2. Blood and Truth
Fern and her father dragged themselves across the grove’s manicured courtyard toward their gate.
Delicate iron vines wrapped around the bars before meeting in the center where they clasped together, forming a circle that was crowned with a swelling iron bud.
When one followed its path, it revealed the complete life cycle of a leaf—growth, fullness, decay, and renewal.
The Mother’s crest. A sign that this home belonged to a Keeper.
Her father lifted the regalia, easing the gate open.
It creaked shut behind them with a clang, echoing in the silence consuming Ashford Cross.
He winced. It was late. They’d missed the timing bells, but Fern wagered it was well into the dead of night.
What would the people say if they caught Father, a Keeper, outside at this hour covered in dirt and mud?
As they made their way down the cobbled path, their modest two-story home came into view through overgrown bushes and trees.
Black ivy climbed up the brick’s east side, creeping onto the roof’s clay tiles.
They swayed restlessly; their sleep interrupted by the lone wardcandle hovering in the sitting room window.
Fern swallowed. “Mother is awake.”
“Unsurprising. She knew where we were headed.” He sighed, scrubbing his face with dirty palms. “And now with The Thirteenth Count upon us…”
Fern’s mother opened the door, standing there with one hand on her hip as she took in the two of them.
Grey, anxious eyes roved over their disheveled appearance.
Even at this hour, her blonde hair was pinned back neatly, though a few curly wisps escaped suggesting she’d been busy.
Her spine was straight, chin lifted, but worry was scratched in thin lines across her pale face.
“Come along now.” She ushered them inside, muted brown frock swishing around her ankles. “Keep to the rugs. Don’t want you to dirty anything.”
“By the Mother,” Fern breathed, looking around her home as the door closed softly behind them. Her father didn’t so much as raise an eyebrow at the scene.
Apparently, her mother had been cleaning.
Frantically, by the looks of the place. What was normally covered in spools of thread, bundles of yarn, herbs and roots and seeds, and various imbued tools for crafting, was now spotless.
Dark oak gleamed in the wardcandle’s light.
And there wasn’t even a speck of dust on the black-stained wainscoting that usually housed a fine layer.
Even the ancient tapestry hanging above the hearth had been beaten and pressed.
Was she worried we were gone for so long and needed to busy herself?
Before Fern could dwell on it further, a blur of black fur and wings zipped down from the rafters as Sprout sensed their return.
The little mosswing circled her head once before settling on her shoulder, his warm purr vibrating against her neck.
She reached up, scratching behind his wing where he liked it most. “Miss me?”
Her mother watched this reunion with tired eyes before moving toward the hearth. “You two look awful. Positively awful.”
Fern’s hand stilled on Sprout. Well, we did haul a body across the valley.
Her mother lined up ingredients along the tea table, adjusting each jar and sprig until they sat perfectly aligned, then set a pot to boil on the fire.
“While you’ve been gone, I’ve prepared everything.” She gave her Bonded a sharp nod. “Corvus, it’s time.”
“Time for what…?” Fern’s voice trailed off, eyes growing wide as she took in the high-end herbs.
Without hesitation, he moved to the bookshelf, fingers finding a tiny, rusted key tucked behind the corner of a painted portrait of their family. On the top shelf, the lock on the small wooden box clicked softly as he turned it.
With shaky hands, Corvus reached in and passed her mother a fully intact bloodleaf.
Fern’s gaze darted between her parents. What are they doing with that?
Bloodleaf was a Highblood ingredient. Not meant for the likes of them, the Rootfolk.
Bloodleaf was nearly impossible to come by, even for a Highblood.
But she’d heard once that it could be cultivated using high-level tools and magic-conditioned soil—resources only available to those on the upper tiers.
So how did they get it if they’re stuck on the ground tier?
“Be swift,” he said, his hand finding the back of Mira’s neck, giving a gentle squeeze. “Washing tubs ready?”
Her mother nodded, tucking loose blonde strands behind her ear before grinding the leaf with a pestle. “Both. You’re upstairs, Fern down here.”
“Thank you for all you do, my heart,” her father said before leaving Fern alone with her mother, who stood with squared shoulders over the brewing pot.
“Mother…” Fern played with the hem of her shirt. “Where did you two get the bloodleaf?”
“Never you mind.” She waved her off. “The bathing water is nice and hot. You shouldn’t waste it.”
Fern took a half-step toward the washroom, then stopped. She couldn’t bring herself to leave, not when handling something so forbidden. So dangerous. This is wrong.
Her mother dumped the crushed bloodleaf into the pot.
It sizzled and sputtered, a puff of black smoke rising from the concoction.
Quickly, she sliced her palm with a ritual dagger, letting the blood flow into the runes of the stirring rod before placing it into the pot.
Fern wrinkled her nose. The room smelled of soil and spoiled milk.
Then, the Oathblight spread.
With mounting horror, she watched as delicate black vines curled up her mother’s arm with each turn of the wooden rod.
Fern stumbled backward, knocking over a chair. “Mother… this isn’t normal blight.”
It kept spreading. Past the elbow, up the back of her arm, across the shoulder, up the neck.
“Only temporary.” Her mother didn’t stray from her task. “Go wash up before the water gets cold.”
The vines kept going and going until the right side of her face was completely covered, turning her right eye as black as the Deadwood she and her father buried.
Fern placed a hand over her mouth. “Mother… this is—”
“Enough.” Her mother pointed to the washroom. “I am no longer asking. Go. And don’t take long. You need to drink this after, and it must be consumed warm.”
“What needs to be consumed warm?”
Her mother looked at her, expressionless. “The crimson draught.”
Fern’s stomach dropped. “You want me to drink that? After what it just did to you?”
“Now please, no more questions.” She returned to brewing. “Get cleaned up.”
For a moment longer, Fern watched her mother. Half her face was now entirely consumed by Oathblight. This is very, very wrong. But her mother’s tone brooked no argument, so she reluctantly took a seat on the wooden stool in front of the washbasin.
Cold seeped through the soles of her feet as she set her boots to the side and undressed.
Tipping her head back, she breathed deeply before pulling the leather cord free.
Her dark hair tumbled down in loose spirals, feeling so good on her scalp to have them set free.
Twigs and bits of leaves were tangled throughout, and she began picking them out methodically.
Through the looking glass, the warm brown of her skin showed every scratch and smudge from their night’s work.
Evidence that would need washing away before The Thirteenth Count began.
But no amount of washing could clean away her questions.
Fern dressed in a simple white cotton shift that was left for her and padded from the room.
“Mother?” She rounded the corner and found her ladling the crimson draught into a stone bowl. She swallowed hard. “You expect me to drink that?”
“You will drink this.” She beckoned Fern to the hearth and handed her the concoction. “There’s no other way.”
Shouldn’t I have a say?
Inky crimson sloshed up the sides as Fern took the bowl.
The mixture looked forbidden. Its consistency was a combination of tar and velvet, death and luxury.
She could imagine how terrible it would feel sliding down her throat.
How it would settle in her stomach like bog water—more silt than liquid.
Bringing the mixture closer, she grimaced. “It smells foul. What does it even do?”
Her father rested his hand on her shoulder. She startled at his touch, nearly dropping the bowl. Her mother sucked in sharply, watching the brew like a hawk.
“The draught speeds up the body’s recovery.
” He took the bowl from her and set it on the mantel before taking her face in his hands.
“The Thirteenth Count is taxing. Far more taxing than the blood tithe, more taxing than our adventure across the valley. I love you, Fern. Your mother loves you. Tomorrow will not be the day you succumb to eternal slumber.”
Eternal slumber? She glanced at her mother’s blackened eye, then back at the draught. Is that what this is really about? Am I in actual danger?
She swallowed hard, her voice barely above a whisper. “But where did the bloodleaf come from? Forbidden rites… forbidden ingredients…” With watery eyes she met her father’s gaze. “I feel like I don’t know my parents.”
“Oh, dear girl.” Her father wrapped his arms around her, smoothing her hair as he had when she was small. “The less you know, the better.”
She shook him off, wild brown curls bouncing free. “I’m no longer a child! Whatever is going on, I can handle it, I swear it to the Mother.”
“Young you may no longer be,” her mother placed a gentle hand upon Fern’s cheek, “but a child of mine you’ll remain.
” She kissed her forehead before setting the bowl back in her hands.
“We would not ask you to do this if it wasn’t important.
All we do is to keep you safe. Believe that, sweet one.
When your father says it’s best you do not know, trust him.
Trust us.” She nodded toward the draught. “Now drink.”