Page 12 of The Light Between Worlds

I sit by the rushing water, a patchwork girl, pieced together from bits of pain, all of them a different shape, a different color, a different sort of unhappiness. And the paper stays blank before me, because I don’t know what to write. I don’t know how to take back the things I’ve said and done, or to bridge the spaces that lie between us.

8

WE JOURNEY THREE DAYS FROM THE BIRCH RINGwith Cervus and a group of Woodlanders. There’s Hector, whose idea it was to put us to use against the Empire, and who’s taken up the leadership of our party. He travels without speaking for the most part, and looks over his swords carefully every night when we make camp.

A stonewarden joins us, too. His name is Dorien, and he stands a foot shorter than I. He has a weather-lined white face, a thatch of brown hair, and a friendly way of looking at the world. He and Jamie walk together often, Jamie asking earnest questions about this strange land we’ve come to, and Dorien answering patiently.

My favorite is Vaya, who’s come on behalf of the tree spirits. She’s a tricky, lissome thing, made all of wind-tossed leaves that take the shape of a girl with bark-brown skin and a fall of russet hair during her quieter moments. I think she must be young, like my siblings and me. She has an easy laugh like the bright chiming of bells, and leaves the path often to venture into the woods. When she returns, she bringsgifts—a broken eggshell for Hector, who cups it in surprisingly gentle hands, or a crown of daisies for Dorien, who sets it on his head as if it’s spun from gold.

On our third night out from the birch ring, I’m given a gift, too. I wake to find Vaya hovering at my side, the touch of soft leaves still lingering on my skin. She swirls into her girl shape and holds a finger up to quiet me, then beckons with her other hand. With a glance back at Jamie and Philippa, sleeping near the dying embers of our fire, I throw back my blanket and follow.

Vaya leads me deep into the woods, over mossy logs and boulder-strewn trails, past little clearings and over icy streams. Occasionally, when I have to stop and catch my breath, I call out to her. “Vaya, wait.”

Every time she comes dancing back, laughing like a run of music and chiming in her bell-like voice, “Keep up, little one!”

The ground begins to slope upward and I pick my way between fallen branches and drifts of dead leaves. At last, I see that Vaya has stopped between the trees ahead. When I reach her, I stand and stare.

Beneath us lies a valley carpeted with green grass and spangled with white daisies. At its heart, a tree stretches its bony hands skyward. The girth of its trunk speaks of centuries growing in rich Woodlands soil, but though the spring air is warm even after nightfall, few of the tree’s limbs bear leaves. Instead, small lights wink and glow from its naked branches, like stars pulled down from the sky.

Woodlanders move about below the tree, their shadowy forms still unfamiliar to me, but as Vaya and I watch, a silhouette I recognize appears. Cervus crosses the valley floor and walks through the assembled Woodlanders until he reaches the base of the tree. Once there, helowers his head to rest it against the thick trunk, antlers and muzzle brushing rough bark.

A gust of leaves takes the shape of a woman with skin the same faded grey as the tree itself. Her face is lined with age, her head smooth and hairless. She turns her face toward the overhanging branches, and begins to sing.

The woman’s voice rises, cold and clear and jubilant, to the sky, and I think when I listen hard enough, I can hear the stars answer back. Notes and words rise and fall, intertwining, soaking through my pores and spreading under my skin.

“When the night breaks

And the sun shines in

I answer back

Light unto light.

May I be borne on

Beyond the morning

Beyond the stars

Light unto light.

Let the last of me

Be given to flame

Sparks flying upward

Light unto light.”

This world turns on its axis. Beneath me, the soil sings. Above me, the sky sings. Within me, my blood sings.

As the song swells and its highest note rises to fill all the Great Wood’s empty spaces, Cervus throws his head back and bellows. Thesound splits me apart and shakes the ground, ringing louder and louder until I can hardly stand it.

Then all falls abruptly silent.

Into the silence, Cervus speaks. He brushes his muzzle once more against the barren tree, then steps back and bows gracefully to the singer. Somehow, his words are harder to bear than even the singing, or the great stag’s clarion call.

Cervus’s voice rings out across the valley. “A Woodlands heart always finds its way home.”