Renegade Queen : A Court Intrigue Fantasy (The Forbidden Queen Series Book 3)

by R. J. Vickers

His eyebrows drew together in concern as he watched Baridya, who crawled over to a tree and collapsed against its trunk, wiping her eyes in the crook of her elbow.

  “Sorry. I should have remembered you spent hours traveling before this.”

  I nodded, too weary to speak.

  “We can rest here. We have a long way to go, but you look ready to collapse.”

  “Will we make it to the edge of the forest in time?” I sank to the ground, my legs shaking. Even as I hugged my arms around my legs, they continued to vibrate.

  Dakolth shook his head sharply. “No. We were never going to reach the edge of the forest—that lies days away. Our scouts reported that your enemies rode several leagues along the forest road, hoping to intercept you, and I intend to lead you past them so you can continue your journey safely.”

  “Thank you,” I said softly. That was better than I had hoped.

  We could not sleep, with only eight hours of darkness ahead, but Dakolth built a fire and cooked a few morsels of meat he had brought in a pouch. We wolfed down flatbread and cheese from the inn in Borderville while we waited for the meat to cook, the smell taunting us, and Baridya curled on the ground with her arms around her knees, flames reflecting in her eyes.

  Far too soon, the meat was cooked. We finished the juicy morsels in a few bites, and Dakolth threw dirt over the fire.

  “You ready, Bridg?” Mellicante said softly.

  “No,” Baridya groaned.

  The momentary rest had only served to stiffen my legs. I stretched and shook out my aching muscles, wincing as the movement wrenched at my tender ankles.

  Then we started out again, into the growing darkness.

  Soon the light was gone, the night so impenetrable I could see nothing but illusory spots dancing before my eyes. Dakolth did not slow.

  “Do you expect us to follow you in the dark?” Mellicante asked tartly when I collided with her.

  “Sorry,” Dakolth called from far ahead. We stopped, and his footsteps rustled closer. “Here.” A light flared from a Weaver’s crystal on a chain. Mellicante took the proffered crystal and hung it around her neck, where it cast a bright haze through the trees. Had he brought the crystal back from Larkhaven, or did the Drifters trade with merchants traveling through the Wandering Woods? If it was the latter, they were not nearly as separate from Itrea as they claimed.

  On we walked. The light from the crystal gave the suffocating impression that nothing existed outside that small sphere of illumination—stray too far from its glow and we would drown in the sprawling lake of trees.

  My legs felt so battered I expected them to give way beneath me at any moment, and Quendon’s limp grew worse by the hour.

  “How are you coping?” I asked when he paused long enough for me to catch up.

  “I’m fine, Your Majesty,” he said stiffly. “Just an old injury acting up. Nothing to worry about.”

  At last Dakolth said the words I had been dreading.

  “Dawn is only hours away. We must hurry.”

  “What happens when the sun rises?” I asked hoarsely.

  “The forest will turn on you. Even now, the trees are growing restless.”

  I saw my fear mirrored in my companions’ eyes. “How much farther do we have to walk?”

  “Another two leagues.”

  Baridya groaned softly. I did not blame her—at the pace we were going, that could take hours. What if we emerged onto the forest road, too exhausted to move, and stumbled right into the Whitish camp?

  Yet I would almost prefer a fight with Whitish soldiers over the forest turning on us. This place unnerved me; now that Dakolth had said the trees were growing restless, I imagined every rustle was a branch closing in around us.

  As we started again, our pace faster than ever with fear propelling us, Dakolth began to sing softly. His voice was low and resonant, and the haunting melody stuck in my mind even though I could not understand the words. It spoke to me of loss and regret and wild, lonely lands.

  After he finished, Quendon took a turn, singing a simple tune I had caught fragments of in the streets of Baylore. The tune told the story of a man who had gone exploring to the city of the Icelings, fallen in love with an Iceling enchantress, and had never returned to the mortal world again. Baridya was next, sharing a bawdy sailor’s tune that startled me—when she glanced over her shoulder to see how we were enjoying it, her eyes twinkled with humor, and Quendon chuckled.

  Even I took a turn eventually, singing a short and simple melody I knew from Ambervale; only Mellicante declined, saying her voice was worse than a crow’s. At first it seemed odd singing in such dire circumstances, but it made the leagues pass faster than ever. While I was laughing at the crude lyrics to Baridya’s next song about a dockside whore who strung fifty sailors along with promises of marriage, I did not notice the way my ankles wrenched at each off-kilter step on the mess of roots snaking over the forest floor, nor the way every muscle in my legs screamed for respite.

  It was not until Dakolth froze, his song abruptly dying, that I realized how much time had passed.

  “Dawn is near. We must make for the road.”

  “Have we gone far enough?” I asked.

  “I hope so.”

  “And what if the Varse-damned Whitish are waiting for us at the end of the forest road instead?” Mellicante snapped, a note of fear tinging her frustration.

  “I hope they are not. The trees say they are perhaps half a league behind us, and our scouts have never seen patrols stationed at the eastern border of the forest.”

  “Only a half-league behind us? Are they going to catch us as soon as the sun comes up?”

  “I’m sorry,” Dakolth said. “I did my best. The rest is up to fate.”

  We changed direction, this time walking with silent urgency as we made for the forest road. Soon I could distinguish the outlines of trees even beyond the glow cast by the Weaver’s crystal. If Dakolth was worried, I could not tell, though it seemed his pace increased still further. I was stumbling from weariness, bracing myself against the trees as I passed, but urgency kept me moving.

  When Mellicante extinguished her crystal, Dakolth turned and urged, “Faster! We are nearly out of time.”

  Grey light filtered through the canopy far overhead, and perhaps it was my imagination, but the trees seemed to be rustling more than usual.

  Dakolth broke into a run.

  I forced my clumsy legs into a half-jog, and almost immediately tripped again.

  This time the roots did not move politely out of my way, and I whacked my knee hard against a knot of wood.

  As I tried to stand, a root slithered around my ankle and began twirling its way up my leg like a fast-growing vine.

  I stiffened, my chest compressing at the memory of the branch that had nearly crushed me. “Help!” I called breathlessly. “How do I get the tree off me?”

  Waving the others past him, Dakolth doubled back, his jaw set with worry. When he reached the tree, he put a hand on its trunk and closed his eyes, lines creasing his brow.

  The root stopped its progress just above my knee, but did not relinquish its hold.

  I tried to tug my leg free, to no avail. The root was as thick as my wrist and unyielding. Panic clouded my vision as I scrabbled at the bark with my fingernails.

  With a muttered curse in his language, Dakolth drew out a knife and dug it into the root.

  The tree rustled angrily and tightened its grip on me; I gasped in pain.

  Then, reluctantly, the root receded.

  “Are you hurt?”

  I shook my head grimly.

  We started running again, though this time I kept my eyes on the ground. All around us, roots were beginning to wriggle free of the ground like worms drawn up by a rainstorm, and the trees seemed to be edging closer together.

  Ahead, someone screamed.

  We both picked up our pace, though I could hardly keep my feet as the ground writhed beneath me.

  It was Mellicante who
had screamed. Two branches as thick as her waist had wrapped around her, and from the way she gasped, they were squeezing the air from her lungs.

  Dakolth slammed his fists against the tree and shouted something in his language. Mellicante’s face was growing red, and when she tried to speak, only a strangled grunt came out.

  Dakolth yelled louder than before, pushing his full weight against the tree.

  Baridya’s eyes wide with terror, she grabbed at the huge branch as though hoping to pull it singlehandedly off Mellicante.

  Mellicante’s breathing grew shallower, and her eyes fogged over.

  “No! You’re going to kill her!” I yelled at the tree. Terror paralyzed me; what could we do against such an overwhelming foe?

  Closing his eyes, Dakolth leaned his full body against the trunk and spoke in a low, urgent voice.

  The tree stilled; it appeared to be listening to whatever Dakolth was saying.

  Nothing happened.

  Mellicante’s eyes slipped closed, her breathing so faint her chest no longer rose and fell.

  “No! Don’t hurt her!” Baridya cried. She tugged uselessly at the branch around Mellicante.

  “Quiet,” Dakolth whispered.

  Baridya fell silent, though she did not relinquish her hold on the tree.

  Dakolth continued to mutter something to the tree, his eyes shining with desperation.

  Still nothing happened. We stood frozen in place, waiting.

  Then, with a rustling of leaves and creaking of bark, the branches finally loosened.

  Without the support of the crushing branches, Mellicante toppled forward, her cheek smashed against the roots below. Baridya fell to her knees beside her and helped her to stand unsteadily; Mellicante’s breath came in uneven bursts, and she massaged her ribs.

  “We’re nearly to the road,” Dakolth said quietly. We followed him slower this time, Mellicante leaning her weight on Baridya’s shoulder, while around us the trees subsided into a disgruntled shifting.

  Then the trees ended, and we stumbled onto the flat, lifeless stretch of the forest road. I drew a deep breath—it felt as though we had finally broken the surface after nearly drowning.

  “Here is where I leave you,” Dakolth said heavily. “I hope you find safety in Larkhaven.”

  As he turned back to the woods, I grabbed his arm. Quendon, Mellicante, and Baridya had already drawn ahead, to a flat stretch of ground where they sank to the ground in the middle of the road, massaging their legs and staring fearfully at the trees still towering above us. They were out of earshot.

  “What did you tell that tree?” I demanded in a whisper.

  Dakolth tore his arm from mine. “That is my business alone.”

  “No, it’s not. If it affects our passage along the forest road or my ability to work with your people when I regain my throne, I must know.”

  Dakolth’s mouth tightened. “You will exploit us as every Itrean monarch has.”

  “I will not. I promise.”

  His eyes flashed with anger. “I told the trees that you were my queen, and if they wanted to harm your companions, they would have to kill me as well. There—can you see why I mistrust your promise? All Itreans are the same. If you value your life, you will never set foot in the woods again.”

  Before I could protest, he slipped beneath the trees and was gone.

  I rejoined my companions, deep in thought as I sank to the ground. I could easily see why monarchs in desperate circumstances would call on the Drifters for aid—their trees were a powerful ally and an even more dangerous enemy. But I wanted to prove to Dakolth that I was different. No matter how desperate matters grew, I would only accept help from the Drifters if they offered it of their own free will. My thoughts moved sluggishly as exhaustion replaced terror. I could hardly sit up straight; the ground beneath me seemed to sway.

  “We’re doomed,” Mellicante muttered. “We don’t know if the Whitish bastards are ahead or behind us. If they’re behind, they’ll catch up with us in no time on horseback, and if they’re ahead, they’re probably waiting to ambush us at the forest border.”

  Her words jolted me back to the present. We could not let our guard down—if the Whitish soldiers were still looking for us, they could catch up with us at any time.

  “We need to forge on,” I said at last. “We have no other choice.”

  7

  A Cold Welcome

  T he Whitish soldiers must have decided we did not make it out of the woods alive, because we saw no trace of them over the next seven days as we followed the forest road. We pushed ourselves at an unrelenting pace, walking until we were close to collapse each evening.

  As we drew nearer to the coast, the forest grew hillier, the road constantly climbing and dropping.

  “I don’t remember this many hills,” Baridya grumbled one evening as the sun began to sink in the sky. “Please tell me we’re getting close.”

  “We are, actually.” Mellicante pointed to a weathered wooden sign just ahead that read, “2 Leagues to Seaview Inn.”

  “Oh, thank the gods,” Baridya said fervently. “Are we that close to Larkhaven?”

  Mellicante laughed shortly. “No. I’ve stayed at that inn, and the only sea view they have is a painting in the tavern. It’s nearly ten leagues to Larkhaven from there.”

  Baridya sighed. “I swear it felt much shorter on the way to Baylore.”

  At last we reached the edge of the trees. The smell of grass and sage rose up to meet us, the verdant countryside ahead rolling toward the coast. A few small shepherds’ cottages dotted the hills, and fences marched up the slopes, dividing flocks of sheep and goats.

  The road ahead was empty. No Whitish soldiers guarded this entrance to the woods.

  We left the woods in a blaze of sunset, the clouds painted red and purple overhead. I breathed deeply as I stepped from beneath the trees—out here, with the sky stretching from horizon to horizon overhead, my chest loosened and some of my fear eased.

  “What now?” Baridya asked.

  “We need to figure out what’s happening in Larkhaven and find my father,” I said. “But we need to be very careful. If Whitish soldiers are openly guarding the forest road, they must have some sort of presence in Larkhaven.”

  “Where are we going to sleep tonight? Maybe in the Seaview—”

  “No, we’ll find a sheltered copse of trees,” Mellicante said. “I don’t want anyone carrying word of travelers to Larkhaven before we arrive.”

  “What about food?” Baridya asked faintly.

  “We can survive another three days before we resupply.”

  Baridya groaned. We had run out of our last rations the day before, and the hollow ache of hunger had lodged itself in my side.

  As we started down the hill leading away from the woods, the countryside bathed in fiery light from the sunset, Quendon gave a sharp intake of breath. I turned to see him double over, both hands gripping his right knee.

  “Are you going to make it to Larkhaven?” I asked. “I hope we haven’t damaged your knee beyond repair.”

  He shook his head, letting out his breath between his teeth in a hiss. “It’s just old age. My joints aren’t what they once were. And the knee is an old injury, one that’s bothered me for years. It never mattered much in the palace, but out here…”

  I nodded. If he had said he couldn’t make it, what could we do? Abandon him at the Seaview Inn? Leave him to camp on the side of the road until we could return with horses? No—we had to push on for Larkhaven, no matter what happened.

  * * *

  After three nights of sleeping in copses of scraggly trees, I caught a fresh, briny scent on the wind in the morning, tainted with a fishy odor.

  Baridya closed her eyes and breathed deeply, a smile spreading across her face. “I can smell the sea. We’re nearly there.”

  She led the way with a light step, the breeze lifting her black hair and sending it rippling behind her. Where my hair had turned once more to a matted
clump, Baridya had somehow managed to keep hers smooth even without a comb.

  We followed the road past a scattering of farmhouses and fields until at last we crested a final hill. Below, the land dropped abruptly away to the coast. The harbor stretched before us, ringed by cliffs except where the land sloped gently to the docks. Large islands of rock rose from the still waters of the harbor, some towering like pillars above the sea, others wide and flat and overgrown with tangled stands of trees.

  Larkhaven lay nestled in the bowl formed by the sloping land, rising in stacked layers from the waterfront, many of the houses built from smooth white stone that gleamed in the sunlight. Ships and smaller boats bobbed just beyond the city, their masts rising like trees in a dead forest.

  “Maybe we…shouldn’t follow the main road into town,” Baridya said, eyes fixed on the harbor ahead. “If no one has traveled here in spans, every person in town will hear about our arrival.”

  “True,” I said.

  Mellicante nodded to the docks. “It looks as though ships are still arriving.” Even now, a line of rowboats glided toward the dock from a deep-bellied sailing ship anchored farther out. “If we loop around the edge of town, we can pass for sailors.”

  “Good,” Baridya said. “Let’s go.”

  Turning left off the main road, we skirted through a muddy grazing field just above Larkhaven. Seagulls cried overhead, and shouts rose from the docks as sailors unloaded their goods. I could see why Larkhaven was willing to speak of breaking away from Itrea. Larkhaven was the gateway to the Kinship Thrones—even without goods arriving from Baylore, trade could go on unhindered. Cutting Baylore off from the trade route would prove a minor inconvenience to Larkhaven, whereas the loss of this harbor would deal Baylore a crippling blow.

  We picked our way over fences and around brambles, walking several dozen paces to the left of the top row of houses. Up here, the stone structures were palatial, commanding manors that undoubtedly boasted sweeping views of the coast.

  “That’s the governor’s house.” Baridya pointed at a tiered white manor with a sizeable garden.

  “All the curtains are drawn,” I said, uneasy. “Where is he? You don’t think he’s dead, do you?”