Eyes. Eyes in the black.

“You,” the valkerax says. “Little you, alone in the darkness. We see. The song can see now. The bones are tied to me. Chimes in the dark wind. The Laughing Daughter is tied to you. Chimes in the dark wind.”

“How—” I start. “How did you know my witch’s name?”

“Everything that chimes has a true name. Everything that is true, we will know.”

I choke on my unsaid words as the pupilless white eyes get closer, so close I can see the gray veins in them.

“You will teach us,” the valkerax rumbles. “But first you will die.”

I don’t quite get my next thoughts out, because every blood vessel in my body goes cold at once, my skin numbing to blank nothingness. Then, a flat heavy pressure in my chest as my lungs collapse, my eyes roll like deadweight back into my head, and the ground rushes up to meet me.

The valkerax is, unfortunately, right.

I die.

7

7

A Howl
at the
Moon

I come back to life gasping.

“What in Kavar’s left butt cheek—” I press my hand on my chest, trying to slow my breathing. I look down at my body—placed on a sleeping mat of some sort. An eager, yellow-furred face suddenly consumes my entire cone of vision, so close I can see each fine whisker.

“What did it say?” The face breathes heavily.

“Ahh!” I kick at it, Yorl dodging my feet with all the grace of a cat.

“What did the valkerax say to you?” he insists.

“This is no way to wake a lady!” I shove him off and he staggers back, the pad of parchment and quill in his hand clutched defiantly. “Wait—I can see your face!”

I twist my head around, pinpointing the source of light—a faint patch of moss growing on the stone wall next to me giving off a purplish glow. It’s barely anything, but it’s enough. I inspect my body: whole and healed, my green tunic tattered and bloodstained but still mostly intact.

“For the love of the spirits—what did it say?” Yorl presses, completely ignoring my insult. His eager green eyes are made more vivid by the mosslight, all hint of his cold seriousness replaced by the enamored gaze of a child in a sweetshop. “Did it address you by true name? Did it agree to the teaching? Did it tell you its true name?”

“No, yes, and no.” I massage my throbbing temples. “It didn’t say much. Or, it did, but it talks like a drunk poet.”

“To be expected,” Yorl mutters, scribbling on a parchment madly. “In Old Vetris, valkerax, before being bound to the Bone Tree, were said to speak in grandly sweeping stories and metaphors; it was their way of life—” He stops, poking the hem of my bloodstained breeches and wrinkling his nose. “You must go through clothes like a worried minister goes through wine.”