A leaf falls from my hair onto the floor. The nurse doesn’t notice.
“Do you love this child?” I ask her.
“Of course I do.” Her eyes swim with tears.
“Enough to defy the king?”
“What do you mean?” She strokes Awela’s hair, and the girl whimpers and leans into her.
“You saw the effect he had on her last night. He’s planning something much, much worse. If you don’t take her away right now, he’ll kill her.”
“Kill her?”
“He wants her soul,” I say darkly. “Such a young thing cannot live without one.”
The nurse shudders, her eyes flicking between Awela and me. “What are you?”
“Someone who understands monsters. Someone who means to defeat at least one. Will you take her?”
“Where will I go? How will I hide her?”
I reach underneath my collar and tug out the strand of rowan berries concealed there. Pren gave them to me, before he and my other brothers bid me farewell. I pull it off, and offer it to the nurse. “Take this into the southern woods. Call for my brothers: Pren and Criafol and Cangen. Show them the necklace and tell them my name. They will help you.”
“Call Pren and Criafol and Cangen,” she repeats. “Tell them Bedwyn sent us.”
I shake my head. “My true name is Seren. That’s the name you must give them. Can you do it?”
She nods, studying me with dark eyes as she scoops Awela into her arms. I wrap a blanket around the little girl.
“How am I to escape the palace without being seen?”
“I will clear a path for you,” I promise.
She grasps my arm. “Thank you.”
The thought of Owen discovering his sister is gone wrenches at me. “Take care of her. Please.”
“I will, child.” She slips out the door with Awela, and I sink to my knees and feel for all the souls in the palace. Quietly, I tug them away from the nurse and Awela. She walks unhindered through the servants’ gate, and out over the plain.
I take a breath. I have done all I can for Awela and her nurse. I only hope they make it safely to my brothers.
Now to send Owen away. It is what I should have done when I first arrived. I did not want Owen to go. I wanted him near me. I still do. But my monstrous form pushes against my human skin. Leaves drip from my hair. Seedlings sprout beneath my feet.
I cannot hide my true self from him much longer.
Chapter Forty-Five
OWEN
THE PRISON GUARD PEERS AT ME THROUGH THE IRON GATE.
“You’re late,” he says. “Thought you weren’t coming tonight.”
I try to swallow my guilt. I’d heard the music spilling out of the palace and gone to Bedwyn first. “I’m here now.”
His face is grim in the torchlight. “Your father isn’t doing well.”
Terror grips me. “What do you mean?”
He avoids my gaze. All the nights we’ve bantered through the gate, he’s never told me his name. “I mean he won’t last till morning.”
I grip the bars. Something sour twists in my gut. I know what the guard is saying without actually saying it: That bastard of a king has been torturing him, and my father can’t take any more. I swallow past the acrid taste of bile. “Let me see him.”
“The king would have my head.”
“Please.”
He shifts his weight with a jingle of armor. The planes of his face are hard in the torchlight. “Come back in an hour,” he says in an undertone. “I’m alone on duty then. I’ll take you to him.”
I know what he’s risking: a flogging, dismissal from the army, maybe execution. It humbles me. “Thank you.”
He gives me a brisk nod, then says in a louder, overexaggerated voice: “I tell you every night, Merrick, you’re not getting through the gate no matter how much you beg!”
I touch my hand to my heart, a gesture of respect, and turn away without another word.
For a while I huddle against the side of the hill, shaking uncontrollably. I’m out of time, and there’s no one to blame but myself.
Even if I could break my father out of prison, it’s too late now. I don’t know the extent of his … injuries. I don’t know if a physician could help him. The king has been torturing my father to death all this time I’ve been playing at being a soldier and flirting with a pretty kitchen maid.
Now there’s not a single thing I can do about it.
I’ll go and see my father. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I can help him. Maybe the guard will let us go free, find us a physician. Then Father, Awela, and I can leave this place.
Tonight.
It’s a flimsy, stupid hope. But it’s a hope nonetheless. And if it’s to come to fruition, I’ll need help getting Awela out of the palace.
There’s a hint of coolness in the air as I hike back around the hill to the kitchen courtyard, a sign that summer is waning. I’m so deep in my thoughts that I jump when Bedwyn steps into the courtyard, her pale hair blowing about her face in the light wind. She’s lost her maid’s cap somewhere.
“Owen,” she breathes, grasping my arm and pulling me back toward the gate I just came through. “You have to leave. Tonight. The Soul Ea—the king is coming for you.”
I gently shrug her off. “I am leaving—just as soon as I get my father and Awela out of here. Can you help me?”
“You don’t understand.” The wind picks up, blows a scattering of leaves through her hair. They must be from the potted trees indoors—there’s none outside, not for miles. “You have to leave, Owen. While there’s still time. Please.”
Her eyes lock onto mine, green flecked with gold, and there’s something in them that tugs at me, some bit of recognition from another time, another place.
“I’m not leaving without my sister and my father. You have to understand that.”
“He’s going to kill you. He’s going to worse-than-kill you.”
“What’s worse than death?” But I know: It’s being a slave to the Gwydden with your soul swallowed up; it’s clawing your own heart out and turning to ash in the rainy wood. “Will you help me?”
She worries at her lip, and puts one hand on my chest, her fingers splayed out.
For an instant, there’s a sharp, tugging sensation from somewhere deep inside of me, but the next instant it’s gone and her hand is still there, pressed against my heart. I put my left hand on her head. I tug her gently toward me.
She’s the one who closes the gap between us, who presses her mouth to mine with a wildness that robs me of breath. I tangle my fingers in her hair and kiss her back. The heat of her rages through my veins, and I can’t think past her lips and her breath and her body, crushed against mine.
The wind shrieks around us, chickens squawk from their coop. Bells sound from down in the city, tolling the hour. Awareness slams through me, and I jerk away from her, devoured by the mad pace of my heart. I let myself forget that my father is dying, somewhere beneath me. That I have to get my sister out. Tonight.
Bedwyn is breathing hard. She stares at me as she shivers in the wind. More leaves swirl around her.
My body is a traitor—I don’t want to think about my father or what the king has done to him. I want to draw her to me again, to kiss her until neither one of us can breathe, to take her hand and run far away, to never let her go.
“You have to trust me, Owen. You have to get out of here.” Her voice is hollow and strange, like she’s fighting for every word.
“I do trust you. But please, Bedwyn. Can you get Awela? Can you wait with her outside the city walls? I’ll come as soon as I can. Before dawn, if I can manage it.”
She looks beautiful in the light of the rising moon, her tall form and her halo of gold hair. But every line of her face screams sorrow. “I will get Awela out,” she promises.
I exhale in relief. I grab her hand. Squeeze it. “Thank you. Thank you!”
She smiles, sharp and sad.
“I have to go,” I t
ell her. “I’ll see you before dawn.”
“Before dawn,” she echoes.
I step through the gate, and steal one backward glance at her. For a moment, I think there are leaves dripping from her hair, seedlings struggling to grow up in the cracks between stones at her feet. For a moment, I think I catch the faint scent of violets.
But then I blink and it is only Bedwyn, staring at me with a haunted look in her eyes.
The gate doesn’t make a sound as the guard swings it open.
The prison courtyard is eerily quiet. There are a few potted trees here, which surprises me, although when I look closely at them I see why. They’re birch trees, but their trunks are twisted, their branches growing out at awkward angles. They aren’t pristine enough for the king’s palace. Wind stirs through their dappled leaves, and an uneasy chill curls down my spine.
Then the guard is unlocking a heavy iron door, and ushering me into the prison proper.
We descend a long flight of stone stairs, and with every step, cold and damp and rot seep deeper into my skin. The guard doesn’t speak. He’s a hulking shadow in the light of the torch he carries, and I can’t help thinking I’m a dead soul that he’s ushering into the underworld.
At the bottom of the stairs is another door, another guard. He eyes my guard. “Highly irregular, Drystan.”
My guard—Drystan—shrugs. “I don’t want to bash your head in, Aled, but I’m in enough trouble already, so I might as well.”
Aled rolls his eyes and unlocks the door, waving us through.
I recognize the utter futility of ever imagining I could break my father out of this place.
Drystan takes me to the cell at the very end of a long, dim corridor. There’s a dead torch in a bracket on the wall—Drystan touches it with his, and it flares to life.
I am hot and cold all over, dizzy with horror and pain and fear.
I hardly recognize my father.
He’s curled up on the floor of the cell, his skin dirty and bruised and scabbed, his clothes scraps of rags that hardly cover him. There are threads of silver in his hair that weren’t there two months ago, and he’s alarmingly thin, his shoulder blades bony knobs in his back.
Drystan unlocks the door and pushes it open. It doesn’t make a noise either, the hinges well oiled. He squeezes my arm. “I can only give you ten minutes. I’m sorry.”
He retreats down the corridor, and I step into the cell, sinking to my knees. “Father?” I whisper.
He lifts his head, and pushes himself up on his hands, offering me a full view of his chest: It’s riddled with holes that leak dark blood onto the floor. “Owen.” The word is raspy-rough, as if he hasn’t spoken in days. Or as if his throat is raw from screaming.
I wrap my arm around him, trying not to shudder at the slick warmth that seeps through my shirt.
He leans against me, little more than skin and bones.
A sob pulls out of me. “Father. Father, I’m so sorry.”
Tears dribble from his eyes. “Forgive me, Owen.”
“I should have been at the house when the soldiers came for you,” I babble. “I should have told you not to send the telegram. I should have—”
“That doesn’t matter,” he says. “You have to listen to me, Owen. There is a way to save her. There is a way to stop all of this.”
“I’ll look after Awela,” I promise, thinking of Bedwyn waiting for me outside the city gates until dawn. “We’ll be safe.”
“Not Awela.” Father tightens his grip on my hands. “The Gwydden.”
Anger sparks hot. “The wood witch doesn’t need saving.”
“You must only give back what he stole,” he says, “and what she sacrificed. Then her curse will be broken, and all will be as it was.”
Fear closes up my throat. “What curse? I don’t know what you mean, Father.”
“It’s what the stars have been telling us, all this time.” Father lifts one hand to touch my face. “What he stole, and what she sacrificed. You must remember. Promise me.”
“I love you, Father.” Tears choke me, but I push through them. “I’m going to get you out of here.”
He smooths his thumb across my cheek. “I love you too, my boy. But you must promise me you’ll remember. What he stole. What she sacrificed.”
I squeeze Father’s free hand as my heart breaks. “I promise.”
He sags against me, his eyes drifting shut. “I’m glad you’re here with me, Owen. To say goodbye.”
“I’m getting you out of here.”
“My body is broken. The king has carved every ounce of my supposed treason out of me. But that doesn’t matter now.”
“Of course it does! I’ll get you to a physician—”
“A physician can’t help me. It’s enough that God sent you to me. At the end. I only wish Awela were here, too. And that I could have seen Eira, one last time.”
Grief chokes me. “There’s something else I have to tell you. I saw—I saw Mother, in the wood. She wasn’t dead. All this time she wasn’t dead. The Gwydden bound her to a strange tree in the heart of the forest. The Gwydden took her soul. But Mother was so strong. She used the magic of the tree to look out for us. To protect you and me and Awela. It’s why the wood shut you out when Awela and I went missing. That was her. Protecting you.”
Father shakes. Blood pours thicker from his wounds. “But she’s gone now, isn’t she? For good?”
I can’t tell him. I can’t bear it. “She said she loved you, in the end.”
“I will see her soon,” he rasps.
“Father.”
“Don’t despair, my boy. There is much for you to do yet, I think. I saw her, you know, when I went into the wood the day she was lost. The wind blew through her hair and there was blood on her face. She was still so beautiful. She sent me away. It was too late for her. But you needed me. You and Awela. So I came back. I am glad to have had all these extra days with you. But I have never truly lived since I lost her. Do not mourn me, Owen. I am happy. I am with her.”
“Father—”
Between one heartbeat and the next, he goes limp in my arms. His soul winks out of him. He dies with a smile on his lips.
“Merrick?”
I can barely see Drystan through the haze of tears. The world seems to waver and bob in the torchlight.
“Another guard joins me on duty in five minutes.”
Meaning if Drystan’s trespass is to go unnoticed, the only chance of it is now.
I drag myself to my feet. I sway. Drystan catches my arm.
He helps me back down the corridor, up the stairs, out into the blinding moonlight, through the courtyard. Leaves swirl in the wind. Inside, I’m screaming. Outside, I’m horribly, deathly calm.
I walk numbly through the gate and out onto the hill. Drystan locks it behind me. He peers at me between the bars. “I’m sorry, Merrick.”
There’s a buzzing in my head. “Thank you for taking me to him.”
“He’ll have a proper burial.”
I want to scream. I want to burn the world down. I want to drive a knife into the king’s heart and watch the bastard bleed.
I focus my eyes on Drystan. “Where can I find the king?”
He frowns. “The king?”
“You’ve been on duty in the palace before, haven’t you?”
“Yes.” He looks wary.
“Then you know the layout better than me. Do you know where the king’s private chambers are? His office?”
“Merrick, taking you to see your dying father is a trifle different than helping you commit regicide. I’m not a fool.”
“Then you know that what he did to my father isn’t right. You know he’s not the hero all of Tarian believes him to be.”
Drystan’s lips press hard together. The wind rattles leaves over the courtyard stones. “There’s a stair on the fifth floor that will take you up to his private tower. But you shouldn’t go. He’s stronger than you think. He’ll destroy you.”
My
hand goes to the knife at my hip. “He murdered my father—I’d like to see him try.”
Chapter Forty-Six
SEREN
I STAND ALONE IN THE COURTYARD, IN THE MOONLIGHT AND THE wind. Leaves skitter around me, new plants push up between the cracks in the stone. I shut my eyes and reach through the palace, feeling gently for all the souls inside. There is the Eater’s soul: thin and tremulous, surrounded by scores of others. He is still dancing, then. Owen’s soul is farther away, down in the earth, but it is so much brighter than the Eater’s. So much stronger. There is another soul beside Owen’s. I feel it flicker. I feel it die. I feel Owen’s anguish and rage. Enough to swallow my mother and the Eater, too. I ache for him—it was his father’s soul. Now it is gone.
I promised Owen something I cannot give. I have already gotten Awela out, but she is safe with my brothers now. When he comes to me outside the palace walls, I will explain it to him. I will tell him how to find her.
If my true form has not wholly consumed me by then.
I should go now, while the Eater is dancing. While I am still free.
But something keeps me standing here, staring up at the stars.
The wind is blowing so wild I do not hear him come. I do not know he is here until his blade is pressed sharp against my throat and the stink of him is choking me.
“I’m still not sure what you are,” the Eater hisses. “But I’m going to find out. Did you think I’d forget you so easily?”
Leaves blow into his face, and he spits them out. “You’re hers. Somehow, you’re hers, and if you’re what I think you are—” He laughs as he traces one cold finger down the curve of my cheek.
If I had my true form, he would already be dead.
But in this form, I am weak. Fragile.
I writhe in his grasp as he drags me through the courtyard and into the kitchens. I cannot get free. His fingers bite deep into my arm. His blade presses harder into my neck. Something warm and wet trickles down into my collar. I think of cutting myself peeling potatoes and nearly fainting in Owen’s arms.
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