Wystwood

79. Roots of the throne

A cold, bright light trickled down between the broken roof slates, pooling in the purple circles around Min's eyes. She had been awake all night, first Casting a Veil on Ada until her mind grew weak, then pushing her body even further as she escaped into Wysthaven. Min had done so much—been so brave—and here was the moment Ada could repay it all.

"I can't go through those doors with you, Min." Ada took the girl's hands. "Make a pact with me. Go back down the tower and find somewhere safe to hide. If you hear the fighting move away, do whatever you can to return to the Stone Circle and find Armestrong."

"What?" gasped Min. "No! I won't leave and I won't make any dealings with you. I came here to help you!"

"You have, Min," Ada said. "You've helped me so much and now it's my turn to help you. Make the pact with me so I know you'll be safe. I can't... I can't lose you, too."

"And what are you dealing with me?" Min demanded.

"Your life, Min," Ada said softly. "I think I'm finally doing what Florentin would've wanted me to do."

Min's face crumpled at the mention of her father; hurt, betrayal, and loss all awash in her eyes. A tear trailed down her cheek, which Ada stroked away.

"A deal, then," Min finally said, refusing to look Ada in the eye. "I will not enter through those doors with you, and if I am able, I will return to the Stone Circle and find Armestrong."

"Thank you," Ada breathed, pulling Min to her chest and holding her tight. They clung to one another as if their hands alone could lift all the pain from the other's shoulders. But then, they broke apart, and Ada pushed Min gently towards the stairwell.

"I'm sorry I couldn't have stayed with you until the very end, Min," Ada said, her voice threatening to break. "Thank you. Thank you for everything."

She saw Min tremble, the curls of her hair bobbing like a sob had been swallowed, then she stepped down and disappeared into the shadows.

Alone in the vestibule, Ada forced herself to face the doors. She could feel a thin sheen of sweat on her palms, the chains slipping slightly as she unwound them. They clattered together, chillingly loud, and she flinched when they finally coiled to the floor.

It seemed to Ada that she was walking through a nightmare, her mind a fog of sleeplessness and terror. Was it honestly possible that she had tumbled into the fae world and survived this far with a faerie-tale of her own? Would she ever be able to tell her tale to another—watch them shake their head at her wild imagination—or would it be lost to sleep? Or, perhaps, lost to a far worse fate that lay ahead of her now in a terrible but true reality?

The doors drifted open at the brush of her fingertips, and inside was an ancient chamber carved from a pale rock. Pillars circled out from the two doors, carved like tree trunks whose branches wove the domed ceiling above, and between them, Ada could see faded paintings that marked the walls. There was a tower cobbled deep within a valley, then a flourish of white waters flowing down a flowering grass bank, and an ornate compass etched within stone. The stories of Wysthaven adorned the chamber, hidden away and crumbling to the turns of time.

At the back of the room was a throne built from the dark boughs of a tree, almost black aside from the glitter of dried baubles of amber sap. Roots bulged inexplicably from its base into the stone floor, like black serpents breaching an ivory sea. And there, sat upon the throne, was the Lady of Wysthaven. Ada hadn't seen her at first, for behind the throne was a great hole in the chamber wall, the morning sun framed blindingly bright between the throne's many branches. Yet, the Lady simply sat there, as if she had been patiently waiting, her black eyes fixed upon the doors.