Page 20 of The Withering Wood

“Helping.” He cleaved through the soil with another shovel, carefully circling the area around the plant.

“Not very princely work.”

“Who ever said I wanted that?”

Cerise grunted. As much as she wanted him to stay away, to get out of her space and let them deal with the misfortunes of their own lives, they needed the help. Perhaps there would still be time for Cerise to do a quick perimeter check before nightfall, to find the rune that caused this.

As Cerise and the prince worked side by side but never touching, the warmth emanated off him and breached into her space. It followed the sway of his movement, the shove and uplift of his burly arms. As they moved away from the near-full absorber, his body heat prevented the chill from creeping too deep into Cerise’s skin. And, to her surprise, the prince was an efficient gardener. Precise yet quick, he dug out vegetables without destroying them or disturbing the soil too greatly, careful to avoid touching the curse. Even with gloves, with the added strength of the corruption, Cerise was uncertain if the clothing would be barrier enough to truly protect them.

The prince wasn’t entirely useless, after all. If she let her thoughts stray too far from the calamity of their lost food, Cerise thought his presence beside her was rather comforting. She was used to doing tasks alone, cold pressing in on all sides. Yet his warm, easy demeanor somehow enriched the silence in which they worked, rather than detract from it.

Over half of their crops were destroyed. Their radishes, leeks, and onions were untouched, but their potatoes, ginger, parsnips, and turnips were slick with decay. Setting aside the uncursed vegetables, they piled the others in a wicker basket to burn. Once all plants were unearthed, Eirwen froze the ground where the curse grew, creating an ice wall that wove through the dirt as deep as she could make it, hoping it would quarantine the blight. They needed to assess the soil, see if it was somehow plagued too, before deciding what to do with it. It wasn’t safe to leave on their property, yet if the curse could now travel somehow through the ground rather than only living tissues, dispensing of it outside Zyrdriel’s Boundary was equally irresponsible.

The sky was a deep bruise color by the time they were done in the garden, the heavy snow fading to a light dance of flakes. Cerise hefted the wicker basket, also enchanted with a layer of ice to prevent the slick, blighted vegetables from leaking out, outside of Zyrdriel’s Boundary. Eirwen and the prince followed her, the prince’s arms full of wood and her sister’s eyes full of woe.

Eirwen pulled as much cold out of the air around them as she could, creating a dry, warm bubble for the pile of plants and wood to burn. The flame still struggled to catch around the mucus-like plants. A feeble, flickering orange finally ignited, melting away the snow. A sickly-sweet stench rose from the vegetables, not too dissimilar to a bloated, rotting corpse.

The curse ruined all it touched. And it was no longer contained.

If it was allowed to spread at this rate and intensity, the entire kingdom would blacken and decay like these plants. For what purpose, Cerise could only guess. Perhaps Azkanix was trying to raise a new, undead army. Or perhaps he simply wanted revenge on those who beat him. Yet, the why didn’t matter. All that mattered was Cerise and Eirwen were no longer safe.

She huffed a sigh as a pitiful flame disintegrated the last dead carrot.

“You win, prince. I’ll help you find and kill Vraethik.”

“I think he’s going here,” the prince said, pointing to the southwest corner of Cerise’s faded map of Sylvenath, where she’d drawn in known locations of Azkanix’s bones. “I spent many years working with our brightest scholars to estimate where the bones of Azkanix may have fallen around the kingdom, and we are fairly certain there’s a large fragment of rib out there. I figure, if I were a necromancer trying to amplify my dead God’s curse, wouldn’t the best place to start be finding the largest, most powerful piece of him?”

The area lie past the forest and in Evriel’s Plains, far outside the distance Cerise had traveled from this cabin since the curse fell.

Cerise shook her head as she stared at the map, wondering what she’d gotten herself into. “That’s at least a four-day trek in good weather.”

“Then we best get going,” the prince responded. “Vraethik will be slowed by rune carving, so if we move quickly, we should be able to catch up.”

Cerise’s knee ached at the words.

“You two should take the absorber from the chicken shed,” Eirwen said. “I’ll bring them in here with me so they stay warm.”

Cerise grimaced and Eirwen added, “We’ll be fine, I promise.”

Cerise was more concerned about the persistent stink and mess they’d bring into their home rather than their comfort, but Eirwen was right, they’d need the absorber to survive. And come summer, if they were all still alive, perhaps they could bundle up and air out the cabin.

“You two get some rest,” Eirwen said. “I’ll pack everything you need.”

Cerise opened her mouth to argue, but Eirwen already flitted away. Again, she was right—they needed to rest as much as possible before traveling the cursed forest. Cerise could double-check their packs in the morning before departure.

The prince settled beside the fire and Cerise lay in Eirwen’s bed while her sister rummaged through Cerise’s clothes. The flop of clothes on the floor sounded through the walls, and she cringed at the chaos. She’d need to reorganize her room when she returned.

If she returned.

Cerise loved Eirwen more than anyone in the world, but the woman struggled to adhere to her organizational system. Cerise’s fists clenched into the blankets and she squeezed her eyes, trying to ignore the sound of Eirwen’s chaotic pattering and convince herself to fall asleep.

Yet, she fought with herself for a long time, uncertain if she’d survive the trek. If she’d find Vraethik and kill him. If she could even manage walking that distance in the thick snow with her damaged knee.

Of course she could. She’d survived much, much worse.

Chapter Eight

Dawn just broke by the time Cerise and the prince stood outside Zyrdriel’s Boundary, painting the sky pale magenta, almost as bright and pink as the prince’s eyes. Snow fell heavy through the night, piling many arms’ widths higher than the day prior. The prince squeezed his massive feet into one of the extra pairs of ash snowshoes Cerise crafted, his feet a fraction larger than her own. He wielded a spear, one of the few spare weapons she had. She’d expected him to hesitate with the weapon in his grip, yet he took it from her like it’d been his all along. She wondered if he’d fought in the war. What weapons training he had.