The Tangleroot Palace

by Marjorie Liu

  “I probably have a strange answer,” she replied. “But unless you want to see your man parts dangling around your neck while my father saws off your legs to feed his pet wolves, I best be going. Now.”

  He followed her, running his fingers through his hair and pulling so hard she thought his scalp would peel away. “Why would your father need to make an alliance with a warlord? He sounds perfectly ghastly enough to handle his enemies on his own.”

  “Oh, no,” she assured him, walking backward toward the woods. “That’s me. I have a much better imagination than he does.”

  A pebble was thrown at them, and hit Mickel in the thigh. Rumble poked his head out from beneath the covers. “Eh! Shut up, shut up! I’m trying to sleep! Can’t a man have a decent night’s—”

  Mickel found something considerably larger than a pebble, and threw it back at him. Sally heard a thump, and Rumble shut his mouth, grumbling.

  “You can’t go,” Mickel said.

  “Oh, really.” Sally marched backward, pointing toward the forest. “Well, here I am, going. And you should be thanking me.”

  Mickel stalked after her. “You are the craziest woman I have ever met. You make me crazy. Now come back here. Before I . . .”

  “Do something crazy,” Rumble supplied helpfully.

  “Dear man,” she said quickly, “I don’t think that would be prudent.”

  And she turned and ran.

  Mickel shouted, but Sally did not look back. She wanted to, quite badly, with all the broken pieces of her grieving heart.

  But her father would find her if she stayed with him, and she liked Mickel too much to subject him to the harm that the old king most certainly would inflict. He might not be an imaginative man, but he was thorough. And a princess did not travel with common performers, not unless she wanted to become a . . . tawdry woman.

  Which, she thought, sounded rather charming.

  The forest was very dark, and swallowed her up the moment she stepped past its rambling boundary, suffocating her in a darkness so complete that all she could do was throw up her hands, and take small, careful steps that did not keep her safe from thorns, or the sharp branches that seemed intent on plucking out her eyes. She had to stop, frequently—not for weariness, but because she was afraid, and each step forward was a struggle not to take another step back.

  Or to simply hide, and wait for dawn, until her father passed by.

  But that would not do, either. Returning to Mickel and his men would endanger them, and she could not tell them who she was. No man—no common, good, men—would want to deal with a princess on the run. All kinds of trouble in that, especially for one who was betrothed to the Warlord of the Southern Blood Wastes, Keeper of the Armored Hellhounds, Black Knight of the Poisoned Cookies—or whatever other nefarious title was attached to his name.

  Sally could depend only on herself. She had been foolish to imagine otherwise, even for a short time.

  And, like the gardener enjoyed saying, life never fell backward, just forward—growing, turning, spinning, burning through the world day after day, like the sun. One step. One step forward.

  Until, quite unexpectedly, the forest became something different. And Sally found herself in the Tangleroot.

  She did not realize at first. The change was subtle. But as she walked, she found herself remembering, Some trees are bark and root, and some trees have soul and teeth, and she suddenly felt the difference as though it was she herself who was changing, transforming from a human woman into something that floated on rivers of shadows. It became easier to move, as though vines were silk against her skin, and she listened as words riddled through the twisting hisses of the leaves, a sibilant music that slid into her bones and up her throat: in every breath a song. Sweet starlight from the night sky disappeared. The world outside might as well have been gone.

  Sally had journeyed too far. The Tangleroot, she had thought, lay farther away—but the ancient had reached into the new, becoming one.

  She was here. She had been drawn inside. Nor could she stop walking, not to rest, not even to simply prove to herself that she could, that her body still listened to her. Because it did not. Her limbs seemed bound by strings as ephemeral as cobwebs, tugging her forward, and though she glimpsed odd trickling lights flickering at the corners of her eyes, and felt the tease of tiny, invisible fingers stroking her cheeks and ankles, she could not turn her head to look. All she could see was the darkness in front of her.

  And finally, the children. Tumbling from the trunks of trees like ghosts, staring at her with sad eyes. Tiny birds fluttered around their shoulders, while lizards and mice raced down their limbs, and though there was no moon or stars to be seen through the canopy, their bodies nonetheless seemed slippery with light: glimpses and shadows of silver were etched upon their skin.

  The little girl from her dream appeared, dropping from the branches above to land softly in front of Sally. She was different from the others, less a spirit, fuller in the flesh. More present in her actions. Her matted hair nearly obscured the silver of her eyes. She crouched very still, staring. Sally could not breathe in her presence, as if it was too dangerous to take in the same air as this child.

  The girl held out her hand to Sally. Behind her, deep in the woods, branches snapped, leaves crunching as though something large and heavy was sloughing its way toward her. She did not look, but the children did, silently, their eyes moving in eerie unison to stare at something behind her shoulder.

  The girl closed her hand into a fist, and then opened it urgently. Swallowing hard, Sally grabbed her tiny wrist—suffering a rapid pulse of heat between their skin—and allowed herself to be drawn close, down on her knees.

  The girl reached out with her other hand, and hovered her palm over Sally’s chest. Warmth seeped against her skin, into her bones and lungs. She became aware of the necklace she wore, and began to pull it out. The girl shook her head.

  Better if you never had the desire to find this place, came the soft voice, drifting on the wind. She would not have heard your heart.

  “Who are you?” Sally whispered. “What are you?”

  The child glanced to the left and right, at the watching, waiting children. I am something different from them. I was born as I am, but they were made. Forced into the forms you see. They were human and dead, but the trees rose through them, around them, and trapped their souls in this tangled palace, from which they can never leave.

  “The queen,” Sally said.

  She sleeps, and yet she dreams, and though the crown that shackles her mind weakens her dreams, her power is still great through the green vein of the Tangleroot. You have entered her palace, you red-headed daughter, and you will escape only through her will.

  Sally leaned back on her heels, feeling very small and afraid. “Why are you telling me this?”

  The child made an odd motion over her chest, as though sketching a sign. Because you have lain in my roots from babe to woman, and it is my fault the queen heard your desire. I could not hide your heart from her mind, though I tried. As I try even now, though I cannot disobey her for long.

  Sally’s breath caught. “You are no tree.”

  But I am the soul of one, replied the little girl, and tugged Sally to her feet. Beware. She will try to take you, and what you love. And we will have no choice but to aid her.

  “No,” Sally said, stricken. “How can this be? I came here for help.”

  There is no help in the Tangleroot. Do not trust her bargains. All she wants is to be free.

  And the child forced Sally to run.

  She lost track of how long they traveled, but it was swift as a bird’s flight, and silent as death. The girl led her down narrow corridors where the walls were trees and vines, and the air was so dark, so cold, she felt as though she was running on air, that beneath her was the mouth of a void from this world to another, and th
at if she fell, if the child let go, she might fall forever.

  Beyond them, in the tangle of the forest, she glimpsed clearings shaped like rooms, replete with mushrooms large as chairs, and steaming pools of water within which immense, scaled bodies swam. She glimpsed other runners, down other corridors, ghosting silver and slender, limbs bent at impossible angles that startled her with fear. Voices would cry out, some in pain or pleasure, and then fade to an owl’s hoot. And once, when a wolf howled, its voice transformed into slow, sly laughter, accompanied by the whine of a violin: clever music that women danced to, glimpsed beyond a wall of vines, their breasts bare, with nipples red as berries, their faces sharp and furred like foxes, and eyes golden as a hawk’s.

  Sally saw all these things, and more, but none seemed to see her. It was as though all the strange creatures within the Tangleroot abided in separate worlds, lost in the maze that was the queen’s dreaming palace. It was haunting, and terrifying. Sally was afraid of becoming one of those lost, living dreams, sequestered and imprisoned in a room made of vines and roots, and ancient trees.

  But the little girl never faltered, though she looked back once at Sally with sadness.

  Finally, they slowed. Ever so delicately, Sally was pulled through a wall of trees so twisted they seemed to writhe in pain. Even touching them made her skin crawl, and she imagined their leaves weeping with soft, delicate sobs. And then Sally and the girl broke free, and stood upon the edge of a lake.

  It felt like dawn. A dim silver light filled the air, though none had trickled into the forest. She had thought it was night until now—and perhaps it was still, on the other side of the Tangleroot.

  No birds sang, no sounds of life. The water was frozen, and the air was so cold that Sally could see each breath, and her face turned numb. When she looked up, examining the rocky shore, she thought that the trees still carried leaves, black and glossy, but then those leaves moved—watching her with glittering eyes—and she realized that the branches were full of ravens. Hundreds of them, perhaps thousands, sitting still.

  It made her feel small and naked. Fear had been her constant companion for the last several days—but now a deeper, colder terror settled in her stomach. Not of death or pain, but something worse that she could not name, worse even than those rooms in the forest filled with strange beings. It had not seemed such a bad thing before, to enter a place and come back changed—but she had been a fool. Sally felt as though she sat on the edge of a blade, teetering toward sanity or madness. One wrong slip inside her heart would be the end of her.

  The little girl pointed at the ice. Sally looked into her silver eyes, uncertain.

  Only through her, whispered words on the wind, though the child’s mouth did not move. She has you now.

  Sally gazed out at the frozen lake, which shone with a spectral glow. Far away, though, the mists parted—and Sally glimpsed a long, dark shape on the ice.

  She found herself stepping onto the ice. The little girl did not follow, nor did the ravens move. She walked, sliding and awkward, terror fluttering in her throat until her heart pounded so hard she thought it might burst. And yet she could not stop. Not until she reached the coffin. Which, when she arrived, was not a coffin at all, but a cusp of stone jutting from the water, dark with age and carved to resemble the bud of a frozen flower. It seemed to Sally that the stone might have been part of a tower—the last part—reaching through the ice like a broken gasp.

  Sally peered inside. Found a woman nestled within. She knew her face from dreams: pale, glowing, with a beauty so unearthly it was both breathtaking and terrifying. There was nothing soft about that face, not even in sleep, as though time had refined it to express nothing but truth: inhumanly cruel, arrogant, and cold.

  She wore a crown of horns upon her head, though they seemed closer to branches than antlers, thick with lush moss covered in a frost that enveloped much of her body, painting her dark brow and hair silver, and her red dress white, except for glimpses of crimson. The crown seemed very tight upon her head, and there was a small, heart-shaped groove at the front of it, set in wood.

  The lock for a key.

  Sally could hardly breathe. She started to look behind at the shore to see if the little girl was still there, but a whispering hiss drew her attention back to the sleeping queen. Her eyes were closed, her mouth shut, but Sally heard another hiss, and realized it was inside her head.

  I know your face, whispered the sleeping queen. I know your eyes.

  Sally stared at that still, pale face, startled and terrified. “No. I have never been here.”

  I know your blood. I know your scent. You bear the red hair of the witches who imprisoned me. So, we are very close, you and I. I know what you are.

  A chill beyond ice swept over Sally. “Is that why you brought me here?”

  You wanted to come, murmured the queen. So you have. And now you stand upon the drowned ruins of the old kingdom, among the souls of the long dead. You, who share the blood of the dead. You, whose ancestors escaped the dead. And left me, cursed me, bound me.

  Sally trembled. “I know nothing of that. I came for answers.”

  Release me, and I will give you answers.

  Her hand tightened, and she realized that she was holding her mother’s necklace, squeezing it so forcefully the chain was digging into her hand. She was almost too afraid to move, and glanced back at the shore—glimpsing movement among the trees. Children. The little girl. Ravens fluttering their wings. She did not know how it all pieced together. It was too strange, like a dream.

  Someone else stumbled from the woods, down to the edge of the lake.

  Mickel. He had followed her into the wood.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Mickel saw her, and tensed. He did not appear hurt, but even from a distance she could see the wildness of his eyes, and the determined slant of his mouth.

  I am the Tangleroot, whispered the queen, frozen as the ice within her tomb. This forest is my dream. All who touch it belong to me. My trees who were human, who became my children. My trees, whose roots reach for me, though ice confines them.

  Release me, she breathed. Or I will make him mine.

  “Why do you think I can release you?” Sally forced herself to look at the queen, feeling as though her feet were growing roots in the ice—afraid to see if that was her imagination, or truth. “I am no one.”

  My ravens tasted your blood. You are born of a witch, and I feel the key. Sweet little girl. Release me.

  Mickel stepped on the ice and fell to his knees, sliding with a quiet grunt. Sally tried to move toward him, but her feet refused to budge.

  He, too, whispered the queen. His blood is also sweet.

  “And if you were free?” Sally asked hollowly, still staring at Mickel.

  A great hiss rose from the ice, a terrible, vicious sound that might have belonged to a snake or the last breath of the dead. On shore, children swayed within the shadow of the wood, covering their hearts.

  Little hearts. Sally looked down at her necklace, and the broken remnants of the wooden heart dangling from the precious amethyst. A heart the size of the indent in the queen’s crown.

  Mickel rose to his feet, half-crouched. His eyes were dark and hard, cold as the ice. Silver glimmered in his hands.

  “Sally,” he said.

  “Stay there,” she said hoarsely. “Run, if you can.”

  But he did not. Simply walked toward her, his unsteadiness disappearing until it seemed that he glided upon the ice, graceful as a dancer. He never took his gaze from her, not once, until he was close to the tomb. And then he looked down at the queen, and flinched.

  “Whatever she wants,” Mickel said, gazing down at the sleeping woman with both horror and resolve, “don’t give it to her.”

  “She wants her freedom,” Sally whispered, almost too frightened to speak. “She thinks I can give it to her.�
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  I came searching for freedom, she thought, and realized with grim, bitter irony that whatever happened here would be a far worse, and more irreversible, loss than any she might have faced outside the wood.

  The ice rumbled beneath their feet. Sally fell forward against the stone tomb. She gripped its dark, cold edge with both hands, and the necklace swung free. Mickel made a small sound, but she could not look at him. The queen commanded every ounce of her attention, as though the roots she had felt in her feet were growing through her neck, up into her eyes—forcing her to stare, unblinking, at that frozen, chiseled face.

  The key, whispered the queen. It has been broken.

  Sally gritted her teeth, sensing on the periphery of her vision the split, jagged remains of the heart swinging from the chain. “Then it is no use to you. Let us go. Let him go and keep me, if you must. But stop this.”

  “Sally,” Mickel said brokenly, but he, too, seemed frozen to his spot.

  Another terrible hiss rose from the ice, vibrating beneath her feet. Half is better than none at all. Perhaps I will find enough power to break free. Place it in my crown, witch. Do this, and I will let him go free.

  Sally hesitated. Mickel whispered, “No.”

  A terrible cracking sound filled the air, as though the world was breaking all around them. But it was not the world. Mickel cried out, and Sally watched from the corner of her eye—suffocating with horror—as the ice broke beneath his feet, and he plunged into the dark water.

  Swallowed. His head did not reappear.

  A scream clawed up Sally’s throat, and she gripped the edge of the stone tomb so tightly her nails broke.

  Give me the key and I will save him, whispered the queen in a deadly voice. I will save him.

  “No,” Sally snapped, anger burning through her blood with such purity and heat that she felt blinded with it. Her hands released the stone. Her feet moved. Her head turned, and then her body. She could move again.