Chapter 24
After two more days of travel, icy autumn raindrops begin to fall.
Behind me, Hunter mumbles a curse under his breath. Tristan doesn’t bother mumbling. He just says one loud and clear.
The forest comes alive with the sound of dripping leaves. It would be peaceful if we weren’t stuck in the middle of it, rain streaming into our eyes and cascading over our mouths. The dirt road turns to a muddy puddle as the horses clomp through it.
I try to stop my teeth from chattering, but it’s hopeless. We’re all soaked through to the bone. Hunter doesn’t complain, but I can feel him shivering behind me. Tristan looks like a wet dog slumped in his horse’s saddle. Even Marigold huffs with displeasure.
“I suspect we may drown before we reach the northern border,” I say.
Neither man responds.
A rumble of thunder overhead rattles my bones. Before long, our horses struggle with each step, their hooves sinking into the wet earth. I glance up into the sky. Beyond the tree canopy, the downpour shows no sign of letting up.
Up ahead, there’s a crossroads. One continues north, the other points toward a small village to the west.
“We need to take shelter,” I yell over the pounding rain.
“We have to stay ahead of the King’s Guard,” Hunter says.
“There’s no way they’re chasing us in this.” I wipe rain water out of my eyes.
I look to Tristan for input, but he’s staring down the road toward the village.
There’s an expression on his face that I can’t decipher.
It looks like a mix between distrust and resignation.
When he sees me watching, he shrugs and turns his horse down the village path.
Hunter sighs, then clicks for the mare to follow.
The village isn’t what I expected. It’s more ruin than town, having been abandoned a long time ago.
Despite the pounding rain and rumbling thunder, the street is eerily quiet.
The houses, once sturdy with timber and thatch, now stand in various states of decay.
Roofs are caved in, walls are covered in creeping vines, and gardens are long-overgrown.
Water drips from broken window sills and gutters, adding to the somber atmosphere.
I feel a chill that has little to do with the weather.
We pass through cautiously, looking for a shelter that’s still standing. The village is speckled with hints of the past. A wagon lies overturned in the mud, its paint faded and peeling. A shop’s sign swings creakily in the wind, the words barely legible under layers of grime.
Eventually, we find a stone hall that could have once been a temple or a town meeting place.
Its thick walls have withstood the test of time better than the wooden homes and shops around it.
When we approach the door, I jump down from Marigold’s back and land on something lumpy.
At my feet, there’s a soggy rag doll that’s so filthy and sun-bleached it matches the road.
My heart sinks for the long-ago child who left it behind.
Hunter jumps down after me, and I lead Marigold to the safety of what used to be a stable.
One wall has completely collapsed, but the other side is standing and, importantly, dry.
Marigold neighs with thanks as I remove the soggy saddle and blanket from her back.
But when I drop them to the ground, something catches my eye.
Scorch marks mar the wood beams. This village wasn’t just abandoned because of failing crops or poor harvest. Something more sinister happened here.
Tristan walks up behind me and follows my gaze.
He squints through the rain at the other buildings.
I don’t know how I missed the signs before: doors are broken off their hinges, wardrobes block the windows, and weapon gouges pepper the walls.
In a nearby garden, piles of blackened, charred remains stick up through the tall grasses like death daisies.
Tristan approaches a broken mace that pokes out from under a pile of decaying debris. His frown deepens. It’s oxidized green, the copper long-since tarnished.
“These were your beloved soldiers,” he says.
“No.” Hunter appears behind us now. “That can’t be. That must’ve belonged to one of the townspeople here.”
Rain streams down Tristan’s temples as he gives Hunter a long-suffering look. “And how do you suppose a farmer got ahold of advanced weaponry?”
“I … it’s …” Hunter stumbles, unsure. “We can’t know what happened here.”
Tristan searches the garden, pushing aside tall, soggy weeds as he goes. He picks up a heavy bronze longsword, half-buried in the dirt. It’s old and green with oxidization, but the hilt still bears an unmistakable emblem at the end—a tarnished copper fox.
Tristan raises an eyebrow at Hunter.
“That doesn’t make any sense,” I reply, shaking my head. “We’re already in the south. Why would Llwyn soldiers attack their own people?”
Tristan’s expression is grim. “This wasn’t always a southern town, Red. Territories were drawn and redrawn, again and again.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Hunter says.
But it isn’t.
How many times did I move camp along the border?
Six? Seven? And how many questions did I ask about those “advancements”?
None. Like everyone else, I didn’t question the generals who worked for my father.
I didn’t see maps or documentation laying claim to the land we were squatting on.
As far as we knew, it was all a part of Llwyn.
Stolen long ago by the Dead Queen’s army and recently reclaimed.
My eyes won’t break away from the fox on the sword’s hilt.
The idea that borders could shift so drastically, changing the lives and loyalties of those living within them, is unsettling.
It makes me wonder how many other villages suffered similar fates, caught in the crossfire of my father’s political games.
Beside me, Hunter’s face is devastated. He can see it now too. The lies he’s been fed, the manipulation. He turns to me with a ferocity in his eyes that I’ve never seen before.
“I’ll get you your crown someday, Sienna.” He walks toward me with determined steps. “Someone must take Llwyn and fix this. All of it.” He grabs my hand and holds it to his chest. “You are the true heir to the Fox Throne.”
I look around to see if Tristan can help me talk sense into Hunter, but he’s gone. Vanished into the rain.
“Hunter,” I whisper. “You know I’ve never—”
“Wanted the crown?” He squeezes my hand. “Yes, I remember. But that’s exactly why it has to be you. You’re the only one who won’t use your power to torture, steal, manipulate …” He lets out a frustrated sigh.
I don’t know what to say. He’s staring at me with so much love, so much hope. I don’t know how I can live under the weight of such expectations.
“Things are different now, Sienna,” he says, sensing my hesitation. “I know you. You wouldn’t leave your people to suffer at the hands of a monster like your father.”
I shake my head. “My new brother will reign someday. My father can’t sit on the throne forever.” Fear laces through my voice like a needle threaded with dread.
Why have I always been so set against the throne? Why have I always refused to even entertain the possibility of being the Fox Queen someday?
In the pit of my stomach, my power flares, attuned to my emotions. I know why. I’ve always known.
Fear.
Fear of becoming a corrupt ruler, like my father. Another Fox to be consumed by power and greed.
“Your brother might not rule for decades.” Hunter shakes his head slowly. “Who knows what sort of monster your father will raise him to be? You, at least, had your grandmother to help you see differently.”
I pull my hand out of his grasp. “You can’t just wish me to be queen, Hunter.” My tone is more aggressive than intended. “It’s not like I have any say in the matter. I don’t have that kind of power.” I turn away, nauseous and shaking from emotions I haven’t had time to process.
“But you do,” Hunter says behind me as I walk away. “You’ve always had more than you realize.”
Deep in my core, my light flares as if in agreement. I squash it down as I stomp through the rain, feeling suddenly unsure about every damn thing in my life. I thought I knew what to do, what I wanted, but maybe I haven’t known anything at all.
Inside the stone hall, we’re finally out of the rain, but all our gear is soaked through.
Hunter strings a line and helps me hang our blankets and spare clothes to dry while Tristan clears the space and uses an axe to break apart old furniture for firewood.
Before long, smoke from a small fire rises upward and escapes out the dripping holes in the ceiling.
We shiver as we sit as close to the fire as we dare.
The firelight flickers across the stone carvings in the wall.
This must have been an important place for these villagers to warrant such craftsmanship.
Beautiful women in flowing dresses dance with beasts of the forest, watched over by the phases of the moon.
I don’t see sun imagery or Fox Kings anywhere, unusual for a place of worship.
“This doesn’t look like any temple I’ve ever seen,” I say.
Tristan stares into the flames. “That’s because it’s dedicated to the old gods of the north.”
Behind him, a faded tapestry depicts a tree spirit embracing a woman wearing a sheer white gown.
She has a wolf pelt thrown over her shoulders.
The imagery is so gorgeously realistic, I can almost hear the lovers’ frantic, love-drunk breaths.
I blush when I notice the woman’s hardened nipples slipping out of her silk dress.
Artwork like this would be labeled “obscene” in the traditional south.
It makes me wonder what sort of freedom Annwyn women must have that love scenes adorn the walls of their temples.
“Would you tell me about your people?” I ask, feeling the sanctity of the space, even though it was abandoned long ago.
Beside me, Hunter shifts uneasily, but he doesn’t protest.
For a minute, I wonder if Tristan heard me, but then he lets out a long sigh.
“Places like this are rare in Annwyn these days. It’s a hard life, relocating every few years when the soldiers come calling.
Art and religion are often the first thing to go when you’re a refugee, constantly moving, constantly trying to keep your family alive. ”
A lump forms in my throat.
The fire crackles while we wait for Tristan to continue.
He nods toward the tapestry. “That’s the Tree God, the protector of our great northern forests.
He wooed the goddess of the moon. Their love was forbidden, since he was a deity of the earth and she of the sky.
But she came to him anyway, in the night.
She birthed the first fae. And the first wolves.
” He glances up at me. “That’s why wolves howl, you know. They miss their moon mother.”
I smile at this until I remember that the last wolf I encountered was of the undead variety. That was not something from a fairytale, as much as I wish it were.
“And what of the corpse wolves?” I ask.
Tristan picks up a stick and pokes the fire. “Those came later, with the first Dead Queen.”
Hunter’s head shoots up. “There’s more than one?”
“There have been several.” Tristan grabs another piece of wood from his pile—a table leg, by the look of it—and adds it to the fire.
“Whenever one decides to pass on to the spirit realm, another must take her place. The first one is known as the Mother of Corpses because she was the first to exhibit the power of reanimation. She started with the wolves first, because she loved them like children. But there were never many, not then.”
“And now?” I ask. The air is thick with tension. Beside me, Hunter’s eyes are shadowed as he watches Tristan.
“And now we need more of them.” Tristan pokes the fire with his stick. “To protect us from the southern invaders.”
I expect Hunter to protest, but he doesn’t. I search his face for some hint of what he’s thinking, but his eyebrows draw together in deep thought. I want to reach out, to smooth away the crease there.
Hunter breaks the silence first. “Tristan, I believe I owe you an apology.”
Tristan tilts his head to look up at him, suspicion clear on his face.
I look between the two.
Hunter’s expression is grave. “Over the last week, I’ve not been my true self.
I’ve been cruel, untrusting, and, well …
childish.” He clears his throat. “I don’t understand you or your kind, but that doesn’t give me the right to be so …
ungenerous.” His voice is thick with shame, a tone I remember from the thousand tiny failures of our youth.
When his father would scold him or beat him for being less than perfect.
I want to reach out, to hold his hand to my chest and tell him it’s not his fault.
Hunter catches my eye. “My only defense is that I care for Sienna more than anything else in this world. And, well, I was afraid.”
Tristan lifts an eyebrow. “Afraid of the big bad Wolf?”
Hunter smiles slightly. His cheeks grow pink. “I suppose so.”
Tristan stands, brushes the dirt off his palms, and holds out a hand.
Hunter shakes it. “Can we start over?”
“We can certainly try not to be at each other’s throats constantly.” Tristan leans in, as if I won’t be able to hear them right next to me. “I think it would make the lady happy.”
“Mmm,” I agree. “It’d be nice if you’d stop bickering.”
Hunter chuckles, chagrined. “I’ll try my best.”