Chapter

Thirty-One

When Twelve looked back, she saw without surprise that they were no longer leaving footprints. The cold was absolute and not a breath of air stirred. A tight feeling was choking her chest and the hairs on the back of her neck were standing up. She saw Six whisper something to her, but couldn’t hear anything, neither the beating of her own heart nor Widge’s fearful squeaks.

She took a slow, deep breath and tried not to give in to panic, her eyes fixed on Foxpaw’s back. The moxie was walking more slowly than before, his shoulders hunched down as though battling against an invisible wind.

Then suddenly it stopped. Foxpaw straightened up and turned to them with a smile. Sound returned and the heaviness about them dissipated with a pop. The relief was indescribable.

The group found themselves in a small, round clearing bounded by nine truly enormous trees. The trunks stood so close together they almost touched, while overhead their canopies were tightly entwined. There was something otherworldly about the grove, a sense that it stood outside time. And the feeling of being watched was stronger than ever.

The bubble of silvery moonstone-light flowed up the straight trunks, throwing nine faces into sharp relief. Forbiddingly regal, five women and four men slumbered in the bark, their mouths downturned, their brows creased into frowns.

Foxpaw beckoned them over to stand before one of the male faces. Twelve held the light up higher and the group regarded him in silence.

“Oakhammer?” Six guessed and Foxpaw nodded.

“Unsafe,” Dog growled, looking around. His hackles were raised and Twelve could feel tension rippling through him.

“I . . . I have spoken with him before,” Foxpaw whispered.

“Is that supposed to reassure us?” Five muttered.

“It’s our only chance of finding Seven’s trail,” Six whispered. “We have to try, or all this has been for nothing.”

Twelve caught his eye and nodded her agreement. For Seven’s sake, they had to do this.

The bark of the great tree was twisted to form long, untidy ropes of hair and a great bushy mustache. The tree-face’s twiggy eyebrows sprouted in profusion, but beneath them the features were sunken and wasted. His cheekbones and nose were as sharp as razors and his eyes deeply recessed beneath a prominent brow. He looked ill.

“He doesn’t always look like this?” Twelve guessed, seeing dismay flash across Foxpaw’s face.

The moxie paled at her words and glanced fearfully at Oakhammer, before glaring at her. Belatedly, she remembered his warning about not saying anything that could give offense. Wincing, she gestured that she’d be more careful.

Foxpaw turned back to the tree and began to speak, his words rolling into a chant that made Twelve’s ears tingle.