This is not the same forest.
I’ve been walking in the Catskill mountains, where the trees are oaks and beeches, and the summer sun approaches sunset. The trees around me now are evergreens and pine, and a thin layer of frost covers the ground’s sparse vegetation. Just as concerning is the sun: it hangs low in the east, just an hour or so past sunrise.
In a single blink and breath and step, I’ve found myself in a coniferous forest biome, at the start of fall, in the early morning.
I look down at my clothes. Everything looks the same to me. My boots are new but not that new; my windbreaker and cargo pants are a little dirty from when I tripped over a root an hour ago. What felt like an hour ago. No, it probably was an hour ago. There are no signs of the wear and tear I’d expect from hiking for weeks. Judging by that, it’s unlikely that I’d entered some fugue state and wandered to a completely different part of the country without remembering it.
I take two steps back. Nothing changes. I don’t reappear back in the Catskill mountains, as I hoped. The frost crunches underfoot, and I look behind me. No footprints. I take a step forward and glance down. Now, I’m leaving footprints. I crouch to stare at the imprint of my sole and touch the dirty ice. It feels real to me. As an experienced hiker, I’ve learned to trust my senses, but everything—including the pristine forest—is telling me that I literally appeared here.
I take my phone out of my pocket and stare at the lock screen. According to it, the date and year is 6:30pm, July 12th, 2022. That’s what it should be. I have no missed calls, texts, or cell signal. I slide my phone back into my pocket and shrug my pack off my shoulder. Clipped on the back is a personal locator beacon—a simple device that can send SOS signals. Mine is the older kind, so it can’t send text messages, but once I activate the switch, it will continuously beam my location to any nearby rescue services.
(I’ve never used it before, but I have a habit of expecting worst-case scenarios. When your job is literally to manage disasters, you tend to over prepare. Sure, hurricanes aren’t the same as getting lost in the woods, but the mindset isn’t that different.)
I flick the switch. Instead of blinking green, it blinks red. I try it again. And a second time. It won’t blink green. I changed the batteries a few days ago. I know it’s charged. The satellite connection is supposed to work over empty ocean: why the hell isn’t it working now?
I laugh. It’s a high pitched, helpless sound, as if panic is being squeezed out of my lungs like air from a balloon. I let myself laugh for a few more seconds. Then, I stop myself and exhale. I open my pack and take stock of my supplies.
My wallet’s still there, and everything is still in it. My Florida driver’s license with my full name—Chandrika Sri Lakshmi Trivedi—and my blurry, unsmiling face. All my credit cards, debit cards, library cards, smoothie punch cards, and emergency cash. Clearly, I haven’t been kidnapped, robbed, and dumped somewhere else, though I might guess that by my still-present phone. I put the wallet back and look through everything else.
Two sets of socks, two bras, two underwear, a thermal undershirt, a long-sleeved overshirt, a t-shirt, and pants. A first aid kit, a hygiene kit, enough trail food to last me two days without rationing, a battered copy of The Hobbit. And in the last zipper, a water filter, matches, a map of the Catskills, a compass, flashlight, tarp, whistle, and a mostly-full water bottle. All packed in the exact order as before.
My original plan was a day-hike. I left at sunrise, walked along an established trail, and after a peaceful trek, I would have driven to my cabin just after sunset. I always prepare for the worst: on the off chance of injury or drastically losing my way, I’d be fine for an extra day or two. But I am—I was—in a national park. I was by popular hiking trails, and I charged my locator beacon. For every realistic scenario, I should have been fine.
I want to scream. I won’t, but I want to.
I haven’t prepared for this.
I’m on my own.
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I get a short respite from my awful luck. After a short fifteen minute walk, I hear the sound of running water, and I change directions. I hope for a stream or creek of some kind, but as the gurgle of water turns into a roar, I eventually come upon a proper river. It’s maybe two hundred feet wide—but the water, from what I can tell, is both deep and fast moving. Judging by the dry, pale banks, it hasn’t rained for some time.
On the other side of the river, to my relief, there are signs of civilization. Someone has cleared away the woods—there are stacked piles of lumber and tree stumps. If I squint, I can make out what look like buildings. The relief almost makes me dizzy, but I take in another deep breath. If I pass out and drown in the river now, I’d deserve it.
I’m not in complete wilderness, as I've feared. Part of me thought I ended up somewhere in northern Canada, where the population density per square mile is so small that you have to use decimal points. There, finding another person is like winning the lottery.
I follow the flow of the river, keeping an eye on the other side, hoping that I run into the loggers. I try to keep sense of my direction with my compass, but I soon give up. My luck hasn’t held—my compass is wrong. I’ve tracked the sun as it rises, and my compass insists that the sun has risen from the west.
When it’s approximately noon (again), I got an inkling of why.
A second sun is rising on the horizon.
“Fuck,” I whisper.
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I finally let myself panic. I set a timer on my phone for five minutes, and for the duration, I allow myself to hyperventilate and blubber and mutter disbelieving curses. I’m not mad. Or maybe I am, but that’s not useful to consider, so I’ll continue with the assumption that I’m not.
I’m not mad, but I’m much more lost than I had thought.
The timer rings, and I stop crying.
So. I'm not crazy. But I’m somewhere where there are two suns. Not the earth I know, clearly. Has my plan significantly changed with this information?
No, it hasn’t. I still need to find people, and barring that, I need to find shelter. There are a hundred questions I can let myself consider (Will they be human? Will they be friendly? Will we be able to communicate?), but those are bridges I’ll cross later. I need to survive this first.
----------------------------------------
I pause briefly to drink from my water bottle and almost choke when I hear a distant, rumbling sound. It takes a second to comprehend it—hoof-beats. Horses? I screw the water bottle shut and look around.
I’m right! A group of ten or so people (human, as far as I can tell) are riding on horseback along the other side of the bank. I jump up and down, waving my hands, and shout.
“Help me!” I take out the whistle from my pocket and blow three short, high-pitched bursts. “Over here, on the other side of the river!” I use the whistle again.
Even over the sound of the river, they can hear me, and the people on horseback slow down and come to a stop on the other side. I can’t make out their features well—they all look like men with green coats of some kind, and all have skin several shades darker than mine. They arrange themselves in a wedge formation, and the man at the front nudges his horse closer to the bank.
“Hello, stranger!” calls the man, his hands cupped around his mouth. “Why have you hailed us from the far side?”
They speak English. With a vaguely British accent too. That is… unexpected. Helpful, certainly. Bizarre, though, and something to consider later.
“I got lost in the forest!” I shout back. “Can you help me find my way back?”
“Why were you in the forest?”
“I don’t know!”
There is a pause at that.
“Elaborate.”
There’s no easy way to explain that I’ve suddenly found myself in the middle of a different forest in a world that’s not my own.
“I would, if I knew how!” I clear my throat. It’s a little dry. “Can I explain from a closer distance, please? Is there a bridge somewhere? Or shallow water?”
They’re all talking amongst themselves. The man who called out is clearly the leader—when he raises his fist, everyone becomes still.
“There is a bridge not far from the river’s bend. We will follow apace, and you may cross there.”
“Thank you!”
They do as he says. The group sets their horses at a much slower pace—for my short legs, it’s a brisk walk to keep up with them. I keep glancing to the other side, half-expecting them to disappear or simply ride off. Well, if they do, at least I know there (probably) is a bridge coming up. It won’t be the end of the world.
After about ten minutes of walking, I see the bridge. It’s sturdy looking and wooden, wide enough for maybe seven people to cross shoulder-to-shoulder. I first think it’s been painted black, but as I come closer, I see that it’s made of wood that’s naturally that shade. I briefly wonder how the bridge managed during the rainy season, if this place has one. Judging by the elevation and the river bank, a flood will definitely put this bridge at risk.
There are men with spears on the other side of the bridge, and when they notice me, they shout and angle their spears in my direction. Further behind them are archers lining a wide dirt path, and they ready their bows at the shout.
“Hold!” says the man on the horse—the one who I talked to. “Let her cross.”
There’s no hesitation. All the men lower their bows or their spears. I, on the other hand, am significantly more hesitant to cross after that display. I don’t know if I prefer a slow death in the woods to a quick one at the end of a spear, but I don’t want to find out.
“If you pose no threat, my men will not harm you,” he says, clearly noticing me freeze up even from the other side. “You have my word.”
That ‘If’ is doing a lot of work. But it still seems like the best choice at the moment: it’s not like I can actually hurt any of them even if I want to. What could I do? Throw my backpack at them? Hopefully they’ll believe me. Besides, I’m not dressed for surviving the snowy wilderness. I’ve been lucky to walk in the daytime, but even with my windbreaker and the extra layers, I’ve started to feel the chill. I don’t want to die of hypothermia in the night.
I take a single deep breath and set my shoulders. I know how to push panic aside. What’s this compared to a Category 4 storm hitting the coast of a city that defunded its disaster management department during a pandemic? This is just a training exercise. Yes. A wilderness survival exercise. In a world of two suns.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
I keep my gaze straight ahead, picking out more details as I approach. The dark green coats are clearly a uniform of sorts. The spearmen have the simplest design with a black crest embroidered on the shoulder. Underneath the coat, the spearmen wear padded armor and a short, vaguely Persian tunic. The men on horseback are wearing more elaborate versions of the coat with additional embellishments: their leader is the most gilded of all, with actual gold embroidery on his coat. All of them have dark skin, and now that I’m closer, I see that they also have short-cropped, coily red hair and trimmed beards.
Dark skin and coiled red hair. Green coats. My memory itches, but I don’t know why.
Wait, no. There’s one person who looks entirely different from the others. He’s been at the back of the mounted men, and now that I’m halfway across the bridge, I can see him. Unlike the others, he has pale skin, long black hair, and light brown eyes. I’d guess him to be East Asian if I still was on earth. He’s in his early twenties, maybe—my age or a little younger. His gray coat is lined with fur, not silk, and even on horseback, I can tell he’s shorter than the others. I know that it probably won’t be useful to find equivalents to cultures from my world, but if the other men have a vaguely Persia-meets-Rome aesthetic, this outlier has an Old Russia-meets-Mongol Empire vibe to him.
I shift my gaze back to the leader. He seems to be in his forties, and he looks down at me from his gray horse with a completely blank expression—not even suspicion. He wears a simple gold chain around his neck, and his ears are pierced with red gems. Rubies, maybe, though I know very little about precious stones. He has a gold bracelet on each hand, four or five gold rings on his left hand, but his right hand only has a single, large ring on his pointer finger. He and the other men on horses, the outlier included, have swords strapped to their belt.
I step off the bridge and stop. The spearmen block me from going any further.
“I would like you to speak your name and purpose,” says the leader. It’s phrased like a request, but from the tone of voice (and the soldiers around him), I know it’s not one I can refuse.
“Chandrika Trivedi,” I reply, seeing no point in giving a fake name. “I was lost in the forest and needed help.” I think about shrugging, but I don’t know if they’ll take it the wrong way. “That’s the only purpose I have.”
“Where are you from?”
I pause. “Far from here. Very, very far from here.”
“What is the name of your land?” the leader asks, a little sharper.
“Florida.” I have a feeling saying ‘The United States’ will bring about more questions, though I doubt either name will really matter.
“Folorda?” The leader turns to the man I’ve dubbed the outlier. “Have you heard of such people?”
The outlier shakes his head. “The Iijhan and Urtheni live beyond the Oshgal lands. Further east are the Kherts. I have never heard of a people or place called Folorda.” He speaks with an entirely different accent: sharp, staccato, vaguely Slavic.
A different soldier makes a curious sound. “She certainly doesn’t look like any Oshgal I’ve seen.”
The outlier contemplates me for a moment. “No. She is not of my people. No Oshgal woman would be so close to the border during wartime, nor would she travel alone. Neither does this woman look like the people of the further north. They are closer to me in complexion, and their hair is pale like wheat.”
My mind goes blank with shock. It feels like all my thoughts are buried under a layer of static. It can’t be. Oshgal? Like in the book series Winter of Knives? My heart pounds in my throat. The series is one of my favorites, full of political intrigue, detailed worldbuilding, and richly realized characters. It’s also incredibly niche and self-published, though I had done my best to force my friends to read it.
The main plot centers around two very different characters: a young Oshgal warrior named Laon of Clan Ger, and Lord Ravas, an Azbenid general and half-brother of the emperor. Lord Ravas is a powerful user of magic—specifically telepathy. He can read minds like a book. It’s a power he keeps secret for many reasons, some obvious, some related to the setting.
I look at the leader again, more intently. The crest embroidered on his coat is that of two lions surrounded by pomegranate flowers. I remember from the books that only members of the imperial family are allowed to wear the full crest with flowers. All others wear only the two lions.
If, somehow, this actually is Lord Ravas from the series, he knows everything I’ve been thinking. Maybe this isn’t Lord Ravas. Maybe this is all a massive coincidence: I’ve ended up in a place where there are people who happen to call themselves Oshgal, and there’s also two people who match the main characters of my favorite book series.
“What's your name?” I ask suddenly.
His soldiers mutter to each other, and I can feel the hostility rise. One of the mounted men mutters “Insolence,” and places a hand on his sword. I think the leader asked me a question, but I didn't comprehend it in my shock. The leader holds up a fist, and everyone immediately falls silent.
“It seems fair to offer my name in return,” he says mildly. “I am Lord Ravas yl-Azben, General of the Northern Claw, Ring of the Empire.”
Oh.
Oh, god.
I feel nauseous. No doubt I look dazed, but I take a deep breath and meet his gaze. I remember belatedly that women aren’t supposed to make eye contact with men, but it’s too late now. He’s smiling when I meet his eyes, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. According to the book, strong emotion blunts his ability to read minds, and it’s possible that my surprise has kept him from hearing everything I’ve just realized. But, judging by the way he’s staring at me, I doubt that he got nothing.
“I would like you to speak more clearly of your purpose here,” he says. “You say that you were lost in the forest. Why were you in the forest?”
“I… my purpose…” I pull myself together. I can think about the implications of this later. I need to stick to the truth as much as possible, because Lord Ravas will know if I lie. And there might be other people here with a trace of mind magic who can do the same. Hopefully my continued shock will blur my thoughts. “I was traveling, because… that is… my quest.”
“Your quest?” Lord Ravas keeps his voice mild.
My mind is struggling. I’m not a great liar. But I know that the Azbenid Empire respects oaths and pilgrimages in the name of the gods. It’s seen as a way to restore honor or seek blessings. It’s the only thing I can think of at the moment, and it’s not really a lie either.
“I suffered a great shock, Lord Ravas yl-Azben—”
“You may address me only as Lord Ravas,” he interrupts.
Right. As a member of the imperial family, his title applies to his first name: only the emperor can be referred to as the Lord Azben. There’s a lot of weight put on titles in the empire. I remember Laon struggling through addressing people correctly, since the Clans were much more straightforward about it. I hadn’t paid too much attention to the naming systems, frankly, having been more interested in the plot and characters.
“Sorry. I apologize. I, uh… I suffered a great shock, Lord Ravas,” I say slowly, trying to stay formal. “It’s a custom of my people to… go on a pilgrimage to regain peace.”
It’s all true, technically. My fiancé dumped me without warning to run off with another woman. I took a week of leave to hike alone in the mountains to recover from my fury and broken heart. Well, it’s been working—I haven’t thought of him all day.
Lord Ravas raised his eyebrows. “You have traveled a long way, it seems, if we don’t even know the name of your people.”
“I didn’t intend to travel this far,” I admit without hesitation. “I’m very lost.”
“For a distant foreigner, you speak the language with remarkable fluency.”
Yeah, I’m surprised about that too. I have no idea why we can understand each other. “I know several languages,” I say instead, which is also true. “Thank you for the compliment.”
Lord Ravas inclines his head and studies me again. I know I must look incredibly strange and scandalous to them. My clothing, hair, complexion—none of it makes sense. I hope that lends credibility to my story. The Oshgan would never send a woman to spy on the empire, and even if they did, they wouldn’t send a woman like me.
“Your words ring true,” he says finally, his voice low and warm. “I offer you my personal hospitality, Chandreeka Treeveedy of Folorda. You clearly have traveled a long way, and I wish to hear your tale. If you mean no harm, I will extend guest-right to you.”
The soldiers are too disciplined to comment on his decision, but their surprise is clear. No doubt they expect Lord Ravas to take me back to the camp, but a personal offer of hospitality rather than handing off the problem for one of his underlings to deal with? Lord Ravas isn’t just a general. He wears the personal seal of the emperor on his right hand, and his authority is the authority of the empire. A strange-looking woman crossing the border at wartime is odd, but not that important.
And guest-right is a step beyond that. With that decree, only the emperor himself could do me harm.
The emperor, or Lord Ravas himself, if I prove myself a poor guest.
But it doesn’t slip my notice that the offer is contingent on my story—if he decides I mean no harm. Only a handful of people know the extent of Lord Ravas’ mind magic: most think he has minor talent, only able to tell truth from lie.
(Of course, he can do that, but he can also do so much more.)
No doubt he’s listening to my whirlwind of thoughts as I work through the implications. I try to think of something else, but I can’t. It’s easy to control your expression or body language, but your thoughts? Thoughts are supposed to be inviolable.
“Is this amenable?” he repeats.
“I—yes, uh, Lord Ravas,” I stutter. “Forgive me. I didn’t realize that you were… I didn’t expect this generosity. Thank you for the offer.”
Not a lie, though not the whole truth.
The soldiers are somewhat amused now. No doubt they’ve seen this reaction from other people who are taken aback by Lord Ravas’s unexpected decisions. I’ve enjoyed those scenes too, when some arrogant lordling or pompous git runs face first into the unyielding authority of the general, or when a despairing innocent receives justice despite the odds.
“Do you know how to ride?” he asks me.
I shake my head. I’ve only ever appreciated horses from a distance. They’re large, strange beasts to me: I prefer cars or bicycles as a method of transportation. “No,” I belatedly say out loud.
My thoughts must be so strange to Ravas (Lord Ravas? Does he care how I addressed him in my mind too?), but his expression is as unreadable as before.
“Laon, if you would,” says Lord Ravas.
I'd been right about him as well. The outlier—Laon—dismounts and offers me a hand. A slight frown tugs at his lips, though I’m not sure why. Does he also think that Ravas is being oddly generous? Or is he disdainful of my inability to ride? The Oshgan are nomadic; their way of life is based entirely around horse-riding, and it’s unthinkable for someone to not know how to.
(Though… I’m operating on the assumption that the books are still accurate to the world I’m in. Just because that seems to be the case now doesn’t necessarily mean it’s always true.)
I take Laon’s hand, and he helps me onto his horse with surprising patience. His horse turns her head and snorts, as if even she can’t believe how incompetent I am.
"Sorry,” I mutter, fumbling on the saddle and almost elbowing him in the side. I’m sitting behind him, and I’m not sure what to hold on to. Do I grab his waist? The saddle?
“I witnessed no offense,” he says, quiet.
Right. Apologies are much more serious business for the Oshgan. It’s also exceptionally rare for women to apologize to men or vice-versa: that requires a truly serious mistake.
He keeps his voice soft as he coaches me. “Back straight. Knees inward. Move with the horse. I will guide her. You need only keep your balance. Put your arms around my waist.”
After a second of hesitation, I do. This might be another reason why Lord Ravas has put me with Laon. Azbenid gender norms are much stricter, and women only touch men who are either their husbands or close relatives. Oshgan women have more freedom, and Laon probably doesn’t care if I touch him.
Ravas raises his hand, and we set off. For the first few minutes, I can only focus on staying on the horse. Then, I start to get used to the movement. My grip around poor Laon is still uncomfortably tight for both of us, but my breathing and heart rate start to approach normal as we continue along the path.
When it comes to favorite characters, it’s a tie between Laon and Lord Ravas for me. Laon was captured by Lord Ravas at the beginning of the first novel, and though he was the lord’s prisoner, they grew to respect each other deeply. By the end of the second book, they had almost a father-and-son relationship. Of course, that was before Ravas had—
Tree. Rock. I force myself to think only of our surroundings. Bird. Tree. Where are we in the timeline? The Oshgan clans and the empire are still at war, so sometime during the first book? But Lord Ravas has already started to trust Laon, so more towards the middle of the plot. Before the warlock—
Tree. Tree. Rock. I’m so focused on not thinking of the plot that my grip almost slips, and I grab Laon tighter.
“Be at ease,” Laon says to me. “I will not let you fall.”
That’s oddly comforting. In the books, the Oshgan think lying is a deplorable sin, and though Laon bends the truth or withholds as needed, he’s still never made a promise he hasn’t kept. He’s a man who has managed to stay true to his principles despite the situation.
The culture clash between the honor-bound, violent warrior culture of the Oshgan and the sly, scheming machinations of the Azbenid Empire was so interesting to read about. The author never portrays one side as ‘good’ or ‘bad.’ They’re just… different.
I wish that I could go back to reading about it—even in my wildest dreams, I never wanted to live it.