Chapter 3

The jungle opens into a verdant clearing drenched in sunlight and the smell of young grass, a lone tree at the center, long forgotten—as though the wild half swallowed it many moons ago. Its thick, bleached trunk is knotted and gnarled and pocked with gloomy holes no bigger than my fist, its branches strung with little rusted lanterns, the glass panes tarnished or smashed.

A mail tree.

We draw closer, moving beneath a stretch of pale branches that bear no leaves, and I’m led to the other side that’s cushioned by a dense shrub dusted in wee blue flowers that look like painted stars.

The sprite darts around the bush, then hovers, reminding me of the tiny nectar-eating birds that fluttered about the gardens at Castle Noir. She wiggles her fingers, gesturing for me to follow, then threads between the foliage and disappears.

Huh.

I glance over my shoulder at the Irilak nesting in the dense jungle shadows, watching, making my skin prickle. At least they don’t look so scared of me anymore.

The injured sprite quivers against me, and I tuck her closer to my warmth.

Rescue this life.

Make her safe.

I nudge some branches aside, revealing a small cleft in the tree’s trunk, its edges smooth. Tucking the sprite closer to my chest, I crouch and poke my head in, contorting my body as I wrestle past the bush, its twiggy fingers ripping at my clothes.

Sliding one leg into the cleft, I wriggle through to find myself in a tight cavity, dappled light filtering past the bush’s foliage. “Is this place common knowledge, or …”

The sprite hovering inside the entrance rattles off a string of unfamiliar words, then beckons me with a wave of her hand.

“Silly question,” I mutter, and clamber over a maze of gnarled roots to follow her down a hollow, the air rich with the smell of damp soil.

The faint drone of beating wings fills the space, and I frown.

Hugging the wounded one, I maneuver through the tenuous ladder of knots and thick, twisting sinews as we descend into the gloom. The sprite flutters around me, waving her hands, tattling away even though we both know I have no idea what she’s saying until, finally, I step onto more sturdy ground.

Crouching, I see we’re in some kind of warren.

Sinuous roots intertwine to line the entire space, pocked with small cavities holding worms that glow from their bulbous bums, casting the tunnel in a soft, golden light. Sprites come and go, some carrying scrolls, others sparkly jewels, stones, or other knickknacks. Some moving so fast they’re nothing but dusty blurs; others halting mid-flight to look at me with big, curious eyes. Some even settle on my shoulder and touch my hair, the side of my face, making trilling sounds that shiver through me.

I peel back my hand and check the injured sprite, the tremoring bundle whimpering with every exhale. Her clothes and hair are now smudged with Rhordyn’s blood—a vision that jolts me to the core.

Rescue this life.

Make her safe.

The young sprite waves me forward, her bright-red hair an easy-to-follow beacon in the fluttering commotion.

I take tentative steps, careful not to tread on any of the fat, glowing worms tucked amongst the pockets of dirt as I follow the sprite along another low passage, passing many small tunnels stemming from random heights along the way. Finally, we turn down a larger one that leads us into a domed hive swarming with sprites and their sharp riot of chatter.

Their chittering conversations come to an abrupt halt the moment we enter, sprites settling onto roots, legs swinging, while others stretch over the edge and peer down at me.

I ease my hand away from my chest to reveal the injured one curled in my palm, quivering.

Silence for a beat, and then a diverse clutch of them flutter down, stealing tentative glances at me as they ease her into their arms and carry her inside the darkened hollow between two large roots—the young sprite garnishing my cheek with a soft kiss before she follows.

Gone.

A lonely heaviness settles upon my chest like a boulder, and I stretch my empty hands, feeling the flaky residue of his blood.

My hammering heart swipes at that crystal dome, and I flinch, knees threatening to buckle as cracks weave across the surface. I scramble to gather those little beads of luster, squishing them down.

I saved lives, I internally scream, bogging up the holes. I saved lives—

The hairs on the back of my neck lift, and I turn, wavering, seeing a pale, hazy smudge hovering before me.

Frowning, I maintain my balance and raise my arm like a perch.

The sprite lands on my forearm, crowned in a nest of fluffy white hair, a black pin pierced through the sharp tip of her ear. She’s gripping a black spider by its bum with both hands, assessing me with big, gloomy eyes while it claws at her arms.

Her gaze narrows on the blood staining my hand, and her head ticks to the side. She looks at me with an intensity that makes me blink. “Has te … nah ve heilth neh?”

“I can’t speak sprite,” I admit, and she raises her fluffy brows, glancing at my hand again before she lifts the spider and stuffs its head into her mouth, crunching down.

A quiver rakes across my skin, and I cringe inwardly as she swallows, biting into its abdomen with a juicy pop that sends brown liquid slugging down her chin. She tilts her head the other way, offering me the remaining torso and eight curled legs that seem to have given up their fight.

My gut knots.

I shake my head. “Looks”—terrible—“so good. But no, it’s okay. I, ahh … ate earlier. Had a whole bowl of them, in fact.”

Her eyes widen, and she looks me up and down like I’m some sort of deity, then stuffs the rest in her mouth. With a few spindly legs still protruding from her lips, she waves at me to follow, bobbing ahead in a blur.

If she takes me spider hunting, I’m fucked.

I clamber after the sprite, passing through passage after passage, finally turning into a cramped tunnel heavy with the familiar smells of braised meat, wine, and woodsmoke.

We must be near Parith’s market square.

She hovers before my face, babbling, indicating with an excited wave toward a trail of tangled vines and roots that appear to meander skyward.

I nod my understanding and thank her with a smile. In a blink, she’s gone, leaving me alone but for the fat worms and my whisking thoughts that keep trying to tunnel toward that crystal dome.

Toward everything it’s keeping contained.

Drawing a shuddered breath, I reach into my pocket and pull out the smaller bloom now entirely calcified, albeit a little chipped in places from being stuffed in my pocket while I crawled through a labyrinth of tunnels.

Hairline fractures crackle across the dome, and I pluck and squish and smooth those little luster beads, bogging up the gaps. A cold blast seeps through my veins, and I wobble, gripping hold of a root to steady myself.

Dropping my chin to my chest, I swallow thickly, tightening my bloody hand around the bloom, the hardened petals digging into the raw wound made by that shard of glass.

A lump forms in my throat as I realize what I have to do.

* * *

My arms take most of the damage as I shove through a thorny bush cushioning the base of Parith’s mail tree. I stumble into an opening sheltered by leafy branches that stretch far and wide, strung with strings of lanterns that emit a golden glow—what I now realize is likely from the worms that have been stuffed inside the glassy coffins.

The blue-stone fence that wraps around the tree gives it a healthy berth, providing protection from the people bartering, laughing, and singing just on the other side.

Market square.

I creep around the gnarly trunk and step into the wooden booth by the tree’s base, the air above me rife with the soft hum of beating wings. The fluttering commotion slows, and a sea of tiny faces peer out of gloomy holes, peeking down at me from their frail perches.

A slew of oily guilt pumps through me.

Do the sprites know what I did? Do they whisper amongst themselves about the girl who saved one of their own? How strange, when her hands were covered in the blood of another.

Murderer.

I pull my gaze from their curious stares and shove the thorny thought deep, burying it beside the crystal dome.

Dragging a trembling breath, I open the wooden latch on the mailing box, take one of the tiny slips of parchment from the stack, and lean in close to scrawl my message upon it with a sharpened stick of coal—the paper too fine and thin for words so hard and heavy. After rolling it into a tight scroll, I scratch a name on it, fasten it with twine, then reach for the long string, its length garnished with golden bells that jingle when I give it a firm tug. “I have a message for somebody …”

Silence ensues—the awkward, hungry kind, as though they’re waiting for me to confess.

I just murdered the Western High Master.

Part of me wants to scream it so I can remove some of the crippling weight stashed inside my chest.

Finally, a sprite flutters down, landing on the table in a flurry of long, ruddy hair and wings the color of autumn leaves. She looks at the name and nods, takes the scroll, then slides it into the holster tucked between her wings, her movements slowing when she notices my cupla.

Clearing my throat, I shove it farther up my arm and dig into my pocket. I pinch the smallest bloom and pull it out, extending it toward her.

Her eyes widen as she looks at it, then at me, then above. I do the same, seeing every sprite in the tree hanging over the edge of branches or out the lips of their hollows, gazes locked on the tiny crystal bloom.

My skin nettles.

The sprite bounces onto my hand, picks up the bloom, gives me a shy curtsey, then darts into the air in a flutter of tawny tones, disappearing through the branches with my grief strapped to her back …

It’s a wonder she can fly at all.