by Liam Reese
“Oh, very well,” she said. “I’m going to do a terrible job of it, but I’ll try.”
She did try. Thorn wasn’t in a position to tell whether or not she did actually do a terrible job of it — here it was only a few months of knowing her and he was quite sure that she could do nothing wrong, no matter what it was. She dizzied him. When she was around, he felt as though he did not own his own throat, but as though she could contract or expand it at will by careful application of a smile or a look. And so, he learned to read, almost in spite of himself — almost in spite of his teacher — over the course of the rapidly turning months, April to May to June. Around them, the woods changed, grew lazy and still with heat in the middle part of the afternoons. Above them, the birds huddled together, twittering, sensing in their bones what was coming around the corner.
Their only argument came about when she asked him to try again to live in a village, instead of the woods. The very thought of it made him ill, opened up a pocket of grim and yellowish darkness in the pit of his stomach and pumped it slowly into his veins. He shook his head, and sat down, legs weak.
“No.”
“Please,” she said. “This can’t be the way you live out the rest of your existence.”
“I have a place to sleep, food to eat, and you to talk to,” said Thorn, folding his arms and fighting a swallow past the lump in his throat. His voice was not as usual, but perhaps she wouldn’t notice him speaking past the fear. “I — I don’t see the problem here.”
“But this isn’t how human beings live, out here in the middle of nowhere on their own!”
He gave her a pointed glance, and to his surprise, she looked slightly ashamed. But she wasn’t going to let him stop her — he had already learned that she was not so easily deterred.
“You need companionship.”
“I have it.”
“More than just me,” she said. “Don’t you want to know anything about your family?”
Something inside him froze at the very mention. “I know enough already.”
“Suppose some of them are still alive, out there, waiting for you.”
This was a horrible thought. “All the more reason for me to stay here.”
She scowled at him, got to her feet with difficulty, and began to walk away. “You are very stubborn.”
“I would call it determined,” he called after her, and watched for a moment. The walking stick was carrying most of the burden, these days — perhaps there was something wrong with her feet. He didn’t like the idea of anything being wrong, and so he leaped up in her wake, and hurried after her in case the walking stick didn’t do a good enough job. He knew she wouldn’t let it go.
She didn’t let it go.
In the end, fighting his own fear, he followed her through a July afternoon into the village where she lived — the village where he had been born. He did his best to keep his eyes on her, and her alone, as they moved into the settlement, but it was no use. The houses surrounded him, the hard-packed dirt streets surged under his feet — he was swept up and dizzied by a surge of memories. Hurried along the street by a hand prodding at his back, looking up at strangers who looked back down at him, mouths twisted into sneers, brows furrowed with hate. Everyone was always so much bigger than him — he remembered thinking he would never catch up, he would never be able to defend himself against any one of them, let alone the joined-together mass.
The village looked smaller than he remembered, the people seemed more scarce. Good, he thought — perhaps there was a curse on it, now, the way there was a curse on him. Perhaps even having been the birthplace of someone who was Forged was enough to dim the future for them all.
They were gathering glances from the few that were out and about, and he returned them, eyes narrowed in something close to a glare. He kept his head down, his shoulders hunched, thought of what a fox would look like, stealing into the henhouse in the middle of the day, hoping against hope to avoid getting caught. But he was caught already. Elseth wasn’t touching him, but she led him as surely as though she had him by the hand, now, and she was leading him home.
To her home.
The home of the baker, where she had been born and raised, and to which she returned every night to lie on her little mattress and dream about running through the woods.
Thorn took in a last deep breath, momentarily convinced that he would never return, himself, to his own home — and she tugged him over the threshold.
“This is where I live,” she said.
It was the end of the day for the baker and his business, and Thorn was conscious of nothing more than the smell of warm bread that still permeated the air. He looked about the dim interior of the little house where Elseth lived and felt his back curve automatically at the sensation of a ceiling, a roof, over his head, which for so long had only known the open air and the arching canopy of trees. But this was where she lived — this was how normal people lived.
He wanted it for himself, with a fierceness that took him back, but it terrified him at the same time.
Then there was a tall man in the doorway, looking on them with piercing eyes much like Elseth’s. His mouth moved beneath his mustache and Thorn knew he must be speaking, but all he could hear was the sound of his frown, his furrowed brow, his disapproval.
He faltered — but only for a moment. Then the thought of this man, the thought of this village, sending him off to live in the woods as a child, completely on his own, without a second glance — yes, they were all part of it. They had all turned their backs.
He was only vaguely aware of Elseth, trying her best to stand between her father and her strange new friend.
“Let the boy speak for himself. How on earth did you come across my daughter?”
The baker’s hands were ready at his sides, fingers clenched into fists. Thorn weighed the likelihood of being tossed out for telling him, I followed her from a distance while she couldn’t see me and didn’t know I was there.
“She was walking through the woods,” he said instead, “and there was a wolf following her.”
It had looked like a fox, of course, but it was a large one. It might very well have been a wolf. The point, of course, was that she had been in danger, and he had saved her.
Elseth gasped, slightly, and the baker turned wide eyes on her, briefly, as though seeing all that he could have lost.
“What did you do?”
“I went after it, and killed it,” said Thorn, quickly. “I didn’t tell her about the wolf, because I didn’t want her to be afraid of the woods — it isn’t the fault of the woods, and I don’t want her to be afraid of them, because — the woods are my home.”
He put his head down, hoping that it would hide the sudden, unexpected flush of shame that heated both sides of his face.
In the silence, he could hear the baker swallow hard.
“I see,” he said, slowly. “Well, then. What’s your name, boy?”
Thorn told him, and answered the other rapid-fire questions that were put to him as well — where he had come from, how he came to be in the woods, how old he was, who he belonged to — and it wasn’t until the last bit of information had spilled from his lips that he looked up again to see the baker staring at him with true consternation; consternation, and more fear than Thorn had seen in quite some time.
“It is you,” he said. “It is — you’re that boy, the cursed one. Never had a name, no matter what you say. Less than human, that’s you. No family to belong to — no one wanted to claim you, not after they knew what you were.” He stood up abruptly, and his chair went over backward to clatter to the stone floor. “Get out. Get out of my house, and out of my village, and leave my daughter alone if you know what’s good for you.”
Thorn could feel his face burning under the sudden onslaught. Elseth — Elseth must have been saying something — was she apologizing? — but he couldn’t hear it past the roaring in his ears. He rushed out, leaving them both behind, and pushed his way past the few
people out in the streets at the end of the day. There were yelps and calls and comments on his rudeness as he went, but he paid no heed to any of them. All he could think of was to be back in the woods, alone, just him and the trees, with no one to yell at him, no one to laugh, no one to speak of the family who did not want him once they had found out what he was.
He wandered aimlessly for what seemed like a long time. By the time he was aware again of who and where he was, his stomach was beginning to growl from hunger, and the night had surged past and brought the far-off horizon of the day. He was in the woods, still, and was startled to find himself near the path where she had so often met him, where she had given him bread and taught him to read.
He stepped onto the path and looked about himself and caught his breath.
She lay in between the roots of one of the largest of the trees, curled around herself and utterly still, not even shaking. In the darkness her skin had a glow to it, translucent and fairy-like. Thorn shrank back against a tree trunk, half afraid that he had been seen, but after a moment he ventured out again. Her eyes were closed.
He crouched down beside her and put out a hesitant hand, stopping just shy of touching her hair. In the dark he couldn’t see her breathing, but he could hear the painfully slow thud of her heartbeat.
“You’ll die out here, little bird,” he told her. “Unless they come and find you soon.” He looked around himself, huntedly, assessing where they were. “And they won’t find you here.”
It was but the work of a moment; he scarcely hesitated at all.
She was a slight but solid weight in his arms as he lifted her, completely unconscious and unable to help. He carried her back out onto the path and towards the village. Step after step brought him closer and closer, and as the dawn broke and he heard the dogs in the distance, his courage failed him as his strength waned. Just off the side of the path, there was another tree with roots spread wide, just the right size to slip her into and keep her off the cold ground. He settled her down gently, laid her head against the trunk of the tree, and withdrew his hand hurriedly as though his touch would wake her.
He said nothing as he left. There seemed nothing to say.
He went back to his hut and slept for hours, till the sound of the dogs had faded away, and then he ventured out again, wrapping his cloak around him and blending as silently into the woods as the mist that came on with the twilight. A voice came to him, from far away — he took several steps toward it, alert, listening for familiarity.
The baker — Elseth’s father.
“She’s dying,” the voice said faintly. Thorn curved in on himself, shoulders buckling and bowing, pouring all of himself into the listening. “She’s dying, and no one can save her. There isn’t a thing that I can do about it, nor her mother, nor any doctor in any village.” His voice caught on some jagged edge, and he cleared his throat. When he went on, his voice was a little stronger. “No one in the world can do anything to save her. Except for one. Except you.”
“You don’t know what you’re asking,” whispered Thorn aloud, though he knew the man had no chance of hearing him. “You don’t know what I can do. A savior who curses is no savior at all.”
But from the baker he heard nothing else, only the warm and echoing silence of the woods. Thorn held his breath; he shook his head tightly.
“They don’t know what they’re asking,” he said. “They’re a pack of fools. I’ll never change anyone else. They can’t ask me to do that.”
If he did it — if he changed her — whether they asked him to or not. No one would ever forgive him, he knew.
If he did it, where would they hunt him from next?
He couldn’t risk it. Not even for Elseth.
He would put it out of his mind.
1
Divide and Conquer
At the sharp left turn out of golden autumn into winter winds, the December Queen was crowned. It was terrifying. Her Majesty quietly complained of an uneasy stomach for days beforehand. Throughout the beginning of the ceremony, she kept up a steady, nervous humming.
Graic and Lully were nearby, she knew — they had been honored beyond honor for their assistance in regaining her throne. And Thorn and Ruben were out there in the crowd, somewhere — they had been honored as well, but had been somewhat less graceful about it. If it weren’t for their certain presence, she wasn’t entirely sure that she could have got through it. As it was, her stomach bucked and heaved, and it was all she could do to stand still and try to keep her hands from shaking. She didn’t quite manage it, but she did her best.
She knew she couldn’t be much of an imposing sight, even decked out in the full queenly regalia. She wore an emerald green underdress, a tunic with a deep blue pattern over it, and a nervous smile. All of this, when combined with the rusty reds and yellows of the robes of state, certainly must have made an impression, though she wasn’t entirely sure whether it was a good one or a bad one. If only she were taller, and the robes weren’t dragging quite so far on the ground!
That wasn’t the important bit, of course. The important bit to the whole day was that she had woken up as Princess Irae, and she would go to bed as the December Queen, Regess of Balfour, High Ruler of Ainsea. At long last —
Even as the priest intoned the ceremonial passages that would proclaim her queen before God and man, her mind drifted back to the last few months of chaos, trouble, and heartbreak. Her exile from the castle, running from those loyal to her traitorous uncle, racing from those who would hunt her down. She dreamed of those days, still, and woke up sweating even in her cold high-ceilinged bedchamber. She dreamed of running through the woods, pursued by all manner of creatures and men, hiding in the darkness —
But someone was always there for her. It warmed and comforted her heart. Someone was always there, even in the darkest of dreams — the ghost of her father, sometimes, cheering her on, or Graic, strangely lucid in that odd way that dreams have of reaching back to the past, or Karyl — whom she missed dreadfully — or, sometimes, Thorn —
She shivered a little, involuntarily, and the priest paused for a moment and put a hand on her shoulder.
“My child,” he whispered, so only she could hear, “don’t give in to fear.”
Irae straightened her back even further and squared her shoulders. She lifted her chin, and looked out on her people, all massed together and waiting to be presented with their new queen. Their rightful queen.
The December Queen, Irae.
“I’m not afraid,” she whispered, so that no one could hear but herself. “I’m fearless.”
The dues were done, the vows pronounced, the blessings given. Irae was presented to her people as a Queen in truth, and the applause was thunderous, resounding off the ancient stones of Castle Balfour and echoing off the clouded skies.
Afterward there ensued a series of rather tiresome hours in which she was asked to receive the majority of the major nobles and lords from the entirety of Ainsea, as well as a handful of ambassadors from Elgodon, Henschot, and Marwas. The ambassador from Elgodon, a somewhat harried young man with his eyes set too close together, caught Irae’s attention less from his regal bearing and more on account of his hair, which was so curly and frizzy that it looked as though it had been caught in a lightning storm. She couldn’t help but stare at it even as he made his apologies.
“I regret that His Highness the King Lehan of Elgodon could not be present for the ceremony,” he said. “He had so recently returned from his peace meeting with your predecessor, the late King Lev—” He stopped and peered at her. “It is ‘the late,’ is it not?”
“It is not, as I suspect you well know,” said Queen Irae, raising her eyebrows at him. “He has chosen exile as his punishment. For which one can hardly blame him. It’s much less painful to live your life out in another kingdom than it is to lose it violently in your own.”
“I see. Of course. That is only natural, eh? However — I suppose you have contingency plans in place, in case
he attempts to do to you what was done to him?”
She frowned at him but did her best to keep it a regal sort of frown, rather than the outright glare she felt like giving.
“I beg your pardon, sir?”
“Lord,” someone reminded her from behind her left shoulder, and she cast a glance backward to see Sir Merundi, who had crept up to her aid without her noticing. “Lord Zedrik.”
“Lord Zedrik, indeed,” she said, and turned back to the man in question. “If I take your meaning correctly and you are in fear that my traitorous uncle will attempt to rise again, let me set your mind at ease. Your concern does you credit, but I have not the faintest suspicion that he will attempt any such thing.”
“It is when there is no suspicion that things often occur, Your Majesty,” Lord Zedrik suggested.
“Indeed.” She considered what else could be said to this, and settled on nothing, as that seemed safest. The ambassador had no way of knowing that the erstwhile December King was in no condition to attempt a takeover, as he was currently spending seven years as a goat. She inclined her head, and turned her eyes towards the next in line, indicating that the interview was over.
Zedrik seemed hesitant, however, and reached out almost as if to touch her. She turned back to him quickly, and his hand faltered and dropped.
“It is my greatest hope,” he said, his voice pitched low, “that the newfound peace between our countries will continue to flourish.”
She narrowed her eyes at him, attempting to divine whether there was any secret meaning behind this. But he seemed quite in earnest.
“It is mine, as well,” she said. “I have never wanted anything but peace for my people.”
He hesitated a moment longer, then nodded and at long last turned away. Irae had a feeling that Sir Merundi was at her side again and turned her head slightly to murmur to him.
“A curious choice of ambassador, isn’t he?”
“There was recently an — incident in the court of Elgodon. Things are shaken up, rather, and he may have been all they could get at short notice. He is quite young, isn’t he?”