The maiden flew at Ira. Snarling, the wolf leaped to meet her. Arthur stumbled onto dry land.
Behind him, the wolf yelped. Arthur found a stick half as long as he was and so heavy he almost couldn’t lift it. He dragged it back toward the stream. It scraped against his injured hands.
The maiden swayed toward Ira. He panted, ears flat against his head. Blood trickled into his scarred eye. His sides heaved, but he bared his teeth.
Arthur splashed into the water, wielding his stick. Hesmacked the maiden in the shoulder—hardly enough to do more than anger her, but it distracted her. She turned angry red eyes on him.
The wolf hurled himself at her. They landed in the water together, thrashing; then they went still.
Arthur’s mouth was dry. “Ira?”
The wolf heaved. Arthur gripped his stick tight, unsure whether Ira was getting up or if the maiden had proven triumphant and was pushing him off. No—the wolf rose shakily, coughed once, and turned toward him. The maiden’s pallid body drifted away, spilling into the ravine.
“Ira?”
The wolf shivered into a man, but he collapsed. The maiden’s greenish blood rimmed his lips. His own blood stained the left side of his face.
Arthur shivered. He was safe, or seemed to be. If he left now, he could search for Charlotte, not that he knew where to start. Freya wove back and forth on the bank, mewling as if to say,Comeon, let’s go.
But Ira had saved his life. Ira had left the vale, even though Arthur had shouted at him and shoved him. Even though the forest made it difficult to leave, and Ira so desperately hadn’t wanted to.
Setting the stick down, Arthur approached him. “Let me help you up.”
Ira nodded wearily. His eyes raked over Arthur’s face and bloody hand. “You’re injured.”
Arthur laughed, a little hysterically. “Have you seen yourself?”
Ira’s forehead and upper arm bled. Arthur’s stomach clenched, but he pulled Ira to his feet and supported him. Together, they made their way toward the brambles. With a grumble, Freya followed.
To Arthur’s annoyance, the brambles opened before them. He couldn’t help saying accusingly, “You said there was no way out, with the bridge gone.”
“Yes, well,” Ira said, his voice even hoarser than usual, “I wouldn’t call a hungry glaistig’s stretch of water a way out.”
Arthur didn’t argue the point. Instead he asked, “Should I have carried her across, after all?”
“She would’ve killed you either way.”
The brambles closed behind them. Arthur’s hand throbbed where a thorn had pierced it. He swallowed back a lump in his throat. He’d escaped the vale only to come right back.
xxi. In which flowers grow somewhere unexpected
Back in the vale, Calyx was waiting. It was smaller than ever, vaguely dog-shaped, but Arthur tensed as it crept toward them. Freya hissed.
“Are you happy now?” Ira snapped at the plant creature.
It rubbed against his legs, but he kicked it away—lost his balance, but Arthur kept him upright. Calyx crawled up a nearby tree to mope.
Arthur glanced at it as they passed, neck prickling. “You’re sure it won’t follow us inside?”
Ira shook his head. “Its whole purpose is to protect me. I got hurt because it scared you away.”
“I thought the forest was protecting you.”
“Calyx came from the forest.” Ira’s blood dripped a red trail in the snow the whole way inside. He collapsed in his armchair. “The last time a human was in the vale, I thought he was a traveler who’d gotten lost, that he needed my care, but he...”
He touched his scarred eye. Arthur’s stomach heaved at the thought of someone scarring him that way on purpose. It was bloody now, the scar, the same as Ira’s forehead and arm. Arthur closed his eyes and breathed deep,in for four, hold for four, out for four.
“I thought he was going to kill me,” Ira said, “but the forest sent Calyx. It handled the problem.”
