Chapter 33
THIRTY-THREE
AS THEY PREPARED TO SET OFF THE MORNING OF THE SEVENTH DAY, Thia could feel Oskaren’s attention on her.
But when she turned to check, hands occupied with her bedroll, the girl’s face was unreadable.
Thia would have given anything to know what she was thinking, if she too was replaying that moment over and over, Thia’s chin tilted, Oskaren’s angled down, leaning in—
What would she have done if Oskaren had closed that final gap?
If their lips had actually met? It thrilled her to consider, even if it terrified her.
She’d never kissed anyone before. Starting with someone cursed probably wasn’t the grandest idea.
Thia was hardly a relationship expert, but that didn’t seem like a solid foundation.
If it even meant that much. Maybe it was just a physical thing, Oskaren caught up in the intensity of the moment.
The other girl was probably already putting it out of her head. She’d certainly taken the first chance to run. Which was probably what Thia should be doing, too, all things considered.
She sighed.
The rain had stopped overnight; they set off into a colorful sunrise for the first time in days. But as the hours passed, it grew darker, not lighter. She looked up, but there were no clouds.
No—the trees were thicker, closer together, their branches heavy with foliage.
“We’re nearly there,” Oskaren said, hand on a trunk where she walked a few feet ahead of their group.
Dess stopped beside Thia. “Hear that?”
They fell silent for a moment. Oskaren seemed aware and unsurprised, but Thia heard nothing.
“What is it?”
“A waterfall.”
Now that she knew what to listen for, she could just make it out: a distant crash she’d assumed was wind.
“The River of Oaths,” Oskaren said quietly. “It marks the borders of Losrohiria. The falls run beneath the entrance to the Vale.”
“Beneath?” Dess said, frowning.
Oskaren was already walking, her pace quicker than before. “You’ll see.”
It took another hour to reach the falls, their roar increasing with every step. When they finally emerged from the trees onto the edge of a cliff, Oskaren had to shout to be heard. “Watch your step!”
Thia caught her breath at the scenery before them.
On the ledge of a rocky ravine, thunderous water spilled down into the depths below, cascading into a meandering river that flowed out toward the horizon to their right.
Directly before them, a great stone arch decorated with carvings of vines, flowers, and woodland creatures framed an ancient wooden bridge.
The bridge itself swayed in the wind, a treacherous path that spanned the width of the tumbling water.
The ropes that suspended it were thick and sturdy, but Thia couldn’t help but notice the way it rocked at the center when the wind kicked up.
“Absolutely not,” Dess said, seeing the same thing as Thia.
“The Vale lies just beyond,” Oskaren said.
“There is no other way.” She glanced between them, mouth hard.
“Stay here.” She didn’t wait for a response, but strode under the arch and lifted her arms. “Eta khal, Losrohirum,” she began.
“We are Oskaren Alinac of the Nutherlunds, Dessfar…” She glanced back at him. “Kings-kin of Black Forest.”
“Kings-kin?” Thia whispered to Dess.
He pressed his lips together. “Someone who doesn’t know their kin. They are the king’s, or kin to the realm itself.”
She put a hand on his arm, knowing how much he must have hated laying a familial claim to the very man who had taken his.
In front of them, Oskaren continued. “Thran Grimsic of Irondeer, and Thia Sanbrooke of Kansas.” She pressed her hands to the stone of the arch, head bowed.
“We humbly beg access to your lands in our journey to the sea beyond. We swear never to leave the Vale, nor kill any living thing during our time here. Val mukten sorro, llewe mukta val.” Releasing the stone, she drew a hand down her chest from left shoulder to right hip.
Then she beckoned them forward. “Here. Now you say it. Val mukten sorro, llewe mukta val.”
Dess frowned at his sister, while the waterfall roared. “How do you know their language?”
She gave him a once-over. “I don’t.” She looked back at the others. “Say it.” She repeated the phrase.
“What does it mean?” Thia asked.
“By your laws, by my word. Hurry now.” They obliged, stumbling over the unfamiliar words, Dess still staring at her in bemusement.
“Now what?” Thia asked.
Oskaren grimaced. “Now we cross.”
Oskaren led the way onto the bridge. She stepped carefully, one foot per plank, her hands clutching the ropes for balance.
Thia winced as the bridge swayed with each step.
Dess went next, hair even more chaotic with what was surely terror-induced sweat.
But his feet were steady as he followed a few paces behind Oskaren.
Thran nodded to Thia. “After you, lass.”
“I’d rather not.”
“I hear that.” The smile he gave her was equal parts sympathy, equal parts fear. “But she must have spent some time here.” His attention skipped across the river to where Oskaren waited on the other side.
Thia frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Knowledge of the Losrohir is lost to us,” he said.
“I spent my life in study and learned little, save for a handful of stories. That she knows even a fraction of their language, the rituals of the Vale….” He paused.
“I’d reckon she was more than a passing traveler on a witch hunt, last she was here.
I trust her. At least in this regard,” he concluded, at her look of surprise.
Thia tugged on the end of her braid. I begged her to leave with me in search of a cure.
I even suggested the Losrohir, Dess had said.
What if Oskaren had done it? Not with him, clearly, but—had taken his advice, done everything she could to free herself?
The Losrohir must not have been able to help, since she was still cursed.
Was that when she’d gone to the witches?
Did she somehow think they could do something?
“I can brave it first, if you like.” Thran’s voice summoned her back to the present.
Thia ducked her chin, embarrassed, and shook her head. She approached the bridge, swallowing thickly, as the water below became visible under her feet. Gripping the ropes in both hands, she inched slowly onto the first plank. It sagged a little under her weight but held firm.
It truly was a frightening design. She couldn’t place her feet without looking down, which meant gazing into the crash and tumble of rapids below.
She forced herself to breathe, in and out, and step, one after the other while Mavrel soared above.
Wind tore at her hair, making her head swim, and the bridge swayed, pitching her sideways.
She clung on for dear life, creeping slowly to the next plank, her heart a hammer in her chest.
Then she was across. Thran appeared a moment later, skin gray. At the tree line, Dess collapsed against a tree, shuddering. Only Oskaren seemed unperturbed; she inspected them one after the other, face serious. “Remember the vow you took. Do not leave the path. Do not kill anything.”
Thia gulped, ever the pragmatist. “What about bugs we accidentally step on?”
Oskaren glanced at her, unimpressed. “The Losrohir are not forgiving.”
“Wonderful,” Thia muttered.
Without further ceremony, Oskaren turned and led them into the forest, the brightness of a sun-kissed world fading into memory.
The Vale was much like a regular wood, with one exception.
The sky was blocked by immensely tall trees that tangled around each other in a woven pattern, too precise to be accidental.
The ground was smooth as well, the path free of stones, sticks, and leaves.
It should have been pitch-black, but tiny buds high up in the canopy emitted a soft glow of silvery light.
There was something else about it, Thia thought, in the air maybe. Or the ground. It may have appeared like a forest, but it felt alive.
All forests are alive, Thia, she reminded herself.
But there was…something. Like it was humming with energy that vibrated under her feet.
After several hours, she could no longer tell herself it was her imagination. She tapped Dess on the shoulder. “Do you feel that?”
He looked down at her. “What?”
“The ground.”
He frowned. “What of it?”
She bit her lip. It was ever-present, like the feeling of a foot being asleep. If he could feel it, he’d know what she meant. “Never mind,” she said. Maybe her feet were just asleep. She jiggled one, then the other, but it didn’t help.
Thran appeared beside her, a strange look on his face. She raised her brows expectantly, assuming his expression meant he at least was experiencing the sensation.
But he said, “I think we’re being followed,” in a soft voice.
Oskaren glanced back. “You didn’t expect the Losrohir to let us pass without supervision, did you?” she asked. There was only a hint of mockery in her tone. She glanced at Dess. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
Dess rolled his eyes, and Thia slid her arm through his, shooting daggers at Oskaren with her own. The girl ignored her, turning around.
They walked on. Thia’s unease grew with every step.
Mavrel stayed on her shoulder, unusually still, which did nothing to curb her apprehension.
And now that she was cognizant of their watchers, she felt like the trees themselves could see.
She was aware of her every breath, every rustle and crunch of her shoes on soil, every curl of hair that she smoothed back into her braid when it fell loose.
As minutes passed, the earth’s thrumming worsened also.
After an hour, it was irritating enough that she shifted her stride, trying to land more on her toes, then on her heels when that did nothing to help.
She tried leaning on Dess, but at the curious glance he tossed her way, she abandoned the effort.
Somewhere around the three-hour mark, the irritation turned to actual pain. She bit her lip to keep from crying out, but could do nothing to stop the wince as needles rattled her shins.
“What’s wrong?” Dess asked.
She didn’t know how to explain it, and it was clear none of the others were suffering the discomfort. And, if she were honest, with all of Oskaren’s warnings, she was slightly afraid the Vale was rejecting her. So she just said, “Nothing.”
He raised a skeptical brow.
Movement caught her eye between the trees. She froze, squinting into the black beyond the path.
It was probably an animal. Or one of the Losrohir sent to watch them was a little too excited.
There. Again. A flash, a pop of color out of place in the dark.
“I think—” Thia began, just as Oskaren froze and Dess screamed, “Watch out!”
Something—more than one something—emerged from the trees too fast to follow, pouring onto the path in front of them to block their way forward.
And beside them.
And behind them.
They were not animals, as she had hoped. They were human. Beautiful. And terrifying.
Or at least, they appeared human at first glance.
Once Thia had overcome her shock, she noticed their irises, all a strange, silvery green.
And their skin: like tree bark, ranging in tones from the dark brown of cherry to the white of birch, all etched with glimmering lattices of silver, like the veins of a leaf.
They wore flowing white gowns, elegant capes of golden lace falling from shoulder to forest floor.
The tallest of them—which was saying a lot, as they were all obscenely tall—stepped forward. Her hair was the deep brown of fresh soil, her skin like oak, her dress matched by a crown of silvery white flowers on her head.
“Oskaren Alinac of the Nutherlunds,” she said, her voice like moonlight on water, sweet and treacherous. “When you informed us of your traveling companions, why did you not tell us the Storm Crow was with you?”