Chapter Twenty
The first thing I notice is trees.
There is nothing but trees in every direction.
But they are unlike any trees I’ve ever seen; their trunks are pale and their branches spidery; the leaves are bloodred.
Dragging myself to my knees, I press my hand against the nearest trunk and then withdraw it with a shudder; the bark is warm, like flesh.
What was the name of the tree Lachlan wants? The Dwirra. Could one of these be it? They are uniform in size and shape; I can see no feature which might distinguish one as being special from the others.
Conrad is nowhere in sight, nor is any other living creature.
The stillness here is unnatural, like the stillness of the stone circle itself.
No wind, no insects, no chittering squirrels.
The light here is dim, faintly violet in hue, and I cannot tell the source of it.
The sky above—if it is sky at all—is but blank shadow.
No stars, no moon, no clouds. The spot where I landed is not marked or in any way distinctive.
I remember what Lachlan told me about portal magic, and how every door needs an anchor to open to, but I see nothing here which might be the anchor to the stone circle.
No doorway or portal back to my own world.
The ground is covered with scarlet leaves, and with dark-violet mosses and emerald ferns, but there is none of the scrubby undergrowth I would expect in any ordinary wood.
Instead, I can see far between the trees, deep into the depths of the strange, silent forest. Trunks like white columns march in all directions, and in the far distance, they fade into a red haze.
The only motion comes from the trees themselves, where the occasional leaf slips loose and drifts idly to the ground.
The air tastes faintly of sweet summer wine and fills my nose with the ripe, dark scent of blackberries.
Slowly I rise, staying alert, lest my presence startle something or someone out of the shadows, and take a cautious step forward. Nothing moves. Another step. Another. Then I am walking, slow and careful, shivering even though the air is warm.
Is this really Elfhame, the enchanted faerie land? Then where are the faeries? Why am I alone?
With luck, I won’t meet them at all. I’ll slip right through, cut a branch from this damnable tree, and return to the human world, where I can finally free myself from this yearslong nightmare.
I struggle to hope it will be that simple.
How strange this place is. The further away things are, the more convoluted their shapes appear. Trees twist in unlikely forms until I get close to them, when they appear straight. But when I’ve passed by, I look back and see them warping again.
I come to a little brook, which ought to be babbling and splashing.
But instead, the water flows sluggishly.
After a moment’s hesitation, I dip my hand into it.
It feels like water, but it moves more like rolling honey.
Parched as I am, I don’t consider drinking; Fates only know what faerie water would do to me. I cross on stones and walk on.
A blur of movement catches my eye, like something low and lean streaking across the ground. I whirl, standing frozen in place as I scan the trees, but there is nothing there. I recall Lachlan’s eerie warning about the faerie queen: She will make your death painful and slow.
Why didn’t I ask him more about what to expect here? In hindsight, this should have been my first concern. But so focused was I on simply getting here I never gave much thought to what might follow. Or perhaps a part of me never truly believed I would make it this far.
Am I even going in the right direction? I stop dead at that, breaking into a cold sweat. I’d never considered which way to go, I’d just walked.
I look back, then side to side, but see nothing to break the monotony of the woods. I start to step forward but can’t. What if it’s the wrong direction? What if every step I take is leading me further from where I need to go?
“What’s wrong?” whispers a voice. “Have you lost your way, dearest niece?”
I gasp and twist around, searching for her, but all I see are looming trees. The woods warp around me, mocking me. I lose my balance and land on my hands and knees. Scurrying forward, I find my feet and throw myself into a sprint.
All around me, her laughter echoes.
“You’re not real!” I cry, hands thrashing at the branches which block my way. “It’s just this place!”
Choking for air, I run and run, but her voice follows me, whispering. I can smell the tobacco from her pipe.
“Little bird . . .”
“No!” I shout. “I’m seeing this through, and you cannot stop me!”
She’s only an illusion. It’s this place, playing tricks on me.
But the panic in my breast is all too real.
I notice more movement flanking me; shadows run outside my line of sight, like wolves stalking prey. Always they vanish just as my eyes fall on the places they were. But once, I fully glimpse . . . something. A creature mottled gray, with burning red eyes and great, knobby legs.
Gasping, I crash through the woods. Every step I take, thorns push out of the earth and scrape my ankles. My skirt rips on a branch, a strip of cloth left dangling behind. The shadows hurry me along, and it seems they are getting nearer and bolder; I see a flash of dark fur, hear a snap of teeth.
Finally, unable to run any further, my breath scraping my throat, I stop and lean, panting, on a tree. Then, with a sob of horror, I see spiders crawling all over the trunk, and they swarm over my hands. I recoil, shrieking, batting them off my arms.
Despair overwhelms me, and I sink to my knees. I try to think of what to do, of some spell to light the way. But my thoughts disintegrate before they can lead anywhere. The shadow-creatures lurk just out of sight, but I feel them circling, circling. My scent is in their noses.
“Please,” I whisper. “Someone help me.”
From behind me, slithering and sly, comes a reply.
“My dear,” she says, “you had only to ask. Turn around and face me, girl.”
I rise slowly, my soul emptying of panic, of courage, of defiance. I become dread. Black, vast, consuming. When I turn, I know whom I will see, and she does not disappoint.
Tall and skeletal, my aunt looms before me in terrifying detail. She wears a black gown, her hair high and elegant, her long-stemmed pipe perched delicately between her fingers.
Horribly, she smiles at me.
“Wicked Rose,” she hisses. “I told you that you would come to no good end. I did tell you.”
I run, but every step I take, thorns grasp at me. I trip and go on hands and knees, sobbing, the terror rabid, gnawing at me. I cannot get enough breath. My vision shrinks to a pinpoint. I hear her following behind, a whisper, a susurrus of dry paper over leaves. I can feel her awful smile.
Something lunges out of the trees and takes a snap at my skirt; it rips fabric away with a tear.
Spinning, I see a terrible sight: a wolfish thing with eight long, hairy legs and a too-wide mouth, every inch of its expansive gums studded with long, glinting teeth.
It scurries away with a scrap of my skirt in its mouth, and I stumble in the other direction, mind bursting with terror.
Wherever I go, I hear my aunt’s laughter.
I will die here.
I know it with certainty, and terror infuses me. No matter how fast or far I run, she will follow. As she has always followed. She has been waiting all these years, knowing I would return to her.
“The tree,” I whisper to myself. “I just have to reach the tree. Then it will be over.”
“Fool child!” She appears before me, blocking my way. “You think you can escape what you did to me? You are not worthy. You are nothing! Nothing!”
She stabs her pipe at me, its bowl flaring red.
I cry out, landing hard on the ground and curling up, trying to hide from the coming pain. It’s as if she’s reached into my chest and dug her nails into my heart and is pulling it from me. From every side, the wolf-spiders lunge, hissing and snarling. Their jaws open, their teeth seeking my flesh.
I scream.
All at once a blinding white light floods the trees, so brilliant it banishes every shadow and throws into startling detail every vein on every leaf, a scouring, searching, violent light that passes through trunk and through me, for a moment wiping every thought from my head, filling me with its radiance.
My aunt vanishes like smoke before a gale, nothing more than an illusion.
The wolf-spiders retreat, whining, and vanish into the woods’ depths.
When the light fades, I see a woman looming over me, her silhouette outlined by the fading glow, her crown tall and jagged.
“Little witch,” she sighs, “what have you done?”
She reaches for me, and at the touch of her cold and lovely fingers, I faint.