Amarielle Everglimmer's Arc

Chapter 4 of 7

Amarielle fled the moss stones for the one place she trusted. The market pavilion stood quiet in the dusk, its petal roof shimmering, bright charms swaying from the beams. Behind the counter sat Sage Silverwhisper, the purple pixie who had warned her from the start. Silver threads ran through Sage's long hair. She was sorting dried blooms into jars, and she did not look up. "The ivy fairies saw me touch him," Amarielle said. "The elders will take my wings. I need a way to fight it." Sage set down a jar. "I told you where this road ended." Her voice was tired, not cruel. "Now you want the one thing I feared you'd ask." "There must be an old law," Amarielle said. "Something that spares a fairy who means no harm. You know every rule in Hemlockvale. Tell me one that could save us." Sage was silent. A pink poodle with glittering wings padded between the posts and settled at her feet. Sage rested a hand on its curly fur, thinking. Then she rose and pulled a cracked clay tablet from under the counter. "The elders don't speak of this," Sage said. "A fairy may claim the Blossom Rite. If a mortal plants a wish-tree and tends it through one full bloom, the bond is judged true, not a crime. The elders must let the wings stay." Amarielle's heart leapt. "Then I have proof. They can't just strip me." "Read the rest." Sage turned the tablet. The old marks were worn, but Amarielle traced them. The rite had not been claimed in a hundred years. No living fairy had seen it granted. And the mortal had to plant the tree himself, with his own hands, before the elders arrived. "When do they come?" Amarielle asked. "The ivy fairies flew at dusk. The elders will reach your grove by moonrise." Sage pressed the tablet into her hands. "You wanted a law. There it is. I won't pretend it's safe." Amarielle gripped the cold clay. She had what she came for. A law existed. The wing-stripping could be challenged. She was no longer begging in the dark. She flew hard to the castle hill. In the garden stood a cherry tree heavy with pink blossoms, its branches wide over the wall. The prince walked beneath it, her ring still on his hand. He saw her light and stopped. "There is a rite," she told him, breathless. "You must plant a wish-tree with your own hands. Tonight. Before the elders come, or they take my wings." He did not ask how, or why, or whether it was mad. He knelt in the dark soil and began to dig with his bare hands. Amarielle watched him work. She had her answer and her ally. But the moon was already climbing, and the tree was not yet in the ground.