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  “Not usually,” he said frankly. “But right now, I’m observing that you aren’t particularly interested in talking to me.”

  “That’s correct. Well done.” But she could do worse; she hadn’t anyone else to talk to, after all. She took a sip of her ale, eyeing him speculatively over the rim of her mug, then set it down and held out a hand for him to shake. “My name is Lully. I work in the kitchens at the castle, and no one ever pays any attention to me at all.”

  “You may call me Leden,” he said, shaking her hand. His grip was firm, his hand cool and hard. “I don’t work at the castle, and I prefer not to have too much attention drawn to me if I can help it, so we’re alike in some ways and completely different in others, as you can plainly see.”

  “Why don’t you like attention?” she wanted to know. “Are you a criminal?”

  He laughed.

  “In a way,” he said. “I have made the mistake of disagreeing with a popular opinion, and that has set me at odds with certain members of the populace, such as the castle guard.”

  “What popular opinion?” She had a feeling that she knew without his answer, though. “Is it about the queen?”

  He nodded at his mug. “Are you in league with them, then?”

  “No. Hardly. I was friends with one, but he’s — he’s gone now.”

  “Ah.” He looked over at her once more. In a shaft of light from the window, his eyes looked a clear grey-blue, though without the light they were muddy. “The Queen’s favorite guard, Karyl? Sadly cut down in the midst of the righteous rebellion?”

  “Something like that.”

  “A tragedy in the midst of a tragedy,” he said. “It’s difficult to remain loyal to a house when there is so much going wrong while they struggle to hold onto their power. It seems so — selfish.”

  Lully opened her mouth to object, then thought better of it. It wasn’t untrue, anyway; Irae was selfish. She had shown it over and over again, from her behavior as they traveled to ignoring Lully once she regained her throne. Really, it was refreshing to speak to someone who seemed to realize that Irae was making mistakes; it made for a nice change not to feel compelled to defend the queen constantly. Especially when so much of what was going wrong was her own fault.

  “I suppose that’s the popular opinion to which you objected,” she said. “You think that the December King should retake the throne he had taken wrongly in the first place. That perhaps he had the right idea.”

  “Perhaps he had the right idea, it is true,” said Leden, “but he certainly went about it the wrong way. Nothing good ever comes of a violent coup, and we were all quite fortunate that things didn’t get any worse than they were. No, I don’t believe he has any right to the throne, either; in the end, there has been a December King, and it’s time to move on to a new year.”

  “Irae’s councilman tells her that there are factions trying to regain the throne for Lev.” She snickered. “Not that that has even the slightest chance of happening.”

  “Oh, no?”

  “No. There’s a little problem with that, you see—” She broke off, and shook her head. “No, I’m not going to tell you. Let’s just leave it at that. Lev is gone, and he is not coming back.”

  “I see. Well, intriguing as it is to believe that I’m speaking to someone with inside knowledge, I’ll leave you to your secrecy. Suffice it to say that it is not just a question of a December King or no December King. The majority of the people are concerned with a larger issue than that.”

  “Her councilman wants her to take a hard line with the rebels and rioters.”

  “She listens to everything she’s told, doesn’t she?” he said, a little spitefully. “Not that that’s such a bad thing, in a regent — she needs all the help she can get, poor kid.”

  “She’s doing her best,” said Lully, lifting her chin.

  “I believe it,” said Leden. “Whether or not that is her right to do, is another issue.” He shook his head. “Just think of it. Look at everything that has gone wrong for her. Her father’s death, her uncle’s rebellion, her exile, and now the failing of the peace treaty with Elgodon. Could it be any clearer that she is not meant to rule?”

  Lully frowned at her mug. “It’s true that things haven’t exactly gone smoothly,” she said, “but I don’t think I’d see that as a sign that she should have the rule taken away from her.”

  “No, no, definitely not,” he said, shaking his head again, even more vehemently. “It isn’t a question of having it taken away from her. She would have to give it up of her own free will.”

  Lully snorted, and the ale bubbled up a little over the edges of the mug. “She will never do that.”

  Leden leaned back and looked at her for a long moment. “No? From what I understand of the queen’s character, she is very conscientious. Everything she does, she does from a true love of her country, of the people.”

  “Yes. That is true.”

  “And yet, she can’t see that her attempts to rule have brought nothing but havoc and pain, and there is nothing in front of us but more havoc and pain.” He turned his own mug from side to side, leaving a swath of dampness on the wooden top of the bar. “It’s a shame, what her uncle did, and I bear her no ill will for trying to get back what she lost. But the calendar is a tradition for a reason — it’s time for the crown to pass to the next great house. For the good of the country.”

  “I don’t see what that’s going to do for the situation with Elgodon,” Lully argued, and took a long drink from her mug. “The king has already as good as declared war.”

  Leden waved a hand. “Nonsense, that’s just rumors. He wants a peace treaty as much as we do, but our Queen Irae, bless her heart, has made him angry. He can’t back down to her now without putting his own position at risk. If she wants to preserve peace, she’ll step down in favor of the next house, and let us have a January King or Queen.”

  “Mm.” She leaned her elbows on the bar top and was thoughtful. “I wonder what he would be like, a January King. Do you suppose it will be someone young? Or should the calendar pass to someone with a bit more experience?”

  “Whoever it is, it will be a noble,” said Leden quite seriously. “Though many of the houses have been disturbed, somewhat, either by the Queen or by her uncle. So, it’s almost anyone’s game, really. But there are a few candidates whom I would readily stand behind, if the time comes.”

  She swilled the last little bit of ale around in her mug and smiled at it, then smiled at him.

  “I hope the time does come,” she says. “If it’s a question of right or wrong, then Irae can’t very well avoid it forever.”

  “Whatever she does,” said Leden, “the good of the people should be the chief concern. I hope that she can see that.”

  “As do I,” said Lully fervently. “If she’s going to worry about things like Forging and keeping some stranger who grew up in the woods happy rather than the needs of her people, it would be only right that she steps down before she causes any more damanage. Damn. Damage.” She eyed the ale. “This is stronger than I remember.”

  Leden took the mug from her, and directed a slow, thoughtful smile at her.

  “You should come with me,” he said.

  Lully blinked at him suspiciously. “Why?”

  “You said you were lonely, didn’t you?”

  She pointed a finger at him. “No. No, I definitely did not. I said I was alone.”

  “Well, either way. I have friends that you should meet.”

  She thought about it for a very brief moment, then pushed herself up and away from the counter.

  “All right,” she said. “I’m interested. Lead the way, mysterious young man with divisive political opinions.”

  She held her arm out for him to take, and he did.

  7

  The Change

  It was a simple, uncomplicated life.

  He woke with the dawn light, to the sounds of incautious birds, and arose from his boughery bed to stretch
, yawn, and apprise the coming day. The days were much the same, and there was not usually much to appraise. Sometimes he had company — Berren brought him food, and sat with him to eat, but for the most part he stayed at home with his sheep, which he apparently missed more than he had let on — but more often it was just he himself, Thorn, and the young tree by which he slept. When he laid himself down at night, he pressed his ear to the pack that he used as a pillow and listened to the heartbeat of the woods. When he awoke in the morning, he took in a deep breath of air that she shared and wondered if today would be the day.

  Thus far, three days had not been.

  The townspeople knew, now, who he was — or, at least, they suspected. They suspected, and that was quite enough. A few times a day, someone would pass through the woods along the pathway, which led through the clearing where Thorn sat. They never followed the path exactly, choosing instead to skirt the outer edge of the clearing. They never spoke to him, either, but he could feel their gaze, and felt as though he could hear their thoughts. It made him angry — their suspicion of him, after all these years, and their complete disregard for Elseth herself — but he tucked it away, kept it out of sight, and remembered what Berren had told him about anger.

  It helped to quell the anger, a little, that each day, a young girl came past him on her way to the next town over, with a basket over her arm. She must have been on her way to sell things at the market, or to make a delivery; the sight of her gave him a strong ache of sadness and nostalgia just below his rib cage. On the first day, she looked at him. On the second, she smiled. On the third, she advanced cautiously toward him and held out a roll of bread for him to take. He thanked her, and she didn’t turn and run, but went on her way with a high flush on her cheeks.

  On the fourth day, he woke to the sun.

  He lay on his back, and the rays reached his eyes, weak but definite. He opened his eyes, looking upwards, and frowned, a bit confused. Something was different, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Something had changed — his early-morning brain was sending him signals, but they were fuzzy and inconclusive, and he couldn’t read them.

  He turned onto his side, and he saw her.

  She lay on her back as well, and her eyes were closed. She wasn’t pale, as he remembered her being pale, but instead was nut-brown, browned from the sun. Her hair was reddish-golden and had grown wild and tangled; it covered her nearly from head to toe like a shroud. Her features were still small and delicate, and her chest rose and fell with the shallow regularity that he remembered from the night he took her from her bed and brought her here.

  He lay there and wondered at the sharpness and clarity of this dream, this memory, until the shafts of sunlight strengthened, and the truth dawned on him —

  This was not a memory, or a dream.

  The heartbeat of the clearing and the woods was drowned out by the heartbeat of the girl.

  The tree was gone, and she was here.

  Thorn pushed up from his position on the ground, as silently as he could, and moved to her. He held his breath. She didn’t move as he approached, and even as he got down to his knees beside her. It was only as he reached out a trembling, tentative hand, only as he touched his fingertips gently to the underside of her jaw, that she moved at all; and it was a small movement, a miniscule turn of the head, towards him, and then she opened her eyes.

  The shock of them jolted him all the way down to the bottom of his feet.

  Her eyes were blank, and they looked at him without recognition; not just without recognition of who he was, but what he was; that there was any connection between herself and the creature before her seemed impossible. He could not even see himself reflected in her eyes. Her mouth opened a little and the tiniest of cries emerged, and it was only then that he became aware of the convulsive movements of her fingers and her toes, bare, curling into the dirt, searching for the roots that told her where and when and what she was.

  She felt the same in his arms as she had before; the memory surged and coiled around him as he took her back to the village. But she was fighting him, now, not with any real strength but with small, anguished movements that were somehow worse. He found himself at Berren’s door without knowing that was where he had been headed; the sheep farmer opened his door to him and seemed to know at once what had happened.

  “Put her here, on my cot,” he directed, and Thorn did as he was bid because to do anything without being told was impossible, as impossible as the connection between what he was and what Elseth was. Though this was not Elseth — or rather, it was Elseth, and he knew it was Elseth. But Elseth didn’t know it was Elseth. On the cot, she went quite still, her eyes still wide and blank, only a finger questing now and then against the rough wool of the blanket.

  Berren hobbled over to her and put a hand on her forehead. He turned to look at Thorn, with clear sympathy, which was when Thorn realized that he was crying, and probably had been since Elseth had awoken. He wiped at his eyes quickly.

  “What’s wrong with her?” said Berren. “Is she still sick? Is it what was wrong when you Forged her or is this something different?”

  Thorn began to pace, tugging at his hair. “It’s something different. I don’t know what this is. No one could know what this is. She’s awake, but she isn’t — she doesn’t know who she is. She doesn’t know what she is. Her body has changed but her mind, her mind is still—” He reached out with his shaking hands, trying to grasp what it was that was going on, but it eluded him.

  “Her mind is still rooted in the clearing,” said Berren.

  Thorn pushed against his forehead with the palm of his hand.

  “How do we get it out?”

  Berren only shook his head, and Thorn looked away. There were tears running down his face again; angrily, he wiped them away.

  “You know better than I do that this is new territory for all of us,” said Berren, soothingly. “She’s only just changed back. It could take a long time for her body and her mind to acclimate —”

  “Or it could simply never happen at all,” said Thorn wretchedly. He stole little glances at the still, silent features of the girl he had once known — or, at least, at what should have been her. Her eyes did not track him as he paced, but once in a while when he looked at her he saw that she was looking back at him, still blank and empty and unreal. “I wish Ruben was here, with his books on the Forged. Maybe he would know something.”

  Berren sighed but did not seem to take offense even at the reference to his rival. “If it would make a difference, then I wish he was here too. But I don’t think it would. There’s been no one Forging in Ainsea for decades. No one that is known, at any rate. How could we possibly hope to find out how this works without going through it first hand?”

  Thorn bumped up against the wall and pounded on it with his fist.

  “Have I doomed her even further?” he whispered. “Is this another part of the curse of the Forged?”

  Berren eyed him seriously.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t think anyone can know. No one can answer that question for you, not now. But that isn’t the point. The point is this poor girl — not your feelings. So, set them aside for the moment, and let’s look at what we do know.” He touched a careful finger to the inside of Elseth’s wrist and felt her pulse. “She’s strong and she’s alive — she would have died if you hadn’t Forged her, isn’t that right?”

  Thorn nodded miserably.

  “Well, then, that’s a start. She’s alive now, and she wouldn’t be if not for you. So, stop feeling sorry for yourself and focus! Heartbeat is strong.” He leaned over and looked directly into her eyes, and she stared back at him, then blinked. “Reactions seem to be normal, more or less. She isn’t frozen. She just — doesn’t know that she isn’t a tree anymore, yet.” He pulled a little wooden three-legged stool over and sat on it, leaning over Elseth. He put a hand to his chin and stroked his beard thoughtfully. “It most definitely could take some time.”
/>   “How much time?”

  “Well, she’s been Forged for seven years.”

  “Seven years!” repeated Thorn. “She can’t just stay like this for seven years.”

  “Perhaps she won’t have to,” Berren said, clearly doing his best to reassure him. “Her body is healthy and strong. She just seems to be under some illusion in her mind. Perhaps something will trigger her to come back to herself.”

  “Something,” repeated Thorn. “Something, or someone.”

  Berren turned and looked at him sharply.

  “What?” he said. “What are you thinking?”

  “I — nothing. I’ve just had a horrible thought.”

  The sheep farmer frowned. “Well, stop it. Don’t have horrible thoughts. We have enough going on without that.”

  “But I just — I’m afraid that I know how I can save her.”

  Berren got to his feet, slowly and awkwardly, wincing at the pain he still felt from the arrow wound. “What do you mean you’re afraid that you know?”

  Thorn said, more to himself than to anyone, “I’m going to have to take a trip.”

  There were riots in those days, for the most part quiet and nonviolent, but definitely protesting the way things were going. Fearmongers held court on the street corners; whispers became rumors which became predictions of certainties, and everyone in Balfour knew that the king of Elgodon, Lehan, with the Lady Vieve at his side, would be bursting into Ainsea at any moment to take the throne back for the exiled December King. Whether he would come by sea or by land was a matter of some debate; whether it was a good thing, or a bad thing depended entirely on who you were talking to at any given moment, and how willing they were to start a fight.

  “This is exactly what I did not want for my people,” said Queen Irae, rubbing her forehead.

  “I’m afraid it is only to be expected,” said Sir Merundi. He looked tired — more so than