My stomach twists.
“Daymon’s death left the kingdom in a state of unrest. Jol smoothed the chaos. He enacted a new code of law that exiled magical people and punished those who fought to stay. Some moved south, but I believe more went west, across the river.”
As have many from Telyan. The Vale must be a much more crowded place than it was when Helos and I lived there. “That’s sick,” I say. “I don’t know how his people could have allowed it.”
“It’s what they wanted. The humans, anyway. Remember, Eradain’s resentment of magic stretches all the way back to its foundation. It’s ingrained into the fabric of their culture.” Weslyn runs a hand along his beard. “Jol didn’t create that tension, he only acted on it. To most of his people, he’s a hero.”
“He sounds like an asshole,” Helos retorts.
“Maybe, but he holds his people’s favor.” Weslyn frowns. “They pitied him as a child. He and Daymon had a famously tense relationship throughout his upbringing. Public ridicule, constant belittlement, rumors of beatings. To outsider eyes, Jol was a model son, but Daymon always acted like he hated him, and no one knew why. Then, of course, there’s the fact that his own mother tried to kill him.”
“What?” I can’t help but feel a shred of sympathy.
Weslyn’s face brims with skepticism. “My father never believed it. The official story is that Mariella went mad and tried to murder Jol when he was four. She failed, fled the castle in Oraes, and went into hiding. Later, Daymon caught her and ordered her execution, then had her head mounted outside the castle for many months.” He stares out the window at the desolate land to the north. “Barbaric, really. My father met Mariella several times and liked her, even attended their wedding. He’s always said there was nothing mad about her.” After a moment, he shakes his head and leans back against the glass. “But this is what the people see when they look at Jol—a boy who emerged from a difficult childhood triumphant, grown into a man perfectly poised to lead them. Daymon was unstable, his manner harsh and his moods erratic. Jol is more … controlled. Strict, maybe, and certainly not to be crossed, but intelligent, confident, more commanding of respect. They adore him.” He shrugs, his mouth twisting in distaste. “Personally, I don’t like him. He smiles too easily for someone who rules the way he does.”
“You’ve met him?” I ask, surprised, though I don’t know why.
“A few times. Most recently, when he visited Roanin just over a year ago.”
“But I don’t—”
“You wouldn’t remember,” he interrupts. “You were not summoned to the castle at any point during his visit. There were people in place to steer you away if needed.”
It takes a moment for the words to register. When they do, vexation quickly overpowers my confusion.
“You were watching me?” I demand, offended, and angry it isn’t altogether surprising.
Weslyn does not look apologetic. “If he had seen you and recognized you for what you are, the consequences would have been beyond your own neck. Listen,” he adds, holding up a hand when I open my mouth to argue. “My father has maintained peace with Eradain, albeit a tenuous one, by disassociating himself with magical people, at least when one of Eradain’s representatives is around. He doesn’t hide his distaste for Jol’s methods, but nor has he ever tried to interfere. If he had, Jol likely would have launched his armies into Telyan long ago.” He inclines his head toward me. “Now imagine if Jol found a shifter, of all people, in my father’s court. Think of the Prediction.”
Instead, I think back to that day in Grovewood, when Kelner stared at me so openly. But no, he couldn’t have known.
“But that’s wrong,” Helos says. “To do nothing and allow those people to be treated so horribly, for fear of upsetting the northern king.”
Weslyn casts a withering look in his direction, and I wonder if it’s considered treasonous, even out here, to speak ill of one’s king and the choices he makes. “My father’s duty is to protect his kingdom to the best of his ability. He and Mereth both walk a fine line. They do not ban magic from their borders like Jol does, but nor do they actively push back against his government. Right or wrong, that is the decision they both made.”
Helos runs his boot back and forth across the carpet, his eyes downcast and mouth pinched tight. I agree. I understand why King Gerar chose the course he did, but it was the wrong one.
“It no longer matters,” Weslyn continues, “because Jol has grown tired of the stalemate. You asked what ultimatum he gave.” His face flushes red with anger, and it occurs to me that this is the longest he and I have ever spoken without one of us storming away. At least he’s finally answering my questions, for a change. “He demands that Telyan adopt his laws that exile magical people. He also demands we join his campaign to rid the Vale of magical beings. Which, given the laws, would amount to eliminating them from the continent entirely.” He crosses his arms. “Eliminate them, and we stand the best chance of preventing another Rupturing, he reasons. And if the land grows quieter as a result, all the better. To resist will mean open war.”
The truth is a breathtaking punch to the gut. All this time Helos and I have spent building a life in Roanin, and now we might have to leave Alemara entirely? Never see Finley or do the jobs we love again? My heart climbs into my throat. Useless. Unwanted. “And how does your father plan to respond?”
“He hasn’t decided. But my sister has long advocated standing up to the north. She believes there’s something going on there that the envoys aren’t telling us.” He glances at me, a glint in his eyes I can’t interpret. “She wants your help with that, actually. She has argued to send you north for a long time now, to spy for us. But my father has always refused, he won’t even consider it. He is convinced it would be too risky for us and you.”
I can’t tell which amazes me more—the idea that Violet would trust me enough to send me on such a mission, the idea that King Gerar would refuse on account of a risk to me, or the idea of being discussed when I’m not there. Discussed as an asset. As someone firmly of use. And suddenly it clicks into place—the times I heard Violet demand that her father send me away. She didn’t want to be rid of me. She wanted to use me.
A twinge of excitement blossoms in my core.
“And Glenweil?” Helos asks. “What kind of dinner conversation are we walking into tonight? Has Mereth received similar demands?”
Weslyn studies Helos’s face for a moment before answering. “It’s my job to determine that, and to gauge her relationship with Jol. If conflict does turn to combat, my father needs to know whether or not we’ll have an ally in her.” He scrapes a foot across the ground. “For now, as I said, Glenweil remains neutral. As does Telyan.”
My heart sinks at these words. I can see the effort it takes for Helos to keep his thoughts to himself, and since he’s already risked treason, I suppose it’s my turn to voice it.
“What you’re both doing is not neutral,” I murmur, so quietly my words are almost lost. But when Weslyn pushes off from the glass, his body is etched with tension, and I know he heard me.
“Speaking of dinner, I’ll do the talking tonight,” he says, not acknowledging my remark. “You have a right to sit in on the conversation, but try to avoid speaking as much as possible. This is going to be tricky enough as it is.”
I roll my eyes.
“Look, she won’t expect you to speak in any case. I’m sorry, but it’s true. There’s an order to these things. I’m trained to navigate conversations like these—”
I laugh derisively. “Four years in your father’s service, and you think it’s any different for me? Any different for either of us, for that matter?” I know he has to be the one to negotiate, of course, but still I chafe at yet another reminder that he and I are not equals. “We’re sh—”
My voice falters, then drops to a whisper, wary of eavesdroppers. “We’re who we are, living in a world your people,” I thrust a finger in his direction, “have decided is not fo
r us, on account of three stupid words. We have spent our lives learning to do the same as you, and if you think it’s any different, you’re a fool.”
There’s a terrible silence, and I’m sure I’ve spoken out of turn—calling a royal a fool! But the words have been building inside me, and I won’t try to take them back.
This is usually the point when Helos would caution me with a warning touch on my arm or a knock of the foot, but he’s made no move to interfere. I wrest my gaze from Weslyn’s and am dismayed by the sight of him.
Ire is etched into Helos’s furrowed brow and taut arms, an awful combination of sorrow and fury. Almost as if this conversation has wakened a stroke of vengefulness within, an impulse that doesn’t belong to him. Not to someone as good as my brother.
I lurch away from the window.
This room of luxury and comfort, of soft things and stone walls and shelter from the outside world.
Those rolling hills and ancient woods and open stretches of sky. The moonlight on my skin and the wind in my wings.
All of it is rotten, the world a hunter that rivals the best of them—a ruinous beauty that ensnares my heart and sets me aflame before reminding me, over and again, that none of it is meant for someone like me.
The door opens and closes, and I stare at the wood. I didn’t even see him leave.
A hand falls on my shoulder, and though the touch is gentle, I still flinch instinctively. I know my brother wants to help, but he doesn’t ask me if I’m okay. He doesn’t bother, because how could I be? How could he be?
For a single moment, just one, I wish that we were children again and he could keep us safe. All I’d have to do is hold on. But my heart won’t accept the thought. I don’t want to be protected any longer. I want to protect him for a change. And we haven’t been children for a long time.
“I’ll see you at dinner,” is all Helos says before crossing to the door and shutting it behind him.
Biting back a scream, I grab my pack and hurl it hard as I can at the wall, wanting to shatter the world as it’s shattering me.
* * *
The afternoon passes in a blend of frustration and exhaustion. I pace the room. I try to nap but abandon the attempt after a period of restless nothing. I fill a bath and scrub every layer of dirt from my skin, comb my knotted hair, and pull on the only dress I brought. Then I sit by the window, marking the sun’s descent with a dim sense of dread.
Almost time.
My hands trace idle lines across the skirt of my dress. The lavender fabric is a little worse for the wear, wrinkled and slightly musty from the days spent in my pack, but I like the feel of it, anyway—like brushstrokes against my skin. I pad over to the dressing table, barefoot, and stare at my borrowed reflection in the oval mirror, the dress nearly hitting my ankles in this form, though it usually ends midway down my calves. With a pinch of disappointment, I realize I only have the boots, which are dirty and heavy and ruin the whole look. Well, that can’t be helped.
There’s a knock on my door, and I find Helos waiting in the hall with a young woman dressed in Glenweil green. I fall into step beside him while she leads the way to Weslyn’s quarters.
“Nice shoes,” he mutters, looking scarcely better rested than I. He’s cleaned up rather well though, his dark hair shining and combed smoothly back.
“Nice shirt,” I reply, noting the grass stains discoloring the dark red fabric.
He grins.
The woman knocks on Weslyn’s door, then opens it hesitantly when he calls for her to enter. Bathed in reds and browns, his room is much darker than mine, though adorned with similar furniture. Weslyn is lounging in a chair by the unlit fireplace, holding a pen and a brown, leather-bound book he’s been writing in for several nights now. I’ve never caught a glimpse of what’s inside; he always keeps it well hidden from intruding eyes.
At our appearance in the doorway, he sets the book aside and says nothing to either Helos or me, only closes his door and trails the woman down the hall, his expression unreadable.
Our guide leads us a different way than we came, and our shoes clatter uncomfortably against the polished wooden floors, the sound knifing high into the arched ceiling. Every corner we turn is sharply angled, every door fastened shut. Though I’m trying to memorize the route, I keep getting distracted. Weslyn’s shirt is a blinding shade of white, the collar and cuffs crisp and bright, like a beacon in the darkening corridors.
I’m trying not to look at it.
By the time we reach the dining room, I’m thoroughly disoriented. There are no windows in here, just dank stone walls and the flickering light of candelabras. The feeling of entrapment intensifies.
Atop a rug shaded black onyx and jade, a rectangular table has been set with four places. Minister Mereth looms in the high-backed chair at the far end, her posture immaculate, black curls drawn into an elegant knot. Her earlier smile is gone.
She gestures for us to sit, beckoning Weslyn to the place at her right. Helos offers me the place to her left, and though I have no wish to be so close, I don’t dare protest in front of her. Feigning gratitude, I sit and count the items before me: two stacked, cream-colored ceramic plates etched with pink detailing around the edges; two glasses with bands of gold around the lips, one filled with water and the other with wine; two forks; two knives; one spoon; one cloth napkin; all set atop a mat the color of Helos’s shirt, with threads as fine as spider’s silk, woven in a dizzying, lacy pattern. It’s a familiar game, one I’ve used often to soothe my nerves, but the sense I’m being watched forces my eyes up after only a few moments. Minister Mereth is surveying me with unmasked curiosity.
Trying to swallow my apprehension, I clasp my hands in my lap and return her gaze. She switches her attention to Weslyn.
“Your rooms are comfortable, I trust?”
That seems to be a signal, because four servers instantly appear with wide, shallow bowls in hand. Mine holds a creamy bisque, and I cast a surreptitious glance at Weslyn, who picks up his spoon without hesitation. I do the same. This is by far the nicest meal I’ve ever attended, and I have no idea what the rules of etiquette might be. Glumly, I imagine how the Minister Mereth might react if she knew she’d invited two shifters to her table, let alone the two she’d specifically ordered to leave Glenweil.
“Very comfortable. Thank you,” Weslyn replies, when the servers are out of sight.
“And your family? How is your father?”
“He’s well.”
Minister Mereth nods. “Yet he doesn’t know you’re here.”
By the river, she’s direct.
Weslyn continues to sip at his soup, seemingly unperturbed. “On the contrary, he’s one of the few who does.”
Minister Mereth sits back and appraises him. “If you bring trouble with you, I won’t have it in my borders.”
“We bring none.” Weslyn’s response is immediate, his voice clear and calm, no trace of defensiveness or alarm. The fact that he fits so naturally into the polished surroundings—his tailored clothing, the beard he’s trimmed to shadow, the silver ring on his middle finger—only makes me feel further out of place. “Though according to your local distribution, trouble is already here.”
She sits forward a little, fingering the stem of her wineglass. Though she appears a few years younger than King Gerar, her force of presence is just as strong. I imagine her and Violet facing off, and the lightning storm that would surely follow. “Jol has been a thorn in my side since before he was crowned. He is a child playing king, and this, simply his latest tantrum.”
Weslyn sets down his spoon and folds his hands before him. “Then you don’t think him serious?”
“Serious,” she echoes faintly, sipping her wine. “His policies have never been against the likes of us.”
My fingers curl into fists.
“He considers everyone who stands against him a threat,” Weslyn contradicts. “He’s like his father in that regard.”
Minister Mereth fixes him with
a piercing look. “He’s nothing like his father. Daymon was unhinged. Jol knows exactly what he’s doing, foolish as his decisions may be. Is the soup not to your liking?”
Her head whips toward me, quick as a blink, startling me into a frozen sort of silence. My eyes flicker to the spoon clutched tight in my hand. I haven’t eaten a single bite.
I dip my head and start eating, unsure whether she expects an apology. Her attention drifts to Helos.
“Your face is vaguely familiar. Have we met?”
My body ices over. Helos has never learned to hide behind masks the way I do; his feelings are usually easy to read upon his face. But to his credit, he only leans back a fraction, clearly surprised to be addressed. “No, Minister.”
She continues to appraise him, tapping the side of her glass lightly. “Hm.”
“We were speaking of the north,” Weslyn reminds her in the pause that follows.
“First I would like to know who sits at my table.” Minister Mereth trades her wineglass for a spoon and dips it into her soup. “Your name?” she asks me.
I straighten a little, resisting the urge to smirk at Weslyn. She won’t expect us to talk, indeed. “Evaline, ma’am.”
“Evaline,” she echoes slowly, testing the syllables on her tongue. “That’s a pretty name. And what do you do, Evaline?”
“I’m in the Royal Guard, ma’am.” If she ever solicits information on King Gerar’s court, she’ll find that there is indeed a short, frizzy-haired member of the Royal Guard named Evaline. I’m leaving no trail to the secret shifter in their midst.
“And you?” she asks Helos, a calculating gleam in her expression.
I don’t like it. My brother has always turned heads, and the form he chose today probably doesn’t help, but now is not the time to be attracting extra attention.
“What’s your name?”
“Helos,” he replies, opting for the truth. “I’m a healer.”
Forestborn Page 12
