Eternal Forest: The Shadow of the Throne

by Faith Naff

  “Who is in charge here?!” bellowed a centaur as he stepped out onto the road in the middle of the group. Even in the darkness, Oakleaf could make out some striking features about him. The hair of his lower body was slate gray, matching the cascade of long braids on his head. His beard was only stubble, but was groomed and shaped with meticulous precision. His skin was pale, making a few of his battle scars visible even in the moonlight. He gripped a long spear in his right hand with an ornately crafted blade at the tip. It was no common spear, and he was no common centaur.

  Oakleaf swallowed her fear and stepped towards the gray centaur. “This troupe is under my command,” she said proudly. Even though Moonbeam wasn’t with her anymore, she could still feel the Seryan’s essence as though she were right behind her, watching her, judging her.

  “What business do you have in centaurian land, leaf-ear?” he demanded. His words made her heart burn with anger. Leaf-ear was an old and hateful slur against elves. She’d heard it spoken few times in her life and never had someone called her such until now.

  “It is Temple business and none of yours,” she said authoritatively. Deja vu was starting to overwhelm her. This gray centaur was the faerie captain before her once again, taunting and mocking as bullies with all the power were prone to do. This was her moment for redemption, and even if it got her killed, she would not show weakness to another again. “I and those in my company are upon the road and you are blocking our path. Depending on your status in Ironhoof, your entire race could be held in defiance of the Pact. So, the more important question here is who are you and why are you standing in my way?”

  The moonlight reflected off the centaur’s eyes a little brighter as he opened them in shock. He clearly wasn’t expecting such open defiance and he seemed unsure of what to do next. His front hooves beat against the ground in anger. He seemed to be fighting the urge to simply kill her for her disrespect. The fact that he wasn’t showed he was smarter than he was ruthless.

  “Your way will not be barred for long,” the gray centaur responded. His voice had lost its commanding tone, but still held a bit of hostility. “But travelers upon this road are rare, especially in such numbers and at such a late hour. I don’t believe our suspicions are unfounded.”

  Oakleaf smiled. The centaur seemed to have underestimated her and he knew it. He had numbers and strength on his side, but the law was on hers and she guessed he’d not counted on her knowing that. Her pride urged her to keep pushing, to unleash her pent up anger on him, but sense held her back. Besides, the acolytes clearly didn’t share her confidence as they cowered and whimpered around her. More than a personal chance for redemption, this was an opportunity for them to see her as a strong leader; a perfect first step in her larger scheme.

  “We’re not here to cause trouble, I assure you,” Oakleaf said. She did her best to walk the line between sounding powerful and sounding hostile. “In fact, our business in Ironhoof may prove as beneficial to you as it is to me.”

  The gray centaur relaxed his stance, leaning on his spear like a crutch instead of brandishing it menacingly. “I’m listening.”

  “The Temple is searching for two fugitives. They are fleeing crimes committed during the Balisekt War.”

  “We didn’t participate in your skirmish with the savages,” the centaur scoffed. “This has nothing to do with us.”

  “Patience, friend,” Oakleaf insisted. “I’m not finished yet. We’ve searched all the territories for them except for yours, meaning they’ve either fled to the Savage Lands or they’re hiding under your very noses.”

  The centaur straightened up again and Oakleaf could see anger behind his eyes again. “Careful, elf of the Temple. Your words carry more implications than you may intend. Our scouts patrol the Wilds daily. No one hides in centaurian land without our knowledge.”

  “Your territory is vast, stretching quite far from Ironhoof,” Oakleaf retorted. “It would take a small army to search your Wilds in great detail.”

  “And I suppose you’re offering this band of finely robed weaklings as such an army?”

  Oakleaf took a deep breath. She knew what he was trying to do. The law was on her side, but if he could taunt her into saying or doing the wrong thing, the tables would turn. It didn’t even need to be her. If he could get one acolyte to lash out with their magic, it would become a hostile invasion of centaurian land and Oakleaf would be the one going before the Tri-leaf Council on charges. All she could do was keep her composure and hope her acolytes followed the example.

  “What is your name?” she asked.

  “I am Kortath, the right hand of Zerus, Lord of Ironhoof,” he said proudly.

  “Hail Zerus!” the other centaurs bellowed in unison as their right fists struck their chests. The motion startled the acolytes, but none did anything to escalate the situation.

  “Kortath, I am Oakleaf, a priestess of the Lady’s Temple.”

  Kortath chuckled. “Your dainty deity holds no power here. Don’t give me your title unless it carries real weight.”

  Oakleaf’s fists clenched at her sides and she bowed her head. Kortath knew exactly what to say that would set her off. All she could think about was sending a fireball straight into the centaur’s face in hopes of burning out his blasphemous tongue, but she pushed the image away. “Seeing that you are out here with your men so late, I trust the scouts patrolling the Wilds are under your command?”

  Kortath nodded.

  “If that’s the case, I’m sure dismissing my report would prove embarrassing for you if I turned out to be right. I can just imagine how damaging it would be to your reputation if it was discovered by someone else that an elf and a faerie were living off your land like parasites and you didn’t even notice.”

  “I will say this for the last time, elf. Your fugitives are not here and never were. I will comply with the law and let you pass, but you will find neither your prize nor any aid in Ironhoof.” He was about to continue when another soldier approached from his right. Kortath leaned over as the soldier whispered something into his ear. Oakleaf tried to make out the words, but was unable. Kortath gave the soldier a puzzled look.

  “When did you learn this?” he demanded.

  “Just two days ago, sir,” the soldier responded. Oakleaf wanted to ask what was going on, but she knew she’d get no answer worth her while.

  Kortath turned his attention to her once again. “It seems there’s been a change in plans,” he said.

  “And am I privy to an explanation?” she asked.

  “Only that we’re all leaving for Ironhoof immediately,” Kortath responded. “There’s someone there who will want to speak with you.”

  Chapter 20

  Even when Dewdrop wasn’t out amongst her people, she could sense their anxiety. Worry and fear had become so prevalent in Windsong that they were inescapable. Faeries stayed home as much as possible, leaving the common areas of the city mostly empty. Those that did venture out seemed perpetually nervous. A lot about a faerie’s mood could be determined by their wings. If the wings were down at their sides, they were relaxed and at ease. If spread out wide they were anxious or afraid, ready to fly away at the first sign of danger. Wherever the faerie queen looked, the wings she saw were as wide as possible, even in her presence, where expanded wings were considered rude.

  Every visitor she saw brought a different variation on the same message. They told of frightened citizens, exhausted Thorns, and an economy brought to a halt by uncertainty. It all had the same underlying cause: worry that Tranquility may punish them for defying the Temple. An evening report telling of goblins patrolling the border only served to make matters worse. The Rose sent each faerie away with the same responses. She assured their safety and asked them to reassure the citizenry that Tranquility simply didn’t have the power it was brandishing. Either the message wasn’t resonating with the faeries, or wasn’t being delivered. Either way, it was becoming apparent that the people would need to hear from the Rose herself.r />
  She’d spent the night soul searching after Mantis’ report. Sealed away in her tiny apartment below the palace, the air became cold and her eyes became adjusted to the near darkness. Little sleep came to her, so she spent the long hours amongst the few possessions of her former life she still had. Her hands explored the trinkets, recalling how they felt in her years before becoming the Rose, but they offered her comfort more than a chance to reminisce. Her mind wasn’t on the past, but on something even more forbidden. She couldn’t stop thinking about Sparrow.

  She was able to fool herself at first, convinced that she was concerned for the Thorn captain’s mission and not the faerie herself. After all, she was still greatly concerned for Firefly, and from that concern the quest was born. However, all Dewdrop’s mind could recall was that night in her chamber beneath the stage. When she finally admitted that the moment would never stop haunting her thoughts, she wondered if it was solely due to the nature of the meeting. Sparrow had seen Dewdrop, not the Rose, when they met in secret. Everything about the encounter went against hundreds of years of faerie tradition. It was enough to stick in the mind of any troubled soul, but it wasn’t worry she felt when she recalled the moment. She didn’t know what it was at first because she’d never felt it before. It was a feeling she’d only heard about and never thought she’d experience for herself.

  She’d never been in love before.

  And that was the simple, horrifying truth. It was unlikely as it was illegal, but the realization had come with the dawn. Throughout Sparrow’s career in the assassin order, Dewdrop had always known there was something special about her. Every move she made and word she spoke resonated with her. Her smile made Dewdrop’s legs feel weak, and she found it increasingly difficult to keep up the facade of her station in her presence. When she addressed the Captain as herself and not the queen, it was out of necessity. Deep down, she knew she couldn’t be the Rose if the two of them were alone.

  She announced the meeting the following morning. Her soldiers were dispatched throughout the city to share the news: the Rose would address all of Windsong and bring peace to the faerie realm the following afternoon. It allowed her to clear her schedule to prepare her speech, giving her more time to be alone. Dewdrop had always found considerable skill in crafting words. She could write powerfully moving texts and deliver them with great eloquence.

  Before her time as the Rose she’d been a writer and storyteller. Dewdrop had been on stage many times. Whenever she sat upon the throne and gazed at those in her audience, she couldn’t help but wonder if they remembered her performances. Her words could make them laugh or cry, as if on command. Things changed with her new title. She was no longer weaving stories about events past or fantastical tales from her imagination. When she addressed the faerie world now, she spoke of real things that affected their lives.

  Still, her talents allowed her some control over how her subjects would react to her decrees. They were confident when she spoke strongly, they were sad when she was soft and mournful. Their collective mood rose and fell with the tone and volume of her voice. Today would be her biggest challenge since taking the throne. Windsong had been frightened by the marching balisekt army, but the moment was so fleeting that there was neither time nor reason to react. This was not an immediate threat, but the possibility of one looming over the city.

  Not knowing how Windsong’s punishment would manifest made it worse. Violence from Tranquility was unlikely, but Silvermist was the chosen one of the Lady herself. Defying the Temple was defying the Lady, and the goddess’s power was infinite. If she was going to convince her tribe they had nothing to fear, they would have to know the Lady still favored them, and with that in mind she set out to make her speech.

  The crowd gathered early—very early. The area of the platform surrounding the stage was packed shoulder to shoulder more than an hour before she was scheduled to appear. From her private chamber below the platform, Dewdrop could hear a roar of indiscernible murmuring. It was impossible to make out any single conversation, but they all came together with a universal tone that sounded their worry. She considered going out early. The longer the faeries stood together in anticipation, the more time they had to talk and fuel each other’s fears. It was like adding more wood to an already raging fire. But not sticking to her schedule would expose her own uneasiness. If she was going to convince Windsong it had nothing to fear, she couldn’t appear fearful herself.

  The rumblings above grew louder as she stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her hair and makeup were better than perfect. She would soon be entering her fourth year as the Rose, and practice at readying herself for the public eye had paid off. A trumpet blast sounded, signaling that it was time to make her way to the stage. She stole one last moment to stare at the painted face looking back at her. She didn’t like who she saw. That Rose was a terrible ruler, driven by selfish wants and forbidden desires.

  Dewdrop tilted her head to the side, turning her attention to the reflection of the empty room behind her. A smile came to her. She could still remember seeing Sparrow sitting on the bench by the stairs, her knees knocking together and her hands trembling. She’d been so afraid, and understandably so. What she saw that night, what Dewdrop revealed to her, was not for any eyes to see. Remembering it again made her feel selfish, but she still couldn’t deny that she would have done it again if allowed the chance.

  Her smile disappeared as she turned to ascend the stairs. The front of her dress had to be lifted to keep her from tripping on the thick fabric. Her blue and white wings hung limp behind her. They were the only part of her natural self that couldn’t be changed due to their delicate build, so she’d trained herself to keep them very low and downplay their appearance. With her dress so wide, those standing in front of her couldn’t see them at all.

  The royal guards were standing on either side of her at the top of the steps. Their armor had a matte finish and was as green as the summer leaves. Each held a spear tucked under their right arm with the tip pointing up and behind them. As she reached the top step, the soldiers span the weapons in unison and struck their butts against the ground with a single thwack.

  As Dewdrop climbed regally atop the stage, her eyes beheld the massive gathering of faeries before her. She knew this address would be different from any she’d given previously, but it was now that she truly felt the dynamic difference. In the past, she would walk out on stage to smiling faces and clapping hands. The cheers of the citizenry would echo across the forest. This time she was met with silence. The faces before her were nervous, scared, and angry.

  This was going to be harder than she thought.

  Normally, the Rose would raise her hands to quiet the crowd, but there was no need for such a gesture this time. Instead, she took a pause to study the faces looking back at her. They looked empty, long fatigued by stress and lack of sleep. She cared deeply for her people and wanted to ease their burdens.

  “Citizens of Windsong,” she began in a commanding voice. The forest was silent save for her, making her words echo in the branches of the city. “You don’t need to tell me what troubles your hearts. These are indeed uncertain times.”

  “We have defied the Temple!” a woman shouted from the crowd.

  “We must repent!” a man added.

  Dewdrop flinched. In all her life, she couldn’t recall even hearing of a time when a decree from the Rose was interrupted by someone in attendance. She considered for a moment having the hecklers detained, but doing so would only cause more panic and fear. Instead she raised her palms in a visual plea for quiet. “Peace, please. I do not deny the account. Tranquility ordered entry to our city and I denied them such. I did so because the duty of the Rose has not changed as the world evolves.

  “My station predates the Temple and the Grand Seryan. It has always been the duty of the Rose to advance the needs and causes of the faerie world. Even before the Blight of old, the Lady blessed this station with guidance and strength. When Grand Seryan Si
lvermist sent her...hoard...into our forest, she insulted our entire tribe!”

  There were murmurs about the audience as Dewdrop took a pause. Her ears perked up, scanning the conversations to indicate how her message was received. She could hear a bit of hope in their voices. Like a glowing ember reigniting the extinguished fire of Windsong’s pride, her words were sparking something. Perhaps a bit more wind would make it glow brighter. But reaching down into their souls would take some bitter words to hear.

  “Our sovereignty has always been respected by the Blessed Tribes,” she continued. “The Lady has allowed Windsong to stand as our haven, and the Thorns have worked for years innumerable to keep it safe.” A few cheers came from the crowd and Dewdrop knew she was pulling them in. The faerie nation had always been so proud of the Thorns. The assassin order had forever been held in the highest regard and just their mention was enough to rally the citizenry. Nevertheless, it was time for the heavy blow. “But the Thorns protect more than a city, more than a nation. They protect a false reality. They guard a vital lie.”

  More murmurs moved about the crowd, this time with far less enthusiasm. Dewdrop knew she was about to do more harm than good, but sometimes the only way to fix something was to destroy it first.

  “It is something so delicate, so fragile, that just the mention can cause it to shatter. But sometimes things must be broken to remind us how precious they are, to show us what we’ve taken for granted.” She took a deep breath. “The world is too big for us.”

  There was a collective gasp amongst the crowd, followed by an uncomfortable silence. Dewdrop allowed them no time to process what she’d said, instead continuing on with a cold, unfeeling tone. “It’s the truth we all know but never speak of. Our kind has known it since before time was recorded, before the founding of Windsong. The Lady’s forest is so large, so vast, that we tiny faeries would be lost within it. Without this space to call our own, we would be adrift in the Wilds. We would never be a nation of power or influence. There would be no respect, no recognition of our rightful place as one of the Lady’s chosen. We would be a nation of scurrying insects and nothing more.”