Chapter 848: The Truthful Host

They ran down the hill toward the line of walkers.

There were fourteen of them. They were walking out between the dim white stones of Westhollow and up the far slope toward the gray house. They walked slowly and calmly, like people going home after a long day’s work. Nobody spoke. Nobody looked back.

Tarren was running fastest of all.

"Mira!" he shouted. "Mira! Stop!"

One of the walkers was a young woman with dark hair tied back. She did not turn around. She did not even slow down.

Almond reached the line first and caught an old man by the arm. The old man stopped. He looked at Almond with gentle, puzzled eyes.

"Let go, son," he said mildly. "I’m only going home."

"That isn’t home."

The old man smiled. It was a kind, patient smile. Then he gently pulled his arm free and kept walking.

"Marcus!" Almond shouted.

Voice.

Stop, Marcus said, into every head on the slope. Stop walking. That house isn’t yours. Go back.

The walkers paused, every one of them. They stood still on the slope for a moment, looking confused.

Then they started walking again.

"It isn’t working," Marcus said. His nose was already bleeding. "They can hear me. They just don’t care. It’s not that they’ve forgotten anything. They want to go."

Natalia grabbed a woman by both shoulders and held her. The woman did not fight. She simply stood there, gently pushing forward, like water pressing against a wall.

"I can’t hold them all," Natalia said.

Rudra stepped out in front of the line.

He stood on the slope between the walkers and the gray house. He looked at them, and then back down at Westhollow, at the dim stones and the twisted silver tree.

"It wants them to leave," he said. "It doesn’t care which way. That’s what Tarren told us."

True Heading.

He turned his back on the house and pointed down the hill.

"That way," he said. "Home is that way. Anyone who follows me can’t be turned from it."

The walkers hesitated.

Then, one by one, they turned around. Their faces did not change. They still looked calm and gentle and a little puzzled. But the orb had them now, and Rudra was walking back down the hill toward the stones, and they followed him.

The old man walked past Almond with the same mild smile.

"Going home," he said.

"Yes," said Almond. "You are."

But Mira had not turned.

She had been at the very front of the line, farther up the slope than the rest. Rudra’s heading had not caught her. She was still walking toward the open door, step after slow step, and she was nearly halfway there.

Tarren caught up to her and threw his arms around her from behind. She stopped walking. She stood very still in his arms.

"Mira," he said. His voice was breaking. "Mira, it’s me. It’s Tarren. I came back. I brought help."

Mira turned her head and looked at him. Her face was calm.

"Tarren," she said. "You came home too."

"That’s not home. Mira, look at it."

"It is." She smiled at him. It was the most peaceful smile Almond had ever seen. "Essa’s there. She went ten days ago. She’s waiting for us. Can’t you feel it?"

Tarren’s arms went slack for just a moment.

Mira gently stepped out of them and walked on.

"Ainen," Almond said.

Ainen had not been running. He had been standing at the bottom of the slope the whole time, with his hands at his sides, looking up at the gray house.

"I know," Ainen said quietly. "I’m thinking."

"Think faster."

"It’s a host," Ainen said. "You don’t beat a host by pulling people away from its door. You beat a host by being a better one." He took his pack off his shoulder. "I need a fire."

"Here? Now?"

"Right here. Right in the middle of the path, between the stones and the house." He was already kneeling, pulling kindling and a small iron pot out of the pack. "Natalia, hold her for one minute. Just one."

Natalia ran up the slope. She caught Mira by both arms and held on.

Ainen struck a spark.

Hearth.

The fire caught at once. It burned clean and warm and much too bright for its size. The heat of it rolled out over the cold slope like a hand on a frozen cheek.

He put the pot on the fire and poured in water from his skin. He took out a handful of flour, a little salt, and the last of the dried meat from the journey.

Long Harvest.

He pressed his hands on the lump of dough in his palm. It rose at once. It swelled and puffed and turned golden, as if it had been rising all night and baking for an hour. The smell of fresh bread rolled out across the slope.

It was not a large smell. But it was real.

Mira stopped pushing against Natalia’s hands.

She turned her head, slowly. She looked down the slope at the small fire burning in the middle of the path, and at the round, plump man kneeling beside it with a loaf of bread in his hands.

"What is that?" she asked.

"Dinner," Ainen said.

He broke the loaf in half. Steam rose from the inside.

"I don’t know you," Ainen said. "And you don’t know me. But you look hungry, and it’s cold out here, and I’ve got bread. Come and sit down."

Mira looked at the bread. Then she looked back up the hill, at the gray house with its open door.

"There’s food in there," she said uncertainly.

"Is there?" Ainen asked gently. "Have you seen it? Has anyone ever come back out and told you about it?"

Mira did not answer.

"I’m a cook," Ainen said. "That’s all I’ve ever been. I’ve fed kings and slaves and starving gods. I know what a table looks like when someone’s actually sitting at it." He held out the bread. "That house up there has its door open. But there’s no fire inside. There’s no smell of cooking. Nobody’s laughing. Nobody’s arguing about who gets the last piece." He shook his head. "That’s not a home. That’s a home with nobody in it."

Host.

"Come and sit down," he said again.

Mira took one step down the hill.

Then another.

Natalia let go of her arms. Mira walked down the slope to the small fire, slowly, the way someone walks in a dream. She knelt across from Ainen in the grass and took the half loaf from his hands.

She held it for a long moment. It was warm.

Then she bit into it. Her face crumpled, and she began to cry.

Tarren dropped to his knees beside her. He put his arms around her, and this time she did not step out of them. She held on to him with the bread still in her hand and sobbed into his shoulder.

"It’s real," she said. "It’s warm. Tarren, it’s real."

"I know," Tarren said. "I know. I’m here."

Ainen sat back on his heels and watched them. His face was very tired.

"That’s one," he said quietly.

They walked her back into Westhollow with the others.

The town was small and gray and very quiet. Hardly any lights were burning in the windows. In the middle of it stood a great twisted tree with silver bark, its branches drooping almost to the ground. Its leaves had gone pale.

The warden met them under the tree.

He was a tall old man with a long white beard, leaning heavily on a staff. He looked as if he had not slept in forty days. When he saw Tarren, he closed his eyes for a moment.

"You came back," he said.

"I brought help," said Tarren. "Warden, this is Almond. From Brightwater."

The warden opened his eyes and looked at Almond. Then at the others standing behind him in the dim light.

"Brightwater is dead," he said. "Two hundred years dead. I’ve heard the stories since I was a boy."

"It’s not dead anymore," Almond said.

The warden looked at him for a long time. Then he let out a breath that seemed to go on forever.

"My name is Callum," he said. "Welcome to Westhollow. What’s left of it."

Hessa went to the stones that night.

She walked the whole ring the way she had walked Greywatch’s. She laid her hands on every one.

Relight.

Each stone she touched flared up bright and white. For a moment the whole ring blazed.

Then, slowly, they began to dim again.

Hessa stood at the last stone with her hand still on it and watched the light fade under her palm.

"It doesn’t hold," she said quietly, when Almond came to find her. "I can wake them. But I can’t keep them awake. The line isn’t broken. It’s just... forgetting. As long as that thing sits on the hill, it’ll keep forgetting."

"Then we deal with the thing on the hill."

"Yes."

Almond looked up the slope at the gray house in the dark. Its windows were empty. Its door stood open.

"Ainen," he said. "Can you taste it from here?"

Ainen had been sitting on the steps of the warden’s house with Mira and Tarren. He got up and came over, wiping his hands on his trousers. He stood beside Almond and looked up at the hill.

Taste.

He was quiet for a long time.

"There are people in there," he said at last.

Almond turned to look at him.

"Not dead," Ainen said slowly. "Not all of them. I can taste them. Hundreds. They’re very faint, like bread that’s been left out for days. But they’re there." He swallowed. "They’re sitting at tables. All of them. In rooms that look like their own homes. Waiting for a dinner that’s never going to come."

Behind them, Mira made a small sound.

"Essa," she whispered.

"Then we go in," Almond said.

"Not you," said Ainen.

Almond looked at him.

"You don’t fight a host," Ainen said. "Not on its own doorstep. You’d go in with your blade and your orbs, and it would sit you down at a table that looks just like Brightwater, with Lily across from you." He shook his head. "And you’d stay."

"And you wouldn’t?"

"I would," Ainen said. "If it was just a table."

He looked up at the gray house.

"But I’m not going to sit at its table," he said. "I’m going to bring my own."