by J. A. White
Vaguely she remembered seeing the book before. She had been four or five, her mother still alive.
In the barn . . . exploring . . . bored . . . a secret trapdoor . . . black book inside . . . Mother tearing it out of my hands . . .
Kara struggled to remember what happened next, but there was nothing more. She wasn’t sure it mattered, though. The most important part of the memory had already been conveyed.
The book had belonged to her mother.
What if it’s a witch’s book? A grimoire? You need to bring it straight to the Elders.
But this voice of reason crumbled beneath the weight of Kara’s curiosity. She started to open the book—just one peek, just to see what’s inside—and that’s when she realized she was no longer alone.
The figure of a man stood at the edge of the darkness. A pumpkin-orange, hooded cloak draped around his body and flowed through the trees like mist. He was far taller than a man should be, at least seven feet. Shadows obscured his face, and for this Kara was grateful. She knew that if she looked into his eyes, a part of her would be lost forever.
His hand reached out to her, clearly revealed in the glow of webs above them. Branches, shifting and curling like fingers, but branches nonetheless.
Kara felt her body go cold.
Sordyr.
A half-formed moan of terror slipped from her lips. Her breath came in short, needy gasps.
Run! she told herself. Get away!
But Kara could not move. Her feet felt encased in ten feet of dirt.
The Forest Demon regarded her from the darkness. His perusal made her feel weak and insignificant.
Kara found herself walking toward him.
What are you doing? she screamed. Turn around! But Kara’s body had become a distant thing, too far away to hear her. Slowly but inextricably she made her way toward the cloaked figure.
With a single branched hand, Sordyr reached into his chest, pushing through the barklike skin. Kara heard digging sounds, and a moment later he produced a large, black seed, covered with dirt.
He held out the seed to her.
“Yours,” he said.
Suddenly her mother’s words floated down to her.
The Forest Demon will offer you a part of himself. You must refuse it, or you will become his forever.
Sordyr shook his branched hand impatiently.
Click, click, click.
Kara held the unearthed book before her like a shield. “This was my mother’s,” she said. Strength flowed through her. She thought of Taff, her father. If she allowed Sordyr to keep her here, she would never see them again.
Kara turned and ran.
Behind her Sordyr’s branch hands clicked together, a strange and terrible language. The webspinner reappeared, using its segmented legs to string itself, upside down, along its glowing web. It was joined by another of its own kind. Then four. A dozen.
Sordyr’s hands clicked together again. Louder this time. A command.
With shocking speed the creatures began to dismantle the web.
Kara ran as she had never run before, dodging the suddenly appearing pockets of darkness. The black soil pulled at her feet like sand. Above her, webspinners chittered loudly as they worked. Strands of dead web floated to the earth, becoming tangled in her hair, her hands. Kara kept running. The opening was close, less than five hundred feet away, but there wasn’t much time; the light had dimmed to a faint glow. If she didn’t reach the opening before darkness overtook her, she would have no chance of finding it at—
A webspinner struck her shoulder. It was a glancing blow, but Kara was unprepared and lost her balance. She fell to one knee just in time to see a second webspinner leap in her direction. Kara swung the book. It connected with a satisfying thunk that sent the webspinner sprawling. She turned toward the tunnel in time to see a third webspinner, already airborne. Kara rolled out of its way. And ran. The Thickety was almost completely dark now, but Kara could still make out the entrance to the Fringe. Less than a hundred feet away, a welcoming sort of darkness. Two webspinners landed on her back, but Kara ignored them, the frantic tugs on her hair, the wild chitterings in her ear.
The moment she slipped into the opening between the trees, the webspinners let go. She could hear their voices, soft and defeated, as they retreated. Their master would not be pleased.
Crouching, Kara took a few steps into the shelter of the tunnel. She could feel the branches just above her head, but they no longer made her feel trapped. They felt like armor. Safety.
Then Kara heard the voice behind her, as soft as a knife pulled from a sheath, as old as life itself.
“Kara,” it whispered.
She felt warm breath on her ear. It expanded throughout the tunnel, filling it with the smell of autumn and fungus and dead things.
“Kara,” Sordyr whispered again.
Branches clicked as he reached out to touch her.
Kara scrambled along the tunnel at a frantic, clawing pace. The scrapes and scratches along her knees and back meant nothing. The pain didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except the small beacon of morning light in the distance.
She scampered into the fresh air of the outside world. The book in her hands felt substantial and real, and she hugged it to her chest as she navigated the Fringe. Only when she was a good distance away did Kara look back at the Thickety.
The opening between the trees had closed. Nothing pursued her.
But Kara could still feel his breath on her ear, hear his voice in her head.
Kara.
Her name. He had known her name.
Wondering if she would ever feel safe again, Kara opened the book.
BOOK TWO
THE SHADOW FESTIVAL
“A child who touches magic is lost forever.”
—The Path
Leaf 928, Vein 116
Despite her exhaustion, Kara rose early the next morning so she could stop by the Lamb farm and check on her patient.
The wounds in Shadowdancer’s hoof had not scabbed over yet, but they were well on their way. Kara flicked a few pieces of dried pus away with her penknife and ran a hand over the mare’s foreleg.
No warmth. The infection was completely gone.
Kara smiled and stroked the horse’s mane.
“You’re getting better, girl,” she whispered. “But try to take it easy for another few days, just until your muscles get used to running again.”
If Shadowdancer had been a different horse, Kara might have said the words with a singsong, soothing intonation; animals, particularly runners, loved the rhythm of it. But Shadowdancer would have found this babyish now that she was whole again, so Kara spoke to her directly, as she would a person. The proud horse demanded that sort of respect.
Leaving the stable, Kara almost walked into Constance Lamb.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded.
“I’m checking on Shadowdancer.”
“No one asked you to do that.”
“I know. I just wanted to make—”
“Where’s that brother of yours?”
“He’s sick,” Kara said.
Taff had woken up with a fever and a small rash on his chest. She had begged Father to let her stay home from school and care for him, but he refused. Father might forget to pick the crops or bathe for a week, but he never ceased being a stickler when it came to attending school.
“He’s sick a lot, that child,” Constance said, and Kara was surprised to see a furrow of worry crease her brow. “What do you think—”
Suddenly the farm woman’s eyes widened. She clasped her hands together and squeezed tightly.
“Where did you get that?” she asked.
Kara followed Constance’s eyes to her mother’s locket, hanging in the morning sun for the entire world to see. It had somehow slipped from its usual position beneath her school dress, though she didn’t know how; Kara had threaded a lining inside the high collar of the dress to ensure the necklace stayed out of sight
.
“I asked you a question,” Constance repeated.
“I’ve always had it.” Kara clasped the locket protectively. “Mother left it for me. Beneath my pillow, like she knew what was going to happen.”
“Let me see it.”
Before Kara could protest, Constance stepped forward and took the wooden locket in her hand, running her thumb over the simple shell embossed on its surface. Kara watched her carefully. If she tried to take the locket—or open it—Kara would slap her hand away and run off, no matter what the consequences.
I entered the Thickety to get this back, Kara thought. No one will take it from me.
Constance, however, seemed content to just hold it for a few seconds. When she looked up her eyes were moist.
She slipped the locket beneath Kara’s shirt.
“There are grains of sand inside, from her home village. Before Helena was brought here.”
Kara nodded.
“This was her most precious possession,” Constance said, a new softness in her voice. “You’ll want to keep it hidden, Kara. Close to your heart.”
Without another word Constance Lamb made her way back to the farmhouse.
Kara continued to the schoolhouse alone, using a slightly circuitous path that avoided any view of the Thickety whatsoever. Since she had entered the forbidden forest, just looking at the trees filled her head with a low rumbling noise, like a river crashing between her ears. Kara had not had time to bind her hair properly, and it whipped wildly in the late-autumn wind, obscuring her view. She had heard that in the World girls could let their hair flow unrestrained, and although Kara admired the freedom this represented, she couldn’t imagine how this would ever be practical on a windy day.
Her thoughts drifted to Constance Lamb, whose uncharacteristically kind reaction to Mother’s locket confused her. Along with poor Aunt Abby, Constance had been her mother’s closest friend but afterward had offered neither assistance nor compassion to the remaining Westfalls. She had brought Taff into the world, of course, and Kara would be forever grateful for that. But the fact remained that until today she had shown Kara little more than cold indifference.
So why did Mother’s locket bring her to tears?
Was Constance ashamed that she did not defend her best friend against the charges of witchcraft? Did she regret the way she had abandoned the Westfall family?
If so, it might finally be time for Kara to talk to her. More than anyone else, Constance would know what really happened that night.
This might be Kara’s chance to finally learn the truth.
Resolute that she would speak to Constance as soon as possible, Kara returned her focus to getting to school on time—and was astonished to find herself sitting in the middle of a field, the black book open in her lap.
She had no recollection of coming here. Kara knew the place, of course—she had walked every inch of De’Noran, from Fringe to ocean. Father said a young couple used to live here when he was a boy, but they had abandoned the Fold and returned to the World. Their farmhouse had been left to rot in shame. Kara could see it from where she was sitting, a sagging skeleton overtaken by the elements. A short rope stubbornly clung to a tree branch where a swing used to hang, waiting in vain for its owners to return.
The farm—the Thompson Farm, Kara remembered—was not even on her way to school. In fact, it was in the opposite direction: north, toward the . . .
Thickety. I’ve been walking toward the Thickety.
With a cold shudder, Kara turned the book in her hands. She did not remember taking it out of her satchel (or putting the book in her satchel, for that matter). And yet here it was, open in her lap as though she had been reading for hours. Which was impossible, of course.
She felt watched.
Shooting to her feet, Kara turned to find Lucas standing behind her. She felt her face turn red, as though she had been caught doing something wrong.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“I’m just . . .” She searched for the right word. “Reading.”
“That doesn’t look like the Path,” he said, eyeing the book with interest. “What is it? Did someone smuggle you a story from the World?”
Lucas stepped forward to peek at the pages, but Kara closed the book before he could see inside.
“It’s nothing,” she said.
Kara tucked the book into her satchel and hooked it shut.
When Lucas didn’t respond, Kara knew she had hurt his feelings. They walked toward the schoolhouse in awkward silence, Kara wondering why she was being so secretive. There was no good reason not to show him the book. What harm could it do?
She was relieved when Lucas finally broke the silence.
“I found my family,” he said.
Kara immediately felt guilty. No doubt he had been working himself up to share the news, and she had been too absorbed in her own troubles to notice.
“Are you sure?” she asked.
Lucas smiled.
“Yes,” he said. “I think this time it’s really them!”
Like all Clearers, Lucas had been born in the World. He had absolutely no memory of his birth parents: no vague recollection of a mother’s warmth, no stirrings of familiarity upon hearing a certain lullaby. Most of his peers harbored little curiosity about their parents, choosing instead to curse them from afar—understandable, since they had sold them into a life of servitude. Lucas, however, remained obsessed with finding his blood relatives, certain that they had a good reason for abandoning him the way they did.
“They live in Dunn’s Landing, right on the shore,” he said. “They fish. The woman has brown eyes, just like mine. They have a little girl too, younger than Taff. I have a sister, Kara!”
She nodded, trying to keep her face as impassive as possible.
“They’re far from rich now, but when they were first married, things were really bad. They didn’t have enough money to feed their newborn son, so they . . . sold him to the Children of the Fold for two red seeds.” Lucas looked away. “But they loved me, Kara. They didn’t want to give me up. They were forced to in order to survive. That’s different, isn’t it?”
“Who told you this?” Kara asked.
“Hanson Blair. He’s one of the oarsmen on the Ferry, and he’s been asking around for me when they dock.”
Kara knew Blair, a liar and a thief, and was sure that Lucas had paid well for this “information.” Her friend was one of the most intelligent people she knew, but when it came to his family, he was blindingly optimistic.
“What are you thinking?” Lucas asked.
Kara hesitated. Why do I have to be the one to crush him? He deserves a little happiness, even if it’s a lie.
“That’s wonderful news,” Kara said. “You’ll find them someday, when you visit the World. You’ll be together again.”
Lucas smiled, the big, relaxed grin that was both goofy and endearing.
“I have to go!” he said, and started on his way to the Clearer School. He took about fifteen steps and then called over one shoulder: “I’ll return your book later!”
Kara was on him in ten steps. She grabbed his arm and spun him roughly around. There it was, in his hands. Open.
The black book. Her black book.
“Give it back!” she exclaimed.
Kara snatched it away, harder than she needed to. When he put his hand on my arm, that’s when he stole it. I should have known better than to trust him. To trust anyone.
Lucas raised his hands into the air, the smile fading from his lips.
“Kara? I was just kidding around. I didn’t meant to—”
“It’s my book!” she exclaimed. “You have no right to touch it with your filthy Clearer hands. It’s mine!”
Clutching the book to her chest, Kara set off toward school. Lucas remained at the top of the hill, dumbfounded. Finally he called after her: “Why are you so upset? It’s nothing but blank pages!”
Kara kept walking.
Luca
s is right. The book is useless.
Kara resisted an urge to toss it across her room. She could barely keep her eyes open, and yet here she was again, flipping through the pages in the middle of the night, searching for . . . she didn’t even know what. A clue?
The pages remained as blank as ever.
When Kara had first opened her mother’s book the night before, she had been thunderstruck by disappointment. She wasn’t sure what she had expected to find, but anything would have been better than this: white page after white page after white page. She had risked her life by entering the Thickety . . . for nothing.
The worst part was that she had believed. Holding the book in her hands, Kara had felt the strange sensation of hope flood over her. This is my mother’s journal—it has to be! Finally she was going to get the answers she longed for all these years.
She felt like such a fool.
Maybe there’s some sort of trick to reading it, she thought, flipping through the pages. The book had been moved from its place beneath the floorboards of their barn—a perfectly adequate hiding spot—and hidden in the Thickety itself. Whatever secrets it held had to be amazingly important, otherwise Mother would have never taken such a huge risk.
More determined than ever, Kara tried everything she could think of to unlock the book’s meaning. She examined the tome page by page, running a finger across every inch of white space, searching for some kind of telltale bump or groove. Each page was perfectly smooth. She knew that some of her classmates passed messages with what they called “vanishing ink,” a simple mixture that remained invisible on the page but was easily revealed by the glow of candlelight. Kara tried it. Nothing. Since the blank pages invited her to write, Kara put quill to ink and wrote her name. Here, at least, the results were curious: The ink ran down the page like tears before dripping onto the floor.