Chapter 2
There are three things a Sylvan needs: sun, water, and revelry. Without these, our spirits wither.
—EXCHARIAS, SYLVAN POET
The great hall of Scarhamm was a large, paneled room with columns stretching up to a beamed ceiling.
Windows faced the garden, inviting pink bands of sunset to warm the wooden floors.
Normally, the hall was filled with trestle tables numerous enough for most of the Huntsmen, but for revels, the tables were cleared away.
Tonight, the beams and columns were wrapped with red leaves from blood trees interspersed with gold leaves of autumn.
Lamps hung at intervals, burning with a warm light as the sun’s rays faded outside.
A trio of pixie musicians played lute, drum, and pipe to a festive rhythm.
Thea made her way through the crowd, stopping to speak to several Huntsmen before reaching her father.
Atop a raised dais, the king’s throne was carved from a massive oak, its sides raw bark, its back sprouting branches that reached toward the ceiling.
Thea bowed her head respectfully. Her father did not attend many revels, and she understood he was only present now for her sake.
To everyone else, the Sylvan king was a majestically imposing figure.
Born in a time when folk had been wilder, his far larger stature and the broad, white antlers springing from his head were signs of his great age and power.
Though enemies shook at his approach, and even allies had trouble meeting his darkly assessing gaze, Thea was accustomed to her father’s intimidating presence.
The Sylvan king’s eyes warmed as she straightened from her bow. “You killed four Skrattis last night,” he said in a deep, approving rumble.
She gave her father a modest smile. “Five. They fled before I could take more down.”
“They shouldn’t trouble us again for a good while.”
“Not if they have a grain of intelligence left rattling around in their heads,” she agreed, “which is questionable after we knocked so many of their skulls about.”
The Sylvan king never laughed, but his lips twitched, which was comparable to hilarity in anyone else.
Thea felt a slight pang, noticing the respect her father showed her in this moment, something her sister Cassia had never received.
But everyone agreed Thea was the child who was most like her father—fearless, relentless on the battlefield, a natural defender of the forest folk.
Thea planned to dedicate her life to that defense, which for a Sylvan could be hundreds, even a thousand years. If you didn’t die on the battlefield.
The Sylvan king motioned to one of the servants. “Bring my daughter some of our best ale.”
Thea nodded her thanks as a tankard was placed in her hands. “Thank you, Father.”
His nod was one of approbation. “Good name day, Theodora.”
As Thea bowed and turned away, she caught sight of the Court Seer’s wooden seat, carved in the shape of an owl to represent Noctua, the Ancient patroness of spirits and divination.
The seat was empty, as usual. Veleda rarely came to the great hall, as she didn’t seem to enjoy attention. Or revels. Or people.
For a moment, Thea thought of asking Veleda about the mysterious dress.
But Thea despised magic. She hated the chants, the rituals, and the ephemeral entities Seers called upon to divine the future.
Sometimes Veleda prayed to the Ancients themselves to send her a vision, which seemed like a fruitless exercise.
The Ancients had never once helped Thea when she’d asked.
Anyway, the Seer was absent, and it was Thea’s name day revel.
She took a cleansing breath and examined the assembly.
Since the signing of the truce with the Dracu, more forest folk had started coming to Scarhamm.
The hall was half filled with winged pixies, small household folk called lutins, lake-dwelling naiads and their cousins the river nixies, as well as other allies who lived under the protection of the Sylvan king.
While the Sylvans were about the same size as humans, most forest folk were diminutive in stature and lived in small groups.
They didn’t have the strength, training, or numbers to defend themselves, which meant the Sylvan Huntsmen were their last and best protection against enemies who would kill them and steal their land if they could.
Enemies included humans and Azpians, the folk like Dracu and Skrattis who dwelled underground beneath the forest.
One of the naiads looked Thea over as she passed. “Good name day, Thea! Is that the same dress you wore last year? Sylvan, you need new gowns!”
Thea straightened her shoulders. It was an old dress. She preferred to let people think she didn’t care how she looked. After all, she was a warrior. There was no place in her life for fine or delicate things.
Saving Thea from having to reply, Tibald, the weapons master, entered the hall, his thick arm raised in greeting, drawing shouts and raised tankards.
The jovial, bearded elder had trained every Sylvan Huntsman in Scarhamm, except for Tordon who was older still—the oldest Sylvan alive, except perhaps for the king himself. Their exact ages were a mystery.
“Thea! A toast to your name day!” Tibald said, waving Thea over to a tray of drinks.
Thea’s older sister turned from where she’d been talking with a group of nixies.
Enora’s silvery blond locks were braided in a crown on her head, a stark contrast to the nixies, who left their hair loose or braided with water lilies.
A handsome nixie winked at Thea, and she nodded to him with a smile.
“Ready, name-day girl?” Enora asked, picking up a tankard before moving to Thea’s side. She was dressed in a dark green gown that contrasted with her pale hair. “You know you’re expected to outdance us all.”
“Consider it done,” Thea assured her with a confident grin.
As they toasted and drank, the Second Huntsman, Burke, entered with a group of friends, each with varying levels of swagger.
Burke stopped for a moment, straightening to his full, considerable height to show the perfect fit of his jacket, then bowed to Thea with a murmured name day greeting.
Thea gave him a nod and watched as he approached the throne, bowing deeply to the king before speaking.
She saw the gleam of respect in her father’s eye.
No doubt Burke was detailing his success in the skirmish with the Skrattis, as she had done.
It was obvious to everyone that Burke hoped to be the next First Huntsman.
Too bad for him that Thea would be taking that role.
She didn’t feel the need to announce her plans, opting instead to show that she was better suited.
And with the Skratti raids, she was gaining more opportunities.
Burke boasted precision and skill, but so did she.
And there was one crucial difference between them.
He played by the rules, whereas there was nothing she wouldn’t do to protect the people she loved.
Noticing Burke’s head stray toward the door, Thea turned to see Cassia entering the great hall, her pale, feathered wings and gold freckles warmed by firelight. Her flaxen hair was left in loose waves. Enora embraced her and complimented the daisies sewn onto her white dress, drawing a shy smile.
“Where’s your Dracu?” Thea asked with a mischievous grin. “We won’t kill him, you know. Probably.”
Cassia’s eyes narrowed on her sister. “Can I vow to Zeru he won’t end up in a cell if he comes here?”
Thea and Enora exchanged looks. Neither of them knew what their father would do if a Dracu showed up in Scarhamm, even one Cassia trusted with her life.
“Your silence,” Cassia said wryly, “tells me all I need to know.”
Enora looked uncomfortable, but Thea shrugged. “Find any scuccas on patrol?”
Though Cassia no longer used her ring as a weapon against the Dracu, it had proved vital in the fight against scuccas—creatures made from sticks and moss and animated with trapped spirits.
Though most of them had been destroyed when Cassia had battled the Seer who’d created them, Selkolla, some lingered.
Some of the scuccas were peaceful, apt to hide if a Huntsman caught even a glimpse of them, but others had been skulking through Thirstwood and attacking forest folk.
Cassia’s hazel eyes were distressed. “Not today. I think they hide from me. Maybe they can sense the ring and its ability to release their trapped spirits.”
“At least you slayed the mad witch so she can’t create any more of them.” Thea tried to sound reassuring.
“Thea,” said Enora with disapproval.
Oh, right. Cassia had a weak stomach for violence. “I mean since you caused the witch’s death by vengeful Ancient.”
Cassia’s eyes warmed with humor. “It’s all right, Enora. I’m not that squeamish. Anyway, I think the scuccas are aimless without her guiding them.”
“Nothing we can do about all that for now,” Enora said, grabbing another horn of ale. “Tonight, we celebrate our sister’s name day. To Thea!”
Thea grinned, raising her own mug in reply, then hesitating before drinking. “Where’s the Sproutling?”
“Behind you!” a voice piped.
Thea turned to see her youngest sister, Rozie, coming toward them, ginger curls wild, though someone had made a valiant attempt to tame them with pins. A losing battle if ever there was one.
“Like my dress?” Rozie spun in a circle, her arms out. Her yellow dress was sewn with orange leaves so when she twirled, she looked like a leaf mound in motion.
Thea grinned. “I don’t know whether to embrace you or rake you into a pile.”
Rozie giggled, shaking the skirt out with her hands. “The seamstress said she was inspired by my hair. The season of autumn come to life! Or something.”
Thea reached out with her free hand and tucked a curl behind Rozie’s ear. “No one livelier than our Sproutling.”
Enora handed Rozie a cup of nectar, chuckling when she tried to switch it for ale. For the next few hours as they danced and laughed, Thea was able to push the truce, the Skrattis, and the mysterious dress to the back of her mind.
Nothing could touch them here. Selkolla was dead. The Court Seer had reinforced the wards, keeping magic attacks and enemies at bay. Scarhamm was still the safest place a Sylvan could be.