Chapter Fifteen
“Wait up!” a voice echoes around the moonlit clearing.
Right on cue, a rosy-cheeked Bastion rushes onto the scene.
He’s bundled up in a long coat to stave off the early winter frost, and his shorter hair sticks up in odd directions.
Clearly he ran the whole way here. The memory of Bash doesn’t pay us any mind.
He paces around the oak, creating circles in the grass and peering up at the boughs.
We’re ghosts here, an audience unable to intervene.
Somewhere, an owl hoots.
“Is this five years ago?” I ask Will in a whisper.
He nods, his fingers gripping mine like unyielding vines. He stares down the path as if waiting for something, for someone.
Fourteen-year-old Will sprints into the clearing and leans over at the waist, panting. His hair is longer, half tied back in a short ponytail, and instead of the leather jackets I’m used to, he’s thrown on a baggy knitted sweater.
“Idiot. I told you to slow down,” he says, his voice a slight pitch higher than it is now.
Bash walks by and Young-Will kicks his foot out toward the prince’s shin.
“You could have used your magic,” Young-Bastion says, sidestepping the attack and continuing his inspection of the oak. “Some of us don’t have that privilege.”
“It’s past midnight. Excuse me if my brain isn’t working,” Young-Will says. He rubs his eyes and groans. “Gods, if my parents wake up and find us gone, they’re going to murder me. And then you. And then your mum will murder them both, so I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“I told you,” Young-Bastion snaps. “I overheard them.”
He stops surveying the tree to dig a screwed-up ball of yellowed paper out of his coat pocket.
He chucks it at Young-Will, who catches it with ease and flattens out the creases.
I tug my Will closer so I can glance at the page.
It seems like a botanical illustration of an oak alongside a few unusual runes, perhaps a spell written in an ancient language. Card would know.
“Okay, so what? Oak trees have been used in rituals for thousands of years. What makes you think it’ll suddenly grant you all your worldly wishes? You’ve never been able to do even the easiest of spells and I’m too tired for this,” Young-Will complains.
Young-Bastion plants his feet, a glimmer of the swordsmith yet to come.
“Mum’s friend told her. Some blond lady. She said that she’d been searching for years and this could be the answer. She said that if I tried this spell, I could finally use magic. They didn’t know I was outside. I snuck in after and ripped this page out of the book they were looking at.”
“Oh, so not only are you trusting the word of a strange woman, you’re also vandalizing books. Sounds great. Truly the makings of an honorable king.”
“Shut it. It’ll work. I know it will. Why are you being so grouchy? Are you still pissed that I beat you at cards earlier?”
“I don’t know. Maybe because you woke me up and dragged me out to the middle of the forest? It could have something to do with that.”
Young-Will angles his head, and it’s such a familiar move that I press back a smile. I want to tell my Will that he’s so cute when he’s sulking like this, but he’s frowning at his past self, barely blinking.
I squeeze his hand.
“Hey, you okay?” I ask, keeping my voice soft. It doesn’t feel right to break the silence of the forest, this deeply held breath.
“I should have stopped him,” Will mutters next to me. “I should have convinced him not to.”
I look back at the boys.
“Can you read it? The spell?” Young-Bash asks.
“Duh.”
“Teach it to me.”
“It says to repeat this incantation three times, then place your palm on the bark. If you feel a pull in your chest, it means you’ve created a magical connection to the gods within the tree that will allow you to siphon away some of the magic.
Damn…siphon is such a strong word. Are you sure this is legit?
Normal spells don’t mess around with the gods.
Maybe I should check with my professor first… ”
“Will, stop moaning. You’re supposed to be excited for me. We could go to classes at the Library together!”
“I’ll be excited when I’m back in bed, asleep.”
Despite his words, Young-Will sighs and ushers Young-Bash closer.
The Will beside me can’t watch. He turns his head aside. “This is how the oak tree died,” he says. “This is how the north was blighted. It’s our fault, Fliss.”
The memory shudders like the flickering of a candle and when it settles into place once more, both boys stand in front of the tree, sharing the paper.
The boys chant together like a funeral march, and as the seconds tick by, gleams of magical light gather in the heart of the tree.
The blades of grass in the clearing start to shrivel.
Twitch. Like they’re suffocating. Like they’re in agony.
And there’s something on Young-Will’s face I’ve never seen before—pure, abject terror.
“Bash, wait. Stop, it doesn’t feel right,” Young-Will warns. The glow of magic begins to fade when Young-Will stops the incantation, but Young-Bastion pushes his friend away in desperation.
And places one hand on the bark.
The memory of that moment hangs in suspense.
The unused magic shimmers, waiting to be told where to go.
If performed correctly, that power should be entering the person making contact with the tree.
But I know Bash. This didn’t work. This didn’t grant him any magic.
Instead, his sudden interaction with the tree redirects the magic like a flock of birds fleeing from a predator.
Young-Bash gasps, horrified.
For the smallest of moments, I catch a spark of green around his wrists like the locked chains of a prisoner.
Then the clearing explodes.
I flinch and lean into my Will, screwing my eyes shut until the blast of light fades. Both boys have been flung back. Young-Bash crawls over and shakes Young-Will, who writhes and punches the air like he’s being attacked by invisible spirits.
“Hey! Will. Will. Stop. We gotta go.”
The tree is rotting now, flaking and crumbling with awful crunches, moaning in distress as it pales.
From the roots, a perfectly circular patch of darkness creeps out, slowly, like a drop of poison in a pond.
Young-Will rolls onto his knees, shaking, and unclasps an amber gem from his ears.
He punches it into the ground, and a shining sphere of gold shields the boys, just in time.
All this time, I’ve been fascinated with his earrings. It’s no wonder. They’re magic.
The death continues to spread until it becomes the clearing I’m more familiar with, the one with rotted grass and unhealthy air and a devastatingly ethereal white tree in the center.
A final branch rips off like a crack of thunder.
And the clearing falls still. Silent. Dead.
No owl hoots in the distance. Not a sound.
“W-What did you do?” Young-Will stammers.
Young-Bastion can’t answer. He’s speechless. Scared. Twisting his palms before watering eyes.
“Why didn’t the spell work?” I ask my Will.
Will is choked up and has to swallow to reply.
“I don’t know. It backfired,” he says. “Whatever power it was supposed to grant imploded when Bash touched the bark.”
I wait for him to drop the memory, to move us on, but he lingers, his eyes on the forest path. Galloping hooves greet us as the dark-haired man from the portrait above their fireplace rushes into the clearing on a gray horse. Will tenses. His fingers are taut, almost painfully so.
Will’s dad—who else could it be?—slides effortlessly from the saddle and, after only a short glance at the horror of the tree, runs over to the boys. He drops to his knees and Young-Will immediately flings his arms around the man’s neck.
“What on earth happened here?” he asks, pulling his son away to check for any injuries.
“I-I’m sorry,” Young-Bash stutters. He doesn’t look like royalty. He looks like a shell-shocked child in an oversized coat.
“Okay, okay,” Will’s dad soothes. “Never mind for now. Both of you ride back. Quickly.”
“Dad—”
“Willoh, go home; we can talk about this in the morning. Your mother is waiting for you. I’m going to check everything is safe.”
They share another hug, then the man helps both boys onto the back of the horse.
He remains in the clearing as they ride away, facing the tree with hands on hips, only now letting his full concern show.
The scene shimmies out of focus as Young-Will rides farther from view.
Soon, it’ll be over. Soon, they’ll be back at the cottage.
Beside me, Will jolts forward. He lifts his free hand toward his dad.
“Wait—”
His voice cracks.
His hand drops.
The memory fades to an ocean of gray.
Will stays silent for a long minute. Finally, he lets out a short, quiet laugh.
“Let’s move on, shall we?” Will asks, forcing a brimming smile.
“Will…”
He gives my hand a quick squeeze and takes a step.
The scene around us whips in a whirlwind of colors until it settles on a large stone room with a dais of twin thrones at the end: the Grand Hall.
Queen Fern stands on the raised platform, her arms wrapped around Young-Bastion like a smothering blanket.
Her face is twisted in crimson fury at Ruth, who is ferociously straight-backed with her hand on Young-Will’s shoulder.
It doesn’t seem like much time has passed.
“I specifically told you I wasn’t happy about it,” the queen spits. Young-Bastion focuses on the floor, unable to meet his friend’s adamant stare. “He’s supposed to be here. Not running amok in the forest! Now look what’s happened!”
Ruth’s face is set. She’s not allowing herself to be bullied.
“Did you ever think to consider why he prefers to spend time with us? Perhaps he finds our home more welcoming than this dusty castle?” There’s a pinch of outrage to Ruth’s tone that I wouldn’t have thought possible. “Instead of pointing the finger—”