When none of them moved, Gravaldor lowered himself to the ground. The trees formed a cavernlike canopy once more, and the Woods was peacefully still.

“My father would have loved to see this,” Tadg murmured, staring up at Gravaldor. Then he looked at Soren. “We should take him back—maybe Erhart can enforce his laws, for a change. Do you have more Stoolips, to keep him asleep until we return?”

Barclay nodded and patted his pockets. “I have plenty.”

Viola let out a long breath of relief. “Then let’s go back to Sycomore.”

TWENTY-FIVE

Barclay, Viola, and Tadg returned to Sycomore three days after Midwinter ended—Soren still in tow on Root’s back, fast asleep. With both the holiday and the Exhibition over, the town was quieter than Barclay had ever seen it.

In early morning in Dullshire, everyone would be awake. The streets would smell of fresh bread from the bakery opening its windows to beckon customers. Gustav would be huddled lazily near Master Pilzmann’s fire. Mrs. Havener would be putting on an extra scarf or pair of mittens while restocking books.

The thought no longer filled Barclay with so much homesickness. In fact, it warmed him like a mug of pear cider. Had it not been for him, Viola, and Tadg, there might not be anyone left in Dullshire to wake and go about their lives.

Dullshire might not ever welcome him back. Barclay would likely never become a mushroom farmer like he’d once wanted. But he still liked to think that his parents would have been proud of him for saving the town and going on an adventure.

Though tired from traveling, the trio staggered to the Guild House. Inside was no longer filled with so many Masters—only a handful sat among the tables. Many had students, now apprentices, sitting beside them.

Two figures sat by the fireplace.

The first was Erhart, and next to him was a man Barclay had never seen before. He was pale and wiry, with bluntly cut dark hair and stiff clothes. Shiny pieces covered his shirt, much like Viola’s. But unlike Viola’s, these looked more like medals and achievements than pins and baubles.

Viola tensed at seeing him. “That’s Cyril Harlow, the Horn of Dawn.”

“Why is he wearing so many medals of honor?” Tadg asked, rolling his eyes. “No wonder Runa hates him.”

They walked behind them. Tadg cleared his throat.

Erhart turned around, his face red and annoyed from being interrupted, then he let out a startled yelp. “Mr. Murdock and Mr. Thorne! And Miss Dumont! H-how could you all be alive?” His gaze drifted to Soren, limp on Root’s back, and he gasped. “What happened?!”

“Where is Runa Rasgar?” Tadg demanded.

“She’s imprisoned in the Ironwood Inn,” Erhart answered. Barclay could think of worse places to be trapped than the tavern with the best pear cider in town, but he supposed Erhart had let Sycomore’s jail fall into disarray. “But Soren! Did he try to save you from going off into the Woods? What did—”