Heartwoods, we call them in the mourning litany. And the deep red color of the bark is just like that. A bloodied, hidden heart.
We go farther and farther, our footsteps swift. The Lord Under grips my hand tightly. His gaze is set on the path ahead, his pale eyes distant and preoccupied. I turn the motions of the spell over in my mind, trying to prepare myself for what I’ll face. Pretend this is no different from what I’ve just done Above at the lake.
Neither of us speaks. The only noise is from our hurried footsteps and the unsteadiness of my breath. The ground is covered with dark green moss, damp and cold beneath my boots. The path slopes down, the trees seeming to stretch taller as we move lower beneath them.
The enormity of it all—skyless, endless—is terrifying. But it’s beautiful, too. An eerie, solemn beauty. And even though I’m wary of being led into this darkness, of where the Lord Under will take me and what I will do once we’re there, I can’t help but look at it with awe. It’s a world. An entire world. Trees and trees and misted dark.
We move into a smaller, narrowed space. Here the lowermost branches are strung with tiny jars. Trapped inside are pale moths that dance and flutter against the glass, their wingbeats giving bright ghostlike flickers. The air is colder now, filled with dew that beads my skin and the ends of my lashes. Then the wind rustles the leaves with a susurration that—almost—sounds like a voice. As though the trees are whispering to one another.
I tilt my head, trying to listen; if I just concentrated a little harder, I’m sure I could make out words. When the Lord Under notices, an amused light sparks in his eyes. He pulls me to a stop beneath an arched bower of two enormous trees.
“Shouldn’t we go?” It feels wrong to be still when I’m so aware of the moon fading above, of Clover and Arien holding back the darkness, of Rowan so close to being lost to the poison.
“A moment,” the Lord Under says. “You have time for this.”
He guides me to press my palm flat against the roughened bark of the closest tree. I feel a beat, steady and slow, then the sound becomes a voice. Many voices, solemn and musical.
“It’s—” I look around wonderingly. “It’s alive.”
“You can hear them, can’t you, Violeta?” He puts his hand beside mine and spreads his fingers. His face turns almost tender. “These are the voices of all my souls. My forest breathes and blinks and feels, just like you.”
I lean closer to the heartwood, entranced by the sound of the interwoven voices. It’s like a chant, a spell, a dream. Countless lives and deaths all here within the trees, whispering, whispering. “Why have you shown me this?”
“I wanted you to see my world. To know what it is that you’ll be saving.”
I let the weight of it settle over me. I am alive in a place where no one living should be. “I’d never thought about where our souls actually go,” I tell him quietly. “The mourning litany sings about the forest, and the trees, but it’s all so different from what I expected.”
“And what did you expect?”
“We burn our dead.” I imagine the scent of ash, the rush of sparks against a darkened sky. An ache fills me, and I know this is an echo of the memories I’ve given him. “The fire turns the body to holy ash. Sparks to the air, coals to the earth. I guess—” I glance at him, strangely embarrassed at how clumsy I sound, trying to explain. “I’d not thought about which part was left for you.”
He peers down at me, his curious stare half-veiled by his pale lashes. “Which part? Well, you’ll find out eventually, won’t you?”
Shivering, I think of a pyre. In Greymere, they’d make the fires in a special field outside the village. We could see the smoke against the sky, and at night we could see the light of the flames. I picture the Lord Under standing in the field, his arms filled with a shrouded weight as he walks away into the darkness.
And then I imagine the weight in his arms is me.
I shake my head. “I’m not yours. Just because I’m here doesn’t mean you have a claim on me.”
“It doesn’t?” His fingers hover just beneath my chin. I jerk my face away, and the points of his claws scrape through the air beside my throat. He lets his hand drop back, laughing. “No, you’re not mine. At least … Not yet.”
I suppress a shiver. I don’t want to think about it, how my soul will be here—and his—when I’m dead. “Take me to the Corruption. I want to mend it. Now.”