The Reign of Trees

The Reign of Trees

by

Lori Folkman

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, governments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2012 by Lori Folkman

Advance Review Copy

Acknowledgements:

Thank you to my beta readers for your valuable input.

Thank you Josh
Groban
for your beautiful music—without it, this book would never have found its voice.

Additional editing provided by Jenna Lovell: [email protected]

For my sweet daughter: thank you for reminding me that real people are more important than books.

A complete map of the Western Corridor area featured in
The Reign of Trees
is available at the end of the book.

Illianah did not know how she would ever become accustomed to sharing her bed with a man. It had been over a week since Leif had entered her bedchambers, and supposedly her heart, yet every morning it startled her to find his burly arm wrapped around her body. It was almost like he was claiming her, even in his sleep. She did not need his subconscious reminder of the inescapable commitment she had made; Leif would be at her side, her entire life. And that felt like forever.

He moaned, signifying that he had awakened as well. He yawned deeply, stretched and said, “Good morning, Princess,” before giving her a peck on her cheek. “It is always a good morning when I wake with you next to me.” Leif smiled, his entire face glowing with happiness.

Yes, it was good
for Leif
. He had just become the heir to the throne of Burchess. That entitlement would be enough to turn even the most plagued, burdened cynic into a giddy court jester.

But Leif was not an impoverished cynic who had been plucked from the pool of endless suitors. He was a Duke—the Duke of Harrington, second in line for the throne of Liksland.

Prince Leif, the Duke of Harrington, was also the key to uniting the two great kingdoms of Liksland and Burchess.

Leif put his oversized hand on Illianah’s neck and tilted her head upward. He let out a laugh and said, “It looks like you had a rough night, Princess.”

“What?” she asked. Her neck and cheeks certainly felt hot and scratchy, but they looked it as well? She leapt from the bed and ran to the mirror across the room. Upon closer inspection, she discovered that she was, indeed, worse for the wear. Leif’s new beard growth had left her skin red and scrawled with tiny scratches. Illianah gasped. “You had to decide to grow a beard
now
, Your Highness?”

“I need to look distinguished when I sit on the throne, do I not?”

Well, yes, that was true. Every king Illianah knew wore a beard. However, that thought did not sit well with her. “You intend to sit on the throne so soon? I cannot imagine my father being pleased with your ambitions.”

Her father, King Gregory, was still young and in perfect health.

“Do not worry, My Queen. I have no plans to dethrone your father, but one must always be prepared. Now get ready for breakfast. We have slept late. It looks like the courtyard has already come to life.”

“I’m not going to breakfast! Not like this!” Illianah again studied herself in the mirror. She looked like she had slept face-down in a bed of bark and twigs.

“You are fine. No one will notice. Get dressed.”

“I will not!” How could Leif think that she was presentable? “People will laugh at me!” And that was something Princess Illianah had never encountered.

“People? By people you mean Lord Braithwell and his family? That is hardly people. A dozen, at most, will be to breakfast. No one will laugh.”

“They certainly will. If not to my face, they will laugh at me once I am gone. It will not stop at twelve people either. The entire village will know of it before noon.” Illianah fell backwards into the chair at her dressing table, dramatically showing that her body would not be making an entrance at breakfast.

Leif’s happy, playful eyes—which she had grown slightly fond of—now narrowed and he looked at her harshly. He studied her reflection in the dressing table’s mirror, stepped forward, and then bent, coming face to face with her. His jaw was set and his cheek pulsed before he spoke. “The entire village will know of what? That I love my wife? I do not see how that is something to fear, nor should it be something which would cause you embarrassment.”

He again kissed her cheek and then intentionally rubbed his whiskers against her raw skin. She flinched, but he put his hand behind her head and again scraped her with his scant beard. “You
will
go to breakfast,” he said in a tone that could only be classified as imposing.

She wanted, so badly, to say something. To tell him no. But Illianah bit her tongue to enforce its silence. Her father had warned her that she was not to disenchant the prince during the early stages of marriage, as it could bode badly with Leif’s father, King Edvard.

“Ah, I see that you are holding your tongue,” Leif said as he smiled. His blue eyes were once again happy and playful. He could tell her mouth was in torment? She released her tongue and tried to look passive. “Perhaps it will not be as hard to train you as we thought.”

“Train me? As if I am a wild animal?” she asked, aghast.

“Exactly. Your father compared you to an unbroken horse.”

“My father? He gave you … advice on how to
handle
me?” Her cheeks burned hotter, as if those tiny scratches were creeping up to her forehead.

“Of course he did.” Leif knelt next to her and put his hand around a loose strand of her hair. “He desires our happiness. My happiness. And he knows how,” Leif paused, apparently searching for the right word, “disagreeable you can be.”

“Disagreeable?” That was hardly the right word. Illianah would have preferred the word “determined.”

Leif smiled, his eyes dancing with mischief. “King Gregory said that if it was not for your crown, you would be a spinster.” Illianah again gasped. “But I disagree. I would say that the head the crown sits upon is far too fetching for you to be a spinster.”

This time he kissed her lips; it was unexpected, as they were not in bed. And his lips were firmer, more determined, than they typically were. Her heart began to beat so loud she feared he might hear it. He bit on her lower lip, ever so softly, as he pulled away. The hotness upon his cheeks and the passion expressed within his pale blue eyes said that he may well like to be in bed. “I will see you at breakfast,” he said, standing to leave the room.

Illianah turned to the mirror. Her insides seemed a reflection of her skin— she felt damaged and ashamed. She imagined her soul being overrun with tiny cracks, signifying her demise. She inhaled deeply and held her breath while she tried to gather courage to say something to Leif, but he left the room before she was able to defend herself. She was not an unbroken horse. She was not any type of animal, nor he did she need to be trained. But she feared she would not be able to escape the control of a man with whom she was required to share a bed.

Her lady’s maid came into the room and began to brush Illianah’s hair. But when the maid began to separate Illianah’s smooth, brown hair into strands for braiding, Illianah said, “No. I will wear it down.”

“You will be wearing a headdress then?” the maid asked.

“No, I will not.”

The maid hesitated, clearly perplexed by her lady’s request. “Very well,” she said as she turned to the wardrobe.

Only maidens were allowed to wear their hair down, uncovered. But like Leif had said, there were only a dozen or so people attending breakfast in the grand hall. That was hardly a crowd worthy of maintaining proper protocol.

“Did you have a preference for your gown today, My Lady?”

Illianah turned to the wardrobe, hoping to see a gown with a high neckline. But the necklines were all the same—square and open across the neck. She picked an emerald green gown, thinking the color would overpower her fair skin and make the rash less visible.

It was not until the maid began to help Illianah with her nightgown that her raw skin was noticed. “Oh my,” the lady’s maid said, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment. This was exactly the kind of reaction Illianah hoped to avoid by staying in her room all day.

“Perhaps I have some … cream that will help with that,” the maid said. She quickly curtsied and left the room.

Cream? Was it made by a wizard and had magical healing powers? Illianah doubted it. She was going to be scoffed by the lords and ladies of Freidlenburg. It seemed likely that she would be the first princess in the history of Burchess to be publicly mocked.

Unless.

Illianah looked at her nightgown, which now lay beside the velvety green gown on the bed. The nightgown had a high neckline—and not just a high neckline; it had a collar. The latest drawings that she had seen from Madame Partlet, the royal dressmaker, had shown dresses with similar collars. At the time, Illianah had laughed at the designs and said they looked like something that would be worn at a nunnery. But under these circumstances, such a style might be necessary. However, there was a problem. The nightgown had far too many layers; her maid would never be able to get the day gown laced tightly around Illianah’s waist with the nightgown underneath.

There must be scissors somewhere in this room.

Illianah went to the dressing table and searched through the drawers until she found a pair, and then went to work on the nightgown, shearing it off just below the shoulders. She put on the top half of the gauzy nightgown and then proceeded to pull the green gown over her head, without her maid’s assistance.

It did not look altogether bad. In fact, it almost looked intentional. Her nightgown was made of delicate white cotton and trimmed with lace, just recently sewn for the new bride. It looked fine enough to be worn in any great hall.

When the maid came back into the room, she looked at Illianah, blinked twice, and then looked to the floor where the remains of the nightgown were. “It is the latest fashion in St. Moraine,” Illianah explained.

“Yes, of course,” the maid said in agreement, as if she knew what the fashions in the nation’s capital were. It was likely that the lady’s maid had never even left the small village of Freidlenburg—just a small fort essentially—right at the edge of the kingdom.

The maid laced Illianah’s gown and then applied the cream. The rash did not disappear, but Illianah’s skin instantly felt cool and soothed. She imagined the rash really would disappear within a few hours, but she knew Leif would not wait.

She made her way to the great hall and held her head high. She would not give Lord Braithwell’s household cause to think she was insecure with her appearance. Illianah intentionally avoided making eye contact with any of the household as well, hoping they would follow protocol and not stare at the princess, as she was not addressing any of them individually. However, she could not help but meet Leif’s eyes as he stood when she entered the room. His eyes seemed to change almost instantly. A fire burned within them now. He not only looked hot with anger; he looked menacing as well. She quickly looked away.

Lady Braithwell sat on Illianah’s right, and after the meats had been served, Lady Braithwell said, “You look lovely this morning, Princess. I’ve never seen that style before. Tell me, what is it called?”

Illianah gathered from Lady Braithwell’s expression that she was serious with her inquiry; she was not mocking the princess. “It is called a partlet,” Illianah quickly invented, naming her creation after Madame Partlet, even though her designs were far from Illianah’s creation. Madame Partlet’s high collars were done in the same fabric as the dress, creating no separation with the neckline and indeed, making the appearance overly prim and austere. “It is perfect for chilling mornings,” Illianah added. This castle was like every other castle—drafty—but it felt even more so here in Freidlenburg, as the village was situated in the higher elevations of the western region of Burchess. Illianah had shivered at breakfast every morning this week until her invention of the partlet.
 

“How sensible! So many mornings, I wrap a blanket around my shoulders as we eat breakfast—that is, of course, when we do not have guests—but what you are wearing is so much more functional. What a delight to host you, Princess.”

Illianah wanted to laugh. Lady Braithwell had been enchanted by Illianah from the start, but this was slightly ridiculous. Any person with eyes could see that Illianah was wearing a nightgown underneath her green gown. Illianah ventured to guess that it would not be long before Lady Braithwell embraced the fashion of the partlet.

When Illianah glanced across the table, it was as if a gust of wind blew across her face, instantly snuffing out her momentary jovialness. She had never seen Leif looks so ominous. It was clear that he was displeased with her. But why? Because she had covered up her rash? That seemed harsh.

Leif sent a long, intimidating glare across the table and then turned to Lord Braithwell. “Tell me Sir, are you a horseman?”

“But of course.” Then Lord Braithwell told Prince Harrington about the numerous horses that had been bred and raised right here in at the castle’s stables.

“Then you understand how difficult it can be to train a wild mare,” Leif said. “Let me tell you about one I recently broke. We found her on the isolated island of
Auxtere
. She was running with a pack of wild
rounceys
. It was obvious that she had never been touched by man. She was feral; her eyes had a look of anger to them. She did not want to be handled. But she was beautiful: more so than any mare I had ever laid eyes on. I wanted her. I roped her and proceeded to bring her back to the castle. You should have seen the trail of destruction she left in her wake. She kicked. She bucked. She bit every man who came within a snout’s length. This malicious behavior did not stop when we reached the castle’s stables. Every other horse feared her. Our stable hands feared her. But not I. I would visit her every day and talk to her gently. Then I began to lead her around the yard. I found that if I kept oats in my pocket, she would follow me anywhere. After I had gained her trust, I began to break her. It took a long time, but now she is the finest palfrey in the stable. She is as tame as an old hunting dog. When my brother married this past year, I gave her to his bride as a wedding gift. There is not a creature alive I cannot break.”