Page 101 of Let Slip the Dogs of War

Lark comes over and presses his hand next to mine. “This stone is… not from here,” he says. “It has been brought from your realm.”

“Can you move it?”

He nods and shifts the stone with his magic. It scrapes loudly against the others and I grab it, tugging it free. We both pause, looking at the small recess left behind.

Another crown sits there. A third crown. It’s not as ornate as the one on Lark’s head; it’s a collection of branches that I realise, with a jolt, have been taken from the oak down in the town. Lark stares at it, unblinking. “I think I did not truly believe it until now.”

“What?”

“That they would do something like this. Lie like this, when we cannot lie at all.”

“I think you’ve all got lying without lying down to a fine art,” I say and heft the stone back up where it belongs.

“Wait,” Lark says. “Should we leave it here?”

I shrug and push the stone back into place. “It’s safer here than anywhere else. We’ll tell someone. Veles? He can get it when he finds whoever’s supposed to bear the crowns.”

Lark considers this, then nods and uses a flicker of his magic to seal the stone back just like it was before. He presses his hand against it again. “I would have never noticed any of this… We have, none of us, realised that something was terribly wrong.”

“The Seelie know,” I reply. “And the rest. The ones who’ve been pushed out with them.”

“I could have done more to help them.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” I take Lark’s hand again. It feels as easy as breathing to touch him like this. “We do have to help ourselves right now. Then the rest, okay?”

“Yes.”

We hurry out of the castle. The suns have risen, but the day is still early, and with all the celebrations we saw when we approached the other day, it seems the fae are still exhausted because no one is out and about as we walk down to the oak. Ophelia, Grant, and Oisin are waiting. Oisin looks agitated, while Grant has his head tipped back, face turned towards the suns.

“All good?” Ophelia asks when we reach them.

“Yeah,” I breathe. I stare up at the oak tree. It’s wider around than any I’ve ever seen, which is hardly a surprise, and neither is the fact that I can feel the dull, slow movement of its power. This is what powers this realm. I guess it means that this place will die someday, but that’s true of everything, and it doesn’t mean it has to be now.

I let go of Lark’s hand and he frowns at me. “I should…”

“No, let me do this.” It feels like I should. Not because I should wear a crown, too; I know that. That’s not what’s causing this. Lark’s and my fate is to spend our lives in my realm, or he wouldn’t be dying now.

I take a step closer to the oak and press my hand to the bark on its trunk. Oisin hisses under his breath and I hear a sound that tells me Ophelia just elbowed him in the side. Grant is silent. I don’t even know if he’s looking, and it’s probably better if he isn’t. We’ll need his power before we’re done here, I’m sure.

For a few seconds, nothing happens. The tree’s bark is rough against my palm and beneath that, its power moves sluggishly, the way things so massive do. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I don’t have enough magic to push hard, but I try the way I might with the sad basil I save from the supermarket, the lavender I carefully potted in Lark’s greenhouse…

A wave of feeling washes through me, so powerful my knees almost buckle. I gasp. The feeling isn’t from me. It’s the oak, inquisitive, trying to work out just what I am.

That’s a slow probe too, and I push back as best I can until that curiosity turns to understanding. Understanding and disappointment. That I’m here? That I stayed? That either of us was put in this situation?

Help us, I beg in my mind. Voices rise behind me, voices I don’t recognise. I push that worry aside. Break the bond. Save him.

Fear. It’s so deep and so primal that I shake all over, and Lark’s surprised exclamation breaks through everything else, but someone must intervene—Grant, maybe—because he doesn’t reach me. That’s okay. I’m okay. But the oak is scared. I push to feel for why, but it shows me instead. Rot. Decay. A slow, slow death because the king and queen wouldn’t follow the path fate—magic—had shown them.

I move in closer until I can press my forehead against the bark. Do you make deals? We can make a deal. Better question is if the oak can even understand me. What does asking a tree to make a deal feel like?

I get nothing for a few moments. The voices behind me are louder and I feel the tingling buzz of wards surrounding us. I breathe. I can’t rush this; if I’m impatient, then what I’m asking for will be ignored.

The agreement I sense is tempered and suspicious. My own relief should be overwhelming, except I’m sure this oak has felt forces stronger than that. Only, now I’m stuck. What deal can I strike? What can I do?

Asking the others will break the connection I’ve made with the oak, and I’m not sure I have enough magic left to reach it again. I press my hand harder against the trunk. We’ll find them. Your branch-bearers. Yours. We’ll find them. If we can’t, we’ll return. Me and Lark. You can have our magic.

Quiet. Everything is quiet, and I realise the oak is moving, swaying ever so slightly against my hand and my forehead. The air is heavy with expectation. I think we can find them. I think that’s our fate.