Forestborn

by Elayne Audrey Becker

  No one answers. Their fear is palpable as they start eyeing one another, as if unsure which of them might be an imposter.

  “This base is on lockdown,” the commander announces, shaving my bones to dust. “Everyone will report to my office for questioning. If anyone is seen trying to escape, you grab a bow and shoot on sight.”

  He calls six men and women forth immediately, barking questions that are meaningless to me. I suppose their answers are satisfactory, because he sends them off to secure the compound a moment later. Three now remain, along with the unconscious one.

  Leave. Please leave. Please.

  “Failed to break you out, though, didn’t it?” the commander muses aloud with a wicked sort of pleasure, eyes resting on me. “Or maybe it didn’t come for you at all.”

  It. It.

  I hide my hands behind my back.

  He’s looking for a reaction, but I won’t give him one. I’m well versed in masks.

  “Tell me, shifter, where is the other one? Why is it here?”

  Again, I give him nothing.

  “Get him out.”

  The commander holds up a key, which someone uses to unlock my doors. My heart is hammering loud enough to wake the dead. I didn’t realize there’d be a master key. I need them to leave me alone, so I can vanish. I need—

  But the doors are open, and the three remaining soldiers grab on to my arms and haul me roughly to my feet. They appear nauseated to be touching me, but their holds remain firm as they twist my arms painfully and shove my body forward. I attempt to dig my heels in, but there’s only smooth stone underfoot, no grip my feet can catch. All too quickly, we’re out of the cage and standing in front of the commander.

  He holds my gaze for several heartbeats. Then he sinks a fist into my stomach, completely without warning.

  My torso attempts to fold over of its own accord, but the soldiers maintain their grip on my arms. All I can do is stand there, wheezing and blinking back tears. The pain is stunning. The commander watches me with cold appraisal, studying the effect of his actions. Then he hits me again.

  This time I do drop to the ground; my captors have loosened their hold slightly, perhaps interpreting my silence as an inability to fight back.

  The commander tilts his head. “I thought, by now, you would have learned the futility of resisting.”

  Pressure mounts behind my shoulder blades, clawing, insistent. But I can’t shift and escape, not with this many eyes on me. The commander only just gave the order, and already soldiers are swarming the grounds, crossbows at the ready. Odds are I wouldn’t last long. Not at this range. Not when there are no roots to trip them or trees to hide behind. No, I have to wait—but it’s taking every bit of willpower I have to beat the wings back.

  “Now then,” he says, squatting in front of me and talking over my ragged breathing. “I’m going to ask you again. What do you know about the other one?”

  The welling numbness and blinding ache in my gut are blocking out most other thoughts. I need to catch my breath, but my lungs can’t seem to draw in enough air, and I’m certain I’m going to vomit from the strain of resisting the shift. In answer, I spit at the commander’s boots.

  He stands abruptly. “Bring him.”

  The men try strong-arming me to my feet, but my legs will no longer support my weight. I’m still holding on to human by my fingertips, but the instant one of the guards puts a knife to my back, the battle is lost. My body shrinks, wings burst forth, and I catapult into the air with all the force I can muster.

  Hands clamp around my legs and yank me back down, despite each powerful thrust of my wings. I twist and shriek, aiming to puncture their skin with my talons, and then a cloth drops over my head. My vision teeters, and the world goes dark.

  * * *

  I blink once. Twice.

  Harshly lit white walls scald my irises, and I duck my head toward my chest, attempting the small feat of twitching my fingers. I find the bones stretch into wings instead, and dimly, it occurs to me that I’m still in hawk form.

  I adjust my hold on the borrowed matter and shift back to human, thankfully having the wherewithal to assume Helos’s form instead of my own. My limbs feel battered where they lay curled up on the floor, and pain is knifing a merciless rhythm through my skull. None of that changes the fact that I need to assess where I am, though, so I shove my palms against the chilled tile and push myself upright.

  The room that holds me is small, smooth-walled, and not as bright as it seemed upon waking. Confusion mingles with dismay when I realize there are no windows through which to check the sun’s position. Nor is there any furniture beyond the oil lamps, a chamber pot, a thin, woolen rug, and two curve-backed, upholstered chairs scraped across it. Everything else is cold stone and closed in, no escape except the door through which we must have entered. Someone has stacked clothing against one of the walls.

  Since panicking won’t help, I cross the room and pull on the purple top and loose black pants. The fabric rests surprisingly soft against my skin. I don’t expect the door to give at my touch but try the handle anyway, pressing my lips together when the lock rattles in its hold.

  Stretching the kinks from my muscles, I trail the perimeter of the room, scanning for any crevice I might slip through as a mouse. Back in the corners, against the floor. There’s nothing, and I have no idea how long I’ve been here.

  I slam a palm into the wall, and the door flies open.

  Incurring a wave of dizziness, I throw my back against the stone, cradling my aching hand. It takes a couple of moments for my vision to focus.

  A short man holding a tray of food steps over the threshold, two bulky guards quickly filling the gap in the doorway behind him. Both hold loaded crossbows aimed in my direction. Black arrows poke out of quivers belted at their waists, the same ones that cut a vicious hole in Weslyn’s arm.

  The tails are feathered.

  And suddenly I’m seeing what I couldn’t before. A childhood memory snatched from the fold, its edges gaining clarity with every new encounter. The room around me dims into irrelevance as Father’s face takes shape in my mind, the familiar, earnest blue eyes and light brown curls crowning an aging face. Fragmented images from the last night I saw him alive.

  “You have to be brave now, Rora,” he said, crouching before me at the tree line and cradling my tiny face in his warm palms. Flames devoured the buildings around us with roaring apathy, their heat scalding. Everywhere, people were screaming, fighting to get out. “That’s it. Be brave, just a little longer. Go with Helos. Your mother and I will follow.”

  “Don’t leave me!” I cried, just as Helos appeared beside me, wild-eyed.

  “Make for the trees—the forest will protect you. Don’t separate, do you hear me?” Father grabbed Helos’s shoulder. “You stay together.”

  Our neighbor, an older woman who had always baked us sweet breads, dropped to the ground beside us, an arrow protruding from her neck. I shrieked and bit my tongue hard enough to draw blood.

  “Quickly!” Father exclaimed, placing a hand on my back and urging me forward.

  “But you—”

  He loosed a strangled noise as a black-fletched arrow sank into his back with a horrid thud. He landed facedown in the dirt. He didn’t move.

  “Father!” I screamed, collapsing beside him. “Fath—”

  The word choked in my throat as thin arms wrapped around my waist and yanked me backward.

  “Come on!” Helos cried, nearly lifting me off my feet.

  I writhed in his grasp, screaming, fighting to free myself and crawl back to our father’s side while he bled onto the forest floor.

  “We have to—”

  “Here.”

  Without quite meeting my gaze, the short man sets the tray on the ground with shaking hands.

  I hardly even see him. The food, the soldiers, all of them mean nothing to me. I stare only at their arrows as the group retreats through the door, and the bolt slides back into place
.

  I don’t know how long I linger there, stationed against the wall, my consciousness tethered to the past. Old embers buried between my ribs are rekindling to a blazing roar. The weapon that killed my father, my mother’s portrait mounted and studded with darts—the pieces circle for prominence in my brain, linked by a single word.

  Eradain.

  I wipe the exhaustion from my face and struggle to cast the thoughts aside. Now is not the time to solve that puzzle. Memories won’t help me escape.

  Since I really am hungry, I assess the tray’s contents—red grapes, a block of cheese, and a cut of crusty bread. All fuel that might combat my fatigue, and my throat nearly cries at the sight of the water glass beside them.

  I don’t touch any of it.

  Instead, I remain like that, staring at the door for an indeterminate amount of time. I try to picture Helos in the woods, Helos running free—at last, his safety guaranteed because of my help. I came for him without a second thought, and this time, it worked.

  I smile a little, despite the violent pulsing in my head.

  When at last the door opens once more, a handful of soldiers sweep into the room and snap to attention, making way for the man cutting a path between them. It’s not the commander from yesterday. This one is tall, lithe, and … well, young. Younger than most of them.

  My stomach crawls to the floor.

  Looking at this man is like looking in a mirror. His skin has the same olive tones, though his eyes are green. His hair the same thick waves, though it’s cut a little shorter and gleams darker—a striking shade of black. His nose sits more prominently on his face, his eyebrows a little wider. These differences do little to disguise the similarities, though. He’s a slightly distorted version of Helos.

  His expression, which was neutral at first, curdles a bit at the sight of me. Nobody speaks for a few moments.

  “Do you mock me, shifter?”

  He sees it, too, then. The resemblance. I shake my head, not bothering to hide my surprise; it could only help me in this situation.

  He peers at me awhile longer, then smooths the anger from his face in one quick sweep and assumes a sort of half smile. His chin nods toward the untouched food. “It’s not poisoned, you know.”

  As if to prove the point, he bends to pick a grape from its stem and plunks it in his mouth. Then he sinks into one of the chairs, knees splayed wide. “Sit,” he says, extending a palm to the seat across from his.

  I remain where I stand, and one of the soldiers fingers the crossbow at her side.

  The seated man follows my gaze. “Leave us,” he commands to the crew assembled.

  A woman steps forward. “Your Majesty, it isn’t safe.”

  Your Majesty? Could this be Jol? This boy-king who looks little older than my brother?

  He turns back to face me, his features quite relaxed aside from the calculating eyes. “Do as I say.”

  The soldiers shuffle out, closing the door behind them.

  Most people in King Gerar’s court were afraid to meet my gaze for more than a few moments. Not this man. His eyes lock on to mine, and though they are the same shape as Helos’s, they contain none of his usual, gentle warmth. “Sit,” he says again.

  I don’t see any weapons on him, and I’m not exactly keen to have those soldiers called back in. So I sit.

  The king leans back, setting an elbow on the arm of the chair. His collared shirt is dyed a dark color reminiscent of dried blood, an image that reminds me vaguely of Helos’s disguise at Willahelm Palace. “I must apologize for my commander’s behavior,” he begins. “I would have intervened sooner, had I arrived before you were drugged.”

  My gut still prickles. I say nothing.

  “What is your name?”

  As if I would ever entrust him with it. His tone may sound civil enough, but he speaks with the measured, tightly controlled countenance of a man who has not gotten to where he is by asking the wrong questions.

  “The hawk is an interesting form to take,” he continues, passing over my silence. “Let me see. Hawk, fox, elk, is that right?” He counts them off on his fingers one by one, before lowering his voice a little. “Already three forms at such a young age. You haven’t exactly lived in comfort over the years, have you?”

  There’s a bitterness in his tone I don’t understand any more than the apology, the dismissal of guards, the food, and the relocation.

  “In that, we are alike,” he says, as easy as if we’re already friends. “Some would say it makes us stronger. Would you agree?”

  I truly don’t know what game he’s playing at. But beneath the shrewd expression, I detect a hint of genuine curiosity, and maybe that’s why I reply, “Perhaps, but not enough to warrant the trade-off.”

  A glint akin to approval gleams in his eyes. “How is it you came to be here?”

  “I was attacked,” I say, since surely he would have received the report by now. “By your horrible men.”

  “Horrible.” He shakes his head. “You judge me. That much is plain. But a good leader does what’s best for his people, as I’m sure you can understand.”

  “All of his people, or only some?” I retort.

  He studies me with a guarded expression, his reaction as indecipherable as Violet’s ever are. “Who else knows you’re here?”

  “No one.”

  “No one,” he echoes, sounding faintly amused now. “That doesn’t explain what happened in the guard tower.”

  I blink and hope it passes for confusion.

  “With whom do you live?”

  “I live alone.”

  “Where?”

  “The wilderness.”

  His eyes narrow a fraction. “Careful, now. Vague answers will not work with me. Tell me: Where is your home?”

  Mentioning Telyan is certainly not an option, but the reminder of it brings unwanted images to mind. I imagine King Gerar erecting a prison compound like this one within his borders, his people’s fear and hunger and anger taken to such extremes that they follow Eradain’s lead and build cages, order executions. Whatever apprehension I felt at the idea of Telyan’s land running wild with magic, I see now that a future without magic, one filled with more prisons like this, would be far worse.

  “My home was destroyed,” I say, settling on the truth.

  “And where was that?” he asks. A trace of steel has entered his voice.

  I raise my chin, a fraction of a challenge. “Nothing remains but the dirt on your doorstep.”

  A shadow crosses his face, along with the slightest hint of triumph. “You lived in Caela Ridge,” he guesses. When I grant him nothing, he reaches into a pocket and withdraws a small square of wrinkled parchment. He unfolds it, then leans forward and holds it to my face. “Do you know this woman?”

  Never in my life have I been so grateful for the years spent in Castle Roanin, honing my standard expression into one devoid of emotion. I take in the tiny painting of my mother now as if it means nothing to me, even when I notice a detail that drives a spike straight through my heart: she’s wearing a crown.

  “Is she royalty?” I ask, the weight of truth closing in. My limbs feel close to boiling. I curl my fingers reflexively, seeking that familiar jab of nails digging into palms, just enough pressure that the pain distracts and centers me. But I unfurl them just as quickly. Fists signal emotion.

  “Answer the question,” he commands, the friendly manner dropped away. “And she isn’t anything, not anymore. She’s dead.”

  It’s obvious he dropped that fact in the hope of gaining a reaction. It doesn’t work; at least, not in a way that he can see. “It was many years ago,” I say truthfully. “I don’t remember her.” The room is quiet for a short time. “Did you kill her?” I can’t help but add, in as neutral a tone as I can manage.

  It must not have been as convincing as I had hoped, because a slight smile pulls at the corner of his mouth. He sits back, lifting his chin. “Her head decorated my father’s gate for many weeks. Does that
bother you?”

  He speaks as if describing the weather.

  Claws. Blazing. Biting. Threatening to break through the surface. I bend the entirety of my attention and my will to those hands, forcing them back, beating them back, back. He doesn’t know about the lynx or the mouse, and I’m going to keep it that way. I must, if I am to have any hope of escaping. It’s the only leverage I possess.

  “Who was she to you?” The king has not broken eye contact. He’s scouring for recognition, pressing me to reveal the connection that he’s clearly already guessed. Torturing me even worse than fists or weapons ever could.

  And it’s working. I can feel the bindings threatening to snap, my entire body straining against the dam. Snippets of conversation with Wes slide into place with this new information—Daymon’s murdered wife, the paintings of my mother, the crown. The echo of her appearance etched into this king’s features, this man who is certainly Jol.

  My mother had another child before us. My mother was a queen. My mother was murdered.

  And this man is my half brother. The beloved ruler of Eradain, a kingdom founded upon the very principle that no one with magic in their blood should ever hold the throne.

  A torrent of emotions overwhelms me, astonishment and anguish and unadulterated wrath. “Is that why your father murdered her?” I ask before I can stop myself. “To keep your secret safe?”

  I’ve leapt through several points in the conversation in asking that, enough that I expect him to take time to process. In an instant, however, Jol has yanked me to my feet and slammed me against the wall so hard the back of my head rebounds. The forearm pinned across my collarbone is frighteningly strong, and I glance down at the sharp point biting between my ribs to find it’s a knife.

  “What has that fool Gerar promised you?” he asks, his breath singeing my face. “Because whatever it is, your plot will fail. Do not make the mistake of thinking me weak.”

  In the charged silence that follows, I scour my memory frantically for the bits of information Wes told me about Jol, anything that could help me out of this. Something about a difficult childhood. Problems with his father, a hero to his people. And then I realize.