Forestborn

by Elayne Audrey Becker

  The world is still dark when I awaken with a start, breathing heavily.

  My skin is drenched in sweat, and I cast the sheet to the foot of the bed, lingering a few moments in the cool, early morning air. It was a night of fitful sleep and nightmares that have already begun to lose their shape. The blackness and the quiet are a balm to my wasted nerves; perhaps I can get more sleep in before the journey.

  The journey.

  Breathe in. Breathe out.

  The first trill of birdsong serrates the silence, and I resign myself to the day.

  Despite my house’s small size, the room is decently furnished; there’s a chair, a wooden table big enough for two, and a small set of drawers topped with shelves that hold plates, pots, utensils, and a few well-worn books. In the corner opposite the bed, there’s the tub and tiny washroom that I’ve hidden with a standing screen I intercepted on its way to the garbage. A small stove stands against the left-hand wall. By royalty standards, it isn’t much. But it’s more than I’ve ever had.

  I wonder if I’ll ever see it again.

  I pour water heated from the fire into the bath, waiting until it’s only half-filled before scrubbing my skin and my hair enough to wash the night away. A backpack the color of pine rests against the wall nearby; I found it by my door when I returned home. A hooded, woolen cloak was inside, the dark gray cloth of much higher quality than the one I already owned, along with a collection of travel food: nuts, cheese, some sort of way-bread, and dried fruits and meats. I’m trying not to look at it.

  My stomach constricts as the first fingers of light seep into the room. I’d like nothing more than to walk to the window, shift to goshawk, and fly. To take comfort in the steadiness of my powerful wings as creatures flee the shadow sweeping across the treetops below. To know, for a few moments, that I am the fiercest predator in the sky. Unbeatable. The lynx is a joy, the deer mouse an unwanted reminder, but the goshawk—that is by far my favorite of my three animal forms.

  I don’t want to start this mission by arriving late, though, so I pull on dark pants and an olive shirt, lace my boots, grab my pack, and lock the door behind me.

  When I arrive at the rear door in Castle’s Roanin’s northern façade, Helos is already waiting beneath an ancient hickory in the courtyard. He’s dressed all in black with a new pack slung across his shoulders—someone must have sent him one, too. The sky has brightened to a pale, milky color, as if it hasn’t yet decided whether to be gray or blue.

  “How was Finley?” he asks without preamble. “Yesterday, when you went to see him.”

  Panic flares, but I’m spared the burden of shaping a response when the door opens and Captain Torres steps out, nodding somberly in our direction, followed by King Gerar, then Violet and Weslyn, then four members of the Royal Guard. No Astra, which is rare. No Finley, either. I try to swallow my disappointment.

  Weslyn has dressed for traveling: long pants, fitted shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, boots that rise just past his ankles. Of finer make than my own similar garb, and likely to be ruined by journey’s end. A particularly foul expression shadows his face. I wonder if it’s because of the farewell he’s no doubt had to endure, the task before him, or simply the early hour.

  His mouth curls when he spots me, and I match his scathing countenance with a frown of my own. He should know better than to come along; his presence will only slow us down. The arrogance of royals.

  “Do you have everything you need?” asks King Gerar, intercepting the silent battle.

  I drop my hands to my sides and dip my head.

  “As discussed, Naethan, Ansley, Carolette, and Dom will accompany you three to Niav to ensure you arrive safely. Once you cross the river, stealth will become your greatest defense. You will be on your own.”

  I slide a glance toward the four guards who stand at attention near Weslyn: Naethan, prudent and quietly ambitious, one of Captain Torres’s prodigies, with his toned figure and handsome dark brown skin; Ansley, soft-spoken and uncommonly skilled at the sword, with her long tangle of red curls and freckled white skin; wide-framed Carolette, the former spy turned guard who has resented me ever since I made her old job obsolete; towering Dom, a pillar of formality, with deep-set eyes, raven hair, and a sour mouth. None of them are allies, but except for Carolette, I suppose it could have been worse.

  Only Ansley nods back at me.

  “Remember, Eradain’s emissary will be taking the same route to the northern border as you,” says Violet, folding her arms across her chest. Her riding breeches and jacket are already dirty—she must have woken with the dawn, same as I. “His coach left yesterday morning, so by now, he should have progressed far ahead.”

  Since no coach will bear my brother or me, we’ll be trekking on foot, and as humans, in order to shoulder the packs with all our supplies.

  “But be careful,” she continues, drumming her fingers above the crease in her arm. “Word can travel fast on the road, and it’s vital he does not catch wind of your mission.”

  I nod shortly. Considering their concern over the emissary, I don’t think one day’s head start seems an awfully long one, and Violet’s thin-pressed lips suggest she agrees. But King Gerar has insisted it’s all we can afford to give.

  “Helos.” King Gerar looks at my brother and opens his mouth to speak, then shuts it.

  Helos seems to understand. “We’ll find it, Your Majesty.” His tone is tinged with resentment, and discomfort nips at my core.

  King Gerar nods once, a flicker of emotion returning to his deadened eyes. Then he turns to his son and braces his hands on either shoulder. Weslyn rests his hands on his father’s arms. It seems too intimate a moment for me to be witnessing, so I glance at the castle above us, wondering if Finley might be watching from one of the windows. I’ll come back for you, I resolve silently. That night outside Caela Ridge threatens to break through my mental shields, arcing flames and screams and a pair of frightened eyes, but I force it back. I’ll save you.

  It’s a promise. My mother didn’t make one, but I can.

  “Take care of him until I return,” Weslyn says quietly, looking first to his father, then his sister. Violet stands rigid and regal as always, her eyes locked on to the pair. But she doesn’t approach.

  “Go safely, Son.” King Gerar’s voice doesn’t break on the words; he’s dignified even in sorrow. Still, seeing the way he looks at Weslyn, I think that maybe he’s a father before a king. Another trait that has earned my loyalty. He puts a hand on the back of Weslyn’s head and draws him into an embrace, and it tugs at me then, that feeling I sometimes get watching King Gerar with his children. That nagging curiosity for what it would be like to have a parent who cared. Who protected.

  Weslyn breaks free and hugs his sister. Then he walks away from the castle, leaving Helos, me, and the guards to follow.

  I dip into a bow, but I make it only a few steps in his wake before I’m called back.

  “Rora.”

  I swivel round, and Violet quirks her head to the side. “A moment. Please.”

  Nine pairs of eyes bore into me as I return to the group, stomach contorting with unease. Violet places her palm on my shoulder and guides us aside. I flinch at her touch, at the unfamiliarity of it, and can feel myself hunch a little in response. She stops us a short distance away from the others and drops her arm.

  “I want you to know that I have set aside your gold. The full amount will be kept safe for your return.”

  A small ripple of disgust rolls through my bones. As if I’m no more than a mercenary, and money is the only incentive here. I force a look of surprise and dip my head. “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “My brother is very stubborn, but he’ll need your help,” she continues, and my surprise becomes genuine. “Please. Watch over him. Losing one brother would be difficult enough. I cannot bear the thought of losing two.”

  I marvel at her honesty nearly as much as the fact that she’s asking me for help. She has never done so
before.

  Then she hugs me.

  At once, my body freezes to ice and stone. I glance at Helos in astonishment, noting my own shock reflected on his face. This cannot be real, though the quiet strength of her arms around mine and her hands on my back feel real enough.

  Slowly, as if they’ve forgotten how this works, my arms curl around her slender figure.

  She gives a quick squeeze, and then it’s over. My eyes are itching, but I refuse to let her see me cry. To cry for something as stupid as being touched. Anyway, it means nothing. She can’t know how long it’s been since anyone other than Helos has hugged me.

  But I study her face and realize she suspects exactly how long it’s been. And suddenly I know.

  Finley is a river, and Weslyn’s an oak. Violet is the mountain.

  “We’ll come back,” I say, the promise little louder than a whisper. Violet doesn’t smile, not really, but she nods before gliding back to her father. It’s an effort to lift my feet from where they’re rooted to the spot, but I force myself to walk, step by step, back to the group. Weslyn and Helos. My two charges.

  Weslyn’s expression brims with mistrust, but he says nothing. With a final glance at his home, he leads us out of the castle complex.

  FIVE

  We follow the stone road due north for the rest of the morning, trekking parallel to the Old Forest until we hook east around its edge. The track is just wide enough for a cart to pass by in either direction, and far more open than I would like. Given how often Weslyn’s portrait is reproduced in the weekly leaflets distributed throughout the kingdom, odds are a passerby would recognize the prince in our company, not to mention the presence of four uniformed Royal Guards. We want to avoid detection to the extent that we’re able, particularly while the emissary may still be within earshot of any witnesses with loose tongues—a prince on a quest for magic, accompanied by two shifters, trailing the representative of a king who loathes magic and is waiting for an excuse to strike. Best not to let word of our party precede us.

  We stick to the road in silence, only entering the forest to hide when someone appears on the horizon ahead or behind. Though I anticipated that Weslyn and his entourage would remain in the lead all afternoon, I suppose I’d expected some hesitation in the moments we have to step off the road, considering his rumored aversion to these woods. I was wrong. Weslyn only plows ahead like one with a vendetta to settle, snapping away twigs, sidestepping blackberry thickets, bullishly striding through bracken and moss.

  Several times, I want to suggest that my brother or I go first instead. The footing in these instances is laborious, and we’re the ones who actually know what we’re doing, after all. But every time I try to swerve in front, Weslyn throws himself forward rather than giving way, and one of the guards—usually Carolette—blocks my path with a hand on her hilt. The frustration in my core bubbles closer to the surface.

  There’s a small tap on my back.

  I swivel round and half smile at Helos, but I don’t make the guess. It’s a game we used to play growing up in the Vale, to keep us entertained when words were slow to come. One person tosses an object from their surroundings at the other, who then has to guess what hit them. When Helos first came up with it, he reasoned it would help familiarize us with the natural world. I figured it was just an excuse to pelt objects at his little sister.

  Another tap. Chestnut. Obviously. But I’m reluctant to break the quiet, lest I lose my temper—and my remaining control—so I simply mouth the answer and shake my head. Helos grins.

  By the time night falls, I’m longing for a bit of solitude. Which won’t do, I tell myself. This is only day one. Weslyn calls a halt when we’ve cut a decent enough course through the tangled wood to set up camp, and though the clearing is barely more than a stretch of relatively unobstructed ground, I grudgingly admit to myself that it will do.

  Carolette, Ansley, and Naethan set about gathering tinder and kindling for a fire, while Dom orders Weslyn to stay put and slips away to scout the perimeter. The shadowed woods have darkened this far in, and what little we can see of the sky has settled into twilight. As Helos tosses a few sticks and rocks through the gaps between trees, I’m baffled by his apparent indifference to Carolette’s sidelong glances or the times Naethan shuffles a few steps farther away. I bend to help him clear the forest floor, my stomach churning.

  It’s obvious all of us are feeling the strain of the deadlines hanging around our necks. The answer King Gerar owes King Jol in two months. The Throes reaching its vile hand farther across Telyan, killing innocents every week. And, of course, the unknown duration of Finley’s own ticking clock.

  Weighted silence hangs heavy among the group. When Helos and I have finished, we find seats on the leafy floor while Weslyn tramps over to the uniformed trio for the second time. Again, they reject his offer of assistance with exaggerated courtesy and insist he rest instead. As if we haven’t all walked the same distance today. Pulling a pouch of almonds from my pack, I watch Weslyn run a hand along his face, then eye the surrounding woods, before seating himself on a decaying fallen trunk.

  I debate for a few moments before speaking up. “You don’t want to sit there.”

  Weslyn glares at me while continuing to rummage through his pack, oblivious to the centipede slinking across the log.

  “Your Royal Highness,” I amend.

  He waves a hand in my general direction. “Drop the title. We have a long road ahead of us.”

  Well. That’s something. But he still hasn’t acknowledged my advice. Behind him, his dutiful guards raise scandalized brows.

  “You should move,” I try again, and my pulse races when I’m met with silence once more. Fine. Let him rot with the bugs.

  But he looks at me again once he’s pulled bread and cheese from his bag. “Why.”

  I nod my head toward his throne. “There are probably things living in there. Little things. Bugs.”

  Weslyn shoots to his feet.

  The trio snaps up from their seemingly endless work and reaches for swords, as if they’ve been expecting him to drop dead in our presence at any moment. I have to suppress the urge to smirk as he searches for alternate seating.

  “Talented, aren’t they?” Helos says in an undertone, bumping my shoulder and nodding to the fire pit only now taking shape.

  Helos is right. We could have built it in half the time.

  When Dom has returned with a new scratch on his face and everyone has eaten, the group sets their bedrolls in a rough circle around the fire. Carolette catches my eye and forms the sign to ward off bad fortune, always eager to make her harbored bitterness known, while Weslyn pulls a black book from his pack to read by the flames’ soft glow. Ansley’s watching Naethan, and Naethan’s watching Weslyn, and suddenly I can’t bear the thought of lying this close to strangers.

  “I’ll take first watch,” I announce, frowning as everyone looks to Weslyn for approval.

  Weslyn studies me briefly, as if weighing the odds I’ll murder him in his sleep, then nods and returns to his book. Before anyone can protest, I grab a wedge of bread, push to my feet, and take up my post against a tree at the periphery, considering the journey ahead.

  I knew Weslyn was of a different cut, but after watching his movements tonight, I have no trouble believing he hasn’t set foot here in years. It doesn’t bode well for our chances in the Vale, which is far more difficult to navigate than this. My heart begins to race as the images edge nearer: strands of ivy that curl around a victim’s neck, squeezing playfully—until they crush; a bed of piping flowers, red-and-purple streaked, luring animals with their sickly scent and sending them into endless sleep. For Finley, I remind my ever-tightening throat. We’re doing this for Finley.

  Helos appears at my side, and the memories reluctantly retreat.

  “Here,” he says, stepping close and holding out an apple. We have the same amount of food in our packs, and still he offers me his.

  I smile and brandish the bread at h
im. “I’ve got my own, remember?”

  After a beat, he nods and bites into the fruit. We fall silent, looking out at the trees, their shapes slowly becoming indistinguishable from the darkness surrounding them. For most folk in Roanin, this forest is where bedtime tales are born. They fear the shadows deeper than night. But we’re used to wilder corners of the world, and for me, this darkness is the familiar sort. The kind that’s soft and warm. There’s a rustle a few steps behind us as our companions settle in for the night.

  “You never answered my question,” Helos murmurs after a while. “About Finley.”

  I wish I could withhold the truth from him longer, but I know the guilt will only continue to gnaw at me if I do. “There’s something I have to tell you.”

  He leans his back against the nearest trunk. Waiting.

  “Finley told me your expulsion from the grounds was his doing. Not King Gerar’s.”

  Just enough light remains for me to see Helos’s mouth drop open. “What?”

  “He’s the reason his family won’t allow you in anymore.” My voice is scarcely more than a whisper, lest Weslyn be listening. “He also—he said to tell you the answer is no. And that you should understand why.”

  “He told you that?”

  I’ve rarely heard him sound so angry, and I find it doesn’t fit any better than the blade-sharp antlers he’d carved before we left. My courage wavers. “Why is he keeping you away, Helos?”

  He hurls the apple core into the dour woods and paces to the side, throwing his hands behind his head.

  “Did you have a fight or something?” I’m not sure when that even could have happened, given Helos’s expulsion from the castle and the fact that he and Finley never argued before it. I would know—he never visited the grounds without me present. But one piece at a time.

  Silence yawns between us, so long I’m preparing to ask his forgiveness—though for what, I can’t say—until at last, he sighs. “You could say that.”

  I want to press him further. To hear an explanation that denies my growing suspicion, because surely he’s too smart to have fallen for royalty. Yet his voice sounds so sad that although I don’t have all the answers I need, I drop the issue.