Dagas and Zelyria looked at each other briefly, and then they nodded. With the flick of his wrist, Dagas commanded a branch to peel back, and my arm was blissfully free. Ignoring the urge to groan in relief, I flexed my hand and held it out before me. The white light ensconcing my fingers grew sharper as I beckoned to their life threads. The Starglens’ strands reached for me in earnest, begging for me to help them, to rid them of the sickness eating away at their existence. I knew what would happen if I tried to pick away at the blight. I also knew what would happen if I did nothing.
Shifting in the tree’s hold, I winced as some of the sharper fingers curled beneath layers of sinew and skin. “How long?”
“As long as anyone else,” Zelyria responded. Her gaze was locked on my raised hand. “It’s hard to say exactly when.”
Orin had so much to answer for. The thick tar coated every strand, and there were no fraying or torn edges for me to stitch back together. And merely trying to wipe the black liquid away was futile. Severing their life threads altogether would be just as fruitless.
Gingerly, I extended a finger to one of Briar’s soaked threads. The Starglens watched with rapt focus, despite being unable to see what I could. It was the only blessing in this horrific scenario. I could feign threadmending for a time without actually doing it, and they’d be none the wiser. Still, they’d grow impatient.
Briar’s infected thread hesitated before my fingertip, then slithered over my hand to gently wrap around my wrist. I wasn’t even attempting to cure him, and I could feel it. The blight. Nausea hit my stomach hard. A pain separate from the tree’s barbs pulsated through my body, blossoming from the space where his thread rested against my skin. A headache hammered behind my eyes. Betrayal was a hot knife slicing through my gut. It felt the same as when I’d attempted to mend Tasia’s cut.
The Ferngloves were quick to convince me it’d just been the nature of their immortal threads that made mending difficult, but they knew. They knew blight lingered beneath it all.
“Well?” Zelyria asked. Breathless. Hopeful.
“It’s...” I didn’t have words. Instead, I stared at the sludge now dribbling over my forearm. It hissed as it met my skin and turned to steam. Blight—or any illness, for that matter—had never been able to infect a threadmender. Evers used to be the same. It was the only similarity we shared. So why had I adapted when they remained woefully exposed?
The insects around here are infected with blight, yet they live on. Infact, they thrive.Rorik’s words crept from the recesses of my mind. Other creatures had figured it out, too. But how?
A bestial roar so loud and violent ruptured the night, and my thoughts fled as hope sped through my veins. Rorik dropped through the hole in the ceiling and slammed into the ground. The polished stone spiderwebbed beneath his feet from the impact, and he raised his head to glower at the Starglens. His impossibly black eyes were flooded with malevolence, and his wings snapped angrily in the air behind him. A snarl ripped through his chest, and he took an aggressive step forward. Dagas’s face went pale at the sight, and both Zelyria and Briar shrunk into his shadow.
Before Rorik could strike, a dangerously quiet voice crested from one of the many hallways. “Oh, Dagas. What have you done?”
“Orin.” Zelyria pressed Briar tight against her body.
Orin emerged from the corridor, his face eerily placid. I pressed my back against the tree, not caring that the action caused the fingers to dig deeper into my muscles. Unfettered rage filled his strained gaze as he glared at the Starglens. It was the first time I’d felt my insides go cold at just the sight of him.
“You don’t deserve her magic,” Dagas said, but his words faltered.
Rorik stiffened as his stare shifted to me. For a moment, he looked only at my face, and then his gaze traversed the length of my body, bouncing from wound to wound as his hands fisted by his sides. He snarled, revealing too-sharp teeth as he returned his focus to Orin and the Starglens.
“You’ll gain no mercy from me,” Orin said, calm voice doing nothing to hide the rage behind his words.
Without waiting for them to respond, he strode forward and gripped the arms of the tree tight. The limbs snapped beneath his grasp, and the sickening crunch of splintering bones filled the small room. He ripped the arms clean off the trunk, and ash-gray filaments dusted around us as he tossed them to the ground. Theremaining limbs retreated before Orin could forcibly remove them, and he caught me as I slumped against his chest. Blood wept freely from my unobstructed wounds, seeping into his clothes.
The sight only made him growl. “I leave it to you, Rorik. Dispose of them.”
In the span of a breath, Orin had swept me into his arms and was striding toward the exit.
“You will pay for this!” Dagas shouted. “You cannot keep—”
A wet gurgle, followed by a sudden splash, cut him off. Peering over Orin’s shoulder, I barely caught sight of what happened. One moment Dagas was speaking, and the next Rorik had his hand through Dagas’s throat. Rorik was lethal. And when he extracted his hand, he brought Dagas’s larynx with it. Blood flooded in a rush from the gaping wound at the base of his neck, and his lifeless body slumped to the floor.
Rorik dropped the remains of Dagas’s voice box beside him. He pivoted to Zelyria and Briar. Their screams reverberated through my ears, and I squeezed my eyes shut as I buried my head against Orin’s chest. Still, nothing could drown out their pained cries. Or their pleas. Or the whimpering. Or the horrifying silence that followed.
“Edira.” Orin’s words were soft, his hold gentle. “It’s okay, Edira. I’ve got you.”
A sob racked my chest, and I nodded. It was all I could muster, but Orin didn’t ask for more. Instead, he raced toward the ley line, not bothering to look back at the monstrous burrow we’d left or the bodies that now made it a crypt. I didn’t even complain when we stepped into the gut-churning ley line that ushered us back to the outskirts of Fernglove Manor. I didn’t berate him for the secrets or the truth of his blight. I couldn’t. I didn’t have the strength. I simply clung to him and let him carry me back to safety and away from the nightmare I’d endured.
Sixteen
I didn’t rise from my bed until early afternoon the following day. Vora was there as always, but for once she didn’t chastise me. She said nothing as she helped me bathe and dress, and instead looked at me much like my mother used to when I came home with bruises. Worry. Sadness. A sliver of pride for defending my brothers. I didn’t know what Vora saw in me now, but I was grateful for her silence. She brought me food and redressed my bandages, then excused herself with a nod.
Sinking into the tufted lounge at the foot of my bed, I stared out the open bay windows and at the rolling lawns. The multitude of puncture wounds lining my limbs had already begun to heal, largely in part to Vora’s excellent suturing skills and a blend of Ever magical remedies and mine. We likely could’ve forgone the balm I’d suggested, but I wanted control oversomething. Vora must’ve sensed that because she didn’t argue. And when she peeled away the salve-coated linens this morning, a surprised huff had escaped her lips. The wounds were shiny and pink with fresh skin, as if her sutures had been in place for a week instead of a night. With thelightest of touch, I fingered one on my upper arm. Perhaps there was something to combining Ever magic and my cures.
A quiet knock sounded from my door. “Edira?”
I shifted to stare at Orin as he entered. He hesitated as his worried gaze searched my face. It was the first time I’d seen him since the incident, and all the questions I’d buried during the time of our escape came frothing to the surface of my mind.
