Tree Singer Jacci Turner (classic book list .txt) 📖

letting the salty taste fill her mouth. Odd how she didn’t take offense at the ‘invalid’ remark. That was just the way he talked, as much a part of him as the gravelly voice.

“What happened?” Rafe asked. He pulled up his pant leg and examined the wound. No blood, no scab, only healing skin with a crescent of pink scars. “It’s tender but . . .”

“You can thank that one.” Adven waved his coffee mug at Mayten.

“What?” Rafe seemed at a loss for words.

“What do you remember?” Adven asked. He looked genuinely interested.

“I remember stepping on that damn trap. Those things have been outlawed in the kingdom since they were invented. ’Tis not an honest way to hunt. I remember screaming bloody murder for help. I remember you coming to get that thing off me. I think I must’ve passed out then. The only thing I remember after that was you slapping my face and helping me stumble back to camp.”

“I couldn’t very well carry you,” Adven said. “You may look like a twig but you’re heavy as an ox.”

The woodsman shrugged. “Mostly, I remember the pain. Like someone snapped my leg clean in two.”

“Your leg was broken, all right. I’m afraid I didn’t help things trying to get you out of that trap.”

“Not sure if I can put weight on it yet.” Rafe winced as he stretched the leg flat on the ground.

“You should have Cather look at it when we get back or one of the king’s healers,” Mayten said. “I’m not certain I put it all right.”

“I remember when you put your hands on me.” Rafe stared at the fire, plate forgotten in his hands. “I was so afraid you were a witch, that your hands would burn me out of existence. But as soon as you touched me, this . . . peace flowed all the way from my head ta my leg. I ain’t felt nothin’ like it.” He took a deep breath. His haughty expression was gone, as was his scowl. “Then the pain went down and I could breathe again.”

He carefully set his plate to one side, then looked directly at her. “I was raised ta fear singers. Heard lots of stories growing up. Almost like ghost stories. That’s why I come, ta keep an eye on the king’s children, keep ’em safe from ya. But I’ll not believe them stories now. Never again will I let someone speak ill of ya. I’m thankful, Singer. I would’ve lost my leg and my living if it weren’t for you.”

Mayten felt a flush creep up her neck. She didn’t know what to say.

“Don’t get a big head,” Adven said. “You’ve proven your worth as a healer. We’re still waiting for you to prove yourself as a singer.”

He turned away and began to clean the cook pot. Mayten watched in disbelief. Had she read the man wrong? He’d seemed almost to like her when she’d first woken.

Perhaps she’d been dreaming—

“What do we do today? Stay or move on?” Adven asked.

The change of subject left her reeling.

“We’ll stay here,” she said with as much authority as she could muster. “I need more time with the trees.”

Adven was right. She hadn’t proven herself a true singer. Not yet.

Chapter Thirty

Mayten took her time finding the right tree. She walked among the birches, away from the lake. To her dismay, several of the trees she tried to listen to were already dead. The trees stood tall just like their companions, but no matter how hard she listened, they had no voice. She’d left Anatolian with the prince at the lake and could hear his happy barking. His joy was a stark contrast to the emptiness she felt from the trees.

The first and only time she’d accidentally taken too much energy from a plant she’d felt it die. Cold, empty, alone.

Just like these trees.

Death’s darkness washed over her as she moved from tree to tree. Mayten shivered, feeling as though winter held her in its icy grasp. Someone was indeed draining life from the trees. Someone who’d been here recently.

Should they go back and tell the king? He had said they were only gathering information. Or should she keep looking, hoping to stumble upon whoever was draining the trees? That seemed as likely as finding a teardrop in the ocean.

Her mother’s book had been crystal clear on one point: taking the life of living things was the only offense among tree singers that warranted death.

If she did find the person responsible, they had to die for their crimes.

Mayten glanced around, half expecting to see a dark figure materialize in the trees ahead.

She needed more time. Time to think, to organize her thoughts.

But first, she needed to find a living tree.

She wandered deeper into the forest, touching trees—fat trees, skinny trees, trees gnarled from disease. To her great relief, many of these trees still sang with life energy. She needed one at least two hundred years old, old enough to have memories of the last time trees had died in this manner, but not so old she’d be overwhelmed by too many memories.

Finally, she found a white pine tree—alive and willing to talk. She made herself comfortable on the ground by its trunk. A pang squeezed her heart when she reached out to put a hand on Anatolian’s head. She so missed having him by her side.

He’s having fun at the lake, she reminded herself.

She closed her eyes and began. :Hello, Auntie.:

:Hello, Daughter.: Of course, the tree did not speak in words. Their communication flowed in pictures, images of shade, branches sheltering from the rain. With a start, Mayten realized she had no trouble understanding these images.

She wasn’t quite sure how to begin. :I need help.:

:Anything, child, within my ability to offer.:

:Can you tell me who or what is hurting the trees?:

The tree sent more images—the face of a man, dying trees, the upsetting of the seasons—confirming what she’d come to suspect.

Someone was murdering trees again. Just like the evil singer had done two hundred