Mason Crafton's Arc

Chapter 8 of 15

Mason stayed low behind the birdbath until the prince's boots were gone, then broke for the tree line with the cloth and words tight in their head. The mountain rose past the pines, and the plan was simple: cross the forest edge, climb the ridge, use the words at the summit stone. But before Mason reached the second row of trunks, a whistle cut the air. The prince had turned back. He stood at the far end of the clearing with his hand on the birdbath rim, staring at the wet dirt where Mason had knelt. He had seen the print. He drew a short blade and started walking the edge of the forest, slow, sweeping left to right. Mason dropped behind a fallen log. The prince was between them and the mountain now. Every path north crossed his line. Mason had minutes before the birds came back with the pine cone, and once the birds returned the prince would know the trick and the direction. Mason needed the prince pulled the other way. Not chased off, not fought. Pulled. Mason crawled south along the log until the ground dipped into a wet hollow. Two boys were there, crouched by a fern with a jar. Mason knew them by sight from the valley farms, the Cooper brothers, one in a striped shirt, one in green. They were catching beetles. Behind them, half-swallowed by moss and reeds, sat an old sagging house with a rotted porch, a place the valley kids dared each other into. Mason pressed a finger to their lips. The younger one, Oliver, opened his mouth to yell. Mason held up the strip of pink cloth. "The prince is looking for whoever took this," Mason whispered. "If you run to him and show him where you found it, he'll give you a coin each. Say you saw it near the swamp house." Max grabbed the cloth. The boys tore off through the ferns, shouting for the prince. The prince turned at the shouting and followed them south. Mason waited until the blue coat vanished behind the reeds, then ran for the ridge path. Halfway up the slope a gray shape stepped from a laurel thicket, upright, wearing a checked jacket and a bead string around its neck. Fenrir Goodpaw. Mason had traded him dried meat twice on the lower trail. The wolf sniffed the air, caught the prince's scent on Mason's shirt, and stepped aside without a word. Mason climbed past him and did not look back. By the time the sun cleared the ridge, Mason was above the tree line with the hair, the cloth, and the three words. Below, faint through the pines, they heard the prince's voice at the swamp house, sharp and confused. The route to the mountain was open. The prince now believed the thief was a child near a rotted porch, and every minute he spent there was a minute Mason climbed higher.