Chapter 3
Beware when the forest folk gather. Pixie wine is the doom of many a Dracu.
—GAXIX, DRACU PHILOSOPHER
AS Thea exited the gates the next evening, Enora and Burke were waiting at the tree line, their breath visible as clouds of fog.
Patrols were gathering, some Huntsmen already dispersing, their green-and-brown uniforms swallowed by shadows as they moved into the trees.
The sunset stained Scarhamm’s stone walls with a splash of red, as if a giant had been slain at the gates and slapped a bloody hand against the wood.
The spikes that had once displayed the severed heads of Dracu were now empty, but Thea had no trouble remembering each one.
It felt to her as if the war had ended yesterday rather than months before.
“Have you recovered?” Burke asked, his smile taunting.
Thea’s mind went to the mysterious dress at her hearth, and she stared hard at him. “From what?”
Enora’s eyebrows went up. “From your name day revel?”
“Oh, that.” Thea rolled her shoulders. “I had two hours’ sleep. I’ve survived on less.”
Burke chuckled, a knowing look in his hazel eyes. “If you were suffering, you’d never admit it.”
“Then why ask?” Aware she was being more irritable than usual, she strived for a neutral tone. “Where are we assigned tonight?”
“Same as two nights ago,” Enora said, tilting her head to the right. “The area around the Grotto.”
Burke’s grin widened. “I could use a drink.”
Enora gave him a warning look. “We’ll be going in for information, not pixie wine.”
“Why not both?” Burke quipped.
Thea grinned as they started down the path.
She never minded this assignment. You could learn a great deal by asking questions or sitting and listening at the bar.
Though forest folk could be shy and reticent to share information outside their own people, most of the customers were willing to talk to the Huntsmen.
They knew Sylvan patrols were vital to protecting them.
The threats were many, and not only from the Skrattis and other Azpians. Humans who lived on lands adjacent to Thirstwood were an ever-present danger as well.
Once, humans had respected the land folk who’d inhabited wild spaces, considering their woods, fountains, and rocks as sacred, even giving offerings to appease them.
But as humans cleared and cultivated the continent, the folk’s connection with the land and its power weakened.
Their numbers diminished as humans multiplied.
Finally, humans had called the land folk monsters and demons, using that as justification for hunting and killing them.
When the danger of extinction became too great, the Sylvan king had led the tree-dwellers into Thirstwood for their own protection.
For a long time, stories of the blood trees trapping and suffocating intruders had been enough to keep people away.
But humans were becoming bolder. It had been too long, some said, for them to remember the old stories.
They’d begun clearing trees at the forest’s edges, using the timber to build towns and villages.
There were not enough Sylvan Huntsmen to fight off more than a small army of humans.
Only the Sylvan king’s blood trees stood against the encroachment that would cause the death of all forest folk.
Thea tried not to dwell on things that she could do nothing about.
She focused on her duty, which for now was patrol.
She kept vigil with Enora and Burke along the woodland paths, ducking to avoid low branches and inhaling deep lungfuls of crisp air scented with peat moss and the coppery tang of blood leaves.
A thin silver mist hung like garlands from the boughs, as if some misguided spirit had tried to decorate for a revel.
But the only music was the rustling of birds and nesting squirrels.
The moon rose, shivering under a quilt of clouds, and Thea felt no warmer herself.
But after all her injuries, she had practice ignoring discomfort.
The night wore on with no sign of a disturbance. Finally, the lantern lights of the Grotto came into view, its frost-rimmed windows glowing with welcome.
Burke chuckled. “Is Wick ever going to fix that foundation? And the roof? The place is falling apart.”
Enora shrugged. “Part of the charm.”
The Grotto’s roofline was rather sad, but the rectangular stone-and-timber structure had sat empty for ten years during the Sylvan-Dracu war, bearing the weight of snow winter after winter without repair.
Missing windowpanes had merely been covered by boards, and the steps sagged drunkenly to one side, while masonry crumbled at the building’s base.
Wick, the proprietor, was a gregarious lutin and more concerned with persuading her customers that it was safe to return to the Grotto than replacing mortar and glass.
Still, lutins were household spirits, folk who lived indoors rather than in wild spaces. A building like this would be connected to Wick’s spirit, which probably meant she had not fully recovered from the war herself.
As far as Thea was concerned, the sagging roof was as much a Sylvan responsibility as Wick’s. One more reason to keep Thirstwood safe.
Enora entered first, waving to a group of five naiads seated at a round table near the bar.
They were dressed in their usual flowing greens and blues, with water lilies tucked into their hair.
They wore jewelry made from shells and fish scales, polished or painted so that it sparkled in the warm firelight.
Thea scanned the rest of the space, taking inventory.
A dozen patrons chatted over ales. A swamp dweller was seated by the window, staring down into his tankard between swigs.
Two pixies sat atop a single barstool. And someone was seated by the fireplace.
Only broad shoulders and a dark head of hair were visible above the back of their chair.
Wick was talking to the naiads, throwing her head back as she laughed. Her curvy figure seemed to fit her generous personality, though she could be fearsome if someone misbehaved in her establishment.
“Thea, you talk to the pixies,” Enora said, unbuttoning her cloak. “Burke, you take the swamp dweller.” And tossing her cloak onto a hook, she moved toward the naiads. Enora was friends with some of them, so they were most likely to share information with her.
Burke grumbled something under his breath, but he strode off to perch his large frame awkwardly on a rickety chair next to the figure by the window.
The swamp dweller was a rare creature. He had fins coming out of his face, and his skin was bright green.
In the summer, he was scarce, spending every moment in the marsh.
But the colder nights of autumn and winter drove him to places like the Grotto that offered a warm fire.
His name was unpronounceable to a Sylvan tongue, so most called him Fen.
Thea made her way to the pixies, ducking under cobwebs that hung down from the ceiling. “Well met, Winter. Mind if I sit here?”
Winter was one of the pixies who frequented the Grotto along with his cousins Spring, Summer, and Autumn. Spring and Summer must have stayed home, perhaps not willing to venture into the cold night.
“If you wish,” said Winter, his tone cool but polite. “Better than sitting on us, Giantess.”
Thea forced a smile at their nickname for her as she took her seat, wondering why the pixies always seemed intent on testing her patience.
Still, she couldn’t help staring for a moment at their delicate wings.
Their pastel shades had an opalescent quality, changing colors depending on the light, and they were so thin they were almost transparent, much like butterfly wings.
When she was a child, Thea had loved butterflies, spending hours playing in her mother’s garden, mesmerized by the tiny creatures’ beauty and grace.
Winter’s wings were a pale, icy blue, and his long hair so blond it was almost white, contrasting with his dark brown eyes.
Autumn’s wavy hair was more auburn than copper, her eyes golden brown, and her wings a pale orange.
“What are you drinking?” Thea asked. “Pixie wine?”
“We merely call it wine,” Autumn replied sourly, raising the thimble that served as a tankard. Thea took a breath, wondering how to fix her mistake.
Before she could speak, Wick returned to the bar, her gap-toothed smile breaking the tension. “Welcome, Thea. You’re on duty?”
Thea nodded. “Tea, please.”
While Wick bustled with a kettle over a brazier, Thea turned to Winter and Autumn, rehearsing how to ask them if they’d seen anything suspicious in the area.
Thea hated dancing around things, but pixies did not like a direct approach.
And despite their beauty and delicacy, the two of them together were rather disconcerting.
Their rapid gestures and darting eyes made Thea feel more alert, and she had to tell herself not to be affected.
It was vital she didn’t upset them. Pixies were the Huntsmen’s eyes and ears, flying to nearby villages and reporting enemy activity to Sylvan patrols.
If they felt like it. And if their goals aligned with yours. And if they didn’t harbor any grudges against you.
Thea searched for a soft opening and noticed Autumn’s pristine white gown. It was simpler than her usual clothing. “I like your dress.”
Autumn’s brows came together. “You mean my sacred robes? I’m in training to become a Seer. I’m apprenticed to Veleda, you know.”
Thea did not know. She avoided the Court Seer of Scarhamm as much as possible. Which left her at a loss as what to say next. Finally, she came up with, “Are you finding it interesting?”
“Her tutoring is adequate.” Autumn lifted her tiny shoulders in a delicate shrug. “A touch pedantic for me. But you know, she is a Sylvan.”