Interlude – The Grove

They called it the Veltras Forest or the Tauslech Woods. Within that land was the meeting place, which they called the Congress of Root and Steel.

Or, if you were even older, you’d call it, ‘that new Skill-place with the Humans’. Because it wasn’t old compared to the Vale Forest itself. If anything, it had been brand new, a pact forged with the first Humans to set foot on Izril during the Five Families’ migration.

Like the [Garden of Sanctuary], like a few Skills, like [The Courier’s Last Road], this was a location embodied in a Skill. Unlike the other two, there were strict requirements to access this place.

One of which was having the bloodline of House Veltras. The other was being on Izril, though how close you had to be to the Vale Forest was a matter of uncertainty.

Only Taletevirion knew this; even Jericha was struck silent as they walked out of the Floodplains of Liscor, over wet grass, towards that distant forest of vast trees. It was like a mirage.

Look at any forest, any vast wilds as yet untamed by any buildings or artificial structures. At evening was best, or morning, when mist ran through the trees. Keep staring, not at the ones you could see, but that distant skyline of foliage until your eyes focused on only that. If you thought, for a second, that the canopy extended forever and that if you went walking that way and might never come back for there were endless wooded lands beyond—

That was the Forest of House Veltras.

It took a long time to walk towards that treeline, and a short one. Time lost meaning; it was no instantaneous journey, but neither did it take days. When Lyonette thought to ask, it was Duke Rhisveri who spoke.

“Time dilation effect. It’s probably been five minutes. Feels like five hours, but it’s sped up for us. I don’t see why you’d have it both ways, but I don’t make Skills. Notice how it’s stopped raining?”

It was true. At first, the rain from the Floodplains had been overhead, drenching the ground, which seemed to be just a huge field of low grass, but as they walked, the grass grew higher, until it threatened to rise up to their chests, and the trees became taller.

Then the forest trail appeared.

It was a natural, winding track of dirt, unpaved, but smooth, wending through the dark fir trees that stood tall and unmoving. The party of visitors, ahead and behind Lyonette, hesitated.

They had come armed and in force. Of the lot, Vaulont the Ash and Jericha were ironically the most stressed. The Vampire assassin and former soldier were nervous, one because she had Hethon to care for and had no idea what this was, despite it pertaining to House Veltras, the other because this was not in his job description.

“Miss Lyonette, I need to call a halt. What—exactly—are we facing?”

He appeared by Lyonette, and the company slowed as they walked through the trees. Lyonette turned to Hethon, Nanette, and Taletevirion.

“I don’t know. This is the place where the children went during the Winter Solstice. Does this seem familiar?”

“It’s less wintery, but yes. This is the same path. If we walk for a bit, we’ll get to the meeting place. That’s where…they are. They told us to stay there for a while, then said it was safe enough and sent us back.”

“Mostly because Mrsha and I needed to find out what was happening at the inn. Lyonette, they want the wand. There are eleven of them, I think. Male and female.”

“What species? Levels? Weaknesses?”

Vaulont was insistent. Now they were actually on their way, Nanette was a lot more reasonable, and she considered the question.

“I don’t think they intend to harm anyone…”

Todi spat. He was looking around and was still, oddly, less stressed than Vaulont, even if he was tense, hand hovering near his sword and wand.

“Assume the worst.”

“—Then they’re probably flammable. All of them are made of plant matter in some way.”

Todi nodded.

“Oil flasks and fireballs it is. Douse ‘em and light them up.”

Doubly ironically, Lyonette’s face wrinkled up at the thought of immediate violence now she was actually about to confront this group.

“No one is to attack unless I give the order, understand, Captain Todi?”

He saluted her at once.

“Oh, aye, Miss Lyonette. Though just while we’re asking, what kind of levels can we expect for killing them? Snazzy new class?”

That was why Todi, at least, was more sanguine. He’d resigned himself to this encounter as his first major Solstice Event. So he reckoned he was either going to get a few levels—or die.

He might as well look on the bright side.

It was Taletevirion who snapped back.

“Don’t attack them. They’re not harmless, but they’re not overtly hostile.”

“Right, so killing them’s a step beyond what to expect? No fighting? We’re just here to show off some muscle for the negotiations?”

Todi relaxed a bit, and so did Jericha and Vaulont. Taletevirion hesitated and kicked at the ground as if he were in Unicorn form.

“No. Rather, if it does come to a fight, it’s their home turf, and they’re really going to be hard to kill. I don’t know how much magic they’ve saved up, but you’d better throw every [Fireball] you’ve got.”

Todi swallowed hard, and Dalimont adjusted his sword in its sheath. Elosaith scratched at his chin.

“Well, I’m having a splendid time. Here I thought I’d die and the most fun I’d have was being a high-level undead for the village to use. How do these tree-lords feel about a [Deathbolt] spell? I don’t sense any dead bodies to animate. This is an odd forest. My [Detect Life] spell is finding…nothing…even from the trees.”

His voice faltered and grew a bit tense. Everyone turned to Taletevirion, and the Unicorn exhaled. He glanced around the dark forest.

“It’s identical to the last time I came here. This isn’t a real forest. If it was, they’d have tried to grow a greatwoods here. It’s all fake. And real. Everything feels real, but even if you tried to start a fire or harvest the trees, it wouldn’t matter.”

“So the Veltras Forest, the great Skill of House Veltras, is all mummery? What’s the point of that?”

Even Duke Rhisveri was astounded, and he was the one gazing around with the most awe at the forest. For, of course, he had been raised by a Dryad. Taletevirion began marching, his voice brisk, cold, and he glanced back at Hethon.

“They made this for Humans. They’d never have put their children here.”

The boy shivered, and Jericha shielded him protectively, but the Unicorn’s gaze was merely hard, not hostile. This had to be difficult, and Lyonette inclined her head at him.

“Who are these Lords and Ladies of the Woods?”

“People meant to talk to House Veltras and other representatives. You know how Erin has her [World’s Eye Theatre]? It’s sort of like that, but a meeting place. There’s other aspects, but I doubt Hethon has access if he doesn’t have the Skills. This is like, well, a giant conference spot. In the days when the forests negotiated. The ‘lords and ladies’ represent the Vale Forest. Or they did until it was destroyed and everyone left. Then their purpose was gone.”

Hethon opened his mouth, then decided now wasn’t a good time to bring any other Skills up. Lyonette frowned at Taletevirion as she tried to picture these gladelords.

“Why didn’t they leave when the Vale Forest fell then?”

The Unicorn’s eyes were bright as shadows fell over his face, dappling turning to pure gloom.

“They can’t.”

The party moved on in silence, checking the forest, listening to the crunch of wood under their feet, but hearing no birdsong, nothing but wind moving the branches now and then. No insects; it was deathly quiet, and when Nanette pointed that out, Taletevirion again had an answer.

“If the Vale Forest were alive, you’d hear reflections of it all. It’s dead.”

“It’s still—”

“It’s dead, Nanette.”

More marching. After a while, someone began to hum, then sing.

“Oh, a marching we will go, a marching we will go. A—”

Lyonette spoke.

“Bird. Not the time.”

“Aw.”

Viscount Visophecin felt the need to interject a few comments at this point. He turned to Rhisveri and Lyonette.

“It occurs to me that we are entering my forte. Negotiations.”

Rhisveri turned his head as he stomped along.

“I really don’t think you get to say that in light of recent events, Visophecin.”

The Viscount pointedly ignored the statement as he unnecessarily adjusted his suit.

“…It would be wise to have some leverage beyond the wand. Have we anything to negotiate with?”

Rhisveri checked his pockets, shrugging.

“We’ve got a local, we can arrange payment, but we have what they want.”

“And we are bringing it to them.”

Everyone turned to Taletevirion again, and the Unicorn stopped. His hands were shoved in his pockets.

“Look, they’re not like other people. They are literally older than me, and they don’t do ransoms or anything else. If they were smart, they’d have let the kids go, but kept Mrsha until they got the wand. Remember they’re old and weird and desperate and dead. I told Nanette that they were bad news.”

“But they want to bring the Dryad back, right? They told us that, and I do believe them.”

The witch was uncertain as she licked her lips, and for a brief moment, Taletevirion became sympathetic. He squatted down and patted her on the shoulder.

“Of course they do. They’re on the same side as us. That’s the problem. Have you ever met someone who’ll do the right thing the wrong way and ruin it for everyone?”

The witch’s uncertain face turned into a grimace, and Taletevirion grinned.

“That’s them. We’re almost here. They’re going to do greetings first. Just do your best.”

 

——

 

Then, there they were. Without warning, the party pushed under a low blockage of branches, and when the leaves parted, it revealed a clearing in the middle of the woods. And the Lords and Ladies of the Vale Forest, the Gladelords of Tauslech, were here.

The meeting ground was truly small given the personages who might have once been here. It was the size of the common room of Erin’s inn, no more, and in the center of the glade was a round, stone table, just a flat boulder balanced on several stones.

Tall menhirs of rock decorated the grove, each one marked with an odd, branching series of symbols and faded colors of paint. There were bowls at the bottom of each, long-emptied of whatever offerings they might have had.

Everything in this glade was timeless, but still—the first impression Lyonette had was that it was like a perfectly preserved cupboard. She could not see the dust, but she felt the veil of time parting and the figures within jerk to readiness.

Yes, that was the analogy. Though she did not know why at first the phrasing in her head was like that. Until she realized the figures in the glade beyond were so…so…

Oddly humanoid. 

Yes, that was it. For beings of nature who represented some aspect of the Vale Forest, they just looked, like, well, what you’d get if you imagined tree spirits.

A wooden face, carved to resemble lips and eyes, if abstracted. A woman made of twisted and gnarled roots, like a natural wicker basket, faded yellow and orange leaves covering her innards. Even a face of leaves and stone with a cloak of moss, seeming like some formal military officer.

Tree-people. To Lyonette, they were oddly normal; for beings so old and ancient, she expected they’d either be perfect imitators like Taletevirion, Teriarch, Rhisveri, and Visophecin, or utterly alien.

She realized that they disconcerted someone else as well when she nearly walked into Rhisveri. He had gone still the moment he saw the strangers.

“They’re so—these are the Gladelords of Tauslech? What? They look nothing like Fithea’s stories of Dryads.”

There were exactly eleven of them, and all but three were wood- or leaf-themed. Two were oddly comprised of stones, one like a Golem, but made of small pebbles, shifting to reveal an attractive face. The other was fully carved, but had blocky limbs that moved, far less articulated than a Golem’s. And the last was boggy, wet; her body was running water and lilypads slowly drifting over the surface. She was virtually naked except for the detritus covering her; Hethon stared at two very accurate breasts. Just like last time.

They were waiting for the group to approach, but of course, everyone halted. Taletevirion just sighed.

“Yep, it’s them. Manners.”

His voice was low as Visophecin whispered to Rhisveri, using a spell to make his voice buzz as he touched Lyonette and Rhisveri’s arms, transmitting sound through skin rather than showing them his moving mouth.

“What’s wrong, Rhisveri? They’re more alien than Fithea was. Surely they’re not too different from Dryads?”

The Wyrm rolled one eye at Visophecin and replied.

“Fithea changed her body and used glamors for the children! Do you think she just looked exactly like Humans?”

Visophecin’s eyes flicked to the Gladelords. They stood around the table, on the far end, at twelve seats, clearly meant to represent the Vale Forests. There were plenty of chairs on the other side. Exactly as many as people had come, he realized.

The second thing Visophecin spotted was that, among the twelve chairs, the largest, most-central chair, was empty. A throne of wood was covered in dead-looking vines. Visophecin narrowed his eyes fractionally.

He was, of course, scanning the Gladefolk for weaknesses. He hadn’t missed that this place was somewhere you could be hurt; he’d pinched Rhisveri to test that the moment they’d entered the Skill. His magic was fully active, unlike a [Garden of Sanctuary]. And what he saw was utterly—confusing.

“Rhisveri, I don’t sense any magic coming from them. No, it’s all exiting their bodies. Some kind of powerful spell they’re maintaining? What do you see?”

The Wyrm was the greatest spellcaster of Ailendamus save for Fithea, and in terms of magical strength, incomparable. Visophecin lacked Rhisveri’s natural eyes and other abilities. The Wyrm took a moment to reply.

“—Something’s wrong. Something’s very wrong with them. Be civil. I’m figuring it out.”

Lyonette sensed it too, even without their magical abilities. She did move, though, when one of them, the first woman she’d seen, raised a hand of roots and beckoned.

“Lord Veltras. Little Witch. You fulfill your promises. It is well. Come forwards, come forwards, strangers. We invite you to the last meeting of root and steel. Bring the child. And bring the mother.”

Their eyes focused on Lyonette, and she shivered. Still, she advanced, chin high, as Ser Dalimont walked with her and her party spread out.

Captain Todi, Bird, Elosaith, as strange a gathering as you could want behind Lyonette. The Gladefolk certainly noticed. Lyonette heard murmurs from them too. Their voices were low, but not so low as to be inaudible.

 

“A new species. A new one, and old.”

“He has returned, the last of all. It is omened.”

“I do not recognize the two behind the mother. It has been told.”

“The child! There is a child encased in dead wood! Free her!”

“Hope. It shall be, again. It must be. It can be.”

 

They spoke, and Lyonette shivered again. Odd. It was so odd, for a few reasons. Even if these were spirits of nature, she had been told this was a meeting place. Therefore, a place of negotiations. She would have assumed even representatives of a forest would have better discipline than this.

The second thing was how they talked. They sounded oddly—young. At odds with their clear age. Everything about them was faded, but that tonal dissonance spoke of less certainty, less poise than, again, she expected.

Her answer came as Rhisveri slowed and hissed at them. He seized their arms again, in a death-grip.

“They’re not real. They’re not real.”

He subvocalized at them, and Lyonette cocked her head. She tried to respond and found she could; she just had to sort of think it and her throat would vibrate the words out.

“That’s what Taletevirion said.”

“No, no. I mean—they’re not alive. I realized what was wrong, Visophecin. Look at them! There’s no internal organs in there. They’re…puppets.”

All three heads swung back to the Gladefolk, and then Lyonette realized why she had been making those analogies in her head. Yes, that was it.

They were all fake in some way. The most obvious was the wicker woman. You could clearly see where her body was hollow on the inside, but there were other signs. There was one, a man of vines, who walked slightly awkwardly—because the roots of his ‘body’ that should have connected to the ground were torn. Severed.

“What does that mean, Rhisveri? I can tell they’re linked to magic.”

Visophecin was scrutinizing them harder. Rhisveri just shook his head.

“There’s nothing living on the other end. Believe me—I can tell. We’re staring at damn puppets. Of course we are! They’re the representatives of the forest. They wait here until someone comes by, and then someone speaks through them. But the forest is dead. That Unicorn said it.”

“So what are we looking at?”

Lyonette felt her armpits and palms growing clammy, and Rhisveri’s voice was as unsettled as she was.

“Puppets without anyone’s hand inside them. Be careful. They have a lot of magic in them.”

The warning came as Lyonette’s party was almost at the table. It was here that the first error was made—by Lyonette’s side. She should have briefed the party more, but she’d finally agreed to this meeting on instinct.

So, when Bird got to the table, the Antinium did what she always did when she saw an open chair. She pulled it back, a stone seat, and sat down.

The Gladefolk didn’t like that. They spoke, voices a flurry.

 

“Such rudeness.”

“The insect-woman insults us?”

“What does it mean?”

“The children came here with more manners, and they came in death.”

 

“—Good evening, hosts of the Veltras Forest! Gladelords and Gladeladies of Tauslech. I am Lyonette du Marquin. I come at your behest, with my daughter, Witch Nanette, and Lord Hethon Veltras. Will you speak with me?”

Lyonette curtsied, in one of the most impromptu addresses she’d ever given. It was no royal greeting, but she felt like that might be important.

Her entire kingdom post-dated these people by far. The forest spirits reacted to her presence, and after a moment, the woman of wicker roots spoke.

“So we gather in formal greetings once again. It has been two thousand, eight hundred, and twenty-nine years. I am designated speaker of this session. I am the Skytree Orelic-Deyana as you hear my name, whose branches stretch highest save one.”

She lifted a hand and made a sketch of a bow. Then sat. Next was the water-woman. She rolled forwards, her body a mass of brackish water much like a slug. She came before her chair, which was appropriately wet and damp; a stool rather than a high-backed chair, but she didn’t speak.

Instead, the Gladelady pointedly stared at the group, and Lyonette realized they were to alternate. She nudged Rhisveri, and he was about to speak, but Taletevirion beat him to it.

“Hey, it’s me. I’m here to mediate this, so let’s get it over with.”

He pulled a chair up and sat down. That earned him glowers from both sides. If they were keeping score of infractions, Lyonette’s side was rapidly adding up, and she didn’t know if it mattered. However, the Gladelady took it as her cue and offered a curtsey, despite having no real dress…or legs.

“I am the spirit of the water, whomst is called the Swamp of Oswenia, whose bounds stretch from the lifeless sea to the land betwixt called ‘Reizmelt’s Crossing’. I represent the gasp and bubble of secretions of the ground and water, the death and life of a million in each passing second.”

Okay, this was closer to what Lyonette had expected. Rhisveri once again tried to step forwards, but Bird raised a hand.

“Hello, I am Bird. Queen of the Free Antinium. Also, my species does not ask permission before sitting down so everything I did was purely good etiquette.”

Lyonette wanted to walk over and kick Bird, but to her astonishment…it worked. The Gladefolk glanced at each other, then hurriedly lost their peeved stances and scowls, as if they were on the wrong foot. The moss-cloaked man bowed next.

“I speak for the Tree of Sighs, who has never taken a name in any tongue. The tree rests in the chasm which split the air eight hundred and nine years after the Tree of Vale shed its first blossom. My bark is covered with moss, and my branches lie fallow of leaves.”

He hesitated.

“—Or—was—”

His face twisted up, and Lyonette felt a chill as the Gladefolk susurrated. The speaker of the Tree of Sighs hesitated, then sat without another word. Next came Elosaith, who whirled his staff down, much to Rhisveri’s annoyance; he spoke with such grandness that everyone focused on him as if he were a true member of royalty come here.

“I am Elosaith of Rheirgest, come at Miss Lyonette du Marquin’s request. [Necromancer].”

He sat so proudly that the other leafy heads at the table inclined towards him, and Bird, which was mildly hilarious. Lyonette now regretted not using her full credentials; this was a highly literal, highly odd people. They referred to where their trees were and what they were like in terms only plants would understand.

Not with sight, but with other qualities. Another speaker introduced herself as ‘the land that stretches from the ground of quartzite to the land across the River Elsweit’, and so it went. Two things occurred at the end as the last two people introduced themselves on Lyonette’s side.

Second-to-last was Rhisveri, who kept missing his opportunity to speak. When he finally came forwards, he executed that strange gesture with his fingers, then bowed. First, to each of the Gladefolk, then he placed his fingers on the ground, bent, and then stretched up towards the sky.

Like a flower’s petals opening. The Gladefolk rustled in astonishment, and Lyonette felt both nostalgia and approval. Rhisveri’s voice was husky as he gave his greeting.

“I am…Rhisveri sor Kerwenas, unsprouted of Fithea sor Kerwenas, rootchild of the Great Forest of Estiphole, rootless of any gathering, yet I claim the Kingdom of Ailendamus as my spread and the forest of Fitern as my growthland tended. I walk beneath your shade, Gladefolk of Tauslech. May the sun shine down and the rain fall.”

He sat, slowly and reverentially, and they whispered again, very much like the wind blowing through branches, a susurration of voices.

 

“A true child of the forest? How he speaks! The old speech of the north continent!”

“Impossible, impossible, he is no folk of any Great Forest. His nature is…so familiar…”

“Rootchild. Rootchild, he said. Could it be? Does one Dryad yet live? Have miracles twice sprouted?”

 

Rhisveri answered, his tone gravelly.

“Fithea sor Kerwenas is dead this last year. The last Dryad is dead.”

A rustling, again, and the Gladefolk murmured.

 

“So it is.”

“So that is what we felt.”

“His touch, the Winterbringer, and the passing of the last of green.”

“And one of the Oldest Travellers setting root here for such a brief moment—”

“It woke us up.”

“Fitting, this is fitting.”

 

They seemed—encouraged by Rhisveri. Though more than one was inspecting him oddly. Lyonette noted that the Gladefolk seemed to be completely ignoring Vaulont, Todi, Dalimont, and now even Bird.

They had interest in her, probably due to her carrying the wand, Hethon and Nanette from past encounters, and probably because Hethon was a [Lord] of House Veltras. Rhisveri they clearly acknowledged, though some frowned at him, as if trying to make something out.

But the last being they reacted to was Visophecin. He came forwards without copying Rhisveri’s ornate opening, but with a bow that would have set him perfectly in any court of Terandria.

“Your Lords and Ladies of Tauslech. I am Viscount Visophecin of the Kingdom of Ailendamus. I greet you and stand before you as an individual, on personal business, and beg your indulgence in the impending negotiations. With great honor, I join this gathering t—”

He was halfway through when the Skytree Orelic-Deyana—or what had been her vessel—raised a hand, and a root twice as wide as Visophecin blasted him off his feet into a network of vines and roots.

He tried to dodge, but the attack was so fast that his magic was flickering around him when pale roots grabbed him and visibly yanked the magic out of him. Visophecin writhed, going for his swords as he realized he was being drained of—

“Stop that at once!”

Lyonette leapt to her feet. Todi swore, launching himself out of his seat at the table with Nanette in his arms. Jericha had Hethon; Bird drew a bow and shot two vines ensnaring the Lucifen. Her arrows bounced off so she aimed at the Gladefolk.

“I remember, now. From the land of burning rock and the words that bind. I know his nature! He is sholitfel. In our glades!”

The Skytree cried, and the others, who had reacted with as much surprise as the mortals, suddenly whirled and raised their hands. Visophecin sunk into a cage of roots and vines, thrashing, then going alarmingly still as he realized he was ensnared. When Lyonette saw him, he was immobilized; mud caking his suit, hanging in a cage of vines and suspended like a bird.

She looked at Taletevirion, a finger on the crossbow by her side.

I thought they were going to negotiate!

The Unicorn seemed as unnerved as she did. He clearly had not expected them to have that much power. He spoke, voice quick.

“Hey, Gladefolk, put him down. He’s part of this side. You can’t act like this is the old days.”

One of them responded as they sat as one.

“We do not allow that kind at our tables, Taletevirion of Herd Houwel. They twist words and rules. We suffer him for he names himself rootchild of a Dryad.”

A jerk of the head took in Rhisveri. The Wyrm hesitated, visibly alarmed as he glanced at Visophecin. Seeing an immortal taken out in seconds was not doing Lyonette’s stomach any wonders.

Dead gods, what have I gotten us into? She relied on Taletevirion as she sat. And before she could lose any negotiating power, she spoke.

“I am the only party which you need concern yourselves with, Gladelords and ladies. It is well that I am a reasonable woman; elsewise, I would take offense to your actions. Attack another of my party, and I will hold it against you in our negotiations. Is that clear?”

They focused on her, and now she could feel that pressure. Unsettling, intense, and still, lesser than she would have expected from trees. Taletevirion shifted his seat as everyone sat down, Jericha right next to Hethon, Todi and Nanette whispering to each other. The Unicorn was on Lyonette’s left, Rhisveri on the right.

The Unicorn leaned over and whispered softly as the Gladefolk did the same. Clearly, it was allowed and even expected.

“Lyonette, they shouldn’t be that powerful. Either the death of a Dryad empowered them or something very powerful gave them some of their energy back. My guess is the Solstice.”

“The Winter Solstice?”

“That! Or the last Solstice. I felt a lot of power then, too. If something like another tree touched this ground, it could empower them.”

Lyonette had a bad feeling that Ryoka Griffin was to blame, again. She had a vague recollection from the Riverfarm tales of the fae that there had been some tree-person. She listened as the Gladefolk whispered; they weren’t good at keeping their voices quiet.

 

“So we are to negotiate with her? Of what?”

“Promises were made. Promises must be kept.”

“Beware the trickery of House Veltras, as ever, cunning wordsmiths.”

 

Oh dear. They really were trees if they thought House Veltras were cunning. Lyonette had higher hopes—until she saw Visophecin glaring at them from his cage of vines. But she realized they had made a mistake. There was a tingle on her skin, and she realized his spell was still active.

“This is Visophecin. Their magic absorbed my mana, but my barriers are not compromised. Nor do I believe they have done anything other than immobilize me. Rhisveri, transmit the spell to Taletevirion.”

Rhisveri brushed at the Unicorn’s arm, and Taletevirion whispered back for all of them.

“Okay, this isn’t starting off right. The last time I met them, they were almost withered away. You know what they are, right?”

“Dead puppets. Vessels without their trees.”

Rhisveri was unnerved, still staring. Taletevirion’s right eye twitched slightly.

“That’s right. They remained when the trees died. That’s why they’re so off. The real trees that spoke through them died long ago. These are like what would happen if a bunch of string puppets gained personality. They’re dumber than the beings who made them to communicate with House Veltras, but then again, the trees who spoke through them were weird as shit.”

“They just came alive one day?”

Lyonette was incredulous. Taletevirion shrugged slightly; he watched as the Skytree’s representative found a rock and began banging it on the table like a gavel.

“All that personality and power…it was a real shock to the first Dryads who found them. Scared them leafless for a month. They tried to fulfill their role for ages afterwards. Which is why I hate their guts.”

“What’s their role?”

“They think they’re meant to revive the forests and lead all the beings of nature back to a second Vale Forest. Oh, and they think they’re suave.”

On that note, the discussion began. The Skytree smiled at Hethon Veltras and spoke to him.

“Lord Veltras. You, who speak to the land once more, as promised, have brought the child unborn. The hope of us all. You have even brought the last guardian of the Vale Forest. Your other guests—”

Her eyes flickered around dismissively.

“—Are welcome. Present the child so we may see her, and we shall give you our judgment of what must come next.”

Ah, see, this. This was exactly what Lyonette had feared, and she felt vindicated as she cleared her throat. They ignored her as Hethon’s eyes darted to Lyonette, and he coughed.

“I think, um, Miss Lyonette is going to speak, Honored Gladefolk.”

Every head turned to her, confused, and the [Princess] smiled.

“Hello. I am, in this moment, Hethon and Nanette’s guardian. On their behalf, I thank you for saving them at the Winter Solstice. You have done me an incalculable favor.”

Even if you scared the shit out of me and I could have protected them—she erased that thought. The Gladefolk inclined their heads or lifted their hands in noble gestures.

Now she saw they were copying the people they’d interacted with; no wonder their mannerisms were so close. They answered in a jumble of voices.

 

“It is as promised.”

“To the Lord Veltras who speaks to us, we offer him aid. As he must repay us.”

“We felt death walking the land, as we have felt many things.”

“Be glad we interceded. That we have the power.”

“You did well to fulfill your promise. The child.”

 

They waited as Lyonette produced the wand. She put it on the table, and one of them reached for it. The vine-man’s arms elongated, and Lyonette snatched the wand back. Okay, they were either rude as they wanted to be, or—they thought this was still diplomacy.

“I regret that I cannot turn over the, uh, child to you. Which, to me, is a wand. Nor are you speaking to Hethon Veltras, Gladefolk. You are speaking to me, and I have a number of questions that require answering, negotiations to be made before I let you inspect anything, much less take this wand.”

The reaction of the Gladefolk was immediate. They stood, and their voices grew agitated.

“What? That is not what was promised!”

One shook a hand of pebbles at Hethon.

“Veltras! Changing your promises again!”

“No, I didn’t—it wasn’t my wand to give!”

“It is a child of the Vale Forest! There is no property but that of nature to nature! Your claim is invalid, mother of witch and Doombearer. Give us the wand.”

—Lyonette was beginning to see how negotiations between House Veltras and the Vale Forest’s spirits had really gone back in the day. Oddly, it made her wish for Nalthaliarstrelous. Maybe he was actually a canny, cunning, and expert negotiator…by their standards. She folded her arms.

“No. The wand is not your property either. The child within is…a child, and if she is anyone’s, she is her mother and father’s responsibility, and in their absence, I must choose what to do in her—their—stead. There are a number of individuals who wish to help, including her, and so we must discuss the matter.”

The hand-waving and voices grew louder. The swamp-puppet snapped, her voice deepening and echoing far more than any normal being could do.

“Mortal concepts! However, if it must be thought of in that way, each part of a Great Forest is connected to the other! The duty is still ours. Therefore, the child.”

She extended a hand, and Lyonette’s mind raced. Uh oh, they were alarmingly fast despite their emotional outbursts. She tried to think of a counter, and Ser Dalimont raised a hand.

“Excuse me, sirs and madams. But that logic I must call into question. Can you offer any substantive proof that this child is, in fact, a heir to the Vale Forest? Otherwise, the illegitimate nature of your ties to it calls into question your authority based on the logic presented.”

The Gladefolk froze—and Lyonette smiled at Dalimont. He bowed slightly to her, and Elosaith laughed. He was leaning forwards, listening, eyes sharp. Todi was mostly glancing around the glade, taking in the area. Bird was eating her chicken burger as she listened.

“The child is doubtless one of ours. For it was discovered on Izril’s lands, not far from where we stand.”

Dalimont shot to his feet.

“I must object! Circumstantial evidence like that is flimsy.”

“Give the child to us, and we can tell—”

Taletevirion spoke up for the first time, whispering in a loud, carrying voice to Lyonette.

“Or you could lie. I’d lie if I was them.”

One of the Gladefolk protested instantly.

“We would not lie!”

Her eyes were incredibly shifty, though, moving leaves with glowing pupils within, and even the other Gladefolk didn’t appear convinced. They were drawing breath when Rhisveri rose.

“Gladefolk of Tauslech, Miss Marquin. We are arguing too much over the issue of claims on the child when I feel we have begun on the wrong foot, or root, as it were. Let’s begin again. Why don’t we state our intentions towards the child, our competencies and desires, then come to a mutual arrangement?”

His voice was silky, smooth, and Lyonette nodded. She took a theatrical breath.

“That would be best, Duke Rhisveri. Thank you. Why don’t you go first, Gladefolk?”

She sat and gave the Skytree an inviting smile. The Gladefolk hesitated, sat down, and looked at each other. It seemed to dawn on them, belatedly, that they had gone from ‘give me the wand’, to having to justify what they were doing. The looks they gave Lyonette were of mixed awe and trepidation, and she tried not to smile.

They were a bit easy to dupe, but she didn’t forget Visophecin was currently hanging in a cage of nature because they distrusted his species so much. Which was…what, exactly?

“Very well. I am the Skytree, and I speak for all at this gathering. I shall explain what we intend for the child, since it appears this is not a simple matter of oaths made and kept.”

The Skytree’s voice was what Lyonette could only describe as ‘snippy’, and she splayed her root-hands on the table. Taletevirion whispered commentary as Lyonette sat forwards.

“Okay, listen. She’s their designated leader for the meeting. They rotate every time they meet. So the last time someone else spoke it was—well, over two thousand years ago. They’re going to regard anything you promise as binding, so don’t make idle claims.”

“What happened to the twelfth seat? Why is it empty?”

Lyonette asked, and Taletevirion grimaced and glanced at the throne.

“That was the Tree of Vale, their Worldtree’s seat. Its avatar died with it. Backlash, I bet. Too connected; it would have been the first among them by far. Good thing too; I heard it was stubborn as shit. And ruthless. The other trees were scared of it.”

“Scared? It was a World Tree. It protected the others; the entire forest grew up around it, in its aegis.”

Rhisveri murmured, incredulous. It was the Unicorn’s turn to give the Wyrm a long stare.

“Right. So it hogged all the water, sunlight, and soil it wanted. The other trees here? The eight you see here are all plants that grew up outside of its radius or survived despite it. The Tree of Vale starved countless other trees to death. Choked its enemies in the ground.”

Lyonette, Visophecin, and Rhisveri were staring at Taletevirion. He frowned.

“What?”

“But it was—a tree!”

Lyonette was astonished. Taletevirion rolled his eyes.

“Yes, and what do trees do? No one ever said the forests were nice. Ever heard of a magical tree turning around and slapping a child twenty feet because they stepped on its roots? Treachery, murder, incest—they did it all, just in plant-ways. Nature has always been bloody. It’s only half-Elves that are stupid enough to think they can live in touch with it.”

He regarded the others and saw Rhisveri’s face. The Wyrm had an expression much like a child of Earth being told Santa wasn’t real for the first time. It occurred to the others at the same time that Rhisveri’s tutelage by Fithea, the last Dryad, might have whitewashed some parts of the history he had taken at face value.

Taletevirion cleared his throat.

“Uh…sorry.”

Lyonette re-focused on the Gladefolk. Now forewarned, she decided to do a bit of forearming of her own. She spoke, voice clear and pleasant.

“So you understand my position, Gladefolk. I regard your aid to my children and those under my care as a personal favor done to me, in part due to House Veltras’ pacts with you. They have done their part; their aid in finding the child of forests, the seed of a Dryad, was your request of them. You now guarantee their safety, agreed?”

They hesitated, but nodded, more or less, around the table.

“As they are guests, here, yes. This is appropriately worded.”

Lyonette nodded at Hethon and Nanette. She saw Visophecin press a finger to his lips thoughtfully as she continued.

“Then Hethon’s part in this is done. So is Nanette’s. What we are discussing now is what will be done with the Dryad wand—the child. Taletevirion, Duke Rhisveri, Viscount Visophecin, myself, and Ryoka Griffin, the Wind Runner, are all inclined to help in this regard. But we first must know what is intended. Does that make sense?”

Once again, the Gladefolk reacted hostilely to her statement. One of the two beings of stone slashed a huge arm across the table, movements slow but crushing.

“No! No intrusion by mortals! This is a child who shall usher in another great forest! No one will prune her branches, make her a thing of theirs! We will not pact with you over her fate, not you nor House Veltras nor Roshal! Not again!”

Roshal. The word sank into the conversation like a stone disturbing a pristine pool of water, revealing muck and foulness, and Todi spat. So did Nanette. Rhisveri grimaced, and Lyonette felt her guts twist up. Even here they just—what had they done?

“Listen, Gladepeople. I can assure you, no one’s representing Roshal here.”

The Tree of Sighs’ representative snapped back.

“We will not bargain with foreign ‘nations’, nor any other power! The child will grow, tended by true guardians of nature! [Druids]! Ourselves, if we can but make the journey. And even—”

He hesitated, then a crafty look entered his eyes.

“Ah, then our interests do align. Taletevirion. You are the most fitting champion to undertake this task. You, in your wisdom and grace, understood what was needed, and that is why you are here.”

The others nodded, and they whispered in that odd syncopation that made Lyonette long for songs instead of this—at least songs would be entertaining and on-beat.

 

“Yes, it should be Taletevirion.”

“He who failed to protect shall now deliver.”

“We charge you with it, Last Unicorn. Last of the Eight Blademasters of Vale. The Cleansing Sword.”

“Champion of the Woodless. Protector of—”

 

The Unicorn stood fast, his face filled with anger. Lyonette was leaning back, eyes wide. She knew enough of Taletevirion to understand how much he wanted to hear that. And they clearly thought they were flattering him! The Unicorn barked at the Gladefolk.

“I told you not to call me that! Don’t call me—! Those are titles. Titles conceived of by those who came after. Who didn’t know me and made up names because they needed to make sense of what I was. I was there. I was never the best of my people, nor the bravest! I’m one Unicorn, not a hero.”

His voice took on that plaintive edge as she had heard in the theatre.

“I can’t work miracles for you. I can’t even defend a few hundred dying stragglers. Nothing I can do matches a thousand Unicorns charging. They could stop an army. I can’t. Don’t—don’t ask me to do anything. I’m just here to make sure no one does the wrong thing.”

He sat down and put his head in his hands. The Skytree’s voice was sympathetic, but, Lyonette thought, artificially so, like sweet maple syrup.

“Of course, we know how burdened you are, Taletevirion. But who else can be trusted? Let us begin again, again. We first must inspect the child, of course, to see if she is well. Then, if she is, we will move to plant her.”

The Unicorn’s bloodshot eyes rose to meet the Gladelady’s.

“Just like that? No question of whether she wants to grow into this world? She won’t bring the forests back.”

“She might. If it is a Dryad’s seed, it is a she. If she grows swiftly enough, her branches—”

“Grow her where? There’s nowhere to grow her!”

Taletevirion slammed his fists on the table, and Lyonette felt the reverberations. The Unicorn rose, and now she saw why he was so agitated.

“Were you going to have the children carry her off and plant her somewhere safe? Where? The heart of the Vale Forest? There’s not enough soil for that. All the other saplings are thriving on what little remains. To grow a magical seed, much less into a World Tree, you need more than just the seed. The ground isn’t ready. There are no guardians, no magical helpers. Who’ll do that? There’s only two Level 50+ [Druids] I know on the entire continent.”

He pointed in a random direction that Lyonette took to be southwards.

“Oteslia’s no good; their version of a World Tree never blooms. Whatever they did to make it grow, it’s kept it stunted for ages, unable to reproduce. Soulless, too. There’s no voice in it. So who’ll prepare the land? Treants? They’ve gone into the sea. Even if they wanted to help, the moment they walk onto land, half will snap and die or be destroyed by the local powers! But mostly, there. Is. No. Land!”

He jabbed a finger across the table at the nearest Gladefolk, and they didn’t lean back in their chairs. Instead, one of them, the darkest in bark, the most like a tree in form, but hollow like the rest, as if all the sap in her being had left her hollowed out, spoke with a smile.

“There was not. The Great Forests of Chandrar are all dead, smothered in sand. Terandria’s have been silent for ages. Izril’s are a graveyard. Baleros’ chopped down for Selphids, Gazers, or the Ironbark Forests felled for Dullahan fortresses. Now, though, there is a forest not only grown into the beginning of a greatwoods, but powerful enough to give this child all she requires to grow.”

Taletevirion’s face went blank. He sat down.

“What? Impossible. There’s nowhere. No way Rhir could have—an underwater forest? A coral reef? What? The New Lands?”

All eleven heads tilted at him, and Lyonette was fascinated. Yes, of course. Aside from concerns of how or if it should be done, it was clear Taletevirion had issues about even attempting this. But if it was possible…

“There is a place. Which shall not be disclosed until we have the child and ensure she can grow. There must be a champion. If not Taletevirion, then Lord Veltras. The witch has also pledged her voice to the cause.”

Again, the Gladefolk turned to the children, and again, Lyonette spoke.

“No. That is unacceptable. The children are not ready for a journey of such magnitude.”

She waited for Nanette or Hethon to protest, but they didn’t. Relieved, Lyonette went on.

“I am sympathetic towards this cause, and if it can be done, I am willing to cooperate, but Nanette and Hethon will not be tasked with this. They may assist where possible, but if there is a champion, it would be Ryoka Griffin, the Wind Runner of Reizmelt. I suggest she take this on. Ryoka is fast, reliable, speaks to the wind, and can move at great speed anywhere in the world. Duke Rhisveri is also prepared to aid her, as am I.”

Lyonette decided to leave Visophecin off the list given how the Gladefolk were reacting. It was a good solution; let Ryoka be the Courier in a literal sense. If Nanette and Hethon could help in their way, it would let everyone go home happy.

A good plan. Rhisveri nodded at Lyonette, and even Nanette mimed tipping her hat. Taletevirion nodded, and there was just one hitch. The Gladefolk glanced at each other as they sat back, and then one said:

“Who?”

Lyonette’s heart sank.

“Ryoka? Ryoka Griffin? The Wind Runner? She speaks to the wind, and she’s friends with Winter Sprites!”

She received the blankest expression in creation from the Gladefolk.

 

“We do not know her.”

“She speaks to the wind. Are we the wind?”

“We do not speak with the travellers. They have ignored us and our pleas, the cowards. They were not there when the forests fell.”

“Give us the child, and we will find a champion. If not Taletevirion and the children…hmm. We must discuss this. Who else? A [Druid]?”

“A Circle? No Greater Elementals yet live who could bear the charge…”

“Are any other champions of the green world left alive? There is the child of Oteslia, but only a child…who else?”

 

They began arguing, naming people that Lyonette were certain were long, long dead. Lyonette put her head in her hands. Taletevirion gave her a sympathetic look. She rose to speak again.

 

——

 

Hethon Veltras sort of regretted ever seeing the damn forest. Not that he’d had a choice, but all the excitement of being, well, special, of having something Sammial didn’t, of feeling like he was chosen for greatness had worn off.

It had worn off when he’d fled the undead at the Solstice, when he’d realized this was serious business, not a fairy tale, and he, Hethon, wasn’t ready. Everyone wanted to be a [Hero] from the stories, like the first Veltras [Lord], the Hundred Heroes of Terandria, or a Named-rank adventurer, but Hethon always heard of slightly older people getting training and whatnot from mystical [Sages] or [Wizards].

He was just fourteen. He hadn’t gotten any high-level combat Skills. He wasn’t grown yet. He wasn’t ready. And when he saw the bound Viscount Visophecin, saw Princess Lyonette stridently arguing with the Gladefolk, Hethon felt rather like a fool.

If there was one consolation, his dismay was nothing compared to the crumpled up expression of Nanette. Normally, Hethon would have relished Nanette being taken down a peg or two since she drove him crazy at times, but he felt like she had already been knocked down a few pegs of late, between the [Witches] and Taletevirion. Now they were kicking her on the ground.

“Hethon, I think we made a mistake.”

That was what the little witch said as she watched the eleven Gladefolk arguing with Lyonette’s entire group. They were all joining in at this point, Bird, Jericha, Rhisveri, even Captain Todi. The Gladefolk refused to speak to Visophecin, but everyone else was engaged—and outnumbered. Lyonette and Dalimont were arguing with four Gladefolk, including the Skytree, and getting nowhere.

“I think we made a mistake too, Nanette. This isn’t how I thought it would go.”

Hethon confessed. He saw Nanette turn her head, cupping her chin in her hands as she sat heavily, hunched over the stone meeting table.

“How’d you think it would happen?”

He blushed, self-conscious, and scuffed a foot on the ground.

“We’d…give them the wand, and they’d thank us. Maybe they’d give me—us—something from the old ages, teach us some magic or tell us where secret treasures were hidden. Then they’d grow the Dryad seed or tell us where to plant it, and we’d do it and save the forest or some such.”

It felt childish to say now, but Nanette jerked her chin.

“I rather thought so too. I thought it was so clear it was a good thing. Instead…”

Instead, they were arguing over who owned the wand, who’d take the wand where, and whether Hethon and Nanette were involved. It was like listening to Ullim haggling with [Merchants] or Tyrion discussing border disputes with other nobles. There was a lot of fancy language, but it just boiled down to clashes of personality and opinion. Like children.

“They were kinder, before.”

Hethon remembered how grand the Gladefolk had seemed, and Nanette nodded.

“Patronizing. They were grand because we were frightened and afraid. Lyonette saw them for what they were. So did Taletevirion. That’s real witchcraft. I should have been more skeptical. But—”

He realized she was crying. Not sobbing; wetness was glistening on Nanette’s cheeks as a few big tears rolled down her face. She spoke as if not even realizing they were there.

“—I thought that there’d be some good magic left. Something uncomplicated I could trust. A Unicorn. Tree spirits. But it’s not. It’s all just bogs and cruelty of a different kind. Hanged bodies over a bog, sacrificed to the earth. That’s all it ever is.”

Hethon tore a handkerchief out of his pockets and handed it to Nanette, embarrassed for her. She regarded it blankly, then took it and dabbed at her face.

“Thanks, Hethon.”

“It’s not—you’re not wrong. You’re not wrong, Nanette. We’re speaking to ancient spirits—they should be grander! We shouldn’t be so petty!”

He got angry on her behalf. She didn’t move, so Hethon strode forwards. He walked towards the Swamp of Oswenia and Jericha. The two were arguing as Hethon approached.

“I am Lord Hethon’s guardian and instructor, a servant of House Veltras. Lady Oswenia, I beseech you to see reason. Lord Hethon is not of age, but if you present us with an actionable list of demands, House Veltras’ scions will hear it! Many are sympathetic to the will of the forest! We have been caretakers for generations! But please, not Lord Hethon, not yet—let alone Lord Sammial!”

Jericha seemed frustrated, which showed how annoying this was for her since she dealt with Ryoka, Sammial, and Tyrion on a regular basis. The Swamp of Oswenia stank slightly, in that familiar bog-odor, and her voice was bubbly.

“Only Lord Veltras can see us.”

“You mean Lord Hethon.”

“He is the Lord Veltras. The one who carries the Skill that was made by us through pact. His age is immaterial.”

“House Veltras has countless soldiers and agents—”

The Swamp of Oswenia shook her head, slow and ponderous.

“Lord Veltras must take our will. For that is how it is done, among Humans. You follow the [Lord]. Thus, we will charge him.”

That struck Hethon as a rather…simple way of looking at things, but exactly how a plant might understand Human society acting. Jericha hissed through her teeth and adjusted her spectacles.

“I cannot allow that!”

“Then we are at an impasse. But our claim is solid. I cite the Binding of Acorns, Provision Five.”

The Swamp of Oswenia had a tome of crude ‘paper’ script, more like bark with ancient ink, so old and corroded it looked to be dissolving on the spot. She showed it to Jericha, and the woman nearly tore her hair out.

“I cannot verify that! At least let us postpone the matter until I can verify the names of the scions of House Veltras who agreed to these terms!”

“It is written. He is sworn to help.”

“Can we renegotiate—?”

“No.”

That was mostly how it went. The Gladefolk were pulling old tomes or scrolls of contracts out to prove their points, which was mostly, ‘we want you to give us the wand and do what we say’. They were stubborn as well—trees.

Hethon cleared his throat, and Jericha and the Swamp of Oswenia turned to him. Jericha instantly ducked her head.

“Lord Hethon, are you tired? Do you require refreshments?”

Hours had passed, and Hethon was in that kind of agony of boredom where time passed, and you felt each grain of sand weighing you down, rather than being able to zone out or escape into an imagination land. He shook his head.

“I’d like to speak to the Swamp of Oswenia. If I may?”

Jericha hesitated, then pulled Hethon aside.

“Lord Hethon, they wish to have you make an oath in blood to deliver the wand and assist with the growth of this Dryad. Be very cautious; Princess Lyonette is avoiding any verbal snares, but you—”

“I’ll be careful, Jericha. I promise, but I must ask the Swamp of Oswenia something.”

“I—”

Jericha looked ready to pull Hethon away, but he fixed her with as serious a look as he had, like he was speaking to Ryoka, and he hoped Jericha listened to him.

“I have to ask, Jericha. Please.”

She hesitated, then stood back. The Swamp of Oswenia bent towards Hethon, and she smiled. With him and Nanette, she was grand and genteel.

“Ah, Lord Veltras. This…discussion is much in the old ways of things. Older Veltrases and their endless, nattering entourages came. But when Lord Veltras came along, when he was young, or she was Lady Veltras, she listened and acted and all was well. You remind me of those days. I hope you will see the trueness of our desire and earnestness of our cause.”

Two months ago, that would have made Hethon nod and promise that the Dryad seed was worth the cause. Today? He listened to how she said it.

“I’m sure a young Lord Veltras was easier to talk to, Swamp of Oswenia. Have you met many?”

“Many…many. Some spoke here long, visited many times. Some were little sproutlings. They found their way as you did, for it is in your blood, Lord Veltras. There was a Lady Veltras, once, who was very small. Very small. I have met at least a dozen smaller than you.”

Children, then. Boys and girls. Hethon imagined them finding their way in here, awed as he was.

“And you spoke to them?”

The marsh-lady hesitated, and Hethon saw her face droop, visibly sag, the brackish liquid and pond scum slip downwards as her face made an expression of dismay.

“The Swamp of Oswenia spoke through me. But yes. We gave them advice and duties, as we do now. But they were far more willing. They honored their pacts well.”

Jericha made a sound, but Hethon silenced her with a smile. It was a friendly, encouraging smile, and as Jericha knew—fake. It worked on the Swamp of Oswenia, who brightened as she saw the smile. She was as guileless as Sammial could be, and actually less perceptive.

“What became of the little Lady Veltras?”

“Hm? Oh. She crawled here once. Long, long ago. Three hundred and ninety-eight Speakers ago. It was my turn, in fact. She was covered in burnt wood and your people’s sap. And she wept and wailed and did not speak. We spoke to her. Fed her. You see, the trees and the Swamp of Oswenia did not always have time to be in us—after a while, she left. She came back, time and again, for our wisdom.”

Hethon felt his skin crawling as he tried to make sense of that story.

“How long was she here? The first time?”

“Mm. Long as a sapling takes to sprout to its first leaves.”

“So she grew?”

“Yes. We taught her, charged her, and she left. Then she returned and thanked us and told us of House Veltras’ trevails. She was dutiful as long as she was Lady Veltras. The last time I saw her, she had shrunk! Shrunk, and her leaves…all white. Her bark was shrivelled.”

She touched at Hethon’s hair, gently, and indicated his skin. He shivered again, and Jericha whispered.

“Lady Evista Veltras? Or…Lady Sitberka?”

Hethon knew House Veltras’ long lineage—at least famous members, and more than one had been famously connected to the forest. But it was one thing to hear of his ancestor-grandmothers who had strode around asking trees to get up and hit people for them and another to imagine a child escaping some sort of bloodbath, being raised by…

He met the Swamp’s ‘eyes’, which were two blooming orchids amid pond lilies at the moment. And they were fascinating, amazing, and suddenly, horrifying and monstrous.

“What was her name, Swamp of Oswenia?”

“Whose?”

“The Lady Veltras. The one you rescued and raised.”

“She was the Lady Veltras, of course. Oh, she had another name. She told it to me often. But I do not recall it. She was the Lady Veltras. That is what matters.”

The changes of Speakers in this grove, the location of where roots lay, the nature of who people were, like Hethon was Lord Veltras—he had no doubt the Swamp of Oswenia could tell him the history of the forests. But she could not name even the child whose life she had observed from start to finish.

It made him feel conflicted, for they’d saved him. Hethon steeled his back and put his hands behind him.

“I see. Swamp of Oswenia, I have a favor to ask you. Whether or not I bear the wand or assist in planting the seed of the Dryad, I petition you as Lord Veltras. In the name of the Vale Forest and my house.”

Jericha drew her breath in, and the Swamp of Oswenia’s eyes bloomed open further in interest.

“As is your right, Lord Veltras, I will hear you. Speak.”

His throat had a lump in it, suddenly. Hethon swallowed hard. He fought not to let himself cry or weep, but he had had a thought. He gestured to her body.

“The—the land of Oswen is gone. During the Solstice, something destroyed it. Jericha, my aunt, and her two sons—my cousins—are all that’s left. The Otterdogs, the tree houses, the entire town and the hot springs and everything else…”

The people. The children. It was petty to talk about the Otterdogs, but that is what Hethon remembered. That fun, chaotic swamp. He couldn’t think of Lord Somost or the others or he’d break.

“…It’s all gone. Can you bring it back? Not the people. I know they’re d…dead. But at least the place. There’s a rift in the ground. The swamp. Can you…?”

The Swamp of Oswenia was nodding, face sympathetic. She spoke.

“I sensed this, Lord Veltras. This cut to the swamp—just as I have sensed other changes. I am no longer the Swamp Oswenia; she is dead. Slaughtered just as the others were. I am her voice, here.”

“You can’t do anything? Please?”

Hethon was trembling. Jericha was watching him, and he knew Nanette was too. The Swamp of Oswenia tilted her head.

“Otterdogs. What are they?”

“Little—dogs who can swim in the water. Pets. They’re part of Oswen. They were bred for it. There are still some left. Lord Gralton’s got them and—but they vanished. That’s not what I meant.”

The Swamp’s avatar pondered this.

“Hm. I see. Animals. I could induce them to reproduce, perhaps. Will that do, Lord Veltras?”

“What about the rift in the ground? Oswen?”

“I do not see the issue, Lord Veltras. The swamp remains.”

It was such an astounding reply that Hethon raised his voice.

“The people are dead!”

The Swamp of Oswenia nodded wisely, clapping two muddy hands together as she got it.

“Ah, ah. This is House Veltras’ concern. I see. But the land is still the land. It was riven, yes; water rushed down deep, and things within died. Now they grow in the deep cleft driven down. It was well it was not a few miles deeper, or it would connect to the Water Below, which is death for all. But as it is, it is a new thing, and perhaps it will create new life. Think of that, Lord Veltras. The swamp is far from what it was, but it still changes.”

She smiled at him. As if she were giving him some kind of silver lining. Yes, Oswen’s gone and all the people who lived in the main town are dead. But there’s a lovely new rift in the ground, and the swamp will adapt. How lovely, right?

He stepped back, shaking, pale-faced, and Jericha bowed to him.

“Lord Veltras. You have heard the Swamp of Oswenia’s thoughts. Perhaps a moment to refresh yourself?”

“Yes, thank you, Jericha.”

Hethon heard a rushing sound in his ears. He walked back to Nanette; she was sitting at the table. When he pulled himself into one of the chairs, she patted his arm.

“You asked.”

“You’re right. It is all shit.”

That was all Hethon said. It was Nanette’s turn to give him a worried look.

“They have power, Hethon. They can help; they saved us, and they can do that.”

She indicated Viscount Visophecin. Hethon scrubbed at his face, then realized he was copying his father. He turned to Nanette and shook his head.

“I know. They’re an asset, and they have power, and it’s still an amazing thing. But it’s not…magical.”

Ryoka was magical. These Gladefolk were just old. Nanette patted Hethon’s hand, and they sat there, silent, growing older as they listened.

Hethon Veltras had never really judged his elders and, he had assumed, betters before. Now he learned to, and it was a bitter thing. He thought of Ryoka again, and Erin Solstice’s gardens, and when he glanced at Nanette, Hethon said the first thing that came to mind.

“When I grow older…I’d rather be like Lady Buscrei or Lord Swey or Ser Normen or someone like that. Someone who lives like things matter.”

Her head rose; her eyes brightened a bit, and she smiled at him, despite their mood. Nanette brushed at her hair as she sat up.

“That’s what being a witch is, I think. Some of them get tired and old like Hedag. She can do what’s necessary, but she’s like her axe. Sharp. Plain. Heavy and real. I want to be like…Alevica. Or Mavika, even, or my mother, or Erin. Not like Wiskeria. She’s the saddest of them all.”

A thought struck her as Hethon murmured agreement, and Nanette turned to him.

“Mrsha. She’s doing something wondrous and dangerous and stupid.”

“Sammial never does anything boring.”

They nodded at each other. Here they were trying to be older, when in fact…they looked around. How silly these old people were.

 

——

 

Of all the people Hethon and Nanette witnessed during the hours of arguments, it was, ironically, the least-qualified members of the negotiating committee they enjoyed.

Rhisveri could be eloquent and cited historical examples of the other great forests. Lyonette was a savvy diplomat and charming. Dalimont, Jericha, were both servants but equally adroit.

It was like watching two [Fencers] going at each other, then, when they engaged the Gladefolk. Both sides knew the rules, and they tried to wear each other down with nuanced arguments, point and counterpoint—but the problem was both sides were in enchanted plate armor.

So it was more like a war of attrition as they ground at each other, sophisticated wordplay devolving into a slugging match of opinions and jabs. It went nowhere, and it was what ‘negotiation’ looked like at times between the mighty who could not yield; a mere test of willpower disguised as something intelligent.

You know who had no patience for that? No training, nuance, or skill at words? And who was, therefore, massively entertaining?

Bird.

Todi.

Elosaith.

It wasn’t like Lyonette threw the three into the ring the first chance she got. In fact, they’d been told to leave the real talking to the experts, but after an hour, they got bored. And the Gladefolk sought any people they could to make their point.

One of them made the mistake of talking to Captain Todi. This is how it went.

“Right. So I reckon here that we have a good opportunity for business.”

“We must have the wand.”

The Tree of Sighs was trying to sequester Todi’s help. What it was not prepared for was for Captain Todi to awkwardly put a hand on its withered shoulder and steer the Tree of Sighs away. Todi lowered his voice conspiratorially.

“Right, right. That’s a Lyonette thing. What I’m thinking is—you’re one of the oldest and most powerful tree fellows ever, right?”

“I represent the Tree of Sighs, who grows—”

“Yeah, got it. So what I’m thinking is—and follow me here—there’s room for a side-venture. There’s this fellow who came to Liscor, Palt. Now, I don’t mind him. He’s a Centaur. Nothing against Centaurs. Hard to share a room with a lot of them, but I’m not judging. But he’s pretty much taken down the entire damn market in Liscor for relaxing substances. You know? Dreamleaf? A bit of Sunshine Pollen? Nothing like Selphid’s Dust. He’s got principles. I respect that. You can’t go to a [Dealer] in Invrisil without a little risk, but the market’s open.”

“…Dreamleaf? This is not a plant I know.”

The Tree of Sighs was completely lost as Todi tried to describe the plant.

“Right, well, it makes you happy. You smoke a bit, eat it, and you’re in a la-la land of your own for a while.”

“I do not know this land of ‘la la’.”

“That’s not a real place. Follow me here. You’re an old tree. I reckon there are tons of plants long dead.”

“A civilization of lost roots and trees, yes.”

“Right. So is it possible you could grow some, uh, super Dreamleaf? What we can do here is you get me a seed or cutting or whatever the hell it is. I sell it in Invrisil, find some [Gardener] to grow it. I come back, and we split the profits. I reckon if it’s something extraordinary, you could have ten thousand gold pieces inside the month. Think on that. That buys you at least a few [Mercenary] groups. Throw them at the problem and you’ve got a bunch of people to take the wand everywhere you want! What do you say?”

The Tree of Sighs was really trying here. Todi was glancing at Lyonette, who was ignoring him as she pointed angrily at an old map—and Nanette and Hethon were watching as he rubbed his hands together. There was a very good reason Lyonette had never told Todi about the box.

“I…could make this deal. It is within my power to resurrect some lesser plants. Dreamleaf. What is its nature?”

“Uh…relaxing?”

The Gladelord stared at Todi for such a long time the Gold-rank adventurer frowned.

“No, wait, I’ve got it. It’s…hallucinogenic. There you go. That’s one of those Wistram words.”

He smiled. The Tree of Sighs opened its mouth.

“No. What does it look like?”

“Oh. Hah! It’s green.”

“…How many roots does it have? When does it flower? What soil does it grow in?”

Todi stroked his chin with a thoughtful frown.

“Y’know, I think it has wide leaves.”

The Tree of Sighs waited. Todi gave it a hopeful look, then felt at his belt pouches.

“Wait a second…aha!”

He handed a bunch of powdered, long-dead green leaves to the Tree of Sighs in a wrapped packet. The Gladelord stared at it.

“You…dry it and crush it and carry it around?”

“And burn it in a pipe. I don’t partake of it regularly, but it makes a good gift. Er—”

Todi realized he had just handed a lord of nature what was effectively a destroyed plant subjected to as many offenses as you could. The Tree of Sighs gave Todi an open-mouthed stare, and Todi changed subjects.

“Corn. You ever heard of it?”

“What?”

 

——

 

Elosaith was following one of the Gladeladies around. She was uncomfortable.

“You are staring at me.”

“Merely admiring your form, Miss. May I ask how you were made?”

“You may not. I am the avatar of one of the Great Trees of the Vale Forest, not one of your puppets of calcified bone.”

“Ah, we’re all just puppets of calcified bone and meat at the end of the day, Gladelady. Can’t we talk about construction? I was gestated in the flesh-pouch of my mother after some very odd behavior. I could go into detail about it if you want. Did your creator use any kind of glue, or is it a purely magical means of animating you? I don’t wish to be rude, but one seldom gets a chance to admire masterful craftsmanship. Or craftswomanship!”

He beamed at the Gladelady, and she pointed at him.

“Are you not Human? Why do you not study your own kind?”

He heaved a huge, forlorn sigh.

“Oh, believe me, I’ve taken apart more people than I can count. But you don’t get as many ‘exceptional’ members of our people that you can put on a slab. I’ve never gotten to even see a Named-rank adventurer’s corpse. Though here’s hoping! Not that I want it to occur in the inn, but the odds are pretty good if I hang in there for a decade or two. But you’re even more beautifully made…”

“I wish to conclude this discussion now.”

Elosaith turned his attention to another, hopefully more receptive member of the Gladefolk. As he did, he passed by two giggling children and Bird. Bird was sitting at the table with the Skytree Orelic-Deyana. She was speaking to her.

“Lord Veltras and the child have sworn to aid us. You cannot refuse.”

She was trying to checkmate the situation with the indisputable facts that the Gladefolk had on their side. Lyonette, of course, refused to engage on this dangerous premise and pointed out she nominally owned the wand or shifted the grounds of discussion.

Bird saw the problem and nodded. She fanned her wings and leaned over the table.

“I see. You wish to make Nanette do something dangerous and possibly stupid. And Hethon, whom I care about less but would not wish dead. This is not good, Tree Lady. I am an expert on stupid things, and I think you are going to do more of that.”

“We…wish to restore a Dryad to life. It is a noble cause.”

“But you cannot use Nanette and Hethon for it. I say so; I am Bird, and my opinion matters because I think it does.”

“They have promised to aid us. It is not a matter for debate.”

Bird sat back, struck by this impeccable logic. Her mandibles opened and closed, and she wiped at imaginary sweat coming off her brow. She sat back in her chair, and the Skytree smiled in satisfaction.

“You see? Now—”

“I do see. So, what you are telling me, Skytree Orelic-Deyana, is that it’s war then.”

Bird sat back up and leaned over the table towards the Skytree, and the Gladelady’s ‘face’ went slack.

“What? That is not what I said.”

The Antinium nodded her head a few times, sad.

“It’s war. Very well. I will go and get an army. Hello, goodbye, it was very sad it came to this.”

She reached out, pumped the Skytree’s hands up and down a few times, and stood with a heavy sigh. Hethon and Nanette began giggling at their table.

Bird was back to her tricks. The Antinium innocently turned away, flustering the Skytree.

“You have misunderstood my conversation, Queen of Insects.”

“Aha. I am called an insect. So it’s double war, then. This is sad. I was going to ask, ‘is it war?’, but it is clear that it has already become a war. I shall inform the other Queens, and we will get an army of angry bug-people. We eat plants, you know. I eat potatoes all the time.”

Bird couldn’t wink, but she was waving an antennae in the direction of the children. Lyonette had overheard the conversation, and she was glowering as Ser Dalimont strode over, but she seemed to think this was worth a shot, crazy as it was.

However—the Skytree’s flustered countenance lasted about as long as a forest’s breeze. The confusion in the Gladelady’s eyes turned to cold acceptance in a moment. She nodded.

“I see. Queen of Foreign Peoples, it is war. Send your armies. There is nothing left to slaughter, but make your war on the Vale Forest. We are divorced from those broken grounds. Our bodies are no longer rooted in the earth. Slaughter every sapling and creature if this offends you, but leave your claim upon the Dryad child. Do we have an agreement?”

She extended her own hand, and it was Bird’s turn to hesitate.

“Wait. That is not what you should have said. I’ll do it. I’ll destroy the lands. House Veltras owns them. I think they like trees.”

“Then you are at war with the Five Families. If the Lord Veltras beseeches for aid, we will consider it. Bring your armies, Queen Bird. And I think, yes, you will meet a wanderer on your conquests as you step into the shade.”

Her eyes went to Taletevirion, and he turned his head, silver eyes cold. The Skytree just smiled, and her gaze was eager when she turned to Bird.

“You would do well to turn back. But send your armies and force him to draw his blade. Or burn it down until nothing is left. So little is left; it will grow from the ashes, in time. This matters. That place you call the Vale Forest does not. Is it then war, Queen of Insects?”

Bird had stopped smiling, as had the children. The Antinium looked the Skytree up and down and folded her arms.

“…It is not war. Because that would suit you. You are the least-funny tree I have ever met, Skytree. And I have met ones that explode.”

“Then we continue to negotiate. Sit down, Queen of Insects. What do you have to offer? Slaughter? Aid? I will take both.”

Bird slowly sat down, posture erect, oddly—intense. Nanette distinctly heard Bird gnashing her mandibles together, and then Bird said a word Nanette had never heard her say in any form.

“You itxcheiic-ing walking stick. Very well. Prove the wand is yours, then, for my people acknowledge no contracts made with House Veltras.”

The Skytree sat, still smiling with that empty face, and produced a contract written in bark. Bird snatched it, read it, and then tried to eat it. But the negotiations—

Continued.

 

——

 

It felt like hours later. Lyonette sat, put her head down, accepted a drink from Dalimont, and finally snapped.

“How long have we been arguing with them?”

“Eight hours?”

She shot to her feet as Rhisveri massaged his temples. He clarified.

“It feels like eight; it’s been merely two. Time dilation, remember?”

That was still longer than she wanted! Lyonette paced around; she was in a gathering around Visophecin at one end of the glade. The Gladefolk at the other. Occasionally, one or a group would meet in the middle, talk, argue, retreat, and try again.

Eight hours of this. She was hoarse, and only whatever effect this Skill had on her was keeping Lyonette from needing to use the restroom or have a bite to eat. She growled at Taletevirion.

“They won’t budge. They want the wand, and they won’t give me any assurances they won’t turn around and keep it or charge a random [Druid] or Hethon and Nanette to take it wherever they want.”

In fact, they very strenuously refused to promise that in any way, shape, or form, which made Lyonette suspect that was going to be their second option if Taletevirion refused. In addition, the Gladefolk refused to even hear of Ryoka Griffin’s surprisingly good record on legendary deeds and keeping people alive. It was their way or not at all.

And they refused to budge. The Unicorn was self-healing a headache.

“That’s the problem with this lot. I’d almost forgotten—hah. You’d think two thousand years of not being around them would be long enough. The problem is, Lyonette, they’re trees or based on them.”

“So? Oh, dead gods—”

He nodded.

“Yep. They think this is the opening throes of a conversation. That’s why the Skill needs to accelerate time; House Veltras used to shout themselves silly to convince the trees to budge on a single damn issue. This is the fate of their entire people as they see it. They’re planting their roots deep.”

Hethon raised a hand, looking as exhausted as everyone else from the long discussion, and far less enthusiastic than he had been at the start.

“Miss Lyonette, I’m not suggesting that we just…give them the wand, but how are we to argue them into giving up on it? They’re trees. It seems to me that even my father wouldn’t be able to argue them down.”

He hesitated.

“Maybe. But we don’t have the time for this.”

Lyonette knew that was true, but she snapped back, reflexively.

“House Marquin are famous negotiators, Hethon. There’s a way, if I can just think of one. Marquin herself once argued down an entire army of [Barbarians], you know!”

Though, that was mostly by screaming louder than they could. At this point, a screaming match actually felt worth trying.

“Well, what do we want? We’re all here to see the Dryad seed planted, aren’t we? Or are we split on the ethics of that?”

Elosaith searched around, voice reasonable. Todi and Bird were playing cards to the side, and they looked up as Taletevirion hesitated. But the Unicorn sighed.

“…Let’s assume we at least want to check the kid’s alive. She could not be. It’s not like she needs air, but drawing on her magic for a wand over ages…I want to know where this damn mystic forest is. If it’s the New Lands, that’s confusing as hell, because magical seeds need magic to live, and I have it on good authority that place is as magically dead as you can get.”

“Really? Why?”

Rhisveri turned with sudden interest, and Taletevirion shrugged.

“Just something I heard from Magnolia.”

“Odd. I had heard rumors of that, but no place in this world is magically null by default. Something always has to take it…I wonder if there’s some vast artifact or is the seafloor…?”

The Duke scratched at his beard, then made an exasperated sound.

“Visophecin, you’ve been useless this entire time. Say something and demonstrate that acumen of yours.”

The Viscount, still immobilized in mud and vines, had an itch on his nose he couldn’t scratch for the last two hours. He replied as coolly as he could from his position.

“If we lack the stamina to force our opponents from their entrenched position, we must lure them out or accede in some request. I suggest a trade. Your Highness, ransom the wand.”

“What?”

“Ransom the wand. Surely that was your intention? Let them have it. They have no bodies nor a way to leave this place except by summoning someone. And the [Druids] and wardens of nature are weak in this day and age. Point this out to them—after they inform us of their plans and the condition of the child.”

The [Princess] considered the suggestion carefully. It had been on her mind, but she’d not wanted to be so—mercenary.

“Do you think it will impinge on future negotiations?”

Visophecin’s voice was dry.

“If anything, they might trust you more. I believe they regard House Veltras, and thus all mortals, as highly mercenary. Establishing what they have to offer, and thus threaten us with, may be the most valuable use of our time.”

That convinced her. After a quick discussion, Lyonette headed back to the Gladefolk, who met her as she made an offer.

“In light of this short span of negotiations, I must state that I have been moved by the—the ethical nature of this dilemma, and I am willing to turn the wand over to you, Gladefolk, for your appraisal. I have two demands for this to occur. First, I insist on knowing what you intend, in the spirit of aid to you and House Veltras.”

“That is acceptable. What else do you wish?”

The Skytree spoke for them, giving Lyonette a suspicious glance. The [Princess] adopted her best Reclis du Marquin impression and stroked her chin as if she had a beard.

“Well now, given the great effort and expense that The Wandering Inn has gone to as well as the hostile magics perpetuated against us, I believe remunerations are in order. In some small capacity.”

The spirits digested that. They regarded each other, and one of them, the pebble-being, spoke flatly.

“She wants payment. Typical. We merely sent signs to aid the children—”

“Hostile magics. The wand was not free. Regardless of what you thought, a poor [Enchanter] was in possession of the wand, and he had to be convinced to relinquish what, to him, was a Relic-class artifact. Is it not fair to ask for recompense for our expenses?”

After so long of feeling like she was literally headbutting a log, Lyonette took great pleasure in seeing and hearing a groan sweep through the Gladefolk.

“What…do you desire? The treasures of the Vale Forest have long been despoiled, Princess of Foreign Lands. We may grant you some gifts, as has been customary.”

The representative of the Swamp of Oswenia addressed Lyonette, and one of the representatives of stones added hurriedly.

“In return for the wand.”

Lyonette was sipping from some tea that Ser Dalimont had found from somewhere. It turned out not to be the Thronebearer’s foresight. Captain Todi was pouring it out of flasks. He apparently had a lot of water and several teabags in his bag of holding. When she gave him a startled look, his glower dared her to make a comment.

The [Princess] cleared her throat, far too used to this sort of thing to commit to verbal promises. The Gladefolk were decent negotiators at best, but she felt like their real ability was their sheer stamina. It was literally like arguing with a tree, and she imagined they could wear you down over time. However—she smiled at them like her father, and more than one of the representatives shiver-rustled.

Lyonette was heir to Calanfer. And politics was in her blood. She’d been raised for this kind of thing.

“The claimancy of the wand is a secondary matter. Regarding The Wandering Inn’s expenses and material efforts, what can you provide?”

The Gladefolk huddled together. Nanette tugged on Lyonette’s arm as they whispered.

“Miss Lyonette—be careful.”

Her excitement was gone, and Lyonette frowned at what she saw as the unnecessary warning.

“I don’t intend to press them so hard negotiations fail, but this is standard to—”

“No, Lyonette. Be careful what you receive.”

Nanette’s eyes were shadowed as she looked at the Gladefolk anew. She whispered as she gestured to the darkening woods, where shadows grew long, and at the caged Viscount.

“Now I think of it, not many [Witches] like entering the Vale Forest, even now. They stick to the outskirts. [Druids] and natural spirits are dangerous. Just like Miss Erin found. They don’t have the same cares or considerations as us. What they offer can be…different from what you expect.”

Like wishing upon a Djinni. Lyonette nodded slowly; this was witch wisdom she could get behind.

“I’ll bear it in mind, Nanette. But they have to have something. Or how would they motivate whatever agents they need?”

It was very clear the Gladefolk probably couldn’t leave this Skill. So that meant their powers were relegated to magical spells like they’d been using on the inn. Which was an actual concern. Those reaching hands of wood seeking the wand were merely annoying or disturbing. Lyonette could imagine a scenario where they could strangle you in your sleep—or even snap a neck.

When the Gladefolk came back, the Skytree’s representative spoke slowly.

“We…have some powers. We would be willing to enrich any land you choose within twenty-one thousand Redwood’s reach of the Vale Forest. Or bring natural wells of water or metals to the surface. Will that do?”

Twenty-one thousand Redwoods? Lyonette glanced around swiftly, and Taletevirion whispered.

“They mean an adult Redwood tree. About three hundred feet.”

So that was…what? Twenty-one times three hundred and…Nanette began scribbling on a piece of paper, and everyone did some math. Ser Dalimont whispered back.

“Liscor is well within range of that, assuming they’re measuring from the furthest edge of the forest, Your Highness.”

It was a warning; Lyonette nodded tightly. She had an image of asking for Colfa’s farm or Reizmelt to receive a boon of, what, fertility to the soil? Tempting, but she pretended indifference as she studied her nails.

“—That may suffice. Though we are in the rainy season of Liscor, and Esthelm brings enough minerals in. Do we have enough fertile soil, Ser Dalimont?”

Rather to Lyonette’s surprise, it was Hethon Veltras who jumped in, half-bowing to her. His disappointment from earlier was now hidden behind a youthful smile.

“Miss Lyonette, the [Witches] of Riverfarm and His Majesty, Emperor Laken, can enrich the soil. I’m sure the mighty Gladefolk can do even better.”

He gave the representatives a beaming smile and a wink meant to show he was on their side—and Lyonette saw Nanette’s mouth fall open as the Gladefolk reacted to the boy’s words in a show of pride. Even Jericha covered a smile, and Lyonette thought—

So he isn’t just like his father. She noticed that wary reserve in Hethon’s eyes and, she thought, wrathfulness. Cold, impartial. They had let him down and made an enemy, or at least, lost a friend. How had these folk never learned how House Veltras’ hearts moved? Fools.

The speaker for the Tree of Sighs responded instantly, ignoring the others’ attempts to shush him.

“Of course there is more. We could summon lesser beasts of hoof or wing. Or even split the earth. Send wild brambles to harm or hinder your enemies. Even summon lesser spirits into being—it is not the power of this we object to, Lord Veltras, but the cost. We do not wish to…pay for mortal needs.”

Lyonette kept her face straight as the Gladefolk nodded, but she glanced at Dalimont out of the corner of her eyes. Oh, I don’t like that. Seeing Visophecin ensnared made her feel like she’d been playing with more fire than she thought.

She kept her voice calm, polite, as she raised an eyebrow.

“Summon spirits? The Wandering Inn is always in need of protection. Do you mean some kind of natural Golem?”

A sneer from the wicker-woman, and several of the Gladefolk made crackling, snorting sounds.

“As the Terlands do? No. Ours are not silent, built hybrids yet unawakened. The true spirits of the forest are dead, unable to be born from the stunted saplings. Yet the gift of life remains. We sent sixteen of such as envoys to your ‘inn’. Warnings.”

Sixteen? Oh, wait—they must mean the things Bird had shot. What had Taletevirion called them? Not Earth Golems, then? And they could just make more of them? Taletevirion grimaced and whispered to Lyonette.

“Don’t. They’re more like wild animals—”

However, she was curious, and even Rhisveri was cocking his head, confused. So Lyonette asked the obvious.

“These creatures. How useful are they?”

“You would call them, in your tongue…what? The—”

One of the Gladefolk made a sound like rustling branches, and the others made disparaging noises. At last, one of them crackled her twig-fingers together in an imitation of snapping fingers.

“…Shamblers. Yes, that is the word one of the Ladies of Veltras once used. Will you take them? Eight for the cost of ‘buying’ the wand? They will serve your ‘inn’ until death, protecting the land.”

Shamblers? No one had a clue what those were, even Rhisveri and Visophecin, but it was Todi’s turn be helpful. He stepped over, whispering loudly.

“Must be Bush Shamblers, Miss Lyonette. I’ve seen them listed in the bestiaries on wooded monsters. Never fought one, but I have heard of them.”

“Are they dangerous?”

“Eh. They’re Bronze-rank threats or Silver-rank if they’re big. Imagine an angry bush coming at you. Some are mucky—they’re just like Snow Golems, really. If Bird here can take one out with a few arrows, I reckon they’re a one-[Fireball] problem.”

Todi hesitated, then growled as a thought came up.

“—Mind you, Shamblers get nasty depending on where they come from. Not a lot of big forests in Izril. But a Bloodfields Shambler is a Gold-rank threat. If they can make one of them, well, I don’t want to be near one even if it’s on my side.”

That didn’t exactly make Lyonette enthusiastic, but it was a curious thing to know that these Gladefolk could create life. Nanette piped up with the question on everyone’s minds.

“Excuse me, Honored Gladefolk, but if you can create these Shamblers, doesn’t it mean that the Vale Forest isn’t really dead? If you could make more of them, could you regrow the land? For instance, there was the Earth Elemental, Khoteizetrough of the Gaarh Marsh tribe. He passed away this year, but if you could make more of him—”

Discordant laughter, like the chatter of dead leaves on branches in the autumn wind, was her answer. Several of the Gladefolk threw their heads back or clutched their sides, stomachs, like Humans might do. They laughed for ten seconds—then fell silent.

Nanette stopped, unnerved by the display, and the Skytree’s avatar spat back.

“Shamblers? They are nothing like true beings of nature, little witch Nanette. We forgive your insult because you are a sapling and ignorant. What we offer Princess Lyonette is mere…what is the word? Compost compared to the great spirits.”

The avatar of the swamp took umbrage to that statement, and wet bubbles burst along her body as she rumbled.

“Compost serves its purpose. The vast spores still whisper to me, sometimes. Beneath compost. I know of the one of which you speak, little witch. Khoteizetrough is a fine example of a Vastlands Shambler. One born of the Gaarh Marsh, which is the greatest of the swamps not purged by Drakes. Even so, a Shambler. Worthless.”

Lyonette saw Nanette’s eyes widen and the witch’s back go up. Nanette fiddled with her jacket, looking down.

“You—may not know this, but the Earth Elemental, Khoteizetrough, died bravely saving his tribe, Spirit of the Waters. He was beloved; and not mindless, either. Are these Shamblers you summon different? Because I think if that is what they could become, they are then worthy of respect.”

The Spirit of Waters’ avatar had a kindly tone. For her. It sounded like the bubbling of putrid waters, so deep that Lyonette felt her earwax buzz as she spoke.

“They are the same, child. But that is all they become. The Shamblers we summon may have minds. Thoughts, primitive as they are. It makes them barely useful, barely able to carry out tasks.”

“So they’re alive? They feel pain? Do they have emotions?”

Nanette was giving Bird an unsettled look; she said she and Elia had killed a number of them. Lyonette was getting a bad feeling, and another of the Gladefolk tossed back a head of leaves.

“Perhaps. Does it matter? Their thoughts should be of devotion to the greater beings. If they feel, they feel little. Do you want them? It is a mean thing: we have gifted their like to our allies in times before. Raised armies of them. Your Skills do the same. Had we the Crown of Flowers, you would see them. Armies grown to do battle. But it was stolen.”

“Stolen by the Reinharts, curse them! Recover it, son of Veltras.”

“Yes, recover it! We must charge you with deeds. But first, payment. Then we return to our discussion of the wand. Does that answer your questions, little witch?”

The Gladefolk nodded at each other, smiling at Nanette, but she had gone abruptly silent. Her mouth was closed unhappily, and Lyonette’s heart hurt. Now, she recognized the quiet dismay that had fallen over Nanette throughout the meeting. At first, Lyonette had welcomed it, but…

Oh no. Nanette was experiencing the same lessons that a younger Lyonette had been taught by Ielane. It reminded Lyonette of the first time she’d spied on other [Ladies] her age and heard what they said about her behind a one-way mirror.

Not a lesson Nanette needed to have now. Despite their arguments, Lyonette would have spared her this. The [Princess] moved forwards unconsciously and gently touched Nanette’s shoulders. Wordlessly, the little witch gazed up at Lyonette and drooped. Lyonette felt her shoulders straighten, and she lifted her chin as she glowered at the Gladefolk.

“I believe it answers many questions, folk of the glades. I shall accept these ‘Shamblers’ in return for our efforts to recover the wand. They will be treated better at The Wandering Inn than elsewhere. And if one should one day become like Khoteizetrough, it will be an honor more than anyone here deserves.”

More than one of the Gladefolk seemed confused, but the Skytree and the Spirit of Waters gave Lyonette sharp looks, as if suspecting they’d just been insulted. However, the Tree of Sighs’ puppet merely bowed at the waist.

“Eight, then?”

Nanette opened her mouth to raise the number, but then she stilled as Ser Dalimont touched her arm. Lyonette’s face was too passive. She nodded agreement.

“Eight. At any given time as protection for the inn.”

The Gladefolk missed the wording of that one. They conferred, then spoke eagerly.

“The agreement has my consent.”

“And mine.”

“And mine.”

“So I…”

Only the Tree of Sighs seemed to catch something about the wording he didn’t like. He tilted his head, eyes ‘narrowing’ as the lights thinned, but then he seemed to shrug and gave his assent.

The Gladefolk murmured their acceptance, and Lyonette heard a rustling from the trees around the grove. She felt, suddenly, a sense of something completing. In her imagination, it was like the sound of ink being put to paper.

A contract being made. The Gladefolk instantly turned back to the wand.

“Now, the child. She shall go to the proper place to grow. By those we choose. Swordmaster, you are the one who can make the great journey. Heed our words, and do this in the name of the lofty branches you were born under. Princess, do not gainsay our will. We shall pay you to leave this matter to us alone.”

In this moment, Lyonette had a great temptation to let go of the wand and have done with it. This would be, ironically, what she wanted. The Wandering Inn would stay out of the Gladefolk’s affairs, and if they succeeded or failed—likely failed—it would probably have no blowback on the inn.

However, one look at Nanette’s unhappy, uncertain face and Hethon’s eyes on the wand and Lyonette knew her dratted conscience wouldn’t let her do that. She squeezed Nanette’s shoulders reassuringly, and it was again to her surprise that someone else spoke.

“And if the Dryad—the child is born? Where will you take her? I have an offer to make in that regard as well, Gladefolk of Tauslech. Allow my kingdom to shelter her. She will be safe to grow in Ailendamus. That I swear you.”

Duke Rhisveri sounded so actually genuine that Lyonette frowned at him. But he kept his face earnestly turned to the Gladefolk. They reacted predictably.

“The child will come here to learn from us!”

“To regrow the Vale Forest and awaken the Tree of Oteslia! Not to go to Terandria of atrocities and dead lands. We will not trust half-Elves with her keeping!”

Rhisveri chuckled softly.

“Not half-Elves, great spirits. I meant—the company of those who might understand her, raise her well, amongst equals.”

He was glancing around, towards Visophecin, but mostly at the others, Todi, Elosaith, Jericha, Hethon, Nanette, Dalimont, and Bird, all of whom had no idea what he was referring to. Lyonette had some inkling, and Rhisveri lowered his voice and stepped forwards.

“I may not speak it all here, but I swear to you by Fithea sor Kerwenas, upon her branches, this child would have a community. A—family. For that is what she would need, or else she would be alone. And to be alone is a terrible burden.”

He spoke softly, looking at no one and nothing but the swaying trees and darkening blue skies through their branches. Even Taletevirion peered at Rhisveri with silver eyes of sympathy for a moment.

The Gladefolk had none. They regarded Rhisveri with a mix of amused denial, hidden derision, or, Lyonette noticed, suspicion. More than one sniffed the air and frowned at him.

“Rhisveri…sor Kerwenas. Rootless rootchild you may be, but we do not accept any land can nurture the child but ours.”

The Skytree informed Rhisveri, and the man opened his mouth to respond, but Taletevirion broke in.

“So says a bunch of unrooted plants. You can’t even grow her seed. Sort that one out for me. There’s nowhere in the world you can even begin to sprout her. If you’re thinking Wistram has Archmages—forget about it. They’ve lost all their great magic. There are eleven [Druid] circles of any note left in the world, and if you gathered all of them, you might have a shot, but I doubt it’s even possible. As for Dragons or other great beings—”

His eyes flickered, but only Lyonette caught it as he went on smoothly.

“—Well, I doubt you’d trust them. Even if the old Dragonlord of War is still kicking about.”

The Gladefolk gave Taletevirion pitying, scornful looks. One ran his hand down the wand, as if trying to prize apart the ironbark shell.

“Foolish Swordmaster who has drowned his senses in drink—”

“Don’t call me that.”

“—Last Unicorn, have you truly not felt this world changing? No, we will not trust the child to any Dragon, let alone that monstrous she-thing of war. Let her slumber until she remembers her loyalty! Let the child grow into a mighty warrior—but we have need of neither! You, Swordmaster, are the third ageless champion of the Great Forests, a fitting third to shepherd this first of a new world forwards.”

They were coming to an inflection point. Lyonette could sense it; she was exhausted from the negotiations, but her temper had settled. But Taletevirion, ironically, had been losing his stomach for this debate. The Unicorn’s voice rose, and the grove shuddered as his voice echoed. Then he sounded like a champion shouting through leafy, ancient halls.

“I said I will not. The Greatwoods are dead! Abandon your dreams and go back to sleep!”

Even the Gladefolk flinched a second. But then the Skytree Orelic-Deyana whispered in a voice quiet with triumph.

“Wrong, Unicorn. One Greatwoods lives. Now, remember your oaths. Your charge is not done; raise your horn once more. There is a place in this world ready for this child. With the magic to grow her.”

“Impossible.”

Taletevirion’s face drained of color, and he stood there, shaking his head in disbelief like a horse. Rhisveri’s eyes slid to Lyonette, as if the [Princess] had any idea of what the Gladefolk meant. Even Visophecin seemed astonished. Lyonette spoke up, adding her voice to the mix.

“A Great Forest? Truly? At the bottom of the sea? Where? The New Lands? How could no one know about it? Surely a [Druid] like Nalthaliarstrelous would have heard of it.”

The Gladefolk of Tauslech eyed each other smugly. Their eyes fell on Lyonette, on Rhisveri, Hethon, Nanette, and Taletevirion.

Arrogantly, calculatingly, distrustingly, beseechingly, a mix of emotions and states, but without fear. Rulers as haughty as any congregation of monarchs that Lyonette had ever met. And like rulers—they really couldn’t hold their tongues. One pointed, and Lyonette saw, in the trees, the sun setting in the direction of the finger.

Her skin began to prickle. Every head followed the finger, and the Tree of Sighs spoke. His bark was close to black, and he was taller than many trees. Lyonette studied him and thought she could see a solitary tree growing from a rift in the earth long ago, barbed thorns skewering anything that dared to draw close.

Not a kind tree. None of them were. The ancient sovereigns of the land had been tyrants and monsters and rulers and—dead. Dead. They were just dead!

Lyonette’s group was speaking to ghosts. Puppets. Shadows, just like Taletevirion had said. The smile that cracked the Tree of Sighs’ face revealed yellow sap, and his eye sockets glowed with sickly yellow light as the leaves on his head rustled.

“Two great powers of nature have awoken. We feel it. The vast spires of the Crossroads…but they are no allies of ours, those folk of two kinds who war. They cannot grow a Greatwoods there in that strange land, not of the kind we are. The second was but a bud. Untamed, wild. It was merely a whisper of what was—until the day it changed. Did you not feel it? Did you not sense that day?”

Lyonette felt that terrible shivering grow worse, both from her and then from Nanette. The witch girl whispered a word, a name, with such certainty.

“Erin.”

It was always—even if it wasn’t her, it was somehow connected. They felt it. The Tree of Sighs raised his arms like some kind of [Oracle]. Declaiming to the others, to the sky.

“The world was silent. Then—we felt it. A great gathering of ghosts breaching the world beyond. Yet it mattered not to us. So few of our own returned, and they had no might. They came across the land, shrieking warnings of wars far beyond our concern. They spoke of war in lands we have never seen. It did not matter. But then—it grew.”

The other voices joined in, rejoicing.

“It grew!”

“In a moment!”

“From a sprout to a mighty land!”

“As if centuries had passed in the falling of a leaf!”

She knew. It was on the tip of her tongue. Consequences—an unintended side effect of a war between Seamwalkers and ghosts and the dead gods in the lands of the dead. The only thing to touch the realms of the living. The great disaster of Baleros. Lyonette’s voice was shaky.

“You mean—The Dyed Lands?”

She heard a gasp from Nanette, and the Gladefolk smiled. The Skytree inclined her head to Lyonette.

“Is that what you call it? It lies on Baleros’ shores. A Greatwoods. Wild, different—oh, so different. There are trespassers within the woods. Strangeness. Yet we feel it. Even the Treants, the traitors, surely sense and gather. That is the place you must take the seed, Last Unicorn. Plant it in the ground, and it will take the wild power from every grain of soil and plant and become the greatest of blooms.”

She turned, and Taletevirion stood there, rubbing at his face. None of the elation of her expression was on his. Just an even deeper weariness.

“Aha. I thought I’d missed something. But this…hah. Ha-ha. What a relief. Do you even know what you’re talking about? Do you even know what the Dyed Lands are? You don’t, do you? They’re a magical accident. Multi-colored patches of soil and monsters all the way down. It’s a damn Death Zone—fitting, I suppose—and something sped it forwards centuries in time. You want to plant a Dryad’s seed there? You are mad.”

The Gladefolk were unperturbed by Taletevirion’s comments.

“We know what we feel. What grows within a Greatwoods matters not. True, it is different from others, but each wood was ever different. Chandrar’s mighty Greatwoods were not trees as ours, and they grew among the heated sands. There were Greatwoods in the tundras of Terandria, in the seas. This one has grown; it has not created a World Tree yet. It is ripe. Fortune has aligned to give us all, you, one last chance, Last Unicorn.”

“Oh, aye. It has. It always does, if you live long enough. Another last chance. Like the last one.”

Taletevirion nodded and stretched. He turned on his heel and peeked at Lyonette, then towards the grove’s entrance.

“And if you plant it there, every company in Baleros will claim the tree, if they don’t chop it down first. Even if they left the tree unharmed, that little Dryad will do what? Come across the ocean to learn from you old fossils? Begin seeding Izril when her roots are on Baleros?”

“We would allow her to return to Baleros when she restored the Vale Forest. Within a decade, the first of her kin would sprout on Izril’s soils. Then we would reawaken Oteslia. Three Great Forests would arise within decades! Then—”

The Skytree’s voice was excited. Taletevirion’s voice cut in.

“Then someone would cut down a tree and you’d murder the poor bastards or decide you wanted more space for your trees. Then they’d come with fire, and burn all three forests down or take them from you.”

He smothered their excitement at once. Eleven heads turned and glared at Taletevirion. The Swamp of Oswenia grumbled.

“Not this time. We would make sure of that. We would have two Dragons and time to prepare. At least two! We know the Dragonlord of War is not dead and that another sworn to the green world remains! There was even the [Druid] of ancient days…but they vanished. Perhaps they will come again? The world is not as it was, but there is hope! We would not make the same mistakes twice.”

“As fun as it would be to see you make new ones in the old ways—no. No to taking that seed to Baleros. No to letting you raise anything. And no to this sorry mess. Thanks for telling me the Dyed Lands are an extra level of hell. Good to know; Lyonette, write that down and tell the Titan and all your friends about it. Small wonder Ryoka ended up there. Fate’s pushing her forwards. But even fate isn’t cruel enough to hand her that wand. I refuse.”

The Unicorn tossed his head, sighing. Taletevirion seemed—almost relieved. Like he’d been waiting for a blow, and now it had come, he was still upright. He looked in pain. And Lyonette wondered what the ‘return’ of a Greatwoods meant to him. His oaths?

However, he was determined not to give the Gladefolk anything, and in that, Lyonette was aligned. Taletevirion walked forwards, hand outstretched.

“You had your say. You put your plan out there. Great job on the entire ‘negotiating’ thing. Showing the other side your cards is how we ended up screwed over by the fleshfolk so many times. I’ll take that.”

He was reaching for the wand. The Tree of Sighs instantly recoiled, and the others closed ranks, blocking Taletevirion.

“Unless you agree, Swordmaster, we will not relinquish the child to you.”

“She’s not yours. Lyonette brought her here so you could tell if she—it’s alive. It’s a seed. Give it back.”

Taletevirion shoved one of the rocky Gladefolk, or tried to. He was reaching for the wand, and he was fast. Even if they were puppets of the old trees or spirits, Taletevirion was still a Unicorn. Another lunged for him, and he dodged, casually letting her tumble into the others. Another swung a hand—he ducked it, slid sideways, and plucked the wand out of the Tree of Sighs’ hand. Then he was dancing back, speed-walking at Lyonette.

“Hey, Princess. Let’s get out of here.”

“Taletevirion, I don’t think—”

“Unicorn!”

The moment he grabbed the wand, the air changed. The Gladefolk twisted, and each one raised their hands. What happened next, Lyonette wasn’t sure of. She heard a shout.

“Your Highness!”

Someone hit her; Ser Dalimont. He tackled Lyonette to the ground, and she heard a thump, a grunt, and felt the world shaking, twisting. Lyonette went rolling with a cry, reaching out.

“Nanette!”

Where was she? Lyonette kept tumbling and tried to scramble up, but it was dark and wet and smelled like…rotting leaves? She heard shouting, an expletive from Todi.

“Aw hells. We’re as fucked as a whorehouse on discount.”

Lyonette thought that was a funny way of saying—she pushed herself up and then saw what had knocked her over. A curl of earth; as if someone had rolled the ground up so the grass and mud and roots were curled in a frozen wave above her. Past that—she peered higher and saw a flower.

It was bright purple with yellow inner coloring. There were six petals, and the flower was open to the sky above. It was also…twenty feet high, and a jungle of roots, vines, and water was frozen around it.

At the very tip, snared by two of the petals of the flower which gripped him, wrapping their petals around his arm so tight red blood was welling from his arm, was Taletevirion. His sword was half-buried in the petal, and a wand was floating back in a bubble to the Gladefolk.

The spell had torn up the entire clearing behind the table. Lyonette searched around wildly and saw Captain Todi and Bird protectively standing in front of Nanette. The girl was on her hands and knees, shaking dirt out of her ears. One of them had yanked her to safety.

Jericha had pulled Hethon under the table and was training her wand on the Gladefolk. Rhisveri appeared; he’d used Visophecin’s cage as a shield.

“—Oh come on. [The Flower of Anapulis]. How the hell did—?”

The Unicorn was groaning. His sword kept slicing, trying to cut the petals loose, but they seemed incredibly tough and—were healing faster than he was cutting.

One of the Gladefolk smirked; she had the most flowers in her ‘hair’, and Lyonette noticed that one of them was the same color as the giant one holding Taletevirion. The Tree of Anapulis spoke.

“We have been empowered once more, Last Unicorn. You are not in control of us. Nor can you threaten us!”

“I offered to put you out of your misery, you stuck-up—”

The flower’s petals closed, and the Unicorn swore and tried to tear his sword loose. Lyonette whispered quietly.

“Dalimont. What tier of magic is that?”

“I think—at least Tier 6, Your Highness. We must leave—now. You are not safe, and neither is Lord Hethon or Lady Nanette.”

“Get the children out of here, Dalimont. I can’t go. Not without the wand—!”

Dalimont was dragging her up, and Todi, true to his instructions and nature, was already hauling Nanette towards the entrance of the glade. She wasn’t resisting, but the slight movement caught the attention of the Tree of Sighs. The Gladelord lifted a hand.

“You will not leave, mortals.”

A wall of thorns way thicker and more viciously sharp than any [Wall of Thorns] spell that Lyonette had ever seen rose, blocking the way out. Todi cursed, backing up, pointing a wand at the wall.

“[Fireball]! Shit. I knew that wouldn’t work.”

The [Fireball] hit the wall of thorns, and the backwash of heat made him throw up a hand and curse. It did nothing to the thorns.

Lyonette spun on the Gladefolk.

“Why are you preventing us from leaving? Is this how you negotiate, Gladefolk of Tauslech? Is this how you treat your servants, like Taletevirion, the Protector of the Vale Forest?”

“I’m not their servant! Also—don’t egg them on, Lyonette!”

Taletevirion shouted from above. The Gladefolk spoke, multiple voices from their throng.

 

“This negotiation is not over, Princess of Foreign Lands.”

“We are not done with you. We have little need of you, but the children?”

“The Lord of Veltras must be charged with the duty and place his House behind the effort.”

“The little witch promised to help. We shall hold her as surety that you help us too.”

“You are our guest; let us discuss terms.”

 

Aha. The pieces fell into place. Lyonette felt the situation change. Small wonder they’d welcomed these guests in, disparate as they were. This had never been a good-faith negotiation. This had always been a hostage situation, an unequal footing for striking a deal.

Her father had talked about how easy it was to be the person holding the sword at someone’s throat when signing a deal, and how hard it was to be in the position of the other side, who might have better rhetoric, morality, and all other kinds of advantages on his side.

“Brute force wins the day, Lyonette. If you can’t out-argue your opposition, hit them hard enough. Push your counterparts too hard and they will always try it.”

Strange. Lyonette wondered if Reclis would have seen this coming. For the first time in a while, she wished she had been talking to him; he might have foreseen this. At the very least, he would have had a good idea of what to say.

Again, it struck Lyonette that the Gladefolk were not actually good negotiators. Even if their trees were dead, these puppets were playing the old hostage card like they’d been there when it had been invented…which they probably had been.

And—she noticed they were not unassailable. It was subtle, but the Gladefolk’s confident voices belied a slight change in them. Which was…a deadening of the leaves around the Skytree’s hair. A fading of color in most of them. Or, in the case of the swamp or two stone representatives, a more fundamental change in their natures.

The Swamp of Oswenia’s watery ‘skin’ cleared slightly. Which Lyonette would have associated with purity in someone else. But for a swamp, clearer waters without moss or other detritus was dead water, wasn’t it?

The two stone Gladefolk had developed faint cracks on their body. All of that told Lyonette one thing.

“They do not have the capacity to cast spells like that unlimited times.”

“Visophecin! I was about to say that!”

The Lucifen’s mental voice was dry, and their speaking connection was still up.

“Neither do they have spell mastery here; they haven’t detected our communications. They are exceptionally dangerous, but I believe Rhisveri and I could match them in spellpower—if I were not bound. I am out of magic. Rhisveri is the lone combatant on the field who can match them. Stand behind him.”

Lyonette glanced at Rhisveri, and the Duke’s eyes flicked to her. His green gaze was oddly—distressed?

“I am not blasting a bunch of spirits of nature, Visophecin. Everyone shut up. Let me try and talk them down.”

Then he spoke in a normal tone of voice, soothing and grand, and again, the most humble Lyonette had ever heard from him.

“Gladefolk! This is surely a misunderstanding. I do not apologize for that foolish fellow up there; he’s not with us.”

Taletevirion was half upside-down now, fighting the flower trying to swallow him, but he still tried to spit on Rhisveri from above.

“Thanks!”

Rhisveri went on, motioning at Nanette and Hethon.

“Your goal is noble, and I can see your power is as mighty as all the tales of the Vale Forest I grew up on. Such wise beings do not, surely, need to take children as guarantees of anything? Allow them to withdraw, and I shall negotiate in good faith. You have two kingdoms here, and I shall convince our Unicorn friend of good sense.”

He smiled, giving them an earnest look. In reply—the woman of vines snapped her fingers again.

“I know what has bothered me the moment from which you entered, Duke Rhisveri. I do know you. I know what you are. Son of a Dryad? Child of the forests? Liar. I know you, worm. Worm!”

Her voice rose, and the Gladefolk cried out in outrage, fury—Lyonette saw Rhisveri pale and Visophecin go blank-faced. There was a sigh from above, and she didn’t get it.

Worm? Then her mind spelled the word a different way, and her eyes went wide. She heard Dalimont draw in a harsh breath.

Wyrm. Rhisveri’s face was pained as he glanced at her, then spread his hands.

“I—”

The first spells cut across the grove, and Lyonette felt Ser Dalimont push her down and saw him raise his shield. She heard a curse; a magical barrier flared to life as a stone like one from a catapult hit the magical wall with a crash of thunder.

“Stay down! [Shield of Cover]!”

Dalimont shouted as shrapnel from the spells exploded around them. Lyonette was shouting for Nanette, trying to see—she heard Rhisveri roaring, then a hiss—and then his voice.

“Enough! [Avalanche of the Stone Giant]!”

This time, she got a glimpse of the spell. The first thing she saw was a boulder shoot out, blast across the grove, and be caught by a giant fist of earth conjured by one of the Gladefolk. Then hundreds more blasted out, and she saw one draw a line, the earth split—

 

——

 

“—Nanette?”

The little witch pushed herself up, the taste of dirt in her mouth and blood from where she’d bitten her cheek. But she was alive.

She should not be alive.

Nanette was confused, dizzy. She had seen the eleven Gladelords facing off against Rhisveri and watched him fire off his first spell. Then they’d retaliated. Begun to hurl magics across the ground at them, and she should be dead.

A coughing Lyonette was the one who’d spoken. She was pulling Nanette and Captain Todi up, towards shelter. Hethon was already there; Nanette staggered over dizzily as Bird landed with a thump and a buzz of wings.

“Is anyone hurt?”

The answer was again ‘no’ somehow. Nanette looked around dizzily.

They’d gathered around Visophecin’s cage for cover. Multiple walls were protecting them. Not as impressive as the barrier of thorns blocking their escape, but Todi had used a [Wall of Earth] spell, Elosaith had added one of bone, and Jericha a [Forcewall].

All of them were dirty, but indeed unharmed. How in the world? Nanette whirled as she felt a whumph, then a roar.

“You fools! You nearly killed those two children! Are you mad? Desist! De—”

Rhisveri threw a tornado of fire horizontally at the Gladefolk, though he was shouting for peace. In return, one hurled what looked like a dozen lances of wood that criss-crossed through the air. The Tree of Sighs snarled, but Rhisveri parried the lances, snapping them mid-flight with explosions of compressed air.

Nanette had never seen someone spellcast like that! It was like a duel between Archmages! She saw shards of wood exploding towards her and covered her face, only for them to break on a prismatic barrier.

Rhisveri’s magic. He was shielding them as well! However…the man was dueling only five of the Gladefolk.

Only five? They were throwing spells so fast it was chaos, but Nanette clearly saw only five magical signatures. Then she saw a sixth figure slowly rising upwards.

The Swamp of Oswenia. She was…gathering together. Reforming her body from the waist up. Water rushed upwards, forming her torso and arms, clear proof she was immortal in some regard, at least to conventional harm.

But who’d cut her in half? And—Nanette saw the Skytree picking up one of her rosewood arms and reattaching it. A third Gladelord was trying to cover a burning hole in its head. Nanette stared at six wounded Gladelords. Something, someone, had taken out six of them.

“Who—?”

Vaulont the Ash appeared in a swirl of what seemed to be living shadows, clutching at an arm studded with fragments of stone cutting through his armor. His teeth were bared, and Bird nearly shot him as everyone jumped.

“Vaulont!”

Lyonette exclaimed, and the Vampire assassin took cover as several spells burst against the magical barriers around them. She’d forgotten his presence! Everyone had—the Gladelords hadn’t even seen him entering the glade.

And he’d chosen to strike at the right moment—but the Vampire’s bared teeth as he yanked pieces of stone out of his arm showed how satisfied he was.

“Artifact-grade blades and Tier 4 spells cannot kill them. I regret to report—failure.”

The assassin regarded Lyonette, then Ser Dalimont.

“I went for the kill each time, but I have no confidence I can kill them even if they give me a second opening.”

The kill order? Who—Lyonette glanced at Ser Dalimont, and the Thronebearer snapped.

“Keep Her Highness and the children safe.”

“Got it.”

Vaulont ripped out another piece of stone from his healing arm and then rolled to the side. He pulled a crossbow up and took aim. Bird had her own arrow drawn, but Lyonette held a hand out.

“Wait! Wait—excellent job, Vaulont. They’re slowing.”

Indeed, the magical battle had subsided for a moment as both sides stopped hurling spells. It had been barely three minutes, but no one could guess how much magic both sides had just flung at each other.

Earth and stones and vines were everywhere—along with water. She could see and hear Rhisveri standing across from the Gladefolk. The Duke was, amazingly, in one piece. So were the Gladefolk; both sides stood behind magical barriers, which flickered and wavered, but had protected each from harm.

“Fuck, it’s a [Mage]’s duel. They’re pissing magic on each other. It’s a stalemate until one wears the other down, and we’re in the middle of it.”

Todi growled, and Jericha nodded.

“But that Duke can piss as hard as they can combined. Who is he?”

Everyone turned to stare at Jericha, and she colored a second, but then Lyonette realized what Jericha was saying was true. Eleven Gladefolk were standing across from Rhisveri. They made no sound, having no real lungs, but he was wheezing.

Panting for air. She guessed he’d cast four powerful spells, each one Tier 5 at least. The ground was torn up surrounding him, but he wasn’t harmed; a shimmering shield was flickering around him.

By the same token, the Gladefolk weren’t visibly damaged; they’d fended off his spells, but they appeared tired in their own ways. Both groups seemed incredulous.

“I have never seen Rhisveri lose a duel in magic.”

That was Visophecin’s rather-too-calm comment from his cage. Todi gave up trying to saw one of the roots in half with his sword. He turned to Lyonette.

“Well, we’re in shit creek, and I’m out of options. Your Highness, what do we do?”

“Continue negotiating, Captain Todi. Once they’re willing to see reason.”

He gave her an incredulous look, but Lyonette was busy checking Nanette for injuries. The witch girl was shaken, but unharmed. Hethon was white-faced. He hadn’t lived moments like this.

“Your Highness, we have to escape.”

Jericha hissed at Lyonette, and the [Princess] shook her head.

“If we are not safe here, within a Skill, then we are not safe outside. You heard them talk, Jericha. They’re looking down on all of us.”

She’d noticed that they barely gave her any credence beyond her status as a negotiator. The children mattered because the Gladefolk saw them as pawns. But aside from the three immortals—and she was sure Visophecin was some other kind of one—the Gladefolk hadn’t even glanced at Elosaith or Todi once.

Time for a reminder. She nodded to Dalimont.

“Dalimont, Master Elosaith, Bird? With me. If it looks bad, I will turn and use Major Khorpe’s crossbow. Do you think it would take out that barrier of thorns?”

Todi uttered an oath.

“Was that the damn bolt you were waving around…? Yeah, it’ll take the thorns out! And us with it! We’ll go there—let’s wall up again. It’ll cook this Viscount, but we can probably run through the crater out of here. Is that the plan?”

Visophecin didn’t seem pleased by the idea, but Lyonette nodded.

“That’s the fallback plan. Elosaith, can you give these Gladefolk something to think about? Bird?”

“I am armed with a very nice bow, and I have a [Lesser Dragonbreath] arrow with their names on it. No, wait. Let me write it down first. How do you spell ‘Oswenia’?”

Bird fluttered her wings as the [Necromancer] gave Lyonette a big grin. He seemed the most relaxed, possibly because he was insane. Or perhaps Elosaith was confident for other reasons. He spun his staff idly.

“I think I can give them a taste of their own medicine. When should I do it?”

“Whenever seems appropriate. Now—let’s go.”

Lyonette marched back across the ground, and Ser Dalimont opened his mouth to protest, but then caught the look in her eye and followed, shield raised.

Rhisveri and the Gladefolk were talking during the lull in the magical battle, possibly as both sides recharged for another sortie.

“I—am not your enemy! You’re being unreasonable! I swear on Fithea’s name. I only offered to take the child in. She raised me! She saved me—”

The Skytree’s voice was frosty now. Unfeeling as cold bark on a winter’s day. The hollows of her eyes were empty, and her voice seemed to cut the Wyrm far deeper than any spell.

“Raised. A Dryad. Your kind is unworthy of love. All of what you speak is poison, just like that one. You have no capacity to love, Wyrm.”

Lyonette drew in a breath as she approached. Because she saw Rhisveri flinch. Just a single twitch. He looked down at his feet, muddied shoes, his sullied outfit, and she remembered the silly bouquet he offered her.

His fake smile was gone. That air of contempt he had for everything, shining through his eyes and voice, had been stripped away. When he spoke, huskily, he sounded hurt. Hurt and…guilty, as if he agreed with them. As if he thought they were right when Lyonette knew they were wrong. For she was watching him.

“Perhaps I do not. Yet I remember it. And I never forget my debts. Let the children go. Or I will show you the magic Fithea taught me.”

He raised his hands, and the Tree of Sighs spoke.

“He is a mighty spellcaster, even without his true body.”

“One versus all. Do not harm the others yet—you, stand back, Princess. We shall dispose of this avatar before attending upon you.”

Lyonette was halfway between Rhisveri and the Gladefolk. She ignored his hissed warning to get to the side. She had a smile on her face that anyone who knew her well would recognize.

It was bright, fake, like a box with a fist inside, ready to punch you the moment it shifted. The [Princess] clasped her hands together.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the Tauslech Forest. I cannot help but notice that a bit of unpleasantness has arisen between your party and mine, as it were. I also point out that your rampant spellcasting has put Hethon Veltras, whom you are allied to, and my daughter in danger. Even by accident.”

They looked at her, and one motioned.

“To one side. We are not addressing you.”

The ground rolled, and Lyonette realized it was trying to literally move her to the side. She drew on her aura, wondering if she could stop it, when Elosaith raised his staff.

“[Unlife Tremor].”

He jammed the staff down in the ground, and black magic flashed across his eyes for a second. The earth went still. The Gladelord who’d raised his hand recoiled with a hiss.

“Thank you, Elosaith. Now, as I was saying—am I correct in my assertion that you are taking Hethon Veltras hostage until he meets your demands? And that, as I infer, he is in some danger here?”

Lyonette nodded at Elosaith as Bird walked a few paces left. The Skytree snapped at Lyonette.

“He is sworn to us by pacts, and he will uphold them! And you will listen to us! Do you think this is some pretty Skill of innocence, like a [Garden of Sanctuary] with that wretched Harpy? This place always allowed the strongest roots to choke the others into submission.”

The [Princess]’ sweet smile didn’t change. She nodded a few times, then stepped behind Ser Dalimont.

“That’s what I thought. My, oh my. I hope the old Veltrases gave you as good as you gave them. Or were they more convivial than I thought?”

The Swamp of Oswenia snarl-bubbled at Lyonette.

“They never brought a Wyrm nor Lucifen here! Even when they brawled in the dirt or threatened to hack at our roots! Few were ever strong enough to wrestle us, let alone him!”

She jerked her head at the empty seat that had belonged to the Vale Forest’s World Tree. Lyonette could just picture it. House Veltras [Lords] throwing hands with actual trees—facing the wrath of the forest.

And sometimes, one of them with the strength to quake the earth would grab one of the trees and shake the entire forest hard enough to make them listen.

Well, so be it. The [Princess of the Inn]’s eyes gleamed behind the Thronebearer, and she had a hand on the crossbow at her belt. But she didn’t pull it out. She just spoke. She was good at speaking. She had excellent diction, and sometimes—speech was all you needed.

“Thank you for clarifying, Gladefolk. I rather think I didn’t need confirmation, but it never hurts to hear it from the horse’s mouth. I must now inform you that you have violated the promise you made to me when we entered here. You swore that Hethon and Nanette would not be in danger. You broke that promise. You violated our pact.”

Her blue eyes were getting brighter with a luminescence more than one of the Gladefolk found disturbingly familiar. One of them protested.

“That was a mere agreement in words. We are in control—”

One of them raised their voice suddenly, struck by a memory.

“Pact. She said pact. Beware the wording.”

Too late. They were pivoting towards her, hands raised, but not sure what was coming. Lyonette du Marquin’s mouth opened, and she spoke. She’d been waiting for this…for ages. Everyone loved testing new Skills. But hers were hard to activate.

“[Enforce Pact: The Chessmaster’s Wrath].”

Behind her, Rhisveri’s mouth made a sudden ‘o’ of understanding. Visophecin just smiled, and the Gladefolk—

Flinched.

They recoiled, drawing their hands up, and a wall of stone rose in front of them, obsidian, shielding them from—what? Nothing. There was a moment of silence, and then Lyonette searched around.

The Gladefolk relaxed. One made a disgusted noise and spat sap onto the ground. The Skytree crooked a finger, and the ground began to soften, making everyone around Lyonette sink into the earth.

“Enough tricks. We are—”

Whatever she was about to say was cut off as a shadow covered her. The Skytree glanced up, dove—and the largest chess-piece Lyonette had ever seen hit the ground.

The [Princess]’ mouth fell open. She stared up at a ten-foot-tall chess piece in the familiar form of a queen. A sculpted, stone face, black with regal bearing—looking disturbingly similar to her mother, actually. The chess piece smashed the barrier spells to pieces. Then—it lifted a giant flail in its hands and a ball-and-chain of spikes began to whirl. It swung down, and the Swamp of Oswenia backed up as the flail thudded into the earth.

The Gladelady fired a piercing jet of water into the chess piece. There was a crack—the tiniest chip of stone flew away. The Swamp of Oswenia backed up another step.

Then the queen-piece hopped forwards, rising, moving, as if giant, invisible fingers had picked it up and placed it forwards. The flail rose. The Swamp of Oswenia’s avatar made a faint sound.

“What is—”

The splash of the flail sent her head and upper body scattering two dozen feet in every direction in a patter of mud and water. Lyonette winced; but the Swamp of Oswenia was already reforming. Another Gladelord tried to cover the base of the chesspiece with vines.

“We are—”

The queen piece hit him with a flail, and there was a crackle of ancient wood. She began laying around herself, and the Gladefolk scattered. Half of them tried to destroy the furious avatar of broken promises. The other half tried to attack Lyonette.

“Take her! Her!”

The Skytree was conjuring a rain of sharp leaves, which Ser Dalimont was blocking. Right up until Elosaith struck the ground with his staff.

“Arise and come to greet our guests, father and grandfather and great-aunt Augusta! Arise, Woodcutter.”

The Skytree turned, and a creation of bones, a mere seven feet tall, possessed of six arms, each ending in a hatchet or axe’s blade—or, in one case, a saw—advanced on her. She made a sound of outrage.

“[Necromancer]! You will suffer for that!”

The Woodcutter Bone Horror flew at the Gladelady, but then another of the Gladelords put out a hand. He opened his mouth, and Bird’s [Lesser Dragonbreath Arrow] touched the back of his throat.

It looked like the ancient puppet of sticks breathed lightning for a second. Lyonette’s vision went white, and when she pulled her hands off her ears, she saw mayhem.

Wrath chess piece, Woodcutter undead, Bird merrily shooting arrows off—the nearest Gladelady tried to attack Bird. A wicker hand rose, then fell to the ground.

The Gladelady jerked. She raised her other hand, and Vaulont the Ash’s cleaved it off. Then he rammed a burning blade through her chest, twisting it as it smoked red-hot. The Gladelady hissed.

“You—”

He beheaded her and then leapt away in a blur as the pieces of her body began to reform. Lyonette swore she heard a litany of curses; the Vampire clearly did not like fighting things that couldn’t die, but each tree spirit he met lost a limb, adding to their disunity.

Lyonette was tempted to keep watching, but then she remembered her objective and turned and ran.

“Rhisveri! Help me get Viscount Visophecin free!”

The Wyrm had been open-mouthed, watching the fighting, but when he heard her, he whirled.

“Stand back!”

He produced a thin, beige-green ray from one finger and pointed it at the cage. Visophecin moved as much as his body would allow; at first, Lyonette thought it was some kind of light spell.

Then she realized it wasn’t a ray, but a jet of liquid so thin and continuous it looked like a ray. It was, in fact—acid. An acid so powerful that the pressure alone sawed through the wood and the rest began to eat away at the cage, raising steam. Visophecin spoke as the first root tore away, writhing in what looked like agony.

“I would prefer not to be struck by that.”

“Shut up, you big baby. It only works on organic material.”

“—Your point being?”

Rhisveri severed one strand, then another, and Visophecin tore himself free after a few more seconds. He landed hard, brushing at the liquid on his suit, then turned.

“Now the flower—”

Rhisveri spun, and he and Dalimont blocked an avalanche of mud being vomited by a giant head of swampy material; the Gladefolk were rallying. However, Visophecin adjusted his tie, drew his sword, and it ignited.

Red flames cleaved the air, and he chopped [The Flower of Anapulis] down in an arc of flames that Lyonette felt. It seared her skin even from a distance, and she shouted in pain.

“My apologies, Your Highness. I believe I am a bit peeved.”

The Viscount snapped his fingers, and the heat abated. Then he strode over to the flower. A closed bulb of violet was moving slightly, and the Viscount bent down and began to slash at the flower petals.

A cracking sound behind Lyonette made her turn. She heard Hethon shout in dismay and saw her chess-piece queen raise a flail with one arm—then shatter as the Skytree fired what looked like a spray of diamonds straight through its chest.

Well, it’s not perfect, but if I can do that every time someone breaks a contract—Mother is going to be so jealous.

In the more immediate now, the Gladefolk had thoroughly destroyed her Skill, and Elosaith and Bird were taking cover behind the table; his Woodcutter Bone Horror was submerged up to its neck in the ground.

“You will pay for that, Princess of Foreign Lands.”

The Gladefolk turned as one, pointing their fingers at her. They appeared tired, weary from their spellcasting, and when they saw Rhisveri, they hesitated. When Viscount Visophecin joined him, the Gladefolk took a step back. Then they raised their hands, faces wrathful.

A sigh ran through the glade. It was soft and seemed to come from behind Lyonette, in her ear. It smelled like stale wine, like the bottom of a bar on endless nights. It sounded like the oldest, most cynical thing she’d ever heard, and she had grown up in the Eternal Throne. Despite how much he tried, it still sounded vaster, grander, more selfless than the weary figure he pretended to be.

The Last Unicorn, one of the Eight Blademasters of the Vale Forest, the Cleansing Sword, Champion of the Woodless, whatever you wanted to call him—sheathed his sword.

Gently, with a click of metal meeting scabbard. But that was only how he looked.

For a moment, just one, Lyonette saw Taletevirion as he truly was.

A Unicorn, hooves to mane covered in silver fur, his eyes brown and intelligent. His horn…a pale dawn color on his head, glowing with a light that seemed to heal her even just by seeing it.

But not a being of pure goodness and healing. The Unicorn stood there, and Lyonette, who had ridden countless horses, stared at a being who would never be saddled. His eyes, his very nature scared her, because it felt like if the knowledge contained within those eyes spread, every animal, every beast of burden that the world took for granted would turn and walk into the distance.

His horn was not sharp at the tip, like the point of a razor. It was like a lance’s tip, long and tapering in a spiral to the peak. Taletevirion’s hooves were more graceful than a [Dancer]’s, and he lowered that head, before flickering into his half-Elven shape.

The Unicorn finished sheathing his blade. And the Skytree Orelic-Deyana, whose branches had risen second-highest of all the trees of the Vale Forest, reaching into the very clouds that she took moisture from—her avatar—gazed down at the rosewood of her chest.

“Oh.”

A bright, silver light glowed from the tip of her head straight down her body. It flashed once; such a beautiful sight. Lyonette saw the Skytree split in half.

Two pieces of charred wood collapsed, leaves and branches falling downwards. There was no magical light in the empty half of her face.

The Gladefolk of Tauslech turned, and, it seemed to Lyonette, each one expected to see the Skytree’s avatar rise. When she didn’t, when they realized what Taletevirion had done, they didn’t move.

They stood in complete stillness. Terrified as the Unicorn stepped forwards. He crossed through the air, not like a blur, but as if he had stepped out of reality and back into it, foot vanishing into the grass—appearing behind the Tree of Sighs.

The ironbark wand was in his hand. The Unicorn silently holstered it at his belt. The Tree of Sighs met his gaze, and Taletevirion spoke.

“Never again will I go to war for you. Nor shall you speak and send so many to their deaths for your meaningless visions.”

He turned, and they flinched backwards. Taletevirion walked past them.

“Speak to the boy, if he can stand you. Make whatever entreaties you wish. Not all have forgotten you as enemies. Use that power you have been granted as wisely as you can. But threaten them—spill blood in this place again—”

He turned, and his face was bleak.

“—And I will end you all myself.”

Then he looked away and kept walking. No one said a word. Lyonette was staring at the Skytree’s remains. She thought—surely there was another way—?

Rhisveri and Visophecin were, in a sense, more disturbed than the mortals. They stood aside as Taletevirion passed them. The Unicorn walked at the wall of thorns. Without slowing, he slashed his hand to the side.

They cracked and fell, cut at their bases. Taletevirion walked through the broken stumps, and then someone shouted at his back.

“You cannot take the last hope of the forests, Unicorn! What will you do? Deny that child life? Let her be used, drained of life? You will not live forever!”

Taletevirion turned at the exit to the glades. His eyes found the speaker, the Swamp of Oswenia, and he replied, curt.

“I will think. I will listen and decide. Not to you. If I decide there is no reason, I will take this child to the Dragonlord of Flames. I will ask him to hide the wand somewhere no one will find it, somewhere they can wait out the ages, until a time emerges when you, I, and this entire sorry world is changed. Let it be for the better.”

It was the Tree of Sighs who spoke again, and his voice boomed through the woods. It sounded like trees crackling, branches falling. Like forests dying.

“There will never be forests after this, Taletevirion! What happens when the world lacks for a single blade of green? When the beings of ash and steel cover each piece of it with their melted stone and heartless metal?”

Lyonette flinched; she could see that empty world. She thought of the Eternal Throne, of the visions of Erin’s world, so alien and without green life in places.

The Unicorn’s reply was simple. His lips quirked up, and his smile held not a trace of mirth or hope.

“Then let it be. That is the world they will make. We shall die on that last patch of grass, under the last shade of leaves. I leave that next world to the victors. May they enjoy it.”

He lifted the wand.

“Spare this child the heartache. Or would you condemn your worst enemies to our fates?”

He gazed from face to face, then nodded.

“Farewell.”

Then he was gone.

 

——

 

“Take Hethon and Nanette back. Before they come to their senses. Now.”

Captain Todi didn’t need further urging. Nor did anyone else. They were almost past the broken thorns when Nanette spoke.

“W-wait.”

Bird halted, but only to raise her bow. When Lyonette eyed her, Bird explained.

“I am going to hit her and knock her out before she says something stupid.”

“Bird…what is it, Nanette?”

The young witch was shaking. There were tears in her eyes, but she turned to Lyonette.

“Lyonette. You can’t leave.”

Lyonette knelt down and glanced over her shoulder. The Gladefolk were gathered around their fallen sister, not speaking. She thought they were in shock. Or perhaps communing silently. What could be said? They would never get that wand from Taletevirion, she was sure.

“Nanette, one of their own just died. They could be exceptionally dangerous.”

Nanette gripped Lyonette’s hands, urgent, and met her eyes. Her face was pale, and she seemed sick at heart. Lyonette wished Nanette hadn’t seen that. But the witch’s eyes were serious.

“I know, Lyonette. I’ll go. So will Hethon. But you have to stay.”

The words were like an uncanny echo in Lyonette’s head of her own thoughts. A quiet whisper that had been speaking the entire time. She listened to it, and Nanette.

“Me? Why?”

The [Princess] saw Nanette gulp.

“You have to stay because this is the moment they’ll be at their most desperate. And unsettled. They can’t stop Taletevirion—but you can talk to him. If ever there was a time to grind them, it’s now.”

Hethon gaped at Nanette with such a shocked expression that Lyonette almost laughed. But the [Princess] thought—

Dead gods, she’s right. It was a heartless thought. And it was a witch’s thought. Lyonette met Nanette’s gaze, and that angry girl arguing for the life of a Dryad was gone. Instead, there was a ruthless edge.

Oh, Nanette, you are a daughter of mine even if Califor will always be your mother. I wish…am I raising you correctly? She didn’t know, so Lyonette just stroked the ends of Nanette’s hair gently.

“A good thought. What do you think I should ask for, Nanette?”

“Whatever they know. About the Dyed Lands? About Baleros and Treants?”

“Mm.”

Lyonette had had the same thought, and she nodded. She turned back as Bird raised her bow over the [Princess]’ head. The Antinium paused as Lyonette gave her a flat look. She lowered the bow.

“No?”

Lyonette pointed at Todi; he nodded, and Jericha took Hethon’s arm. The two kept walking. Lyonette strode back into the gathering.

When the Gladefolk saw her coming, they flinched and drew back. But the [Princess] just spoke. She was flanked by Rhisveri, whose eyes lingered on the fallen Treelady’s body with a mortal agony. By Visophecin, whose smile had no mercy, and they shuddered when he adjusted his tie.

Bird and Elosaith both spread out on either wing, and Lyonette spoke slowly.

“Gladefolk. You have one chance to come to the table in earnesty and honesty and desperation on your part.”

“The table?”

They peered at it and at Lyonette, and she nodded.

“One chance—to have us represent your interests to Taletevirion before he makes good on his promise.”

“You cannot dissuade him. And he has slain Dragons—countless champions of levels and without. Even the two of them might fail.”

One of the Gladefolk pointed at Visophecin and Rhisveri, and Lyonette shook her head.

“With words, ladies and gentlemen! How else will you do it? With spells? We are the only ones who can hear your voices with ease, and you have made an enemy of House Veltras. If you wish to salvage the situation, you must offer us everything you have. Or we may simply leave.”

Her blood was ice, and she fancied that if her mother were here—Lyonette almost wished she had a puffer stick to light up just for the effect. The Gladefolk regarded each other, then one indicated the chairs.

“Very well. You are correct. Sit…sit, Princess of…Calanfer. And tell us what we should offer.”

She felt bad, she really did. They even pulled out one of the chairs for her, a stone chair, high-backed and crude.

It wasn’t the worst chair to sit in, but it was still, well, stone. And it was probably as ancient as this place. Thousands of years old. Lyonette stopped in front of it and rested her hand on the ancient chair. She paused as everyone watched her.

“…Ser Dalimont?”

[Declare Foe: Bane (Furniture)]. The Thronebearer cracked his knuckles and drew his sword as the Gladefolk stared at her in horror.

Lyonette du Marquin kept smiling.

 

——

 

A [Princess] walked back on that long, winding trail through the forest. The way out was harder than arriving. It felt like a long journey to the Forest of Tauslech. The way out was…harder.

The place where the Gladefolk lived was a time out of time where you walked in a pocket of reality divorced from your world. The way back was like lead in your bones; time resuming its ungentle hold on you.

It hurt in ways beyond pain, but the [Princess] kept her head high, though she was exhausted. Her throat was sore. Her back and shoulders hurt. Her heart hurt.

Her mother would be proud of her.

That thought revolved around in Lyonette’s head, again and again. It was that feeling, and the respectful looks that Vaulont the Ash and Elosaith gave her. The way Bird kept peering at Lyonette and back at the grove.

“I think they are still crying.”

“Tears from puppets. They know how to dance every game. I have seen [Traders] weep and tear out their hair to seal a deal.”

Elosaith’s voice was cold. Not cold as a [Necromancer], because they could be quite warm, for all they sniffed and postured. No; his voice was as impartial as any [Village Head] who had to fight for every copper piece in a negotiation for enough food to last the winter. He dipped his head to Lyonette. Her reply was distant.

“They are mourning, Bird. They are still enough like us to do that.”

“Only their own kind. They did not weep for Taletevirion’s sadness, or for the Otterdogs. Only for themselves, which I believe means they think they are the only real people. I do not like them. But they weep, and I am sad.”

That was the Antinium’s observation, and Lyonette agreed with that. The comment was barbed, though, perhaps intentionally—Vaulont twitched as he watched. So did the two figures walking next to Lyonette, who had been silent.

Viscount Visophecin and Duke Rhisveri…the Lucifen and Wyrm were exchanging glances over Lyonette’s head. If Bird, Elosaith, and Vaulont recognized the deals that Lyonette had struck from their perspectives, what of the immortals, who had ruled an empire?

Pacts. Dangerous things for anyone to agree to, let alone with a Lucifen or Wyrm, who were cunning, capricious, and had the means to enforce any agreement in blood and deed, flame and suffering.

It made them reviled as species. Untrustworthy because they were good at negotiating? It wasn’t their fault they understood how words worked. Of course, they had just witnessed a [Princess] making pacts of her own.

And she could enforce hers with, among other things, a giant chess piece armed with a flail that would beat you to death for violating the terms of her agreement. So, yes. The two immortals watched Lyonette with a kind of respect they so seldom tendered others.

She was like them. And the [Princess] had not forgotten either, oh no.

“We have an agreement then, gentlemen? Our silence will be sacrosanct. Truly kept secrets.”

“For whatever a mortal’s word is worth.”

Rhisveri snorted, but his heart wasn’t in it. Lyonette gestured to Bird, Elosaith, and Vaulont. The Antinium Queen, [Necromancer], and Vampire regarded Rhisveri.

“We all have secrets we need kept. Trust is imperative, and it is agreed, Your Grace. Need we commit it to full writing and magical pacts?”

The Wyrm hesitated, then jerked his head without much spirit.

“I may put together a formal contract just to have it done. Very well, let’s say I…trust your word. You have danced interestingly, [Princess] of Calanfer. Your silence could earn you a ransom, but you only require certain…guarantees of peace between us. Not even with Ailendamus and Calanfer.”

He was confused about that. He had rather expected her to force that into whatever agreement she made with him—and they had negotiated, because she did know he was a Wyrm.

Erasing her memories had of course been an option, but that was never perfect, and besides…she knew about the Dragonlord of Flame and Unicorn. Plus, she had a lot of gold. Even so, Lyonette’s voice was steady as she met his eyes.

“I am a [Princess] of The Wandering Inn first, Rhisveri. If I gave up on everything I could ask for, it is because some things are in greater danger than my homeland. Calanfer can take care of itself. I am a mother first of all. And our goals are aligned.”

She looked questioningly at Visophecin for confirmation, and Dalimont shifted. The [Knight] still intensely disliked the Viscount, but the Lucifen half-bowed.

“Leave Baleros to me.”

“Interference. You’re lucky you were expelled from House Shoel or I wouldn’t allow it.”

“Yes. Lucky.”

Rhisveri glanced at Visophecin, then turned to Lyonette.

“You negotiate poorly after all, though, [Princess]. I shall remember you have a soft heart. You put the wellbeing of your child, that Gnoll girl, Mrsha, over everlasting peace with a nation. You traded the desperation of the Gladelords for magical favors. You could have left the Unicorn alone.”

All for promises. His eyes flashed, and Lyonette’s voice was steady as they passed out of the forest and along the wet grassland, covered in rain. Heading back towards that inn on a hill.

“She is in danger, Duke Rhisveri. Viscount Visophecin, I will have your aid ere you leave.”

“Mine alone. On my head be it.”

The Wyrm nodded simply.

“And mine. We are allies for this matter, Princess du Marquin. It is not a light thing to call two of Ailendamus’ beating hearts to your aid. But tell me, truthfully. How much danger could she really be…?”

His voice trailed off as he tried a reassuring smile and noticed how everyone else wasn’t smiling and was just watching him. Rhisveri coughed. He looked aside as rain covered his dark hair and coat. He was wet, his clothing muddy, and he appeared rather pathetic compared to how he had entered, bouquet in hand.

The Wyrm had met the Gladefolk of Tauslech, and his expression, as he held up one dripping hand in the rain, was wan. He murmured to himself.

“They were not what I hoped for. Parents and children. You did negotiate poorly, Lyonette. For a child’s safety. Do you think I’m so craven or honorless I’d besmirch all of Ailendamus’ name by refusing to cast a spell?”

The [Princess]’ lips quirked, and she hid it as Ser Dalimont held an umbrella over her head. She murmured into her hand.

“I suppose I am just a softhearted woman after all, Rhisveri.”

“I shan’t hold it against you. But truly? Guarantees of partial aid over anything you could ask of us?”

Partial aid. Visophecin hadn’t even promised that; merely to aid Erin Solstice and Ryoka Griffin. He glanced at Rhisveri, and the [Princess] smiled sweetly, eyes dancing far colder than the Wyrm’s blood.

“Oh, Duke. Great Wyrm. I shall defend the inn. I know how, just as I told you. I can do it—once. Maybe even twice, by myself, with all the favors and Skills and knowledge I have. But someday, surely, I will call out. As the [Innkeeper] did before me. Each time, it is always friends who answer. Today, I struck a bargain worth all the gold that has ever passed through the doors of the inn. All I will send you that you require, and more. It depends, of course, on the honor of a Wyrm.”

The Wyrm regarded Lyonette, and he nodded.

“Since it does, I will give you some credit for understanding the value of the contract, if not the terms. I must rest a few minutes. But when you find out what ails your daughter, tell me. I shall resolve it.”

She nodded, and the Duke raised his chin, a proud figure bathed in grit and rain. He still didn’t understand why the Antinium Queen patted him on the shoulder, or why the Thronebearer laughed softly. The [Princess] walked ahead, counting her allies and enemies.

But only one thing mattered. This was just—

Well. An interlude.

 

——

 

It was nightfall by the time the [Princess] got back to the inn. Nanette was waiting for her and ran out in the pouring rain.

“Lyonette! Are you okay? Did—?”

“We came to an arrangement. Several, actually. Have the Shamblers arrived yet?”

For answer, the girl pointed outside, and Lyonette saw eight drenched mounds slowly wandering around the base of the hill. The witch burst out.

“I told Ishkr what happened, and he understands! But Miss Lyonette, it’s been crazy over here! There’s the scrying orb, and Ushar needs to speak to you now and—and—”

The [Princess] had almost forgotten the chaos from earlier in the day. The singing…but she spoke one word.

“Mrsha? Where’s Mrsha?”

She searched around, and Nanette pointed. Lyonette went striding forwards. She was tired, dirty, and a Wyrm and Lucifen followed in her footsteps. At least one of them was giving her a respectful look.

A weary Unicorn was having a drink of water at a table. When he saw her, he met her gaze levelly. Challengingly. As if he’d fight to the death without a moment’s hesitation, if only he could figure out why and where.

Lyonette locked eyes with Taletevirion and nodded at him. He had nothing left to protect. She? She had everything, and if only it were so easy. But to protect Mrsha—Lyonette began to run.

She’d do anything. But she didn’t know if she could. Terror. Uncertainty. A mortal stress beyond any anxiety, even fear for her life.

 

——

 

A parent’s love.

Oh, how the Unicorn envied her. He put down his head and tried to dream of the past. But all he could think, when he stared at the dull, iron-grey wand in front of him, shining with untapped magic and potential—

Was of the future.

 

 

[Princess of the Inn Level 38!]

[Skill – Royal Artifact obtained!]

 

[Title – Diplomat of the Tauslech Forest obtained!]

[Title Skill – Wildspeech granted!]

 

[Pact Skill – Defenders of the Inn (Shamblers) assigned!]

 

 

[Sariantfriend Level 11!]

[Skill – Basic Spell Proficiency: Nature Magic obtained!]

[Spell – Watertwister Orb learned!]

[Spell – Nature’s Stride learned!]

[Skill – Peaceful Gesture obtained!]

[Skill – Goat’s Kick obtained!]

 

 

 

 

Author’s Note:

I’m…tired? Why would that be? It’s a mere 26,500-word chapter. I’m staring at the screen, and I can’t imagine why this would make me so exhausted as to actually want another day off.

Then I check the other tab and stare at the 34,000 word chapter I also wrote, and it clicks.

Hi, I’m pirateaba, and I now have a backlog of (1) chapter. It’s unedited, and it means this chapter is ‘shorter’, but I will release the next chapter on Saturday. I was gonna say ‘Tuesday’, but nope! I’m not committing to that.

I need maximum editing time between chapters, and if I write shorter ones, I’ll release my backlog or just post through any breaks. But we are in a final stretch from here to Christmas.

I am going travelling just after Christmas, and I normally take January off…I don’t know what I’ll do if I’m still in the middle or at the end of this arc when that happens. Keep writing until I finish, then take my break? Take a month off? Just take a week off?

I’ll play it by ear. I do have family coming very soon, and I need to finish my Christmas shopping, but I am going to keep writing during the month of alleged Christmas cheer. It’s a delicate dance, another kind of negotiations. I like my family, but I want to write to give you something during this time. Lean too heavily on either side, and one group gets hurt.

So have a bit of forbearance if I don’t write as long chapters or I need to take unexpected breaks. I’ve written every Christmas day for the last eight years, I think. We’ll see what happens this year, but for now, I hope you enjoy this end to the interlude.

Wish me luck on editing the next chapter. We’re going for it. Thanks for reading and see you in a bit,

—pirateaba

 

 

Pyrite Card by Stargazing Selphid!

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/megawint/

Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/megawint

 

Headscratcher by Nanahou!

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/wanderer.nanahou/

Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/wanderer_nanahou/gallery

Toyhouse (Gallery): https://toyhou.se/Wanderer-Nanahou/art?page=1

 

Nanette’s Responsibilities and Military Erin by Chalyon!

Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/chalyon

 

Sheta by Phosu!

 

Goblins and Elirr Teaching by Moerchen!

 

Guardsman Christmas Plans by LeChatDemon!

DeviantArt: https://www.deviantart.com/demoniccriminal

Stash with all the TWI related art: https://sta.sh/222s6jxhlt0

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/lechatdemon/

 

Quest by BrazyCanana!

 

Pets and Zeldaona-Erin by Brack!

Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/brack

Twitter: https://twitter.com/Brack_Giraffe

Bluesky: https://bsky.app/profile/brackgiraffe.bsky.social

 

Poisonbite Courting by Lanrae!

 

Rags and the Redfang Five by Karu!

 

Irrel and Rosech and Teriarch the Duck by aloof1056!

 

Ressa by Rocky!

 

Quests and Maid by Spooky!

Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/spookyspookyowl

Bluesky: https://bsky.app/profile/spookyowl.bsky.social

Linktree: https://linktr.ee/spookyowlart

 

Pebblesnatch and Calesecent by katiemaeve!

 

Rags by Pontastic!

Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/tobiasnordin

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/tobias.s.nordin/

Youtube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCde0VI7ReuYdsyzoFrIfr7g

Website: https://www.nordink.net/home

 

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