Chapter 1 of Healing Fire

There is tension in the forest tonight. Viola can feel it in her bones. The trees are too still, the air too heavy, like the lull before a storm, though there isn’t a cloud and stars twinkle stark against the blackness of the night. The moon is waning, gibbous, casting a silvery light, though unduly vivid for its phase in the lunation.

A jerky movement catches her eye. She stoops forward, peers out. But the trees remain sentinels, waiting. Something is definitely off. She exhales. Maybe she’s imagining it. Everything has been off since the felling.

Stepping away, she slumps down on her bed and yawns, glancing at the nightstand, at the scroll and painting delivered by a notary from the River City. Picking up the scroll, she pulls at the green ribbon which secures it. The parchment crackles as it unfurls, emitting a whiff of old paper. She tries to focus on the words she has read many times, but a rustling outside draws her attention back to the window. Placing the parchment next to her, she stands to peer out.

Her eyes focus through the gloom.

The motion is subtle to start with; leaves quiver, a twig jerks, then, unmistakeably, branches move as if coming alive. One tree after another, as if charged with an unearthly energy, their clusters of new leaves and catkin tails vibrate, patter and creak in a cacophony of alarm.

She recognises the portent. And it can only mean one thing.

‘No, no, no!’

Launching herself across the room, she scrambles for her clothes, stuffing her feet into harem pants and throwing on a tunic.

‘Gods, not more vreebuiters. Please no,’ she mutters, her voice thin, a little high, and her heart thumping as she grabs her healing bag from the table and steps into the centre of her circular home. She lowers herself through the opening and clambers down, feet thudding against the stairs cut into the centre of the trunk, the scent of oak sap strong.

When her toes find cool earth, she lifts her palm, facing it forwards. And, like light piercing a shadow, an opening reveals itself. She steps through and out into the night.

Against the still, murky dark, the trees’ foreboding is louder, their distress increasing her own. She gulps in the cool air, her chest tight as she waits for the intrinsic feeling of the forest telling her which way to go. She looks up towards the North Star and, turning in that direction, breaks into a run.

This can’t be happening again. Please, for all that’s divine, don’t let this happen. Her feet pound against the woodland floor. At the sound of trickling water, she automatically leaps, clearing a brook, landing on soft earth before her legs scratch against bramble. She crosses a clearing, the moon becoming visible, lungs straining with the shock of going from resting to running in a matter of moments.

The tread of her footfall is joined by a rhythmic four-beat coming from behind: galloping hooves. Centaurs or horses? But only the duke has horses, and his are miles away. Gods, do vreebuiters have horses now? She jerks her head around but can’t see anything in the dingy light. Should she make herself invisible?

She hears a deep snort and throws herself behind the nearest wide trunk.

‘Who goes there?’ a baritone voice demands. The deepness of it is unmistakably centaur.

But she doesn’t recognise who it belongs to and remains silent, holding her breath when she notices it misting in the night air.

‘I’m armed. Reveal yourself,’ the voice demands.

‘Who are you?’ she calls, preparing herself to shadow, camouflaging herself against the tree.

‘Stellan of the guardian army.’ The hooves draw nearer.

Viola lets out a relieved breath. She knows of Stellan; he is her friend’s colleague. ‘I’m a dryad – Viola. Priaorus’s friend.’ She peeks round the trunk before showing herself fully.

Stellan is wearing a leather breastplate and has a bow and quiver slung over his shoulder; his long hair is fastened away from his face. His bay coat is dark with sweat where it meets the bare skin of his torso.

‘I heard the boding – what is it?’ Viola asks, the familiar musky scent of man and horse filling her nostrils as he draws near.

‘Sounds like another raid.’

‘Gods.’ She shakes her head.

Just a week ago, General Aristorius appeared at her home. The head of the centaur army had clutched his plumed helmet and, shifting on each of his four hooves, bowed his head to deliver the words she never thought she’d hear …

‘I have grave news. Your mother’s home has been felled and the wood stolen. We tried to save her. Did everything we could. But I’ve never known a hamadryad outlive her tree. Please accept my sincerest condolences.’

The days since have been a gods-awful blur of formality: identifying the body – jaw slack, skin grey and cold as marble – organising a candle ceremony, the funeral pyre. And an ache in her heart so painful, she hasn’t slept.

‘This shouldn’t be happening,’ she says. ‘We’re supposed to be protected. Who thinks they have the right to flout an ancient law and take on our guardian force?’

‘I don’t know. They did once and we still don’t know how they managed to stay undetected until it was too late.’ His voice trails off, his gaze darting to hers, tentative and wide-eyed as if it has just occurred to him that ‘too late’ refers to her mother’s fate. Blinking once, he adds, ‘But with everything you’re dealing with, you shouldn’t have come.’

‘I couldn’t ignore the call and do nothing.’ Anyway, doing nothing won’t bring her mother back.

‘I understand.’ He nods. ‘We need to go.’

They turn together and, without further interaction, take off at a run.

The air is filled with the sound of their sharp breaths, twigs cracking under racing feet, the lightness of Viola’s steps keeping up with the centaur’s rhythmic canter.

Her mind casts back to the scroll thrown hastily onto her bed, her mother’s last wishes, those she has read many times but is unable to accept. My darling Viola. If you are reading this, I have sadly left you, and that thought alone breaks my heart. ‘Mine too, Mother,’ she mutters to herself, eyes stinging and the trees around her blurring. She blinks a few times.

Shouting is heard ahead, movement visible. They are joined by more of the guardian army – armour-clad torsos, quivers strapped over shoulders. And her own kind: barefooted etherealness, ear-points prominent through long hair, dresses flowing and healing bags flapping against their sides. Horses appear, maybe nine or ten, dodging round trunks and ducking under branches, wearing the recognisable livery of the court, its gold trim shimmering in the moonlight.

She has barely registered her surprise at their presence when a thud of hooves beats the ground to her right, heat radiating from the horse’s closeness, its scent and heavy panting. She glances over and sees a chestnut coat lathered with sweat, an ornate saddle and a long black boot pressing into its flank. ‘Keep moving!’ the rider bellows, voice deep, rumbling through her. A glimpse upwards reveals the cut of a strong jaw.

Treading on something sharp – a stone, maybe – her foot lifts suddenly. She hobbles once and looks down before taking another step. The chestnut forges ahead.

‘Is that the duke?’ somebody asks.

Eyes catch with nods of recognition, a collective unease in words unsaid.

If the duke is here, it must be grave.

‘Which way?’ Stellan asks from her left.

‘Still northwards.’ Viola huffs, peering up at the sky, letting her instinct be guided by the trees, an intuition gifted to all dryads.

Her returning focus sees the chestnut dropping from view. There’s a sharp metal clunk and the heavy thud of its rider hitting the ground. She hears him cry out. The horse lets out a low grunt, unmistakeably one of pain.

The rider scrambles out of the way and rolls to standing, brushing himself down. Other riders dismount and run to him with murmurs of concern. But the horse remains prone, lifting its head a couple of times, then lying motionless.

Viola’s eyes dart over the horse’s body. ‘Its leg is caught.’

A centauress drops to her knees by the horse’s hind legs; one of them is sticking out at an awkward angle. She reaches down, but the horse grunts again, lifting its head, the white of its eye showing as it swivels. ‘It doesn’t look good.’ She retracts her hands and places them on her hips just below her leather breastplate. Her long creamy hair is braided back, revealing a close clip over her ears. She has the golden coat of a palomino.

‘It’s a bloody gin trap,’ a raspy voice says from behind. Viola cocks her head to see a roan-coated centaur with a mohawk peering down.

‘My poor horse.’ The rider, a tall human who appears unscathed apart from patches of earth and leaf debris sticking to his dark uniform, crouches down next to them. He stares at the horse’s caught leg and strokes its rump. ‘Can we free it?’

‘We’ll have a shot at it.’ The centaur with the mohawk lowers himself to his front knees. ‘Best if you try to keep ’er calm.’

The rider doesn’t move but continues to study his horse’s leg.

‘Calypso, hold her leg steady.’ The roan addresses the palomino before turning to the others closing in on them. ‘Stand back.’ He turns to the rider again. ‘Your Grace, perhaps you should move too in case your horse kicks.’ Then he addresses Viola, his focus on the bag slung across her body. ‘You have healing supplies; can you assist if we can prise this thing open?’

‘Of course,’ Viola says. ‘I can channel newyfrey to heal too.’ Her voice trails off but her breathing has sharpened. The fallen rider must be the Duke of Belinos. She has never met the duke before.

‘Good,’ the centaur says.

The rider, the duke, looks at the others. ‘We should only need one healer.’

He glances briefly at Viola. Their close proximity affords her a good view of the deepest blue eyes she has ever looked on. She inhales, her heart missing a beat.

‘Two of my men stay,’ the duke continues, raising his voice. It has a deep-timbred pitch that makes her skin tingle as if someone has just run a finger down her spine. ‘The rest of you go on,’ he says. ‘Keep your eyes out for those traps. Bastards. There’ll be more.’

A hand lands on Viola’s shoulder, making her jump. ‘You alright with this? I can stay and help.’ It’s a dryad she knows, Fern, with green hair. She doesn’t miss Fern’s glance at the duke, the subtle pinking of her cheeks.

‘I’m fine – you go.’ Viola nods, giving a tight-lipped smile. The others take off, swishing tails the last thing she sees as they are swallowed by the greyness of night.

Six of them are left alone. One of the duke’s guards has dismounted and is holding two horses. The other is standing next to the duke. The palomino centaur moves in to take hold of the horse’s trapped leg. A few soft snaps of trampled forest debris are audible amongst their heaving breaths as she positions herself, hands gripping near where the trap is digging in, moonlight reflecting with the muted glint of iron.

‘There must be a mechanism in this thing. I can’t see clearly.’ The roan centaur grasps the device and heaves. His arm muscles strain, his knuckles white. ‘Damn it!’

The trap parts just a finger’s breadth, its teeth unlacing. The horse grunts, lifting its head. Biceps straining, the palomino braces.

‘Alright, Venus.’ The duke, who is crouched near the horse’s head, places one palm flat against its cheek, stroking its neck with the other. ‘Good girl, calm now.’

The horse stills, focusing on the duke, the whites of her eyes still visible.

Viola watches them but averts her gaze when his blue eyes catch hers. Something leaps inside her.

The roan centaur grimaces. ‘Come on, you bastard!’

‘You’re nearly there,’ the palomino says.

The trap opens with an audible grind. The roan falls backwards, letting go to catch himself.

‘It’s bleeding badly,’ the palomino says, raising the leg a little higher.

‘Let me have a look.’ Viola steps forward and takes hold of the leg; the palomino releases it at the same time and moves away.

She turns it gently left and right. A series of swollen welts runs up from the fetlock, blood seeping and dripping to the ground, the surrounding coat matted with red.

‘Trap was sprung tight as I’ve ever seen,’ the roan says, standing back up.

‘Who do you think it was?’ Viola asks, reaching into the healing bag slung across her body, fingers fumbling for one of the cloths she’s prepared with bran and herbs.

‘No doubt the work of vreebuiters.’ He sighs, tugging at a lace on his breast plate. ‘Given the sophistication of that trap.’

Vreebuiters – wood pirates. Tears cloud her vision. Thank the gods for her gift, keeping busy, scavenging the forest for plants, preparing them for healing – anything to stop this constant ache of loss.

The hoof grows heavy on her thigh. With one hand still holding the leg, she unfurls the dressing before laying it carefully over the wound. Blinking a few times, she focuses as best she can on wrapping it around and applying pressure.

The horse grunts, lifting its head again. The two centaurs place their hands on the horse’s rump and the top of its leg.

‘Alright, girl.’ The duke continues to stroke the horse’s neck.

‘There’ll be poison in those spikes,’ the roan centaur says.

‘I put garlic and willow bark in my poultices to help with that,’ Viola says, reaching her foot out, toes searching until they find an exposed root from the nearest tree. ‘And I can speed up healing by channelling newyfrey.’ She looks at the duke. ‘If you’ll permit me, Your Grace.’

He dips his head. ‘Of course. Anything you can do.’

There’s a rapid flutter above. They all look up. Just visible amongst the leaves, hundreds of pairs of eyes twinkle in the moonlight. The oak leaf sprites have arrived to watch Viola heal. Word travels amongst the trees, and they always appear for their favourite spectacle.

Viola acknowledges them with a quick nod. She loves the sprites, especially now; a reassuring presence amidst the peril of this night.

‘Hold her as still as you can,’ she says to the two centaurs and closes her eyes.

Like the draw of a magnet, her foot connects to the root and holds fast.

The tree’s life force flows into her body, a mercurial pressure which slithers into her veins, surging up her legs and wrapping around her torso. It takes all her inner strength to channel the power to her arms, willing it to move, heaving it until she senses a swell towards her hands.

The horse stiffens. Moments later her pulse answers with a strong beat. Heat streams through Viola’s hand.

‘Your fingers are glowing,’ one of the guards remarks. Tiny breaths gasp above them.

‘That’s fine. Hold for a while longer.’ Her back aches. The hoof grows heavier. When she feels the pressure recede, with a long exhale, she releases her grasp and pulls out twine from her bag with one hand and winds it around the poultice.

‘Keep this on for two days.’ She knots the two ends together before gently returning the hoof to the ground. ‘It’s really important she rests. The wound will heal quickly, but the process will tire her.’

The horse lifts her head; the duke and the centaurs step back at the same time.

Throwing her front feet out, the horse heaves herself to standing, shaking her whole body like a dog shedding water before resting the wounded hind leg on the tip of its hoof.

‘I’ll give you some powdered acorn,’ Viola says, looking up into the blue eyes of the duke, his blond hair flopping over his forehead, the sense of his strength washing over her. She swallows, the familiar ache of post-healing fatigue starting to snake through her body. ‘Split the contents into three and mix with honey. Put one dose into her food each night. It will drive out any lingering poison. But no more than that – acorns can be harmful to horses if taken in large amounts.’

‘I understand.’ The duke dips his head. ‘I’m eternally grateful. And one day I hope to repay your kindness.’

‘We just need to catch them, whoever these bastards are. Make them pay for what they took.’ Spitting the words, she hears the bitterness in her tone, feels her body grow hot, then, barely audibly, mutters, ‘No one else must suffer the same …’ Her voice tails off, tears pricking behind her eyes as she reaches into her satchel and places a vial of powder into his outstretched hand, her fingers brushing against his. Something strikes her chest inside.

Their gazes catch.

Her body tingles.

It feels like the whole world stutters.

‘We won’t stop until we do.’ His expression remains solemn.

Held captive for that brief moment, Viola can do nothing but stare. When the duke turns to his guard and hands him the vial, she realises she has been holding her breath.

‘We must press on.’ The duke hands the reins of his horse to the guard. ‘Willem, walk my horse back to the barracks. I’ll take yours.’ He strides away and mounts Willem’s horse, the other guard drawing alongside. Just before they spur on, with a crease in his brow, he glances once in Viola’s direction.

That feeling hits her chest again.

‘Come then, Venus. Come on, girl,’ the remaining guard says in a soothing voice to the horse. He dips his head at Viola before turning and leading the horse away. The muscles in Venus’s rump tense before each hoof-fall, her limp no more than a slightly awkward hobble as she ducks under a low branch before stepping wide to avoid a thicket of bramble.

Viola sinks to her knees, her limbs leaden and sore. Powerful healing always saps her energy, but now the sensation is intense. She has never healed a horse before and wonders whether that is why she feels particularly exhausted. She contemplates time to recover, leaning against a tree trunk and reaching her hands back, palms flattening against the cool, gnarly bark, fingertips tucking into the grooves. A moment of peace; a chance to feel centred.

‘You need to rest,’ the palomino says.

Viola looks up.

‘I know what tree-healing can do to a dryad,’ the palomino adds, watching her. Both centaurs hover with arms crossed, feet shifting over the ground cover, the leather of their armour creaking softly.

Viola glances at the sprites, who, now the spectacle is over, peer down with slowing blinks. One by one the blinks extinguish. Their little wings patter, then soar like a murmuration into the night sky.

A sharp breeze hits her face, followed by the rustle of leaves. And like a wave it continues behind them, moving through the forest, telling her danger still lurks ahead.

‘I will later.’ She makes to stand, but dizziness gives her pause. ‘Our skills may be needed.’

The centaurs don’t move.

Viola glares at them. ‘We cannot afford to compromise our defence by resting here. Our oaks must be protected. If word spreads and humans discover their true value, the vreebuiters will return.’ Her voice rises, desperation in her tone. ‘And if they can take one tree, they’ll come back for another, and then another, until there are no red oaks left, and no oaks means no dryads. We’ll fade to extinction, become the stuff of legend and hearsay.’ She is met with wide eyes. Her voice softens. ‘And then there will be no use for a guardian army, because our islands will become barren and desolate.’

‘We hear you, Viola, but you should rest.’ The roan steps forward, unfolding his arms in a pleading gesture. ‘You can’t help if you’re too tired to heal.’

Viola closes her eyes and sighs, dropping her head for a moment. ‘I have to try.’ She knows she will pay for this recklessness, risking a hibernation sleep. But no way is she giving in tonight. Forcing as much resolve into her voice as she can muster, she says, ‘We must go.’ Ignoring the pain, she stands and wills herself to walk, placing one foot in front of the other, but her leg gives way and she stumbles.

The roan lurches forward and grasps her shoulders.

She can’t move. Her body throbs with a bone-deep ache. ‘Just a moment,’ she croaks, falling forward to rest on her hands. She shuts her eyes, trying to temper the fatigue with deep breaths. ‘I’ll be fine in a bit.’ She waves her hand in no particular direction. ‘Maybe you should go on. Leave me here.’

The palomino stoops down to make eye contact. ‘You shouldn’t be here on your own while there’s still danger.’

‘Then I’ll make myself invisible. I have my magic and can use it to camouflage myself against this trunk.’ She gestures to it.

‘Shadowing takes much from dryads,’ the centaur says. ‘And after conducting newyfrey, you might be too weak.’

Viola sighs and sits back on her haunches, wincing when her body objects to the movement. ‘We need our island defended. Every centaur, every guard from the duke’s court to be a show of force.’ The sound of distant shouting makes her pause, and when it ceases, she looks at each of them pointedly. ‘We all know what’s at stake.’

Comprehension flashes across the centauress’s face. She purses her lips and squeezes Viola’s shoulder. ‘I know. I understand. Sorry. We’ll go.’ She nods at the roan.

‘I could stay,’ he says.

‘No,’ Viola says. ‘As I said before, I’ll hide if need be.’

‘Alright. We’ll come back and find you when this is over.’ The palomino clasps Viola’s shoulder before exchanging glances with the roan. They pirouette together and canter off in the direction of the others.

Viola collapses back against the tree, every part of her aching. The trunk softens against her as if in consolation, creating an indentation of comfort she nestles into. She wishes she didn’t suffer after healing, but she has no choice and would have become a hindrance if she had insisted on carrying on. She leans her head back and looks up.

The first rays of sunlight filter a rosy hue through the branches, which dip and lift on the dawn breeze. There is an earthy freshness in the air. She can hear the trickling and gurgling of a new brook but, marring that, distant shouting.

She thinks about the scroll she left on her bed; her mother’s wishes tied up with a green ribbon.

You are half human. Your father was from Spirea …

She frowns as she wrestles with stubborn disbelief. It can’t be true. Yet her mother’s words stated it plainly. I’m not fully dryad.

She’d always known there was something different about herself. Her mother’s hair was ashen, her eyes bright blue, yet Viola’s tresses are a deep chestnut, thicker and darker than those of any dryad she knows, and her eyes are the palest green. Unlike her mother, she can travel away from her tree, is not reliant on its life for her own. The only thing they shared was a neat point to the helix of their ears. At least that is undeniably dryad, but half Spirean? She knows nothing about Spirea except that it is a dangerous place – a country in the Southern Continent that takes six days to sail to.

Under the stars of Gemini, I gave birth to twins … opposing forces; a beautiful boy we named Sarbast and you, my angel.

She never knew she had a brother. How has she no memory of him?

… your father and brother disappeared on a trip to Spirea and I never saw them again. All my life I tried to find them …

Did he survive? Will she ever find out?

She yawns, nestles deeper into the tree and …

A twig snaps.

Her eyes spring open.