Lakesedge (World at the Lake's Edge #1)(85)

“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.”

The Lord Under brushes past me, the ends of his cloak stirring against my skirts. “Come on,” he calls over his shoulder. “We’re almost there.”

We go farther into the forest, the trees lengthening as the path slopes deeper down. Soon the landscape begins to change, and there are stones among the trees. Tall, granite pillars covered with bright green moss. Mist traces through the air and over my skin.

The cold sinks into me, and everything is dark—there are none of the glass mothlights here. Each step we take stirs up grayish dust, like fireplace ash. It plumes into clouds that stick to my dress and my skin. The air—still cold—turns acrid. I cough and press my sleeve across my mouth. It hurts to breathe. “Where are you taking me?”

The Lord Under doesn’t look back. “To the wound.”

The path ends, and the forest thins into an open grove. At the edge are four trees, their crimson bark charred, most of their leaves burned away. They’re hurt. I press my hand against one of the trunks, trying to feel the whisper of the soul beneath. It’s different from the voice I heard from within the other tree. This one sounds faint and lost and frightened.

“What happened here?” I murmur beside the ruined trunk. “What happened to you?”

The Lord Under watches me with a curious expression. As though he’s set me a test and now isn’t sure if he wants me to succeed or fail.

I ignore him and press my cheek against the bark. I close my eyes as I strain to listen. The forest hums and pulses all around me, so full of power that it’s impossible to comprehend. The soul speaks to me, but what I hear aren’t words. There’s a voice, intangible—alive and not alive. A heavy weight, a sense of something that I can barely shape in my mind, let alone name.

I press myself closer, the bark scratching my skin. And then I catch a flash of scattered, frantic images. A tree house beneath a pomegranate bower. A cake shaped like a crescent moon. A hand curled over a shoulder. Whispers in the dark. Confusion that gives way to slow, creeping dread.

Then blood and fear and water, endless water.

Everything sways dizzily. It’s Elan I’ve heard, echoes from his soul.

“This is Rowan’s family.” The half-ruined trees. Four of them. Rowan’s parents and his brother, and the last tree left empty and waiting. I scrub my hands against my face. Try to catch my breath.

“I told you my world was hurt, too.” The Lord Under gestures to the ashen space where we stand. “Look around you, Violeta. This is what the Corruption has done.”