Chapter 7 #2
Redwood trees tower around us like nature’s skyscrapers.
I’ve been here a few times with my dad. Not here here, but the redwood forest. He liked to climb them, even though I’m fairly sure it’s illegal unless you go to a certain place in California, which we didn’t.
I wonder if he ever thought about telling me his six-foot-deep secrets.
Most of his stories sounded like fairy tales, though I guess I was too young to understand all the complicated kingdom wars and power dynamics.
If he had lived long enough to see me grow up, would he have told me about his pact?
Would he have stopped holding a finger to his lips when I asked one too many questions?
The horde before me slows and compacts. I rise onto tiptoes to see over the horns and antlers of the dryads crowding my line of sight.
Dozens of spherical carriages made of golden vines rise into the air carrying groups of masked guests.
They disappear just past the highest visible branches.
My first peek at dryads from the Redwood Court is of muscled males with pointed ears, scarlet masks, and capes to match.
Thick horns protrude from their craniums, making them seem even less human.
More like beasts masquerading as people.
Like a carefully choreographed dance, the red-masked dryads hold out poised hands, helping guests onto the golden-vined carriages.
I sidle into one of the waiting lines, behind a green-skinned woman with pointed teeth.
“Lovely mask,” she notes in a voice that sounds as though she’s speaking underwater.
I start to thank her, but she walks forward before I can, and then it’s my turn to take the extended hand of the Redwood dryad.
“Invitation,” he requests.
On the outside, I’m poised and natural as I slip the rolled parchment from my gown’s pocket and hand it over.
Inside, I’m vibrating with anxiety. As the invitation touches the dryad’s fingers, it vanishes into the air in a puff of golden smoke.
The black outline of some sort of leaf appears on the back of my hand.
Within the globe of vines, I settle into a seat beside an older male dryad wearing a periwinkle gown even more extravagant than mine.
Javen would love all of this. A sharp pang hits me in the chest. He’ll be in San Francisco by now.
I wonder if he’s tried texting me or if he’s worried.
I should have told him what I was doing.
But even Javen would have thought I was losing my mind.
I haven’t decided yet if he would have been right.
The carriage rises through the trees, narrowly avoiding entangled branches.
Darkness grows thicker, and the others in the carriage stop their excited chatter.
Echoing in the distance is a haunted howling sound almost like whale song.
The lyricless melody coats my nerves like a weighted blanket, quieting my anxiety.
A few of the carriage’s passengers slam palms over their ears.
The man in the gown lifts my hands, indicating I should do the same, shouting, “Don’t listen to the tree siren’s song, lovely!”
“Why?” I shout back as my previous anxiety returns.
“Untrustworthy creatures, sirens.” He winks.
A humorless laugh leaves my painted lips. “I’ve been told the same thing about dryads.”
Cackling, the man says, “ ’Tis true!”
The carriage continues to rise, and the song disappears.
Then the trees stop being just trees—they become pillars propping up the world emerging around us.
A treetop city with a fairy ring of redwoods in its heart.
The citadel, so I’ve been told. Aka: the fortress protecting the king I’ve been tasked to kill.
My dad hardly ever talked about the Redwood dryads, and my young brain didn’t realize there was a difference between them and the Myrtlewood dryads he knew so much about.
His journal is also relatively sparse on the topic.
When I first read of a “treetop kingdom,” I pictured a palace sitting just above the canopy like Howl’s Moving Castle or something. But this is nothing like that.
Unlike the Myrtlewood’s burrowed tunnels in the tree roots, the Redwood Court seems to be built around the trunks. Like tree houses on steroids. Which makes sense, given the myrtlewood trees’ girth is as impressive as the redwoods’ height.
The spheres filled with partygoers stop at a wooden dock where more dryads dressed in red greet us, checking the black outlines on our hands as we step onto the platform. Guards clothed in golden metal feathers dot the dock. None of them smile.
“To the wine!” the man in the gown announces, pumping his left fist into the air and strutting down the walkway leading into the walled fortress.
Platforms of shamrock grass and bushes heavy with golden berries make up the interior of the citadel. An aged redwood stands in the center, a regal king of a lion pride.
The Sovereign Tree.
I remember the first and only time I visited San Francisco with my parents, when I was seven. Since I’d only known tiny cabins and quaint establishments until that point, my first glimpse of the city’s skyscrapers downtown had my mouth hanging open in awe.
This tree is taller and grander than any of them.
“Fuck me,” I whisper aloud.
“Perhaps after some wine and dancing!” an arborfae with shimmering silver skin calls over her shoulder at me.
Built in bloodred wood around the Sovereign Tree’s trunk is what I assume to be the throne room, its heavy doors flung open to let out a symphony of music and drunken laughter. My heart flips at the sight. That’s where the Redwood King will be.
One of the Sovereign branches curves above the throne room like the top of a witch’s hat.
Along the branch, a dozen more trees have sprouted like a natural candelabra.
Three horned guards wearing gold-plated armor stand, stationed as sentries around one of the parasite trees—the largest, reddest, and most vibrant of all.
The king’s heartwood.
A much smaller tree resides at the end, a burnt smudge on a tapestry. Unlike the king’s heartwood, this one is completely black and barren, as if struck by lightning. A tree you might expect to see in a haunted forest.
When I was a little girl, my dad found me crying in our snow-covered backyard beside a sapling I’d planted in the spring.
“It’s dead,” I’d sobbed. “My tree died.”
“It’s not dead, Mads,” he’d told me. “Watch.” Then he pulled out his pocketknife and cut into one of the branches. “It’s green inside, see? It’s just sleeping right now because of the cold.”
Sure enough, my little tree came right back to life the next spring, bursting with delicate pink flowers.
This tree looks the same as mine did that December. I wonder if it’s cold.
A chill trickles down my back and tremors my hands.
Actually. That’s not a chill.
Fuck me. This always happens after I’ve stacked insulin to correct a high blood sugar. I do not have time for hypoglycemia right now.
Numbness spreads across my tongue and seeps into my lips, symptoms that only happen when my blood sugar is dropping fast. I move as quickly as I can in this weapon-laced monstrosity down the grand walkway leading to the throne room.
Golden-feathered guards loom along the walkway like breathing statues, and teams of servants dressed in red carry trays of wine and other beverages.
Don’t drink the wine.
Masked guests mill around, sipping and chatting and paying me no attention.
Dizziness makes my vision blur, and I stumble forward until I’m inside. The sounds of string and woodwind instruments emanate from some hidden place. Dryads, arborfae, and human pets twirl around the dance floor. Looking at them makes my head spin.
Then I see it. A magnificent display of color. Mounds of cream topped with all sorts of fruit. Assortments of meats and cheeses. Loaves of bread baked into wreaths of leaves. Bowls of jams and jellies. Pastries and pies and honeyed nuts.
I reach for a tart covered in berries and sugar, but another hand gets there first.
It’s ridiculous because the owner of this hand has no idea the silent battle my body is fighting and losing right now. But I glare up at him anyway. It takes three seconds too long for me to register the thin golden crown encircling his head.
Dark hair. Dark eyes. Dark horns.
A black mask covers only the left half of his face. Like the Phantom of the Opera’s evil twin. More evil twin.
The king pops the tart into his mouth, chews twice, then swallows. “Was that meant for you? Sincerest apologies.” He plucks another from the pile and offers it to me. “Here.”
He smells of wine and insincerity.
Snatching the tart from him without a word, I stuff it in my mouth.
The king chuckles, taking one more from the pile and placing it in my now-empty hand. “Have another. You seem rather hungry.”
You seem hungry for my dagger, Your Majesty.
“Your Highness,” a soft voice echoes my thoughts.
A man with dark locs piled atop his head approaches.
He wears a plain black mask covering the top half of his elfin face, which is only a few shades lighter than the fabric.
Holstered in his weapons belt are a series of knives and a single scythe. “A word?”
The king nods to this man before turning back to me. “Enjoy yourself tonight.” He winks. “May want to lose the gown, though. I hear the king is attracted to gold.”
People who refer to themselves in the third person are my least favorite sort of people.
I nearly throw my tart at him. Then he’s gone, disappearing into the crowd along with my chances of stabbing him.
But it’s okay. A few more minutes and my vision will clear, my hands will stop shaking, the world will stop spinning.
It shouldn’t be difficult to find the king with the black mask and the golden crown.