Tribes defended the practice of changelings by insisting that it was our only means of survival and an act of desperation that the humans had driven us to. They outnumbered us thirty thousand to one, and they monopolized so many resources—and not only gems and gold, but also medicine, land, and knowledge. Humans tended to rush straight to violence and war when they encountered something they didn’t understand, especially when that something had terrifying superpowers.
In Salem, they slaughtered innocent young women suspected of having a mere fraction of the power that the current Trylle Queen actually possessed. Admittedly, that was back in the seventeenth century, but I didn’t know if that type of hysteria was something humanity could ever really grow out of.
Either way, I couldn’t really fault the tribes for trying to live as far away as possible from humans—while still trying to reap the benefits of what they had to offer, like health care and Wi-Fi and Swarovski crystals.
All of that is to say how pleasantly surprised I was by the beauty of Fulaträsk—at least the parts that I could see. Last night, Rikky had gone to great lengths to tell me of the emphasis that the Omte put on functionality and practicality.
“Beauty serves no purpose for us,” Rikky had said, and even then—when I was under the fog of the Omte sangria—I wondered if that was easier for her to say because she was conventionally attractive. That was definitely not a prominent feature among the tribe, with so many ogres and the frequent facial and body asymmetry. Me—with my left eye slightly larger than my right, my shoulders too broad for a woman my height, my stomach doughy and my thighs thick, my full lips making a lovely smile, my boobs large and almost perky, my legs long, and my skin smooth—no part of my appearance was spectacular, but it wasn’t awful. I was neither a beauty queen nor a monster. Just average. An ordinary Omte.
Rikky was driving me to the appointment to meet the Queen, and she went slowly to prevent backsplash from messing up my nice indigo crocheted sundress. Pan stayed back at her place, sleeping off his hangover. With the speed she was going, Rikky thought it would take nearly forty-five minutes to get to the palace, and that gave me plenty of time to admire the hidden city.
The sky was completely devoid of clouds, and the sunlight shone brightly through the canopy, highlighting the sprawling tree-house city. They were clearly giant tree houses—they had to be, to house the large ogre families I saw hanging out on the balconies, watching as we weaved through the trees.
The unwieldy size appeared to be the only thing they had in common with the luxurious human tree houses I’d seen on TV. At least from the exterior, they appeared to be constructed with many of the same materials that Rikky had used on her house—repurposed barn wood, faded driftwood, mossy branches, and the occasional panel of gray-blue rippling sheet metal.
Somewhat ironically, it was precisely the nature of the materials that made the houses seem so beautiful. The way they were built of discarded bits of wood and upcycled windowpanes, with vines and moss growing over it all, these fabricated structures seemed to merge back into nature. They had a lovely fairy-tale quality.
Finally, I spotted the palace in the middle of a clearing. Much like the Postkontor, it was a short square block of a building, albeit significantly larger. The royal residence sat on a low hill, nearly flush with the water. Moss covered the stone walls all the way up to the rather Gothic-looking vulture statues on the eaves.
The palace blended nicely with the surroundings, and from the outside it looked about how I’d come to envisage the Omte and their kingdom: deceptively imposing and decaying beautifully. Even with my expectations, the large front doors of the palace—twenty-foot-tall iron double doors—were far more rusted than I would’ve thought appropriate for a palace.
Only one guard waited at the door, but he’d let only me in, since Rikky’s name wasn’t on the list to see the Queen. We parted ways, and the guard led me inside, where it looked more like a crypt than the home of the royal family.
The humidity and dank smell of the swamp permeated the place. The large main hall was dimly lit with iron chandeliers, so I couldn’t say for sure, but everything appeared to be covered in a thin layer of moss or slime. When I passed under an arch, I had to duck out of the way of a spiderweb.
Finally, the guard showed me down a narrow corridor and into an office of sorts. It was slightly brighter than the rest of the place, thanks to a large stained-glass window letting sunlight in. However, the picture depicted in glass dampened the effect—a big black vulture stained with bright red blood. All the black and crimson created a very ominous glow.
The guard left me alone, presumably to tell the Queen Regent of my arrival, but I couldn’t really be sure, since he didn’t say anything at all before leaving. There was a sitting area—black velvet furniture (a poor choice of fabric for such a damp climate), with black marble end tables.
One wall was lined with bookshelves brimming with Omte “treasures.” Mostly they were gaudy, jewel-encrusted fantasy statues that looked like they’d be expensive at a Renaissance fair. Lots of detailed dragons guarding brightly colored orbs, and dark birds perched on topaz-encrusted trees, but there were others, like a couple amber crystal snails and sapphire spider figurines.
On another wall was a huge portrait—nearly floor-to-ceiling and almost as wide as the wall, so it had to be around nine-by-six feet. The large crown of twisted bronze on the man’s head meant he was probably the Omte King. The size of the painting may have exaggerated his build, but he looked massive. A big lumbering figure with hair of light bronze-brown, but there was something oddly cheery about his broad face. Maybe it was the slight smile on his full lips, nearly hidden in his bushy beard.
A short time later—just long enough for me to start wondering if I should sit down or go look for the guard—the Queen arrived. Or at least I assumed she was the Queen. I wasn’t immediately sure, based on her attire.
She wore a pantsuit made of black velvet—which again seemed like exactly the wrong fabric for an environment where there is an above-average chance of sitting on a slug or in vulture poop—and she’d accessorized it with big bold pieces of costume jewelry with amber gems and black metals. The whole outfit seemed perfect for a supernatural lawyer in one of those teen soap operas that Hanna loved so much.
The only real indication I had that this woman was the Queen was the brass crown that sat crookedly on her dark hair. It was the same one from the painting, except it was bent now, and it appeared much larger on her smaller head.
“Hello!” I blurted awkwardly and did a clumsy curtsy. “Thank you for meeting me. Your Majesty.” I ended my stammering with a quick bow, and I realized too late that I hadn’t had enough experience with royalty to know how to behave around them.
In the very, very limited interactions I’d had, I was always with somebody who knew exactly what to do, like Finn or Bryn; even in Merellä, when I met with higher-ups, I had Pan or Dagny with me.
Not that it should matter. One of the main tenets that Finn pushed on all of us—me, the kids, even Mia—was to always be prepared.
“Yes, well, sorry to have kept you waiting.” Her words were short and rapid, and not exactly unkind—just quick and disinterested. “Have a seat, won’t you?”