Chapter Two #2
During one particularly bad fight a few months back, the prince had to be hauled away by Howell, one of the most experienced Guards of Alrick.
Bash had screamed and sworn the whole way back to the castle, blood raining down his cheek from a shard of glass that had cut him when Willoh had exploded a nearby window with a powerful gust of wind.
After which Card and I spent a sleepless night in Bash’s chambers comforting him as he sat, head in his hands, trying to gather himself.
He was more embarrassed than angry by that point, especially because the king had reprimanded him for brawling in public like a commoner.
“You gave him a chance to withdraw,” Card had said, hand on Bash’s shoulder. “You’re not to blame.”
“So everyone keeps telling me,” Bash mumbled into his hands. “How are the people supposed to trust me to protect them? Against sorcery—against Will—I’m useless.”
Card paused. He always knows how to crack Bash’s sorrow, how to get him to laugh when he’s weighed down.
So he said, “It was kind of funny, though. Did you see how the wind blew Howell’s cape over his head?
He turned on the spot about five times before he could untangle himself!
Is that really the best your guards have to offer, my love? ”
Bastion tackled him.
Willoh hadn’t come back for months after that, which, luckily for us, gave the prince some time to cool off.
Personally, I prefer to imagine that the sorcerer doesn’t exist. Just another reason to turn my feet around to avoid witnessing something that puts my curse at risk of being exploited.
Not because I don’t support Bash, but because the queen will squeeze every detail from me.
I’d rather not know. If I don’t know, then I can’t give her the truth she desires.
If I don’t see it happening, then I don’t have anything to tell her.
It’s a small defiance to walk away and turn a blind eye, but it’s my choice, something I have control over, which is the most freedom my curse allows me.
Before I can find out if the conversation before me will dissolve into conflict, I turn right and march away, passing Godfrey at his post by the citadel gates. He’s the first defense of Alrick, the retired captain of the guard who loves to have a good natter with anyone who passes.
“At it again, are they?” he asks, his wrinkled skin gathered in concern. It’s no surprise he can hear Bash’s voice from here.
“Yeah…”
“Lad said he needed some supplies,” Godfrey explains, casting a worried glance into the citadel. “I thought Prince Bastion had duties at the castle today, so I told him to be quick.”
Godfrey watched Bastion and Willoh grow from infants to best friends to whatever this is, and he seems to be the only person who has some pity for the sorcerer.
When he stepped down as captain, I overheard him telling Howell that Willoh had sent him a gift basket filled with all his favorite sweets in appreciation for his service.
Something I then had to tell the queen.
I resist the temptation to look back.
“Good luck,” I tell Godfrey, then quickly hightail it out of there. I need to focus. I have a flower to find, and I can’t get caught up in Bastion’s feud.
Striding into the northern forest, I pass the crocuses that line the path and head up toward the crossroads.
The trees at my sides are thin quills with feathery leaves that filter the sunlight in narrowing strips.
As the forest thickens, humid wafts of dry moss and pine fill the air.
According to the roughly drawn map, I need to take the north path, then curve northwest. I don’t usually stray too far past the crossroads, so I’ll be in unknown territory soon.
Which is fine.
I’ll be fine.
After all, there’s plenty of daylight left, and as long as the tweets and squeaks from the wildlife still follow me, I should be safe.
It’ll be interesting to see how the flora changes the farther I go too.
I wonder if there will be any other flowers I can take home with me—perhaps some more cinquefoils, like the one I’m wearing in my hair today.
Mum likes them because they can be used in healing teas, but more so because they represent a beloved daughter.
I’ve been tucking fresh flowers in my hair almost every day of my life, but she likes it most when I choose a cinquefoil, the five perfectly circular yellow petals showing the world that I’m loved. By one person at least.
Feet starting to ache, I’m keeping an eye out for a safe place to sit and take a break from all my walking—a pleasant clearing or a fallen tree log, perhaps—when I come across an unusual scene and halt.
Partway down a deserted path, shriveled brown ribbons of grass attempt to grow in a vast circle that seems unnaturally perfect in shape.
In the center stands a gnarled white tree, its branches twisted and barren, its trunk cracked and hollow, the very life of it purged.
Around the bark, someone has tied a braided rope.
I recognize it as an old custom—a traditional offering to the gods that live in the earth.
Perhaps an apology or memorial, some kind of ceremonial rite.
I’ve never seen a tree so discolored, or so surrounded by death.
It’s somewhat ethereal, almost dreamlike.
Like it fell out of a legend. Extinct but existing.
Horror worms up my throat. It’s the tree. It must be. The one the king and queen tell us to avoid. The poisoned one that infected the surrounding wildlife and destroyed houses and corrupted villagers until they turned vicious.
I remember the night it happened. I’d felt it happen.
Anyone with the slightest flicker of magic had been woken from their sleep by a weight of dread.
Then the rumors came. The north had been attacked; it was an invasion by the Kingdom of Senred wanting to push their borders south.
It was a secret underground group who wanted revenge for a past slight.
It was an ancient god displeased with how humans were treating the land.
The story that stuck was that it had been Willoh Vane, the prince’s best friend, who had found a dark magic spell and tried it out on an oak tree as a foolish prank, to show off, to prove to the prince he had more powerful magic at his command.
But I know how the truth works. I can’t be certain that any rumor is true unless I see it with my own eyes or hear it from the source.
However it came to be this twisted and shriveled, this tree has caused a lot of damage since then, and it’s not something I should linger by.
I hurry on, my chest tight. A reminder that I’m not safe here.
I’m in the rebels’ territory, and if the stories are true, they’re just as corrupt as the land.
And what about Willoh Vane, who also lives somewhere outside the citadel?
Was Creon right about my obsession becoming a risk?
No, surely not. Maybe I overcompensate a little, but helping people, completing orders, it shows that I’m more than my curse.
I’m more than the queen’s telltale. If I’m consistent in my work, then people will see me as reliable.
Nice. Likable. Maybe there’s a future where I have more than one friend.
I just want to be trusted. Is that so wrong?
But…perhaps I’ll walk a little faster anyway.
Besides, I already know where Willoh Vane is. In the citadel, fighting with Bash.
Soon the trees huddle closer together, and above, the canopy is a woven lace of leaves. It’s denser here, darker. But weirdly, when I push on, something small starts to knock at the corner of my mind. It nudges at my senses like an invisible force that thickens the air.
It feels like magic. The flower must be nearby.
I pause, basket in hand. A slight breeze whisks around my dress, but nothing seems amiss. The birds are twittering and the path ahead of me is clear. No sign of rebels or corruption.
I take a step.
My gut tells me to run. It tells me to leave. To get out of here. I’m not welcome.
I take a step back. The feeling softens, retreats.
Huh.
I try again, and the urge to flee flashes in my mind once more. The feeling must stem from some kind of protective ward, but leaving empty-handed is not an option. I have to get this flower, and this seems to be the only way forward.
Testing the boundaries of the ward, I pace left and right to the edges of the path and a few steps into the trees on either side.
I think the magical barrier spreads out like a bubble, but I can’t work out how much of the forest it covers.
Maybe this is why no one has heard of the Feiyan flower—because it’s blocked by a spell.
Well, if there’s magic involving flowers, then it’s something I’m good at. I can do this.
I lower my internal defenses and march down the path with my shoulders set, feeling for the flower with my magic like grazing my hands through grass, searching for the intuitive pull in my chest. With each step, the pressure to run weighs on me.
Dizzy colored spots flicker in the corners of my vision, woozily clawing at my balance. No, no, I have to continue. I have to—
A fluffy white cat pads out of the line of trees and turns its head. It’s the last thing I see before I pass out.