Crown of Three by J. D. Rinehart Page A

from. That way lay Ritherlee. That way lay home.
    How far is it? Is it even possible to walk such a distance?
    She marched to the tree line. On the way, she passed a tent in which she heard two people arguing.
    â€œWhat does he know about being commander?” a man grumbled. “He’s barely older than a squire. I don’t trust him.”
    â€œBe quiet, Stown,” said a woman. “You don’t want him to hear you talking like that.”
    â€œI hope he does. He keeps telling us it’s time to fight, but what does he know? That girl is just going to get in the way.”
    He means Fessan , Elodie thought. And me. Well, I won’t be in their way any longer. I never asked for any of them to fight for me—and I don’t want them to. Pulling her torn dress up from around her ankles, she stepped into the Weeping Woods.

CHAPTER 9
    A lmost immediately, Elodie lost all sense of direction. Dense firs enveloped her, rearing up on every side like silent giants. The darkness intensified, shadows transforming into thick black forms, as if the night itself were coming alive. The noises of the camp died away, leaving Elodie alone with the soft sounds of her own footfalls.
    The ground was a mossy carpet that rose and fell in a series of shallow ditches and low ridges. In the corner of her eye, she could have sworn she saw it rippling, like the surface of the great river she’d crossed earlier that day. Questing needles snagged her dress, and branches seemed to move of their own accord, reaching out to block her path.
    Except there was no path.
    Elodie stopped. She looked left. She looked right. Every direction was the same.
    â€œThe road leads where it will.”
    The voice came from behind her. She whirled around, heart racing, eyes wide in the darkness. There was nobody there.
    Trident had carried her far from home, far from everything that was familiar. Yet even here in the Weeping Woods of Isur, the wretched voices were still with her. Would she ever be rid of them?
    â€œOh, be quiet!” Elodie snapped at the trees.
    She stumbled on, using her hands to force her way through the mass of hanging needles. Thick bracken rose up, as if it were trying to hold her back. She waded through the undergrowth toward an opening in the trees, and broke through at last into a small glade.
    She stood, panting, her dress in ribbons, her hands scratched and bleeding, head tilted back to look up at the stars. Was she still facing south?
    In the glade, someone was sobbing.
    But of course nobody was there.
    Despair crept over Elodie. She sank to the ground as the sobbing grew louder. Another voice drifted down from the branches over her head, chanting what sounded like a marching song. A third voice hissed something in a language she didn’t understand. More voices joined in, until Elodie was surrounded by groans and sighs, whispered taunts and pleas.
    The noise built and built until she couldn’t stand it anymore, and she got to her feet, running across the glade and back into the forest. If only she could run fast enough, maybe she could leave them behind.
    â€œShut up!” she shouted at the branches as she crashed through them. “Just leave me alone!”
    Elodie ran blindly, driving her way through the trees, until she could run no more. She stopped again, her breath like a knife in her throat, her scratched face wet with tears. Around her, the firs had given way to trees that were older and more gnarled. Giant, twisted oaks loomed over slender stands of hazel and willow. In the tortured bark of their ancient trunks, Elodie thought she could see faces.
    One face moved.
    She shrieked, stumbling backward. The face’s two eyes blinked. A man stepped out from behind a holly bush. He wore a battered leather jerkin with a dagger hanging from his belt. His face was covered with grime.
    â€œStay away from me!” Elodie yelled. “My father will kill you if you don’t!”
    She