Chapter Twenty-Six #3
We hurry out of the castle. The suns have risen, but the day is still early, and with all the celebrations we saw when we approached the other day, it seems the fae are still exhausted because no one is out and about as we walk down to the oak.
Ophelia, Grant, and Oisin are waiting. Oisin looks agitated, while Grant has his head tipped back, face turned towards the suns.
“All good?” Ophelia asks when we reach them.
“Yeah,” I breathe. I stare up at the oak tree.
It’s wider around than any I’ve ever seen, which is hardly a surprise, and neither is the fact that I can feel the dull, slow movement of its power.
This is what powers this realm. I guess it means that this place will die someday, but that’s true of everything, and it doesn’t mean it has to be now.
I let go of Lark’s hand and he frowns at me. “I should…”
“No, let me do this.” It feels like I should. Not because I should wear a crown, too; I know that. That’s not what’s causing this. Lark’s and my fate is to spend our lives in my realm, or he wouldn’t be dying now.
I take a step closer to the oak and press my hand to the bark on its trunk.
Oisin hisses under his breath and I hear a sound that tells me Ophelia just elbowed him in the side.
Grant is silent. I don’t even know if he’s looking, and it’s probably better if he isn’t.
We’ll need his power before we’re done here, I’m sure.
For a few seconds, nothing happens. The tree’s bark is rough against my palm and beneath that, its power moves sluggishly, the way things so massive do.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I don’t have enough magic to push hard, but I try the way I might with the sad basil I save from the supermarket, the lavender I carefully potted in Lark’s greenhouse…
A wave of feeling washes through me, so powerful my knees almost buckle. I gasp. The feeling isn’t from me. It’s the oak, inquisitive, trying to work out just what I am.
That’s a slow probe too, and I push back as best I can until that curiosity turns to understanding. Understanding and disappointment. That I’m here? That I stayed? That either of us was put in this situation?
Help us, I beg in my mind. Voices rise behind me, voices I don’t recognise. I push that worry aside. Break the bond. Save him.
Fear. It’s so deep and so primal that I shake all over, and Lark’s surprised exclamation breaks through everything else, but someone must intervene—Grant, maybe—because he doesn’t reach me.
That’s okay. I’m okay. But the oak is scared.
I push to feel for why, but it shows me instead.
Rot. Decay. A slow, slow death because the king and queen wouldn’t follow the path fate—magic—had shown them.
I move in closer until I can press my forehead against the bark. Do you make deals? We can make a deal. Better question is if the oak can even understand me. What does asking a tree to make a deal feel like?
I get nothing for a few moments. The voices behind me are louder and I feel the tingling buzz of wards surrounding us. I breathe. I can’t rush this; if I’m impatient, then what I’m asking for will be ignored.
The agreement I sense is tempered and suspicious. My own relief should be overwhelming, except I’m sure this oak has felt forces stronger than that. Only, now I’m stuck. What deal can I strike? What can I do?
Asking the others will break the connection I’ve made with the oak, and I’m not sure I have enough magic left to reach it again. I press my hand harder against the trunk. We’ll find them. Your branch-bearers. Yours. We’ll find them. If we can’t, we’ll return. Me and Lark. You can have our magic.
Quiet. Everything is quiet, and I realise the oak is moving, swaying ever so slightly against my hand and my forehead. The air is heavy with expectation. I think we can find them. I think that’s our fate.
And if not, I don’t think Lark will be angry about what I’ve agreed. Our magic—mine and Lark’s, and Oisin’s, too—has gone some way to healing the damage caused by centuries of neglect. Not a lot, but enough to buy us some time. A few more months maybe?
That has to be better than dying right now.
The oak reaches out again. That heavy magic sweeps through me, testing and gently probing along everywhere my own magic might touch, and when it presses against the thread of the bond that ties me to Lark, he lets out a gasp.
Magic feeds into it, swelling it until it’s full and gold shines behind my eyelids. I’ll never see it the way Grant and Ophelia apparently can, but that doesn’t matter if I can feel it.
Thank you. I am grateful. And the oak knows that, too. My magic returns to me in a dizzying rush, and from the sudden strength of Lark’s and my bond, he has his back, too. I get another push from the oak. Urgency. Determination.
Yeah, we don’t have much time. I pat its trunk gently and then step back, taking a moment before I open my eyes. The oak still stands strong, but it is only a matter of time.
Lark curls his fingers over my shoulder. “You did it,” he breathes.
“Yeah. For now.”
I feel him like I did the oak a moment ago. Relief and understanding—he knows I agreed to something, and he doesn’t mind at all.
“Hey, guys?” Grant calls. “Not to interrupt, but… We’ve got a bit of a problem.”