwen can say anything, her wrist pinches.
Then, with a cry, Mair falls to her knees as fire and night-black coldness both flare in her body: the heat in her blood, the cold in her bones.
She drops the portrait, and Haf crashes down beside her, grabbing her shoulders, calling her name.
Mairwen’s tongue is so dry, her throat closed; she coughs, wretchedly, feeling something choking her, tearing up from her stomach. She shudders and tastes it, bitter and sweet both, blood and sugar. She spits out a flower. A tiny purple viola.
From Baeddan’s bleeding wounds purple flowers grow, wither, and die, falling in black ashes to surround his bare feet. “I let the last one go, and look what’s become of me.”
“Oh, Mairwen, is it getting worse?” Haf asks.
“No,” Mairwen says from a raw throat, then spits out another tiny purple flower. Her hands are splayed before her on the stone floor: one plain and ruddy, knuckles whitening with tension, the other bluish and splotched, but the gauntlet is flaking off, chipping away in tiny brown scraps. The braided hair shrivels, pinching at her.
Suddenly Mair’s chest is on fire. She struggles to kneel back and tears down the shirt, ripping the linen on the edge of a thorn. The thorn falls off with a slick sound, and Mair bites her lip.
The forest is withdrawing from her! Fast and desperate, ignoring her body’s need for slower change.
“It hurts,” she whimpers. “Help me to my feet.”
