“Hey! Will.Will.Stop. We gotta go.”
The tree is rotting now, flaking and crumbling with awful crunches, moaning in distress as it pales. From the roots, a perfectly circular patch of darkness creeps out, slowly, like a drop of poison in a pond. Young-Will rolls onto his knees, shaking, and unclasps an amber gem from his ears. He punches it into the ground, and a shining sphere of gold shields the boys, just in time. All this time, I’ve been fascinated with his earrings. It’s no wonder. They’remagic.
The death continues to spread until it becomes the clearing I’m more familiar with, the one with rotted grass and unhealthy air and a devastatingly ethereal white tree in the center.
A final branch rips off like a crack of thunder.
And the clearing falls still. Silent. Dead.
No owl hoots in the distance. Not a sound.
“W-What did you do?” Young-Will stammers.
Young-Bastion can’t answer. He’s speechless. Scared. Twisting his palms before watering eyes.
“Why didn’t the spell work?” I ask my Will.
Will is choked up and has to swallow to reply.
“I don’t know. It backfired,” he says. “Whatever power it was supposed to grant imploded when Bash touched the bark.”
I wait for him to drop the memory, to move us on, but he lingers, his eyes on the forest path. Galloping hooves greet us as the dark-haired man from the portrait above their fireplace rushes into the clearing on a gray horse. Will tenses. His fingers are taut, almost painfully so.
Will’s dad—who else could it be?—slides effortlessly from the saddle and, after only a short glance at the horror of the tree, runs over to the boys. He drops to his knees and Young-Will immediately flings his arms around the man’s neck.
“What on earth happened here?” he asks, pulling his son away to check for any injuries.
“I-I’m sorry,” Young-Bash stutters. He doesn’t look like royalty. He looks like a shell-shocked child in an oversized coat.
“Okay, okay,” Will’s dad soothes. “Never mind for now. Both of you ride back. Quickly.”
“Dad—”
“Willoh, go home; we can talk about this in the morning. Your mother is waiting for you. I’m going to check everything is safe.”
They share another hug, then the man helps both boys onto the back of the horse. He remains in the clearing as they ride away, facing the tree with hands on hips, only now letting his full concern show. The scene shimmies out of focus as Young-Will rides farther from view. Soon, it’ll be over. Soon, they’ll be back at the cottage. Beside me, Will jolts forward. He lifts his free hand toward his dad.
“Wait—”
His voice cracks.
His hand drops.
The memory fades to an ocean of gray.
Will stays silent for a long minute. Finally, he lets out a short, quiet laugh.
“Let’s move on, shall we?” Will asks, forcing a brimming smile.
“Will…”
He gives my hand a quick squeeze and takes a step. The scene around us whips in a whirlwind of colors until it settles on a large stone room with a dais of twin thrones at the end: the Grand Hall. Queen Fern stands on the raised platform, her arms wrapped around Young-Bastion like a smothering blanket. Her face is twisted in crimson fury at Ruth, who is ferociously straight-backed with her hand on Young-Will’s shoulder. It doesn’t seem like much time has passed.
“Ispecifically told youI wasn’t happy about it,” the queen spits. Young-Bastion focuses on the floor, unable to meet his friend’s adamant stare. “He’s supposed to be here. Not running amok in the forest! Now look what’s happened!”
Ruth’s face is set. She’s not allowing herself to be bullied.
“Did you ever think to considerwhyhe prefers to spend time with us? Perhaps he finds our home more welcoming than this dusty castle?” There’s a pinch of outrage to Ruth’s tone that I wouldn’t have thought possible. “Instead of pointing the finger—”
