They set off in silence. Ira’s jaw was so tight it hurt Arthur’steeth to look at him. The muscle kept ticking, with greater frequency as the swinging bridge vanished behind them.
It should’ve been magical, traveling the forest with the Lord of the Wood. Near the vale, the trees were in their autumnal finery, crimson and gold with silvery trunks. Unseen birds called. Intermittent sunlight filtered green-gold through the canopy; the unseasonable frost vanished farther from the vale. Autumn greenery sprouted on the forest floor with every step Ira took.
But it wilted each time he stepped away, leaving a trail of limp, blackened stalks and leaves behind. Like the forest’s sickness was following them. Arthur imagined it trailing his sister through the forest like this—catching up to her, leaving her frail and cold and veined in black. Shuddering, he drew closer to Ira.
Their elbows bumped. Ira flinched.
“Walk on my other side.”
“What?”
“Walk on my other side,” Ira snapped. “I can’t see you on this side. You startled me.”
Arthur flushed. “Right, sorry.”
He’d been walking on Ira’s left without thinking, glancing at the white flowers blooming in Ira’s scar. Perhaps he was imagining it, but moss furred the scar now, too, half hidden beneath the blossoms. Probably hewasimagining it. He moved to Ira’s right without mentioning it.
Ira scrubbed a hand over his face. “Sorry. Being out here again is...”
“It’s all right.”
The sickness became more evident the deeper into the forest they went. On Arthur’s initial journey, infected trees had been frequent, but so had trees that looked perfectly fine. In the vale, there had been no infection; immediately beyond, only theplants wilting at Ira’s feet had signaled anything wrong. But as they walked farther, an increasing number of trees oozed black or had leaves withered gray instead of red or gold or green.
Ira swallowed.
“I didn’t know,” he said, after an hour in which not a word had passed between them. “I didn’t realize it had gotten so bad.”
Arthur wanted to say something reassuring, but Ira bent, clutching his heart.
“Are you all right?” Arthur asked in alarm.
No mistaking it now. Moss thickened along his scar, spread to his ear. Arthur reached for him, panicking, but Ira straightened. He breathed hard through his nose.
“S’all right,” he said. “The tarnish is spreading. The stump is dying. I don’t feel it when I’m in the vale.”
“Perhaps you should go back. I can go on alone, I’m sure I could—”
Ira shook his head before Arthur could decide how to end the sentence.
“We go together or not at all.” He grimaced, but his breathing evened out. “I’m all right. Come on.”
They walked onward, but their pace lagged. Arthur kept glancing at Ira, worried about his breathing and the moss creeping across his face. Three days. They only had to make it three days. Surely the growth couldn’t take over too much of Ira’s body in so short a time.
Ira shoved him suddenly aside.
“What—”
Something with a mouthful of sharp, mossy teeth glided from the trees like a flying squirrel. Arthur yelped, but Ira transformed into a stag, catching the creature on his antlers. Snorting, he shook it off, and it landed on a trunk.
Freya darted up the tree after it.
“Don’t,” Arthur said in a panic.
Before the cat could get at it, the creature leaped at Arthur. Those sharp, mossy teeth flashed.
The creature plunged its teeth into his neck.
Arthur fell to his knees, gurgling. He scrabbled for the creature but was unable to get a grip on its body, which lengthened into something slithering and winding, shaggy with lichens.
