The King stroked his beard. When strange wisdom sprouted from the lips of boys, it might be wise to take heed. “I have been stuck in the palace for too long. Perhaps I have forgotten what the wood means to us all. I have been too complacent, ceding to others’ words and priorities for too long.” Quercus took himself in hand. “But I cannot put things right if all is lost this night. What do you propose?”

The bodyguards almost protested. The King was seeking guidance from a mere lad!

Ark had no such qualms. “You must summon those who are true to you and do it now!”

“How?”

“With all the authority your word used to command. The fireworks are done and a massacre is about to take place if we do not prevent it!” Quercus was the best leader they had. It was up to him.

The King was old, but new energy suddenly surged like sap through his veins. “We are Dendrans, yes?”

“In your service, my liege!” said each bodyguard.

This was more like it. “Now I am yours to serve, sire!” Ark joined in. It might be his plan, but without Quercus, all good intentions would crumple like fallen leaves.

“Moi, too!” said Flo, pulling out her other companions. “Us Rootshooters from the deeps be loyal to the last.”

There was a pride in Quercus’s breast that he had not felt in years. He drew his sword from his scabbard and strode toward the doors. “To the fight, then!”

43• TO BATTLE

As King Quercus pulled open the double doors to the inner courtyard, the scene that greeted him filled his heart with confusion. The celebration continued unaware. Lords, ladies, dukes, and duchesses happily chatting away, feasting on all that the forest and harvest had to offer. Why should they worry when they were surrounded by well-armed protectors, brought back to the castle from the armories of Moss-side? Those same protecters, the King now saw, had weapons drawn and ready to cut laughter off at the roots.

The fireworks were finally over. It was the King’s only chance. Would his people still trust him? “To arms!” Quercus shouted out across the square as a hundred puzzled faces turned toward him. “To arms! Arborium is betrayed!” Friends he’d grown up with took in the King’s red face, his ceremonial sword never before unsheathed except to pass out knighthoods. This was no pleasing harvest play.

Grasp crawled under a table, hoping to avoid any personal injury, and Flint, annoyed at discovery, melted into the shadows to remind his soldiers they were no longer bodyguards but butchers in the making.