Page 128 of The Moorwitch

To finally tumble out into the open, landing in a heap at the foot of the Dwirra Tree.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

We stand on the hillside sloping up to the tree, amid the stones and ferns and massive roots. The great branches of the Dwirra spread above, and the curtain of willow-like limbs form the outer wall of Elfhame behind us. This is the backside of the tree, with its hill between us and the houses of the fae; I cannot even see Morgaine’s white palace. We are very much alone, but I’m not sure how long that will last, if the queen might have some way of knowing we slipped in through her walls.

“Stay low,” I tell Sylvie and the MacDougals. “We mustn’t be seen.”

“What is this place?” Sylvie asks, holding tight to Captain’s collar.

Just then, a trio of fae go running past us. We duck quickly behind a mossy stone, listening to them chitter and whisper; they seem to be inspecting the perimeter. Captain’s hackles rise, and I hold his muzzle shut to keep him from barking and giving us away. After a few minutes, they vanish around the other brow of the hills.

“Oh,” Sylvie breathes. “It’stheirworld.”

“We’d have been better off in the house,” Mrs. MacDougal mutters.

“What, with that madcap loon chopping us up with his sword?” retorts her husband.

But maybe Mrs. MacDougal is right.

Elfhame is crumbling.

I can tell that much with hardly a glance. Ruin is a stench on the air, the smell of the tree’s bleeding sap as rancid as that of decaying flesh. It runs down the trunk and drips from the branches in sticky, scarlet vines. Given the tree’s humanlike shape, the sight is horrifying, like seeing a woman stuck full of arrows, blood running in rivers down her skin. Loud groans and creaks from the wood remind me of Ravensgate after Sylvie put out the fire, when the whole structure was swaying and breaking apart bit by bit, on the verge of total collapse. The hill trembles beneath my knees, and leaves rain from the Dwirra’s crown, velveting the ground in sheets of scarlet. Along the trunk and branches, lines of black spread like poisoned veins.

All this, from one small clipped branch?

I remember the horror in Morgaine’s eyes when I had told her what Lachlan had sent me here to fetch. She’d known, of course, of her kingdom’s great weakness. Conrad had not; I wonder how many fae even knew. I cannot fault Morgaine for keeping it secret.

“Stay here, and keep out of sight,” I tell the others. “Hold tight to the dog. Conrad is here somewhere, and he will know what to do.”

“Connie is here?” Sylvie whispers, her eyes round.

I look at her, my heart suddenly splintering as I realize this is the last moment I will ever have with her. On an impulse, I pull her into a tight embrace and whisper in her ear one final lesson, “Hold fast to your power, Sylvie, and to your freedom. Do not ever bargain these things away. Do not ever compromise who you are. And know that no matter what, you are loved.”

When I pull away, her eyes are full of confused tears, but she nods slowly.

“Take this, Rose.” She pulls a long knitting needle out of her sleeve and presses it into my hand. It is as long as my forearm and made of polished iron. “Every hero needs a sword.”

“You are absolutely right.” I take it and kiss the top of her head.

Mrs. MacDougal takes the girl’s hand. “Go on, Miss Pryor. Hurry.”

I nod, grateful to her, and limp around the stone. Keeping one hand clenched to my aching chest, I make my way as quickly as I can over the loose leaves and veining roots, which is not very quick at all. I glance back just once, to see Sylvie has another knitting needle, and she raises it in salute as if it were Excalibur itself. I raise mine in return, holding back a sob.

I must force myself to turn and keep going.

Once I’m out of sight of the others, I stop to lean on a stone and fight away the black spots clouding my vision. Sweat soaks my dress and hair, and my skin is feverishly hot. The world seems to reel around me, and I groan and shut my eyes, waiting for the dizziness to pass. I remember with sudden sharpness the last moments of my uncle’s life, when he lay gasping on his deathbed, delirious and trembling. I feel that way now, as if I am fading from the world, becoming as thin and transparent as a sheet of vellum. With barely the strength to keep standing, I wonder why I don’t just lie down in the soft moss and let it end. I got them here, didn’t I? What more can I possibly do for anyone?

But Conrad is still here, and if the fae caught him after he smashed the portal glass, then he is surely in danger. Perhaps I can convince Morgaine ...

Of what?

I have nothing left to bargain. Not even my life is worth a thimble anymore.

But I must keep moving. Though I feel the chill of the Fates’ shears closing on my neck, Imustkeep moving.

Pushing off the rock, I stumble onward, up the hill toward the Tree. I will have a good vantage point from there, at least. But soon my legs give out, and I have to crawl on hands and knees over moss and stone, stopping every few minutes to let out a sob of pain and clench the earth until I find a scrap of strength to propel me a few more yards. I leave in my wake a trail of thread and scraps of burned silk and chiffon, my battered, singed, and muddy gown unraveling with me. Myhair hangs in ragged curls, plastered to my neck. There is black soot beneath my nails.

Still I drag myself on. And strangely, with Elfhame crumbling around me, my heart withering, and everyone I’ve come to love in mortal danger, I catch myself staring, enchanted, at the most improbable little things: a small five-petaled flower rooted in the crack in a stone. A bank of perfectly smooth moss. A fragile, pale fiddlehead uncurling from the center of a fern. Small and ordinary wonders I might have passed a thousand times in a day without ever noticing them, and now they seem indescribably beautiful. Bitter tears burn on my cheeks, and I crawl onward and upward.