Page 38 of Strange Grace
Arthur has never been so exhausted in his entire life, but the light of dawn piercing his eyes like nails is a welcome pain. Sometime during the night, he stopped expecting to survive. That he has, that Rhun’s weight pulls down at his aching shoulders as the two of them limp out of the Devil’s Forest together, is a surprise.
He’ll never admit that, though, not now that he’s managed it, now that he spent the night running from the devil and emerged victorious. And his friends are alive too.
Never mind there are already pieces he can’t recall, as if every dragging step out of the forest pulls him away from what happened. From what he did.
But the sun is a star rising in Arthur’s chest: bright, pure, full of clarity. Arthur Couch knows who he is after last night.
Even if he doesn’t quite remember why.
He winces as he steps fully into the sun, grips tighter around Rhun’s waist as they pause in the warmth. Behind him the forest looms, and he hears Mairwen’s shallow breathing, and the deeper, rattling breath of that thing Rhun would not leave without. It will cost them, Arthur knows somehow, but everything came with a price last night, and everything that comes next will have one too.
The bracelet on his wrist twists tighter, tiny thorns cutting his skin. It’s magic, but he can’t remember putting it on. Soon he’s going to be extremely worried at his fading memory, but right now he’s just bone-tired.
Clear morning sky stretches over the pasture, and there stand the villagers in clusters and lines, faces drawn, hopeful eyes wide on Arthur. He sees Haf Lewis first, ahead of the others, braid loose and mouth open in the start of a brilliant smile. He hears his name, and Rhun’s and Mair’s names, gasped and called in relief.
“Mom,” Rhun whispers, leaning heavily against Arthur. He can’t finish. Nona Sayer doesn’t hear her son anyway.
She, and all the others, have turned in shock to the thing—man, monster, devil, Arthur doesn’t know what to call it—they brought out with them.
Alis Sayer cries out, “Baeddan!” and lifts her skirt to run down the pasture slope toward the emerging saints.
Arthur has a nearly impossible time calling himthat.
Baeddan Sayer, twenty-sixth saint of Three Graces.
Why can’t Arthur remember anymore how Baeddan is still alive? After ten years.
The Bone Tree—it’s something about the Bone Tree, and the bargain.
All Arthur remembers is that the story isn’t true. The Grace witches made it all up.
Alis begins a stampede, and soon the four are surrounded by what seems like all of town, asking questions and pushing to be nearer, joyous and afraid, startled and loud. Arthur mutters into Rhun’s ear, “The closest to these black trees most of these cowards have ever been.”
Rhun shakes his head, weary, avoiding Arthur’s gaze.
Arthur hisses out through clenched teeth. It hurts that Rhun refuses him. What happened?
Vines tighten around his arms, bending him back onto the altar. Arthur closes his eyes and knows this is worth it if Rhun lives. The devil presses down on his chest. Two of his ribs crack in a flash of pain and
When Arthur swallows, a bruise presses his throat. His side aches.
“Be careful,” Mairwen says, loud and commanding, even from her bloody mouth, split at the lip from a terrible kiss. Arthur remembers that, too, just as suddenly: Mairwen kissing the devil. But not why her hair is no longer than her chin, cut off in chunks, worse and messier than his own. She steps around the creature Baeddan, protecting him though he’s a head taller than she and nearly as broad as Rhun.
With his arm about Rhun’s waist, Arthur can feel Rhun trembling; his knees are going to give out and Arthur very likely cannot hold him upright. What does Rhun remember?
Alis Sayer stares at what’s become of her son.
Baeddan ran into the forest ten years ago—they all remember it. They remember a brilliant, strong young man more charming even than Rhun, and proud and handsome. This is a shadow of what he once was, but recognizable to those who knew him best: It’s in the shape of Sayer eyes and crooked nose and jaw; it’s in the bearing and way Baeddan raises his eyebrows in hope.
His mother hesitates. Her hands are out, reaching, but she doesn’t touch him, even when Mairwen shifts to the side so she can.
Because Baeddan Sayer is as young as the night he ran in, but his skin is sallow, greenish and violet like bruises and death and the first signs of rot. Dark purple blood stripes his bare chest in many parallel furrows, like he put his own hands to his skin and clawed again and again. He wears the tattered remains of a leather coat and trousers, but is barefoot. His once-Sayer eyes are black through and through. Thorns grow out of his collarbones, hooked in two rows from his heart toward his shoulders. His knuckles are gnarled like tree bark. Antlers hide in his black hair, tangled and sharp, wrapping his skull in a crown.
Staring at Baeddan, Arthur knows, though he can’t remember why, that Baeddan’s skin is cold, that the lost twenty-sixth saint murmurs old lullabies like threats and sometimes screams and the entire Devil’s Forest answers.
“What happened last night?” Hetty Pugh demands, looking furiously back and forth between the survivors. Aderyn Grace is beside her, and there at the back of the crowd Lord Sy Vaughn waits, surprised.
Arthur barks a single laugh, but it hurts his throat and jars his cracked ribs. Rhun shakes his head, lowering it as if he is too tired to hold it upright any longer.
