Never After

But her father only grunted, and Sally glimpsed from beneath her lashes his thoughtful glance in her direction.

She received preoccupied looks from the gardener, as well, who would slip into the king’s chair while he was away, and hold Sally’s hand in her dry, leathery grip.

“You knew,” Sally whispered, when she could finally speak without coughing. “You knew what would happen.”

“I knew a little,” confessed the old woman. “Your mother told me some. She said… she said if anything ever happened to her, that I was to point you in the right direction, when it was time. That I would know it. That it would be necessary for you; necessary for the kingdom.”

She leaned close, silver braids brushing against the bedcovers. “I had red hair once, too, you know. Many who live along the Tangleroot do. It is our legacy. And for some, there is more.”

More. Warmth crept into Sally’s heart, a different heat than soup or hot bricks, or the fire burning near her bed. There was honey in her slow-moving blood, or sap, or lava rich from a burning plain; felt in brief moments since her rejection from the Tangleroot, as though something fundamental had changed within her.

“Tell me what you mean,” Sally said, though she already knew the truth.

The gardener held her gaze. “Magic. Something your mother possessed in greater strength than anyone believed.”

Sally looked away, remembering her vision of two little girls facing the queen of the Tangleroot. Seeing herself, for a moment, in that same place—but holding hands with a strong young man.

Some days later, Sally was declared fit enough to walk, though the king refused to hear of it. He had a chair fashioned, and made his men carry the princess to her favorite oak by the pond, where she was placed gently upon some blankets that had been arranged neatly for her. Wine and pastries were in a basket, along with pillows that the gardener stuffed behind her back. It was a warm afternoon, and the frogs were singing. Sally asked to be left alone.

And when finally, after an interminable time, everyone did leave her—she tapped the oak on its root. “I know you’re in there.”

There was no wind, but the leaves seemed to shiver. Sally felt a pulse between her hand and the root. Soft fingers grazed her brow. She closed her eyes.

“What happened in that place?” Sally whispered. “What happened, really?”

I think you know.

She could still feel those hands on her body, carrying her from the forest. “Her strength is limited only by belief.”

You wear a key, whispered the little girl. Or so the queen believes. But there is no such thing. No key. Just lies. What binds the queen is only in her mind, and the greatest trick of all. The witches who bound her used magic… but only enough to convince her that she had been caught. The queen gave up.

Sally opened her eyes, but saw only green leaves and the dark water of the pond. When the frogs sang, however, she imagined words in their voices, words she almost understood. “You mean that she could be free if she wanted to be?”

If she believed that she was. When she is denied her freedom, as you denied her, she gives up again. And so binds herself tighter to the lie. There is a duty to confront the queen, once a generation. To strengthen the bonds that hold her. You fulfilled that duty as the women of your line must.

“What of them?” Sally whispered. “Those souls imprisoned in the Tangleroot?”

Time answers all things, said the little girl. They are tragic creatures, as are all who become imprisoned in the palace of the queen. But nothing lasts. Not even the queen. One day, perhaps a day I will see—though surely you will not—she will fall. But the Tangleroot will outlast her. She has dreamed too well. Magic has bled into the bones of that forest, into the earth it grows from. Magic that is almost beyond her.

But not beyond you, she added. You are your mother’s daughter. You are a daughter of the Tangleroot.

Sally stared down at her hands. “Did my mother know you?”

But the little girl who was the soul of the oak did not answer. Nearby, though, Sally heard a shout. Her father. Sounding frantic and angry. She tried to sit up, concerned for him, and saw the old man limping quickly down the path to the pond. She heard low cries of outrage behind him—gasps from the maids, and more low shouts.

Her father’s face was pale and grim. “Salinda, I am sorry. I have been a fool, and I pray you will forgive me. When you left, when I almost lost you, I realized… oh, God.” He stopped, his expression utterly tragic, even heartbreaking. “I will do everything… everything in my power to keep you safe from that man. I should not have agreed to such a foolish thing, but I was desperate; I was—”

Sally held up her hand, swallowing hard. “The Warlord’s envoy is here?”

“The Warlord himself,” hissed the old king, rubbing his face. “I looked into his eyes and could not imagine what I was thinking. But your mother… your mother before she died spoke so fondly of her friend and her son, and I thought… I was certain all would be right. It was her idea that the two of you should meet one day. Her idea. She could not have known what he would become.”

Sally held herself very still. “I would like to meet him.”

“Salinda—”

“Please,” she said. “Alone, if you would.”

Her father stared at her as though she had lost her mind—and perhaps she had—but she heard footsteps along the stone path, and her vision blurred around a man wrapped in darkness, flanked by a giant and a bear. Sally covered her mouth.

The old king stepped in front of the Warlord and held out his hand. “Now, you listen—”

“Father,” Sally interrupted firmly. “Let him pass. I’m sure you don’t want to test those homicidal tendencies that the man is known for. What is he called again? Warlord of Death’s Door? Or maybe that was Death’s Donkey.”

“Close enough,” rumbled the Warlord, a glint in his eye as the old king turned to give his daughter a sharp, startled look. “Your majesty, I believe I have an appointment with young Salinda. I will not be denied.”

“You,” began the king, and then glanced at Sally’s face and closed his mouth. Suspicion flickered in his gaze, and he gave the Warlord a sharp look. “If you hurt her, I will kill you. No matter your reputation.”

“I assure you,” replied the Warlord calmly, “my reputation is not nearly as fierce as a father’s rage.”

The old king blinked. “Well, then.”

“Yes,” said the Warlord.

“Father,” replied Sally, twitching. “Please.”

She felt sorry for him. He looked so baffled. He had tried to marry her off to the man, and now he wanted to save her. Except, Sally no longer wanted to be saved. Or rather, she was certain she could save herself, quite well on her own.

The old king limped away, escorted by the bear and giant, both of whom waved cheerily and blew kisses once his back was turned. Sally waved back, but halfheartedly. Her attention was on the man in front of her, who dropped to his knees the moment they were gone, and laid his large strong hand upon her ankle.

“Sally,” he said.

“Mickel,” she replied, unable to hide the smile that was burning through her throat and eyes. “I thought you might be dead.”

He laughed, but his own eyes were suddenly too bright, and he folded himself down to press his lips, and then the side of his face, upon her hand. A shudder raced through him, and she leaned over as well, kissing his cheek, his hair, his ear; spilling a tear or two before she wiped at her eyes.

“You’re not surprised,” he said.

“The pendant.” Sally fingered the chain around his neck with a great deal of tenderness and wonderment. “I had time to think about it, though I wasn’t sure until I saw you just now. I couldn’t believe. Why? Why the illusions?”