Bound for the Forest

by Kay Berrisford

  “In the name of Holgaerst! What are you doing?” He grabbed Scarlet again and shook him. “I know what you are, Scarlet. Damn it, I’ve spoken to your mother! And I know exactly why I’m here. I came to fetch you back and undo my wrongs. Stop fighting me!”

  The last trace of colour vanished from Scarlet’s cheeks as his body fell limp in Brien’s grasp. “But they are not your wrongs,” murmured Scarlet. “You never left me. You came back. You’ll always come back…for me.”

  “What?”

  Scarlet’s eyelids were heavy, and it was clearly becoming a monumental effort for him to speak. Despite his efforts to be gentle, Brien shook the boy harder, urging him on. It worked.

  “You can’t save me here. I’m dying… The magic is dragging me down, tricking my mind and my body, and I’m sinking deeper… I’m a proper wraith now, a whore…the Lord of the Hazel’s whore, who did Master’s bidding and summoned you…but you can still fight…there’s the acorn…and I’m trying…I’m trying to get back…but…she wants…she wants to kill you too. It’s your blood she needs…not mine.”

  Brien wanted to argue, to tell Scarlet that he was no foul whore and would never belong to anybody but him. But there was no time. “Who? Jemima?”

  A faint nod.

  “Jemima wants my blood? But why?”

  “Because…she’s bound to the forest. Isn’t…isn’t it obvious? Why else would she never leave this…place of nightmare?”

  And then Scarlet and the rest of the world vanished.

  * * *

  “Wake up! Please, Melmoth, wake up!”

  The increasingly harsh shaking finally got through to him. Brien pried his eyes open, and he blinked through the gray morning light at Urhelda.

  “I thought you’d gone into some sort of stupor.” Urhelda looked wan beneath her freckles, but she managed a tired smile. “Come on, let’s get back to Arden and have some breakfast. You never know, Scarlet might have already showed up, and then you two can revert to your favorite pastime of scowling and pouting at each other.”

  And then the reality of it all struck him. What he had just experienced had been no dream, but the most real and awakening moment of his life. Brien sat bolt upright, ignoring muscles that ached like he was fresh from the battlefield—as, indeed, he was. He answered Urhelda’s worried, questioning countenance with a garbled barrage of truths. “Scarlet is with Jemima, and he’s in danger because my damned sister is bound to the Greenwood…and she needs my blood.”

  “Jemima is bound? How do you know all of this?”

  Brien rubbed his brow. It was a reasonable question, but he hadn’t a notion how to start explaining the answer. “Would you be satisfied if I told you that I’ve just been visiting the realm of Niogaerst?”

  Urhelda shrugged. “It will do.”

  “Which way do I bear from here to reach Carseald Hall?”

  “No. You’re not going alone. If Jemima is after another protector’s blood, whatever spell she’s trying to cast will be extremely powerful.”

  “I don’t care,” replied Brien, his voice sinking ever deeper and grimmer. “I’m not afraid of anything she can do. I have to save Scarlet. He is bound to me, and I must destroy any being—man, woman, or spirit—that attempts to harm him.”

  Urhelda inhaled sharply—and, yes, at the very corner of her mouth, was that the glimmer of a smile? “You know, Melmoth Brien, Scarlet is a lucky boy.” She leaned up and kissed him chastely on the lips. “May Holgaerst bless you in your mission, Protector of the Greenwood. Carseald is due west from here. I will return to Arden right away. Then I’ll yell till the whole bloody forest is rushing to your aid.”

  * * *

  Brien forced the buckled front door wide with a strenuous shove and waded into the wreckage of Carseald Hall. The stench of fire, spice, and enchantment was heavy in the air, but the silence galled him even more—Jemima knew he was coming. She was waiting for him.

  As he forged his path into the cavernous Great Hall, the air shifted restlessly—but his vision alighted solely on Scarlet. The woodsman was strung up in front of the fireplace, his head slumped forward, the pitilessness of his constraints mocking the inscription above the hearth: EARDLUFU.

  “Dear home?” Brien snorted at the charred words. Not any longer. Not ever. Clambering over the fallen beams, Brien hastened to Scarlet’s side, scooping one arm around his waist. He cupped his face in his other hand, gently shaking him.

  “Scarlet? It’s me. I’ve found you.”

  From the icy pale of the underworld, the woodsman’s complexion had turned a sickly shade of green. Brien pulled him tighter against his body, scrutinizing him anxiously. Scarlet’s lashes fluttered.

  “I’m going to take you away from this place, lad. I’m going to make you better.”

  He reached for his dagger, but his fears were growing by the moment. Holding Scarlet like this, Brien could feel the boy’s chest shuddering as if every breath was a great effort, his sickness so much more alarming here than in the dreamlike realm of Niogaerst. Apart from that, the woodsman didn’t seem to have any injuries, none of the bite marks, cuts, and bruises he had sustained at the hands of the Wild Men. Brien first cut away the cruel rope ligature about his neck. “My sister has been poisoning you,” he muttered. “What with?”

  Still supporting him, Brien hacked through the tethers above his wrists. Then he saw a flash of clouded blue and pulled back quickly to touch his cheek. “Scarlet?”

  “Acorn,” murmured the woodsman. He shook his right wrist, indicating the charm that hung from it, and then fell limp once more.

  “Acorn?”

  Scarlet had muttered that word in the realm of Niogaerst, but it made much more sense this time. Brien lowered him to the floor before lifting up his right wrist and examining the wooden charm on its thin leather strap. He frowned. There was a tiny bronze hinge at the join between the cup and the nut, of the sort one might find on a miniature portrait or locket. Then Scarlet’s lips moved restlessly again.

  “Watch…watch out… She’s…she’s here.”

  Scarlet’s eyes rolled back into his head even as the snow-white arrow whistled through the air. Brien lurched forward, shielding his body over Scarlet’s. The edge of the arrow grazed across his shoulder.

  Brien grunted back the pain, twisting to examine the wound. The arrow had sliced through his sleeve, although the cut was not too deep. As if delaying the inevitable, he turned slowly to face his sister.

  “Good day to you, Melmoth. Welcome home.”

  Brien matched her impassive smile with his thunderous glower as he rose to face her. His dagger glinted in his hand. Jemima merely shrugged, reaching for another arrow from her quiver.

  “It’s not worth it, Melmoth. There’s not long for you now. The poison in the tip will go straight into your lifeblood, working much faster than the small doses I’ve been giving Scarlet—although I fear that there’s no way back for him now.” She drew back her bow, taking aim at Scarlet’s limp form. “Shall I put him out of his misery?”

  Brien squared his body in front of Scarlet’s, ready to lunge for her, arrow or not, but she did not shoot just yet. She laughed, and then she slipped back behind the oak screen.

  His roar had the remaining rafters quaking. “Where are you going? Come back and face me!”

  Scarlet sank deeper by the second. He hadn’t felt his fingers and toes for a while, and he willed the numbness to overcome the rest of his agony.

  He could see the green glow of the underworld on the horizon and sense that the master there was waiting for him. Yes, he could feel the simmer of the Lord of the Hazel’s frustration, and he could now discern his appearance: a mass of bloodred writhing catkins formed a body without a face and monstrous in shape. As yet, the squirming, phallic horrors were still impotent, but they waited only for Jemima to spill Scarlet’s blood, and then they would set upon him and devour him, binding whatever was left of him to Niogaerst forever.

  A muffled drumbeat r
esonated through his ears, tearing him back. He could sense that his captain was close still, that those strong arms were still wrapped tight around him. He just needed to make one last effort to stay at his side.

  The air felt as heavy as wet sand, but he forced it into his lungs. Worried green eyes met his, and Scarlet realized Brien was carrying him, cradling him in his arms as he picked his way through the debris of the Great Hall. The loud thud was Brien’s heartbeat, and now his captain was whispering to him, reassuring him, pressing cool lips to his damp, fevered skin. Scarlet gasped for breath again. He had to force himself to think. What had he come back for?

  His arm hung weakly at his side. With an excruciating effort, Scarlet lifted it. The wooden charm on his cuff caught the light. Brien’s brow furrowed.

  “Charm…contains…antidote…”

  Scarlet watched Brien’s lips move again, but he could not understand. He wanted to explain: when you’re told that you’re born to be sacrificed, you do take some precautions against the eventuality. And even Old Brigit had cared, despite her odd ways. She’d mixed jars and jars of the antidote so Scarlet would never be without. But to say this was far too much for his fading body. As Brien lowered him to the floor, Scarlet’s vision failed him.

  Then the smell slammed into him like a kick in the belly. Coffee beans, mistletoe, mustard, spices…

  He didn’t need to open his eyes to know that Brien had the tiny vial open and was wafting it under his nose. He managed to shake his head. How could he tell his captain that he wanted him to take the potion? It was the best chance for both of them now.

  “No,” said Brien, his face so close that Scarlet’s dimmed senses felt his breath, and he shuddered at the heat. “You drink it. I can fight this.”

  Scarlet gritted his teeth. Although the world was reduced to a dark blur, he forced his eyes open and shot Brien a look as stubborn as steel.

  “I…I’ve come back before,” he managed to say. “You take it…and I promise…you can…still fetch me.”

  And then Scarlet knew no more.

  “No!” Brien’s roar shook the broken roof as he held the tiny vial of liquid between trembling fingertips.

  Brien knew the poison was starting to worm its way into his own blood. There was a foul prickling in his fingers and toes; soon, there would come the numbness.

  And his strength was waning. In a lunge of desperation, he tried to pull Scarlet to him and lift him back into his lap. But his hands felt rigid and would not grip. Scarlet’s slight weight had become too much for him.

  He thought of forcing the liquid down Scarlet’s throat—but damn it, was the boy even breathing? Fastening the lid, he lowered his cheek to Scarlet’s parted lips. Not the ghost of a breath dusted his skin. He picked up his wrist and fumbled frantically to find a pulse, but in vain.

  Scarlet was gone.

  There was a dull inevitability about the sudden chime of his sister’s voice. “I’m sorry, Melmoth. But it has to be. I saved your lives outside this very Hall, only so that it could end this way.”

  Saved their lives? Brien twisted to face her, and nothing could have prepared him for the sight. Jemima seemed to have grown at least a foot in height, her hair glowing umber, her eyes glistening emeralds. Beautiful and terrible, she stood with a rope draped over her arm and brandished a knife.

  “Please step aside now. I must perform the next stages of sacrifice upon Scarlet. Oh yes, it’s your blood that makes the difference, but I have promised, and Niogaerst is thirsty.”

  She smiled. Brien bowed his head, raised his fist to his lips, flicked open the acorn’s tiny lid with his thumb, and drank the antidote.

  Jemima watched him closely as she drew nearer. “Whatever that is, it won’t make any difference. The strain of heamlac that grows in this forest is as powerful as any other on earth.”

  The cool liquid trickled down his throat. His sister may well be right, and the effect may be too little or come too late.

  Jemima paused, reveling in her moment of triumph. “In the name of Niogaerst,” she chanted, “you and your whore must die to set me free.”

  He hunched forward like a stricken beggar, the tingling in his fingertips becoming more potent—but no, they were not growing numb. It was quite the opposite. He glanced at Scarlet, pallid, bruised, and motionless. That was when a veiled hope became another shouting, irrefutable piece of knowledge. Jemima’s fatal arrow, shot at Connor two days past, saved neither his nor Scarlet’s life. He would have found a way without her, and now he, Melmoth Brien, would find a way to save his underling once more. He closed the part of his mind that was killing him, and the burning itch spread from his fingers and shot through his veins.

  He hauled himself up, squared his shoulders, and looked his sister straight in the eye. “Leave us, Jemima. If you come between us, now or ever, I will have to destroy you.”

  Laughter twitched on her lips, then faded soundlessly. “Brute strength cannot save you now. You’re powerless, Melmoth. You always denied the truth.”

  “Not any longer.”

  His unexpected resolution—and his suddenly ramrod-straight spine—visibly threw her. A second surge of energy rushed through his hardening muscles, doing so much more than fighting the poison.

  His gaze drilled deeper, and at last he saw it in her: that dawn of fear, that realization that Brien had discovered his true might. The knife shook in her hand, and her shoulders sank. A priestess of Niogaerst could never defeat the grace of Holgaerst…or love.

  “I need your blood!” Jemima lunged, blade drawn and aimed for Brien’s heart. He dodged her easily, but she tumbled sideways, and her focus darted to Scarlet’s body. There was still power in her. It was desperate and waning, but she was preparing to use it. He knew then that he had no choice.

  “I’m sorry, Jemima. But we’ve got to get out of this damned forest. All of us.”

  He could feel the power building and building, and not for the first time, he innately knew what to do. A protector looked after his own, even when sacrifices had to be made.

  Brien raised his arms, spread his fingers, and with a final rush of will and passion, he brought lightning streaking down from the skies. Jemima screamed; the remaining rafters cracked and plummeted down around them in a cloud of flame and ash.

  And Brien threw himself on top of Scarlet’s stricken form, and prayed with all that was left in his heart.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Brien gazed down at Scarlet’s body.

  He was laid out on the altar in the tree cathedral, among a swathe of snowdrops. His hair woven with two tiny braids and brushed back from his flawless brow, Scarlet looked beautiful. His features were relaxed but not quite at rest. He seemed as if he were poised on the verge of an angelic smile—or a devilishly filthy laugh.

  Brien kissed his fingertips and pressed them to Scarlet’s lips, from which not a trace of breath had escaped for nearly five hours. They felt dry and cold, although the sickly pallor had faded. Brien discerned the merest blush of that gorgeous claret hue. At least he hoped he did.

  He heard soft footsteps padding up behind. “Are you ready?”

  Brien glowered at Arya, although he bore her no malice. She rubbed his arm.

  “Have faith, Melmoth. This was meant to be. For all we know, Old Brigit had you in mind when she suggested that Scarlet carry the antidote with him, all those years ago.”

  “Not unless the old girl was an oracle as well as a brilliant herbalist. No, that antidote was meant for her boy. I was just…a bit too bloody late. Damn it!” He clenched his fist, raising it to his lips. He was trembling violently, and it could no longer be blamed on the poison. “What if…I can’t bring him back? I know so little. I still find it so hard…to believe.”

  “We’ve noticed. Yet as I arrived at Carseald Hall earlier, you brought lightning down from the skies once more and slew your sister with a stake through the heart.”

  A cloud passed over the sun, and Brien smothered a shiver. This was th
e first he’d heard about how Jemima died. All he’d known as they’d pulled him and Scarlet from the rubble was that his sister was gone from this realm. As he’d struggled through the feverish aftereffects of the poison, an image had reared up in his mind’s eye of Jemima hanging by the neck from the branch of a mighty oak. That, he knew, was quite impossible.

  Then again, so was bringing a pretty woodsman back from the dead. Melmoth Brien opened his mouth to speak, but words failed him. The voices of birds shimmered from the treetops.

  “When Scarlet was a baby,” started Arya, “the spirits breathed life back into his soul and bound him to the forest. The sweeter spirits, the grace of Holgaerst, vowed to protect him. So as he grew, Old Brigit was his guardian. And when she died, the Green Man watched over Scarlet and taught him a few things about being alive in the Greenwood. But now he’s yours, Melmoth Brien. And you are his.”

  A woodpecker swooped over the altar, a flash of vibrant green. Everything compounded to make Brien’s head ache. The sense in Arya’s words made this all so difficult—and so terrifyingly wonderful. Then the distant ring of knowing laughter joined the trilling birds, and he let his stony-set features soften just a little. Brien’s gaze slid back to Scarlet. His heart swelled.

  “You know what you have to do. From what I’ve heard…the Green Man once gave you a demonstration?”

  Finally Brien smiled; he ruffled his own hair and then gently ran his knuckles down Scarlet’s cheek.

  “Have faith,” said Arya. “Scarlet isn’t dead. He’s just waiting for you. He always has been. Just as you, feckless wanderer, have always been searching for him.”

  * * *

  Once alone, Brien knelt down at the side of the altar and tipped Scarlet’s face toward him, closing in for a gentle kiss. Scarlet’s lips had warmed and softened, feeling more alive than by any rights they should. He had to believe. Brien felt his own heart beating in his mouth; never in his life had he been as thirsty for anything as he was to have Scarlet kiss him back right then.