by Resa Nelson
Bee dressed in the darkness of her chambers and then opened her door to let in the soft light filling the tower. She thought about what had happened during the past several years since Drageen had come into power. She thought about the way Gloomer stood by the young man’s side and advised him at every turn.
It dawned on Bee that Drageen trusted Gloomer and always took his advice.
Gloomer is using Drageen like a puppet. It looks like Drageen is in charge of the Scaldings and Tower Island. But Gloomer is the one making the decisions and getting his way.
Gloomer knew most of the Scaldings would have to die before he could come into power. So, he did the next best thing. He gained control of a young man too inexperienced to know when he’s being controlled.
The realization terrified Bee. Standing alone in her chambers, she looked out to the dimly lit tower that surrounded her.
Thinking about all the blood that had been shed inside this tower, Bee felt alone and helpless.
How can I protect Drageen and Astrid from their own kin? The Scaldings admire Gloomer. If I tell them what Gloomer is doing, no one will believe me.
They’ll believe Gloomer’s lies instead.
But then she remembered that being an alchemist gave her power.
Bee spun to face the cabinet where she kept her most favored herbs, spices, and other ingredients. Walking up to it, she opened its doors, which released an abundance of scents. At first, she detected the heady, earthy scents of the spices ground from things grown underground. Next, she noticed the tangy smell of pods and dried berries that grew on vines that spread across the ground or climbed up trees. Finally, she inhaled the faint florals of an assortment of dried flowers.
What do I want to do to Gloomer? Confound him? Cripple him?
Kill him?
All that Bee ever learned came from her alchemist mother. Bee knew of different types of alchemists that existed in the world. She understood the Creation’s Law: Whatever it is you put out in the world will come back to you threefold.
Bee’s mother practiced alchemy of a positive and nurturing nature. She’d encouraged Bee to think of the Creation’s Law before concocting any potion. Thurid gave Bee even more encouragement to think about the law.
If I kill Gloomer, then someone will try to kill me. Coming back to me threefold, it would either be a death three times worse than what I bring to Gloomer or two other people would die.
What if those people were Drageen and Astrid?
Bee refused to consider any potion that might put the children’s lives in peril. She eliminated the possibility of killing Gloomer.
She considered crippling him instead.
If I cripple Gloomer, then I could be crippled three times as seriously. If that happens, how could I continue to be an alchemist? If my hands and arms are broken, I can’t make the potions needed to protect Drageen and Astrid.
Bee realized the same problem would arise if she confounded Gloomer. The law would bring confoundedness to her, and she’d become useless as an alchemist.
Or maybe even dangerous if she continued creating potions but didn’t have the wherewithal to make them correctly.
Bee paced the room, considering every solution she could imagine.
None of them pleased her. Bee felt as if the situation with Gloomer had become a puzzle that couldn’t be solved.
Bee sat at the table she kept at one end of her chambers. During the past year, whenever she felt worried or bewildered, Bee had developed the habit of calming her troubled mind with a few sips of honey mead. As a matter of that habit, she filled a third of her mug with it and drank. The sweet taste and soothing sensation that coated her throat calmed Bee at once.
But then a new thought occurred to her. She stared at the container of honey mead.
Gloomer gave that to me. It’s the honey mead that he makes.
Bee stood and shoved away from the table with such force that she knocked her chair over.
What if he’s put something in the mead? What if that’s why it’s taken me all these years to realize he’s controlling Tower Island and all of the Scaldings because he’s in control of Drageen?
Bee reached for her water flask and chugged as fast as she could, hoping that water would dilute whatever properties Gloomer might have worked into the honey mead.
When finished, she only felt bloated. Bee looked around for an empty container, believing the best thing would be to force herself to throw up.
A knock on the doorjamb startled her. She turned to see Drageen standing in her doorway.
“Bee?” he said. “Are you alright?”
Everything overwhelmed Bee at the same time. The sweet coating of honey mead down her throat. The bloated feeling from drinking water. Her fear of Gloomer. Her awareness of the Creation’s Law insuring that whatever Bee put into the world would come back threefold upon her.
“Bee?” Drageen frowned and took a step inside her chambers. “Do you need help?”
Like waking from a dream, Bee took a sharp breath, and everything that overwhelmed her dissolved like snowflakes falling into a warm pond.
Bee knew she had been upset just moments ago. But now, for the life of her, she couldn’t remember what could have made her feel so troubled.
CHAPTER 23
Every morning the Krystr Lord met with his select officials in a newly constructed tent dedicated for their use. While those beneath them ate a quick meal of gruel before beginning their daily chores, the Krystr Lord and his officials dined on a breakfast of roasted meats, cream, and boiled vegetables. Seated on benches circling a hearth providing warmth against the early morning chill, the lord and officials talked about small things while they ate.
Having had his fill of gruel, Mandulane hid his envy when he followed his master into the tent full of mouth-watering scents. During the past few weeks, Mandulane had noticed the Krystr Lord becoming sloppy in his habits. Instead of keeping his guard up at all times, the Krystr Lord showed more and more trust in his officials and also in Mandulane. Where the Krystr Lord had once shown caution, he now exhibited the laziness of trust.
Mandulane went about his duty of making the Krystr Lord comfortable and obeying his commands, just as the fellow servants did for the officials.
The Krystr Lord beckoned for Mandulane, who stepped next to his side.
“Bring more wine, boy,” the Krystr Lord said.
“As you wish,” Mandulane replied. He gave a nod toward his fellow servants.
Mandulane withdrew the dagger he kept under his belt and used it to slit the Krystr Lord’s throat.
As soon as Mandulane placed the blade against the Krystr Lord’s skin, all the other servants in the tent followed his lead and killed the masters they served.
Mandulane directed the other servants to prepare the new tent for burning. He stepped outside and sent a young recruit bringing buckets of water from the nearby river to send word throughout the camp that everyone should gather before him.
With the Krystr Lord and his officials dead, the camp held only the lowly followers. When they all stood before Mandulane, he spoke in a loud and confident voice. “Every one of you should know by now how I overheard a plot against us. How the Krystr Lord planned to sacrifice us all to the Krystr god to gain personal favor.”
The story that Mandulane told was a lie, but he had told it to his fellow servants in such a convincing way that they believed it.
Or maybe they simply wanted to believe it. After all, by helping Mandulane kill the officials that served the Krystr Lord, the servants had been promised they’d replace the ones they served.
When Mandulane’s fellow servants spread the word throughout camp of the plan to kill the lord and his officials before they could make a sacrifice of the followers, their words held no trace of a lie.
“I’m one of you,” Mandulane said. “I will never forget that as I take on the responsibilities of the Krystr Lord. You will eat what I eat. You will sleep as well as I sleep. I will never sa
crifice any of our own, because there are far more people in the world who deserve to be sacrificed instead of you!”
The men in the camp cheered at Mandulane’s words, and the flush of power he felt over them swelled up in his chest.
“The Krystr Lord I killed did nothing except sit on his big backside and watch us slave for him,” Mandulane continued. “He failed to provide the riches he promised. But I won’t make that same mistake.”
Mandulane drew his posture up strong and proud. During the past year he’d learned how to speak the Southlander language because Southlanders surrounded him and few spoke his language. The ease with which Mandulane learned Southlander surprised him. For a while he thought he remembered speaking other languages in his boyhood but shook it away as a false memory. He decided he simply had a knack for learning new languages.
Still, Mandulane knew he spoke with a strong accent.
“I’m the only Midlander among you,” Mandulane said. “And I can now prove my nationality as an advantage, because I can lead you to a place in my home country where we will begin building our riches.”
* * *
Because Mandulane had visited their target and no other Krystr follower had, he chose to develop the plan of attack instead of giving that task to someone else. Leaving only a few men behind in their Southlander camp to protect it, during the next few weeks Mandulane took one hundred men into the Lower Midlands.
Despite faint and unclear memories of this part of the Midlands, Mandulane recognized one landmark the moment he saw it.
At the edge of the Forest of Aguille stood a row of linden trees, lined up as straight as soldiers. Large hand-shaped leaves of pale green grew close to the tree limbs. The tree limbs waved in the wind, looking more like tentacles belonging to an ocean creature. The waving limbs made the trees look as if they might pull themselves up by their roots and walk across the field separating the forest from Mandulane and his men to greet them.
One of the Krystr soldiers pointed at the waving trees. “That ain’t natural.”
Mandulane faced the man and spoke with a firm voice. “Haven’t you ever seen linden trees before?”
Startled, the soldier shook his head.
“They’re all over the Midlands and Northlands,” Mandulane said. He waved his hand toward the row of trees as if dismissing them. “There’s nothing to worry about.”
Mandulane knelt on the dirt road they traveled and ordered his men to gather round. He drew a map in the dirt. “We’re at the edge of the forest here. This is where we’ll enter. The same road cuts through the forest. We should arrive by afternoon.” He looked up at his men. “We take them by surprise by attacking immediately. Don’t hesitate. Kill everyone you meet until I tell you to stop.”
The Krystr soldiers followed Mandulane into the Forest of Aguille. Hours later, he motioned for them to stay silent as they continued to advance.
Just as Mandulane anticipated, they encountered no more than a few villagers at a time. The Krystr soldiers followed orders and killed those villagers before they had time to recognize the danger facing them. Even the villagers who had the presence of mind to draw their daggers had no chance against the swords of the Krystr soldiers.
Leaving the dead behind, Mandulane and his Krystr soldiers crept closer to a grouping of massive trees, far greater and mightier than any other trees in the forest. Their branches reached high and intertwined to form a protective canopy.
For a brief moment, Mandulane’s throat tightened with long-forgotten emotion. He remembered a woman who might have been his mother telling stories of such a place and called it magical.
Just as quickly, the memory left Mandulane empty-headed. His throat loosened, and he tried without success to cling to a glimpse of something long forgotten.
Mandulane shook off the peculiar feeling of nostalgia.
I have nothing good to remember. All that matters is what lies ahead.
A man wearing a white robe emerged into view. When he spotted Mandulane and his soldiers, the man’s eyelids flickered, making him look startled. But then he smiled and gestured with open hands. “Welcome to the Temple of Limru.”
* * *
Margreet delighted in combing through the forest in search of sickle-tree nuts. Due to the temperate climate of the Lower Midlands, sickle trees produced fist-sized pods all year long. The pods grew only on the highest branches, much too far from the ground and fragile to climb. Bright green at first, the pods eventually faded to pale brown. When they became shriveled and dry like the chrysalis containing a new butterfly, the pods fell to the ground.
By making the same rounds through the forest every day, Margreet studied clusters of pods turning brown. Once they fell, she often succeeded in snatching them for herself before the squirrels could carry them away and rip them open to let the sweet nuts spill out.
Today she’d collected only one pod, but one suited her better than none. As she headed back toward the temple, the voice in her head spoke.
Careful!
Margreet stopped cold in her tracks. The Keepers of the Temple of Limru allowed smaller trees to grow between the largest ones in order to form a natural wall around the temple. Although Margreet could see the trees that formed the temple and the small ones between them, she couldn’t see inside the temple itself.
The voice had spoken inside Margreet’s head for as long as she could remember. In her earliest years, the voice had frightened her so much that she ran to her mother.
“It’s nothing to worry about,” her mother had said with a smile. “That voice is your guide, and it will help you for as long as you live. It is a spark of intelligence. It is wisdom. Do whatever it says, and that voice will protect you.”
Ever since, the voice that spoke in Margreet’s head had become her greatest friend and ally.
Now, Margreet scanned the forest around her, listening with care for the tell-tale rustle made by the claws of a dragon when it pulled them through the dead leaves covering the forest floor.
She detected no such sound. Instead, she heard the birds sing and the chipmunks chatter.
Margreet turned in place, casting her gaze in all directions. Still, she saw no sign of anything gone wrong.
“What should I be careful of?” she whispered.
When the voice in her head didn’t answer, Margreet stole toward the temple. Soon, she heard unfamiliar voices rise. Unable to make out the words, she paid attention to the tone of those voices.
The tension they held made her skin crawl.
Taking a tentative step forward, Margreet felt the tension of a twig beneath the thin leather sole of her shoe. Before she could pull her foot back, the twig broke with a loud snap.
Margreet held still.
No one appeared.
The voices on the other side of the trees forming the temple carried on as if oblivious to her presence.
Margreet’s gaze locked on a thicket of trees outside the temple.
There! Go hide there!
Margreet obeyed without hesitation. She sprinted to the thicket and then found the best way to make herself disappear inside it.
Only then did she begin to worry about her mother and father and all the Keepers of Limru.
Lying on the ground, Margreet arranged brush to cover her body but found a patch through which she could peer at the edge of the temple.
A scream from inside the temple jolted her. Shouts erupted.
Staring from her hiding place, Margreet saw her mother race between the trees of the temple.
Knowing her voice wouldn’t be heard about the shouting, Margreet thrust her arm through her peeking hole, hoping her mother would spot it.
Moments later, a familiar hand grasped Margreet’s fingers. Her mother said, “Save yourself!” She then shoved Margreet’s arm back into the thicket.
“What have we here?” a man’s gruff voice said. “Your temple didn’t save you, so you’re talking to other trees?”
Margreet wrestled with the thou
ght of jumping out of the trees and taking the man by surprise. But she saw the gleam of his sword and the oncoming boots of other men.
Save yourself.
Margreet didn’t understand. In the thousand-year history of Limru, no one had ever come to fight or cause trouble. Even the brigands respected the place and left alone the treasures meant for the tree spirits.
But the fear in her mother’s command and the crawling sensation on her own skin convinced Margreet to stay put.
Other voices spoke and laughed in a language she didn’t understand. She caught a glimpse of someone hauling her mother to her feet.
“You’re a Midlander,” Margreet’s mother said with contempt. “You know better than to show insolence toward your own gods.”
“Gods?” the Midlander stranger said. “What have the tree spirits ever done for me? The new god is the one who shows me the way to what I want.”
A loud slap and her mother’s scream drowned out Margreet’s whimper.
Bits of earth churned up and flew across Margreet’s limited view while she heard her mother kicking at the ground as she yelled.
The horror of the scene unfolding around Margreet paralyzed her. Different emotions and thoughts pulled her in different directions.
With all her might, Margreet wanted to hurl out of the thicket and pummel her fists at the men attacking her mother.
At the same time, she knew the men outnumbered her.
She remembered her mother’s command: Save yourself.
She remembered how the voice in her head told her to hide.
“Renounce your tree spirit gods,” the Midlander said. “Take the Krystr as your new god. Give everything to Krystr.”
“The tree spirits have roots that sink into the land,” Margreet’s mother said in a defiant voice. “The tree spirits have arms that reach toward the sky. No matter where you go, they will find you and curse you.”
The Midlander laughed in response.
Margreet’s mother huffed like a horse ready to kick in anger. “Stop now and I might convince the tree spirits to forgive you and let you live.”
“If your gods had any real power, they would save you. Where are they? Why don’t they protect the Keepers of their temple?”