Crown of One Hundred Kings (Nine Kingdoms Trilogy #1) - Rachel Higginson Page 0,36

he murmured slyly.

Now Oliver was the one picking at my fragile restraint. “Are you arguing with me?”

He sobered unsuccessfully. “No.”

“You are.”

“I’m not,” he insisted.

I narrowed my gaze, unsure exactly what we were fighting about. “His name is actually Arrick.”

His smile broke through and he fanned his face with a distinctly feminine flair. “Arrick,” he sighed, in a poor imitation of me.

“I did not say it like that.”

“Arrick,” he giggled.

“I hate you.”

He grinned at me. “You don’t.”

I didn’t actually hate him, so instead of responding, I leaned forward in my saddle and stared at the road again. The road, not the back of Arrick’s head.

This journey was nothing like I had expected it to be. Somehow, I’d become wrapped up in the very rebellion I would have to squash once I was queen. And while Arrick was an unbearable man, I did not distrust him like I should.

He had grown on me over the last week. I had grudgingly come to respect his proficiency with his men and the way he held himself. He was wise and insightful and hard when he needed to be. But then soft too, or not soft exactly, but warm, even charming.

I clasped the necklace around my throat and enjoyed the weight as the gemstones settled against my chest. For a moment I allowed myself to wonder about the boy that had given me this pendant.

What would he be like? Would he be as fierce when it came to commanding an army? Would he be as stern and direct with his men? Would he have been as playful? Or smile like that?

I closed my eyes and shook my head. No. These thoughts were foolish. Neither man had a place in my head anymore. Arrick was a means to an end.

And the boy from my memories would remain that—a memory.

Arrick and the memories I treasured would disappear eventually. Until then, I would cling to the journey, to the steps taking me closer and closer to my home.

11

A day later we approached a village that could only be described as the exact opposite of happy and peaceful.

Smoke billowed, darkening the sky. The rebel army kicked their mounts into a gallop, sensing danger long before we could see what caused the blaze. Oliver and I hurried after them. We weren’t as skilled on horseback and were forced to trail behind.

Ash fell like snow. My nostrils clogged with the stench of burning wood and oil. And something stronger, something that wasn’t tangible. Something like fear.

Oliver and I arrived in the burning village just in time to watch the rebels dismount with haste, a wall of fire surrounding them from three sides. They moved into action with practiced speed, making it clear that this wasn’t the first inferno they’d extinguished.

Or the first village they’d seen destroyed.

Oliver and I hovered near the edges, coughing through the blackish smoke as cozy homes and centuries-old trees burned. The fire consumed everything it touched, greedy with death and destruction.

From where I watched it, the blaze was a living, breathing dragon that swept high up into the thick-leafed canopy overhead before dropping back toward the ground to eat at grass and horse and men alike.

The great, fiery beast flapped hellish wings and licked with its forked tongue as branches snapped and plunged to the ground, making more kindling for the roaring firestorm. The fire beast jumped from tree to tree, splitting into more creatures, more death, spreading like a plague through this once-picturesque village.

I blinked and the beast turned back into mere fire. Fire that ravaged everything it touched.

Throughout this journey, I’d seen that all the villages in Tenovia were built among the trees of the Tellekane Forest. Houses mingled with shops and temples, all connected by a spider web of rope bridges.

The main highway snaked through the village, undisturbed by the community living over it. Some houses towered stories high, built around massive black cedars, extending outward on sturdy branches as thick and durable as any castle rampart. Likewise, merchants conducted business from their lofts in the trees. A blacksmith or goldsmith would have everything he needed built on solid platforms reaching from trunk center to middle of the branch. An alchemist mixed potions from the carved out laboratory of a gigantic cedar. Wells and a series of pulleys and water wheels brought water to each dwelling.

Rope bridges connected one tree house to the next. The walkways went side-to-side as well as up and down so the different levels of the village could be easily