by V. E. Schwab
I reach the hilltop as she recovers. With every step, a few strands of the moor grow up, adding themselves to her limbs, thickening her.
I take another step back, and I can feel the hill slope down behind me. I dare to look back, and a small gasp of relief escapes when I see the low stone wall tapering off like a tail down the moor, and beside it, the sisters’ house.
“How dare you.”
I feel the words, the cold air against my skin. I spin, and the Near Witch is inches from my face, her mossy lips turned down in anger.
Her bone fingers, now covered in weeds, fly forward, closing around my throat. I clench my fist, feeling the warm wood of my father’s knife, and bring it down in a single swipe, severing the witch’s hand. It falls away, and so do I, tumbling down the hill several feet before I manage to stop. But she’s already coming, putting her hand back onto her wrist. I manage to get my feet beneath me, sliding to the bottom of the hill. Glancing back at the sisters’ house, I catch sight of a stone tomb, open, waiting. They did it. The structure sits, a rectangular vault, where before was only barren earth and that shifting pile of stones. Magda and Dreska made a house just big enough to hold the witch’s bones. I’ve got to get her there.
I turn back to face the witch, and brace myself, but she stops moving. She pauses, for only a moment, as her eyes snag on the cottage and, beside it, the small garden, full of flowers, all in bloom, despite the fall chill. Half a dozen different kinds, in perfect rows. Clearly the sisters’ craft hasn’t withered away entirely over the years.
Something moves by the low stone wall, a flash of gray. It launches itself over and onto the moor toward me, traveling so fast it almost blurs.
“Cole?”
The word jars the Near Witch from her reverie, and her stone eyes flash to me, glistening. She lunges just as Cole reaches me, throwing his body in front of mine. And then a sound, a fierce crack, a dozen times louder than any breaking branch, loud enough to make the moors shiver and the witch turn, angry and fast, in the direction of it.
“Now, Cole!” I shout, and in that moment the wind tears through, catching the witch off guard. It forces us to the ground as the air slams into her, carrying her in one large gust past us to the garden and the tomb where her house once sat. The bones clatter against the stones of the tomb with such force that the structure collapses over them, a mound of rock and weedy earth, and bones somewhere beneath.
And suddenly, everything is quiet.
The kind of stifling quiet of blocked ears, booming pressure before sound returns. Cole’s hands are on his knees as he tries to breathe. My head is spinning, and I sit, dazed, on the grass, watching as weeds begin to creep slowly over the tomb, blossoming wildflowers until the stone structure seems as old as the sisters’ house, half eaten by the moor. It’s over. I can’t take my eyes from the small stone tomb, expecting it to shake, to crumble and unleash the angry, moor-made witch. But no sound, no motion comes.
And then I catch sight of the glinting metal back by the low stone wall, the source of the violent crack. Otto is standing, his rifle still raised against his shoulder, looking as singed as Cole. He continues to gaze down the barrel at the two of us, sitting half dead on the moor, and I can imagine him leveling the sight on Cole, for just a moment too long, wondering. Finally he lowers the gun, and Mr. Ward and Tyler hop the low wall and hurry toward us. Cole must have brought them. Behind my eyes the scene plays out, the fire spreading through the forest and his pleas for the men to come quick, to help him. Did they hesitate? Did they wonder?
I can see other men now walking up behind my uncle, and in their arms are forms, cradled and small. The children. Otto climbs the wall, too, as Magda and Dreska appear from their house and totter over. Magda’s hand brushes the tomb as she passes it, looking pleased. Dreska follows behind, touching it once. Cole sits, breathless and pale, beside me.
“You made it,” I gasp.
“I promised.”
The sun is gone, and the night seems to have swept in, only the last edges of light strung across a few stray clouds.
And then Otto is standing over us. He gives me a measured gaze before turning his attention to Cole.
My uncle stares down at the pale and bloodied boy on the ground beside me. His face is just as dirty, his clothing singed. The two look as though they’ve been through the same battle. Cole looks back at Otto, not with anger or fear. What happened in the forest? Otto looks to the children, then to the stone tomb. After a long moment, his eyes fall back on Cole, who is shifting his weight, about to push himself to his feet. Otto holds out his hand, and Cole takes it.
The sisters are examining the children, all five set on the ground beside the low stone wall. They still aren’t moving. Then Wren fidgets, rolls onto her side, asleep. Asleep. My head spins with relief.
When I look back at Otto, he has not let go of Cole’s hand, eclipsing it in his own.
“Thank you,” he says at last, so low it sounds more like a grumble than actual words. But I can hear it, and so can Cole, and so can Tyler, judging by his hard expression. Otto’s hand falls away, and Cole looks to me, and I cannot wipe the smile from my face. He steps to me, takes me into his arms. The wind curls around us. And for the first time in what seems like forever, everything feels right. In its place.
30
My father used to say that change is like a garden.
It doesn’t come up overnight, unless you are a witch. Things have to be planted and tended, and most of all, the ground has to be right. He said the people of Near had the wrong dirt, and that’s why they resisted change so much, the way roots resist hard earth. He said if you could just break through, there was good soil there, down deep.
There is a celebration in the town square the following night. The children are dancing and singing and playing their games. Edgar takes one of Wren’s hands, and Cecilia the other, and they join the circle with the rest. Even the sisters have come, and are trying to teach the children new songs and some very old ones, too. I watch Wren’s blond hair twirl as she flits from place to place, never landing for more than a moment.
My mother told her she wandered off to join her friends and fell asleep in the forest.
I told her the Near Witch stole her away in the dead of night, and her brave sister came to save her.
I don’t think she believes either one of us entirely.
Helena is sitting on a piece of the wall that tapers off into the square, watching her little brother as if he might vanish at any moment, her eyes still nervous but her skin finally regaining color. I watch as Tyler slides onto the wall beside her, staring out at the children and trying to seem interested. Helena’s face lights up, and I can see her blush, from where I sit across the square. Tyler seems content to be wanted so much by someone, even if it’s not the someone he wanted, because when she shivers he slides closer and offers her a space beneath his arm. Helena beams and curls against his broad chest, and the two of them watch the children spin and sing. Now and then he throws a glance my way, and I pretend not to notice.
Near is still Near. It won’t change by morning. It won’t change in a day, or a week.
But there is something new—in the air and in the ground. Even as fall takes hold, I can feel it.
The Council still stands atop their steps, their bells ready in case they think of something to say. But Matthew is leaning forward, watching the sisters teach the children a song. His blue eyes dance from Magda to Edgar. Eli stands with his back to the village, talking privately with Tomas. Some people will never change.
The houses nearest the square have opened their doors to the village.
Emily’s mother, Mrs. Harp, stands beside my mother, serving up bread and sweets. Another house is offering mugs of hot strong drinks, and Otto leans against a wall, surrounded by several other men. They talk and drink, but my uncle mostly looks out over the square with a mixture of relief and fatigue. And when none of his group is looking, I see him raise his glass to no one in
particular, and his lips move quietly, as if in prayer. I wonder if he’s praying for the moor, or the children, or my father, but it is short and silent, and then he is swallowed by the group of men as they huddle together and make a loud toast. Only Bo is missing.
I sit on another piece of wall, the last straight section before the sloping tail of it dives back into the ground. My fingertips play with Cole’s dark hair as he stretches out on the stone surface, his head in my lap. I begin to tap out the beat to the children’s songs on his skin, and he looks up at me and smiles and takes my hand, moving my fingers across his lips. Around us, the wind wanders through the celebration, swaying lamps and dresses.
I hear the three bells and look up, but it’s not the Council preparing to speak. It’s my uncle.
“Seven days ago, a stranger came to Near. And yes, that stranger is a witch.”
A hush falls over the festival, his deep voice carrying over the crowd. Otto looks down, arms crossed across his broad chest.
“My brother told me that the moor and witches are like everything else, that they can be good or bad, weak or strong. That they come in as many shapes and sizes as we do.
“The last week alone has proven this. Your children are here tonight because of the Thorne sisters, and because of this witch’s help.” Otto’s gaze settles on Cole, who’s sitting up, propped on one elbow.
“Our village is open to you, if you wish to stay.”
With that, Otto steps back, and slowly, all around the square, the celebration bubbles up again.
“Well,” I ask, leaning over him, “do you wish to stay?”
“I do.”
“And why is that, Cole?” I say, tipping toward him so that our noses nearly brush.
“Well,” he says with a smile, “the weather’s quite nice.”
I pull back and scoff, but his fingers find their way to the back of my neck, wandering up through my hair, and he pulls me to him until our foreheads touch. His hand slips down my neck, between my shoulders, tracing the curve of my spine before it falls away. This time I don’t pull back.
He plants a kiss on my nose.
“Lexi,” he says.
He kisses my jaw.
“I want to be here.”
He kisses my throat.
“Because you are here.”
I can feel him smile against my skin.
The celebration fades away, and the village fades away, and everything fades away except for his hands finding mine. And his lips against mine. I pull back, studying his large gray eyes.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he says, with a soft laugh.
“Like what?”
“Like I’m not real, or not really here. Like I’m going to blow away.”
“Are you?” I ask.
He frowns, sitting up and turning so that he can look at me.
“I hope not. This is the only place I want to be.”
* * *
Later that night, Wren fidgets beside me in the bed, and the feeling has never been so welcome. I let her steal the blankets, let her build her nest, give her a soft, playful shove. I look forward to the morning, to her bread dolls and her hallway games. I look forward to watching her grow before my eyes, day by day.
Beyond the house, the wind blows.
I smile in the dark. There is no moonlight, no dancing images on the walls. Sleep will come soon. When I close my eyes, I keep seeing the witch’s face, the crushed skull, the clumsy flowers spilling out. The way the anger melted into something else when she saw her home. Her garden. I hope she has found peace. I wonder if that is the thing I feel now, settling over me like a sheet, cool and comfortable. In this quiet place, I imagine I can hear my father whispering stories I’ve heard a thousand times. Stories that keep him close.
The wind on the moors will always be a tricky thing. It bends its voice and casts it into any shape, long and thin enough to slide beneath the door, stout enough to seem a thing of weight and breath and bone.
I will hold fast to this new story, too, tuck it away beside my father’s bedtime tales, beside Magda’s tea talk. I will remember everything.
My own voice slips in as the world falls away.
Sometimes the wind whispers names, perfectly clear, the way you might, on the verge of sleep, imagine you hear your own. And you never know if that sound beneath your door is only the howling of the wind, or the Near Witch, in her small stone house or in her garden, singing the hills to sleep.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Belief is a contagious thing.
To my family, for their simple, unwavering belief that I was meant to write.
To my editor, Abby, for believing in my little ember of a book and helping me build a proper fire. (And to her assistant, Laura, for sprinkling nice comments in with the edits.)
To my agent, Amy, for somehow believing in me and my stories, no matter how off the beaten path I veer. (I’ll still write that menopausal art school coven book one day, I swear.)
To the publishing gods, godsends, agents, and friends who believed I belonged, and helped my book on its way.
To my critique partners and readers, for believing in me enough to push me, and for carrying pins in case my head ever got too big.
To the online community of bloggers, reviewers, and friends, for believing in me from the start, and for making me feel like a rock star when all I did was string words together.
The fact is, I’m doing what I love, what I feel in my bones I’m meant to be doing, and somehow, impossibly, I’m being allowed to do it. Thank you.
THE
ASH-BORN BOY
by
V.E. SCHWAB
PROLOGUE
“Once, long ago, there was a man and a woman, and a boy, and a village full of people. And then the village burned down. And then there was nothing.”
“How did you survive?”
“The fire was my fault.”
1
The market coiled like a colored snake through the streets of Dale, patterned with the brown of the stalls, and the yellows and greens and reds of the things they sold.
People chattered, and children laughed beneath the rare blue stretch of sky, cloudless and perfect, and, bolstered by the sun, they darted between parents and booths, making up games as they went. A group played a messy kind of tag that involved weaving and racing, everyone both a target and a pursuer. A boy grabbed for a girl, who dodged desperately, clipping the edge of a fruit stand as she went. She recovered and ran on with a high laugh, but the stand, heaped high with apples, started to tip. The vendor turned, but lunged too late. The apples were already rolling, and the table was already falling, and he cringed away from the inevitable crash.
But it never came.
A hand caught the table’s edge and steadied it. The apples settled, all but a small green one, which escaped, rolled to the lip, over, and into the rescuer’s other hand. The vendor let out a sigh of relief.
“Master Dale,” he said. “Good day, and thank you.”
The rescuer, a boy of sixteen, brushed the apple along the sleeve of his cloak. It was a velvety black, just like his hair. “Please, Peter,” he said. “That is my father, not me.”
The vendor bowed his head. “Pardon, but I thought the son went by Master and the father by Lord. Have customs changed since I went to bed?”
“No.” He bit into the apple. “But only my father’s name is Dale.”
The vendor cast a nervous glance around the market, unsure of what to do. All royals had two names, the one they were born with, and the one they took if they became a member of the ruling family. The first name could be anything, but the second was always Dale. It was the name of the city itself, and it was an honor. Peter knew that to call the boy anything else was a punishable offense, but he also knew of his temper, and even if he didn’t believe the rumors—deals with gods or devils, or worse, witches—he didn’t want trouble.
“Apologies, Master… Hart.” He cast another glance around when he said th
e name, and this time swore he saw two people turn, an eyebrow lift, a word or two whispered beneath the din of the market.
The boy brightened. It was his mother’s name, and it gave him some small pleasure to defy Robert by using it.
“Thank you,” he said with a genuine smile. “And William’s fine, really. Now, how much do I owe you?”
“Nothing.”
He frowned, digging in his pocket. “Peter—”
“Don’t matter what name you want to go by, William, I can’t take money from you.”
Will took another bite of the apple, and set three white disks on the table with an audible click. “Then I will simply forget a few coins here. A harmless mistake.” He drew a hand through the air above the market. “So many customers here today, you couldn’t know whose coins they were.”
He turned to go, and when the vendor opened his mouth to protest, Will cut him off with a backward glance, a smile, and a “Good day, Peter,” before vanishing into the market crowd.
It was a hard thing, to vanish, especially when the people parted for him. Most of them didn’t stare. No, in fact, they did the opposite of staring, averting their eyes and granting him too wide a berth for such a crowded place. It only drew more attention. Still, Will did his best to enjoy the apple and the blue-sky day and the fresh air as he made his way to the steps of the Great House.
The town of Dale grew more up than out, a tangle of streets and houses, squares and gardens, all piled on a hill in the middle of the moors. In a land of valleys, Dale was the tallest thing in sight, and the Great House was the tallest thing in Dale. The steps were wide and stone, and swept from the looming structure to the streets, a shallow landing halfway between. The house belonged to Dale, not to the town but to those that held the name and title. But the steps belonged to the people, and on blue-sky days when the sun warmed the stones, the steps were the most popular spot in the town. From them you could see the streets running down from the great house like roots, tapering into the fields below. Dale sat on a large hill, and it sloped away to every side. The valleys at its base were dotted with lakes, each reflecting up a bit of sky. Usually the lakes were gray, but today they were pools of brilliant blue.
