Chapter 2 #2
“Not at all. I’m just late.” I wave a hand at the waiting line before him. “Please continue. I’m only here to make you look better.”
Durian’s guards stare disdainfully down at me, sneering at my wrinkled silk shirt, half tucked into my trousers, void of a velvet doublet or leather vest. It’s almost as though I do not care to impress them.
All I do is care what people think about me, but they don’t have to know that.
Two woodlings—squat creatures the color of redwood bark with black eyes and blacker teeth—waddle up to the dais, offering me a flagon of auric wine and an empty goblet.
I take both, pouring myself a generous helping to get me through another morning listening to my brother dazzle his subjects with his smile and charm while I sit to the side speaking in puns and riddles no one appreciates.
At least there is wine.
A man comes forward carrying a small sapling—a young dryad that looks like a human infant with bark-like skin that will slough off as they mature.
He holds the hand of another that appears to be no older than two.
The little boy squeals and tries to toddle away before the man grabs the back of his trousers.
“Good morning, Your Majesty.” He attempts a bow but fails as the sapling standing beside him tries to climb onto his back. “Apologies. Er—”
Durian offers a broad smile. “Why have you come to Court today, good sir?”
“Your Majesty, my name is Quince Croft. I’ve come because my partner is very ill.
I am afraid he does not have much time left with us.
We’ve been to the healer in the Rose District, but the prices are steep.
We are unable to afford the draft she has prescribed.
I am here to ask for the Crown’s help and mercy. ”
Durian nods as the man speaks, smile rooted in place.
“While I do not typically interfere with the business of Redwood healers, I can see that you are a loyal caretaker to these two young ones. Where some may have turned to illicit means of acquiring what you desire, you came to me. And an honorable act such as that should be rewarded.”
I take another gulp of wine, emptying the cup and refilling it from the flagon.
“Dearest sir, I will send you my personal healer at his soonest availability.”
The man nearly drops the sapling in his arms as he bows, thanking Durian a thousand times for his mercy. Durian presses a humble hand to his breast, nodding his head.
One by one, dryads from every district approach their glorious king. He smiles and laughs, assuaging their fears. Charming, as always. So very charming. Every one of them avoids eye contact with me.
“I must be getting more handsome,” I mutter to Tamarind, who stands just to my left. “These people think they can fall in love with me with just one glance.”
“Perhaps they believe in love at first sight.”
I drain my third glass of wine, and several drops splash onto my white shirt. “I am certainly a sight to behold, so I suppose I can’t blame them.”
My gaze is pulled to a familiar face approaching the throne, and I sit up slightly.
Dahlia Redfern works for Magesté, the Nightshade District’s most lucrative establishment.
They call them orchids, the ones who offer nighttime entertainment and pleasure, among other things.
Dryads will pay the highest price for drugs and debauchery.
I should know. People will look me in the eye if I’ve paid them to. Sometimes they will even speak to me.
Less than twenty hours ago, Dahlia was tangled up in my arms, pressing soft kisses to my temple as I dozed.
Typically, I have a rule about only sleeping with a lover once, but last night would have been the third or fourth with her.
Her tenderness has a way of easing my ever-present self-loathing.
Not entirely, of course. Must keep some of it around to add spice.
Today, her normally kind eyes are shards of cerulean ice aimed at Durian’s heart. When she steps forward, she does not bow or curtsy.
“Pleasant day, my lovely lady,” Durian says in his smooth tenor. “Why have you come to Court today? How may I be of service?”
“I am Dahlia Redfern from Magesté, and you can be of service by releasing my sister, Mahonia Redfern, from the citadel cells.”
Murmurs travel along the line behind Dahlia like a shiver down a spine.
I take a gulp of wine to have something to do other than react.
Durian’s smile tightens. “Now, Dahlia, my dear. You know the laws. I’m afraid I cannot simply—”
“Yes, I do know the laws, in fact,” she interjects. “And none of them state that it is just or honorable to arrest a woman in the dead of night solely based on rumors that she made treasonous remarks.”
The murmurs grow louder, whispers exchanged behind hands and nervous glances up at Durian as the onlookers shake their heads at the disrespectful way Dahlia’s behaving.
My brother’s smile vanishes. “If you are so familiar with this kingdom’s laws, then you know every arrest made is for the safety and benefit of the Redwood Kingdom.”
“For the safety and benefit of the Crown District, you mean? And for the Rose District and the other wealthy dryads,” she retorts. “Not for those who live in the Nightshade District and beyond.”
She isn’t wrong. Most of the prisoners in the Bloodwood Tree once belonged to the Nightshade District.
I could corroborate this to help her cause, but I fear that would only hurt her chances of getting what she wants.
Since I’m a former resident of said district and a frequent visitor even now, Durian seems to think I am biased in my support of the Nightshaders.
I am, of course, but it’s rude of him not to pretend otherwise.
Though I fear the real reason he dismisses my input on any Nightshade matters is because I am the adopted Sempervirens and therefore should have no true power here.
The familiar sound of slithering rises from behind Durian’s throne as his sovereign power is put on display.
Half a dozen choking vines unfurl, winding together until there is a woven partition between Dahlia and the line of waiting subjects.
From the other side, disappointed laments can be heard.
There’s nothing Redwood dryads love more than a good show.
Dahlia begins to back away, but two of the vines reach out and wrap around her wrists, restraining her. “You can’t do this!” she shouts. “It’s against Redwood Law. Your heartwood should be felled for this!”
At her remark, shock travels along the line of waiting subjects. My fingers tighten on the stem of my goblet, and a third vine escapes from the woven partition, slipping between Dahlia’s teeth to silence her.
“Elymus,” Durian intones to his favored guard, a man of substantial height who I suspect has ironfae blood given his unnatural strength and black-gold horns. “Please escort her away. Our people needn’t endure treasonous vitriol.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
Elymus and three others descend from the dais, taking the place of the vines, which move alongside them as they vanish through a door just beyond the throne. The last thing I see is the look of betrayal and disgust Dahlia shoots at me.
“That was a bit dramatic, don’t you think?” I mutter to my brother. “She’s just trying get her sister back.”
Durian fixes me with a half-amused look, as if he’s trying not to show his pity for me. “If our subjects watch us tolerate bold statements of treason, they will know the throne is pliant.” His head shakes at me, and my back curls against my seat. “Soft hearts beg for blades.”
“Can a cursed heart be soft?” I retort, refilling my goblet as the partition of vines dissipates and retracts into the rough bark of Durian’s throne.
“That is not for me to say,” Durian murmurs before welcoming the next dryad in line to step forward.
My mouth does not open again, save for the acceptance of more wine.
The final subjects exit the throne room as the sun sinks beyond the canopy, lengthening shadows before casting the world in a gray pall.
I’ve had far too much wine for a Sovereign prince, but the expectations for a cursed one are of a lower bar.
One of the guards who took Dahlia returns, bending to whisper something in his king’s ear.
Durian nods curtly before addressing the rest of the guards in the room.
“Leave us.” Tamarind glances my way, and I dip my head in a slow nod.
He bows, following the final dryads and guards out of the throne room.
They close the towering doors behind them, leaving me alone with my brother.
His voice comes out dangerously quiet. “You were close with Miss Redfern, weren’t you.” It is not a question.
I look down at my wine rather than at him, assembling my mask of indifference. It never fits quite right. “Not particularly.” My wine-delayed processing suddenly registers his phrasing. “What do you mean by ‘were’ close?”
The pitying look is back, mixed with something else. “I know you feel a kinship to the Nightshaders given the origin of your orphaned heartwood, but I fear it is unwise for a Sovereign prince to be venturing into the arms of shadows so recklessly.”
At the word orphaned, my hand flexes, and I wish for a fifth goblet of wine.
Dryad families are complicated networks of clustered trees connected by their roots.
When mortal loggers choose to cut some but not all the trees in a forest, they can leave dryads orphaned.
The only tree in their root system. The most powerful fae trees, like the Sovereign Tree, grow more heartwoods from their branches, creating heirs to take over when the previous one dies.