The Forests of Dru

by Jeffe Kennedy

  “Is that a threat, sorceress?” Nolan asked on a queer intake of breath, a waft of old fear in the air. He’d been on the battlefield at Bára and thus witnessed the mighty—and showy—battle magics of the priests. And he’d nearly died there. No doubt he suffered night terrors, too, as Lonen still did, from the things they’d witnessed. She misliked playing on those wounds, but she’d spoken true: her loyalty lay with Lonen. Or rather, with what was right and true, though she hadn’t been able to think of a way to say that without sounding naïve. Fortunately, she and Lonen agreed on what those things were.

  She hoped. It didn’t bear thinking what she might do if they diverged on that.

  “A threat?” she echoed with a bemused smile. “How could that be, if we are among friends?”

  Lonen didn’t stir, but his amusement—and a hint of annoyance—filtered from him. “Let us sit,” he declared, holding the chair Arnon had vacated for Oria, giving her an opaque look from eyes gone to granite.

  “I thought it was funny.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But my people have a saying: if you singe the wolf’s tail, be ready for his teeth to follow.”

  “Derkesthai like to battle wolves? Seems… unnatural.”

  He sniffed mentally. “It’s true that it’s unfair. They stand no chance against us. But it can be a fun game. For younglings.”

  She folded in the smile at that and stroked his tail, beyond glad to have him with her in this.

  “Really, should there be animals at the table?” Natly’s question pierced the general shuffling of everyone reseating themselves. She possessed a voice as lush and sultry as her figure, but the querulous undertone made Oria want to wince. “After all,” Natly continued, “the Destrye no longer allow hounds and fowl to pick at our table leavings. We don’t behave like barbarians.”

  “At least, not in the last week,” Arnon quipped. “The journey from brute to civilized man seems fraught with pitfalls and backsliding. Back in the day, allowing women at the table was considered the height of weakness.”

  Oria, at last gratefully sipping the wine a servant poured, nearly choked on it. Her gaze flew to Arnon who leaned around her to send his verbal sally to Natly. He gave her a twitch of a smile, which broadened when Natly made a noise between a shriek and a growl.

  “She is a woman, too!” Natly stabbed a finger at Oria that flashed with a long, pointed, and painted bejeweled nail.

  “This ‘she’ you refer to is my wife and queen.” Lonen’s voice, on the other hand, was pure growl. “You will show—”

  “That is a matter of debate and—” Nolan spoke over him, then broke off when Lonen spun on him, nearly nose to nose.

  “Respect. You will all show respect and behave like adults, not children, before our people, for at least the span of time it takes to eat a meal. Our father would expect that much of us.” He leaned around his brother. “That includes you, Natly, though you are not, I might point out, a member of this family.”

  “I wondered when you’d acknowledge me,” she pouted.

  “I don’t even know why you’re here.”

  “How can you say that, after what we’ve been together?”

  “I spoke to you about this, Natly, at length. That was meant to be the end of things.”

  He had? When had that happened? Lonen had mentioned nothing about it to Oria. Though she supposed that wasn’t an easy tidbit to drop into conversation. And his personal business. She didn’t envy him that confrontation.

  “You don’t get to just tell me things are done,” Natly gritted out.

  “I’m king,” Lonen said simply and turned back to Oria, dismissing his former betrothed with studied disinterest. Waving away a servant who sought to serve Oria from a platter of meat, he signaled to another who brought a special plate just for her. A large bowl of grains in a simmering broth, loaded with vegetables and graced by a puff pastry made golden with the Destrye butterfat, it made her mouth water and her stomach leap with interest.

  “Thank you,” she whispered to Lonen, enjoying the way his silvery eyes lingered on her lips. He smiled at her.

  “Scary sorceress,” he murmured, gaze glinting with pure humor.

  “Lady Natly is here as my guest,” Nolan cut into the moment.

  “How nice for you.” Lonen’s eyes went flat again, his voice all polite boredom.

  “It seemed insulting not to include her,” Nolan continued. “To simply let her languish. She might not be actual family, but she’s as near to it as any might be. Some might say more so than others at this table.”

  Beside her, Arnon made a quiet choking noise, but Lonen methodically cut his steak, forking up neat bites. “I seem to recall you firmly rebuffing Natly’s attempts at becoming ‘part of the family,’ brother. Let’s see—that was after Ion declined her offer in favor of Salaya’s fair hand—” he nodded to Salaya, who still stared into the middle distance, not eating “—but before she moved on to me.”

  “You seemed happy enough to savor the rewards settling on you,” Nolan retorted. “I recall you extensively savoring Natly’s many charms before we left to destroy the Báran predators, and I understand you continued to lead Natly on after you returned, promising her that you and she would marry. You must address the question of the honor you owe her. Our father would expect that much of us.” He bit out that last, looking tremendously pleased with himself.

  Lonen heaved a sigh, then looked at Natly, who continued to sulk, though it seemed her eyes glittered with a kind of excitement at the attention as she looked past him at Oria. It made Oria feel oddly old and weary—especially odd given that Natly was likely older than she. But the Destrye woman did have a legitimate grievance, as she would have married Lonen had Oria not maneuvered him into a marriage of state with her. She couldn’t blame Natly for being hurt and angry, particularly at losing a man like Lonen. Oria needed to keep that in mind—that she had what Natly had wanted, had been promised, and lost through unfair means—and keep in her heart compassion for his jilted fiancée. In Natly’s place, she would likely not behave well.

  Never mind that the bickering felt juvenile at this point. Being honest with herself, she completely reneged on her initial offer for Lonen to keep his former fiancée as a lover, or even install her as Queen of the Destrye while Oria remained in Bára. No one need know about that ill-advised idea. It took her aback at the ferocity of her own emotions on imagining such a situation—to the point that she’d fight tooth and nail to keep Natly’s jeweled nails off Lonen.

  “Or with fire,” Chuffta suggested. “Burn all her hair off.”

  Oria stifled a snort of laughter. “Don’t like her, do you?”

  “‘Animals at the table.’ I’ll show her what real claws can do.”

  She concentrated on eating the truly excellent meal, the grains having soaked up the rich broth so they almost melted in her mouth. Baeltya had outdone herself in instructions, if not actual cooking. Lonen, Nolan, and Natly were arguing in hushed voices, though the harsh cadences came through clearly enough. Destrye at the nearby tables, both men and women, ate in silence, doing their best to overhear the discussion, no doubt.

  In Bára, the people would be equally eager for juicy tidbits to feed the gossip mill, but the royal family would never eat in public thus. Of course, for her family, eating had meant doffing the eyeless, mouthless golden masks of their office, something done only in privacy. With a pang of nostalgia, she missed those formal, elegant occasions. The ritual of removing their masks and setting them on the tiles beside their plates, made for that purpose. The relaxed intimacy of those meals.

  “I miss Bára, too. Your rooftop terrace.”

  “The sunshine and the view.”

  The voices beside her grew in volume and intensity, and she felt Lonen growing commensurately angrier. A passionate, emotive people, the Destrye. Just as well she had her portals so locked down that she didn’t get much of it. Mostly she experienced the edges of Lonen’s dark and brooding
anger, a familiar river that ran deep in him, only occasionally rising to the surface.

  “They’ll come to blows if we don’t stop them,” Arnon commented in her ear, strangely cheerful, considering the circumstances.

  She’d kind of forgotten about him. “The duel?”

  He gave her an odd look, pursing his lips. “Talked to you about that, did he? But that’s an interesting point. Not the challenge. Not yet, anyway. I meant Lonen and Natly. Though perhaps we shouldn’t try to stop them. A good knock-down, drag-out would serve as a fine pressure release and distraction from Nolan badgering you. Or making any hasty challenges.”

  She swallowed, glad that eating reminded her not to gape in surprise. “Lonen and Natly…might physically fight…at a formal dinner?”

  Arnon grinned crookedly and curled his fingers, making a swiping motion. “Those nails aren’t just for pretty. She’s like a tree cat with them. Left her mark on more than one warrior hereabouts.”

  Oria and her brothers had squabbled plenty, but they’d never gotten physical. That would have been a grave lapse in hwil, even for a youngling, and if she could’ve borne even the slightest touch. Of course, her brothers had delighted in laying magical traps for each other. And she’d been too fragile for any such tussling, watching mostly from afar. Forever outside the inner circle.

  “It hardly seems appropriate,” she murmured to Arnon, “for my husband, the king, to publicly quarrel with his former fiancée.” Not only because it put her on the outer edges, yet again.

  Arnon stroked his beard thoughtfully. “You’re not just for pretty, either, are you? I suspect this is exactly what Natly hopes for. What are you going to do about it?”

  “Me?”

  “No one else is going to.” Arnon dug into his steak with relish, chewing ostentatiously.

  “Meaning you won’t.”

  “I’m not the one who’s being tested tonight.”

  She sat back abruptly, Chuffta spreading his wings slightly to rebalance, grumbling at her. “This… scenario is for my sake.”

  “Lonen always did get easily sucked into Nolan’s taunting. And yes, that’s the question, isn’t it? How much is our brother’s mind clouded by love for you—or by your magic. What better way to push him than to dangle his former mistress in front of him? And you.”

  She forced herself to eat, though Natly’s tone wavered between pleading and strident, growing loud enough for certain words to be audible. Love. Wedding. Arill. Loyalty.

  “Why are you helping me?” She asked Arnon. “I thought you didn’t approve of me either.”

  “Is that what I’m doing?” Arnon’s happy-go-lucky smile dropped, showing the canny expression beneath. “I think I’m just interested in your true colors, as well.”

  “I don’t know what to do.” She really hoped Chuffta had wise advice for this.

  “Hair-burning is still an option.”

  “You are supposed to advise me! Make yourself useful.”

  “I submit that hair-burning would put an end to this very quickly. But,” her Familiar added hastily when she mentally growled at him, “it seems to me this is all theater, right? That’s what Arnon is telling you. Lonen’s brothers are playing old games, pulling on his tail to make him lose control. He’ll look weak, unable to decide between his females. Not something a king should do.”

  She agreed with that. “I still don’t know how I play in.”

  “If you were what they think you to be—a spy, controller of their king, pursuing your own agenda to expose the Destrye so the Bárans can triumph—what would you do?”

  “I’d encourage the chaos. If a scenario weakened Lonen, I’d work to increase that pressure.”

  “So, do the opposite.”

  Gah. More easily thought than accomplished. She needed time to think, which she didn’t have, as the argument continued to escalate. Natly stood now, nails flashing as she gesticulated. Nolan pounded his mug on the table, face screwed up as he scowled at Lonen, stabbing a finger at his chest. The people of the hall watched with avid delight, as if witnessing a mummer’s play. Arnon sat back, sipping his wine, not watching the passionately involved trio, but observing her. Even Salaya seemed to have woken from her daze, her gaze alert and interested.

  “They planned this—Arnon and Nolan.”

  “Oh yes, I think so.”

  Her temples throbbed, the relaxation of the aswae lost to the violent emotions churning around her with such potency they penetrated even her tightly closed shields, as if seeping into the pores of her skin like the warmed oils. She’d become permeable. Far from her home, far from the magic that had always sustained her. And for what?

  These people respected nothing but strength. Much as the Bárans respected only power. They were the same thing, really—one physical, the other non-physical. Both with huge impacts.

  She didn’t have to pretend to be something she wasn’t, to show herself to be truly on Lonen’s side. She was as much the enemy of the King of Bára as any Destrye. Never mind that he was her brother.

  That just made it more personal. The seething rage that burgeoned at the thought of Yar helped bolster her.

  “Okay, fly about, breathe some flame—don’t set anything on fire!—but make a spectacle. No hair-burning.”

  She caught barely the edge of Chuffta’s glee as he surged off her shoulder with a clap of wings—and a keening howl unlike any other sound she’d ever heard him make. The cry morphed into a stream of fire that followed his path in a spiral, lingering in the air almost like smoke, to then sparkle gradually down on the ducking, and utterly shocked, Destrye.

  Even Lonen fell silent, staring in astonishment.

  Oria might have, too, had she not been concentrating on her own show. Keeping her focus on that sense of the silently breathing forest, she reached for the gift it had given her, and spun the living sgath—for sgath it was, just of another flavor, something to contemplate later—channeling it into active grien. Never having been trained in the supposedly exclusively male magic, she didn’t have many prepared tricks up her sleeve, but she’d improvised before. Tossing her spoon into the air, she hit it midflight with a burst of grien, infusing the wood with growth energy long lost from its cells, but not forgotten. She stuck with the easiest path, letting it be what it had always been—so it sprouted tufts of new leaves, bright green with distant spring. Catching it neatly in her hand, she stepped past a wary Lonen and astounded Nolan, and offered the leafy twig to Natly, who gripped the arms of her chair, glossy red mouth in an O of horror or shock, or who knew.

  “Natly,” Oria said, “I owe you the gift of an apology. You’ve graciously given up the right to the promises King Lonen made you so that our people might be joined in peace. Please accept this token of my regard. It will remain ever green and bring you luck, prosperity, and fertility.” She hoped so, anyway. If not, Oria would do her best to infuse the twig with new feedings of grien as often as possible.

  Finally, tentatively, Natly lifted a hand and took it, at first touching it as she might a snake. Then a slow smile twitched at her mouth, spreading into something warm and genuine. “We grew these trees on my home farm.”

  Sheer luck there. Perhaps Lonen’s goddess did smile on them. “Keep it in good health, for good memories.”

  The room remained hushed, so Oria picked up another wooden spoon, tossing it into the air and hitting it with another dollop of judicious grien. This one burst into blossom, small, pink and sweet, carrying the hint of crisp fruit to come. Oria took it to Salaya. “Princess Salaya. Nothing can replace the husband you lost, the father your sons will never know, but please accept this gift from me. May we come to know each other as sisters, and our joined families blossom as this does.”

  Salaya, dark eyes soft with welling tears, took the flowering twig, spinning it between her fingers. Oria left her with it.

  And swiped Arnon’s spoon on the way. She smiled at Lonen, who narrowed his eyes at her in some sort of warning, though admiration g
linted in them, and tossed the spoon to the straw-covered floor behind the king’s chair. Using the last of the magic she’d pulled in, she poured all of it into the dead wood, urging it to put down roots, to grow again.

  At first nothing happened, except that the spoon seemed to worm its way through the straw, disappearing into the earth. Perhaps she’d miscalculated and the earth beneath the Destrye palace fortress remained too frozen for anything to grow.

  But then, with a huge cracking sound, a sapling shot from the floor, fast as lighting and with the attendant rumbles. No, that was the awed murmuring of the gathering.

  The sapling thickened, growing fatter, then taller, then fatter again by leaps, sprouting twigs like a fuzzy crown of baby’s hair that rapidly became gracefully arching branches. The sound of the crowd grew, people leaping to their feet to point, and Lonen rose, taking her by the arm over her plush sleeve. The tightness of his grip communicated something, the excited leap of his emotions telling her more.

  She would have slowed the astonishing growth, but couldn’t. She’d given it everything she’d collected from that solemn chorus of breathing forest, and had nothing more to offer. Nor could she take it back. The limbs attenuated, draping from the central trunk nearly like vines.

  Then, with a nearly audible chime, the umbrella of draping branches burst into a constellation of golden flowers, their sweet perfume bursting through the room.

  The people gasped, then sent up a roar.

  Lonen gripped her arm harder. “What have you done?”

  ~ 10 ~

  A Haligne tree. How had Oria known—or had she? She gazed up at him, copper eyes lustrous with the magic she’d wielded, though already the shadows deepened around them with its spending, face pale with trepidation at whatever she saw in his.