“They did last time.” Kings, he sounded so tired.
“You were doing it alone, then. You won’t be anymore.”
It took him aback, made a swallow work down his throat. A dart of amber eyes, from the sentinel to her, like he was cataloging the distance between. “I don’t like you being close to them, Red,” he said quietly. “Even when there’s no cut for them to get into, no blood. I know what they want to do.”
“And I know you won’t let them.” She crossed her arms, fingering the embroidery on her sleeves. “We got married, and it made magic come easier, but me growing ivy in pots clearly isn’t helping you. So let’s try this.”
He didn’t like it. Every line of his face said so, the full lips pulled flat, the heavy brows lowered.
“I trust you.” She tried to say it lightly, but the words wouldn’t come out flippant. “You should trust yourself.”
Silence. Then Eammon sighed. Another swipe of his hand over his face, and when he looked at her this time, he finally noticed the dress, eyes going wide. “Where did you get that?”
“Lyra and I found it. I was tired of wearing your clothes.”
Color flared across his cheekbones. “Fair enough.”
Hairline fractures of shadow-rot crawled the sentinel sapling’s trunk, stretching farther than they had moments ago. Red turned to it like it was an oncoming army. “Tell me what to do.”
A heartbeat, then Eammon finally sheathed his dagger. “Show me your hands.”
She held out her upturned palms. Eammon took them in his, scars rough against her skin, peering closely for any trace of a wound. Satisfied, he dropped them, and cold air rushed in where his warmth had been. “The placement of every sentinel is deliberate.”
“Like bricks in a wall.”
“Right. Like bricks in a wall.” Eammon reached out, settled his hand on the white trunk. “In order to keep the Shadowlands from leaking through— in order to keep the wall strong— we have to put the sentinels back where they’re supposed to be. When we heal them, they return to their place.”
“So how do we heal them?”
“Directing magic to drive back the rot.”
“Through touch, I assume.” She didn’t know why it came out so low, so hoarse.
Eammon’s shoulders went rigid, his own answer graveled. “Yes.”
The old scars on his hands were white, a match for the sentinel’s bark beneath them. Instinctually, Red reached out, covered his hand with her own.
“The tree, Red,” Eammon murmured.
She lifted her hand, cheeks flushed. After a moment’s hesitation, she gently touched the sentinel.
It was like a current, as soon as her hand met the trunk, running through every limb and drawing up her spine. The power in her middle unfurled, blooming outward to press against her palm, a compass needle with the sentinel as north star. For a moment, her skin felt like an unwelcome barrier, holding back the union of something long torn apart. Red hissed between her teeth.
“What?” Eammon’s voice crackled with anxiety, his frame all coiled tension.
“It feels different than I thought it would.” She gave him a tiny smile. “What now?”
It seemed he might call the whole thing off, in the space between her question and his answer. Eammon’s jaw worked, gaze flickering from her hand to her face. Red firmed her lips.
Finally, he sighed. “If sentinels are bricks in the wall, we’re the mortar.” Eammon’s eyes shifted from her to the white tree. “Our magic is a piece of the Wilderwood. So is a sentinel. To heal it, we pour our power into it, channel it back to the source. The Wilderwood strengthens, and strengthens us in turn. Rain feeding a river that evaporates to become the rain again.”
“A cycle.” There was a synchronicity to it. Cycles of Wolves, cycles of Second Daughters, cycles of grief.
“Exactly,” Eammon said softly. “You just let the magic move through you. Let it go.”
The sentinel buzzed under her hand. Something gathered behind the bark, an energy drawn to her, pushing forward. Apprehension danced with anticipation in her middle.
It must’ve shown on her face. Eammon shook his head. “You don’t—”
“No, I can do it.” Red concentrated on the rush in her veins, the warmth of the bark under her palm. She made her breath slow, counted her metronome heartbeats until they were an even rhythm. Eammon next to her, Eammon needing help, smoothed the chaotic ocean of her power to placid water as she closed her eyes.