My hands were bare, and I held them up for the king’s inspection. “I’ll have to touch you.”
At the king’s nod the guards stepped back, and I took a moment to speak to Erendella. “I’ll need your help as well, Your Highness.” I had no hope of healing the king. Ealdor’s knowledge of the Darkwater so far surpassed mine it precluded hope, but I needed all six monarchs with the gift of kings in one place.
I approached Boclar and his daughter, who stood to his immediate right, the two of them basking in the light of a false sun. “Hold hands.”
“Why?” Boclar asked, suspicious.
“Do you love your father?” I asked Erendella.
She nodded once, solemn. “I would die for him. He’s already proved he would do the same for me.”
“There are mysteries I can’t explain, Your Majesty,” I said, “because I don’t fully understand them. But Pellin and Bronwyn and Toria Deel went to lengths to tell me the importance of love. It undergirds our gift. I bear you no great love, so it’s imperative that your daughter be close. Hold hands.” I waited until they’d done so and stepped forward.
I reached out to Erendella, and she mirrored the gesture, but instead of taking her hand in mine, I grasped her sleeve, protecting myself from her memories. Some lasting suspicion must have remained with Boclar. When my hand was close enough to feel the warmth of his skin, he turned to his daughter. “You remind me so much of your mother, full of fire and strength.”
I reached out and gripped his hand, roughly, desperately. The phos-fire of the king’s powder receded as my consciousness hurtled through his dark, dark eyes, and I stood before a wide stream of memory. What I meant to do would take little time as those with Boclar reckoned it. Before I destroyed the king’s vault, I wanted to see what circumstances had driven him to the forest.
Our talk of the Darkwater had brought those memories to the surface of his mind—they flowed close by me. I dipped my hand into the stream and let myself become the king.
The trees rose all around me in the fading light of day, a mass of twisted trunks so large around it would take half a dozen men to encircle one of them. Leaves the color of midnight blocked all but the barest hint of the dying sun. Erendella, my heir and heart, waited.
“She’ll never forgive me for this, Woruld.”
“As long as she’s safe, Your Majesty,” he said. His voice carried strains of effort from hauling the polished brazier and the heavy sack of solas powder. “Your Majesty, if this doesn’t work . . .”
He didn’t bother or need to finish. “We have enough,” I said. The light dimmed further, and we were far enough into the forest that the darkness had become almost complete. “We should light the brazier now.”
Quickly, with the economy of motion that came from practice, Woruld threaded two rods through the holes on either side that would allow us to carry it while the fire burned. Then he poured a quantity of powder that would last for the duration of the night into the bowl and struck his steel with a glancing blow that sent a handful of sparks dancing through the air.
The darkness leapt away from us, held at bay by a circle of light, a sun in miniature that rested on the forest floor. Together we picked up our burden and threaded our way through the undergrowth.
“Which way do we go, Your Majesty? Woruld asked.
We’d entered from the south. Our exit and safety still lay just a few hundred yards, no more than half a mile, behind us. It would be simple to walk away—but for the fact that any reason I had for living was ahead of me. “In,” I said, “to the center.”
Twisted trunks, blackened with age and malice surrounded us, their roots overlapping each other, struggling for preeminence. “Careful of the bowl,” I said, but my warning was more for my own ears. I was a child of the delta, and the forest was as strange to me as Vadras would be to any from Collum or Frayel. Nothing stirred. The malevolence of the forest had extinguished every creature. Only trees possessed the requisite fortitude to grow here. I glanced up by the light of the phos-fire to the hatred-blackened leaves above me. Yes, the trees grew, but even the durability of wood was insufficient to keep the evil at bay. The trees’ strength had done nothing more than allow them a life of corruption.
We worked our way toward the center of the forest for hours. I nibbled on chiccor root, wary of the danger it presented. After a night comprised of putting one foot in front of the other, Woruld stopped to snuff the fire in our brazier.
“We can rest, Your Majesty.” He pointed overhead to the merest hint of sunlight could be seen through the canopy.
I stopped, my legs shaking from unfamiliar use. “Have we come far enough? Is there still enough powder to get us there and back?”
Woruld nodded. “Yes, Your Majesty.” He looked around. “We should have brought more men.”
I swallowed my indignation. “I was ordered not to.”
“Sleep, Your Majesty,” Woruld said. “I will wake you when it’s time.”
I dozed for a few hours and rose before Woruld summoned me. Fatigue flowed through my veins with every beat of my heart, but every step we could take in the daylight was a bit of powder we could husband at need. We spent the second day as we had the first. And most of the next.
As the third day died, Woruld lit the brazier again, and we marched toward the smell of water. The ground grew marshy under our
