She bowed to Solomon. He smiled, then moved forward and hugged her. She stiffened in surprise, then returned it.
“Good-bye, Yag-Morah,” he said, releasing her. “I’m glad I met you and the Mar-trollid. May your journey be safe and fruitful.”
“And yours, Gan-Solomon,” she said. “I hope our paths cross again.”
She climbed to the top of the tall wagon and took up the reins, chucking them once and setting the cows in motion.
Solomon watched her and the rest of the Mar-trollid wagons disappear into the darkness. Then, he hefted the bag Yag-Morah gave him and turned back to Dunfield.
Chapter 61
Darius thought the Towering Oaks room was surprisingly pleasant. It was in a tree that was off to the side, midsized by Greenweald standards. The couch he was laid on was comfortable and allowed access from both sides. There was a soft breeze from open windows and the smell of flowers in the air, and Darius fought hard to keep his eyes open.
“Rest,” Willow told him.
“Can’t yet.” His voice was little more than a mutter. “Got things to do.”
“You can do them later. For now, sleep is the best thing for you.”
His eyes grew even heavier.
“Going to be here when I wake up?”
“Yes.”
Willow’s voice seemed to come from far away, and he wasn’t sure he heard her. Still, it was enough to make him smile.
When he opened his eyes Willow was still there, seated in a chair near the open window, gazing out. Darius lay still and studied the healer. She was beautiful. Her every move spoke of grace and refinement, and her eyes seemed to look directly into his soul whenever she glanced at him.
If only he could turn her, make her one of his own House… but… did he really want to? Did he really want Malachi to get his hooks into her the way he had Darius?
No, he decided. Some things needed to be left alone. And Willow was one of those things.
The sigh that escaped him alerted her to his waking. She turned from the window and rose, bringing her chair over to his side. She sat, took his hand and studied his face.
“What?” Darius asked, a chuckle entering his voice.
Willow only continued to stare at him, a small frown creasing her features.
“Is something wrong?” he tried again. He didn’t feel like something was wrong. As a matter of fact, now that he was more awake, he realized that he felt better than he had in a long time. His wounds no longer ached, although there was still that sick ball of fear and worry in the pit of his stomach, and the sense that something was sitting over his heart.
“Yes,” Willow finally said. She took her hands from his. “I worked on you while you slept. Healing your injuries.”
“Well, no wonder I feel so much better.” He reached for her hand again, but she shifted out of his reach. He smiled to mask his disappointment.
“You are aware that this House, Towering Oaks, took the brunt of the attack from the Soul Gaunts not long ago, aren’t you?”
“Of course. My House came in at the end, but by then, it was really to mop up what was left of Glittering Birch.”
“Correct. Solomon had already done his work, and Jediah sacrificed himself, before Whispering Pines came. But the injuries to many, many members of this House were severe. I worked on a good number of them myself.”
“I’m sure you did,” Darius said. “I’m afraid I don’t understand why you’re—”
“Soul Gaunt injuries leave a certain signature,” she cut him off. “A lot of wounds do, but those in particular. You learn to recognize it. They’re hard to heal, leaving a sort of pestilence behind that fights you.”
“I see.” Darius’s blood ran cold, afraid that he knew exactly where Willow was heading with this.
“Your wounds,” she said, looking directly at him, “were not caused by a Soul Gaunt. Were they?”
Darius could only stare back at her. His mouth opened, a lie on his lips, but it died unsaid. It would do no good, and he didn’t want to lie to her.
Instead, he turned from her and clasped his hands together.
“No, they weren’t.” He kept his voice quiet, under control, not wanting to spew it all at once. “They were given to me by Mala—”
The scream tore out of him before he could stop it.
A cold presence seemed to reach into his chest and squeeze his heart, sharp claws digging into it. His gut exploded with fire, which ran up his throat. His head was being squeezed in a vise so that his eyes bulged from his face.
“Darius! What is it? Where does it hurt?”
Willow was bent over him, her face a mask of concern, and her hands moving over him.
He tried to answer her, but his throat closed and the tendons in his neck stood out. He stretched, then folded into a ball, writhing and squirming on the bed. His mouth gaped like a fish, but he couldn’t draw any air into his lungs. His heart started to beat faster, struggling against whatever force was restricting it.
Vaguely, he heard Willow start to chant. Somewhere, in the corner of his mind, he recognized a few of the words she was using. Magic was magic, after all, it was simply a question of how it was used.
But surely, she was no match for Malachi. No one was.
Then, unbelievably, his throat opened the tiniest bit. A thin trickle of air flowed into his lungs. He drew in as much as he could, then let it out again, afraid he wouldn’t be able to repeat it. He could though, and did it again, deeper this time.
His heartbeat slowed, became more normal,
