Renegade Queen : A Court Intrigue Fantasy (The Forbidden Queen Series Book 3)

by R. J. Vickers

  “Would you like baths first, or dinner?”

  “Baths,” Mellicante said firmly, just as Baridya said, “Dinner.”

  The innkeeper smiled. “The boar isn’t quite roasted yet, so how about I draw up a few baths and send something to your rooms to tide you over?”

  “Thank you very much,” I said fervently.

  In my simple, tidy room at the end of the hall, I found a mirror hanging over a dressing table. I had not seen my reflection in nearly a quarter, and I hardly recognized the face staring back at me. I had braided my hair and wound it into a knot, but without a brush to comb it out each day, it had become a matted, snarled bird’s nest. Dust streaked my face and caked my hair beside my ears. Perhaps it was for the best, though. The grime would have served as an effective disguise—I ran no risk of being mistaken for the former monarch of Itrea while I looked like this.

  A comb sat on the dressing table, so I tugged my hair free of its knot and began working out the snarls as the innkeeper carried bucketfuls of water to fill my bath. Last of all, she brought a platter of crispbread with goat’s cheese and what looked like pickled fern fronds.

  “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate all of this,” I said when she turned to leave at last.

  “It has been far too long since we last hosted travelers. Something is very wrong in Itrea, and I would be interested to hear your perspective on recent events.”

  “Just as I hope to hear yours.”

  When the innkeeper closed the door behind her, I slid the bolt into place and descended on the platter of crispbread. The flavors were unusual, stronger than I was accustomed to, but together the acidic pickled ferns and pungent soft goat’s cheese combined to a surprisingly delicious blend.

  Once I had gobbled down every scrap of food, I stripped off my filthy clothes and sank into the bath. I had nothing clean to wear once I washed, but I would worry about that later.

  Dirt rose around me, darkening the water, as I scrubbed my face and limbs and hair. Tomorrow we would face the dangers of the Wandering Woods, drenched as they were in magic, but right now I thought only of the heat seeping deep into my limbs, the bathwater carrying away days of filth.

  Quendon was already in the dining room when I emerged, wearing my reeking old clothes, and Mellicante and Baridya appeared soon after.

  The innkeeper joined us as we dug into a dinner of roast vegetables and sizzling boar, and we tried to learn as much as we could about what awaited us.

  “We need to travel the forest road,” Mellicante said. “Have you heard reports of any riders patrolling the entrance to the forest?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid. There are at least ten men camped outside the forest at the moment, watching for travelers. I don’t know who employs them.”

  I grimaced. “Are they trying to stop people from leaving Larkhaven, or vice versa?”

  “Both, I think. As I said, no travelers have passed through Borderville in far too long. I would guess they don’t want news passing between the two cities.”

  “Have messengers stopped riding through as well, then?” I asked.

  “As far as I can tell.”

  “But why?”

  The innkeeper leaned forward, a lock of black hair falling into her face. “I don’t like to speak of this, because you never know who might be listening these days.” Her voice was soft and wary. “But you are obviously Itrean. There have been reports of Whitish men arriving on ships into Larkhaven and making their way inland, which we have never allowed before. I don’t know what changed. I fear they have something to do with whatever is happening on the coast. Some of the bandits who live in the woods have approached Larkhaven to investigate, but nothing appears different. We suspect the Whitish are somehow meddling in Itrean affairs, yet we have no idea how or why.”

  “So the Truthbringers are Whitish,” I said grimly. This was bad—I had hoped Larkhaven would become an Itrean stronghold from which to stage the beginnings of a resistance, but it appeared Whitish influence stretched farther than I had anticipated. I was not surprised to find confirmation, at long last, that the Truthbringers were foreign enemies. Yet the implications were dire.

  “What are these Truthbringers?” the innkeeper asked. “I have heard talk of them.”

  “They are Whitish priests who speak of Varos and the evils of magic.” I sawed through a slice of boar, not meeting the innkeeper’s eyes. “It is because of them that we fled Baylore and need to reach Larkhaven safely. They have taken over the city, and are beginning a crusade against the magic races.”

  “What about Queen Kalleah? Won’t she stop them?”

  “She was executed by her rival. King Leoth now sits the throne, and the Truthbringers have free rein over Baylore.”

  The innkeeper gasped. “No! I can’t believe it.”

  I nodded solemnly. It felt strange discussing my own death; I half-expected her to recognize me and call me out for my lie.

  “You won’t find safety in Larkhaven, you know. We could shelter you here, if you wish.”

  I swallowed—for some reason, her offer made my throat close up. I had never been welcomed anywhere before. Of course, she didn’t know who I was. She knew nothing of my curse. “No. We appreciate the offer, but we aren’t about to hide. We hope to make a difference.”

  “Who are you?” the innkeeper whispered.

  “No one of consequence.”

  We ate in silence for a few minutes, the rumble of hunters’ voices filling the room around us. I worried I had revealed too much. If the innkeeper betrayed us, the men patrolling the road would have good reason to hunt us down wherever we fled. If they knew someone was out there, hoping to organize a resistance…

  “Is there any other way into the woods?” Mellicante asked eventually, setting aside her knife. “You have a close relationship with the Drifters. Is there any chance we could organize a guide to lead us through the woods, rather than risking the forest road?”

  “No,” the innkeeper said swiftly. “The Drifters are wary of outsiders, now more than ever. I would not risk venturing off the road. Even those of us with Drifter blood are wary of entering the woods these days. The trees are restless, and they sometimes don’t stop long enough to determine if a trespasser is friend or foe. Set one foot beneath the trees, and your life is forfeit.”

  “What exactly is the nature of the Wandering Woods?” I asked. I had heard the stories—vanishing travelers, secretive natives, and trees that could move on their own—yet I could not tell which details were true.

  “Why do you ask?” the innkeeper said sharply.

  “Because we need to get through to Larkhaven somehow. If we can’t fight our way past the men guarding the entrance to the forest, I don’t see any other way to reach the coast.”

  “You could travel south to King’s Port and sail from there to Larkhaven.”

  “And how many spans would that take us?” I snapped. “Baylore is in trouble now. If we wait much longer, we might never free the capital from the Truthbringers.”

  The innkeeper studied me for a minute, her lips pursed in a thin line. Had I revealed too much? The way I had spoken…it must be obvious to her that we were no common travelers.

  At last she sighed. “The woods are not so much a natural phenomenon as a gathering of Drifter ancestors. They do not merely live within the trees; they live with the trees. Drifters have the ability to undergo a ritual that gives them healing power—in exchange for a shortening of their human lives. Around the age of fifty, their healers transform into the trees that make up the Wandering Woods. Those trees have a vague sense of who they once were, and they are fiercely protective of their descendants. They can move freely, communicating through their roots and bark with other trees and Drifters, so the forest is like one vast organism.

  “And one of the main functions of that organism is keeping out parasites that might disrupt the internal workings. If you were to step off that path, you would face an entire forest ready to crush you into the
ground or suffocate you within the trunks of the ancestor trees or tear your limbs from your body. I would never risk that. Not if you value your lives.”

  I stared at my friends. Baridya’s eyes were wide, and she hugged her arms over her chest. Mellicante was nodding grimly—she must have known this from her travels.

  Outside, I imagined I could hear the trees creaking as they shifted on their roots. The forest carried a menacing weight; even now, they might be sliding their roots around the town, ready to rip every home to pieces. We could never fight off something so vast and unknowable.

  How the plagues were we supposed to reach Larkhaven?

  4

  The Wandering Woods

  A fter four restless hours of sleep, we rose before the sun, hoping we could sneak past the patrol at the forest border while their guard was down. We still had no weapons aside from the daggers Mellicante and Quendon carried.

  My pulse raced as we started along the forest border, moving swiftly and silently. To our right, the trees creaked and rustled, the small feet of animals scrabbling through the undergrowth.

  We had no backup plan. If we failed to make it past the patrol, we had nowhere to escape to, no other way through to Larkhaven. It was terrifying.

  None of my companions spoke, but I could feel their tension. It was not just our lives at risk, but the entire future of Itrea. If we died here on the road, the Truthbringers had won. Nothing else would stand in the way of their crusade of hatred and intolerance.

  We walked by the faint light of Baridya’s Weavers’ crystal, the stone cupped in her hand so it did not cast its light too far. The moon had dwindled to a thin sliver, and dawn was still hours away.

  By the time we neared the main road, the sky was showing hints of lightening to a deep blue. Baridya extinguished her lamp and tucked it away.

  Then, in the distance, we caught sight of it—a campfire flickering in the middle of the road, right where the plains gave way to the Wandering Woods. The flames threw light on three men sitting on rocks by the fire, a handful of tents pitched behind them, ten horses shifting in their sleep nearby.

  “I think we can sneak past them,” Baridya said.

  “They’ll see us,” Mellicante said. “The question is, are they willing to ride down the forest road after us?”

  I assumed they would follow us into the woods, but I said nothing. We had to try.

  We crept closer, as close to the trees as we dared, treading the line of grass just beyond the mossy, leaf-strewn forest floor. Quendon wore Baridya’s cloak, the only one we had not lost in the river, with the hood up to cover his white hair. The rest of us melted into the shadows, our skin and hair and clothing dark enough to hide us. I hoped the scouts had been looking at the flames of their fire, so their eyes were not adjusted to the darkness. That might give us the element of surprise we needed.

  We were nearly upon them. My heartbeat thudded in my ears, and every rustle of grass sounded as loud as a shout. As I rounded the trunk of one colossal tree, the firelight threw the men’s faces into relief, and I realized they had light hair and pale skin—these were no Itrean thugs. They were trained Whitish soldiers, working alongside the Truthbringers to divide Itrea in two.

  “Bloody Varse,” Mellicante whispered.

  I tiptoed closer still, cringing at the snap of a twig underfoot. One last trunk provided shelter between us and the Whitish patrol, but after that, we would be within clear view. We were less than ten paces away; I could hear them shifting on their rocks, the fire crackling as it burnt down to embers.

  “Are you sure we shouldn’t just travel south to King’s Port?” Baridya whispered.

  “No one’s forcing you to do this,” I hissed. “If you want to travel south, go. Do what you want.”

  Baridya’s doubts heightened my anxiety. I moved another step forward, my whole body rigid with fear. If the Whitish soldiers noticed us, I worried I would freeze rather than turning to run.

  Another two steps took me practically on top of the nearest man. He and his fellow had effectively formed a wall across the forest road, blocking the entire entrance with the campfire and their legs. The man’s eyes were fixed on the empty grasslands just a hair’s breadth to my left—I couldn’t believe he had not seen me yet.

  I paused. What we needed was for the men to change the guard or start cooking breakfast—anything to distract them for a few seconds. But the longer we waited, the more color bled into the sky. Before long we would lose our cover of darkness.

  There was no way to get past without the soldiers seeing us. We would have to run for it and hope they were too slow to give chase.

  I took a steadying breath, my heartbeat so loud in my ears I was amazed it had not given us away.

  Then the nearest guard’s eyes snapped onto me.

  Before I could react, he gave a shout of alarm. “We’re under attack!” he yelled.

  Baridya gasped.

  “Run!” I shouted.

  Just as the soldier surged to his feet, I broke into a frantic run, slipping past him onto the forest road. His hand scrabbled at my arm but found no purchase.

  Panic spurred me faster and faster. I couldn’t pause long enough to look back at my friends. It was darker on the forest road, the ground uneven underfoot; I expected a stray rock or root to send me sprawling at any moment. Still I ran.

  From behind, Mellicante shouted wordlessly, and Baridya gave a soft shriek. Then the guard roared in pain, and I heard footsteps pounding behind me. I prayed they belonged to my friends.

  As the road turned a corner, the canopy swallowing the last hint of sunlight, I risked glancing over my shoulder. Three dark shapes were dashing after me, and behind them ran a soldier in white, sword faintly visible as a bright streak in the shadows.

  Then I heard hooves.

  My heart leapt into my throat as the muted thunder of hooves on dirt approached. I ran faster, my breath tearing at my throat, trusting each footfall to luck. That was not just one horse—the other soldiers must have joined the chase.

  A thwack ripped through the air to my right. Arrows.

  My chest contracted in panic. We couldn’t escape.

  I ran faster still, propelling myself frantically forward.

  My foot snagged on something, and I hurtled to the ground, sprawling facedown. It took me a second to realize I had fallen—so much adrenaline coursed through me that I couldn’t tell if I was hurt.

  I scrambled to my feet just as another arrow streaked past.

  My friends caught up to me, the soldier on foot nearly on top of them. The mounted soldiers were about to overtake him.

  “Into the woods,” I gasped. We had no choice.

  Grabbing Baridya’s arm, I threw myself between two trees into the mess of roots and moss and undergrowth. Mellicante and Quendon paused for a split second before shoving their way into the trees after us.

  The hoofbeats slowed.

  Another arrow thwacked past, embedding itself in the vast trunk of a tree rising like a pillar behind us.

  I pushed my way deeper into the woods. The trees were beginning to stir around me, but if we did not put distance between ourselves and the soldiers, they would shoot us down. The very air tasted different in here—humid and thick with the smell of decaying humus.

  Several more arrows whizzed through the trees around us, but they landed far off the mark. Looking over my shoulder, I could no longer see the soldiers. We were less than twenty paces from the road, yet the forest had engulfed us entirely.

  When I took another step forward, a root rippled underfoot and threw me off balance. With a cry of surprise, I caught myself on the trunk of the nearest tree.

  Deeper still, the branches shifted and twisted around us, forming a solid wall of trees on either side of our path and closing off our retreat. The forest seemed to be pushing us in the direction it wanted us to walk, and I did not dare deviate from its chosen path.

  Then Baridya shrieked. I whirled to see her swaying on the spo
t, a root twining its way around her foot and up her ankle.

  “Get off her, you bastard,” Mellicante growled, dropping to her knees and trying to pry the root away with her hands.

  Quendon drew his dagger, but Mellicante grabbed his wrist. “No. If you try to hurt the tree, the whole forest will turn against us.”

  “This isn’t the forest turning against us?” Baridya gasped.

  “We’re still alive.”

  Just then, a branch whipped out and wrapped itself around my wrist. I shouted in alarm and yanked at it, but the branch curled its way up my arm to my shoulder. When I gave another tug, the branch tightened, cutting off my circulation.

  Entire trees began shifting, closing in a circle around us. A root snaked from the ground and bound my foot in place, while a branch snagged Mellicante around the waist. Backing away, Quendon stepped right into a tree, which curled a huge branch around his chest like a cruel embrace.

  I struggled and fought against the branches tying me down, but they did not yield. With each movement, they tightened their grip. The branch on my arm slithered its way farther, wrapping around my chest and squeezing the air from my lungs.

  We were trapped.

  Just as I fought to draw breath, two Drifters stepped from the shadows.

  5

  Dakolth

  “H elp,” I croaked. “Please don’t kill us.”

  The Drifters drew near, examining us with flat stares. One stepped around me to tug the dagger from Quendon’s trapped hand, while another cut the straps of Baridya’s pack and examined the contents with curiosity. They conferred in a rapid, unfamiliar tongue, gesturing back the way we had come. The woman’s black hair was braided and fastened around her head like a halo, while the man’s hair was cropped short. Their brown skin was paler than ours, their cheekbones prominent.

  “Please,” I whispered again, fighting to breathe past the vice around my chest. “I’m the queen of Itrea. If I die, the Whitish will win. They won’t stop at conquering the plains. They’ll turn next on the forest.”