Page 112 of Into the Heartless Wood
We run through sword drills, then practice with our muskets, loading and tamping and firing at targets halfway across the field. I’m getting to be a pretty fair shot. Baines is all right, too, but Rheinallt might be the best marksman in the army.
Luned, the young female guard who runs most of our drills, is certainly impressed with him. And I think it’s mutual—Rheinallt can hardly keep his eyes off her. She’s quick, strong, smart. I suppose she’s pretty, too, her shorn hair whipping about her ears in the wind—I can understand why Rheinallt might admire her. But for whatever reason, Luned holds no charm for me.
In the afternoon, we do a new sort of drill—one with swords and unlit torches. It’s unusual and annoying, and I don’t see the point of it. Luned makes us do it again and again, two lines of soldiers facing off against each other with swords in our dominant hands, whilst wielding the unlit torches against rows of flour sack dummies in the other. After a few hours of this, I’m sweaty and sore and cross. Luned gives the order for the torches to be lit, and makes us run through the drill one last time.
The dummies flare up the instant heat touches them, and suddenly I’m choking and blinded as I fight, pushing through the line, panic clawing up my throat. Rheinallt is my last opponent, his pale form wreathed in smoke. We collapse in the dirt when he’s bested me. Luned shouts at us to get up and help put out the fire.
When at last we’re dismissed for the day, Rheinallt and Baines and I drag ourselves to the bathhouse, where we have a luxurious soak in heated water. Scented steam curls up to the peak of the roof. My aching body relaxes as the tension melts from my muscles.
“Drills are getting stranger,” says Baines, leaning his bulking form back against the tiled edge of the bath. “And weirdly specific.”
Rheinallt shuts his eyes. His pale hair floats around him in the water.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“The king is preparing for something,” says Rheinallt, eyes still closed. “Preparing his army for something.”
I stir the water with one finger, watching it ripple out. “War against Gwaed?”
Rheinallt shakes his head. “Gwaed isn’t a threat.”
“What then?”
“Why do you think we’re practicing with fire?” says Baines.
In that moment, I know. “He means to face the wood. He means to weaponize his army and—”
“And burn the wood to the ground,” Baines finishes.
Rheinallt nods in agreement. “It’s the only thing that makes any sense. He’s been recruiting more and more soldiers. And the training is, as Baines said—”
“Weirdly specific,” I repeat. “But the kingcan’tface the wood. No one can. The last time he tried fire—”
“We all know Tarian’s history,” says Rheinallt, referring to the village the Gwydden slaughtered in retaliation for the king scorching her trees. “He must have a plan.”
I think of the potted trees inside the palace, the patterns of leaves and stars on the gates. “Maybe he just wants to be ready. In case the wood grows all the way to Breindal City. So he can defend against her.” Whatever my grievance with the king, I’d rather be on his side than the Gwydden’s. At least he hasn’t tried to murder me.
“Maybe,” says Baines doubtfully. “But it feels like more than that. It feelsbigger.”
I think of my father, locked in a cell somewhere down in the prison. Of the meteor shower and the impossibly altered sky.
I never want to see the wood again. But if it’s coming here—
If it’s coming here, I won’t be able to escape it.
Chapter Forty-Two
SEREN
IAM UNEASY IN THESOULEATER’S PALACE. IHAVE BEEN HERE SOMEweeks now, and he has yet to discover my presence, but I can feel him. His fading soul, his brittle power.
What would he do, if he found me here? If he discovered what I am?
I am not sure. But every time I pass the rows of potted birch trees, I fear to be frozen there with them: my feet caught in soil, bound in clay. My body stiff. My heart still.
I try not to look at them.
My human body grows strong, day by day. I am busy from morning till night. I ache when I sleep in my narrow bed in the servants’ dormitory. I dream of my mother, breaking me into pieces and throwing me on the fire. I dream of the Soul Eater, binding me with iron. I dream of Owen, plunging a knife into my heart.
