An Enchantment of Ravens(19)
“Good evening,” I returned, aware that aside from Rook, fine manners were my only protection.
“I am Hemlock, of the house of winter.” Quieter than an owl’s flight, hounds rushed inward from every corner of the clearing. They milled around her legs and pressed their narrow heads against her hands. “Since before the oldest tree in the forest put forth its first root, I have been master of the Wild Hunt.”
Was it just my imagination? Or did I really hear the hounds whispering among themselves—a gentle murmur that sounded like women speaking in hushed, anxious tones behind a closed door?
I swallowed, trying not to think about what was inside them. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. My name is Isobel. I’m, um, a portrait artist.”
“I haven’t the slightest idea what that means,” Hemlock replied, smiling. “Now, Rook—”
Rook danced sideways and gave her a bloodcurdling equine scream.
“Oh, don’t be rude! We mustn’t carry on just because we’re at war with each other. As I was going to say, before you interrupted me, I think we should even out the odds by giving you a head start. If my hounds catch up with you again, then I can have a proper go at ripping you to shreds. How does that sound?”
He snaked his head forward and snapped at the air between them. I realized with dread that he wanted to stand his ground. I turned my face into his mane so Hemlock wouldn’t see me speaking to him.
“Please go,” I breathed. “You might be able to survive this, but I wouldn’t make it through, and without me you’ll never mend your reputation.”
The skin twitched on his shoulders as though dislodging a fly.
“Are your court feuds truly worth it?”
His head turned. One of his eyes fixed on me, and it was awful seeing the intelligence in it, an intelligence that didn’t belong anywhere near the animal’s shape he wore.
“Please,” I whispered.
Rook jerked as if I’d taken a crop to him, and veered around Hemlock and her hounds to gallop into the waiting darkness.
“Do hurry, Rook!” Hemlock cried behind us, a shrill, almost desperate call. “I’ll be after you soon! Run as fast as you can!”
I wrapped Rook’s long mane around my wrists and risked a glance over my shoulder. Hemlock’s armor blended so well with the forest I saw only her ghastly pale face receding until the branches and leaves obscured even that. The Wild Hunt’s horn sounded again. It occurred to me I’d gotten quite a good look at Hemlock, and she hadn’t been carrying one.
Rook ran like the devil chased at his heels. I focused only on not falling off, blind to the scenery whipping past. For a time all I knew was the pounding rhythm of his hooves and the furnace heat rising from his back, the hard, stinging chunks of dislodged earth that pelted my legs. Then a bright shape tore past my face and lodged in my collar. At first, I didn’t recognize the fluttering yellow scrap as a leaf. When I did, everything changed.
I raised my head. My breath caught. Wonder poured through me, brighter than a sunrise spilling over the horizon, headier than a glass of sparkling champagne.
We were in the autumnlands.
Dim as it was, the forest glowed. The golden leaves flashing by blazed like sparks caught in the updraft of a fire. A scarlet carpet unrolled before us, rich and flawless as velvet. Rising from the forest floor, the black, tangled roots breathed a bluish mist that reduced the farthest trees’ trunks to ghostly silhouettes, yet left their foliage’s luminous hues untouched. Vivid moss speckled the branches like tarnished copper. The crisp spice of pine sap infused the cool air over a musty perfume of dry leaves. A knot swelled in my throat. I couldn’t look away. There was too much of it, too fast. I’d never be able to drink it all in—I needed to absorb every leaf, every chip of bark, every flake of moss. I clenched my fingers in Rook’s mane, ravenous for my paintbrush, my easel. Sitting up straighter, I let the wind rush over me and fill my lungs to bursting. It still wasn’t enough. After seventeen years of living in a world that never changed, I felt as though I’d just flung off a stifling wool sweater and felt the breeze on my skin for the very first time. Nothing would ever be enough again.
When his pace slowed, the absence of the wind tearing at my clothes and the sound and motion of his pounding gallop left me strangely bereft. My thoughts whirled, and the blood buzzed in my veins. Every sound seemed muffled after the wild ride—his hooves barely disturbed the cushioned forest floor; steam gusted from his nostrils in perfect silence. Finally, he lowered himself to his knees in the middle of a glade. I slid off on legs weakened to the point of trembling and turned in a slow, unsteady circle.
No horn sounded in the distance, no baying of hounds disturbed the misty air. No droning grasshoppers here—only the music of crickets, the liquid peeping of frogs, the quiet plop of acorns falling from trees. Not a single raven roosted above me. The danger had passed.
Therefore, when I completed my revolution, I froze at the sight of Rook back in his normal form, standing with his sword drawn.
And I forgot to think altogether when he turned the blade upon himself.
Six
I DIDN’T protest. I didn’t scream. Whatever he was doing, I was neither willing nor able to stop him.
He didn’t look at all weary or disheveled as he knelt with his right sleeve rolled up to the elbow, the sword laid across his hand. A curl of damp hair clinging to his forehead was the only sign that remained from our reckless flight, the sweat that had previously soaked his neck and shoulders. Calmly he looked aside, and then he drew the blade across his palm in one vicious stroke. Blood spattered the moss below. It was a paler color than human blood, and thicker, as though mixed with tree sap.