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“They’re still following us?” she hissed out, looking back the way they came. She half expected to see fiery bodies flitting through the trees.
Castrin scoffed out something akin to a laugh. “They are still followingyou,” he said. “But they will be dealt with. The forest slowed them as I hoped it would, and you are safe within Sirandel. Even from beasts of the Burning Realm.”
Corayne swallowed down a little of her fear. “What of the Castlewood?”
The immortal blinked. “I don’t follow.”
“Your forest. Your lands.” Corayne waved at the woods around them, ancient and stretching for miles in every direction. “Are the hounds burning their way through, destroying as they hunt me?”
Castrin exchanged confused looks with his immortals, all of them blank-faced.
“That is no concern of ours,” he finally said.
With a hand, he motioned for her to continue down the path.
Corayne tipped her head, feeling as confused as Castrin looked, albeit for very different reasons.
“This realm is not our own, Corayne. It is not ours to keep,” the Elder explained. He began walking again, forcing her to follow. “It is not yours either, Daughter of Old Cor.”
A sour taste filled Corayne’s mouth. Her terror did not disappear, it only changed. Again, she eyed the immortals around her, distant and detached from Allward, like the stars themselves. Anchored in a lonely sky, doomed to watch and never interfere.But these immortals are not doomed. They have chosen to stand back. She bit the inside of her lip to keep herself from saying something rude, or hateful. Ruefully, she thought of Dom again. Once, she thought him foolish and idealistic. Now she longed for his noble idiocy.
At least he cared about the rest of the world.
She fell silent, watching Castrin and the rest carefully, step after step.
The path turned into a proper road, and the stone trees around her grew tall. So perfect was their placement and artistry that Corayne hardly noticed she had walked into a structure, the arches above her formed by live growth and sculpted stone, woven together by immortal hands. The glass leaves became windows and skylights, filtering the sun in chips of color. Birds fluttered among the branches, and Corayne caught the red flash of a living fox among the roots, darting past its stone cousins.
“Sirandel,” she murmured.
City or palace, she could not say. More Elders wove between the columns and Corayne suspected this was a great hall. They flashed in and out of sight like the fox, moving both too fast and too slow, blending into their enclave with little effort. Their clothing—steel, leather, or silk—was patterned in purple and gold, all in the image of fallen leaves.
Archways tunneled through the trees, as did winding staircases. Some spiraled up into the high canopy, to watchtowers above the branches. Others dove into the tree roots, underground to chambers unseen. There were no walls to guard the enclave, only the Castlewood itself. Sirandel felt more like a cathedral than a fortress, alone in the wilds.
“Your home is beautiful,” Corayne said softly, and she meant it.
Castrin replied with a true smile.
Eventually they reached a terrace, raised up among the roots, wide and flat enough to serve as a banquet hall.Or a throne room, Corayne realized, drawing a sharp breath.
At the far end, the stone trees wove to form a curved wall, with more colored glass between the branches. Carved roots curled, forming a great seat. Overhead, the living trees gave over to stone entirely. They were fully indoors without Corayne even realizing it. And they were surrounded, purple-armored guards lining the perimeter around them. They were fearsome, but not so fearsome as the Elder who sat the Sirandel throne.
“Your Majesty,” she said, her voice echoing through the great, high chamber.
Without hesitation, Corayne bent to a knee before the Monarch of Sirandel.
Lord Valnir eyed her from his seat, his lips pursed together. Only his yellow eyes moved, tracking Corayne as she lowered herself.
Like Castrin, he was tall and lean as a willow tree, with porcelain-pale skin and long hair streaked red and silver. He had the bearing of a king but wore no crown, only jeweled rings on every finger. A purple cloak hung half off his shoulder, clasped with gold and amethyst. He blinked yellow eyes behind dark lashes, looking her over from head to toe. The dim light of the forest, filtered by the stained glass, cut strangely across him. He seemed a predator, keen as the fox sigil of his enclave.
Slowly, he leaned forward into brighter light. Corayne did not miss the scar around his neck, barely visible over the collar of his cloak. White and pink stood out against his pale skin, ringing his throat like a chain.
He bore no weapons she could see, only the branch of an aspen tree.It lay across his lap, silver-barked and golden-leaved, trembling in a phantom wind.
“Rise, Corayne an-Amarat,” he said. His voice was soft, ragged even. She wondered if the scar had anything to do with it. “And be welcome here.”
She did as commanded, willing herself not to shake. Even after Erida and Taristan, it was hard not to feel intimidated by an Elder ruler.
“Thank you for your welcome,” Corayne forced out. She wished for Andry so badly. He would know how to act in the hall of a great lord. “I’m afraid I cannot stay long.”
