The Heartwood Crown

by Matt Mikalatos

  “That was my idea, running for the light,” Jason said.

  “It was a terrible idea, and you’re lucky you didn’t actually make it there,” Darius said. “Now, let’s get you somewhere safer until we can take you back to the mansion.”

  “About that,” Jason said. “A Kakri warrior found us and, well, it’s not safe to go back there now.”

  Darius paused. “In that case . . . in that case, I’m not sure where to take you. We’ll have to check with the elders. The Wasted Lands are getting more and more volatile after Madeline brought so much destruction to Far Seeing. The Elenil are angry and pushing the boundaries of our agreements. It’s not safe at the mansion, it’s not safe abroad, it’s not safe in the villages. Maybe there is no safe place anymore.”

  “We need to find my brother and sister, and Break Bones, too,” Nightfall said, a tinge of worry in his voice.

  “And Baileya.”

  “We will,” Darius said, guiding his possum up and out of their hiding place. “But first we find a safe place for Jason, since he’s the one the Elenil are looking for.”

  “Me?”

  “They want to kill you. The archon wants your head.”

  Jason put his hands on his neck. “But I like my head.” He knew the Elenil were after him, of course, but hearing someone else say it brought a glitchy feeling that rose from the pit of his stomach. “I’m attached to it,” he said weakly. They surfaced into the deep darkness of the Wasted Lands. A light breeze blew across them, and Delightful Glitter Lady whined.

  “What is it, girl?”

  “Hold,” a voice called. “Do not move.”

  Jason turned at once to find a small collection of Elenil, their lights sheathed in some sort of shadowed film.

  The lead Elenil gestured to his orb, and the darkening film fell away. Jason squinted in the light. “I said do not move.”

  “It’s only natural,” Jason said, holding his hand up to block the light. “When someone says ‘don’t move,’ you want to turn and look at them and see who’s talking and why they don’t want you to move. Next time you should give more detail.”

  “Silence!”

  “Like, ‘Don’t move, it’s some Elenil warriors, and we have lots of arrows pointed at you, so don’t even turn around.’ That’s the sort of information that would be helpful.”

  There were five of them. They wore the traditional Elenil finery. Long, brocaded sleeves covered their arms, and high collars protected their necks. Their loose hair flowed to their shoulders, and they were thin and almost willowy. The lead Elenil was dressed in pale yellow, with a purple thread winding through his clothing. He held a shining sword, and beside him stood a white stag. To his left stood an Elenil with a fierce scowl on his face. He had a short bow in his hand, an arrow nocked, and two more dangling from his hand. A tiger crouched beside him, growling softly. Jason knew them.

  “Slowly place your weapons upon the ground,” the first Elenil said.

  The Black Skull did not move or speak. Nightfall followed his lead, standing in absolute stillness.

  “Wait!” Jason stepped between the Elenil and his friends. “I know you both. You with the stag, you’re Rondelo. Madeline’s friend. And you with the tiger, you’re the guard from Far Seeing. You chased me when I stole a durian. I remember your name, too. It’s Soda Pop.”

  “Sochar,” the Elenil guard growled, the tip of his arrow pointed at Jason’s heart.

  “Close enough,” Jason said, satisfied with himself. “I can’t believe I remembered your name. It’s amazing, really.”

  The Black Skull shoved Jason roughly back. “Put down your weapons, Elenil,” he said, his deep voice booming. “Our treaties make it clear you cannot harm us here, on our own land, when we have not made any attack against you.”

  “Except to maim our archon,” Sochar snarled. “You lopped off his hand in the seat of his power, shamed him in front of the assembled messenger birds, made a mockery of the highest authority in the Sunlit Lands, and now you stand here in the accursed shadows and claim sanctuary because of ancient treaties sworn in brighter days?”

  “To be fair,” Jason said, “it wasn’t us personally who did the lopping.”

  “Peace, peace,” Rondelo said, letting the tip of his sword sag toward the ground. “We need not fight. Sir Black Skull, I know thou art a man of honor. Let us set aside our arms and discuss this like gentlefolk.”

  “He is no man,” Sochar said, “but a boy. And not a Scim, neither, and thus not covered by the treaties. Let us fill him with arrows and be done.”

  Rondelo’s eyes slid toward Sochar, but he didn’t contradict him. As near as Jason could tell, Rondelo was in charge. The other Elenil looked ready to fight, though. Maybe Rondelo wouldn’t be in charge for long, not if they had their way. They wanted blood, and the thin barrier of Rondelo’s authority wouldn’t keep them back for long. Jason became hyper-aware of his every move. He got the feeling they were looking for an excuse, a reason to act.

  He knew exactly what to do.

  Back home, back on Earth, his friend Josh Chen taught him that if the police pulled you over, you should have a pair of nerdy glasses in the car, because if you’re Asian American, the police don’t see you, they see the stereotypes they expect. Wear baggy jeans or gold chains, or have the wrong kind of tattoo or rap music playing, and they think “gangbanger.” But quickly hit the pre-programmed button to turn your stereo to classical music and throw on a pair of nerdy glasses, and you’re a harmless “Smart Asian.” Jason had never tried it himself, but Josh swore by it. If they’re going to have stereotypes, he’d said, let’s at least use them to our advantage.

  Of course, the Elenil didn’t have stereotypes about Asian Americans. They probably had some about humans, but Jason wasn’t clear what those would be. Thinking about this whole thing in the context of interacting with a police officer, though, helped Jason understand what he should do.

  Carefully, slowly, he put his hands up, palms out, before lacing them behind his head.

  “What are you doing?” Sochar said, intently following Jason’s every move. His eyes flicked toward Nightfall.

  “A magical incantation. What does it look like I’m doing? I’m showing you I’m no threat so we can put down our weapons and have a civilized conversation.”

  Jason could just see Darius’s eyes in the recesses of the Black Skull mask. Darius said, “Rondelo, let the Scim child leave us. He has no part in this and was not party to the incident with your archon.”

  “Our archon,” Rondelo said. “For is he not the ruler of the entire Sunlit Lands? Not only the Elenil but the Scim also are under his authority.”

  Nightfall couldn’t stay silent for that. “He is not my archon, and if he were, I would cut off his other hand.”

  Sochar’s face twisted into a mask of fury. The other Elenil, except Rondelo, looked nearly as angry as he. “Insolence,” Sochar said, his voice shaking.

  “Um, Nightfall?” Jason tried to get the kid’s attention without moving his hands from behind his head. “Let’s try to calm everyone down, not get everyone worked up.”

  “The archon is a fool,” Nightfall said. “A fool and a tyrant.”

  “The archon gives you food and shelter. The archon brings light to the Sunlit Lands.”

  Nightfall let out a bitter laugh and stepped toward the Elenil warriors, his fists clenched. “Do you see any of those things here?”

  What happened next, Jason didn’t know exactly, even though he would later play it over and over in his mind. There was a skirmish on the Elenil side. Rondelo—he thought it was Rondelo—shouted “Peace!” There was a wordless shout. An arrow appeared in Nightfall’s chest. The boy looked down at it, his eyes wide, as he sank to his knees. His hand hovered near it, didn’t touch it. He fell sideways, rolling onto his back.

  Then the world crashed in again, as the Black Skull launched himself into the small crowd of Elenil, slicing through Sochar’s bow with a single swing of his sc
ythe, his fists and feet swirling, connecting with Elenil faces and weapons, breaking them.

  Jason cradled Nightfall’s face. He was still breathing but with ragged, labored gasps. His eyes found Jason’s, and he opened his mouth but no sound came out. He looked away again and closed his eyes. His breaths got farther and farther apart.

  “No,” Jason said. “Nightfall, no.” Nightfall didn’t respond. Jason leaned closer, whispered to him using his true name. “Nola, hang in there. We’ll get help. Just—don’t die.”

  Jason jumped to his feet. Two Elenil lay on the ground. Sochar’s right arm hung limp. Rondelo fought one-on-one against the Black Skull, but Darius could not be wounded, not when the magic of the Scim came to him through his mask. The last Elenil—a particularly tall one—was coming up behind the Skull. Jason shouted a warning, running to Darius’s aid, but Sochar grabbed Jason with his good arm, slinging him around so he couldn’t get there in time.

  The tall Elenil bashed the Black Skull in the back of the head, knocking his antlered face forward. Rondelo grabbed the antlers and, with a practiced kick, knocked Darius’s feet out from under him. Jason struggled but couldn’t get free. The tall Elenil pinned the Skull to the ground, and Rondelo tore the mask away, revealing Darius’s sweat-covered, enraged face.

  “You’ve broken the treaty,” Darius shouted, his voice no longer the grating, deep voice of the Black Skull. “There are rules to be observed. You killed a defenseless boy.”

  “He’s not dead,” Sochar said dismissively.

  “The human is not wrong,” Rondelo said. “Sochar, you had no—”

  Sochar raised his hands. “I feared for my life, Rondelo. You saw him move toward me!” He looked to the other Elenil. “You saw him. He advanced on me. He threatened me, and I defended myself. How does this break the treaty agreements?”

  Jason jabbed Sochar in the wounded shoulder, and the Elenil cried out and released him. Jason ran back to Nightfall. “He’s maybe—maybe—ten years old.”

  “Even an infant viper can bite,” Sochar said.

  How Sochar could think Nightfall was a threat in that moment, Jason didn’t know. But he didn’t seem to be lying. He had honestly thought Nightfall was going to hurt him.

  “This must go to the elders of the Scim for reckoning,” Darius said. “Let them decide if the treaty is broken, and let them decide the punishment.”

  Rondelo paused, as if considering this. “No. Archon Thenody desires Wu Song’s presence at Far Seeing. Let him be the judge. I will not keep him waiting any longer.”

  Darius pushed against the Elenil who held him. “I have appealed to the elders! By treaty right you must take me to them. We are in Scim land—you must take me to the Scim authorities for judgment.”

  Rondelo regarded him coolly. “True enough,” he said. He ran a long cord through the eyes of Darius’s mask and tied it onto his belt. “If you were a Scim. But you are a human. The treaty has nothing to do with you.”

  “What about him?” Jason shouted, pointing at Nightfall. “Doesn’t he get a say in this?”

  Rondelo’s eyes flicked toward the bleeding Scim boy. “Speak up, child, if you have an opinion.”

  Sochar rubbed his injured arm. “He made his choice when he attacked us.”

  Rondelo frowned at him. “Silence, Sochar. You have done enough for one day.”

  Sochar grunted, then came over to Jason and pushed him to the ground. He rolled him onto his chest, then held him while the other Elenil tied Jason’s hands behind his back with a rough thong. “Archon Thenody will not care for the loss of one Scim if we bring back these two humans.”

  “He will care if the treaty is broken. Will he not?”

  Sochar had nothing to say to that. The two Elenil on the ground began to stir. They got to their feet while Rondelo searched Darius for weapons and bound his arms. “What of the boy?” Sochar asked.

  Rondelo considered this. “Leave him. Perhaps the other Black Skulls will return and find him, or one of the Scim. Whatever happens now is in the hands of the Majestic One.”

  Sochar walked over to Nightfall, leaving Jason on the ground, struggling to see what he was doing. “Leave him alone,” Jason shouted.

  The Elenil stalked back to him, kneeling down near Jason’s head. “Don’t worry,” he said softly, “I cannot harm him now. Your little friend is already dead.”

  No.

  Jason struggled against the leather thongs tying his arms. No!

  His teeth clenched, and his blood pounded against his skull. This was his fault. The Elenil were after him, not Nightfall. He should have sent the boy away, should have taken the risk on his own. Now Nightfall was dead. Who would tell his sister and brother? Who would tell his family? Once again, Jason Wu had brought death and destruction to a Scim family. Once again, being near him had caused someone pain.

  No. That wasn’t true, not exactly.

  Jason did not tell lies. Not anymore. It wasn’t just being near him that had caused this. It was being near the Elenil. They would pay, he promised himself. Sochar first and foremost, and then Rondelo and all the rest of them. They would pay, wound for wound and blood for blood. He promised this to himself and to the memory of Nightfall. Whatever came, they would pay.

  8

  THE MOTH

  He saw the sort of woman she must be

  to overcome her sorrow and still live.

  FROM “JELDA’S REVENGE,” A SCIM LEGEND

  Shula could not sleep that night. She lay beside Yenil, listening to her breathe. The Scim girl had quieted soon enough after the incident with the principal, but Madeline was furious and Shula was agitated. Madeline kept making her way to the front door, looking out the window, then mumbling to herself about what would happen to the principal if he called the police. What she would do to him. What her father’s lawyer would do to him. Madeline had told her parents about what had happened at the principal’s office, minus the war skin. Her parents tried to take a conciliatory tone, suggesting there had been a misunderstanding, but Madeline, livid, kept at them until they had become nearly as enraged as she was. Mr. Oliver had gone into his study, and Shula had heard him talking to his lawyer on the phone, voice raised.

  Shula found herself on the verge of tears several times that evening. She knew why, knew it was the loss of her family. She had worked hard to keep that memory behind a wall, to keep her grief compartmentalized and isolated. I am strong. I have power. She snuck into the garden and went to the side of the house, where no one could see her. She let the magic of the Sunlit Lands rise from beneath her skin and watched the flames flow over her. She stood in the cool night, letting the reminder of her power comfort her. No one can hurt me. Not her body, in any case. Her emotions were another story, and so she must keep herself aloof from others. It was safer for her and them. She would be lonely, yes, but she wouldn’t be reminded of her lost loved ones, and she could move on with life. The only emotion she would allow herself to feel with any regularity was anger.

  Anger. It sat in the core of her chest like a fire, and if she ever felt it die down too much, she would give it more fuel, stoke the flames, remind herself not to set it aside, to let it grow. Losing her anger would make her vulnerable. Letting anyone get close would put her at risk. Madeline had been the lone exception. Something about the way she had walked into their shared room in the Sunlit Lands had disarmed Shula completely. But Shula had been shocked by how different Madeline was when her illness returned. Less patient, more angry. It made sense on reflection, but Shula couldn’t help but think of the girl she had known in the Sunlit Lands as the “real” Madeline. There was something about Madeline that first day they met in Mrs. Raymond’s home, something that made Shula want to protect her. Not because she was weak—she wasn’t. But because she had an outlook on the world that was so kindhearted and loving that Shula couldn’t help but think of both Madeline and her worldview as fragile. She didn’t want that precious naiveté to break.

  Maybe naiveté was th
e wrong word, because she had watched Madeline discover the truth of the Elenil magic system and the oppression of the Scim in record time, and Madeline had actually done something about it. She had made hard choices about herself and her life and had taken consequences that Shula couldn’t even imagine. Shula rubbed the long scar on her face. Well. She could imagine it, but it was so different from her own experience. Even now, as her health failed, Madeline had arranged much of her life around taking care of Yenil and making sure Shula would be cared for when she was gone. Which left Shula with the uncomfortable possibility that Madeline was not naive at all and somehow still managed to be kindhearted and focused on bringing justice to the rest of the world. Shula did not like this conclusion, because she feared what it might say about herself.

  Then, of course, Yenil had come into Shula’s life and stepped directly into the painful place where Amira had once been. Shula had tried to resist for a sum total of three minutes before giving in and adopting the little girl into her life. This had been a mistake. Their lives were too similar: both orphans, both casualties of war. Both strangers in this land, both navigating unimaginable loss. Yenil was too like Shula’s sister, and too different from her. She was a reminder of what could have been, which was another way to say that she was a reminder of what was not, of who was lost.

  So Shula could not sleep.

  She padded around the house, barefoot in the luxurious carpet of her wealthy American family. She paused outside Madeline’s room, listening to her tortured breathing. A sharp pang of hurt hit her as she realized how this little action—the restless wandering, checking in on Madeline—had become almost a ritual. She was losing Madeline, too.