Into the Heartless Wood

by Joanna Ruth Meyer

  Father’s steps creak past my room and up the stairs to the observatory. It’s remarkably unfair that he means to keep me from the stars, too. I halfheartedly shove my shoulder against the door. It doesn’t shift.

  I pace and pace. I turn up my oil lamp and try to read, but I can’t concentrate. Hunger and restlessness gnaw through me. My eyes wander continually to the wood. I poke my head out of the window. I could attempt to climb down without the aid of the ivy. I might make it—I also might break my neck. I curse.

  I’m about to surrender what remains of my dignity and batter on the door until Father comes and lets me out when I catch a flash of light in the corner of my eye.

  I turn to the window. Another streak of light flashes across the sky, followed by a third. Meteors. I’m surprised to see so many—it’s not late enough in the summer for the Lleidr Meteor Shower, which happens every year. I itch to discuss it with my father, to see what he makes of the anomaly.

  And then it seems the whole world fills with light.

  Meteor after meteor illuminates the sky, a hundred at a time, more. It looks like it’s raining stars.

  I gape, so stunned I hardly hear the scrape of the trunk in the hallway, the creak of the door.

  Father claps his hand on my arm. “Come up to the observatory. Quick.”

  We pound upstairs, but we needn’t have hurried. The meteors flash and die, flash and die, streaking through the constellations, painting the sky with their fierce, impossible light.

  We stand shoulder to shoulder, staring out at the shower of stars, silent in our joint awe.

  I think, perhaps, that it’s the end of the world.

  But little by little, meteor by meteor, the shower lessens, until there’s only fifty at a time, then twenty, then ten.

  One last meteor streaks across the sky, its tail burning long and white. It dies at the horizon, and the night is still.

  I take a breath, the first I’m aware of since the meteor shower started.

  Father turns to me, his face awash with conflicting emotions. “Shall we do the charts?”

  But I’m staring at the sky. I don’t need to look through the telescope to know that the stars have—

  “Father.” I nod to the window.

  He looks. He grows very still. “Bring out last night’s charts, will you?”

  I oblige him, even though we both know it’s not necessary. I take them from their designated case and he unrolls the one he wants. He frowns at it. We both do.

  “What about the charts from last week?”

  I bring them to him.

  He spreads them all out on the table, comparing them desperately against each other, trying to find some reason for what is staring at us so baldly from the night sky.

  The stars have changed.

  The Morwyn constellation, comprised of almost two dozen stars of varying brightnesses and distance from our planet, has moved. She’s no longer chasing the Twysog Mileinig, the Spiteful Prince. Her constellation has swallowed his up; his is a mass of broken stars, the crown the legends say he stole from her burning in her midst. And all around the Morwyn hang stars I have never seen before: a cluster of eight bright ones, near her right side; many, many dimmer ones strewn about her feet and left side, and scattered around her crown.

  It’s absolutely impossible.

  It breaks every natural law.

  Maybe some unnatural ones, too.

  I stare at my father. He stares back, letting the charts roll up again.

  “How?” I say.

  He shakes his head. “It would take immense power. Impossible magic. The kind of magic that makes worlds, or breaks them.”

  My eyes go to the observatory window. To the Morwyn, winking at us from her new position in the dark expanse of sky. “Do you think this is the work of the Gwydden?”

  “Her magic is in trees, not stars. Not even the Gwydden could be so powerful.”

  I’m not so sure. Seren destroyed an entire train without even trying too hard, and the Gwydden created her.

  “Father—” I swallow. Start again. “Father, I have to go back to the wood.”

  His face hardens. “Why?”

  “Because she might know something about the stars.”

  “The girl who lives in the forest.”

  I nod.

  He looks at me, waiting for me to elaborate.

  I tell him the truth. “She’s the Gwydden’s youngest daughter.”

  His eyes go sad. “I knew the wood had its hooks in you. I didn’t know quite how deep they went.”

  I don’t even know how to begin to explain. I look at him helplessly. “She’s not what you think. She did save Awela, that day in the wood. She’s saved me, countless times. And she’s—she’s not a monster. Not anymore.”

  He sags before me. “I can’t just give you my blessing to climb back over the wall, Owen.”

  “I know. But if Seren has any insight into that”—I gesture vaguely at the sky—“she’ll tell me. And then we can prepare for whatever it means. For whatever is coming.”

  “Seren,” he repeats.

  “Seren,” I say.

  He sighs, rubs at his temples. “Go, then. I want to believe you’ll be wise. I want to believe you’ll be safe, that she truly means you no harm. But if nothing else—if nothing else, I’ll believe you if you promise to come back.”

  My throat tightens, and tears burn at the back of my eyes. “I promise.”

  He pulls me into a swift hug. “I’m sorry I was so angry.”

  “You had every right to be.” I squeeze his shoulders, and draw back. “What are you going to do?”

  He shakes his head in bewilderment. “Chart the stars’ new positions as best as I can, and then send a telegram to Breindal City in the morning. I suspect the king will want the charts early this month.”

  “I suspect he will.” I turn to leave the observatory, but pause in the doorway.

  “Be careful, Owen.” His voice breaks.

  “I’ll see you soon,” I promise.

  I go to find my tree siren under a wholly new sky.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  SEREN

  THE

  stars

  are

  falling.

  They streak and shine

  like silver rain

  as my mother’s power

  burns through the night.

  Fear snags at me like burrs.

  Still they fall, so bright they hurt my eyes.

  I knew my mother was strong.

  I did not know

  she

  was

  this

  strong.

  She is changing the sky.

  Changing the stars.

  Her rage against the Soul Eater

  written out for all the world to see.

  The stars rain on.

  They drip and shimmer.

  They spark and die.

  I do not understand

  how there can be any left.

  Little by little they slow, they stop.

  The night grows still.

  The world

  is different

  than it was.

  I look up into a new sky,

  into stars that trace the shape

  of my mother’s power.

  I understand

  how very small I am.

  How unimportant.

  How weak.

  My mother created me in a moment.

  In another, she could destroy me.

  “Seren?”

  I turn and he is here,

  in the light of new stars.

  He carries a lantern,

  and there is something in his eyes

  that was not there before.

  He says, “What does it mean? The stars—they’ve changed.”

  I want

  to touch him,

  to feel his heart beat beneath my fingers.

  I want

  him to look at me

  like he think
s I am worthy

  of something beyond being

  splintered to pieces

  and fed to the fire.

  I say: “My mother has come into the fullness of her power. She is ready now.”

  “Ready for what?”

  Around our hill,

  the trees I made to shield us

  begin to shriek and crack.

  They do not answer to my mother,

  so she kills them from afar.

  This can no longer be our sanctuary.

  I say: “Ready to devour your world.”

  He stands solemn and unflinching. “I will not let her.”

  “You cannot stop her. No one can.”

  He steps close to me.

  He raises tentative fingers

  to coil around a strand of my hair.

  He says: “Not even you?”

  “I am the weakest of all of my sisters.”

  He touches my face and

  I feel every point

  of his fingers.

  He says: “You are the strongest of them all. How else could you have become more than what your mother made you?”

  “I am not more.”

  He cups my cheek. “You are.”

  I am unnerved by the look in his eyes. I pull away.

  Below us, my trees pluck up their own roots

  and shrivel under the stars.

  We are exposed.

  My sisters might come at any moment. My mother might come.

  There will be no more meetings on this hill.

  There will be no more meetings at all.

  This is the night

  I

  will

  lose

  him.

  “Owen.”

  He looks at me

  and I

  ache.

  “I must tell you something. But then you must promise to go home. It is no longer safe here. I cannot protect you.”

  A vein pulses in his temple.

  He takes a breath.

  He does not promise.

  “Tell me.”

  “I remember your mother.”

  His whole body stiffens and stills.

  His eyes go wild.

  “My mother took her as a slave. Bound her to the heartless tree.”

  He struggles to be still. He gulps air. “What does that mean? Why are you telling me this?”

  The wind is angry. It lashes over the hill. “It is right that you know. I did not wish to keep it from you.”

  “Are you—are you saying she’s still alive?”

  I do not know how to answer.

  “Seren.” His voice cracks. “Is she alive?”

  “She belongs to my mother. Her soul is gone—she is nothing more than an empty shell.”

  His jaw tenses. “How can she exist, without a soul?”

  The question is a thorn,

  hot and sharp beneath my skin.

  “I exist.”

  Wind rages between us, spitting leaves into Owen’s hair.

  He stares at me.

  I say: “You must go home now. Before my sisters come to hunt you.”

  He says: “Take me to her.”

  I peer at him. I am puzzled.

  “Take me to my mother.”

  “Why? You cannot save her. You cannot free her. She is gone.”

  “Take me to my mother!” His voice is wild and high. “All this time I thought she was dead, and now you tell me she’s not. I have to see her. I have to save her, if I can. Can’t you understand that?”

  “I cannot take you. It is dangerous. Foolish.”

  He drags a hand across his face. “Please, Seren.”

  “Your mother is past saving. Even if she were not, she is in the heart of my mother’s court. You could never reach her there.”

  “Take me.”

  “My mother would kill you.”

  “Then protect me.”

  “I cannot protect you from her.”

  The wood writhes and whispers below the hill.

  It watches.

  Listens.

  “You must go home, Owen. I am sorry.”

  His shoulders hunch. He looks away. “If you won’t take me, I’ll go myself.”

  “You cannot.”

  He wheels on me; his eyes spark fire. “Stop me, then.”

  He strides down the hill,

  through the remains of my dead trees,

  into

  the

  heartless

  wood.

  In a moment,

  I will follow.

  In a moment,

  I will reach into his mind

  and make him forget everything.

  Our hill.

  His mother.

  Me.

  It is the only way to protect him.

  But oh, I do not want to.

  Dew leaks from my eyes

  and

  drips

  down

  my

  chin.

  It will be better this way.

  I will remember our nights on the hill

  for both of us.

  I shatter at the first note of my sisters’ song.

  It slides through the wood,

  whispers through leaves and branches,

  shimmers like silver in the air.

  It

  will

  ensnare

  him.

  I run

  down the hill and

  through the trees.

  He is there in the distance,

  his lantern flashing like

  a star.

  My sisters’ song twists into him.

  He drops the lantern.

  He turns.

  He runs.

  Toward the music,

  toward my sisters,

  toward

  his

  death.

  I cross

  the distance between us

  in four pulses

  of my heart.

  I crash into him,

  knock him to the ground.

  He screams and thrashes.

  The music inside of him

  robs him of his will.

  He

  is

  not

  himself.

  I throw my body on top of his.

  I sing a command to the wood.

  Living branches grow from the forest floor,

  winding overtop of us,

  shielding us from sight.

  But they do not silence

  my sisters’ song.

  He fights me, fights me.

  I am stronger.

  I hold him down.

  I press my hands

  over his ears.

  Still he struggles,

  though I can see

  in his eyes

  he does not wish to.

  Tears slide down his cheeks and

  my

  heart

  hurts.

  I stare at him

  one moment more

  and then I bend

  my face to his

  and touch his lips with mine.

  They are warm

  and soft

  and taste of tears.

  The fight

  goes out of him.

  Beyond the concealing branches, my sisters’ song slowly fades.

  But I do not take my mouth from his.

  He looks at me

  with emotions

  I have no name for.

  He lifts one hand

  to stroke my hair,

  to caress

  my cheek.

  He traces

  the curve of my neck

  with gentle fingers.

  I take my hands from his ears and see

  I have been

  too rough.

  I have cut the sides of his face.

  He bleeds.

  I wrench off of him.

  The branches unwind,

  vanish back into the earth.

  All that co
vers us now

  are the trees

  and my mother’s

  devouring

  stars.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  OWEN

  “I DID NOT MEAN TO HURT YOU,” SHE WHISPERS.

  I gasp for breath, faintly aware of the pain pulsing in my cheeks. I touch them, and my fingers come away wet with blood. But that is nothing compared to the agony of the tree sirens’ song, blazing through me like a thousand stinging ants. And it is nothing compared to the feel of her body, pressed against mine, her lips on my lips, her power tethering me to the earth.

  I am undone by her kiss.

  I am undone by her.

  And yet.

  My mother is alive. Seren knew it all this time. And she never told me.

  “I did not mean to hurt you,” she says again. Tears slide down her cheeks.

  My gut clenches. “That doesn’t matter.” I wipe the blood away with the backs of my hands. I can still feel the echo of her mouth on mine. “You saved me. Again.”

  She shudders in the wind that rips through the wood. She steps near me, closes the distance between us.

  “I’m still going. To find my mother. To try to save her.” I square my jaw. I know how futile it is—if Seren doesn’t help me, I’ll die long before I reach my mother. But I still have to try.

  Seren touches my temples, her fingers quick and cool. Her eyes fix on mine, and I remember the silvery magic that made me forget her, what feels like so long ago now. “Help me find her. Please.” I swallow past the lump in my throat, telling my heart firmly to be still. “Don’t make me forget you.”

  She jerks her hands back. A petal falls from her hair. “It is the only way I can be sure you will be safe.”

  I cup her face in my hands, my fingers smoothing her cheeks. “I don’t want to be safe if it means forgetting you.”

  “I do not want you to forget me,” she whispers.

  “Then don’t make me. Help me find my mother.”

  Around us, the wood laughs and rattles. Roots writhe under the ground. Trees lean toward us, reaching craggy fingers.

  “I will take you to the heartless tree,” she says. “I will take you to find your mother. But you must understand, Owen. We cannot save her. We cannot restore her to what she was. Her soul is gone—she is empty of herself. The best you can hope for is that she will remember enough of her former life to know you, enough that you can bid her farewell.”

  My eyes burn. “There has to be some way—”

  “There is not. Can you believe me?”

  I don’t trust myself to speak, so I nod.

  “Then come. We must go quickly, so the wood does not have time to bar our way.” She offers me her hand.

  I take it, her rough-smooth-sharp fingers encircling mine.

  We walk together through the wood. I retrieve my lantern, abandoned when the tree sirens’ music caught me. It’s still full of oil, and I light it again. It flares yellow. Shadows play about Seren’s face, making her look unearthly and angular in the darkness.