Lyra grimaced. “Not exactly the same, I don’t think.”
“Close enough,” Eammon rumbled, voice still holding a touch of that strange resonance. His eyes cut to Fife. The two men shared an unreadable glance.
Breaking away from Fife, Lyra rolled up her sleeve. Her brow arched, looking from Red to Eammon. “Unless I spilled a great amount of blood during the hour I was unconscious, I don’t think this should be gone.” A slight waver in her voice. “And what happens now, if I’m not tied to the forest anymore?”
Eammon shrugged, the movement a ripple of wind through treetops. “You lived long within the Wilderwood. You’ll live long outside it, too. Things once tied to magic don’t lose it easily.” His voice went softer, the flutter of a leaf to the ground. “Now you can make up for lost time.”
A grin picked up her mouth, elfin features brightening as she rolled her sleeve back down. “Well, then. I certainly plan to.”
Fife glanced at her sidelong and was silent.
On the hill behind them, Valdrek was waking up. Lear helped him stand on shaky legs, face a horror of blood from his head wound, though he seemed in good enough spirits. Eammon squeezed Red’s hand before crossing to the two men, conversing in low tones.
In the dry grass, Kiri still slumped unconscious, not stirring though her chest rose and fell. Next to her, Raffe looked down at the fallen priestess with undisguised contempt, arms crossed over his chest. “I’m putting her on the first ship to the Rylt,” he said as Red approached. “Shadows damn me, I’ll not show up with a catatonic High Priestess and tell them their Queen is missing. I’ll be dead before winter.”
Red pressed her lips together. The roots on her arm glimmered a faint gold.
“If Floriane gets wind of her absence, it will be chaos. And Arick . . .” Raffe shook his head, pointedly not looking at her when his voice wavered on the name. “Clearly, you have other obligations, what with becoming the vessel of the whole damn Wilderwood—”
“She’s still my sister, Raffe.” It came out harsher than she meant, and around her feet, the edges of the dry grass blushed verdant green. “I will find her,” she whispered. “I don’t know how, but I will find her, and I will bring her back. That is my obligation.”
He looked at her through narrowed eyes, taking in the Mark, the dead grass now turned green. Slowly, he nodded.
Red pointed her fingers at Kiri. Long grass braided itself into ropes and encircled the priestess’s hands and feet, steel-strong. Raffe picked her up before Red could ask if he needed help, turning toward the village with her deadweight across his shoulders. He didn’t look back.
She watched him until the flare of the sun blocked him from view, then went to join the others.
“So that’s it, then?” Valdrek’s voice was somewhat slurred, and his eyes seemed slightly distant, but other than that he seemed no worse for the wear. “The Wilderwood can’t hold us back anymore, because the Wilderwood is . . . you.”
Eammon shrugged. “More or less.”
“So we can return.” A smile picked up Valdrek’s mouth, eyes gaining more focus. “Kings and shadows damn me.”
“Not everyone will want to.” Lear ran the hand that wasn’t steadying Valdrek over his bloodied forehead. “Some will stay. Some won’t know how to live in a whole world again.”
Valdrek shrugged, gently shaking off Lear’s hand to stand on his own strength. “I think it’s a thing that can be learned.” He turned toward the forest. “No time like the present to find out, after we share the good news!”
Lear rolled his eyes, but it was good-natured. With a nod, he followed Valdrek into the trees.
Then it was only the four of them, as it had been at the Keep. There was some measure of distance among them now, a space carved by change and violence, and for a moment they were silent.
“We can go anywhere,” Lyra murmured. Fife’s lips tightened, but Lyra didn’t notice. She cocked a brow at Red and Eammon. “You can go anywhere. How convenient, to carry the Wilderwood around inside of you.”
“Convenient may be an overstatement,” Eammon muttered.
Lyra grinned. “While I understand the going anywhere part, in principle,” she said, “I find that I would like to sleep in my own bed tonight.” Turning, she caught Fife’s sleeve. “Come on. Give the gods a minute.”
Fife followed her into the forest, still quiet, though right before they reached the tree line he slipped his hand down her arm and tangled his fingers with hers.
Then they were alone.
Eammon grasped Red’s hand, and she leaned into his shoulder. Exhaustion weighed her limbs, and worry for her sister, and confusion over what might come next.
But for now, just for a moment, Red let herself feel content. She let herself feel done.
Her twentieth birthday felt like lifetimes ago. Red’s lips twisted in a wry smile. “Remember when we first met?”
Eammon turned to run his fingers through her hair, tiny strands of ivy now threaded in the dark gold. “When you bled on my forest,” he said, “or when you burst into my library?”
“I was thinking of the second one,” Red answered. “When you told me you didn’t have horns.” She reached up, tapped the small points that pressed through his dark hair, remnants of his antlers. “Ironic.”
He laughed then, and it sounded like wind through branches. Mouths met, warm and hungry, and he picked her up and swung her around, a fall of autumn-colored leaves chasing them.
Then he set her down, and rested his forehead on hers. They breathed the same air, the Lady and her Wolf, and for the moment it was all either of them wanted.
“Let’s go home,” Eammon murmured, and hand in hand, the Wardens walked through their Wilderwood.
Epilogue
Red
S trands of golden hair wrapped the mirror like rays around the sun. Blood streaked the frame, rusty against the gilt, and a pile of
