The Forest King’s Daughter

4

It takes cunning to catch a Sylvan.

—G AXIX, D RACU PHILOSOPHER

H IS HAND CLAMPED OVER C ASSIA’S JAW, MUFFLING her screams. She kicked and fought as she was pulled along, her feet sliding against the rocky ground, her limbs still weak from using the ring. The ground shifted, and she was yanked into a steeply descending passage, dirt walls tight around her. Her hands scrabbled for a hold, but the enemy held her by her leather breastplate, pulling her into the depths of the earth.

The air was thick with dirt. Her chest ached to burst as her exposed skin was ravaged by rocks and stones, tearing holes in her woolen sleeves and scraping her arms. It was like traveling into a deeply dug grave. The thought pushed her toward panic. Tears streamed from her dust-filled eyes, and her nostrils were blocked by filth.

He was killing her.

Just when she had lost the battle and must take a breath, her knees and palms met a harder surface, and the passage opened around her. She gasped and choked, coughing so hard she gagged. When she felt a hand grab her shoulder, she went for her knife.

He ripped the dagger from her hand. Defenses gone, sight gone, she scrambled on hands and knees until her feet hit an uneven surface.

As she cursed him, her voice echoed as if she were in a tomb. In a way, perhaps she was. The Cryptlands were so named because they were the burial grounds of an ancient battle, the dead numbering in the hundreds of thousands. Over time, other creatures had taken over these ancient tombs and tunnels, extending them in a labyrinthine maze under the vast reaches of Thirstwood. The trees were above, but they might as well have been stars for all they could do to protect her.

Moments before, she had let herself celebrate a small win. And now she was in enemy hands. Which meant the ring was in enemy hands. She couldn’t fathom how bad this was. The magnitude of her mistake.

Her pulse crashed in her ears, making it nearly impossible to think. Would the promise of ransom keep her alive? Thoughts flitted through her mind, churning up options and discarding them. If only she was as fierce in hand-to-hand combat as Enora and Thea, she could kill him without a weapon.

But she had a weapon. The Solis Gemma. It shook her to the marrow that this one Dracu hadn’t fallen to the blast.

He came near her again. She could smell the brimstone of pit sprites on his clothes. Her hands were grabbed, her wrists bound together with rope.

“Get up,” he said, hauling her up by her shoulders.

Once she was on her feet, she took a breath. She could run, but where? When he put his hand to her back and gave a little shove, she moved, her steps uncertain since she still couldn’t see.

“They’ll hunt you,” she said, taking satisfaction in the idea. “My people won’t rest until you’re dead.”

He laughed. “No one will come after you. You could have run off for all they know. You wouldn’t be the first Sylvan to turn tail in battle.”

“Liar.” If only she hadn’t spent the power of the ring, she was sure she could use it to killing effect for the first time.

He spoke thoughtfully, but there was an edge beneath. “That’s the worst insult to a Sylvan, isn’t it? As if you don’t lie.”

“We don’t.” She spat the words.

His voice gained a hard edge. “You lie to yourselves first, so the words sound like truth to your own ears. What’s wrong with you, anyway? I’ve seen drunk imps fly a straighter line.”

I will kill him , she told herself. If I learn how to kill with the ring, he’ll be the first Dracu to die by my hand.

When a cacophony of voices approached, he pushed her into an indentation in the wall. As shapes materialized from the dark, she realized her sight was returning. A procession of creatures rounded the nearest corner, their torches illuminating them. Tusked Skrattis in clanking armor swatted at pit sprites, smashing their bodies into powder and laughing with loud, wet snorts. Winged imps with bulging eyes floated past, followed by lizard-like drakes with fins as sharp as swords on their backs. Though nothing was as scary as the poison on their tongues. She pressed herself tighter against the wall as they slithered past. Finally, the noise of feet and scales faded, and Cassia heard her own panting breaths, her heartbeat fluttering in her throat.

“A merry group of marauders, don’t you think?” her captor said. “They’re celebrating our win.”

“I say again, you lie,” she said, turning to face him. With a shock, she saw that it was him . The Dracu who had stared at her with such hatred on the battlefield. His features were sharper up close, his glowing eyes even more disturbing.

He took her upper arm and marched her on through the tunnel. “I didn’t hide you back there for my sake. You see, I would only have to say one word: Deathringer. And they would have swarmed you, torn you to pieces with their teeth and claws.”

Cassia knew he was trying to scare her, but it had the opposite effect. He could have let those creatures have her and didn’t. So, he must not plan to kill her. Yet.

She lost all sense of time as they traveled on, most of her focus on keeping her feet as she encountered roots or rocks or large bugs that crunched underfoot, making her shudder.

“Are you taking me to your queen?” she asked. Perhaps some bargain could be struck.

“You really do wish to die tonight, don’t you?” he replied.

She didn’t know what he meant. That the queen would kill her? Or he would if she kept asking questions? She’d heard that the queen was mercurial, benevolent one minute and ruthless the next. But the Dracu didn’t seem less threatening. Given the choice, she would brave the queen.

After a while, the walls changed, growing wider and taller, more finely finished. The tunnel floor shone with clay tiles. Hanging lamps lit the passage, illuminating painted scenes on the walls. One depicted a group of Dracu slaughtering the Sylvan king. The artist had used moonstones for stars and carnelians for the blood of the Sylvans. She shivered at the violent beauty of it.

Finally, the Dracu stopped at a nondescript wooden door and opened it, pushing her in. It was hard to determine the room’s size. A few candles were placed haphazardly on the floor, leaving the corners in darkness. Stone slabs like altars were placed along one wall. A trestle table held neat rows of vials, bowls, and bottles. The smells of crushed herbs and blood filled the air, as well as other things Cassia couldn’t identify. Crates and boxes were pushed against the walls. A rickety wooden chair sat next to a cooking pot on a tripod over a brazier with glowing coals.

The space reminded her of the Seer’s workroom at Scarhamm. But without the benefit of Veleda’s reassuring presence, the smells of death and potions alarmed her. Her pulse beat in her temples, urging her to run, but her wrists were still bound, the Dracu’s hand at her back.

“The Court Seer’s room?” she asked.

“Not exactly. But don’t get ideas. Selkolla’s services can’t be bought. In case you were thinking of bargaining.”

A chuckle sounded behind them. “It has been a long time since I struck a bargain. Perhaps it would be interesting.”

Cassia turned to the doorway. A woman stood at least seven feet tall, thin to the point of gauntness, with a severe bone structure that was close to beautiful, but not quite. Her eyes were an odd silver—not pale gray like Enora’s but the shade of a cold fog swallowed by moonlight. She moved with the grace of a scarecrow, all angles and elbows, her tattered robes sweeping the floor. Cassia stared up in mute wonderment.

The Dracu dipped his head in respect. “Selkolla.”

“You succeeded,” Selkolla said, a smile curving her lips. “I confess I doubted you, Dracu.”

“You shouldn’t have,” he said coolly. “I told you I’d bring her to you.”

“This was planned,” Cassia said, swallowing against the fear thickening her throat. She’d assumed her capture had been nothing more than a seized opportunity.

“Everything that happens is part of a plan,” Selkolla said. “It is only a question of whose. Let me see your hand.”

“A little difficult,” Cassia said, her jaw stiff with fear and anger, “as I’m bound like a brace of pheasants.”

Selkolla tsked. “Untie her, Dracu. Her ring has no effect on me.”

As her bonds were loosened, Cassia looked the woman over. Her ears were hidden by her long hair, but she had no horns, no tail, no wings. Nothing that would mark her as an Azpian of any kind. The ring’s blast only worked on creatures who couldn’t bear direct sunlight.

“I am not an Azpian,” Selkolla said, smiling slightly as if reading Cassia’s mind. “Though, like them, I have not seen sun in many an age.”

That was odd. Only Azpians lived in the Cryptlands. “Are you a Seer?”

“Seer. Witch. Mother. I have had many names. How does yours suit you?”

Cassia’s hands came free, and she stepped away from the Dracu.

“ Deathringer ,” the Seer went on. “An ancient title, given to one who felled thousands with the ring. It must be a burden to wear a legend on your small hand.”

“It’s an honor,” Cassia shot back, disliking the woman’s knowing gaze.

Selkolla’s eyes seemed to glow as she looked at the gemstone. “It is ugly, some say. A simple cabochon, an uncut stone with no brilliance. I have always disagreed.” Her eyes met Cassia’s. “Unfinished things can be beautiful, don’t you agree?”

“Can we get on with it?” the Dracu said. “When the hordes return, we’ll have a hard time keeping them from picking their teeth with her.”

“In good time, Dracu,” Selkolla said, her eyes steady on Cassia. “Look at me, Sylvan king’s daughter.”

As Cassia stared up into eyes colder than snow under a blue moon, she found her mind turning sluggish. The Seer inhaled languorously, and a brine-scented wind swirled through the room, making crates and baskets rattle. Murmuring filled the air, disembodied voices speaking a language Cassia had never heard. A summoning? Without runes or candles? She had never seen it done with so little preparation. And the voices! They were like wisps in her mind.

In a few moments, the voices quieted and the wind died. Cassia felt like she’d been swept into a tornado and spit out into an unfamiliar landscape.

“The answer is clear,” Selkolla said, turning away. “The girl cannot be harmed.”

Silence filled the air for three quickened breaths.

“You’re not serious,” the Dracu said in a tone of subdued rage.

“The Solis Gemma is an artifact of the Ancients, and its magic is as chaotic and unpredictable as the Ancients themselves. The spirits tell me the gemstone has formed a bond with the Sylvan king’s daughter. Its strength is uncertain, but if you kill her, you could destroy the ring and its power.”

Cassia stared down at the gem, which glowed with a dull amber light. A bond between herself and the ring? It felt like something she should have known, should have understood all this time.

“Fine,” the Dracu said brusquely. “I’ll just cut her finger off.”

Cassia’s head snapped up, her nostrils flaring as she sent a killing look at the Dracu.

Selkolla merely sighed. “A warrior thinks to solve every problem with a sword. I would not suggest taking the ring by force. The spirits say it must be given freely.”

The Dracu looked like he wanted to hit something. “That can’t be true.”

As he turned on his heel and prowled, his restless movements shrank the dimensions of the room. Cassia jumped as, without warning, he kicked a crate, sending it crashing against the wall next to her. The wood splintered, its contents spilling and rolling onto the floor around her. A turnip came to rest against her boot.

“A childish display,” the Seer admonished.

Cassia silently agreed.

“Fine, then,” the Dracu rasped, running his hands through his hair. “Do whatever ritual you need to. Just get the ring.”

Cassia measured the distance to the doorway, calculating her chances in the maze of tunnels.

But the Seer moved to the door before she could, saying something about preparations. “Heed me well, Zeru. Do not harm the girl. I’ll return soon.” She left behind the lingering scents of salt and rain.

It took a moment for Cassia’s fatigued brain to register the name.

Zeru.

Her eyes met the Dracu’s as raindrops of memory fell over her, chilling her skin. Zeru was the name of the boy.

The boy who had given her the ring.

“What is it?” he asked, his deep voice too smooth, too silky. “Does the sound of my name make the blood drain from those delicate Sylvan cheeks?” He grabbed the rickety wooden chair and dropped into it, his hands folding over his knees. His unblinking attention made her feel like a trapped animal.

She found her voice, speaking slowly, making sure what she said was true. “I don’t recognize you.”

A mock sadness darkened his eyes. “I gave you a precious gift. And you don’t recognize me?”

She could no longer picture the Dracu boy’s face in detail. She’d worked hard to forget. But something in his movements, his eyes, and the way he spoke ignited embers of memory.

He leaned forward to pin her with his glare. “I gave you the ring, along with my friendship.” His voice roughened. “The second is gone. But I’m taking the ring back.”