Page 47 of Prisoner of Darkness and Dreams
The Miravow.
As we get closer, I’m able to make out more of the details. The trees are the tallest I’ve ever seen, sturdy giants with thick branches that weave in and out of each other, knitting many of the trees together entirely. The Miravow forms the de facto border of the Agathyrian nation, and when I see how thick the forest is, it seems silly to think the dryads need treaties and agreements to keep their neighbors out. One look at that dense, dark woodland should be enough to tell any traveler not to even bother.
“Gloomy looking, isn’t it?” Mal says when we stop for water.
“I think it looks peaceful,” Phaia says, but the half-dryad doesn’t seem to hear her. His green-tinged face stays turned toward the trees, his expression conflicted. He was initially indifferent when Harman first suggested he accompany us to Agathyre—not just for his healing ability but as an advocate for us with the dryads. However, he’s more and more uncomfortable with the idea the closer we’ve gotten. My guess is he feels out of place here, despite his heritage. Or maybe because of it.
In contrast, Dots only gets more excited as we approach. He keeps bounding ahead, only to look back at us impatiently, making loud chitters. This is where he belongs. The Miravow is Dots’s home. Filusian hunters snagged him when he strayed beyond the forest’s protective cover, but now I can give him the chance to return to his true place if he wants to. I’ll miss him, but I know it’s what’s right.
“We need to bear further west,” Leon says, having checked our coordinates. “A few more hours in that direction and we should reach the meeting point.”
My gut tightens, but I nod.
“It’ll be alright,” he says more quietly to me, sensing my mood without me saying a word. “We’re going to fix this.” He runs a hand along my arm. I lean into his touch and focus on the sound of his heartbeat, which still thrums in my ears when I concentrate on it.
Over the next few hours, my stomach twists into tighter and tighter knots until we spot a figure coming out of the trees toward us. She raises a handin cautious greeting, and Leon nudges his horse to speed up to meet her. The rest of us follow, and soon I’m dismounting and standing in front of a woman I banished from my sight just months ago.
“Hello, Etusca.”
The difference in her appearance is remarkable. I’d gotten so used to the drained, fading version of her after spending years away from her home country. Now she’s in full bloom again, her hair and skin a healthy emerald tone. But her expression is anxious.
“Hello, Morgana,” she replies, twisting her hands in front of her. I get the feeling she wants to hug me. I’m glad she holds back, even if the distance between us makes my chest ache. I’m not ready for that yet.
“Thank you for coming,” I say, hating the formality in my voice but not knowing what else to say.
Visitors to Agathyre are rare, but messages are common enough. That was how I got in touch with the nursemaid I thought I’d never see again. We parted on bad terms after I confronted her over all the lies she told me growing up, not to mention the potion she tricked me into drinking that kept my powers hidden for all those years. But she owes me, and I was pretty sure that if I asked her to come—suggested she had some chance to redeem herself to me—she’d respond, which she did, and would welcome us inside…which it appears she is.
So my years of childhood trauma had some benefit after all. Fantastic.
She fixes me with a sad look. “I’ll always be here when you need help, Morgana,” she says.
A lump rises in my throat, and I look away. I don’t want this. I’m dealing with enough already without piling on these painful emotions too. But we need someone to guide us through the Miravow and to connect us with the right people.
The others greet Etusca, though it’s an awkward reunion. The last time we all met up together, Etusca had gone behind my back to help the fae trap me. Tira in particular gives the dryad a chilly hello, ever loyal to me. When Mal reaches the front of the group to shake Etusca’s hand, she draws back a bit. Her eyebrows rise as she looks to me.
“Why have you brought him here?”
With my patience already paper thin, my reply is brusque.
“Mal is a valued ally, and unlike a lot of people in my past, I trust him. Why wouldn’t he be here?”
Etusca flinches at my veiled jab but doesn’t stop staring at Mal, taking in the sword and dagger strapped to either side of his belt.
“We’ll have to meet with the Agathyrian high council when we reach Starfall,” she says. “They’re the folk most likely to be able to help you. But we must pass through the Miravow first, and the journey won’t be easy. Having a…well, someone likehimwith us, won’t help.” She nods toward Mal, and my anger rises. I’m about to defend the rebel, but he gets there first.
“Is this some Agathyrian superstition or just plain old prejudice?” he says coldly.
“Neither,” Etusca replies, and she sounds unhappy rather than angry. “The forest is sensitive to outsiders at the best of times, particularly ones who are armed.”
“We’re all armed,” Leon points out. “Why would Mal be more of a problem than the rest of us?”
“The rest of you aren’t dryads. We’re supposed to maintain the harmony of the Miravow.”
“Let’s get one thing straight,” Mal says, his voice low with resentment. “There is nowe. An accident of birth means I have some dryad blood running in my veins, but that doesn’t define me. I didn’t take any oath, I don’t even properly speak the language, and I certainly don’t have any mystical connection with a bunch of old trees, alright?”
Etusca shrugs, but there’s a defiance in her eyes too. It surprises me after so many years seeing her disconnected from the world. Being back in Agathyre has returned some of the fight to her.
“Denii es bances plesa, quo Miravow respe wei.”
