To me, it seems reasonable that these ashes might weaken the baron and baroness. Certainly losing their anchors hurt them; even without checking the spirit realm, I sense their access to the tendril web has lessened. But I imagine throwing the ashes on them, watching them scream and writhe as if stung by a thousand wasps. I don’t know if anything will happen, of course, but at worst, I pelt them with proof that I diminished their power.
As I’m about to tackle the necklace, Njål steps into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes. “What are you doing?”
I step back. “You can do the honors. The mallet is over there. Don’t hold back.”
He snags the meat mallet and strikes the fang with a blow so thunderous that it dents the worktable. The tooth explodes into shards and dust; I rake the debris into the kettle and drop the leather strap after it. That accomplished, I build another fire and leave Njål to tend it while I go milk Agatha.
It takes ages for bone to burn, and the kitchen smells horrendous. But eventually, I have a second container of ashes. There’s no way I’ll be able to eat until the smell fades, and my nerves won’t let me put the confrontation off for another day.
“It’s time for me to visit the east wing,” I say quietly. “Get the ritual dagger.”
“You already know, don’t you?”
I touch his cheek, stroking the strong ridge of his cheekbone. “You’re not that good at keeping secrets.”
“What’s your plan?”
“You fight them physically. Use the ritual blade. It’s imbued with their vile energies, and those wounds should be more debilitating. Use the ashes as well. I don’t know for sure what good it’ll do, but it can’t hurt.”
“And you’ll be . . . ?”
“Battling in the spirit realm to free you from this place. Guard me and destroy their bodies if possible. I’ll do the rest.” I hope I sound confident, for Njål’s life depends on me.
“Amarrah, I lo—”
“Absolutely not,” I cut in. “You’re not telling me about your feelings now. Say it when we’re both safe, understand?”
He leans down to kiss me. “Perfectly. It’s a promise.”
“Another one? Apparently I collect them like seashells.”
“I’ll keep them all, every last one. Let’s go.” He tucks the dagger into his belt and picks up the two ash crocks.
Njål leads the way to the east wing, a wretched place I’ve only been in my dreams. When he throws open the forbidding double doors, a draft of fetid air sweeps over me. Something here is wrong, deeply wrong. My flesh crawls as we move over the threshold. Here, the preserving magic has faded or never took, because the wood is rotten and the stones are crumbling away. There’s evidence of mice and spiders, webs and droppings, and a terrible, unearthly rasp fills the corridor, like something immense breathing through disease-riddled flesh.
He pauses just outside a chamber, and the smell, dear gods, the smell. The door is open, and I see why he’s not worried about them leaving. They cannot.
I have never beheld such a monstrosity. The baron and baroness have grown together, all entwined in vines of flesh, some rotting away, others tumorous, and they are rooted where they stand, desiccated and withered, but part of Bitterburn so completely that I cannot tell where they end and the floor begins. They cannot be alive, but they’re not dead either, and their eyes burn like gates into hell, gazing at me with avid hunger.
“You finally bring our guest to greet us, son.” That speech is barely intelligible, a loose and flapping tongue in a sideways mouth.
The room is a disaster; no furnishings remain apart from an old mirror, propped against the wall. Though I had no clue what I was asking when I told Njål to fight them, I can’t let horror overwhelm me. The plan hasn’t changed.
Njål aims a tender look at me and then charges the true beast of Bitterburn, slashing wildly with the dagger. Wounds open and maggots pour out. He’s entangled in the flesh vines, and I can’t leave him struggling, can’t drop into the spirit realm yet. Desperately, I shout, “The ashes!”
And he manages to tip the pot into an open wound. Even I didn’t expect such an intense reaction. The creature thrashes and shrieks, smoke pouring from the cut. It must feel pain because Njål fights free and deploys the other ash pot, and then the whole mass goes up in a pillar of flame. He gets singed as he dives clear.
“They’re still here,” he pants, landing hard next to me. “I feel them, crawling in my head. They’ll try to make me hurt you.”
“Resist. Fight with all your strength to protect me. It’s my turn.”
I close my eyes and set to work on all those tendrils, cutting and pruning, because this is my garden, not theirs. Yet even with the writhing strands cut, they’re still present. I can’t force them out of existence. Brute strength isn’t my gift. I have survival and cunning, not the power to move mountains. But the solution is within my grasp. It must be. I haven’t come so far, only to falter now.
The mirror glitters in the spirit realm, twinkling like a pond, and I give an experimental push. A few strands struggle but they pass through. Elated, I keep nudging, and something on the other side of the mirror helps, pulling with inexorable force. It’s like water falling over a cascade. Soon, every last trace of the baron and baroness are gone, vanished into the looking glass.
I pop out to tell Njål that I’ve done it, only he’s . . . fading. Light and motes of dust, his body swirls with an otherworldly glow. As winter yields to spring, soon he’ll be gone entirely. In a dead
