Astaria Thornweave's Arc

Chapter 3 of 3

The ground split. Astaria kept her feet in the ash-dark soil, just as Aldric had told her. Roots wide as tree trunks pushed up through the dirt. Then a crown rose between them. The ancient queen climbed from the earth, taller than any elf, wrapped in green and purple and gold. Her dark eyes found Astaria at once. The queen did not speak. She waited. And Astaria knew, in that silence, that everything hung on what she did next. Astaria had greeted many creatures. Never a ruler older than the mountains. A wood elf bowed to elders. A human knelt to a crown. But the deep roots followed laws she did not know. The wrong bow could insult. Kneeling could name her a subject when she was a guest. She stood frozen, hands cold on her wand, while the queen's gaze pressed on her like weight. A voice came from behind. "You do not bend the knee to her." Astaria turned. A woman stood at the grove's edge, tall and still, a pointed hat shadowing her face. Layered dark robes hung to the ash. A worn satchel swung at her hip, strung with small charms. Astaria had never seen her. The witch stepped closer, unafraid of the queen or the broken ground. "I felt her wake three valleys off," the witch said. Her voice was low and sure. "The deep roots don't kneel. They offer." She reached into her satchel and pulled out a single acorn. She pressed it into Astaria's palm and folded her fingers over it. "Give her something that grows. She rose for your seeds. Answer with one." Astaria's heart pounded. The queen was watching. She had one chance and no time to doubt. She stepped forward, not away. She sank to one knee, not to bow, but to reach the broken earth. With her wand she dug a small hole in the soil between the queen's risen roots. She set the acorn inside. She covered it with her hands and pressed it firm. Then she stood and met the queen's eyes. "I planted for the ones who lost their forest," Astaria said. "I planted for you too. Grow with us." The queen looked at the buried acorn. She looked at Astaria. Slowly, she lowered one ringed hand and touched the fresh mound of soil. Where her fingers met the dirt, a green shoot broke the surface and rose. It curled toward Astaria like a nod. The queen inclined her crowned head. Just once. Then she turned and began to sink back toward the deep roots, but the shaking earth had gone still and calm. Astaria let out her breath. Beside her, the witch watched the shoot climb. "She accepts you," the witch said. "But acceptance is not a promise. She will want to see what your grove becomes. And she will not wait quietly forever."