Free Lord of the Forest by Dawn Thompson Page B

shaggy, thick-skinned way, Quercus was naked as well.
    Marius uncorked the bottle and poured a dark green, pungent liquid into his tea. He swallowed it down in one go and asked the spirit for more. Quercus obliged.
    Marius drank that more slowly, looking curiously at Linnea over the rim. “What did you see in the scrying pool?”
    “Nothing at all.”
    “Hm.” He studied her thoughtfully.
    “There is nothing there but birds and rustling leaves,” she said. “The way we came has closed up.”
    He frowned and looked at Quercus. “Do you think the trees are joining ranks to protect us?”
    “I couldn’t say. You haven’t told me why you were fleeing, Marius, or what from.”
    Marius took a deep breath and let it out. “Ravelle. He is back.”
    Quercus cursed in Treeish, a language Linnea didn’t understand. But Marius did.
    “Strong words, Querky, coming from you,” he said in mock reproof.
    The tree spirit shook his head and scowled. His features, except for his wise eyes, disappeared into infinitely multiplying wrinkles. He sat for some moments lost in thought.
    “I had hoped he’d given up,” Quercus said at last. “Why can he not stay within the bounds of the Outer Darkness? The land of the living is not meant for him.”
    “He loves power,” Marius said bluntly. “And I and the other lords of the Arcan archipelago will not let him have it.”
    “Well and good. But how are we of the Forest Isle to be rid of him?—oh, never mind. It is he who attacked you both, I see, and that is why you have come.”
    “He attacked Linnea. Some of the trees attacked me as I ran.”
    Quercus raised a mushroomlike eyebrow. “Near here? Which ones?”
    “I did not have time to tie a ribbon around them, my friend. We were running for our lives.”
    Quercus cleared his throat. “Forgive my digressions. I am neglecting my duty. Which of you wishes to be seen to first?”
    Marius nodded in Linnea’s direction.
    “You have many more wounds than I,” she protested. “Do not be gallant.”
    He ignored her. “Ravelle gave her a scratch.”
    Quercus’s face scrunched up with concern. “His claws hold a lethal poison. My lady, you should have told me of this at once. There is a poultice that will draw the foulness out. But you must bare yourself.”
    The creature spoke as if she were not nearly naked already, with utmost courtesy but no embarrassment. She moved the torn but still shimmering cloth aside, presenting her breasts unselfconsciously. Marius gave a faint, involuntary sigh of appreciation.
    Quercus looked intently at the scratch. “The stain of it is spreading under her skin.”
    “Then you must hurry.” Marius’s voice held a note of urgent concern.
    Linnea glanced his way with no show of alarm. Since they had entered the enormous oak tree, the burning pain in the scratch had ceased.
    “But it feels better,” she said to the spirit.
    “That is because the poison in his claws acts variably. One minute it is felt, the next, not at all. The scratch itself is a minor injury but one infinitesimal drop of his filthy juice below the skin and—well, enough said. Let me grind the herbs for a poultice.”
    He went quickly to work with a mortar and pestle, throwing in leaves and dried things, mixing it with water and forming a wet mass. His wrinkles had settled into an expression that seemed calm enough.
    When he spooned the mixture onto a linen cloth, it dripped through when he lifted it, prepared to put it on her chest. Quercus hesitated, looking again at the remnants of her gown.
    “It is ruined,” she hastened to assure him. “If I could burn it—”
    “An excellent idea. But you will find no fire inside my tree. Not so much as a spark. Take it off, bundle it, and Marius can set fire to it someplace else.”
    She rose and let the gown slip from her shoulders and crumple into a puddle on the floor. Then she sat again, amused by Marius’s discomfiture. It was as her mother had told her when she began to