A cool morning breeze pulls me from my thoughts and into the flesh. Uncommon for this season, but not unheard of, I suppose. It has me craving a more concealing wardrobe. My thin tunic leaves my arms bare to nature, and my cambric trousers are littered with four seasons of ubiquitous holes.
But there is a warmth about this moment as well. Jay is nuzzled into my chest with my arm wrapped around her. She warms me from the inside out. I hesitate to disrupt the welcomed peace, but I know we need to be on the move before the chill subsides to unruly heat.
“Jay. Wake up,” I whisper and nudge her, but not too hard. The last thing I want to do is shove her out of the tree. “Jaymes, wake up.” Her eyes open just in time to see the last of the owls fly off, parting with lingering feathers that flutter all around us. “Did you see them?”
“The birds? I’ve seen birds before. What’s your problem? Can’t we rest a bit longer?” Jaymes closes her eyes and nuzzles into my shoulder, attempting to find her dreamland once more. The chill relinquishes, and I allow it for a moment longer before speaking again.
“It wasn’t just birds,” I say with interest. It must be my mother speaking for me. “It was a migration of owls. Hundreds of them.”
“Owls? It’s too early for your stories.” Her eyes remain closed.
“Do you know what this means?”
“No. Do you?” There’s a notable irritation in her voice.
“Well…no. But have you ever seen hundreds of birds of prey fly together in the same direction? It can’t be normal. There were a few eagle owls from the western foothills mixed in there. They had to have flown from the Plateau, or farther. They were all so dominant and elegant. Destriers of the sky, they are. Used in battle by the Old Races.” But as massive as these ones were, they’re half the size of what the stories depict.
“Great, Goose! It gives me chills just thinking about it,” she mocks. “Who are you?”
“Oh…Jay…you don’t have to call me Great Goose. I’m just an above average guy who has a vast amount of knowledge. Primarily on the history of battle. My father saw to that.”
A few remaining stragglers of the eruption leave sight, and with their departure, we decide to do the same. However, before I assist Jay in getting down from our lavish treehouse, I decide it wise to scout the area first. Whoever knocked on our door could be stalking us right now. And even if they’re not stalking us, we could just as easily stumble upon another predator and find ourselves in a predicament far worse than what it already is.
I hate to think about all the scenarios that could have played out with Stone and our visitor, so I don’t. I’m assuming the worst. I promised Stone four seasons ago if we ever came upon this moment, I would protect her. I gave him my word, and I won’t fall back on it. It doesn’t feel right to leave him behind, but that is why I fled without hesitation. Because of her. And my honor. It’s what my father would have done.
I stray several hundred paces to the west in silence and stumble upon a manmade object I’ve never come across in this wood before. We don’t wander this far north, so there isn’t reason for me to be familiar with it. But it’s still an odd sight. Two wooden rails run parallel to each other mounted along cross bars that are secured to the forest floor. They appear to be roots. Ironwood roots. Though, the contours are far too clean and intentional to be natural. These wooden rails were placed here by someone. Not that long ago, judging by the lack of overgrowth on and around them. There could be a labor camp nearby, which could be trouble for us. I shrug off the anomaly and head back in the direction where I left Jay stranded in the tree.
As I retrace my steps, another unnatural lump hidden within the undergrowth catches my attention. Not an ironwood rail. And not a fallen tree. I pause to investigate and find a body lying between several large sword ferns. A lifeless body. I bend down to take a closer look and discover another carcass adjacent to it, and then more. Dozens of bodies feed the undergrowth. Even more unnatural is the fact I don’t smell them. All carcasses rot. And all carcasses stink.
I ready my kukri and nudge one with the tip of my boot to make sure he isn’t alive. He doesn’t move. I get closer and place the back of my hand against his flesh. Cold. For a body anyways. As if he’s been frozen. Petrified maybe. There’s no rot, but no life either. If there were life, though, I would have to rectify that. Poor soul. Someone, a Hiberneyt, has been abusing their talents and dabbling in the taboo.
He has a black mark on his ear. The mark of a slave. The same mark the Taoiseach implanted on Stone, except a slave’s is more visible on their upper ear. This couldn’t possibly have been our visitor’s doing, could it? We’re only a days’ walk from our hideaway. How could we have not known about this? The construction of the rails. The labor force who could’ve effortlessly stumbled upon us. Maybe that is who our visitor was. A survivor of this massacre. And we fled when we could’ve helped. Though, our visitor could’ve just as easily been the assailant who did this. We should get back to Stone. No. If we were visited by the Hiberneyt responsible, then he’s already dead. I have to stick to my duty. I have to protect Jaymes.
I can’t mention this to her, or she’ll want to return home.
Jay, not to my surprise, has her own priorities. But what’s shocking is she has made it down from the tree and rigged a litter with a few fallen cedar branches and weaved tiger palms. And she intends for me to tow her. Reluctantly, I acquiesce.
It’s not long before she decides she needs to stretch her legs. I understand the anxiety and frustration she must feel being dragged over the rough terrain all morning. It would drive me mad to be so handicapped. Like having the energy of an ape trapped within the wretched muscles of a sloth’s body.
Jay hobbles around, but it doesn’t take long before she feels nauseous and dizzy. I assist her back into the litter and fetch some water in a nearby creek. Grateful for Jay’s resourcefulness, I utilize my oasis pouch she crafted from leftover palms. Her personality would never lead me to believe she’s capable of such things, but she is full of hidden talents. She truly is remarkable.
After we guzzle the much-needed refreshments, I tow her for a few more hours until, for the first time in four seasons, we hit a change in scenery. The muggy gloom of the forest opens up to a refreshing, vibrant green meadow surrounded by the murky Scarlet Delta. All accompanied by an overwhelming bright-blue sky overhead.
“Look!” I gesture toward the horizon. It’s been too many seasons since any of us have seen a true horizon where the sky and mountains touch. The distant hills caress the blue sky for leagues upon leagues. I can see blue skies from the eastern Cypress Marsh to the Scarlet Delta fingering out northward, and to the Garnet Plains spreading across the west like a giant, green blanket. It’s breathtaking.
I shift my gaze to see Jay’s reaction, but she lies in the litter asleep. It’s for the best, I suppose. She would have enjoyed the scenery, though. Stone more so. He always was the nature lover among us. Always observing, watching over the forest as if it were a beautiful young maiden you couldn’t take your eyes off. I hope he’s okay.
The novelty doesn’t last long. The beautiful scenery surrenders to the sweltering heat pounding down upon us as though the high sun were a flaming mallet. I accept the beating, regardless. My bones have been decaying from residing in the dark, humid forest for so long.
“We’ve made it.” I breathe in and exhale a deep breath. Greenport is a short distance west of here. Or is it east? I look toward the horizon both east and west in search of a landmark. Something familiar. Something to prevent me from leading us astray. I pull Jay into the shade of a short, majestic palm on the forest’s edge while I figure out what direction to head next.
To the west, all that can be seen is a vast, green meadow speckled with varying colors of wildflowers pinned between the Broken Forest and the Scarlet Delta. Tight game trails meander it, and debris washes up from the delta, but there’s no other indication Greenport might be in that direction. To the east it’s the same. We’re maroo
ned with beautiful beaches that go on forever. The air smells sweet and refreshing with an occasional waft of bogwart when a gust of wind picks up. I look left; I look right, then back left again. I don’t see any landmarks dictating which direction the small fishing village is.
I plop down in the shade beside Jaymes and pout. “Jay,” I whisper to her, “what would you do? Which way, Jay?”
I realize I’ve been spending too much time with Stone. He’s always been hesitant and thoughtful with his decisions. I remain seated and ponder for a while longer until my mind drifts.
I look to the east and wonder what lies beyond the Cypress Marsh. I’ve never seen a map charted beyond it. Aha!
Maybe that’s why Stone approaches his decisions with thought rather than instinct. A good idea surfaces every now and then.
I recall the geography lessons I had as a child. My father required I learn all cities, villages, and townships in the realm. He was relentless when it came to my studies. He pushed my talents hard and my knowledge harder. But only factual knowledge. He didn’t find it useful to fill my head with theories and legends of the past. I suppose it worked because I have a clear recollection of where the quaint fishing village lies on a map. It’s closer to the mouth of the Scarlet than to where the delta dumps into the Cypress Marsh.
Gazing at the eastern horizon, I study the waters of the Scarlet Delta. They’re shallow with vast muddy berms breaking the surface. The meadow itself has more horsetail, cattail, and sawgrass poking through—all vegetation known to grow in the marsh. And the bogwart. I can smell the rancid smell of the bogwart with the westwardly wind. I’m closer to the marsh, which means…we head west! Almost there.
I rise to the occasion and throw Jay’s tow vine over my shoulder.
“There you are!” a gruff voice calls. A stranger stands in the shade of the forest’s edge.
I place an unnerved hand on my kukri and eye him suspiciously.
“I’m here for her.” He raises a hand with a few missing digits and points to Jaymes. “I’m a friend.”
Power is irrelevant. So why does man put on a pedestal irrelevance? Curiosity, continuous improvement, passion, perseverance—these are the drivers, but we let the powerful climb atop the pedestal, and we bend.
11 Harris
T he Redwood Chamber. Since the days of the Old Races, it has been a place of power. Unwavering and rooted deep, no different than the evergreen it’s named after. It houses Parliament, the elected caretakers of our realm, which I abhor to admit, I am responsible for. It has become a place of mocking scrutiny. A council I’m expected to be a part of at each turn of Cerise’s cycle. I dread when our mother terra grows full for it brings these four into proximity.
I listen and I scrutinize.
“What in Susy’s name are you insinuating, Shambrock?” Kell shouts in defense of his honor.
Kell Cromarte is a prideful man. Quick to anger if his integrity is being questioned. The origin of his pride lies with the falsehood he is a man of Parliament, the Chancellor to be accurate, who interprets himself as handsome, clever, and honest. Incognizant of himself, he is a balding, sinister gnome who would slay an orphan if it stabilized the pedestal he and his kin reside on. Summer’s end will be a revelation for him should my Shadow be successful.
“What I’m insinuating is you are the culprit for the sudden explosion of missing Dihkai. All the pieces are there. You are a man of power with connections; you are a man with dubious intentions, and I do not enjoy your company,” Shambrock answers.
Shambrock often makes the mistake of being impertinent and flagrantly reveals his hand. He’s not the sharpest man of Parliament. Ultimately, I am the one responsible for appointing him with the title of Shogun, commander of the Crimson Guard. Though, I am more comfortable with having appointed a brute than a brilliant and willful candidate. Shambrock is intelligent on a battlefield, not in a chamber.
“You are a courageous man, Shambrock,” Kell states.
“How so?” Shambrock bites, taking the bait.
“Implying such accusations against a man of my authority is considered unwise by most, but you do so heedlessly. You are fearless, but be careful—”
“A halfwit, conniving weasel, you are,” Shambrock interjects. “Courage and fear remain part of the same reckoning. I cannot be fearless and courageous in the same thought. If you’ve ever stepped foot on the frontline, you’d know that.”
“It’s a moot point.” Nigel calmly says, adding no value to the conversation.
Nigel Whitewater has mastered the art of deceit. The other men of Parliament, Shambrock, Leonard, and Kell himself, all consider Kell to be the master of manipulation in this chamber. Kell is capable, indeed. Except one important detail—we all know his true colors. Nigel, on the other hand, has a delicate shroud over everyone. Everyone except the man which he reports too.
Kell ignores Nigel’s comment and continues to stab at Shambrock.
“Brute force is not always the answer, Shambrock. All your aspirations are inevitably achieved with guile and cunning maneuvers. We are all weasels at one moment or another.”
“So you admit you’re a weasel, then,” Shambrock rebuttals.
“You’re not helping your cause, Kell,” Nigel says, unsolicited yet again.
“Nigel, would you shut your mouth.” Leonard forms a flat frown. “Taking sides is sure to benefit an argument. Let these two talk through their differences without your ridiculous comments.”
Leonard, like Nigel, is one of the bigger threats in the room. This mild outburst is uncommon for the man. Often his poise and intellect portray him to be more of a docile individual. And behind the scenes is where his peril strikes.
“I’m simply stating that Kell is proving Shambrock’s point. That his actions of manipulation and guile are often perceived as weasel-like.”
“Shut up, Nigel!” The other three all demand at once.
“Enough.” I interject with an even tone. The four of them close their mouths and look to me attentively. I find myself constantly disobeying my own personal rules of etiquette whenever around this distasteful group. This conversation is going nowhere, however. And these morons throw blame at each other like it is a hot pile of tiger shit they shed from their estate. Willing to bury their neighbors in it, and accepting none in return. More so, they lack all the facts. And they always will. They believe they hold counsel in this chamber, but it is a ruse. I keep my own counsel. The Parliament of Azure. It is all a ruse.
“You all are juvenile, preferring to throw feces at one another rather than accomplishing anything of worth. Do you know what else is commonly known for throwing feces at one another?” I pause, waiting to see if one of them will fail by answering the question. None of them do, so I continue. “The many different personalities of your company drive me beyond my own manners.” I take a long, hard look out the high windows of the chamber. Not much is to be seen except the blue sky. But it offers peace.
“Before we continue, I must say, I witnessed something new today. There was a lad, a curious one, in the market. I say lad, but he was a young man. He hovered over an anthill and engaged in an age-old yet twisted experiment, holding a piece of glass steadily beside the anthill. A line of soldiers marched back to their underground fortress before he redirected the first in line. One after the other, they continued marching behind the leader, straight into a smoldering death beneath the glass shard. He then corrected their route, allowing several to make it home. But soon redirected it again into a death march. He repeated his actions over and over. Burning a few, saving a few, burning a few, saving a few. The curiosity behind those eyes… Twisted or not, I have not seen such curiosity in this realm in a long while.” Often, a false power is sought after and not what truly matters. “That is beside the point. The ants. Leading by example is critical because subjects will emulate those who they wish they were. Knowledge is key here. What people do know and don’t know is important. Leading requires challenging decisions, but i
f your followers are not aware of those decisions, then they will only see what you want them to and will easily be manipulated into what you desire.”
I pause to allow the slower of the group to ponder my comment.
“Now, what are the facts of this matter?” I ask.
All four men remain silent, holding eye contact merely because they know my expectations.
“Taoiseach, sir, you have our dearest apologies for our ineloquent behavior. Please forgive us.” Nigel articulates cordially with his head low, fabricating as much sincerity as possible.
Fittingly, the deft public relations appointee breaks the silence with a simple apology, attempting to mend a crevasse-sized scar that has been gouged over several seasons of manipulation and deceit amongst the members of Parliament. And he does so with the smallest of bandages. He’s good with his tongue, but it’s meaningless when voiced toward an ear as aged as mine.
Nigel plays the role of a dimwit who sees only what’s directly in front of his face, and the others are neck-deep in his river of fraudulence. In truth, Nigel has a finger on every pawn, an ear in every room, a hand on every cock, and a cock in every pillow girl. If an esteemed murder occurs in Great Oak Forest, he knows about it; if the Carnal Islands have acquired new talent, he knows about it; if a flaming bag of tiger shit is left on the wrong doorstep, he’ll know about it because it will be his doorstep. Nigel fools all of them into believing he’s a mere chief of public relations. He has no friends and plenty of information, the perfect representative for the position.
“Irrelevant. Present the facts, not a superficial apology,” I chide.
“Yes, Taoiseach, sir, of course. Fact—there have been over one hundred reports of missing Dihkai this season alone in various townships across Vedora. And only the Dihkai race has been affected thus far. Fact—we have no hint of a trail to give us any direction as to who the culprit may be.”
“So, all we know is hundreds of men, women, and children are being murdered without any notion as to who, why, or how? It smells like the workings of a weasel to me.” Shambrock sends an indignant glance over to Kell, who refuses to take the bait.
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