29 #2
I transferred my attention to the forest. Watchful of its inhabitants, this environment had been tailored for curses and dreams. Enchanting yet ominous, the colors were richer, the sounds deeper, the aromas spicier than the rest of our kingdom.
The branches curled as if they might snatch a person off their feet.
The closer we got to our destination, the more I recognized. The breeze picked up, winnowing through the understory.
Aspen winced, massaging her wrist. The markings hurt, pain steering her gaze to mine. If they afflicted her, that could only mean one thing.
I clipped my chin, validating Aspen’s guess. A charred reek swept through the woods. Through a colonnade of maples, harsh light pumped into the air, and patrician accents overlapped.
We ducked into the hedges and pursued the source.
The last few yards, we lowered to the ground, stashing ourselves behind a knoll breeding willow dime.
Over the herbs, we peered into a clearing where canvas dwellings encircled a trunk wider than a turret, with deep gullies winding through its cracked bark.
Aspen’s breath caught. Flames sketched her features as she gazed through wide eyes at the mammoth vision.
The oak sprawled like a mighty ship. Twinkling motes dappled its branches, which spanned beyond the camp, each bough thick enough to brace a fortress, the levels too numerous to count.
Although this crowded forest blotted out the dawn, vivid leaves brimmed into the murk as if they’d been dipped in shimmering paint, and braided roots wormed in and out of the ground.
The woman beside me blanched. “Seasons strike me.”
Indeed. The sight was beautiful. And treacherous when comparing Briar’s story with Aspen’s plight. Like all relics of nature, this landmark could be magnanimous or vicious.
Wariness and awe cluttered Aspen’s face. Then she winced, her foliage markings reacting.
“Aspen,” I murmured. “Look at me.”
Her attention strayed in my direction. We watched each other, my nod irrefutable.
You can do this.
Color returned to her complexion. I watched until she recuperated and clipped her head in acknowledgment, then we pivoted to the camp. Primarily, we had been operating on a leap of faith until this hour, but Aspen’s theory about a main hub had been right.
She squinted toward the oak. “Aire.”
I trailed her gaze. The branches strained with tension, and an agitated groan rumbled from the base, the sound ending on a guttural note. The knights’ motives for choosing this location made sense. Other than The Lost Treehouses, this imposing landmark offered the most seclusion.
But while making a pact for this mission, we had deliberated a pertinent question. Why would the oak permit traitors to settle here in the first place?
“It is not allowing them,” I muttered. “And it is not being neighborly.”
“No,” Aspen agreed. “The tree is angry.”
The oak did not want them here. In which case, it could have pulverized this faction to dust with its roots, as it once threatened to do to Briar. As such, these knights should fear this paragon.
The flames spurted, rising in tandem to a central one. Aspen gasped, and I hissed.
“Summer tinder,” we said in unison.
Rhys must have smuggled this provision into Autumn. He supplied the troop with the ashes of Summer tinder, the same method he’d used to orchestrate the castle blackout eons ago for Reaper’s Fest. That justified how the pits were manned by one source.
It also clarified the oak’s rage. Autumn flames were one thing, but this tree could not defend itself against fire enhanced by Rhys’s nation. The oak was a prisoner, captive to the knights’ intrusion.
I distributed my gaze across the outpost. Silhouettes crammed the vicinity, bronze capes flapping as they sat in groups or traveled between tents and pavilions. Recognition, anguish, and fury pierced me through as I beheld the faces of every squire and captain. Some, I had knighted myself.
My brethren, who conspired with Summer to overthrow Avalea, to dismantle Briar and Poet’s campaign, to endanger our clan.
To destroy Nicu’s future. And the future of every born soul.
One of which had been my brother. Until he took his final breath.
My gloved hand curled into a fist. The broadswords pressed into my back.
Aspen’s hand snared my arm. Jutting her chin, she indicated one of the tents, just as a knight exited. The panels flapped, revealing the vacant interior, which housed a cache of weapons.
Abreast of the nearest occupied blaze, I gestured with two fingers. Reading the hand signal, Aspen bobbed her head, then scurried into the bushes, making way for the entrance.
Swifter than me, she had practice entering such venues undetected. Meanwhile, I kept vigil as she flitted among the shadows and scuttled under the pavilion’s rear flap. If someone came close, I would mimic the call of a bird.
Though, if anyone touched her, pretense would not suffice. A spare blade in my jacket would fly, skewering the offender’s heart.
Aspen’s outline blended into the stockpile of weapons. Slowly, I pried a sword from its scabbard, my pulse beating a frenetic rhythm. At last, she poked her head from beneath a side panel, found my gaze, and smirked.
For fuck’s sake. Clearly, she’d found something of note. Nonetheless, a glare dug into my face.
Was she actually enjoying herself?
At the neighboring fire, a female with a wiry mouth—Dame Muriel, Third Commander—hunched over and fed kindling to the pit. “Last time His Majesty sent word, he seemed impatient. As if he lacked the time for a long conference.”
“Maybe he has a mistress,” a male page judged. “Or several.”
“Nothing unusual about that. The more important question is if he’s got spawn scattered across that forsaken oceanic kingdom.”
Aspen’s eyes darted to me. At the downward pump of my hand, she nestled her head closer to the grass, reducing herself to a set of pupils flaring like dots.
Despite their betrayal, the troop’s Autumn propriety remained hypocritically intact. This offhand discussion centered around Rhys’s infidelity. More crucially, the implication that he had sired illegitimate heirs all over Summer.
Though from the sounds of it, these knights hadn’t gleaned much. For them, this provided nothing but idle gossip.
A figment strutted in my direction. Unclasping his trousers, the male page who’d conferenced with Dame Muriel ambled toward me, about to yank out his pecker and piss on my head.
I’d been so distracted by the topic and monitoring Aspen that I hadn’t sensed this disruption. For although I could move quickly, I was not the jester, his son, or a certain axe-wielding sneak.
Aspen’s eyes flashed with hellfire. And impulsiveness.
Shit. Better they find their first commanding officer sleuthing instead of her. Unfortunately, two seconds did not grant me the luxury of beating this stubborn woman to the punch.
“Aspen,” I mouthed through clenched teeth. “Don’t you dare—”
But when did she ever fucking listen to me?
Before I could finish that sentence, my companion scrambled from the tent. Then she lurched to her feet and jumped into view.