Chapter 11
Maddox
The king and his guard sneak me out of the masquerade through a back door. I’m not sure why he’s going through all this trouble to keep me concealed. It isn’t like his mortal dalliances are a secret if even the Myrtlewood dryads know about them.
I keep my hand on the hilt of my dagger, a foolish thing for the king to return after what I almost did.
With every footstep, I envision all the ways I could stealthily bury the blade in the side of his neck.
But each imagined assassination ends the same: with his grim reaper guard removing my head with his massive scythe.
Even now, the guard—Tamarind—walks a foot behind me, his shoulders tense as if he’s ready to throw me from the platform if I move too quickly in the king’s direction.
For now, I clear my head of all murderous thoughts.
I’m supposed to be a dryad-obsessed mortal in a treetop kingdom, after all.
I should be staring wonderingly around, struck with awe by the magic.
Fuck magic. Fuck dryads. And, most of all, fuck me for not killing the king when I had the chance. Now his guard is never going to make the mistake of stepping away again, and I have only myself to blame. My hesitation.
If my dad’s journal were a how-to book for dryad regicide instead of vague notes and warnings, maybe this wouldn’t be so hard. Maybe I would have a plan that isn’t just: Get the king alone and stab him.
I send a resentful glance skyward.
Thick branches hide the moon and stars. When I pictured dryads as a child, I always imagined them prowling around the forest floor like predators, carrying spears and roasting animals on a spit.
Lounging on low branches and sleeping in hollow trunks.
I never imagined fully functioning treetop cities with wooden paths, dining establishments, and storefronts built around tree trunks.
The Myrtlewood was closer to my imaginings, down to the metatarsal chandeliers.
King Castor leads us to a platform with a line of what look like wooden pedicabs topped with a single helicopter blade.
“It’s a samara,” he informs me after instructing the pedaler where to go. “Meant for traveling between districts.”
I climb inside and adjust the full skirt of my gown as the king sits beside me. His guard takes the seat across from us, laser-eyed gaze on me.
The samara lifts into the air, sending my stomach into an uncontrolled flip. I make the mistake of leaning over to peer out of the open window. The view of nothing but wide redwood trunks and blackness forces an involuntary tremor across my shoulders. I hope it goes unnoticed.
As is my luck tonight, it does not.
“Afraid of heights?” the king drawls.
I squeeze my bedazzled clutch full of diabetic supplies more tightly. “I’m not afraid of anything.”
Tamarind snorts.
The king shoots me a skeptical glance. “Every living creature is afraid of something. It’s what keeps us alive.”
“The desire to survive is not the same as the fear of death.”
“Perhaps not.” The samara takes a sharp turn over a pathway darker than all the rest. “But fear keeps creatures from doing idiotic things.”
“Yes, well. That just confirms my earlier claim.”
I’ve done nothing but idiotic things tonight.
Aside from the masked party down below, the Redwood is much quieter than the Myrtlewood.
Where the latter is filled with twittering birds and scurrying animals, the former is too high to hold many forest creatures—other than the predatory birds perched on branches and a wood sprite that’s hitched a ride with us.
The tiny creature clings to the glassless window, keeping its massive black eyes on the occasional owl and hawk.
I nearly pull out my dad’s journal to double-check the name, but I distinctly remember the way their skin mimics the swirls of wood grain. They look a little bit like a mix between a chameleon and Tinker Bell, the size of my thumb.
My analysis of the creature is cut short by a distant screech that doesn’t sound anything like a bird…or any animal, for that matter.
“Are dryads and those arbor-fairy things the only kind of fae that live up here?” I ask.
The king and his guard exchange a wary glance.
“No,” they say at the same time.
“What else is there?”
Castor casually reclines, spreading his arm across the back of the samara seat, fingers millimeters from my shoulder. “Oh, you know, just the occasional banshee and blood nymph.”
“Also need to watch out for spider wraiths,” Tamarind adds.
The king nods. “But those are all sugar pixies compared to the Erlking and his tree sirens.”
As if summoned, that far-off wailing song starts up in the distance. Castor mutters something under his breath, and the air sizzles slightly around the samara, as if it’s been trapped in a bubble of static electricity. All the sounds from the forest cease, including the siren song.
“Vines of silence,” he explains. “It’s a sort of sound barrier.”
“I assumed.” My arms fold across my chest, which immediately starts to itch with anxiety, all my nerves fraying like a ship’s rope unraveling in the waves.
I’ve never liked total silence. I fall asleep listening to angry girl music and promptly jam it into my ears the second I wake up.
Alone with my own thoughts? No thank you.
“You know, I think I’ll take my chances with the tree siren.
Could you pop this little sound bubble?”
Both Tamarind and Castor quirk a brow in my direction.
They share yet another look, which only heightens my agitation. I start pumping my foot, jogging my leg like a restless kid in class.
Amusement darkens the king’s brown eyes, and I ready a series of harsh words before he finally dispels the vines of silence. Forest sounds flood in, and the siren song has disappeared. I let out a slow breath, my leg stilling.
“Not claustrophobic, are you?” Castor asks with a crooked grin.
My face is a featureless mask. “No. The pair of you are just particularly loud breathers.”
They both frown.
I wonder why the Myrtle Queen didn’t use magic as readily as this king. Does he have more? Or is he just careless with it? My dad’s journal had tragically little information detailing fae magic. Anytime the subject was mentioned, it was accompanied by question marks.
Fae magic is sourced from nature. Dryads access magic from trees? Multiple or just their own? Can it be shared in the roots?
Some dryad magic seems more powerful than others. Species? Age of tree?
Pact magic vs innate magic?
What are druids?
Yes, Dad, what the fuck are druids? And why did you leave so many of your own questions unanswered?
The farther we travel, the darker the shadows become. All the decorative twinkling lights and sparkling gemstones adorning the citadel fade away. The wood of the walkways below shifts from polished and gleaming to dull, dark, and decrepit.
Soon the only illumination comes from clusters of incandescent purple flowers hanging like streetlamps. There’s a general smell of decay in the air, something sickly sweet.
The pathways grow steadily more crowded, swarmed by masked individuals wearing cloaks and hoods, like we’ve just entered a city of scytheless grim reapers.
I’ll bet the king’s guard loves it here.
A high-pitched scream sounds within an unlit home we pass over. My right hand immediately reaches into my pocket for the hilt of my dagger.
King Castor leans toward me, lowering his voice. “Scared yet?”
“Do you want me to be scared, Your Majesty?”
“Does it matter?” he responds. “You are immune to fear, after all.”
The samara lands in the center of the Nightshade District.
Castor offers the pedaler a handful of coins, and I step out of the flying carriage.
The glowing purple flowers hang beneath every establishment and wind around gnarled branches.
The district’s center is oblong rather than circular and comes to two points sprouting off into a dozen darkened streets, like an eye with lashes coated in too much mascara.
A latticed black windmill covered in iridescent green stones towers above.
It doesn’t rotate or spin, though it seems like it should, as if it’s been frozen in time.
Nightshade flowers crawl up the rounded charcoal walls surrounding the tree at its core.
Above the doors the glowing blossoms form the word Magesté in swirling cursive script.
The king opens a door, holding it for me and Tamarind.
I’m engulfed in white tendrils of opalescent smoke, the smell of burnt sugar and dead roses hanging in the air.
The front room is cramped and empty save for a heavy pedestal desk covered in mountains of paper and open books.
The low beat of drums, plinking piano, and jazzy horn instruments can be heard from the room beyond a curtain made of emerald feathers.
A raven-haired arborfae with light green skin and dragonfly wings rushes through the curtain, sweat glistening along her brow and narrow shoulders. Given how sheer her ivory gown is, she might as well be nude.
“Greetings!” the girl says in a nervous, reedy voice.
She speaks so fast all her words are pushed next to one another like passengers on a crowded San Francisco light rail.
“We are rather understaffed tonight, and all the available orchids are taken. Most of our dancers are working at the masquerade. There is an abbreviated version of the show, of course, but…” King Castor takes off his mask and the arborfae stops speaking, taking a deep breath. “Oh. Your High—”
The king cuts the nearly nude girl off with a nod, not a trace of blush on his cheeks. As if he sees practically nude women all the time. Probably does. “Pleasant evening, Fern. I’m here to speak with Madam Debray.”
Fern looks to me and then back to the king. “Madam Debray is upstairs interviewing someone right now.”
“She will see me.” There’s something rigid and careful about his words.
Wringing her hands, Fern looks from the king to another curtain of oily black feathers before nodding resignedly.
From what I’ve heard about him, I wouldn’t expect the girl to even pause before obeying. But the way they speak seems almost familiar. Evidently, he is a regular visitor at this entertainment venue, as he’d called it.
King Castor doesn’t make eye contact with me. “I will return shortly.” Then he follows Fern through the black-feathered curtain, leaving me alone with the guard, who had a blade to my throat less than an hour ago.
Tamarind stands with his hands clasped before him, back rigidly straight.
He’s rather handsome with his dark umber skin, elfin features, copper eyes, and locs gathered atop his head like a homemade crown.
His horns are not unlike Castor’s in color but are smoother and slightly smaller.
They don’t twist or curve back but sit higher, like a fawn’s.
The scythe in his hand, though? Not so cute.
I pace the room, arms folded across my chest, trying to slow the whirlpool of thoughts drowning my mind. Clearly, I overestimated my abilities and underestimated the difficulty of the situation. Guess I have no choice but to play the king’s little game until I can get him alone again.
Passing by the front desk covered in papers, I crane my neck to read the topmost sheet.
It’s a messy grid with prices, names, dates, and time frames.
I move the top paper to see the one beneath.
Same names on the left row, but different names on the right.
Different times. Some fifteen minutes. Some two hours. Some just say full night.
I revolve on my heel to face Tamarind. “This is a brothel, isn’t it?”
He opens his mouth, takes a long, slow breath, then closes it.
“Tamarind. Is your king selling me to a whorehouse?” I grind out.
“He is not selling you. He’s—”
“No, of course not.” My words choke his. “He’s just allowing me to repay my debt to him by forcing me to sell my body for sex. You’re right. That’s completely different.”
“No, that is not quite what he is—”
Before he can finish, I push through the black-feathered curtain into a semicircular parlor with red walls punctuated every few feet by gothic arched doors, black, curving furniture, and a staircase that splits into two.
I wind through a maze of dozens of arborfae and dryads in various states of undress and erotic positions. They pay me no notice.
A grand piano plays a seductive melody all on its own while an exceptionally tall dryad buries her face between the legs of a pink-haired arborfae lying across the top of the instrument.
Her screams of pleasure harmonize with its song.
For a bizarre moment, I wonder what it would be like to join them, or at the very least take a seat at the piano and play for them.
My eyes catch on a mortal girl carrying a tray of drinks.
Her eyes don’t seem quite as dazed as the mortals from the masquerade with the leashes and collars, but they still seem off.
And the way her mouth is turned up in an always-there smile tells me she’s under some kind of dryad glamour. I want to grab her and run.
Tamarind comes to a stop beside me.
“Are you still going to tell me this isn’t a brothel?” I look back up at the guard to find him chewing on his lip. “That’s what I thought.”
I storm toward the stairs just as a group of giggling arborfae passes in front of Tamarind, blocking his way to me.
“Don’t worry,” I send over my shoulder, “I’m not going to kill the king. Just make him bleed a little.”