“I swear to the gods it’s true. I should know. I’ve been completing a survey every two years for the last decade. If the rate of growth continues as it has, Marchessault will be overrun by Lostwood middle of next year.”

“That’s—that’s impossible.”

“It should be, aye, but Lostwood is no normal forest. Hasn’t been for a long time.” None of what he’d said had been a lie, well, except for his role as a woodsman and surveyor. The king did, however, have royal surveyors doing exactly what he’d described, and their findings were every bit as remarkable as he’d explained. Ludo had learned long ago that knowledge was power, so he made a habit of keeping his ear to the ground and his finger on the pulse of the kingdom even during times when his particular set of skills weren’t required by His Majesty.

“Why doesn’t he use his limitless resources to have the forest cut back?”

“You don’t think he’s tried? There is a veritable army of lumberjacks doing that right now. But it’s a losing battle, and there’s only so much of the forest’s boundaries they can combat at one time. Meanwhile, Lostwood’s fingers creep further and further afield.”

“What’s causing this…abnormal growth?”

Ludo shrugged, because this was one question that even the king’s most learned scholars had failed to answer. He had his own theories, of course, but they were just that—theories. Nothing he could prove or cared to for that matter. “I’m just responsible for the biennial survey. What the king does with the information I provide is beyond the scope of my employment.”

He held his breath, hoping she would buy the armor of ignorance he’d plated himself with.

She raised the dagger and brought it down into the earth until only the hilt was visible. “A deal’s a deal. It’s your lucky day: You get to keep your bollocks and my knife. Thanks for saving my life. Good day, sir.”

With that, she was gone, just a dark slash disappearing into the forest’s tangle. Only then did he exhale, taking a moment to check that nothing was missing between his legs.

Six

Tomas

Marchessault, Finfalla

“Speak,” the king said. That single word held all the threat of a thousand more, and though his father hadn’t raised his voice beyond what was needed to reach his audience’s ears, it held the authority of a barked command.

Tomas maintained a neutral expression when really he wanted to laugh out loud. The soldier wore the face of one who’d recently done something in their pants that was meant to be done in a chamber pot. When the soldier hesitated, Tomas answered for him. “The Ghost gave him the slip.” It was technically a guess, but not exactly a longshot given the circumstances.