The Twelve Dancing Princesses

by K. M. Shea

“Now,” Emerys continued. “Are you stupid? How can you be fine—you're bleeding so heavily, the back of your shirt is going to be completely red!”

  Quinn would have rolled her eyes if the motion didn’t make her ill. “You're exaggerating. The shirt doesn't feel that wet.”

  Emerys fidgeted, unfolding and folding his wings several times. “If you don't do anything, it won't be an exaggeration. You need help.”

  Quinn sifted through several pouches attached to her belt. “I have emergency field dressings that will work for now, but you’re right. Would your people be willing to help me if we go to Sideralis?”

  Emerys snorted—an extra breathy sound given his bird beak. “Of course! But can you make it that far?” He hopped fretfully around her as Quinn found what she was looking for—a pricey paste that would staunch the blood flow from her wound. Though it wouldn't help her heal or fight off infection, it was worth its weight in gold. Far out in the middle the woods, with no one except a transformed, weakened elf to help her, blood loss was a serious threat.

  “Next time, I am bringing Din,” Quinn muttered as she unscrewed the lid of the snail shell-sized container. The paste's herbal scent made her sneeze.

  Emerys veered closer, so his feathers brushed her leg. “What did you say?”

  “Nothing.” Quinn grimaced as she loosened the laces of her shirt.

  Emerys placed his head on her knee. “You're going to be fine. The elves might lack our healing powers right now, but we still have poultices and medicines that will get you on the mend.”

  Quinn chuckled as she dabbed some of her emergency paste on two fingers, then shoved her hand through the neck of her shirt and wriggled unnaturally to spread the paste on the wound. “I'm not dying, Emerys.”

  Emerys did not respond but leaned his small bird body into her. “I'm sorry.”

  “For what? I was the idiot who didn't think to look behind me while I stopped in the middle of a fight to congratulate myself.” She blindly rubbed the paste over the wound, hoping she covered it entirely. Judging by the size of her dagger and the stinging sensation the medicine produced in her shoulder, she had.

  “I should've helped you more,” Emerys said.

  “You're a bird. What could you have done?” Quinn considered telling him he could have been far more useful if he had managed to turn into a hawk, but based on the way he kept scooting closer to her, she guessed this was not the time to crack jokes.

  “The woods are my domain. This shouldn't have happened—”

  “Emerys,” Quinn interrupted him, feeling much better now that her blood flow was at least temporarily staunched. “You are a cursed elf. We did this because we need to free you! There's nothing you could've done. All of Farset is experiencing an infestation of wraiths, trolls, and now goblins. I should've been more careful when searching for a hiding spot.”

  Emerys opened his beak to object, but Quinn ruthlessly rolled on. “However, what's done is done. We have confirmed our suspicions that the goblins are indeed specifically tracking you. My current concern is seeking medical attention. Once we achieve that, we can plan our next move.”

  Quinn bit her tongue to keep from groaning as she stood. Her beaten and bruised muscles ached; her stomach rolled; and all she wanted to do was stumble into a soft bed. Later, she promised herself. She carefully searched the meadow, reclaiming arrows and her throwing dagger.

  She was almost ready to move out when she paused near the pile of ashy rags left from the wraith and peered sadly at the splinters that had once been her bow. “The real tragedy in this is my bow. That was my favorite one!”

  “I'll get you a better one. I'll get you a hundred better ones. Just start moving in the direction of Sideralis!” Emerys griped.

  “The bleeding from my shoulder is stopped,” Quinn pointed out. “I won't pass out before we get there.”

  “I don't care. Move!” He flew across the meadow and landed on a branch, waiting for her to catch up.

  “We'll need to be extra cautious.” Quinn made her way across the meadow. “The sounds of our fight might've roused other creatures of darkness nearby.”

  “The scent of your blood is my greatest concern,” Emerys said.

  Quinn blinked, pausing at the threshold of the forest. “Oh. Yes.” She pressed her lips together, irritated such a thought hadn’t occurred to her as well, then set out through the woods. “What’s the fastest route to the Alabaster Forest?”

  Emerys hopped off his perch and glided through the air. “This way.”

  Quinn followed dutifully behind him, setting a brisk pace she knew she could keep that wouldn’t lead her into exhaustion or blind her to possible threats. As she walked, she ate a few nuts she kept in one of her many belt pouches for emergencies like this. The food took the edge off the nausea that broiled in her belly and helped her think more clearly.

  That went worse than I expected when I set off this morning, but better than I had hoped in the middle of the fight. Thinking over the skirmish, Quinn frowned slightly as she followed Emerys through the woods. “Based on what we saw, the goblins really are here for you.”

  “You said as much earlier.” Emerys landed on a shrub a stone’s throw away and waited for Quinn to catch up.

  He’s getting tired as well. He keeps gliding ahead then landing instead of flying the whole time. Is he not riding on my shoulder because he doesn’t want to further burden me?

  “To a certain extent, yes. What I was remarking on was the distinction that the goblins were after you. The wraith focused on me and never seemed interested in you. The goblins bothered with me only when I interfered. I think there’s a lot of inferences we can make from that information alone.”

  “I hadn’t thought of the wraith.” Emerys was off with another flap of his wings, guiding Quinn’s path.

  “I think this means we can assume the wraiths—and trolls, I imagine—are plaguing Farset as a general breach of darkness upon our borders. The goblins, however, must be here for a specific purpose—you.” Quinn climbed over a fallen log and took a moment to brush off her palms and catch her breath before continuing on.

  Emerys circled above her for a moment. “It is likely, yes.”

  Quinn sucked a breath of air in and shook her head.

  “Does your shoulder hurt?” Emerys asked.

  “No. I mean yes, but that’s not what I was thinking about.”

  “You’re an awful patient. What is the cause of your sour look, then?”

  “If the goblins are here for you…doesn’t that imply someone is controlling them?” Quinn asked. “I mean, there were suspicions before. Usually goblins run in packs and will fight anything they come across—including wraiths or other goblins—so it has been highly unusual that so many goblin packs have been working together to attack in Erlauf…but this is worse than goblins working together. They have a purpose here, a mission. There’s no way goblins cursed you or the princesses—they don’t have magic—so that means they’ve been sent here by whoever did this to you.”

  Emerys was quiet as he landed on a tree branch.

  “Does that surprise you?” Quinn asked.

  “No. Those responsible for…powerful.” Emerys cawed and shook his head.

  “But to control goblins? I didn’t think that was possible,” Quinn said.

  “Just about any sick or twisted act you can think of is possible if you use dark magic,” Emerys said grimly. He flicked his tail feathers as Quinn reached his tree, then started flying again. “There have been times in the past where powerful rogue mages have managed to control other creatures. Those happened centuries ago, however, and are usually woven with stories of legends.”

  “Your curse was cast by a powerful rogue mage?” Quinn asked.

  Emerys landed on a branch and shuffled up and down it as he fought for words. “Sort!” He finally burst out.

  “It sort of was?” Quinn interpreted.

  Emerys nodded emphatically.

  Quinn fell silent as sh
e twisted her lips into a thoughtful frown. How can a curse as dark as theirs be only sort of cast by a rogue mage? Quinn rubbed her face as she thought and pushed her way between two pine saplings, her breath hitching when a branch painfully grazed her injured soldier.

  Emerys flapped his wings and hovered around her. “What. What? What did you do?”

  “Nothing. I wasn’t paying enough attention, and a branch touched my shoulder.”

  Emerys glided off again. “I see. In that case, stop trying to puzzle everything out and focus on walking safely. We’ll have plenty of time to think it over after you’ve been checked.”

  “But this is important.”

  “As one of the elves it directly affects, I promise you can safely stop thinking about it for half an hour.”

  “It’s my king’s orders,” Quinn pointed out.

  Emerys abruptly split off his flight path and landed on a tree branch directly in front of Quinn’s face. “I don’t care if a legion of kings gave you orders. Just focus on yourself right now!”

  He spoke the words with such fierceness and authority, a quick “Yes, sir,” slipped from Quinn’s mouth before she realized it.

  The elf-crow nodded in satisfaction, then flew off.

  Though Quinn half-followed his orders in that she didn’t try to think over the elves’ curse, she did review her performance during and directly after the battle with the intension of finding ways she could react better in the future, and something Emerys had offered caught her fancy.

  It took her about ten minutes of walking before she worked up the courage to boldly ask, “Can I really have an elf bow?”

  “Sure,” Emerys said. “You can have one for every day of the week—provided you get to Sideralis!”

  “But aren’t elf bows precious to your people?” Quinn asked.

  Emerys snorted. “No, they’re bows!”

  Quinn blinked in surprise. “But you so rarely sell them!”

  “Yes. If we did it more frequently, every weapons merchant on the continent would be barging in on our border, demanding to buy our bows given that they are so superior. As we have no desire to become weapons dealers, we are better off severely limiting what we are willing to part with,” Emerys said.

  Quinn stared at the black bird. “You don’t want to be bothered? Is that really the only reason?”

  “Mostly, yes. We’re far more likely to give our bows away. Since we take great pride in them, we’re fairly concerned with wanting someone worthy of them to receive them.”

  “Given how few humans you label elf-friends, I guess that’s not a surprise,” Quinn said wryly.

  “Yes.” Emerys narrowly avoided hitting a tree trunk as he flitted ahead. “How is the shoulder?”

  “Fine.”

  “Liar.”

  “It’s about the same as it was,” Quinn said.

  Emerys cawed nervously. “It won’t be too much farther until we reach Alabaster forest. Once there, I can summon help.”

  Quinn nodded. “I’ll be grateful for the help. I don’t think I could walk back to Navia right now.”

  “You have a death wish, don’t you? Of course you can’t walk back in this condition!” Emerys ranted as he flew on.

  Quinn let him talk—it was pleasant to hear another voice, and it distracted her from the pain—and walked after him.

  * * *

  Quinn could feel when Emerys led her across the border and into the woods. The tangy zing of elf magic seemed to embrace her, and though it sounded idiotic, it almost felt as if the woods opened up before her in a welcoming gesture.

  Interested in spite of the pain in her shoulder, Quinn craned her neck. So, this is Alabaster Forest. The deeper they ventured through the trees, the more the surroundings seemed to change.

  The trees were bigger—and not just in height and thickness. Even the needles, or leaves depending on the type of tree, seemed larger than usual. And even though it was late fall, there were still sprigs of flowers that colored the forest and leaves on the trees.

  But despite all the beauty, Quinn still experienced a nagging sensation that the air seemed stale.

  “Keep walking straight,” Emerys said, interrupting her thoughts. “I'm flying ahead to get help.”

  “That's unnecessary. I'm sure I can make it...” Emerys flew off before Quinn could continue her protest.

  She sighed and shook her head, but pressed on. Maybe it is just as well he goes to get help. The throbbing in my shoulder seems to be getting worse. The wound probably needs to be cleaned. I hit the goblin with the same dagger before he threw it at me, and I'm sure goblin blood is not clean.

  Quinn reached ahead of her to push a tree branch back, but as she watched, the branch itself seemed to raise, clearing a space for her. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end, and she shivered a little bit. I hope this is just elf magic and not a breed of sentient trees, or...

  Her thoughts died when she looked up and saw the famous white trees of Alabaster Forest.

  They were the stark white of freshly fallen snow, and though the trees were half-bare from fall, their fallen leaves—crumpled on the ground—glittered like starlight. The trees gave off a faint glow that shifted from one dancing color to the next. The colors—aqua blue, minty green, deep purple—reminded Quinn of the dancing night lights she had seen once while on a training excursion in northern Kozlovka. As she drew closer, Quinn could see that it was the air itself around the trees that glowed with the soft, yet vibrant colors—almost as if anything that came in close contact with the trees received a rush of magic.

  Quinn thought the diamond trees, gold trees, and silver trees she had encountered when following the princesses were gorgeous, but they were entirely eclipsed by the white trees.

  She shook her head as she reached out and touched the tree—which was warm on her fingers. “I never dreamed the white woods were this glorious!”

  The white trees were perhaps the most expensive export the elves occasionally deigned to share with the rest the continent. The wood was treasured, not only because of its rare white color, but also because the wood could hold far more magic than any other tree product. Rumor had it that the elves never cut the trees down but only sold or gave away the branches and trees that fell naturally.

  Quinn had always questioned why they did this, but now, seeing the white trees with her own eyes, she understood.

  Her reverent study was shattered when Emerys came flapping through the clearing. “We’re lucky. One of my mounts was loitering in the area. Hop on him, and he’ll carry you to Sideralis!”

  Quinn slowly turned to face him, reluctant to peel her gaze from the trees. “I’m not sure how I feel about riding an elf—No.”

  Emerys’ “mount” was a giant, black unicorn. But it didn’t look like the beautiful, dainty creatures from the elf party, nooo. Its eyes glowed red, as did its nostrils, and while its coat was pitch black, its shoulders and hindquarters were covered with smoke-gray markings that looked suspiciously like elf script. In fact, as Quinn stirred, the gray markings swirled, adjusting to a new pattern. When it stomped its front right hoof, it left an indentation in the ground, and its black pearl horn looked sharper than her sword.

  The beast was bigger and more muscled than Bridget’s largest red horse—and hers were the biggest of the magicus mounts!

  “I’m not going anywhere near that…mount,” Quinn said.

  “He has a name,” Emerys said, landing on his “mount’s” back.

  Quinn shivered as the unicorn stared at her with its glowing eyes. “What is it, Blood Drawer?”

  “No. It’s Pookie.”

  The utter ridiculousness of the name made Quinn shift her gaze from the unicorn to its owner. “Pookie,” she deadpanned.

  Emerys vigorously flapped his wings. “I was just a brat when I named him, and he was much smaller then! It seemed like a good choice at the time.”

  “Pookie,” Quinn repeated.

  “Just get on the unicorn.”
>
  “Not on your life. If I approach him, he’s going to snap me like a twig—regardless of whether I’m your friend or not.”

  “You’re going to hurt his feelings.”

  “I’m not convinced Pookie has feelings!”

  Emerys cocked his head one way and then the other. “He’s not going to hurt you, I promise.”

  “Your promise means nothing. You’re the same elf who, as a mouse, ran from goblins rather than—”

  “Would you drop that? Pookie won’t hurt you.” As if to prove his point, Emerys landed on top of the unicorn’s horn. “Ow, that hurts!” Dancing on the tip, he lost his footing and skid down the length of the horn, smacking into the unicorn’s forehead.

  Pookie blinked.

  Quinn raised her left hand to scratch her head and almost lost her breath at the pain that tore through her shoulder. “This is such a bad idea,” she grumbled. She inhaled deeply and slowly approached Pookie.

  She stuck out her palm for the unicorn to smell. What am I doing? He’s not a dog! Again, her thoughts ceased when the giant unicorn lowered his head and sniffed her hair. I’m going to die, impaled by a giant unicorn because Emerys is an idiot who is overly confident in the friendliness of his pets!

  Quinn braced herself, but the giant unicorn stepped back, then tucked his front left leg up in a prance so still he could have been mistaken as a statue.

  “You’re supposed to use his leg to get on,” Emerys said.

  Quinn swallowed, then slowly climbed up. As she pushed off his front leg and slithered on to his back, she was forced to admit she was grateful for the odd boost—her left arm was nearly useless, and climbing up otherwise would have been incredibly painful. She set her hands on his shoulders, yanking them off when the gray markings in his fur seemed to swirl around her fingers.

  “Come, Pookie. To Sideralis,” Emerys said. The unicorn turned around and started through the woods as Emerys walked up the animal’s forehead and then down the crest of his neck to join Quinn on its back.

  “Do all soldiers have…war unicorns for mounts?” Quinn asked.

  Emerys bounced and flapped his wings to regain balance. “What? No, of course not.”