“No,” answered Barclay, “but Root’s do.”
As though in response, Root let out a howl of his own. Barclay felt it inside of him, echoing around his ribs,thumping against his heart. It shook its way up the trees and into the sky, and the sky answered.
The winds, already fierce, picked up speed. Their sound was a roar too. Thunder and lightning cracked above, and the flurries of snow transformed into shards of hail.
The gusts grew stronger and stronger. The Ischray quickly dispersed somewhere deep in the Woods, and the Nitney was blown against the trunk of a tree. Soren let out a curse, muffled in the noise of it all, as Barclay tore free from his grasp.
Barclay stumbled back, his eyes squeezed shut against the ice and wind. Without his coat, he was so cold, he felt numb all over. He peeled one eye open in time to see Root staggering to his feet. His dark eyes met Barclay’s own.
Just as Soren lunged forward to grab Barclay, he ran.
And when Barclay ran, Root followed.
The snow that had slowed him down before no longer bothered him. His legs moved so fast, they merely seemed to skim the ground. The trees flew past in a dark blur. Everything was so brutally strong—the wind, the hail, the speed—that Barclay quickly lost his balance. He grabbed onto a fistful of Root’s fur to steady himself. And when Root offered no disagreement, Barclay hoisted himself over Root’s back and hugged his arms around the Beast’s neck.
In that moment, the wind slowed to barely a tickle against his skin. Then to nothing at all.
They were running faster than the wind.
No—it was more than that. The edges of Barclay’s fingers were wisps, and Root’s black fur had the look and feel of smoke from a forest fire. They spun in spirals and curls. The sky and the ground seemed to infinitely change places.
This was Root’s power. Hisfullpower.
They had become the wind.
Barclay let out a second howl, this one of delight. And the entire world seemed to answer. The wilds recognized one of their own.
Within moments, it came to a stop. Barclay and Root collapsed at the edge of Sycomore, a crowd of people around them. Everyone gasped when the pair of them appeared, tumbling and leaving bloody streaks against white snow. Barclay was still clutching Root’s neck when strong arms hoisted him up.
“My boy!” Erhart rasped, his hands hot as he patted Barclay’s cheeks. “We all thought you were dead!”
Root stood up and crouched over Barclay protectively, and the onlookers stepped back to give him space. Even Erhart paled to be so close to him.
Barclay looked around, bewildered, at the other faces. Viola came charging through the crowd, and she threw her arms around him. Her face was streaked with tears.
“The exam’s been over for almost an hour! I wanted to go look for you, but—”
“It’s fine,” he assured her. “We’re both fine.”
“You’re not fine! Look at you!” She examined the bloodon his shoulder. But as much as she fussed, the cut from Soren’s scalpel didn’t look deep.
More faces appeared in the crowd. Abel and Ethel stared at him, wide-eyed.
“B-Barclay!” Ethel choked, her face flushed. “How did you make it out?”
“We didn’t know we’d lost you!” Abel said.
But of them, no face looked more stricken than Tadg.
“We all bet you were dead,” he said, his voice strangely hoarse. His gaze fell on Barclay’s shoulder. “Who did this to you?” Barclay noted he asked “who,” and not “what.”
“Don’t you already know?” Barclay asked him coolly, and Tadg stiffened. “Soren attacked me and tried to carve off my Mark.”
Nervous titters swept across the crowd. Barclay was shocked that many other Masters, like the woman who had once pointed him in the direction of the Bog’s Inn, looked far more disgruntled than aghast. Clearly, Soren’s wealth had bought him many friends.
At the mention of Soren’s name, Erhart’s face grew even paler. “How unfortunate!”
“How unfortunate?” Viola echoed furiously. “He’s here as a Master! He attacked a student!”
