The Tree of Ecrof

by Kobe Bryant

  For Vanessa. Thank you for always being the Realist to my Dreamer.

  —Kobe Bryant

  For Rakey Drammeh

  —Ivy Claire

  1

  PRETIA

  THE FLAME

  Pretia paused on the grand staircase of Castle Airim and looked over at the bowl of the Athletos Stadium, where the Epic Games opening ceremonies were held every four years. Earlier this summer the stadium had been filled with the best athletes from all over the land, from the Rhodan Islands to the distant Sandlands. But now it was empty. Towering Corinthian columns shaded her and threw long shadows from the colonnade down the steps while statues of her ancestors looked on from their pedestals. From where she stood she had a perfect view of the white marble seats that rose high into the air, the carved thrones for her parents, the black cinder track, and the winners’ podium. It was her favorite view in the entire world—the best view of the most impressive stadium in the land. Pretia’s dream wasn’t to sit in the royal thrones and look down on the games as her parents had done, but to be on the field as a competitor.

  The white marble looked even more brilliant than usual in the late-afternoon sun. The air was clean and dry, with a summer breeze that carried the salty ocean scent from the harbor up to the castle grounds.

  Today the stadium had not been used for its intended purpose—sports. Instead, it had been converted into the site of an elaborate feast for Pretia’s tenth birthday. The party had been lavish, dozens of courses of the finest foods from the farthest corners of Epoca—Cretian honeycakes, figs from Phoenis, Berberian pistachios and persimmons. There had been towers of blue grapes, pyramids of juicy oranges, trays of sizzling meats, and steaming baskets of breads. For the adults, there had been fountains of the best Megaran wine, and for the children, Spirit Water from the Delphic Springs that cascaded down into cups from a waterfall built for the occasion.

  There had been troupes of singers and dancers from the exotic outlands. There had been trained animals and acrobats. But one thing had been missing: fun.

  Because Pretia’s birthday was never just Pretia’s birthday. It was a state occasion of the highest importance. Pretia Praxis-Onera was Princess of Epoca, heir to the Crown of Dreams and the Throne of Fears. And Pretia wasn’t just any old princess. She was the first noble-born child to have parents from both royal houses in Epoca. Her father, King Airos, a Dreamer, was head of House Somni, and her mother, Queen Helena, a Realist, ruled House Relia.

  The king and queen’s marriage had been a scandal that had reached from the tip-top of Mount Oly in the East to the Rhodan Islands in the western sea and even to the distant outlands of Phoenis and Alkebulan. Marriage between the two houses was unheard of, especially among the highest ranks of Epocan nobility. But Airos and Helena ignored the gossip that said their union was improper and shameful. And when Pretia was born—many, many years later, after much worry and anxiety that the supposedly unnatural marriage would not produce an heir—the royal family named her the Child of Hope and declared that she was going to bring a new era of peace to Epoca.

  Thinking of this now, looking out at the remnants of the gala left on the field, Pretia rolled her eyes. Child of Hope, indeed. She didn’t care about any of that, especially not on her birthday. She just wanted a normal party, like a normal kid. But the truth was, she was rarely, if ever, treated as normal.

  Pretia’s birthday was the only time each year the royal houses Relia and Somni came together in their entirety. And not even the supposed Child of Hope could make it a relaxed occasion. Pretia’s whole extended family had been in attendance, all her royal aunts, uncles, and second cousins on both her mother’s and father’s sides. Hundreds of people she’d never met before, or if she had, she’d forgotten. Hundreds of people, Pretia had begun to understand, who resented her parents’ marriage: the union between the artistic, creative, and sometimes distracted Dreamers and the practical, determined, and often overly competitive Realists.

  That morning, as she’d stood in her room, forced into her fancy party dress, her mother had once more reminded her of exactly how important she was to the country. How everyone was expecting great things of her. How she was going to be the most important queen ever to rule Epoca. And of course this meant that at the party, she had to behave. She couldn’t twitch or scratch her nose or look bored or play with her food or laugh or whisper. Not that she had anyone to play, laugh, or whisper with. Which was why Pretia so vehemently disliked her birthday, year after boring year. It felt more like a state dinner than a celebration.

  She’d overheard from eavesdropping on the castle workers’ kids that at real birthday parties, there were games and songs and adventures instead of dull speeches and a formal procession of relatives paying their respects, kissing Pretia’s cheeks with their old-people lips or limply shaking her hand.

  Of course, there had been presents, so many presents, lavish tributes from the lands under her parents’ rule. There were silks from the Sandlands and sea crystals from the Rhodan Islands. There were dresses made by the blind weavers on top of Mount Oly and bracelets from the silver mines of Chaldis. But no one could give her what she actually wanted for her birthday—grana. And not just any grana, but the highest level of godly given talent that would allow her to be an Epic Athlete. Now her tenth birthday had come and gone and she still had no grana at all, not even an inkling.

  She ducked behind a column, closing her eyes and taking stock of her body—her toes, her legs, her stomach, her arms, wrists, fingers, neck, and head. All of it felt the same. All of it felt like it always did—normal, unchanged. And in this case, there was nothing good about being normal.

  For a year she’d been hearing the castle kids whisper about how their grana had come, which filled her with jealousy and anxiety. She’d listened to them discuss their heightened senses—their tingling fingers, their twitching noses, and new exciting ways of seeing and interacting with the world. But nothing had happened to Pretia. Was it because she was half Dreamer, half Realist that she didn’t have grana? Was her birth really as unholy as the dark gossip said? She was starting to worry. Was this the reason she hadn’t yet received her invitation to attend the prestigious Ecrof Academy the next year, something that nearly every heir to the throne of Epoca before her had done?

  Although Pretia had no idea what having grana felt like, she could easily identify it in others, especially the talented Epic Athletes she’d watched during the games in the stadium right outside the castle. It was what allowed the best basketball players to hang motionless in the air, as if the laws of gravity didn’t apply to them, as they dunked the ball. It was what made the best gymnasts easily execute twisting backflips on a four-inch beam as if they were standing on a floor exercise mat. It was how in football, running backs could detect a path through the defensive line and run through it as if they were on a wide-open field. Or how amazing tennis players carved impossible angles with the ball so that their shots clipped the smallest millimeter of the line time and time again.

  Pretia understood what grana was and she understood she didn’t have it. She took one last look at the stadium now from her perch on the stairs, trying to imagine what it felt like to sprint around it, run, jump, and race as if your body were propelled by some magical energy, and then headed into the castle.

  She passed through the towering Grand Atrium and up the stairs to the Hall of the Gods of Granity, the longest room in Castle Airim. Pretia guessed it was twice the length of a basketball court and half as narrow. She could kick a soccer ball just over halfway down the hall before it rolled and throw a tennis ball less than a quarter of the distance of the room. Not that she ever would. Gods
forbid. At the far end of the hall, closest to the Atrium, the Granity Flame burned in a copper bowl, casting creepy shadows along the hall’s rounded ceiling.

  There were eight pedestals in the hall, four along either wall. On each of the pedestals sat a bust of one of the Gods of Granity. Seven of these stared out at passersby. But one remained shrouded, a black cloth draped over it. This was the pedestal of Hurell, the God of Suffering, who had warred with the other gods and ushered in the dark ages in Epoca.

  Like most modern citizens of Epoca, Pretia didn’t actually believe in the gods. They were myths, stories from long ago, a way to explain the culture of the land. If she hadn’t grown up in the castle, where they were obliged to keep the old traditions alive, she wouldn’t have thought about them at all.

  Usually Pretia sprinted through the hall, but today she moved more slowly, looking at each bust in turn. Maybe, just maybe, if she prayed to the Gods of Granity, her grana would come. She approached the large copper bowl that held the Granity Flame—the eternal fire that the people of Epoca had sworn they would never let die. It was from this flame that the Epic Torch was lit every fourth year to signal the start of the Epic Games.

  Pretia took a thin willow twig from a wooden box and held it to the flame until it ignited. Then she walked down the hall, lighting the fragrant oil in the ceremonial holder that was carved into the pedestal in front of the bust of each god. She whispered their names in turn as she went: Cora, Metus, Somni, Reva, Menti, Prosi, Dominu—Love, Fear, Dreams, Reality, Mind, Process, and Ego.

  Each time the oil in front of one of the gods sprang to life with an orange flame, Pretia uttered the same prayer. It was a version of a prayer she’d overheard some of the Epic Athletes saying before their competition: “In exchange for this flame, grant me the grace of grana so that I might serve my country and uphold the Epic tradition.” Seven times she uttered this prayer until she reached the end of the hall.

  Still holding the burning willow twig, Pretia looked back at the seven small flames lighting up the marble busts and making shadows dance on the walls. Only Hurell’s shrouded column was dark. Without a second thought she found herself walking back down the hall and dipping the burning willow into the brass bowl in front of Hurell’s covered statue. Praying to Hurell had been forbidden since the end of the Dark Age of Suffering and the start of the Age of Grana. But no one really prayed to any of the gods anymore. So what did it really matter?

  Pretia held her breath and lowered the flaming willow. In an instant a ghostly silver flame sprang to life. She jumped back as the flame climbed high, illuminating the black cloth draped over the marble head of Hurell. “Hurell,” she whispered, “God of Suffering. In exchange for this flame, grant me the grace of grana so that I might serve my country and uphold the Epic tradition.”

  Pretia stared at the leaping flame, fascinated and a little frightened by what she had done. As she watched the silvery flame lick the walls of its holder, she heard footsteps approaching from the Grand Atrium. Panicked, Pretia looked for a way to extinguish the fire in the ceremonial bowl—some water or a cloth. But she saw none. Even though people didn’t really believe all the old stuff about the gods anymore, it was still strictly forbidden to pray to Hurell. It was one of the gravest crimes in Epoca.

  The footsteps were getting closer now. With no other option, Pretia sprinted away as fast as she could before someone caught her at her mischief—up two flights of marble stairs, down a colonnade, and into her bedroom, where the light winds were blowing her white linen curtains inward like billowing ghosts.

  Pretia tore off her party dress, kicked off her fancy sandals, found her favorite shorts and shirt, then flung herself down on her bed, out of breath.

  Someone had already piled her gifts in her sitting room. But she only squeezed her eyes shut, focusing all her energy on the burning flames she had lit. Maybe, just maybe, the gods would grant her wish.

  There was a tapping on the door to her bedroom. “Pretia?”

  Pretia heard the door open before the large curtain that divided her bedroom from her sitting room was pulled back. Anara—her nurse, her babysitter, and her closest confidante—stood at the foot of her bed, her arms crossed over her chest in mock anger. Anara’s long blond hair, now with the first threads of gray streaking away from her temples, was braided and wound around her head like a crown. She wore a simple dark blue dress—the color of House Relia, Queen Helena’s house. Anara’s movements were gentle and slow, and Pretia often thought that she looked like she had come from another planet entirely, so different was she from the rest of the inhabitants of Epoca, who were devoted to the world of competitive sports. She was like a fairy in a world of dragons.

  “Are you worn out from your birthday celebrations?” Anara asked, sitting at the edge of Pretia’s bed.

  Pretia opened her mouth to explain—but how could she? How could she tell Anara, without coming across as a spoiled princess, that she wasn’t worn out, but rather disappointed. And a little bit bored.

  “It’s okay,” Anara said, stroking Pretia’s hair. “I understand.”

  That was one of the things Pretia liked best about Anara. She often didn’t have to explain anything to her. Her nurse just knew what she was thinking, kind of like magic. Sometimes, Pretia thought there actually was something a little bit mystical about Anara. In addition to being her nurse, Anara was a Flamekeeper, which meant she had sworn an oath to keep the old ways of the Gods of Granity alive. Pretia often wondered if this gave Anara a closer connection to a world that hovered just out of sight.

  “Were you wondering why I hadn’t given you a gift?” Anara asked.

  Pretia glanced over at the towering pile of presents guiltily. She hadn’t noticed. But before she could apologize, Anara pulled out a box from behind her back. “Happy birthday, Pretia.”

  Pretia took the package. It was wrapped in old foil paper and tied with blue and purple ribbons—the color of each of her parents’ houses. Although Anara was a Realist, she always respected Pretia’s mixed heritage, even if most other people didn’t. Pretia carefully untied the ribbons and pulled away the paper. Inside, she found a box. She opened the top. Her eyes widened in delight.

  She was holding in her hands the most beautiful pair of golden sneakers she had ever seen—a pair of Grana Gleams. “Anara,” she cried, flinging her arms around her nurse. “Thank you!”

  “Aren’t you going to put them on?”

  Pretia slipped on the golden shoes. They fit like they had been made for her, which they probably had.

  “Many centuries ago, not long after the gods granted us grana, a merchant traveling to the country of Tanis in the continent of Alkebulan returned with a barrel of their most sacred rubber,” Anara explained. “The soles of these shoes are made from the last rubber left from that barrel. Only twenty pairs were produced.”

  The shoes felt cool like quicksilver, and the golden leather sparkled in the late-afternoon sun. Pretia sat back down on her bed.

  “So what are you waiting for?” Anara asked.

  “They’re beautiful,” Pretia said. “They’re the most beautiful shoes in the world. But—”

  “But what?”

  “What’s the point of running shoes if I don’t have grana?” Pretia asked.

  Anara stroked Pretia’s hair again. “Pretia, your grana will come.”

  “That’s what everybody keeps telling me,” Pretia said.

  And it was true—everyone was concerned with Pretia’s grana, from the members of the high council to the Epic Priests down to her own parents. Because if she didn’t have grana, she couldn’t rule Epoca. This law had been written ages ago in the Scrolls of Epoca—the contract between the gods and men signed in exchange for peace in the land. But Pretia cared less about that than she did about one other thing—no grana meant no sports, because without grana she stood no chance against anyone, not least of all ag
ainst an Epic Athlete. Without grana, she’d never be able to compete.

  “Don’t you want to try them out?” Anara asked.

  “Of course,” Pretia said. But here was another problem. Who could she play sports with? No one. Her life was filled with dull tutored lessons on Epoca Law and the History of the Age of Grana. Most of her days, she was left to roam the castle alone, inventing all sorts of games to amuse herself.

  Pretia was about to explain this to Anara. But she stopped herself when she saw the eager look on her nurse’s face.

  “Come on, get going,” Anara said.

  “Okay!” Pretia said, leaping off the bed. She smiled over her shoulder at her nurse, then sprinted out of her room, down a large marble staircase and into the Hall of the Gods, where the flame in front of Hurell’s shrouded bust was still burning. Pretia didn’t stop to put it out. The shoes felt too good on her feet for that.

  She raced through the Atrium, down the Grand Staircase. She gave a quick wave to the marble statues of her ancestors. Then sprinted down the steps onto the castle grounds. She took a deep breath of the fresh air. The sky was a perfect lapis blue—the same hue as the sea. The sunbaked earth was the color of golden clay, and the crystal and limestone embedded in the ground glinted.

  It was like magic, the way she took off from the bottom step and sprinted around the edge of the stadium. It was almost as if the shoes were enchanted. It was as if they were moving her feet for her.

  She darted past the castle gates and into a thick grove of fig trees. Normally she would stop to pluck a few of the ripe, dusky purple fruits and spit the stems as she ran. But not this time.

  She wanted to keep moving. She needed to keep moving. The wind blew her black hair behind her. Her arms kept time with her feet, everything urging her on, on, on. Pretia looked down to see the dazzling blur of the golden running shoes speeding across dusty clay earth, moving faster than she had ever thought possible. It was as if her feet didn’t belong to her at all.