“It’s important to note,” Councillor Emery jumped in, “that the King’s demands were surprisingly manageable. We assume that was because he feared war. He knew he would lose if he pushed us too far. So he made demands that would still give him the advantage, but that we would be willing to accept. The choice was clear, even if it still pains us all these centuries later.”
“Our decision was made with the full support of the ailing gnomish leaders,” Bronte added. “Their only request was that we protect the rest of the population. They asked us to house your people within our borders, knowing the Lost Cities were the only place the ogres would dare not tread. We promised that any gnomes who chose to live among us would be able to go about their lives any way they wanted. We have been incredibly grateful that you’ve chosen to assist us while you’ve lived here, and share your produce—but that was never a requirement. And it never will be. Our only desire is to shelter and protect your species.”
Unease settled over the audience, no one sure what to say. Eventually a gnome braved the question no one else wanted to ask. “What happened to those infected with the plague?”
The Councillors reached for each other’s hands, and a moment of silence passed.
“Our physicians never ceased searching for a cure,” Bronte promised. “But they were unable to produce one. With their final breaths, your leaders made us swear never to tell anyone what had killed them. They didn’t want your lives darkened by the shadow of the ogres’ threat. And they didn’t want any other creatures to discover the drakostomes existed, for fear they’d find a way to unleash them. Their only other request was that they be brought to Lumenaria to assume their final forms—a silent testimony to the ogres’ atrocities. You know them well, though you likely have not realized. They asked us to call them the Four Seasons Tree.”
The crowd’s reaction to the news was a mix of shock, horror, and anger. But their shouts soon faded to cries of mourning.
“So is the Four Seasons Tree like a Wanderling?” Sophie whispered to Sir Astin. “Where some of their DNA gets incorporated into the seed after they die?”
“No, when gnomes meet their final end, they stand rooted to their final resting place. They’re plantlike in life, and truly plants in death.”
“Please tell me every tree isn’t a dead gnome,” Sophie begged.
“Not every tree. But generally the most spectacular ones.”
Sophie doubted she could ever walk through a forest without feeling sad again. Meanwhile, the crowd’s grief seemed to be morphing into a single cry—a demand for justice so loud it shook the Pures. Sophie could see Councillor Emery fighting for control, but the crowd was whipping into a frenzy. Roots stretched out of the ground and pulsed with a thumping beat, fueling the gnomes’ furious chants.
Finally another Councillor stepped forward—a male Councillor with a shock of black hair pulled into a ponytail. He cupped his hands around his mouth and made a sound like screeching tires and squealing children and yowling cats all competing to see who could be the loudest. It rippled through the air, leaving stunned silence in its wake.
“Thank you, Noland,” Councillor Emery said as Noland reclaimed his place among the other Councillors. “Having a Vociferator in our ranks comes in handy. And we understand your anger. We hear your cries for action. But the fact is, a cure still has not been found. Over the centuries we’ve researched every parasite that ever affected a tree. And we’ve searched high and low for another Panakes. Both efforts have been unsuccessful. We did manage to create medicines that are slowing both the progress of the plague and easing the symptoms. But they’re not enough to risk any action that might lead to further infestation.”
“So those infected have no hope?” someone shouted, and Sophie could’ve sworn the voice was Calla’s. “And the ogres get away with murder?”
“For the moment, the only answer we can give is ‘yes,’?” Emery said sadly. “We cannot punish the ogres for using this weapon without risking that they’ll attempt an attack on those of you here in the Lost Cities. Even if we increase security, we know too little of how they spread the plague. And all it would take is one case to trigger an outbreak.”
More angry shouting followed, and Sophie braced for Councillor Noland to unleash another sonic scream. But the ground in front of the stage rumbled first.
The goblins scrambled to regroup, forming a circle around an enormous brown beast crawling out of the earth.
King Dimitar, the ogre king.
SIXTY-ONE
KING DIMITAR LOOKED every bit as ridiculous as Sophie remembered, between his riveted metal diaper and his hairless gorilla-shaped body.
He also looked extra terrifying.
He wore no cape or crown—just a series of swirling tattoos across his forehead, and yellow stones set into his earlobes. But everything about him testified to his kingship. He moved with authority and confidence, as though he knew he could defeat the goblins towering over him without even needing his evil-looking sword.