Page 69 of Heart of the Summer Queen

As I swing my rigid legs off the bench, I visualize my sister: the frost fading from her delicate features, her voice rousing at long last. Her memory offers momentum to my hesitant steps until I’m standing out the carriage and beneath the cloud-streaked sky.

Inhaling fresh air, I follow Elaric as he cuts across the field toward the looming trees, not looking back. With a snap of his fingers, the carriage dissolves behind us.

Though he maintains his swift pace, he waits at the shadowy verge for me to catch up, and for that I’m thankful. While we may have formed a tentative agreement with Belinda, there may be plenty more dangers lurking in the shadows. Dangers I wouldn’t want to face alone, especially not when all I have is a dagger to defend myself.

As I step alongside him, I notice ice spreading across the sack. Standing on my tiptoes, I press both palms flat to the fabric until his magic recedes.

Elaric turns to me.

My breath snags painfully as our gazes lock together. “The sack. It was freezing over.” Each syllable clings to my throat.

He just stares at me. For a strained beat, I think he may respond. But then he spins on his heel and starts into the trees. I keep enough distance between us as I trail after him.

Several strides pass before Elaric finally speaks. “Mind your step. The gloomshrooms will be as volatile as they were last time.” By now, the dense canopy plunges us in murky dimness, the bright meadows long gone.

My gut clenches as memories of the gloomshrooms flood back.

The knife burying deep in Elaric’s chest. My sister’s curses for ensuring her eternal imprisonment. My father’s disappointment at me for my selfish, thoughtless actions.

It’s hard to suppress the shudder which ripples through me.

We soon reach the first cluster of gloomshrooms and carefully pick our way around them. The long grass makes it a challenge to spot them, and so our progress slows to a crawl, neither of us wishing to experience those nightmares again.

Just as I think we’ve safely cleared the rings of gloomshrooms, the ground rumbles. I brace for the telltale hiss and purple haze. But neither sound nor smoke emerges.

I glance down, fearing I’ll find a squashed gloomshroom beneath my boot. But there’s only emerald grass.

Unless Elaric is the one who activated them this time . . .

When I look up, I don’t see hazy plumes but instead green light emanating from the broad tree trunk ahead. As we watch, the vivid glow fades. Bark fractures open in the shape of a doorway.

Then Belinda hobbles out, her wooden staff supporting each unsteady step. Her wild hair overflows with leaves and twigs sticking out at all angles.

Her sharp eyes fix on us both, brilliant green glinting beneath her craggy brows. As her thin lips crease into a humorless smile, I fight the urge to step toward Elaric.

“So you return,” she drawls, “and not empty-handed, I hope?”

I unsling the cord from my neck, retrieving the vial into which I stuffed the brambleweed. The leaves are more scrunched up than I like, and I cringe.

I raise the vial but don’t take another step. What if she breaks her end of the bargain? What if, after everything, we leave these woods empty-handed?

Before I can utter a single word about requiring the sword in exchange for the vial, a vine rushes forward and coils around my arm. I try to pull away, but the vine tightens until I’m sure blood ceases to flow through my veins.

The vine creeps higher, winding up to my hand. Elaric starts toward me. But before he can reach me, the vine snags around the vial and tears it from my grasp.

I’m released suddenly and stagger, narrowly catching myself before tumbling to the grass.

Seething in rage and pain, I double over. My arm throbs as blood flows back through, accompanied by a smattering of needles, and though the vial’s surface was smooth, the force at which it left my hand has burned my palm.

The vine slithers across to Belinda, depositing the vial into her hand. Dread trickles through me.

I had no illusions about her power the last time we visited, but all this just proves how easily she could end us if she wishes to.

The witch pulls the stopper from the vial, and her spindly fingers reach inside, plucking out the squashed brambleweed leaves. She lifts them to her hooked nose and sniffs briefly beforereturning them to the vial. Then she starts toward the hollow tree trunk, clutching her staff.

“Wait,” I blurt. “You promised us the Sword of Veliantis!”

Wind rustles through the trees, a stark contrast to my deafeningly loud heartbeat.

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