The Crowned Captive

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Rowan watched Morana with amusement as she devoured the venison with just as much fervour as the night before. Juices dripped down her chin as she consumed the food with gusto, caring little that he watched. It was refreshing to see a woman actually eat in front of him instead of picking at food like the ladies of the court often did. He knew it was because of her poor prior circumstances, but he cared not. He hoped she kept the habit.

The forest was quiet around them as Rowan packed, Morana barely looking up at him from her meal. The change from the rich forests bordering the human lands to the dark and feral forests of Solimir’s Scar was obvious. It had already put him on edge as he cleared the camp, allowing his companion time to finish her meal. The mountain range would allow no escape attempt without penalty and no lapse of attention without punishment. On his way down, a slight second of daydreaming had meant an attack from a fear gotta, and its hunger had nearly overpowered him. With his captive alongside him, he could spare no seconds. He had to pay attention and have her full cooperation if she wished to leave the range unscathed.

He searched one last time through the now-packed saddlebags, ensuring they were well enough prepared. At the final saddlebag, he felt a pang of an uncomfortable emotion. Regret, possibly? Something he was sure he shouldn’t be feeling, regardless. In the bottom corner of the pack, Morana’s pendant still sat, glinting up at him. He closed the bag and turned away. He knew none of its histories, but he could not risk it being used as a weapon against him. Pondering over returning it, he finished looking over the horses. Their shoes still sat in place and there were no injuries that may hamper their travels. They were as set as they could be.

With the horses set, Rowan finally turned back to Morana. He could return her pendant once they were through the Scar and back in safe territory and feel guilt over it no longer. She had finished her venison and was quietly braiding her hair, the silver strands shimmering as she worked. Not for the first time, Rowan was struck with how beautiful she was. He pushed the thought to the side - it would do him no good now. A wave of his hand had the fire thoroughly quenched and the elven woman looking up at him with wide eyes.

“We tackle the Scar today, and I need you on your best behaviour. No lallygagging at the pretty trees, no following any butterflies or birds no matter how pretty, no stopping for the gems scattered on the forest floor. If you do, you doom us both to death,” he began, giving her a weighted look. Her hands stilled as he listened. “If you see anything out of the ordinary, alert me. If something attacks, do not run. Stay near me, no matter what you think I say. Understood?”

It was a long moment before she replied, her hands finally moving back to motion as she finished her braid. “I understand. How long will it take to get through? When will I know we are finally out?”

“It will take all the day and part of the night, at least. And that is if the usual passage remains open. If not, then it will take three days and we will have to camp in the range. If that seems too risky, then we will have to turn around and use the tunnels to go underneath.” Rowan did not add why he avoided that option at all costs. “You will feel it when we pass through the wards to Navyria. It is unmistakable.”

She nodded once more, finished her braid and then quickly standing. Rowan watched her as she walked over to her gelding and mounted it in one sure leap, her foot not even touching the stirrup. How she did not know of her true heritage, he was unsure, but it was nothing less than obvious to him now.

They rode side by side at first, his grey mare a head in front of the gelding as they picked through the forest. Occasionally, he heard a stick snap or a bush rustle, but thankfully, only animal life skittered away from them. He knew Morana looked around beside him on high alert, and trusted she would alert him to anything too disastrous. Regardless, at every whisper around them, he carefully scented the air to pick out exactly what followed them.

As the slope of the mountain increased, and the jagged edges of the rock narrowed their path, Rowan moved to ride ahead. He began monitoring the gelding’s footfall to ensure Morana still rode behind him. The overgrown old-growth forest gave way to something else, something darker. The horses slowed, picking their way through the vines that seemed all too eager to trip and the jagged stone all too eager to cut and maim. No animals called, no insects buzzed, and no birds flitted any longer. Silence above all pervaded the forest.

“There truly are gems on the forest floor,” Morana murmured behind him. The sun had reached its peak, making the piles glisten in the light. They had entered the cursed forest proper now, and Rowan stiffened in the saddle, ready for something to attack or for Morana to try to follow that trail of colours.

“You do not feel the compulsion to follow those gems, do you, Morana?” He asked, every muscle in his body ready to leap into action.

“Of course I do. That is enough wealth to give me a happy life for years. I will not get off the horse and gather them, though,” she breathed. “What put them there?”

“I am sure you know what ant-lions are? These are their larger, faerie-eating reptilian cousins. Caapca, they are called. Humans suffice too if any are stupid or brave enough to make their way this close to Navyria.”

“They only live here, right?”

Rowan laughed. “No, I have had to kill a couple that travelled too close to our cities and villages, but most live in the wild places of the realm. They are not often an issue.”

They continued on, Morana craning to watch the gems pass by. The trees leaned closer now, and Rowan grew tense every time a branch reached out to block their path. Those he could, he dismounted for and bent them to the side so his mare and Morana could pass. Where the path did not allow it, he burned the branches, steeling himself for the possibility of an angry dryad. Luck was on his side, however, as none appeared.

“Death. I smell death,” Morana whispered as the day turned to evening and the dark began to creep its tendrils through the tree trunks. Rowan signalled to stop, smelling nothing for a long minute. Then the winds changed, and it hit him.

“Fucking fae hounds,” Rowan swore as he kicked his mare forward once more. “I thought we were done with the damned things.”

He could not hear them yet, which was some gift. Now he just had to find somewhere tactical to stand and fight. He had only been through the Scar a handful of times, and the path seemed to change every damned time. His mind tried to sort through anything that might help, coming up short of anything useful. He swore under his breath again.

“You are truly popular for all the wrong reasons, Morana. Follow me closely.”