by Adam Dreece
“You made those sailing land ships—didn’t you?” said Anna, pointedly.
Nikolas chose his words carefully. “Those are toys. My granddaughter and her friends know nothing.” Nikolas knew he was bending the truth, but figured it was close enough; Anna wouldn’t be able to tell he was lying.
Anna’s eyes narrowed and her lips tightened. “What are you talking about? I heard about some version of my Kundle sticks that you made for them—against our rules.”
“Actually,” said Nikolas, leaning back, arms crossed, “I had nothing to do with that.”
Anna glared. “Are you telling me that you had nothing to do with the treehouse, the pulley system, any of it?” She leaned in. “We are not blind, and yes, we do have our spies, everywhere.”
Nikolas took a deep breath. He held it as he played through in his mind the different ways this conversation could go. Part of him wanted to ask Anna why her spies didn’t warn him of LeLoup—that Simon St. Malo had someone hunting for him. He slowly exhaled as he tried preparing his words, but he didn’t get time to speak.
“It’s Christophe,” said Anna, revealing her suspicions. “We all thought him dead, but I’m thinking that he is how you are getting around the rules. He isn’t dead, is he? You and he—”
Nikolas sat forward and stroked his beard. “I wish that were true, but Christophe is dead. The Kundle sticks in question have little design to them. While they are useful, they are not the type of weapon you designed, once upon a time.” Nikolas bit his lip, for he’d long believed that Anna hadn’t actually invented them, but had stolen the design from someone else. She had never invented anything since, and had never improved on them. “If you came here just for an argument of principle, you shouldn’t have come.”
Anna tapped the table with her index finger as she said, “I need you to tell me who it is. You must know. You’ve probably taken their Kundle sticks apart and figured that out. You wouldn’t allow your granddaughter near them otherwise.”
She was dead right about that, and given that he’d never taken one apart, he knew it would reveal he did know something. Instead, Nikolas decided to take a path he rarely took and let his frustration with her show itself. His face started to go red. He was about to speak again when Jerome came back.
Jerome gently put down a silver tea tray holding two teapots and two fine porcelain cups, among other items. “Here is your tea. I warmed the biscuits. I hope you like them,” he said, reaching to pour the tea.
Anna glared at Jerome, stopping him. “I’m more than capable of pouring my own tea, thank you,” she said sharply. She gestured at Jerome for him to leave.
Nikolas gave Jerome a painful smile, but nodded that he would also appreciate Jerome leaving. Nikolas then turned to Anna, trying to figure out what to say. He’d arranged this meeting primarily to discuss his horseless cart and give her the plans, but now he didn’t feel like doing that. He wasn’t even going to ask if she’d brought a supply of her special waxes.
Suddenly, the door whipped open and a tanned, bald, mustached man entered. He had a desperate look on his face. Before he could say anything, Anna stood up and banged her cane against the floor—and two four-inch spikes sprung from the silver cane’s round, golden head and started crackling with electricity. Anna was ready to fight.
The weary man put up his hands upon seeing the weapon. “Please—I need help! My daughter is lost in the forest! She’s only eleven, and the snow is getting worse! Please, help!” The man wore a coat that looked like it had been sewn together from others. He looked poor, but honest. His facial features, tanned skin, and accent made it likely he was from a southern kingdom.
As quickly as Anna had moved toward the man, she moved back. Once seated, she deftly twisted the silver head of her cane. The spikes disappeared as quickly as they had emerged.
“Come in—close the door,” said Nikolas to the man, his hands up to demonstrate he intended no harm. “My friend here… she overreacted.”
“What was that?” said the man.
“It’s not important. Your daughter is,” said Nikolas. He got up, welcomed the man in, and gestured to an available chair.
Nikolas turned to the owner. “Jerome—” he started. Nikolas could see Jerome was still surprised at what he’d seen. It was clear to Jerome that this was truly Anna Kundle Maucher, and this was indeed a meeting of the Tub—right here, in his café—and he was unsure that was a good thing. Nikolas gave a friendly smile, and continued, “Tea and food for the man, please?”
Jerome nodded and disappeared.
The man was uncomfortable sitting, and kept glancing around the room. “Please—there isn’t much time. We must find my daughter!” he said, looking back and forth between Anna and Nikolas.
“We will. But first, we need to know what happened, so that we can get the right people to help,” said Nikolas calmly.
The man took a breath and nodded. This made sense to him. “We were attacked by red-hooded bandits, just outside the eastern archway entrance to the town.”
Anna frowned and looked at Nikolas. “Red hoods? Do you know anything about this, Nikolas?”
“No,” replied Nikolas sharply.
The man continued, “They attacked the cart we were riding on. One of them knocked out the driver with a staff to the head… another had a sword, I think. He jumped on me and roughed me up. The third one had a bow—I remember because an arrow shot past my head. The bowman told Mouni—my daughter, Mounira—to run into the forest, and then they all chased after her as if they were going to hunt her.
“Please, it happened only five minutes away. I tried some doors, but no one opened. This was the only place I found open. Please help her! I’m sure you don’t want refugees from Augusto, but please have mercy.”
“Refugees?” repeated Nikolas, trying to put the pieces together. He glanced at Anna, who wasn’t surprised by the man’s statement. She knew that the southern kingdom of Augusto had broken out into civil war months ago, but had no plans on sharing that knowledge with Nikolas.
“We like southerners just fine,” said Jerome.
Nikolas finished building a plan in his mind. “Jerome, Anna—take care of this man. I’m going to fetch Pierre de Montagne and the Yellow Hoods.”
“Who?” asked Anna as Nikolas left, but he didn’t look back. She then turned and looked at the man.
“Thank you. My name is Alman Benida. Please—help find my daughter,” said the man.
Anna smiled coldly. “We will.” She turned to Jerome. “Please go find something useful to do.”
“But this is my café,” said Jerome defensively. He couldn’t believe she would ask such a thing.
Looking right through Jerome, Anna said, “Lock the door, then. On behalf of the Tub, I need half an hour with this man.”
Alman looked at Anna in disbelief, and wondered, Did she just say the Tub? What did I just walk into?
After Jerome left, Anna turned back to Alman. “While we wait for Nikolas’ people to return with your daughter, I need you to tell me everything you remember about what happened in the south, and your trek here. Everything.”
CHAPTER NINE
Spirits of the Red Forest
The expansive Red Forest bordered Mineau’s eastern and southern edges. In winter, the forest’s red pine trees refused to submit to winter’s will, while in the spring most of its deciduous trees would sprout red leaves—save for the odd golden oak. The golden oak was the heartiest of the deciduous trees in the forest, losing leaves last, and growing them first. They were rare enough that many considered a golden oak leaf to be a good luck charm.
Everywhere Mounira looked was red and white, with brown tree-trunks that all looked the same. The snow was halfway to her knees, and higher in some places. While the frigid morning wind was gentle, it was still able to pierce the warm bundle her father had put around her.
She’d seen snow for the first time only weeks ago, as she and her father had made their way north. Her father wanted to get as f
ar from the war as possible. Along the way, she’d listened to advice from locals, practiced the local languages, and asked everyone about this strange thing called “snow.”
They’d been traveling north for months. Having fled with nothing, her father always seemed to find a way to earn money no matter where they went. Sometimes, he found a merchant who needed something from another merchant, and sometimes he figured out what people needed. In one village, Mounira watched her father shine shoes—and many of his customers were far from nice. He refused to let her help, other than fetching rags or water. When she would ask if they could stay somewhere, he would refuse, insisting they needed to go north until it felt right.
Mounira thought about how, at this time of year, her mother would typically tend to the winter flowers—a parade of color, all in sections and rows, ensuring each color and flower could be seen with its brethren and stand out, while also harmoniously blending into a greater whole.
Snow fell from a high branch, landing on Mounira’s head and bringing her back to the present. She pulled off her furry hat with her left hand, shook it, and then awkwardly put it back on. The bandits had chased her until she was deep into the forest, and then they’d disappeared. She was exhausted and had no sense of direction or time. She’d started to cry when she saw the wind blow snow and erase her tracks, but she quickly turned it into anger. She understood anger—anger and pain.
Mounira pulled the blanket that was tied around her a little tighter. Under the blanket, she wore a thick set of coats, badly sewn together. She felt the cold in her bones, and it hurt. At the insistence of her father, her hand was covered in three warm socks. How silly she felt now for having argued about it. She was thankful he’d done the same with her feet. Her boots, though heavy, didn’t keep out the cold the way she’d hoped.
“This way,” the forest seemed to whisper.
Mounira looked around, trying to see where the voice came from. “Am I imagining it?” she asked herself. She turned to where she thought the voice had come from. “Maybe the legends of helpful forest spirits are true? Maybe Mama was right and Baba was wrong!”
“Come on. Quickly. Just a bit further,” said a different voice. The wind made it hard to hear, but Mounira was certain that this time it was a voice, not her imagination.
Tripping on a hidden tree root, she fell, landing on her left arm and packing the snow in front into a perfect form of her body. Snow covered her face, and she wiggled desperately.
“Come on. Get up already,” said the same voice, clear this time, and notably male.
“Why doesn’t she just get up? Come on,” said another male voice, hidden in the trees.
Mounira struggled to turn or otherwise get free.
“She’s going to suffocate. Where’s the fun in that?” said a female voice.
Mounira fought furiously until the blanket tied around her loosened and she managed to flip herself over. She stared up at the dark, gray, snowy sky and took a couple of breaths to calm herself down. The sweat on her short, dark brown hair sticking out the back of her hat quickly froze.
“Oh, I get it,” said the first male voice.
“What, Hans?” inquired the second male voice.
“Yes, Hans, do tell,” said the female voice playfully.
Mounira sat up, looked around, and tried to locate the voices among the trees, some of which seemed to move. Could they really be fairies? she wondered.
“No matter what she does, she can’t ever do it… right! Ha ha,” said Hans.
“She’s a lefty,” said the second male voice. “Do you think she lost her whole right arm, or just part of it?”
“Well, we haven’t played with a lefty. Is it still sporting?” asked the female voice.
The wind calmed just enough that Mounira was certain she heard the faint crunching of snow. “They aren’t spirits,” she said to herself, annoyed at having entertained such a childish idea. “These are cruel, twisted monsters.”
She unconsciously moved the stump below her right shoulder, confirming for herself that what they said was true, but wishing it wasn’t.
“Who are you?” she yelled, her anger evident. “I can hear you! I know you’re people!”
“We aren’t people. Are we, Saul?” asked Hans, from somewhere in the trees now.
Mounira noticed snow falling from a red pine tree thirty yards away.
Saul’s voice came from another tree. “I think we might be. What do you think Gretel?”
“Oh, no. We’re the spirits of the forest. Spirits who work for the Ginger Lady, remember?” she replied.
Feet aching from the cold, Mounira moved toward the voices. “I’m lost. Help me!” she urged.
“You’re not lost—you’re exactly where we wanted you to be,” said Gretel cheerily.
“Help you?” asked Hans, sounding like it was an absurd request. “Hmm. Shall we, Gretel?”
“Well, if we don’t, she won’t get to where she needs to go. This way,” said Gretel, with a sweet voice. Twenty yards away, a red-hooded figure briefly stepped out from behind a pine tree.
“How do they move around?” Mounira wondered out loud. She wasn’t sure if she’d heard some machine-like clanking a moment ago. She shook her head—that didn’t make any sense.
“Come on,” said Gretel, annoyed. “We’ll bring you to Mother’s.”
Mounira could swear she heard the male voices chuckling. She was so tired and cold she couldn’t remember any more if the bandits had also worn red. She staggered forward, hoping these weren’t the same people. Maybe these red-hooded voices would soon take pity on her.
Several minutes passed, with only a voice promising that she was almost there, as she dragged herself through the snow. She cleared her mind and focused on moving toward the voices.
Finally, exhausted, Mounira stopped and dropped to her knees. “I’m not going any further until you tell me where I’m going!” she yelled out. The anger that fueled her was fading.
For a while, there was nothing.
“Okay, then, but you’re ruining the fun,” said Hans. “If you look up to your left, up that ridge, you’ll see trees in a line. That’s the shortcut to Mother’s house.”
“Follow the breadcrumbs,” said Gretel. “That’s what we used to do.”
“What breadcrumbs?” asked Saul jokingly.
“Oh, did they get eaten by the birds? Those flying rats always eat them. Horrible things,” said Hans.
“You’re such a cat person,” said Saul.
Hans, Saul, and Gretel laughed.
Mounira, her teeth chattering and body numb, forced herself up to the ridge.
CHAPTER TEN
The Road from Augusto
Mounira fell to her knees in the snow again. She was now at the ridge, and able to see through the trees. She was hungry, thirsty, and, above all, exhausted.
“Only a little more,” she told herself. She stuck her arm out to lean against a leafless tree. “I’ll rest for a minute… just a minute.” Her thoughts carried her back to the day after her eleventh birthday a couple of months ago.
It had been a great celebration with her parents, siblings, uncles, aunts, cousins, and grandparents. Twenty-eight of them had gone to the annual parade in the capital city, where the soldiers and royalty would march among selected schoolchildren and merchants. Every fifth year, all the royals came out, and Mounira and her cousins were excited to see them.
The kingdom of Augusto was humble in size compared to neighboring kingdoms, yet it was the second most prosperous. Citizens benefited from generations of monarchs who placed the people first. Augusto was also well-regarded by its neighbors for having the best mediators and consulars. Its capital and southernmost city, Catalina, had a strategically-positioned port, considered by many as easy to defend, and ideal for trade.
The weather was beautiful and warm that September day. Mounira wore the new white dress she’d received the day before. Everyone remarked how beautiful she was, and each time she sm
iled and curtsied politely. She couldn’t imagine a better birthday.
Mounira’s family had made a point to arrive at the parade early, so that the children could line up at the rope that sectioned off parade participants from spectators. The smallest of the children were up on the shoulders of uncles and aunts. Everyone danced to the street music.
As the official walking band arrived, the crowd went wild. Mounira waved her homemade flag. The band was followed by schoolchildren and merchants, and then the first of the royal family. The royals threw flower petals from baskets held by beaming volunteers.
“The princesses are so beautiful! Look at their dresses!” yelled Mounira to her cousins, who were yelling the same thing back. No one could hear a word over the crowd’s roars.
Then time slowed down for Mounira, and all she could hear was her heart beating: dub-dub, dub-dub, dub-dub.
The king and queen, who’d been walking toward Mounira to shake hands with the crowd, fell down. The princes and princesses started running, and some of them fell down, too. Soldiers started pointing at people with their rifles, and made people fall down, while other soldiers pointed their rifles at those soldiers, and made them fall down. Bursts of red mist appeared in the air. None of it made sense to Mounira.
Mounira wondered if it might be some kind of game. Maybe everyone knew about it and was playing along, and she’d missed it somehow? She hadn’t been paying attention on the walk to the parade. Had her parents tried to tell her? It was getting hard to think. Her heartbeat was so loud that she was getting dizzy.
Standing there, right arm frozen in the air in the middle of waving her flag, she turned to see some of her cousins lying down, others running. Some seemed to have strange cherry stains on them. So many people were either running or lying down; hardly anyone was just standing anymore. Mounira felt left out and confused.
She turned the other way to see her father, ten yards away, looking upset and confused. She wondered if he’d been left out, too. When he saw her, his look changed—and he charged toward her. At that point, time resumed normal speed. Mounira could barely react before her father snatched her up and ran for all he was worth.