Page 5 of Strange Grace
But the only other thing that tugs regularly at Arthur’s thoughts is the next Slaughter Moon. Four years away. Four more years before he can show them all, the whole valley, the town, that he is not some fool ruined by his mother, that he is no liar, not weak or soft. He can be as good as Rhun. He can be the best.
Arthur looks north, toward the Devil’s Forest, though he can’t see it. His heart beats hard and his hands fist. Arthur is a tall young man, and the sort of pale that burns in the sun. He’s lanky and strong, with blond hair he saws off in chunks whenever he loses his temper. It hasn’t been longer than his jawbone since he was eleven, and the ragged aspect ruins the pretty lines of his face exactly as he wishes. That rage burning in his blood keeps him skinny no matter what he eats, hollows out his cheeks to make his blue eyes too large, too cold. Always he carries enough knives for a seven-handed monster, as well as a woodsman’s ax.
Suddenly Rhun Sayer bursts off the path from Three Graces, heading toward the Sayer homestead. Rhun sees Arthur and freezes, every handsome half-naked pound of him awkward and still as stone. Then he relaxes, forcing a smile that does not look forced. But Arthur can see it. See it and appreciate the effort, grateful at least they’re still friends.
“Arthur! I’m getting a shirt and then going to find Mair. Do you want to come?”
Gesturing at the rabbit carcass, Arthur says, “I have to cut away the best flesh to save and bury this first.”
Rhun grimaces. He’s a hunter, sure, but he prefers roasting little creatures like this whole even if it ruins the bones. “I’ll grab my shirt and meet you here.”
But Arthur’s eyes go to the clump of dying barley. “What’s that for?”
Rhun taps the barley against his thigh again, then offers it to his friend.
Arthur stares, not reaching to take it. “What’s wrong with it?”
“Disease, I think.” Rhun angles the barley to better display the dark spots. “It was a clump of them.”
Sucking in a breath so his teeth show, Arthur lifts his gaze to Rhun’s. “A momentary blight? Something to pass?”
“Usually that just blows in and out overnight, doesn’t kill. We’ll find some waterlogged or bent with weariness, but always the grass stands up again under the full sun. Today was a good day. Not too much rain.”
“This is different, then,” Arthur murmurs.
“New,” Rhun says in a hushed tone, wavering between awe and fear.
Unable to put his teeth away, Arthur smiles a rare, full-mouthed smile. “I like new things,” Arthur says.
“Do you?”
The challenge slices away Arthur’s smile and deadens the current between them. Arthur turns fully around and steps away. His shoulders roll as he works to sooth the tight knots pulling at his spine.
To make up for it, Rhun puts his hand on Arthur’s back, firm and friendly, like any two young men might share. None of the tenderness Arthur is so afraid of.
Arthur nods, accepting the silent apology. Together they study the barley. Arthur touches the stiff yellow hairs falling around the rows of seeds. He can barely feel them against the rough pad of his finger. New is not anything they’re much familiar with in Three Graces. Different is worse—he knows it from experience. From the boys who throw flowers at him still, ask if his mama took all his skirts with her when she ran away.
“Something must be wrong with the bargain,” Arthur says with relish. He’s waited for a flaw to reveal itself for ten entire years.
Rhun’s whole face tightens. “Do you think so? I was going to ask Mair.”
“If it’s not a temporary blight—and you don’t think it is—it has to be a problem with the devil.”
Scratching at the back of his neck, Rhun looks in the direction of the Devil’s Forest, through the rows of friendly trees. “Maybe because of what happened last time?”
Both boys remember the last Slaughter Moon clearly, three years ago. It was John Upjohn they blessed and followed in a snaking dance over the fields; John who was tall and lean and fast; John who they watched vanish into the black forest. The boys remember the vigil hours, the howls from the forest, staring from a safe distance, and Lace Upjohn, who clutched her son’s tiny naming shirt to her chest as a protection charm, praying with Aderyn Grace and the sisters Pugh. They remember Mairwen as an ecstatic force between them, leaning up on her toes as if she’d be able to see farther if she were as tall as Rhun and Arthur. Grasping their shoulders in turn, back and forth. Arthur had fed off her energy, gritted his teeth impatiently; Rhun had put his arm around her waist to ground her, to comfort himself.
Too long past the harsh pink dawn John Upjohn did not emerge from the forest.
Mair had stepped forward first when she spied a sleek shadow spill from the trees. Then Rhun had seen it, and Arthur, too. Hope had pricked in Arthur’s chest, blossoming sickly as he watched seventeen-year-old John crawl his way free, one of his hands torn off.
“I never thought much about it,” Rhun says abruptly, avoiding Arthur’s look. Arthur knows why; they’d not been overly concerned by Upjohn because of what happened between them so shortly after.
“Neither did I,” Arthur admits. “But everybody will now, if this is...” He points at the barley.
Rhun takes a deep breath. Arthur can tell Rhun wants to touch him again, like he would touch Mair if she were present. For comfort, for reassurance. Just because he wants to. Rhun is the sort of person who needs contact with the people he loves, but he only ever avoids it around Arthur. One sign from Arthur and that will change, but Arthur doesn’t give it.
Holding on to the barley with both hands, Rhun says, “It can’t be broken. The bargain. We need it.”
