Page 64 of Prisoner of Darkness and Dreams
“And what would you want from us, if not neutrality, Your Highness?” the woman with dreadlocks asks.
“Only information. I believe I know something about Caledon’s plans, and I would like your insight on whether such a thing is possible.”
There’s relief on many of their faces, and my hope climbs another step higher.
“Then I think we should retire to discuss these requests and vote on them,” Diomi says, standing.
I rise quickly too, surprised. I’d naively thought they might just agree right now. But apparently, that’s not how it’s done.
“Of course, thank you,” I say. One of the council members shows us down a long corridor, and then another, until we reach a small seating area at the center of yet more hallways. Clearly, the council doesn’t want to risk us overhearing whatever is said in their meeting.
Leon sits down as soon as we’re left alone, but I’m too alert to stop moving. I think about the way Leon tried to flatten the dryads with sheer force, just like he does with everything. And I recall their indifferent expressions when I brought up Caledon. I feel a flare of irritation at the whole situation, including Leon’s tactics.
“Is everything okay?” he asks, picking up on my mood. He gets better at reading me every day.
“You pushed too hard in there,” I say. “These people…we need to be more cautious in how we approach negotiations with them.”
Leon laughs. “You sound like Fairon,” he says. He doesn’t explain himself, so I say nothing. Instead, I walk circles around him, counting the corridors to soothe my mind. There’s eight of them, and only when I’ve paced the perimeter of the space a third time do I realize the significance of the number.
“It’s a star,” I say, tracing my finger down the corridors, north to south. “They’re arranged in a star shape. We’re right in the middle.”
“Not the most subtle architectural choice,” Leon says wryly.
The discovery doesn’t distract me for longer than a minute—and then I’m back to pacing. After another fifteen go by I sigh, looking back in the direction where I think the council are. I find myself wondering if the corridor I think we came down is even the right one. They all look the same.
“What do you think could be taking them so long?” I ask Leon.
He shrugs. “Unlike me, they don’t strike me as the type to rush into things.”
I smile and shake my head.
“I just don’t know what we’ll do if they don’t listen to us about Caledon.”
“If they won’t tell us what we need to know, we’ll find answers another way,” Leon assures me. “Besides, getting them to heal you is still our priority.”
“I suppose so. But I feel stronger already. Really, I do,” I say, when he gives me a skeptical look. “Since we got to Starfall. There’s something about this place—maybe the Miravow makes the air cleaner here or something.”
“Or you’re just subconsciously relieved not to be surrounded by killer trees anymore,” he replies. When I don’t laugh, he gives me a knowing look. “You’re still worrying. But you shouldn’t. We have the upper hand. The dryads can’t lift a finger against us, and I have no problemforcingthem to hear you out, if I have to.”
Maybe I should be offended by his suggestion, but if we can’t reason with the Agathyrians, then it might just come to that. Sure, it would prove to them we’re nothing but a bunch of bloodthirsty brutes, but half of them think that anyway. And Iamsure they’re no match for Leon—even if he might be underestimating them a little. Like Mal said, the dryads might not be violent, but they’re far from cute and cuddly.
A strong smell fills my nostrils: the scent of rotting fruit and dank foliage. It’s a familiar stench, and my blood runs cold as I turn to meet Leon’s gaze. His eyes are wide with recognition—and dread.
The sound of clacking bones rattles behind me, and a long, low growl sends every hair on my body standing on end.
I spin around to face the mortifus stalking down the corridor toward us.
Chapter 22
Morgana
It’s my first true look at a mortifus, and it’s even worse than I imagined.
Whatever this creature used to be was large, its head standing a full foot above mine. My guess is it was some kind of wolf once, but too many parts of it are rotted away to be able to say for sure. In the place of fur and soft tissue, the forest has patched it up with what it could. Wood, splintered and damp, juts from the mortifus’s left flank, while an explosion of moss and fleshy fungi holds its shoulder together. When it lowers its head, I can see that the right side of its face is almost completely exposed, vines curling around a bare skull where worms wriggle from an empty eye socket.
The other eye, big and yellow, focuses on me.
How did it get in here?
