The woman replied in the same unfamiliar language, her eyes narrowed.
“I’m sorry, I don’t—” I broke off in a gasp as the tree tightened its grip around my chest. My eyes watered from the pain, but I tried to hold the woman’s gaze.
More Drifters emerged from the trees, several armed with bows and spears they trained on us. There were seven now, too many for us to overcome without weapons. No—how could I even consider that? If we tried to fight the Drifters, their trees would crush us.
Speaking amongst themselves in their rapid, fluid language, the Drifters examined us and prodded at us with the butts of their spears. Perhaps we were enough of a curiosity that they wanted to learn who we were before they killed us—we were obviously not Whitish, and our lack of supplies meant we were not traders either. They might have heard the arrows behind us and guessed we had fled pursuit.
I had to try.
“I—” I said faintly, pointed at my chest with my one free hand— “am queen—” I made a crown on my head with my hand— “of Itrea.” I pointed back through the trees in what I assumed was the direction of Baylore.
Some of my meaning must have gotten through, because the Drifters’ voices took on an urgent tone, and they gestured at me repeatedly.
Black spots danced before my eyes. I fought to draw breath, but the branch would not ease its crushing grip around my ribs. I swayed on my feet, blinking hazily at the Drifters. I was going to pass out. I—
The tree released me.
With its support gone, I collapsed to my knees, coughing between gasping breaths. My vision wavered and cleared, and I clambered weakly back to my feet. Behind me, my friends were released as well. Baridya stood stiffly exactly where the tree had trapped her, while Mellicante stepped hurriedly away from her captor, throwing the tree a dark look.
Sharing a concerned look, the Drifters gestured at us to follow them.
We picked our way through the forest, the sound of our passage muffled by the layer of decaying leaves. Deeper and deeper we went, birdsong ringing through the canopy above, the trees shifting branches and roots to clear the path ahead of us. The sun had risen by now, but the dense canopy scattered its light—I could not tell which direction we walked. Without the help of the Drifters, we would never find our way out of the woods.
My nerves were taut, and I jumped at every snapping twig and rustle in the undergrowth. Would the Drifters care that I had once been queen? Would they spare our lives? Or were the politics of Itrea irrelevant to them?
We must have walked for nearly an hour, because our captors were beginning to yawn and stumble. My friends had slowed to a shuffling gait; Baridya looked as though she could hardly keep her eyes open. If we did not find someone who spoke Whitish soon, so I could explain my power, they would all start dropping to the ground asleep.
At long last, I caught the smell of smoke drifting through the trees. As we approached, I could hear a low murmur of voices.
When we rounded a final stand of trees, a clump of branches lifting out of our path, I saw Drifters clustered around several dozen campfires, cooking vegetables and meat skewered on sticks. At first I could not see any sign of dwellings; then I caught sight of a child emerging from a hollow tree, parting the curtain of hanging vines that covered the entrance. Wolves, bobcats, and foxes wove through the camp, occasionally rubbing against one of the Drifters or taking a morsel of meat from their hands.
Many of the Drifters turned to stare at us, some curious, some hostile. One of our captors shouted something to the camp, and the chatter fell silent. A man emerged from between two trees and picked his way toward us, expression hard. He had a long, flat nose and unusually shaped eyes, flat on the bottom and curving on top, which shone with resentment.
After conferring briefly with our captors, he addressed me.
“My name is Dakolth. Nitholt brought you here because she says you claim to be royalty.” His tone was curt, his Whitish flawless though heavily accented.
“I am. My name is Kalleah, and I was queen of Itrea until recently—when I was forced to flee Baylore to escape the persecution of Whitish priests.”
Dakolth’s eyes widened fractionally. Not taking his gaze from my face, he translated my words. Before he finished, a storm of whispering passed through the camp.
One of our captors yawned widely, and I said, “Your friends should get away from me. My power drains energy from anyone nearby, and they will collapse if they don’t leave soon.”
Before Dakolth could translate, the onlookers edged closer, several bold children darting right up to his side and staring at me.
“Hello,” one girl said with a shy smile.
“Hello,” I replied. “What is your name?”
She ducked behind Dakolth and did not respond. I guessed “Hello” was the extent of her Whitish.
At a sharp word from Dakolth, our captors melted away into the shadows. Mellicante, Baridya, and Quendon edged away from me.
“Let us speak somewhere private.” Dakolth started through the camp, and I hastened to follow. We circled around several more campfires, a wolf trailing behind us, until we reached one where an elderly man and woman who faintly resembled Dakolth were cooking something wrapped in leaves. When he took a seat beside them and said something softly in his own language, the couple retreated.
At a gesture from Dakolth, I sat on a stump just across from him, while my friends hovered in the background, staying ten paces away from me.
“You are not the first ruler of Itrea to come to us for aid,” Dakolth said bluntly.
I stared at him. No one had mentioned that in my history lessons.
His mouth tightened. “We are not your subjects. A thousand years ago, we stopped a Whitish army from reaching Baylore, and ever since, you monarchs seem to think we exist to do your bidding. But threats to Baylore mean nothing to us. We will not waste our lives fighting your battles.”
“I’m not here to ask for aid,” I said quickly. “We didn’t intend to enter the woods at all. But a group of Whitish soldiers is patrolling the entrance to the forest road, and when we tried to slip past them, they rode after us and tried to shoot us down. We knew the dangers of trespassing in the forest, but we would have died if we hadn’t risked it.”
“And why is the queen of Itrea traveling the forest road with only three companions and no guards?”
“I’m no longer queen. I lost my throne when the city rose up against me.”
“Why should I trust a displaced queen? What have you done to lose your throne?”
I hugged my arms across my stomach—even now, the shouts of rioting townspeople rang clearly in my memory, mingled with the searing heat and suffocating smoke of the fire I thought would kill me. “I’m an Extractor. One of the forbidden races. My people hated me long before I took the throne.”
“I see. And if you say you don’t want aid, what do you want from us?”
“We want to leave the forest safely. We need to reach Larkhaven so we can raise an army to free Baylore. That’s all. I won’t ask anything more of you.”
“Your request is not that simple. You don’t merely want to leave the woods; you want us to grant safe passage in the direction of Larkhaven. It is a dangerous precedent to set. Will you return to Baylore and tell others that any politically important refugees who enter the woods will be escorted safely through? What arrogance.” His tone was sharp. “You grant no such accommodations to Drifters who travel to Baylore—at your people’s behest, no less. We make great sacrifices to serve as healers for your people, yet when we arrive in Baylore, we are stranded to make our own way. No matter that we cannot speak Whitish and have no Itrean coin to provide for ourselves. Do you know how many Drifters go through the process of taking on healing powers, cutting short their own lives in the process, with dreams of living in Baylore—only to give up and return home within quarters?”
“I didn’t know,” I said softly. The Reycoran family medic was a Drifter, and she had saved my
life after I was poisoned, yet I had never thought about why she was in Baylore. “But I won’t say anything. I don’t want to drag you into our politics.”
“You don’t understand. The very act of sheltering an important figure is a political move. It is a blatant decision to favor the Itrean government.”
“And who would you favor instead? The Whitish?”
“Ourselves. Granting you safe passage will send the wrong message to your people. Perhaps you won’t ask for aid, but someone will, some day before long. They will ask us to serve as weapons or healers for them, with no regard for our safety. For our independence.”
I knew very little about relations between Itrea and the Wandering Woods, but from the sounds of it, our people ignored or exploited the Drifters depending on what suited them best. I could not explain away our long history of mistreatment. I took a deep breath. “I agree in principle with everything you’re saying. I think it’s disgraceful that we treat you as we do, and if I ever take the throne again, I would like to change the way our two nations work together. But…”
“What?”
“I think these are exceptional times. We are facing attack from the Whitish army—the world’s most powerful military force—and that won’t just affect Itrea. We might be separate nations, but we share the same continent. Whitish people hate magic. I think part of why they’re here is to finish what they started more than a thousand years ago—to stamp out all magic in the world. Once they conquer us, they’ll turn on the woods.”
“We can fight them off. We’ve done it before.”
“And they know that. They won’t run blindly into the woods this time. They’ll attack from the outside, with weapons designed to destroy your trees.”
“Our trees can move. We can come after them, whether or not they set foot in the woods.”
“Is that your plan, then? To allow the Whitish army to take over Itrea and add it to their empire? To watch enemy soldiers and priests march through the forest and lay waste to Baylore?”
“Once again, you are looking at this only from your perspective,” Dakolth snapped. “They are your enemies, not ours. It is your land they are marching to take, not ours. Why should we take sides? In doing so, we would give the Whitish a reason to attack us. Right now they are ignoring us. That suits us. Why shouldn’t we let your armies and the Whitish armies fight until both sides are weakened? We are less likely to be disturbed if that happens.”
I dug my nails into my palms, frustrated. He was right. Then I looked at him more closely—his smooth face creased with anger, his dark eyes locked on mine. He was right, but that wasn’t the whole picture.
“Why do you speak Itrean, then, if you care so little for us?” I asked slowly. “Why do Drifters travel to Baylore to take positions as healers? My family’s medic is a Drifter. Would you abandon her and others like her to die at the hands of the Whitish? Or are they outliers? Too insignificant to matter?”
Dakolth’s mouth tightened.
“You’re not as removed from this as you pretend to be. The coming war will affect your people, even if it doesn’t encroach on the Wandering Woods.”
“Why are you so certain it will come to war?”
“Baylore has fallen into the hands of Whitish priests. Trade from Larkhaven is cut off. The economy will start suffering if we can’t regain our port before long, and people will grow desperate. Something is happening in Larkhaven as well, though I don’t know what. The Whitish army is tightening its hold on us, day by day, and unless we raise an army of our own, we will soon lose everything.”
Dakolth said nothing.
“If I regain the throne someday, I want to make Itrea a better place. I don’t want to remain ignorant to everything you brought up. And it’s not just the Drifters who are treated poorly—many of the forbidden races are far less dangerous than I am, yet they are viewed as criminals, as monsters who have no place in society. We pretend to be such a tolerant nation, but we leave so many people out of that circle of tolerance. I won’t let things continue as they are.”
“What would you do for our people?” Dakolth asked.
“I don’t know enough yet to make decisions on what would best serve your people. I would want to appoint a Drifter as my advisor. You are right in saying we value your people’s service as healers and medics greatly, and we would need to come up with a system to properly support and compensate your healers for the sacrifice they make. I know how it feels to be an outcast in Baylore. I won’t let this situation continue. And if your people want it, I hope to give them more say in the future of Itrea. We may be separate nations, but our decisions affect one another.”
Dakolth sat in silence for so long that I worried I had offended him. He studied me, unblinking, his expression unreadable. I tried not to fidget under the weight of his stare.
At last he nodded. “I do believe our future will be smoother if you reclaim the throne and do as you say you intend to. I will try to persuade the village elder to grant you safe passage.”
6
Race to the Road
N early an hour later, Dakolth returned, looking grim. “Are you ready?”
I jumped to my feet—sitting by the fire, the warmth washing over my face, I had fallen into a daze. “Are we allowed to go safely?”
“The elder has granted us until sunrise tomorrow to reach the road. I had hoped to lead you closer to Larkhaven, in case your enemies are patrolling the forest road, but we won’t make much distance before dawn tomorrow.”
My friends rose as well. Baridya had been asleep with her back against a tree, her head on Mellicante’s shoulder, while Quendon had sat massaging his knee. When he approached, his gait was stiff. I hoped he had not injured himself.
As we picked our way through camp, stares and whispers followed us once more. I caught sight of Nitholt, one of our captors; she inclined her head to me, her expression half-wary, half-respectful. My stomach twisted—I had made such grand promises to Dakolth, speaking of grand dreams for a better future, yet I had no idea if we would even survive the journey to Larkhaven.
At last we left the camp behind, the voices and crackling of flames fading into ringing birdsong and rustling branches. The earthy smell of decay replaced smoke from the fires, and the trees grew closer together, the sunlight fading.
Dakolth set a brisk pace, his stride steady despite the uneven ground, while the rest of us stumbled along behind. A hundred questions filled my mind—how did he know his way through the woods when every tree looked the same? Why had previous monarchs gone to the Wandering Woods for help? If I were to work more with his people in the future, did they have a larger government, or did each tribe rule itself independently?
I was afraid these questions would offend him, so instead I said tentatively, “Your Whitish is excellent. How did you learn to speak it so well?”
Dakolth glanced over his shoulder, his stride faltering. We had fallen several paces behind him.
“Do you want to make it past your enemies by sunrise?” he asked tightly.
“We’re not used to walking in this blasted forest,” Mellicante said. “We’re doing the best we can.”
Dakolth slowed and waited until I drew alongside him.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Did my question offend you?”
“No.” He paused, picking his way more carefully across the mess of roots and moss underfoot. “My mother was a healer in Larkhaven. My father and brothers remained here, but I went to live with her at the age of ten. I was too curious about what lay beyond the forest—my father said he always knew I would leave.
“I was twenty-six when my mother underwent her transformation and became a tree. She is not gone, but in a way it is as though she died. I had the choice to go through the ritual and take her place as healer, or return home. I returned.”
We walked in silence for several minutes, Dakolth drawing ahead once more. I could not see his expression.
“Almost no one ever returns. The outside worl
d is too exciting, too comfortable. But no one at the Larkhaven court seemed to understand my mother’s sacrifice. I did not want to cut my life short for people who treated me as expendable. I hoped that by returning here, I could pass on my new knowledge and give my people more of a voice in the future of Itrea.”
“Would you…consider taking the position as my advisor?” I asked.
Dakolth sighed. “Perhaps.”
His stride quickened once more, and I slowed to allow my companions to pass before falling into step ten paces behind them. They were tired enough without my power draining them further.
On we marched through the day, the forest fading to a monotonous green, the sun muted behind the ceiling of leaves. Every stretch of forest looked the same to me—we could be walking in circles for all I knew. I had no way of gauging how much progress we made save the growing ache in my legs and ankles, which protested each time I stepped on an uneven root.
More than once, I tripped, sprawling onto my hands and knees. The first time I did, I was surprised to find the ground soft and springy. As I stumbled back to my feet, cursing and brushing dirt from my hands, a pair of roots wriggled their way across the clear patch of ground that had just cushioned my fall. Had the nearby tree moved its roots aside to protect me?
“Thank you,” I whispered, though I doubted the tree could hear me or understand Whitish.
As the day drew on, the light began to fade. Still we pressed on, past endless tree trunks as wide as the tower I had once slept in, over uneven mossy ground. The birdsong faded with the sun, until we walked in quiet shadows.
We walked until Baridya fell and began crying when she tried to get up. I was coping better than my companions, thanks to the energy I had drained earlier in the day, but every muscle screamed in protest. Quendon looked like he suffered most of all—his face was stark white beneath his snowy hair, and he had begun walking with a heavy limp several hours past.
“Let us rest,” I begged Dakolth, my voice cracking. I was close to tears as well.
Renegade Queen : A Court Intrigue Fantasy (The Forbidden Queen Series Book 3) Page 5