“Running.”
“If you hadn’t noticed, this forest is full of things that want to kill me. Even their dismembered limbs want to kill me. As loath as I am to admit it, I’m better off taking my chances with you.”
“Perhaps,” he said. He tried to move, and his eyes rolled back in his head.
“Don’t be cryptic. What do I need to do to get us out of here? Rook?” I patted his cheek again.
“Help me stand. No—fetch my sword first, and then . . .”
I got up and cast about for his sword. The clearing had transformed in just the short time I’d been kneeling. The Barrow Lord’s petrified remains were almost unrecognizable now, engulfed by a giant tree still unfurling new branchlets. Golden leaves rained down steadily, depositing a bright accumulation of foliage through which I shuffled on my quest to find Rook’s weapon. Finally I found it, only because its hilt poked out of the leaves.
When I came back, the falling leaves had nearly covered him. I ran the last few steps, stumbling once over a concealed root on the way, and brushed him off while he watched me in silence—too weak, I supposed, to remark upon the strangeness of my behavior. Even I couldn’t say for certain why the sight of him vanishing into the forest floor alarmed me so. Only that there was something funereal about it. Something final, as if the earth were swallowing him up.
When I was done he tried to take the sword from my hands, but there was no strength in his grip. I had to help him guide it back into its sheath.
A question ached on the back of my tongue, embedded like a fishhook, tugging forth the awful words. “Are you dying?” I blurted out in an odd tone of voice, almost an accusation.
He frowned. “Is that what you want?”
“No!” My vehemence seemed to surprise him, so much so that I felt I had to defend my answer. “If I wanted you dead, why would I have taken the stick from you this afternoon?”
“You gave it to me first.”
“Not knowing what would happen—nor did you.” I struggled for words. “What you’re doing to me, it isn’t right. Of course I don’t want to be your captive. But there’s a difference between that and wanting you dead.” Did he understand that? His wandering gaze suggested otherwise. Did human feelings matter to him at all? “Perhaps you ought to know,” I added harshly, “because it’s over and done with now, that two days ago I thought I was in love with you.”
His eyes sharpened, striving through the haze of pain to focus on my face. Then he looked aside and let his arm flop out on the ground, a futile movement, as though he were reaching for something just beyond his grasp. He looked so inhuman. It didn’t satisfy me to have gotten a reaction out of him at last—I just felt cold.
“Help me to my feet.” It was an effort for him to speak. The air wheezed in and out of his lungs, a quiet gasp with every inhale. I wondered if one of his ribs had broken and punctured a lung, a danger Emma had explained to me one night with a tincture in her hand, and if so, whether anything could be done about it.
But Rook spoke first, saying, “We must return to the autumnlands. I cannot heal myself here. There is something wrong with this place—a corruption I cannot explain.” He paused for breath. “With luck some good will have come of it all the same, and the Hunt will have been thrown off our trail.”
I gathered his slung-out arm over my shoulder and did my best to lift him. He managed to rise, but only by leaning on me heavily, and when his weight shifted he made an anguished sound, almost a sob, that sent a keen dart of sympathy lancing through my own chest.
“Shouldn’t you call for other fair folk?”
He sucked in a breath and replied in a rasping, gusty voice, “No.”
“This isn’t the time to be stubborn. Surely your own court would be equipped to help you.” I didn’t say “better equipped,” because I had nothing at all to offer him. It didn’t escape me that he still hadn’t answered my earlier question. He hadn’t told me he wasn’t dying.
“No,” he said again.
I set my jaw and began walking us back the way we’d come. Rook pointed out a different direction, and I adjusted our path. Though I suspected he was lighter than a human man, he leaned more weight on me than I could comfortably bear, and the vast difference in our heights made lugging him along an awkward trial. I kept my eyes averted from his gaunt face, and after a time, his blood started soaking into my dress. It didn’t smell at all like human blood—it had a crisp, resiny scent like a tree bitten by an axe.
It was almost full dark now. It wasn’t as easy to see here as it was in the autumnlands, where the trees brought color to the night. Rook’s hand did something in the air, a twisting motion that made his glamourless fingers look even more insectile, and after a moment I realized he was trying, and failing, to summon a fairy light.
Dread trickled down my back, pooling at the base of my spine. What if we were attacked again? He had no power left.
“I cannot seek help from my own kind.” His breathy, gasping words startled me after so long a silence. “We retain our sovereignty not through the love or respect of our courts, but through power alone. To see me weakened so, by a mere Barrow Lord, my court would wonder whether I might be replaced, and whether any one among them might be the right person to do it. Already there has been doubt cast on my suitability as prince. Not once, but twice. I hoped to undo the second.” He paused, regaining his strength. I realized he was talking about the portrait and my trial. But what was the first? “A third show of weakness would mean my end, without question.”
I shook my head. “That’s cruel.” All of it was. Him to me, and them to him.
“Such is our nature. It may be cruel, but it is also fair.” He looked down.
My vision was fading, but in the hard lines of his profile I saw that he doubted himself. I recognized the rage when he had stolen me away for what it truly was—fear. Fear that his power was slipping. Fear that there was something wrong with him, that he wasn’t worthy of his crown, and that others could see it now too.
Because I had painted it in his eyes, as plain as day.
“I don’t think it’s fair at all,” I said, anger pitching my voice low.
“Only because you are a human, the strangest of all creatures.” He spoke in little more than a whisper. “What if I told you I could send you back to Whimsy? There is power in a fair one’s death, enough to show the way.”
“Don’t toy with me.” Tears started in my eyes.
“I’m not,” he whispered. “I’m not.”