The voice that spoke to me in the midwinter forest.
The voice that whispered through the walls in my room, that asked my name, that told me to follow and led me toward the truth.
It was him.
I stumble back from the altar, tripping over my own feet as I rush from the room. The kitchen is dim, stovelight and kettle steam and the sweet smell of almas cake in the oven. My chest feels tight, my throat closed up, my lungs full of a trapped, tangled scream. I can still see the shape of the Lord Under from the icon, see the shape of him as he appeared before me in the Vair Woods. The air is full of whispers and the too-loud echo of my heartbeat.
Violeta, Violeta, Violeta…
He came to me then, and he’s come to me now.
This is impossible. He’s the lord of the dead, and only those near to death can see him. When I met him on that long-ago night, death was close, circling me with want and hunger. But now…
What does he want from me this time?
The walls of the house seem to move closer and closer toward me. I cross the kitchen, throw open the back door, and rush into the garden.
I blink and blink, washed by sunlight, and draw in a deep, greedy breath. The air smells of pollen from the jacaranda tree. The altar beneath—where we will go, tonight, for midsummer observance—is dusted with lilac petals and fallen leaves. This icon is singular. Just the Lady, wreathed in flowers. But thenthe wind changes and a dark splotch of leaf shadow covers the bottom of the painting, a reminder of what I saw inside.
The Lord Under. I met him in the darkness. I sought him out. I spoke to him.
As my eyes adjust, I realize I’m not alone. Arien is on the lawn beside the tree. He’s carved a sigil into the ground—a dark, muddy track that cuts between purple blossoms and dandelion leaves. At the center of the circle is a line of jars, each full of ink-dark water.
I draw up, startled by the sight of him. He’s on his knees, hands grasped tight around the centermost jar. Shadows spill through his hands. From inside the glass, the water starts to churn. I hear thesplash splash splashof it against the jar. It sounds like the water that dripped over my bedroom walls.
The Lord Under came to me. He called to me.
I watch as Arien tries desperately to wrestle control of his magic. His cheeks are reddened, his skin damp with sweat. Piece by piece, the mass of shadows begins to shift and change. It becomes smoother. No longer a cloud of dark, but neat strands of shadows. But then it all unfurls. The shadows dissipate into a cloud of opaque charcoal that wisps the air.
He slumps back and hits the ground hard, with a cry. “Damn it!”
Then he looks up and sees me. His teeth bite into his lip. I walk carefully around the sigil and sit down beside him. He rubs his wrist roughly across his face, leaves a streak of mud. He looks worn down, like a candle left alight too long, about to become nothing but a smear of smoke.
“Arien, my love. You don’t have to do this.”
“Ido.”
“If you’re not ready…” I trail off, looking down at the grass, the sigil, the Corruption-filled jars. The ritual is only two weeks away. The ground is poisoned, and the poison wants to devour Rowan piece by piece.
Rowan, who dreams of his dead brother. Rowan, who slept beside me in the parlor. Rowan, who gave me a trunk full of dresses and a faerie book. Who looked at me with such tender fear when he told me he is slowly losing himself to that hungry darkness.
I don’t want Rowan to carve himself apart, to be devoured slowly. But Arien is his only hope of mending the Corruption. And he’s going to push himself to the point of breaking.
Arien huffs out a despairing sigh. “Clover and Rowan went to the village. The tithe goods have come from Greymere. And I thought, while they were gone, I’d practice. I thought I could get it right—that I could surprise them—and—” He wrenches angrily at his sleeve. “If you’re not going tohelpme, Leta, then just go away.”
“Let me help you, then.”
Arien stares at me, surprised. “You’re not going to argue more?”
“Oh, I want to argue plenty. I’m saving it up for later.”
“Can you just sit next to me?” He reaches out to adjust one of the jars. “I’m used to casting the spell with Clover. So it might help if you’re there.”
I step carefully over the edge of the sigil and kneel on theground. Arien settles beside me. He takes a breath. Closes his eyes. Shadows fill the air, cold and smooth and slithery. I shift closer, so that we’re pressed together, side by side.
For the barest moment, he controls the magic. The strands of darkness move, stitch by stitch, into a mesh-fine web wrapped around the jar. Arien’s shoulders tense. His eyes scrunch closed. A vein throbs in his temple. His breath catches.
Then the shadows slip loose and cascade out into a thick, dark cloud. It unfurls around us in a rush. The cold is instant, chilling my skin. My lungs burn, and my mouth tastes of ash. The light blots out.
