Tree Singer by Jacci Turner (best novels for beginners TXT) 📕

Mayten’s eyes burned at the mention of their lost teammate.

“Of course.” The king raised his hand apologetically. “I heard of your loss and am deeply sorry for it. One of our best woodsmen has volunteered to accompany you.”

He turned to the one person Mayten didn’t yet know. “This is Rafe.”

The surly man dipped his head.

Adven nodded back.

Two grumpy peas in a pod. This trip gets more fun by the second.

“Thank you, sire,” Adven said, his manner stiff as a fireplace poker.

“And Count Monroe.” The king nodded at the older gentleman sitting next to Nan. “The count is a respected historian. He’s traveled far and wide and knows more about these lands, on a historical level, than anyone I’ve ever met. He might be of particular help to you, Mayten. He has asked to go along, and I have granted his wish.”

Mayten breathed a sigh of relief, but Adven’s eyes darkened. He likely thought the older man would slow them down, but she didn’t mind. At least there would be one person who didn’t hate her along with them.

A quester who hated singers, a prince who would prefer the company of her best friend, a scientist who thought—who knew what Nan thought?—and a scary-looking woodsman. What could possibly go wrong?

She glanced at Count Monroe, and he gave her a reassuring smile. It helped a little, but she doubted she’d be getting any sleep tonight.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Contrary to Mayten’s fears, she slept deeply in the soft bed, Anatolian on the woven rug on the floor next to her, so deeply she didn’t wake until the breakfast bell rang.

She yanked on her borrowed dress as she dashed down the stairs, Anatolian at her heels. Edward was waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs, calling Anatolian outside as she hurried into the dining room. Cather showed up a moment later, looking just as rushed and harried as Mayten felt, her hair billowing in a disheveled cloud around her.

The same group gathered together for breakfast. Still no sign of the queen.

The children were so excited to get to play with Anatolian that they raced through the meal. Mayten’s stomach was too bound up in knots to eat much even though the cooked oats and fruit looked delicious. As she started to get up and retrieve the dog, the king touched her sleeve.

“I’m wondering, Mayten, if we might walk a bit in the garden before you start your packing? Edward can get Anatolian for the children when they’re done eating.”

“Of course,” she said, curious to hear what the king had to say. Perhaps she’d figure out a way to get more information from him before they departed—like the story about what happened to their last singer.

She followed him out of the dining room and down the long hall, turning into a wide doorway that led to the kitchen.

“I hope you don’t mind taking a shortcut,” he said, voice raised above the kitchen noise. “As you can tell, I’m not one to stand on ceremony.”

“Not at all,” she said, looking around at the bustling staff. The chaos reminded her of home, though this kitchen looked nothing like her da’s kitchen.

They stood at one end of a large room with a table running down the middle. Large pots and ladles hung along the walls and a huge fire burned in the fireplace against the far wall. The pots were made of gleaming brass, covering the walls like beautiful artwork.

The king led her along one side, then slipped out a side door leading into the gardens. They walked in silence, her ears ringing after the noisy kitchen. The sandy path crunched softly with each step and she found herself admiring flower beds luxurious with spring flowers of fuchsia and red intermixed with the enormous ornamental bushes she had seen from the lake.

The air had a bit of a nip, but the sun was up, and a sweet aroma filled the air. Up close, the garden’s beauty took her breath away. There were plants she’d never seen and she committed them to memory, determined to tell her da every detail when she got home.

The king walked silently next to her seeming to sense her need to take it all in. It was the quietest she had seen the man.

“I’m sorry,” she finally said. “You wanted to talk to me, and here I am gawking at the garden. I’ve never seen anything like it in my life and my da is a master gardener. He would love to see this.”

The king smiled. “It’s all Nan. She has quite an eye for color and a way of making things grow. Her mother is like that too. At least she was . . . before she got sick. Perhaps your father could come someday. We’d love to have him visit.”

“He would enjoy that.” She could picture her da sniffing, digging, tasting the dirt. He would be in his element—

“Yesterday you asked why we have no singers. I wanted to give you the full story, before you heard gossip from those who don’t really know. This story was handed down from my father and grandfather. Yes, it has grown over time and become large as legend, but it is the most accurate answer I can give you.”

Mayten stiffened, unsure what to expect.

The king clasped his hands behind his back and paced back and forth in front of her on the path. “Singers were held in high esteem back in my great-grandfather’s day. When my grandfather was but a boy, however, one of our singers went bad.”

Mayten’s head whirled, then stuck, like a saw blade jammed in a tree. “Went bad? Whatever do you mean?”

“The details are a bit sketchy, but it is my understanding that a singer can sing life into something, is that true?”

“Not exactly,” Mayten said, struggling to think clearly. “Every living thing has life in it—its life energy. A singer can encourage that life to expand, making it healthier, directing its growth.”

She paused, then continued. “In much the same way