He stumbled out of Rowan’s house to a sky of crumbling wards, their light pocked through with giant holes, held together by gossamer threads. A collapsing web instead of a shell.
“How?” said Vatii. “Éibhear sacrificed his life for those wards.”
“The forest. If the forest maintains the wards, and Linden’s been destroying it… maybe the power of the sacrifice is running out.”
Which meant it would need another.
The tithe on Briar’s chest ached. He had to find Rowan.
He went down the garden path, pulled by the tithe. Ahead, he saw a figure close to the forest, too hunched and small to be Rowan.
Niamh ambled, hands behind her back, in no particular rush. The sight of her made Briar flush with anger. He had a bone to pick with her, but of course she would choose now to appear, when he didn’t have the time to rail against her stupid, deceptive, confusing prophecies.
“You’re just in time,” she said, once they were within earshot.
He moved past her. “I don’t have time, actually.”
“Of that, we’re both aware.” She kept in step with him.
“Everything’s a mess. And it’s my fault. And a bit yours! Linden’s a megalomaniac,notthe man of my dreams like you said. He’s probably on his way here to kill me. I’m dying anyway. Rowan’s in dangeragain.”
“I know. I sent him into the woods.”
“Youwhat?” Briar’s anger stopped him dead. What was he going to do? Punch a ninety-year-old woman? He turned and kept marching. “You’re—you unbelievable, selfish, miserable—Why would you do that? Are you trying to get us killed, or are you just senile? You sent him in there?Deliberately?”
“I sent him in with a message from his father. Which, I suspect, was a message from the forest. Or maybe they’re the same thing. Anyway, I don’t decide how Fate chooses to use me as its voice.”
That made for a convenient excuse. “Great. Perfect. Any more confusing pearls of wisdom before I go in after him?”
“No, no wisdom.”
“Then wha—Agh!” His ankle gave under him. He nearly rolled it, going down on his hands, grass stains on his knees. The curse sent spidering fingers of pain through his head like an oncoming migraine.
Niamh knelt in front of him with a humbling amount of grace for her age. She held a piece of charcoal.
“Fortitude,” she said, and drew a symbol on her arm. She clasped Briar’s hand, and the sharp pains turning his vision white shrank away. Strength returned to his aching limbs. It felt like drawing breath after months of drowning, like taking off heels after wearing them for a year. He’d been tired for so long.
He was still so angry with her, but as he rose to his feet without feeling it in every joint, he said, “Thanks.”
She handed him the stub of her charcoal. The forest loomed, a different beast than before, mangey, rabid, and desperate. Briar feared it, but he feared losing Rowan more.
“Are you coming?” he said to Niamh.
“No. This is your fate.”
“Fine.” He marched toward it, Vatii swooping from his shoulder.
“I do have one piece of advice for you, if you’ll have it of me,” Niamh said to his back.
He looked over his shoulder. “Yeah, all right. What have I got to lose?”
“Everything,” she said. “But Rowan, he thinks he’s already lost it. He thinks he’s alone. My advice is, don’t let him believe it.”
Briar didn’t understand her. Not her motives, not her prophecies. If he survived this, he would ask her. This piece of advice, though, this he understood.
He dove in. Navigating the forest never felt the same. In its current state, desiccated trees crumbling like columns of ash, it didn’t seem like a deep source of magical power. Farther in, he saw signs of desperate life. Foliage sprouted. Trees groaned as they grew. Brambles shot up under Briar’s feet, making him skip away. Nothing was green, not even the fresh sprouts. Everything was gray and sickly.
Magic pushed and pulled, killing the wood and trying to save it, and Briar felt something new—sympathy. Kinship. The quiet indignity of justifying one’s continued survival.
