King of the Woodlands

Chapter 7

"Act natural!" Lilibeth said.

"I'm a talking horse," Aheiran shot back. "I can't act natural."

"Well, the townspeople are going to give us looks. A twelve-year-old girl riding a horse by herself is going to seem strange enough."

The emerging market town was sleepy, not quite awake yet in the haze of early morning. The grasses sparkled with morning dew, the stone cottages wreathed in moss. Vendors were readying their carts, selling livestock, produce, and spices. In the distance, Lilibeth could see the white-frosted peaks of the Eoghan Mountains. She never wanted to go back there again.

Lilibeth sighed. "Just try to look friendly."

"Do I not look friendly?"

"You look grumpy."

"How grumpy?" He snorted, tossing his mane.

"Like someone took an apple from you."

"Then very grumpy."

Indeed, dear reader, you don't want to be on Aheiran's bad side when someone takes his apple.

"Just be nice." They passed by a man sitting atop a creaky wheelbarrow, arguing about the price of a bundle of pale blue grapes with a woman wearing a beige kirtle and bleached linen sleeves. They exchanged baffled looks, their argument forgotten, as Lilibeth passed by on her horse.

"I'll try," Aheiran said, although he didn't seem happy about it.

They approached an old man in a baggy shirt with sleeves rolled up to the elbow. His drab olive trousers were stained with flour, and he carried a basket of bread rolls. He looked up at Aheiran and Lilibeth with suspicious eyes.

"How do you do?" Aheiran boomed in a cheery voice.

The baffled man raised an eyebrow, as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing. A little girl riding a talking horse. Not a pretty porcelain doll adorned in lace, her lashes thick as a doe's, cheeks pink like apple blossoms. But a girl on horseback dressed in a peasant boy's garb.

"He had a nap today, so he's extra happy," Lilibeth explained. "How much for a roll, good sir?"

"F-four coppers." The man couldn't take his coffee-colored eyes off Aheiran, whose face was twisted into a poor yet terrifying attempt at a smile.

She purchased a roll. It was delightfully warm and soft, the edges golden from the coal ovens. The insides dripped butter and melted in her mouth when she ate.

"You didn't get one for me?" Aheiran said, his grumpiness returning. He was foul-tempered, like the Naughty Changeling who stole presents from good children during winter.

"Yeah, because it totally won't look suspicious when the townspeople see a horse chewing on a bread bun with his mouth open."

"I do not eat with my mouth open."

The cobblestone street sloped down, revealing more stone cottages. This village had been built atop the rolling, bright hills, overlooking an inky smudge in the distance surrounded by dark clouds of smoke. Lilibeth felt her stomach sink like a stone.

They were getting closer. Lilibeth wondered what manner of dragon the Woodland King was. A dragon that breathed fire? One with scales blacker than the darkest nights? Deep sorrow snuck through the cracks in her heart, catching her by surprise. She'd trained herself to not feel anything, to pretend that she didn't give a flying fox about anything. But she did care, maybe too much. Was it a blessing or a curse to feel everything so deeply? She sighed, trying to push away that heavy feeling that had collected like dust in her chest. There was still a long journey ahead, and she had to hold herself together.

That night, they made camp in an abandoned barn. Lilibeth tossed Aheiran an apple and rummaged inside her satchel for a milk scone stuffed with clotted cream. She brushed away a few clumps of hay on the ground before curling up, once again thinking about Father.

Lilibeth tried to cling onto her wild, reckless hope, the belief that no matter what happened, she'd somehow win. She'd bring Father home. She'd become queen, and she'd take Father somewhere pretty, give him all the money she could. They could go to Mourrad and watch the circus at the Shur Oasis. They'd eat all the candied apples and kettle corn they wanted. Or maybe they could go to the Black Islands and see pirates. They could go anywhere, everywhere.

"Aheiran," she said, blinking sleepily. "You should get some rest. I don't want you to be grumpy again."

He shook his head. A few slivers of silver light snuck through the cracks in the roof. Even at night, the barn smelled like sunlight and apple trees. Lilibeth wondered if its owner had been taken by the Woodland King too during the last tithe nearly a century ago.

"Someone has to keep watch," Aheiran said.

"No one's going to rob an abandoned barn," Lilibeth said, shifting on the ground.

"But I still don't want anyone to hurt you."

Lilibeth blinked. Aheiran was stubborn, you see, and had never been cooperative with her. He hadn't shown any sign of care for her. "Of...of course," she said, wrapping her black cherry colored cloak tighter around her. "Aheiran?"

The horse turned. She could see the moon reflected in his oil-black eyes, like scythes of silver. "If we don't make it through this, I want you to know . . . " That even though he was stubborn and difficult and fussy, he'd been there through it all. That when Llewellenar had taken all the spunk from Lilibeth's heart, he always found a way to bring it back. "Thank you. For being my friend."

He snorted, tossing back his charcoal mane. "No need to be so dramatic. You're a terrible actress, by the way."

"Thanks," Lilibeth said sourly. "But I'm serious."

When his eyes locked with hers, she saw fire, true fire, in that black gaze.

"We'll make it," he said. "We always do. We'll never stop fighting."

It was true. She was a strange girl, and he was a strange horse, bound in a way no one else was. They were contrary, sour, unusual, but in a way it made them alike. There was no one else like them. There never would be.

Lilibeth fell asleep thinking about Father, wishing that she could make things right. But the only way to fix herself and find peace was to save him. And to do that, she'd walked through a mountain of fat, smelly dwarves and a meadow of curious flower faeries (although the latter was a much more pleasant experience).

How far would she go to save Father? You can name your price, dear reader, and she'd pay it, just so her father could live.

Lilibeth knew she had to be strong. She had to be strong enough to fight for Father. He needed her to stay alive, to keep fighting, eyes bright and blazing. Her love for him gave her bravery. It made her a hero.

Without rain there can never be flowers.

Lilibeth let the memories wash over her. She could remember Father's cheerful voice, the folk songs he taught her, the kindness in his eyes. Somehow, those memories of him didn't make her sad. They made her strong.

Lilibeth Faren had to be ready for battle.