Fall of Thrones and Thorns

by Jennifer Ellision

  “I will kill you for this, Shaker!” she screams. Her voice is raw and the tremor of fury burrows into it. The terror in her eyes scrapes Tregle’s listless form. “You have written your own death sentence.”

  “Have I? Please keep in mind, Princess, that every advantage you think you have, the king strips away from you. Every time you think you can win, he puts a stop to it.”

  Black roots spring from his back like wings, a sadistic butterfly emerging from a chrysalis. They entwine with the dead trees surrounding us, drawing him away, scaling the trunks like a mountain-climber, ever upward.

  My eyes flick from Olivia’s face to Tregle’s.

  They land on Caden’s, framed by a circle of stark branches and cast into relief by the pale gray sky. His eyes, the color of the sky before a storm.

  And here, at last, we stand in the storm’s eye.

  Everett withdraws something small from his shirt. Squint as I may, I can’t quite make it out from this distance.

  “Come back, coward!” Aleta roars, furious tears coating her voice. She clenches her fist and thrusts upward. Fire spirals toward Everett, seeking its target, but he makes no move to retreat further. Lips curling, he simply…drops the object into the flames.

  Realization strikes at the same moment Lilia’s shout comes.

  “Reaping!”

  I barely have time to give the clouds a swift yank to protect us.

  A downpour is unleashed, dousing the Reaping’s flames before they can land. I blink through the rain as the world goes fuzzy at its edges and fight to keep the blackness at bay. Too much Throwing for my body for one day, but I’ll not pass out now. Wavering on my feet, breath hitching as it leaves my throat, I scan the treetops for a rustle.

  A whisper.

  Anything.

  But Caden and Tregle are gone.

  Twenty-Four

  Caden

  Are these fingers, or are these branches?

  I blink slowly at my hand and move it. It’s heavy, like its moving through a viscous liquid. I fumble for the knothole—for my pocket. There’s a knife in there and perhaps I can slice through the tendrils rooting into my spine, spreading their way through my consciousness. My leaves brush against my Underground token—my tie to the Makers and all that I’m fighting for.

  But it’s fingers that close tight around the coin, and clarity strikes through me.

  And with it, agony.

  I remember the instant of being threaded through, but the needle of roots had been so mercifully swift and brief. Now, returned fully to myself, the pain is quick and—merciless. I draw in a sharp breath.

  The coin falls from my fingers.

  Numbness spreads back through me. My vision blurs and—

  I am a tree.

  I struggle back. No. No, I am a man. I am a prince. I am a fighter. I can fight this.

  Adept Tregle dangles beside me, eyes vacant. Shaker Olivia has already surrendered to Everett’s malicious plant. Perhaps it’s her connection to the earth working against her, but already minuscule vines etch their way across her skin and tiny buds sprout from her hair.

  Aleta and Bree must be—

  Bree.

  I blink wildly, trying to focus my vision. I want to stay alert. I want to fight. I want to be ready for the moment of battle when it comes. But—

  I am a tree.

  No.

  I am a tree.

  I want—I want—

  My mind goes blank. My mind is lost. For do plants have minds? No, they simply are, existing based on the whims of nature and the forces around it.

  My leaves rustle—no, no, my hair blows in the wind. I struggle toward something, toward wanting, toward—

  I am a tree.

  I stop struggling. Stop wanting.

  I am a tree.

  And a tree wants nothing.

  Twenty-Five

  Tregle

  Night has fallen.

  And the only thing that can break its darkness is a banked fire, crackling with intent.

  Twenty-Six

  Aleta

  The voice refuses to stop screaming.

  My horror sits like a separate entity in a corner of my mind. Her hands wring through her hair, clutching over her ears to drown out reality. But her eyes are wide, unable to look away from it. Desperate to be told this is just a nightmare, that she has not lost Tregle, has not lost Caden. The screams tear from her, loud, ragged, endless. It will not cease. My horror huddles into herself in the dark, the way I wish I could allow myself to do.

  On and on, the screams within me continue.

  “Your Highness?” For once without mocking in her tone, Medalyn places a hand onto my shoulder. My horror’s voice has leaked out my mouth. Piteous whimpers escape; my horror and I are wounded animals, hiding in the woods.

  I lock my jaw, gag my horror, and speak with a calm I do not feel. “Mistress Medalyn,” I return.

  Gaze traversing those Everett has left confined within his tree-cage, I find Sir Liam standing off to the side behind Medalyn, nodding distractedly at something Lilia and Elena are saying to him as he looks at us from the corner of his eye. His arms are crossed over his chest and his skin is sooty, but he doesn't appear overly worse for the wear. With furious tears in her eyes, Lilia smacks her fingers into her palm to drive an unknown point home and shakes free from Elena’s comforting touch.

  I understand how she feels. I don’t wish for needless comfort at the moment either.

  My inspection of our group progresses. At some indeterminable point in time, Breena sank. She kneels in the dirt, hands knotted into her hair as though it will bind her to the here and now, eyes stretched in a soundless cry.

  She and my horror could be sisters.

  I should go to her. The thought is one without motivation to carry through. What could I give her but solidarity?

  And what use would that be?

  “Is the queen well?” I ask instead. Maryna, the Nereid Wielder who fought with us, places a hand on Breena’s knee and speaks quietly to her. She nods, but I have the impression that she hasn’t heard a word Maryna’s said. Still, Breena stands and follows her when she rises.

  Medalyn watches them as well. “I think she’s just regrouping. That was a lot of water to pull down—and quickly.” Medalyn shifts her weight and mud squelches beneath her feet. “She saved all our skins.”

  I slice a glance at her and she winces.

  “Well,” she corrects herself quietly. “Not all of them, then.”

  She doesn’t offer me platitudes about retrieving our comrades alive and well, and I don’t know if I appreciate the lack of pretense or if I resent it. Would I even believe the clichés if she offered them? Would they make me feel even one crumb better than I do? Somehow, I am doubtful.

  It’s not Medalyn's nature to believe that we’ll win when the odds are so stacked against us, but I do know that, while there is still breath in her body, she’ll fight in order to shorten those odds.

  She gives my shoulder a sympathetic squeeze, and I lurch forward as if she’s pushed a button to prod me to do so.

  In a fog, I move toward Breena, her Wielder, and Lady Elena, who’s joined them.

  Elena gives me a stiff nod. Here, too, I am not offered assurances that everything will work out. Elena, better than many, knows our chances. After all, King Langdon turned her twin sister against her and convinced her that Elena was dead until it was too late and they’d lost each other for good.

  “I will leave you to it as we determine our next step,” she says in lieu of futile assurances. Her eyes are sympathetic, but she has nothing else to offer. She straightens her belt and strides away to examine the glen we’re trapped inside and confer with the others.

  Breena settles onto the ground and looks up at me, her eyes red and glistening. Angrily, she swipes at the escaping tears. “We’ll get them back, Aleta,” she says.

  Unlike Elena and Medalyn, Breena refuses to let the losses she’s already suffered interfere wit
h her determination to hope.

  I settle down beside her and let my head fall to her shoulder. Her hand comes up to rest in my hair. My mind is still spinning—stunned with the casualties we’ve incurred. “We can only pray,” I say.

  And truly, in this moment, it is all I can do.

  “Lady Aleta,” Wielder Maryna interrupts, in her lightly accented voice. “We have to request your assistance if we’re to find our way out. My people are working on clearing a path through these trees, but…” She trails off.

  Immediately, I see the direction she is taking this: they need a flame.

  That is something I can do. Flames, I have in spades right now. I stand and nod toward Maryna, indicating that she should lead the way.

  She hesitates, perhaps at my cool manner. It’s put plenty of people off before.

  Her eyes seek out Breena’s, and Breena whispers, “She can do it. Go ahead.”

  They need a fire? I can be a fire. I can be fire incarnate. I can seek out my targets, eat my way through the land, consuming whatever obstructs my path until I have managed to defeat my enemies.

  I will be the flame. I will be the fire. My enemies will be nothing but ash and cinders.

  And may everything else burn.

  Elena nods distractedly to me as I approach. She already stands before the trees, a bead of sweat sluicing its way between her brows as she concentrates on her controlled burn. The two of us are the only Torchers left here to craft an exit. She coaxes a small flame through the dry wood, taking care not to let them grow.

  We’ll be here all day at this rate.

  And, frankly, I don’t wish to waste that sort of time.

  Palm flexed, I extend my hand and a sphere of fire erupts from it, bursting toward the trees as if launched by a trebuchet. It explodes, effortlessly searing a path through the trunks. It sizzles through the air, leaving charred and blackened wood in its wake.

  There. We have our escape route. Our way forward.

  Stunned faces pop into view through the hole I’ve created, peering back at us, astonished, but already I am plunging through the newly constructed exit, palms tingling where they touch still-glowing embers. Elena isn’t far behind me, but the remainder of those who fought Everett will have to wait until it’s no longer dangerous for non-Torchers to come into contact with the smoldering wood.

  Because, as I intend everything in my wake to be from this point forward, it’s all hot to the touch.

  Twenty-Seven

  Bree

  When the smoke fades and the ash settles, we make our way from Everett’s trap to return to the village. Our escape should be triumphant, birds bursting from their cage to fly free.

  But our wings have been clipped. And our flock has been trimmed.

  When we enter Jowyck’s tavern, Bennie’s eyes shoot wide. And no need to wonder why. With our torn clothing, gaping wounds, covered head to toe in leaves and soil, we must look like an army sprung from the earth itself. Bennie sprints out the back door without a word, presumably to fetch his ma or da.

  And indeed, Jowyck’s wife follows just behind Bennie when he returns, wiping her hands clean with an apron. Her eyes lock onto me first.

  “Makers bless me,” she says softly. The apron falls from limp fingers. “It’s not little Breena Perdit?”

  “Hullo, Missus Darcie.” I greet her without enthusiasm. My hands go into fists as she continues her survey of me.

  “Not so little anymore, though, are you? And you’re alive and well, I see. Where’s your da, then?”

  I wince. “Gone,” I answer shortly, not wishing to dwell on the scabbed-over wound any more than necessary.

  She nods slowly. “I’m sorry to hear it.” She expands her study to those gathered behind me. We’ve still yet to reconvene with the rest of our troops—they’ve no idea what’s happened while we’ve been in Abeline—but her small pub is filled with my supporters.

  “But you’ve gone and found yourself some new family, have you?” she asks. Her eyes are kind when they meet mine once again.

  I nearly jerk back. She couldn’t know that Da and I shared not one drop of blood. She couldn’t know about Aunt Helen or who I really am.

  But the initial shock fades, her gaze lingering just behind me on Liam and Meddie. On Elena and Lady Lilia. On the Nereid Wielders and Jospuhr’s Shakers. On Aleta, simmering at my back.

  Her flame is banked. For now.

  Missus Darcie’s meaning is plain. No, she has no idea about Aunt Helen. But these people are my brothers-in-arms. And I suppose that does make us family of a sort. Even if we’re currently short a few siblings.

  I stifle the pang the reminder brings. I intend to remedy that soon enough. “I suppose I have,” I say.

  “Well.” Missus Darcie dusts her hands against her apron again, then seems to come to a decision, straightening and turning to her son. “Bennie, drag your da out here, will you? The two of you take the gents here to the Pippers’ farm and get them cleaned up. Get Ritchie, too, while you’re at it. Have him go talk to the foreman and see if the rest of the village can pitch in anything for supper for our guests.”

  Bennie nods and makes to go, but his ma pulls him back, catching him by the ear.

  “Ow, Ma, what?” he asks, scowling and rubbing at the offended area.

  She smiles and wets her thumb with her mouth, rubbing at a spot on his cheek. “You’ve got a smudge on your face.” She smiles and taps his cheek. “Go on, then. Off with you.”

  Bennie sets off at a light clip, and she turns back to me, hands on her hips and a canny gleam in her eyes.

  “You’ve got a new family, Mistress Perdit. Doesn’t mean you’ve lost the one you had in Abeline. We take care of our own.”

  Despite myself, my eyes well with tears and I clear my throat, the sound of it thick in the room. “Thank you,” I say first. And then, feeling the need to apologize for the show of emotion, “I’m sorry. It’s been a long day.”

  She wraps an arm around me, not seeming to mind the muck, and guides me toward the fire, warm and bright. “Wait here. I’ll set to getting some water for you to wash up.”

  She's as good as her word. Before long, while my spirits aren’t any lighter, my body is cleaner. And with that, comes a certain clarity to my thoughts. It’s as though I’ve rinsed away the shock and horror of losing Caden and Tregle and I can see past it to the here and now—and perhaps even catch a glimpse of a plan for the immediate future.

  Jowyck joins us and offers me a few, stumbling words; they’re soft-spoken and kind before he skulks back into their kitchen to fetch what food they have and prepare a little more as others from our camp make their way into town. I wrap the blanket Missus Darcie has provided tighter around my shoulders, warmth tingling through me as I sit before the fire. Our pub’s rivalry with Jowyck’s family was long-lived, but it was always friendly and I’m reminded of that more and more the longer I’m here in Abeline. When I’d been forcibly ejected from the town, I’d mourned the loss of my life in the pub. And I’d grieved over having the security that comes with knowing exactly who you are and what you’re meant to be doing stripped away.

  Somehow, in all of this, I’m starting to find that feeling again.

  My thoughts darken. I’ll be damned if the person who keeps trying to rip it away from me will get away with it.

  I suppress a shudder at the memory of Langdon, at my mind’s echo of the screams in Caden, Tregle, and Olivia’s eyes as they’d been ripped away from us. The one comfort I can take from the clear pain in their countenances is that they’d been alive as Everett dragged them away. A corpse couldn’t have portrayed such agony.

  They’re alive and I have to believe they’ll stay that way.

  Langdon had planned to put Aleta to death once. But Caden is different. He’s his son and far more useful to the king alive. Langdon has to see that. If Langdon were somehow able to sway him back to his side, Caden would be a valuable asset. Without him…well. Executing him would only alienate
the people further. He’s the figurehead behind this movement, after all. The one we’re fighting to put on the throne.

  And I have faith in Caden that he’d spit in his father's eye at that sort of proposition. He just has to hold on until we can get to him.

  But Olivia and Tregle… Langdon has no such reason to keep them alive. The faster we move, the better.

  I just don’t know how fast that can be.

  After all of us have been neatened up considerably, I turn my eyes to Aleta. “How are you holding up?”

  “How are you holding up?” she counters, the crack of a snapped twig in her tone.

  I take a step back, startled at the ire she directed toward me and not a little hurt by it. “I’m just—”

  She closes her eyes, sighs, and leans back, visibly forcing herself to relax. “My anger isn’t with you, Breena. I am about as well as you are, I expect.”

  Cautiously, I step closer again. The hurt washes away with the realization that Aleta is simply being Aleta, lashing out to cover her own pain. “But we’ll—”

  “Yes. We will get them back. Yes. If I’m certain of nothing else, I’m certain of that.”

  Her tone, downcast and dark, begs to differ. I begin to reassure her that that is precisely what will happen, but she slinks away, shaking her head and muttering something about inquiring about a mead. My eyes follow her for a moment, watching as she raises her hand to catch Missus Darcie’s attention.

  Then, they catch on Liam, leaning against the mantle and speaking quietly with Meddie, brow furrowed.

  The faster we move, the better, I remind myself.

  “Liam,” I call, snagging his attention.

  He looks up and nods at me, putting a hand on Meddie’s elbow and saying something to her softly before striding over.

  He lets out a weary sigh when he arrives at my side, his eyes grim and sorrowful. “I can't help but feel that we’ve done this song and dance before, lass,” he says.