The Cursed Queen’s Daughter (Thirstwood #2)

Prologue

The Old Ones came into existence before death. Hence, they have no true fear.

—EXCHARIAS, SYLVAN POET

Damon stood before his father, the King of Iluna. Shadows swirled around his throne, a writhing mass of spirits that served as both weapon and shield. No knife could cut them, no arrow pierce them. No one could defy the ruler of this slice of eternal night.

Especially not his son.

King Erebus beckoned with one gem-clad hand. “Step closer.”

Damon obeyed. If he hesitated, the shadows would sense weakness and converge on him.

“I give you freedom, do I not?” the king asked.

Damon gave the only acceptable answer. “Yes, Father.”

The king leaned forward. “I give you leave to wander all the places my roots can take you?”

Damon nodded. He sensed he was being led toward an accusation, but he didn’t know his crime.

“All I ask in return,” the king said softly, “is that you bring me anyone who dares violate my sacred shrines.”

Damon bit his tongue. Sacred shrines. A few scraggly trees and rocks where people used to worship—remnants from when his father held sway in the world above.

They were no more than magical detritus now.

King Erebus used them as traps, claiming the spirits of folk unfortunate enough to stumble upon them.

“We need fresh spirits to feed our realm,” the king reminded him, lifting a hand to caress one of the ribbons of darkness, his rings a bright, sparkling contrast. “These shadows are yours as well as mine. Have you forgotten?”

An explosion of hatred heated Damon’s chest. If they were his shadows, why did they do nothing he wanted? If they were his, why did he despise them?

“No, I haven’t forgotten.” Where is this going?

“Yet,” his father said, his tongue sharp on the word, “you haven’t brought me a new spirit in weeks.”

Damon bowed his head. Merely one of the regular lectures, then. “I have met no one in the woods.” A lie. In reality, he’d seen many creatures, some of whom had come perilously close to his father’s traps. But Damon had no urge to damn any of them.

“Prospect says different,” the king added. “His crows have spied you neglecting your duties.”

Damon’s head snapped up. Quick rage pumped through his veins as he searched the dark corners of the room. The Court Seer was always lurking somewhere nearby. Damon could feel it—Prospect’s malevolent glare an itch on the back of his neck.

Many of the throne room’s inhabitants drowsed or slept on black velvet divans or on the cold, hard floor, their snores audible.

They were mostly forest folk, a few Azpians, and one or two humans who’d been invited to this realm to make merry before succumbing to the king’s enchantment.

Soon they would be given a choice to leave.

But none would go. Damon tried not to look at them. Their fate turned his stomach.

“Few folk stroll the forest at night. Even Sylvans avoid the woods under a full moon.”

“Then what do you say to this?” The king flicked his fingers, and shadows parted to reveal a tall woman with greenish-gold hair, skin with a hint of bronze, and hazel eyes. Though her posture was proud and determined, her clasped hands trembled.

Damon was at the age when his voice cracked and hoped it would not betray his dismay. “A Sylvan.”

“Not just any Sylvan.” The king smiled with more genuine mirth than usual. “You can’t even bring me a common spirit, and Prospect has brought me Coventina, the Sylvan queen.”

Damon’s stomach clenched, helpless against a twist of sympathy. His father had caught a prize he would not give up easily.

The woman took a breath and turned toward the king. “Your Seer claims my daughter violated a sacred boundary. I came here to refute his claim. Everything in Thirstwood belongs to the Sylvans.”

Damon noticed that she didn’t seem affected by his father’s charm. Most folk who came succumbed to it almost immediately.

“Not,” said King Erebus, his lips curving up, “everything.” He stroked his chin in a way that put his gems on display. “Some things in the mortal world still belong to me. Places where humans worshipped me retain vestiges of my power.”

The queen was silent for a moment. “What do you claim my daughter did?”

“She climbed a tree,” Prospect interjected, his nasal voice grating on Damon’s nerves. “A tree that belongs to the King of Iluna.”

“All children climb trees,” the queen said, her voice rising. “It does not give you any right to my daughter!”

“And I thought Sylvans never lied,” the king said with deceptive gentleness. “Children who climb my trees belong to me.”

The queen sucked in a breath, perhaps realizing she didn’t know for certain. “If what you say is true, why does no one know of this?”

“Your husband knows,” Erebus insisted, his eyes bright with conviction.

“The Sylvan king is well aware that someone must remain here to pay penance for violating my boundary. Perhaps he thought the brambles he placed around my tree would be enough of a deterrent.” Erebus smiled.

“But my magic is a strong lure, especially to those of a certain curious nature. Now one of you must pay the price. You or your daughter.”

The queen’s jaw worked before she spoke. “I will not agree to this until I’ve spoken with my husband. Until I’ve verified your claims.”

The king paused for a moment, then inclined his head.

“Go home for the answers you need. But if, my willow, you think you can escape your fate, know that you are cursed from this moment to wither in illness while you are away from here. You may fight it, but eventually, you will succumb. You will die if you do not return.”

“I’d rather die than condemn my daughter to this place,” the queen spat.

“Your death will not protect her,” the Court Seer interjected. “When you die, I will come to claim her spirit and yours on behalf of my king.”

The queen let out a shocked breath, stepping toward the king. Her expression was so furious, it made Damon want to take a step back. “You filth—”

Fast as a winter’s sudden gale, shadows snaked up her arms and held them. She snarled, baring her teeth, her fists clenching.

But Damon knew well these shadows could not be battled with strength. “Father.” He didn’t mean to protest but couldn’t hold his tongue. “Her daughter didn’t know it was your tree.”

He wasn’t surprised by his father’s mocking laugh or the sneer that accompanied it. There was a human belief that if milk soured, it was a result of the King of Iluna laughing. Damon sometimes wondered if a bowl of milk was curdling somewhere in human lands above.

Turning his attention back to the Sylvan, the king spoke calmly. “I await your choice, Queen Coventina.”

Damon let out a relieved breath when the shadows let the queen go.

Three years to the day, the Sylvan queen returned. She was thinner, paler, her face drawn with exhaustion. But her hands no longer shook, and she wore the most determined expression Damon had ever seen.

Prospect slid from the shadows like a bad smell, his angular form floating more than walking, a silver chalice gleaming in his stained hands.

Damon’s eyes burned from the taint of magic, and he blinked to clear them. He hated the cup. Despised it.

“I offer my spirit,” Queen Coventina said, her voice strong despite her frail appearance. “I offer myself in Theodora’s place.”

The king grinned, his body relaxing. He made a motion toward Damon. “My son will administer the cup.”

Prospect chuckled at the shudder Damon couldn’t control as the frigid chalice was placed in his hands.

“The touch of its metal brings a powerful burn.” The Court Seer’s smile was cruel.

“Not as powerful as your stench,” Damon hissed.

Prospect’s furious expression made him smile. If he ever became king, the first thing he would do would be to rid himself of the Seer, one way or another.

Damon looked up at Queen Coventina, and his smile faded. He saw someone brave and strong who’d been trapped by his unscrupulous father. She didn’t deserve this.

“Drink,” he said, his disgust at this task making his voice harsh.

The queen gasped at the cold burn of the metal, her hands unsteady as she tilted the cup. Silver limned her once-pink lips, the shine spreading down to her chin and neck, and up over her nose, continuing to her lashes and brows until her hair was silver, too.

The cup dropped with a clatter as her arms grew into branches, her legs becoming roots that dug through the black stone floor and into the ground below.

Her trunk stretched taller, taller, until it was twice the height of the throne, its branches bending away from the king as if trying to escape.

In moments, she was nothing more than a hauntingly elegant tree.

“Another spirit for our kingdom,” the king said with obvious satisfaction. “A queen’s life force will be far more powerful than most in protecting us. We are favored by fate.”

Favored. Damon wanted to spit that it had nothing to do with destiny and everything to do with his father’s lack of conscience.

But instead, he bowed, then turned toward the path that wove between rows and rows of silver trees.

The shadows followed, hounding him with mocking echoes of the king’s laughter.

Someday, I will be free of this place, Damon promised himself. I will never be like him.

The shadows howled as if they’d heard his thoughts.