43

We continue walking the trail in the opposite direction of the troop now headed to Pethorp. No birds sing in the darkness, but frogs croak from hidden spaces off the road. The odors of pine and clay are overlaid with the stink of stagnant water and old blood. If the vines, roots, and leaves weren’t so alive and thriving, I’d think this forest had perished long ago.

I’ve noticed something: the longer Philia travels with us, the stronger she looks. Her hair is shinier but not because of the buildup of dirt and oil. Her steps are certain, more solid than they were in Maford or even in the forests around Veril’s cottage. She’s less shrill and thinks before she speaks. There’s a light in her eyes that wasn’t there before. Philia Wysor is growing up right before my eyes.

As we walk, I decide to pull one of my questions from my teetering tower of queries. “Why did you oppose killing those soldiers?” I ask Jadon. “With our combined skills, we stood a good chance of taking them like we did back in Maford.”

The muscles in his jaw flex. “Because that was Gileon Wake.”

“So?”

“ So … We can’t kill a prince and expect us— or Olivia —to live.” He looks over at me, his gaze assured. “Fortunately, the horses freaked out before Veril’s enchantment broke.”

“That was scary,” Philia says, eyes wide. “What got into them?”

“ I got into them,” I say, “and that’s not a brag.”

We walk on, retreating into our own thoughts. I’m glad for the silence—I’m trying to focus on the glittering trail of moths. Another light, though, catches my eye: the sharp yellow glow waxing from Veril’s knees.

The old man straggles behind, leaning more on his staff with each step. Strings of amber pain buzz from his knees, zipping down to his calves and up his thighs. I glimpse a gap around his legs: the vivid glimmer of enchantment and the lusterless matte of the true world. His lavender eyes are tearing up, and his fingers curl and cramp. Without the strength to maintain the enchantment in which he cloaks himself, his beard is bright white with age and his back is a series of misshapen knobs and bones.

Maybe there’s something in Veril’s bag that will help. “Let’s stop for a moment,” I say to the others. Then, to Veril: “Sit a moment. You’re not doing well.”

He steels himself before tottering to a fallen tree trunk.

I grab Veril’s satchel as Jadon and Philia join us.

“We need to keep moving,” Jadon says.

I dump bundles of plants from the satchel onto the forest floor.

Jadon watches the woods for danger as I use the old man’s mortar and pestle to grind plants under his instruction. Veril lifts his pants leg to reveal skin busy with trails of veins and scars, a thin calf, and a swollen knee. Bad shape.

Please let this work. I smear the poultice on both of his knees and upper calves, letting my hands linger on his kneecaps.

Once the yellow glow of his pain dims, we shoulder our bags and return to the trail.

The sparkling moth cloud is gone.

Disappointed, I droop, and my pulse ticks in my head, keeping time with the only thought I have. This is so fucked up.

“Okay,” Philia says, eyes on the ground, “four Dashmala kidnapped Livvy. One Dashmala rode beside Prince Gileon. Could it be possible that Gileon already has Olivia?”

“I don’t think he has her,” Jadon says.

“Hear me out,” Philia says. “If Gileon has Olivia, the woman who embarrassed him before the entire realm, who else would he be hunting right now? Shouldn’t we follow Gileon to his camp and rescue Olivia instead of going to Weeton?”

No one speaks.

Philia turns to Jadon. “Are you going to say anything?”

Jadon frowns. “I told you that I don’t think Gileon has Olivia, so I’m not gonna join in your hypothetical.”

Philia snorts. “My hypothetical?”

“She’s not traveling with him, Philia,” I say. “I would’ve sensed the amulet’s—”

“ If ,” Philia interrupts, “she didn’t sell it or exchange it for—”

“One more time: we’re going that way.” I point in the direction of Caburh. “There weren’t any moths fluttering around Gileon, so again, I doubt he has the amulet.”

“But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have Olivia—”

“You know what?” I snap. “I don’t beg for followers, and I’m tired of being second-guessed. Follow Gileon Wake, then. Go that way.” I point at the path behind us. “Good luck.” I level my shoulders, then say, “Veril?”

The old man says, “I’m ready.”

Together, the Renrian and I continue our slower westward trek. Soon, I hear the patter of two more pairs of feet as Jadon and Philia fall into step behind us.

We walk on, the forest quieter, colder. We pass limbless trees. Tromp upon gray dirt. Nothing moves—not a branch, not a bird. Eerie stillness.

I look behind me, sensing…

“What?” Jadon catches me looking.

“I’m thinking about what Gileon said.”

She told us that they would be traveling this road . She practically guaranteed that I would find them heading this way.

“Who is ‘she’?” I ask. “And that cardinal. Let’s not forget that it wasn’t too far from that falcon. I just find it strange that the falcon didn’t even think to catch a bright-red bird for dinner.”

He shrugs. “Maybe the falcon didn’t see it and that’s why it didn’t attack. Maybe the falconer fed it before sending the bird out to avoid distraction.”

“I think that cardinal was one of Elyn’s sentinels,” I say. “ Someone squealed on us. Could Elyn be the ‘she’?”

Jadon pushes out a long breath. “Maybe.”

“If it’s Elyn, then…” Philia unties the mace from the strap on her bag and swings the steel ball a few times. “I’ll be ready next time. She’ll be sorry that she messed with us.”

I chuckle. “To Elyn and her guards, your mace will feel like a thorn on the smallest rose.”

“That doesn’t mean she can’t fight,” Jadon counters as he takes the lead on the trail. “You wanted her to have a weapon, and now you say that it’s useless?”

Against man, the mace would teach a few lessons. Against a being far superior to man? A thorn on the smallest rose. Still, I shrug and say, “You’re right. Swing on, then, Philia.”

Branches and dried leaves crunch beneath our feet. A foul odor stampedes through the woods, running over the fresher scents of evergreens and ferns. The dirt is parched—no rain has fallen in these parts for months. There are no owls in these trees. No ravens on rocks. This landscape is a reminder that Vallendor is dying.

Eventually, Philia walks ahead with Veril, leaving me and Jadon to walk side by side. He clears his throat, then says, “I’m sorry.” When I don’t respond, he steps in front of me. “Kai—”

I step around him, my patience depleted like the dried dirt beneath our feet.

“Can you stop and listen for a minute?” he asks, standing still. “Please?”

I push out an irritated breath and face him.

He extends his arms to the side and says, “I am truly, truly sorry for hurting you. You didn’t deserve that, and I apologize.”

“Fine,” I say, ready to start walking.

“Wait.” He rushes to stand before me again. “I intentionally pushed you away—”

“Wrong thing to say.”

“My actions were harsher than I intended,” he says, shaking his head.

“You could’ve just said, ‘Hey, Kai. I think you’re great, but I’m not there yet and I don’t know when or if I’ll ever be.’ See? Still would’ve been awful to hear, but at least my version wasn’t cold and scary and—”

“That would’ve been the biggest lie I’ve ever told.” He pauses, then mutters, “Though that’s not true, either. Shit. Look. I’m reluctant to… go there even though I am there. I know we’ll have to separate soon—I promised Olivia that I’d take her to Pethorp—and so I thought, ‘What’s the point?’ I’ll end up hurting you anyway, so I decided to hurt you now, and this sounds awful now that I’m saying it aloud, but I’d rather hurt you and get it out of the way before we…before we…”

He holds his breath, and I can hear his thoughts as he counts to ten like he does anytime someone sneezes or coughs. At eleven, he sets his hands on his hips and drops his head. “Guess I’ve succeeded.”

My heart wobbles, but my knees, my core, remain rigid. “Do you think I’ll say, ‘Great. I forgive you’ because you apologized? You think I’ll trust anything you say or claim you feel? I’m not one of your farm girls back in Maford. I don’t believe you fell from the heavens or rode down in a golden chariot to light the world by simply existing. Do you think I believe that?”

“I don’t.”

“What’s all this, then?” I ask, taking my turn to dramatically extend my arms. “We’re in the middle of nowhere and we’re talking about what right now?”

Jadon shakes his head.

The worst part is, I want to forgive him, but he doesn’t deserve it. Not yet. “We should keep moving.” I back away and start walking to catch up with Veril and Philia, who are a good distance ahead.

I look back over my shoulder.

Jadon hasn’t moved. His hands are still on his hips. His head still hangs low.

Just as I face forward, a growl pushes through the trees. A growl so hard and dry that it leaches any life remaining in the dirt path we’re on.

“What was that?” Philia asks, her voice trembling.

“Don’t know.” I slowly turn to look left.

The glow of the creature in the brush confuses me. Gold. Blue. Horizontal. Vertical.

“Leave my woods,” a jagged voice rumbles.

“Did you hear that?” I whisper.

“The growls?” Philia whispers back. “Yeah.”

“But you didn’t hear a man speak?” I ask.

Both Veril and Philia say, “No.”

I steady my shoulders, then shout, “We mean no disrespect. We’re anxious to leave—”

The creature growls again, closer now. “I will rip your heads from your bodies and drink the blood from your necks.”

Philia draws in a breath, but she’s present enough to grip the mace.

“Draw your weapon if you dare, child,” the creature threatens.

“Philia,” I whisper, “just relax.” Who am I talking to? What am I talking to? How much danger are we in? “Please leave us alone. I want no trouble. Just let us continue on our way.”

The last time I reacted against a threat, sight unseen, I’d nearly killed Tazara, the king of the night-dwelling creatures. I don’t want to make the same mistake this time, killing whoever’s growling at me, another last of his kind.

See, Sybel? I’ve learned my lesson. I’m not choosing violence.

That curious glow is moving closer to us…closer…until a beast emerges from the shadows. He has the short, woolly fur of a bear but eyes that gleam with the intelligence and evil of man. Those massive paws—that’s bear. The upright carriage—that’s man. “I will not warn you again,” he growls. “You are trespassing in my woods, and for that, you will die.”

Fear flickers through me, but then I remember what Sybel told me.

This realm, this land, every forest and glen, the mountains and desert, every piece and parcel is yours — and you must heal it and you must protect it.

Yes, I must heal it and protect it—and I will.

Because I am the Lady of the Verdant Realm, and these woods are mine.