“Careful,” Orrin warns her, but she’s already pulling Ruti forward with all her might. She is strong, muscles built from years of stick fighting, and she is able to yank Ruti from the quicksand with a single protracted pull. Ruti tumbles into her, free of the mud, and the force of it is enough to knock the Heir off her feet.
They roll down the rocky slope together, bruised as they bounce toward the river, and Ruti has the presence of mind to press her hands to the back of the Heir’s head, protecting her from the rocks. The Heir follows suit, the two of them entwined as they tumble to the river, banging down into the shallow water after a few moments.
Ruti, stretched out in the river and coated in mud and bruises, can only laugh helplessly, the fear gone and the adrenaline that remains almost like hysteria. The Heir stares down at her, her lovely face streaked with mud and her travel clothes caked in it, and Ruti laughs some more, high and endless and so utterly overwhelmed at it all.
The laughter only fades as Ruti takes in their position at last. The Heir is atop her, her hands still cradling Ruti’s head, her legs tangled with Ruti’s in the river. There is a breathless fear still in the Heir’s eyes, and her body is pressed to Ruti’s, and Ruti freezes, the mood shifting to something very solemn. “You saved me,” she whispers, and there is no more hysterical laughter in her voice.
The Heir blinks down at Ruti, her eyes glazed over, and murmurs, “Well, I couldn’t lose my witch now, could I?” Her hands move, letting Ruti’s hair fan out in the shallow water, and she presses a hand to Ruti’s cheek with the same tenderness that Ruti has seen Orrin granted. Her head dips down and Ruti stops moving, her skin burning with desire that she can’t, she can’t—
Orrin says from above them, his voice strained, “Dekala.”
The Heir jolts, rolling off of Ruti and landing in the water. There is still mud on her knees from where she’d crouched and pulled Ruti from the quicksand. Ruti notices it with a dazed sort of wanting, sees the water washing it away. “Come,” Orrin says. “I saw—just over the edge of the mountain—”
Ruti rises to her feet, her thighs and arms trembling as Kimya signs enthusiastic motions that Ruti only halfway comprehends. Orrin leads them all past the quicksand to the dip that their donkeys had been climbing before their distraction, and Ruti gasps at what stands below them.
It is a lush forest, the mountains descending to closely packed trees of green and tan. Grasslands stretch past the forest into the distant horizon. The land is different here, the sun shining down on low grass dotted with clusters of gentle, hooved animals grazing ahead, and the tall mountains of Zidesh are no more.
They’ve reached Rurana.
They clean their clothes in the river before it winds away toward the sea. Ruti is in a fresh set of tunic and pants, and the Heir wears a deep purple set that fits her perfectly. “We can’t follow the river much longer,” Orrin warns them. “The sea this far south is infested with Diri.”
“Diri?” Ruti asks.
“Pirates.” The Heir straightens, draping her wet clothes against a tree branch to dry. The sun is stronger here, near the bottom of the mountains and the green forests ahead, and the clothes are hardly dripping.
“There are more cities near the sea, anyway,” Orrin says, gesturing toward the distance. “The woods are safer for us. We can’t be seen.”
Ruti shields her eyes to peer at the sun flickering through the greenery ahead of them. Now that they’re at the foot of the mountains, she can see the thick forest that stretches between them and the grasslands. It looks safe and cool, the air temperate and the underbrush packed with a riot of colorful flowers and berries beneath long-branched, sweet-smelling trees that shield the land from the sun.
The animals they find are easily startled by visitors. They’re smaller than the creatures in the wet forests or the grasslands, chittering long-armed monkeys hanging by their tails and spiders as large as Ruti’s hands, and Orrin even fells a few fat, short-winged birds for them to eat when night falls.
“The grasslands will be more trying,” the Heir observes. “If only because we’ll be more easily seen. Orrin can fight off any predators that attack us in the woods.” Orrin had frightened off a single Spotted One the day before with a lightning bolt that had crashed right in front of it. Today he fries several Fanged Ones as they make their way through the forest, and Ruti can feel the spirits’ displeasure in the air. “It’s Ruranans I’m worried about.”
“Do you think your uncle has given up?” Ruti wonders. “Or is he still searching for you?”
“He will have sent messengers to all the major cities, I’m sure.” The Heir looks pensive. “And perhaps claimed that he is awaiting a ransom. But he must know by now that I left of my own free will. My attendants will have confirmed it when they recall how we left my chambers fully dressed for travel. He will never admit it to the people and suffer that humiliation, though.”
“So he’s waiting for you to come back.”
The Heir scoffs. “Waiting to hear of my death, no doubt.” She unrolls her bedroll, just a thick rectangle of cowskin, onto flat dirt with a coating of moss over it. “It’s getting dark. Kimya is already drifting off.” She nods to the area near the fire where Kimya’s eyes are half-closed, her mouth still chewing mechanically. It’s been rare that they’ve had food they don’t have to ration out, even burnt food struck by lightning. “We should sleep here for as long as we can,” she says, her voice drowsy as dusk glows dim around them, shining through the leaves of the large tree that surrounds them. “It won’t take more than a day to cross this forest.”
The Heir’s eyes close and Ruti glances across the fire at Orrin, who looks just as exhausted. These days spent riding are taking their toll on them all. Ruti’s legs are stronger than they’ve ever been, but they ache still when she’s off her donkey, and she’s eating less now than she did at the palace.
Still, if Orrin is tired enough that he won’t be able to stand watch at the first shift, she has to stay awake. She struggles to sit up, humming a little plea to the spirits for energy that helps marginally. For a few extra minutes, she fights off her tiredness. It’s long enough to lean back against a tree trunk, yawning, and watch the others toss and turn in their sleep.
The Heir lets out a little noise and Ruti looks blearily over at her, incapable of fighting an odd surge of fondness that has begun to make itself known each time the Heir does something even a tiny bit less than obnoxious. Her heartbeat quickens at the sight of the Heir, and she refuses to think about what the warmth she feels might mean. The Heir is.…
The Heir is in love with Orrin. The Heir is willing to fight destiny itself to keep Orrin, and Ruti is here to facilitate that. Maybe she’s attracted to the Heir, just a little bit. There have been other girls before, Markless drifting past her shop with an aimless desire for companionship. But always brief, always gone soon after. Not like the Heir, who has dominated so much of Ruti’s life for weeks now.
It’s nonsense to think about, and Ruti brushes it aside, ignoring the pang of her heart as she dismisses it. The fire has all but gone out, and Ruti must build it again without Orrin’s lightning. She leans forward, brushing at the flame with a branch, her other hand supporting her as it lies flat against the ground.
The fire extinguishes entirely, and Ruti lets out a frustrated noise. She’ll have to wake up Orrin. It’s cold in the woods without the fire, dark beneath the stars, and the moon is behind a cloud. She can’t quite make out the lump across the clearing that is Orrin, passed out sitting up, and she tries to lift her hand to pick herself up.
Her hand doesn’t lift. In fact, there’s an odd pressure on it, something she’s never felt before. The moon emerges from the clouds to light up the night, and Ruti screams.
A tree is growing through her hand.
A tree, fully grown, directly impaling her palm where there is no mark, stretching high above her as though it’s always been there. No, she realizes in quiet horror. It’s the same large tree that they settled beneath in the first place, but its branches droop now, digging into the ground as though they’re taking root.
Another branch has landed directly on Kimya’s neck, thin, spidery roots spreading around her as they burrow into the ground. The Heir is crawling with roots, creeping down her body to lock her within them, and Ruti screams again.
She can see Orrin now, also covered in the roots that sprout from the branches, and the grass seems higher now, thicker and stronger. “Wake up!” Ruti shouts. “Wake up!”
The Heir is the first to wake, and she struggles against her bonds as her mouth opens wide in horror. Behind her, Ruti sees that the donkeys are unharmed, peacefully grazing on the newly grown grass. “Kimya!” Ruti cries out, and Kimya gnashes her teeth and windmills her arms as she sees the roots holding her down.
Something brushes Ruti’s shoulder. Another branch, waving in the sudden wind, and Ruti flinches as roots slither from it to slide down her arm. Desperately, she draws her breath to sing.
The trees seem to sway with her song. She’s dizzy, and she doesn’t know if she’s dreaming or not, but the Heir is yanking helplessly at strong roots and Orrin is howling and Ruti can’t feel the spirits at all.
Instead, she feels the trees. They’re alive, alive in a way that plants have never felt before. They rustle around her, her song echoed and reflected by them, and she’s surprised when a deep, husky voice begins to sing with her. The Heir, her eyes glazed as the trees conduct their music.
A crackle of lightning. Orrin has hit the tree directly at its center, and the branches rot and fade, the roots no longer binding them. But suddenly it doesn’t seem to matter very much at all, and Orrin’s voice joins theirs, his lightning fizzling.
Ruti has always been the singer of her chants, the one controlling what she’s singing and why. Even in the exhilarating moment when she’d sung the Heir’s dance, she’d still felt the thread of the song in her will, in her choice to follow the Heir’s dancing. Here, there is no choice. Their lips are parted, sounds vibrating from their vocal cords in perfect harmony. They rise together, Ruti’s motions jerky as she follows the movements of the trees.
She stumbles forward, moves with the trees and pitches her voice low with them, and Orrin and the Heir gather beside her. Ruti sees terror on the Heir’s face, and she knows her own face must look frightened, too. But neither of them can stop singing. The wind rushes in time with them, vibrates with the trees, and the woods echo a mournful, intoxicating melody with them.
