Page 120 of Into the Heartless Wood
It’s a flimsy, stupid hope. But it’s a hope nonetheless. And if it’s to come to fruition, I’ll need help getting Awela out of the palace.
There’s a hint of coolness in the air as I hike back around the hill to the kitchen courtyard, a sign that summer is waning. I’m so deep in my thoughts that I jump when Bedwyn steps into the courtyard, her pale hair blowing about her face in the light wind. She’s lost her maid’s cap somewhere.
“Owen,” she breathes, grasping my arm and pulling me back toward the gate I just came through. “You have to leave. Tonight. The Soul Ea—the king is coming for you.”
I gently shrug her off. “Iamleaving—just as soon as I get my father and Awela out of here. Can you help me?”
“You don’t understand.” The wind picks up, blows a scattering of leaves through her hair. They must be from the potted trees indoors—there’s none outside, not for miles. “You have toleave,Owen. While there’s still time. Please.”
Her eyes lock onto mine, green flecked with gold, and there’s something in them that tugs at me, some bit of recognition from another time, another place.
“I’m not leaving without my sister and my father. You have to understand that.”
“He’s going to kill you. He’s going toworse-than-kill you.”
“What’s worse than death?” But I know: It’s being a slave to the Gwydden with your soul swallowed up; it’s clawing your own heart out and turning to ash in the rainy wood. “Will you help me?”
She worries at her lip, and puts one hand on my chest, her fingers splayed out.
For an instant, there’s a sharp, tugging sensation from somewhere deep inside of me, but the next instant it’s gone and her hand is still there, pressed against my heart. I put my left hand on her head. I tug her gently toward me.
She’s the one who closes the gap between us, who presses her mouth to mine with a wildness that robs me of breath. I tangle my fingers in her hair and kiss her back. The heat of her rages through my veins, and I can’t think past her lips and her breath and her body, crushed against mine.
The wind shrieks around us, chickens squawk from their coop. Bells sound from down in the city, tolling the hour. Awareness slams through me, and I jerk away from her, devoured by the mad pace of my heart. I let myself forget that my father is dying, somewhere beneath me. That I have to get my sister out. Tonight.
Bedwyn is breathing hard. She stares at me as she shivers in the wind. More leaves swirl around her.
My body is a traitor—I don’t want to think about my father or what the king has done to him. I want to draw her to me again, to kiss her until neither one of us can breathe, to take her hand and run far away, to never let her go.
“You have to trust me, Owen. You have to get out of here.” Her voice is hollow and strange, like she’s fighting for every word.
“Idotrust you. But please, Bedwyn. Can you get Awela? Can you wait with her outside the city walls? I’ll come as soon as I can. Before dawn, if I can manage it.”
She looks beautiful in the light of the rising moon, her tall form and her halo of gold hair. But every line of her face screams sorrow. “I will get Awela out,” she promises.
I exhale in relief. I grab her hand. Squeeze it. “Thank you.Thank you!”
She smiles, sharp and sad.
“I have to go,” I tell her. “I’ll see you before dawn.”
“Before dawn,” she echoes.
I step through the gate, and steal one backward glance at her. For a moment, I think there are leaves dripping from her hair, seedlings struggling to grow up in the cracks between stones at her feet. For a moment, I think I catch the faint scent of violets.
But then I blink and it is only Bedwyn, staring at me with a haunted look in her eyes.
The gate doesn’t make a sound as the guard swings it open.
The prison courtyard is eerily quiet. There are a few potted trees here, which surprises me, although when I look closely at them I see why. They’re birch trees, but their trunks are twisted, their branches growing out at awkward angles. They aren’t pristine enough for the king’s palace. Wind stirs through their dappled leaves, and an uneasy chill curls down my spine.
Then the guard is unlocking a heavy iron door, and ushering me into the prison proper.
We descend a long flight of stone stairs, and with every step, cold and damp and rot seep deeper into my skin. The guard doesn’t speak. He’s a hulking shadow in the light of the torch he carries, and I can’t help thinking I’m a dead soul that he’s ushering into the underworld.
At the bottom of the stairs is another door, another guard. He eyes my guard. “Highly irregular, Drystan.”
My guard—Drystan—shrugs. “I don’t want to bash your head in, Aled, but I’m in enough trouble already, so I might as well.”
