King of the Woodlands

Chapter 14

So many books bound in leathers of every color, of every shade, were encased in those grey stone shelves, each one containing precious knowledge.

The fresco ceiling was beautifully painted, depicting strawberry flower faeries in their candy-red clothing, timidly clutching onto plant stems; goblins in their raggedy tunics grinning their gap-toothed grins, humans with their swords, and elves with their delicately arched ears and bows.

As long as she had the moon and flowers and books, Lilibeth felt happy, felt like she could sustain that happiness forever and ever. Books held the strings to her world, and without them she was very much nothing at all.

Thick torches lined the stone walls, spitting seeds of orange fire onto the stone floor, which was carpeted with chenille rugs patterned with roses and whorls of leaves. Lilibeth lifted her skirts and danced around and around, holding her breath in a bubble inside her mouth until her face turned a fine shade of tomato.

She at last turned to the Woodland King, breathing hard with giddy excitement. "Aren't you going to come in?"

"It's all yours" was all he said. He didn't even inch forward.

"Right," Lilibeth said. She remembered that he didn't like light. How many things did he dislike?

She strolled past the shelves engraved with pears and pink magnolias and instantly missed home. Yes, she'd given up her freedom for Father, but it hadn't realized how badly she'd miss her ordinary, poor village. And Aheiran, her smart-mouthed, talking horse.

Oh, if she were home right now, she could make milled soap with goat's milk or pour candles with crabapples and mulberries that made the world smell of autumn harvests. There were so many things she wanted to do that she couldn't do now.

What were the village girls thinking now that she was gone? What were Thronel and Estha thinking? They were probably stretching their legs, smiling as they imagined her in the Woodland King's belly. Part of her felt smug. Now that she was gone, they'd realize how interesting (and funny and clever and genuine) she'd been, and they'd want her back. But another part of her felt a sick wave of shame. Father would miss her terribly, she knew, and her absence would only distress him.

Better me than Father, she thought as she picked out a book bound in pumpkin leather. Better me than Father. She turned the book over in her hands. It was a book written by a Black Islands scholar: The Manufacture of Wool by Clarence Browning. How boring! She put it back where she found it.

Lilibeth then found a terra-cotta colored book about the Scorpion King, the first ruler of Mourrad. It was mildly interesting, but the fancy phrases were much too flowery, even for her, and she was a girl who loved drama and exaggerating things to make them seem as grand as possible.

She rolled her eyes up to the ceiling, and it was then that she realized the elaborately painted fresco weren't just pretty pictures of faeries clinging onto strawberry flowers or elves aiming their arrows at goblins. It was a mural, a story.

The story of their world—and how it was made.

It all started in the Otherworld, when the draught of life spilled from the Goblet of Gods. A black cup lined with jewels had toppled over, and liquid gold poured out of it, dumped into some endless void to form the world.

Lilibeth's eyes followed the trail of bright gold to a parchment map that spanned not just Llewellenar, but everywhere, the entire world. Like I mentioned earlier, young Lilibeth thought cartography was boring, but when a map has enough color, it can hold her attention.

Her eyes traveled north to the fjords and tundras of Ölgseir, the kingdom that was home to Galdrar, the City of Spells. The Ölgseir people were the most skilled mages in the world. It was marked by white ash trees and mighty ships with serpent-shaped bowsprits.

Llewellenar to the south was marked by shy spring lambs, faeries clinging to bluebells and sunflowers, and elves with their breathtaking beauty and pointed ears. Humans, she noticed pointedly, were nowhere on that map.

Lilibeth's eyes swept to the east, where Mourrad lay, an empire of trade and peace, marked by date palms, genies, and manticores. The Shur Oasis, the place famous for the yearly gypsy circus, was marked by two bronze-skinned girls in scant mint silks, bangles adorning their wrists. Their ebony hair was styled in the Mourradan fashion, swept back by combs that looked like gold leaves.

Nuan lay next to it, a peninsula of sweeping green valleys and flat-topped mountains of russet stone marked by lotus flowers and crossed swords. And below it, the land down under, were the Black Islands, an inky smudge marked by pirate ships, barrels of rum, and a beautiful pirate girl in a frock cobalt overcoat.

But it wasn't just any girl. The Black Islands had once been ruled by pirates until a revolution had started, sending the pirates into exile. But this pirate, at only nineteen years old, had carved her mark as the most notorious, dangerous pirate in the Shivering Seas. She was still alive, and she still fought for the pirate throne to be reclaimed.

The girl's ebony hair was coiled in a crown of braids, her tan skin laced with scars. Her long-lashed azure eyes were flecked with gold, and she held two scimitars. She was Omylia Saerieth, a girl pirate who wanted to be a girl queen.

Lilibeth wanted to be like Omylia—mighty, fearless, charming. Beauty and danger: few could surpass the pirate in either. Lilibeth longed to be like that someday, a strong girl who was beholden to no man.

"Do you like it?" The Woodland King's voice drew her out of her thoughts.

"It's wonderful," Lilibeth gushed. And it was, oh, it really was. So many books in one place—it was like sitting at the boardwalk in the summer, eating vanilla ice cream with salted caramel. Her heart twinged.

As if he sensed her sadness, he said, "I can help you write to him."

Lilibeth wanted to fall to her knees and cry, but her pride kept her standing. Half of her wanted to accept his offer, but the other half wanted to scream at him until her throat hurt.

She told herself that it didn't matter how broken he was. He was a monster, and she couldn't show him the wounded parts of her. She couldn't show anybody. Her pride wouldn't let her.

"No, thank you," she said, her chin high.

"You miss them," the Woodland King said. Skies and gods, was she that readable? Probably.

"What business is that of yours?"

He shrugged—a too-casual gesture.

"Why don't you just take me home, then?" she said. Home—she could go home, back to Father and her milled soaps and hand poured candles. She could tend to her lavender and verbena and see her first carrots grow.

"I can't." His eyes were guarded, his voice even. He knew something that she didn't—and she wanted to know.

"Why?" Lilibeth demanded.

"What business is that of yours?"

"It's my business because it refers to me."

The smile he gave her was unearthly. "I think I like you, Lilibeth Faren."