out of his hand. There were tears on his face, making his wound sting, but he felt too drained to cry. He wrapped his fingers around his neck, holding on to it gently. The skin was cold and sticky with blood, but those things did not bother him. The thing that struck fear into him, the thing that made him shake and made his stomach churn, was something that wasn’t even there any more.
His heart was not beating.
Arren stayed in the forest for some time, not knowing what to do. He didn’t know if he was dead or alive, or even if this was still the real world. Maybe this was the afterlife.
But it did not look like it. It was too . . . real. And in his heart he knew that it was the world of the living. He was dead, but he hadn’t left it.
He wandered over the rocks where he had died, and found something lying wedged between two boulders. Orome’s sword. He pulled it out and found that part of the blade had broken off, but the rest was still sharp, and the broken edge was jagged, almost barbed. He made a few experimental swings with it, and then put it into his belt.
This done, he went back to hide among the trees. Would people still be looking for him?
Either way, he knew he had to leave. Though where he would go he had no idea.
There was a terrible silence among the trees, pressing down on him, and suddenly he couldn’t bear to be so alone. He wanted someone to be there, anyone.
He turned away from the mountain and walked off through the trees, stumbling a little on the slope. Up ahead was Snake Hill, its sides dotted with the houses that made up Idun. He wanted to see his parents again. They had to know that he was all right. He wasn’t afraid of being caught. What would it matter if he was? There was nothing left they could do to him.
The sun was well up by now, and plenty of people were up and about in the village. Arren ducked behind houses and other pieces of cover to avoid being seen, slowly making his way up the hill toward his parents’ house. He was surprised by how easy it was. For some reason, when he walked his boots made virtually no sound at all. His senses were sharp and alert, perfectly attuned to danger, and he dodged through the village like a hunting cat, unseen and unheard.
He reached his parents’ home and went around the back, where there were some crates stacked. He hid behind those until he was sure the coast was clear, and then pushed the back door open and slipped in through it, closing it behind him as quietly as he could. Safe.
He paused there to catch his breath and then walked toward the doorway leading into the main room. He could hear voices coming through it, and called out, “Mum! Dad! Are you there?”
Dead silence fell. Arren entered the room, ducking slightly to get through the door, and there they were, getting up from the table where they had been sitting. His mother froze, staring at him. There were tears on her face, and she was clutching something to her chest: it was the black robe they had given him when he was in prison.
Arren managed a watery grin. “I—uh—I hope you don’t mind.”
There was silence and then his mother flew across the room and flung herself on him. Cardock was close behind her, and the two of them hugged their son as tightly as they could. Both of them were crying.
“Arren!” Annir sobbed. “Oh gods, Arren, Arren, you’re alive, you’ve come back to me, thank gods.”
Arren didn’t move. He let them embrace him, feeling their warmth all about him, taking away the coldness in his body. He could feel Annir trembling as she sobbed, and he held on to her as well as he could, feeling a peculiar sense of relief. They were here, they were real, they were alive. He was home.
Cardock let go, his face pale with disbelief. “Arren, how did this happen? Where did you come from?”
Arren looked past him, and his expression changed when he saw who else was sitting at the table.
Bran, frozen in horror.
Arren’s hand went to his belt and pulled out the broken sword. “You,” he snarled, starting forward. “What are you doing here?”