When Gravaldor finished, his gaze fell on the three of them. His eyes, once full of wilds and rage, now looked calm.
Barclay wasn’t sure what made him step forward. Maybe it was the wilds in him answering Gravaldor’s call. Maybe it was awe, the way it felt to look directly into the eye of a storm.
I was right,he thought.He could remove my Mark.
Root followed him, his head low and mournful, as though he sensed what was about to happen.
Barclay opened his mouth to speak to Gravaldor, to make his request. But no words came out. It wasn’t like when the Ischray stole his voice from his throat, but rather like he didn’t have the words in him. All those reasons he had hated Gravaldor and the Woods and Lore Keepers no longer mattered to him.
Barclay had wanted to remain in Dullshire so that he could follow the life he thought his parents had wanted for him. But he couldn’t help but think that his parents would be disappointed in him if he went back, when he had found the place where he truly belonged.
He’d be disappointed in himself too.
And so Barclay crouched down and pressed his foreheadagainst his Root’s, watching his expression with his matching black eyes. They matched in so many ways. Both stubborn. Both teasing. Both wild. Now that Barclay could stop blaming Lore Keepers for what happened to his parents, there was no reason to stop him from becoming one too.
“I never belonged there,” Barclay told Root. “You knew that before I did.”
Seeming to understand, Root’s ears pricked up happily.
“Will you forgive me?” Barclay asked.
Root wagged his tail and licked Barclay’s cheek, which Barclay took to mean yes.
Smiling, Barclay turned around to Viola and Tadg.
Tadg pushed Viola forward. “I thought you had a request.”
“Idon’t! I… I’d already made up my mind, and I’m not changing it. I don’t need Gravaldor to become a great Lore Keeper.” She looked toward Barclay. Her clothes were dirty and wrinkled, and one of her hair ties had snapped, leaving a single lopsided poof with an indent in her curls. She smiled, and he nodded. They had made the same decision: to become great Lore Keepers together.
When none of them moved, Gravaldor lowered himself to the ground. The trees formed a cavernlike canopy once more, and the Woods was peacefully still.
“My father would have loved to see this,” Tadg murmured, staring up at Gravaldor. Then he looked at Soren. “We should take him back—maybe Erhart can enforce hislaws, for a change. Do you have more Stoolips, to keep him asleep until we return?”
Barclay nodded and patted his pockets. “I have plenty.”
Viola let out a long breath of relief. “Then let’s go back to Sycomore.”
TWENTY-FIVE
Barclay, Viola, and Tadg returned to Sycomore three days after Midwinter ended—Soren still in tow on Root’s back, fast asleep. With both the holiday and the Exhibition over, the town was quieter than Barclay had ever seen it.
In early morning in Dullshire, everyone would be awake. The streets would smell of fresh bread from the bakery opening its windows to beckon customers. Gustav would be huddled lazily near Master Pilzmann’s fire. Mrs. Havener would be putting on an extra scarf or pair of mittens while restocking books.
The thought no longer filled Barclay with so much homesickness. In fact, it warmed him like a mug of pear cider. Had it not been for him, Viola, and Tadg, there might not be anyone left in Dullshire to wake and go about their lives.
Dullshire might not ever welcome him back. Barclay would likely never become a mushroom farmer like he’d once wanted. But he still liked to think that his parents would have been proud of him for saving the town and going on an adventure.
Though tired from traveling, the trio staggered to the Guild House. Inside was no longer filled with so many Masters—only a handful sat among the tables. Many had students, now apprentices, sitting beside them.
Two figures sat by the fireplace.
The first was Erhart, and next to him was a man Barclay had never seen before. He was pale and wiry, with bluntly cut dark hair and stiff clothes. Shiny pieces covered his shirt, much like Viola’s. But unlike Viola’s, these looked more like medals and achievements than pins and baubles.
Viola tensed at seeing him. “That’s Cyril Harlow, the Horn of Dawn.”
“Why is he wearing so many medals of honor?” Tadg asked, rolling his eyes. “No wonder Runa hates him.”
They walked behind them. Tadg cleared his throat.
