Blackthorn and Shaana broke into a clearing illuminated by the lamps of the Britannian Guard, all standing still like rocks, much like the Lord Mayor and the Captain of the Guard. The children halted abruptly at the side of their fathers. And one look was all that they needed to join the others in their statuesque spell.

At the opposite side of the clearing, his mother's tree rose up into the night, overshadowing the branches of its neighbors, even as its own disappeared into theirs. Ancient and gnarled it stood, its trunk the width of at four men, and 'twas to its trunk that the destitute woman, Nyomae, had been crucified.

The boy Blackthorn slowly recalled seeing the lantern from atop the hilltop, the light that surely had belonged to Nyomae's abductors. They had gagged her and tied her to the trunk with lengths of rope, high enough that her feet dangled at knee's height from the ground. At some point, they must have briefly removed the gag, for she still wore it. That must have been when she had screamed . . . when they had taken her arms, strung them up, and nailed the spikes through her wrists, the spikes that slowly clawed through bone and flesh while she struggled to free herself.

"Nyomae!" The Lord Mayor, the first to recover from his shock, sprinted forward. At the same time, the Captain of the Guard reached for him, crying, "Lord Mayor! No!"

Too late. The Lord Mayor fell not a moment later, foot tangled in the trip release. The wire snapped back into place as two branches, which had somehow been pulled back behind the Yew tree, were suddenly released. They whipped forward and around the trunk, one positioned above the other, woodens spike attached to their tips. They struck the woman, one perfectly placed in her heart, the other through her forehead. Her eyes went wide. Her struggles instantly ceased.

Those in the glade who had been still now came alive. Under the direction of Shaana's father, Two of the Guard rushed up to the tree and began to release the woman's body whose blood continued to flow, caking the tree in a dark syrup. Others fanned out into the woods to search for the abductors. Shaana put her hands to her face as she wept, and her father went to her.

The boy Blackthorn found himself not knowing what to do until a quiet voice, one not unlike what he remembered of his mother, suggested that he should comfort his father who stared blankly at the tree from his knees. The boy Blackthorn nodded, and walked forward, somehow aware that the wisps were still out there, but they, like the lights of the search party, were beginning to disappear . . .

Winking out, one by one . . .

He put his hand on his father's shoulder.

One by one, as if the forest swallowed them . . .

His father gripped his hand.

Swallowed them into . . .

* * *

The sea broke before the crest of the frigate, throwing back swaths of water. The sails above rattled a thunderous undertone to the howl of wind. As the ship plummeted forward, the azure lights that Blackthorn had sworn had been swallowed by the sea, the lights marking that of a coastal village, appeared again in his line of sight. His hand gripped the ship's railing, slippery from ocean spray, and he fought back his bowel's urge to spill over the side. He breathed in deeply, the salt air tasting oddly sweet against the bile on his tongue. He focused on keeping the lights of New Magincia's coast steady in his view.