He shot her daggers with his eyes. “…or in defiance of evil traditions.”
His gaze cut her deeply, and she took another step back.
Captain Sykes took out his handkerchief, but did not use it on himself. Instead, he knelt down, and tended to the cuts on the defiant man pinned to the ground.
“What is your name, son?”
The man looked up, suspicion in his fierce eyes. “My name is Akar. I am property of the Bursage family.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” Iris scoffed, trying to hide her shame. “Property is valuable. You are not.”
Captain Sykes took out his pocketknife and began cutting Akar free of the roots that held him.
“Hey! You can’t just…”
“BE SILENT!” Captain Sykes snapped at the Treesingers. His tone stunned them. “I did not join the military so I could stand by and do nothing while a person is brutalized in my presence.”
He turned his gaze to the other two. “What is wrong with you Wysterians? You treat your prisoners of war better than you treat your own kin.”
Sykes and Avid helped Akar to his feet. “This man is part of your household. You fancy yourself his teacher, but all you’ve taught him is how to hate you.”
Cowed by her own guilt, Iris could only look on as Sykes and Avid helped the bleeding man away towards a spiral staircase of living wood, leading back up into the light.
As they walked away, the other men all looked at each other in shock. When Iris spun about, they dropped their heads in fear, but she could still hear them whispering amongst themselves.
“A man stood up to a woman.”
Chapter Three
It had become something of a grim ritual for Privet since he returned to Wysteria. Venturing down to the lower branches where the poor families lived. Accommodations were sparse here. If there were things that could not be made by reshaping the trees, people generally found a way to do without them. Dirty little boys ran everywhere. Swinging from vines, scampering up trunks, kicking around balls made from scraps of cloth, and wrestling in the streets. Pregnant women hollered angrily at their husbands to work faster, and they sadly obeyed.
But it was one person in particular that drew Privet here. A young man stood along the main trunk staircase that led up to the higher levels. He could have passed for seventeen, although Privet knew he was quite a bit older than that. With a sign held in his hands, asking for charity, the boy stood there and sang. He had the most beautiful voice. A crisp, clear talent that shone in the twilight, despite a lack of training. Around his eyes he wore ragged bandages to cover up his eyes.
He always sang happy songs. Melodies in the Wysterian tongue about cool earth, warm sunlight, and clear waters. Branches full of health with bright green leaves. It nearly broke Privet’s heart to hear them. How many years had it been since that young boy had even seen leaves? What did he have to be happy about? And yet, he continued, day after day, singing happy songs for anyone who cared to stop and listen.
Privet looked down at his own hands and felt awful. Compared to this boy, he had everything. He was a free man. He had a strong and healthy body; he had friends. Thanks to his share of the gemstones from looting the federal reserves, he had more wealth than he would ever need. So, if he had all of these things, why was he so unhappy?
He felt guilty for feeling this way. He was beyond lucky; so many men had it worse off than him. For him to be unhappy for even a moment dishonored his brethren who lived in squalor and under the lash. He felt guilty for not being happy every second of every day. And yet, not matter how hard he tried, he was never as happy as this boy sounded when he sang.
“What is wrong with me?” Privet whispered to himself.
In his heart, Privet knew the answer. He missed Athel. The real Athel. He regretted not pushing past his own fears and taking her into his arms when he had the chance. Now, she was so distant, standoffish even. It was like she was a different person. At one time, she had even proposed to him. Like a fool, he had turned her down. He had hesitated, and now he feared that ship had sailed, and they would never be together.
A pair of Treesingers walked up the staircase past the boy. There was a little jingle as they threw something into the metal tin he had laid out.
Hearing the noise, the lad perked up. “Oh, thank you, a thousand times thank you,” he said excitedly. “May Milia bless you all the long days of your life.”
As he began to sing again, the Treesingers snickered to one another. “Oh, you are terrible,” one whispered to the other.
Privet stepped in a little closer so that he could see. Instead of a coin, they had tossed a pebble into the tin.
Privet gritted his teeth angrily. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a fist full of coins and ran up towards the boy, only to be greeting with screaming.
“Oy! You again, you knot-headed little twig!”
Privet had to duck to avoid the powerful swing of an overhead branch as a pregnant matron waddled out from her house, swinging her staff like she meant to club him with it.
“I told you not to come back here!” she screamed, slamming her staff down.
The wood beneath Privet’s feet bucked up powerfully, tossing him back into the trunk, where vines coiled around his limbs and held him fast.
Hearing the commotion, the boy turned his head about. “My Matron, who is there? It is Privet again? Has he come to visit me?”
“Get inside!” she snapped.
“Yes, Madam Freesia,” the young man dutifully obeyed.
She waddled closer and held her staff to Privet’s throat.
“Don’t make me tell you again,” she hissed. “I’ll not sell my best breeder. I turned the Queen down a dozen times already, and I’m most certainly not gonna sell him to you. Not for any price.”
A handful of the young boys had ceased their wrestling and playing and gathered up to see the commotion.
“And you two, inside,” she snapped at them.
“Yes, mother,” they said obediently as they scampered off.
She pressed her staff into Privet’s throat, to emphasize her point. “I don’t care what protection you have from the royal family. Come here again, and next time I’ll have your eyes.”
“Like you took his?” Privet asked hatefully.
Madam Freesia smirked. “A breeder don’t need his eyes to work.”
She turned around and waddled back into her hovel in the tree trunk. “I saved up for years to buy a breeder of his caliber from Madam Tamarack. You can’t just wave a bit of coin in front of my face and twist my roots. You can’t.”
With a wave of her hand, the doors and windows pinched closed, and Privet was left alone, pinned to the trunk of the tree.
“Boy, we have got to work on your people skills,” Setsuna laughed.
Privet craned his neck up and best he could to see her perched on a tree above him. “How long have you been there?”
She shrugged. “Not long. We are supposed to set sail in two hours. You made me look all over the island for you, and I hate looking for stuff.”
“So you cared enough to look for me, but not enough to help out when I was being assaulted?”
Setsuna chuckled as she hopped down to his level. “You know, I did think about helping, but then I remembered that time when you broke my arm.”
“Glad to see you are not the kind to hold grudges.”
Setsuna placed one hand on her hip, and with the other she flipped out her little green grudge diary. “You want me to cut you free or make a new entry?”
Privet groaned and turned his head away. “Ugh…cut me free.”
“What was that?” she asked placing a hand up to her long pointed ear.
“YOU HEARD ME!”
Setsuna giggled happily and flipped out one of her throwing knives.
“By the w
ay, what is this place?” she asked as she cut through the vines.
“This is where the Suidra-class families live. The poor households that can only afford a single husband.”
“That doesn’t make sense. There are boys everywhere. Just marry them when they grow up.”
“Those boys are not for marrying, they are for sale.”
Setsuna stopped in her tracks. “For sale?”
Privet nodded as he broke his arms free. “The high-class women consider it beneath them to bear enough man-children to maintain the size of their enormous households, so they simply buy them from the lower classes. Suidra are basically baby-farmers, making their living by bearing as many high-quality boys as possible.”
Setsuna looked down at the little tin with a pebble in it. “That’s terrible,” she whispered.
Privet broke his legs free. Stretching, he reached up and massaged the burn marks on his arms. A permanent reminder of what life growing up had been like for him.
“And that young man, the one who was singing?” Setsuna asked.
Privet looked up, pain in his eyes. “That is Dwale Tamarack. My younger brother.”
* * *
The top of the Nallorn tree curved her branches, creating a platform for the small group to stand on as they looked out on the setting sun, dipping down into the east ocean.
Moltens was tall for a Tirrakian, standing a full head and shoulders taller than the Wysterians. He held out his scaly arms, drawing in the sunlight from around him into his body. The whole world around them seemed to darken, his green scales glowing brighter and brighter into a golden yellow, then he outstretched his hands and a beam of pure light struck out into the distance.
The trees around them shook and trembled.
Moltens grew unsteady being up so dizzyingly high. He cut off the beam prematurely and dropped to his knees, gripping the wood to steady himself. “I feel as if we are about to fall,” he fretted.
The Wysterians swayed with the trees effortlessly as if they were a part of them.
“Forgive the sister-trees,” Queen Forsythia bade. “Many of their kin were burned badly by Tirrakian magic during the First Battle of Wysteria. Your presence brings back many bad memories for them.”
Moltens slowly stood up, looking remorseful. “I see. I suppose I should…”
The Queen placed a reassuring hand on his arm. “Please. We are allies now. If we keep dwelling on the past, we will never move forward. Continue with your demonstration, I will do my best to steady the Nallorn’s hearts.”
He flicked his forked tongue over his lips. “Light is an element of generosity and friendship. It prefers to spread out, dissipate, and share itself with everyone and everything. It does not like to be compressed. That is why it grows so hot when it is…”
The tree beneath them shivered. Moltens fought the urge to drop to his knees again.
“…Only a master Lightcaster can create a ray as tight as the one I just made,” he continued.
“I see. What is the effective range of your beam?”
Moltens looked at her strangely, his serpent-like eyes unblinking.
“Was my question unclear?”
He cleared his head. “Forgive me. No, I understood. It is just that, I have spent a lifetime keeping these things secret and sacred. It is difficult to speak them aloud to an outlander, even when my king commands me to.”
“I understand. This is going to be uncomfortable for all of us for a time.”
He nodded. “A sunstone-level mage can contain a ray up to fifteen nautical miles.”
“Is that all?” she asked herself thoughtfully.
“Is that all?” he huffed.
“I mean no offense. If you were to make the beam less intense, could you project it farther?”
The question struck him as odd. “I suppose, but it wouldn’t make a very useful weapon at very long ranges. Almost no heat. Little more than candlelight.”
“Indulge me. Would it be possible to create a tiny beam that could reach another island from here and still be seen?”
He scratched the scales on the back of his neck. “Yes, I suppose I could, but why?”
The Queen gave off a faint smile. “Because I think you may have just given us the key to solving our communications problem.”
The Queen’s guards reacted before they heard the first cry, pulling her in between them and forming a circle around her.
“Queen Forsythia!” a voice yelled at them from below.
Looking down to a lower branch, they saw a man in a naval uniform, being restrained by a pair of Treesingers.
“Queen Forsythia!” he yelled out again, his face being forced to the ground.
“Captain Smollows?”
At her bidding, he was allowed to come up and join them, but only after being thoroughly searched and scolded by her guards.
“Please forgive my guards, but any questions you have for me should be passed on through your matron. While I care deeply about the needs of every person residing in my realm, the practicalities make it impossible to address each one personally.”
Captain Smollows smoothed out his mane. “I have petitioned her, seven times already. She doesn’t consider my concern worthy of your time.”
“I will be the judge of that, please continue.”
“Queen Forsythia, I must protest the treatment towards the men of the navy in the household to which I have been assigned. Our sleep is interrupted, our food is withheld. We are commanded to keep our eyes downturned in the presence of the women of the household whenever they pass by. Rank and ability are utterly ignored; my men are assigned degrading and menial tasks, while the women of the navy are placed in cushy supervisory jobs.”
He rolled up his sleeve, revealing fresh lacerations along his arm. “I pledged my loyalty and the loyalty of my crew to you so that we might save our lands. Is this how you Wysterians honor that pledge?”
Moltens was revolted at what he saw. The Wysterians didn’t seem to think much of it. Queen Forsythia was as cool and icy as ever.
“You are correct, Captain Smollows. Your treatment dishonors our alliance. I thank you for bringing this to my attention.”
“I trust you will do more than take it under advisement?” he snarled, rolling his sleeve back into place.
“Yes, I will discover how widespread the problem is and correct it presently.”
Captain Smollows reluctantly accepted her promise and gave a terse salute before being escorted away.
Moltens folded his arms defiantly. “Am I to receive similar treatment at the hands of your people?”
“No, your rights are assured by treaty. I implore you; do not let the actions of a few Matrons undermine everything we are trying to build here.”
Moltens looked her over suspiciously. “All right,” he accepted hesitantly. “I’ll get back to work.”
As Moltens conversed with the Lahitian sorcerers, Queen Forsythia stepped aside to think for a moment.
“Could we not simply house the sailors in their own separate dwellings?” Alder asked her privately.
“The trees would never allow it. They are barely tolerating the situation as it is. The only way I was able to get them to agree to allowing the foreigners to live inside them was with the promise that they would each be closely monitored by a Matron.”
“What about the forest floor? Or have them live on their ships?”
“Same problem. If you could link with the forest you’d feel their rage. The trees don’t want these invaders anywhere near Wysteria. It’s something of a minor miracle I was able to get them to agree to the current arrangement at all.”
Athel looked out distantly, feeling out the different branches of possibility, searching for the stem that would bring them through this safely. “I know in my heart that if we housed them separately some
of the trees would allow their anger to get the better of them, and in an ill-conceived moment, attack them. The sailors would defend themselves, and then we’d have a disaster on our hands.”
Athel brought a fingernail up to chew on, but she caught herself before it reached her lips. “I was afraid of this,” she admitted. The Bursage family always was too fond of the lash. I had hoped that we would move the navy personnel off the island quickly enough to avoid such friction, but clearly that is not going to be the case.”
“So, what are you going to do?”
“There’s only one thing I can do. We cannot win this war without our allies. I’ll write up a decree to the Matrons outlining more specifically what they may and may not do with the navy personnel living in their households.”
Athel sighed. “This is going to create a lot of problems.”
* * *
Admiral Roapes could feel the sweat dripping down the back of his shaven head as he watched black-suited soldiers going from one mud-brick hut to the next, overturning cots, threatening screaming women, and shoving aside crying children.
He fidgeted with his own new black uniform, the crest of the Stone Council prominent on the collar. His boils from the deathcap spores were mostly healed now, but pitted scars remained, giving his once smooth skin a lumpy and cratered look to it. His family would have barely recognized him had they seen him.
“I don’t understand why we are doing this,” he protested. “Is this all really necessary?”
Blair stepped out from behind him, a razor-edged smile on his thin lips. “Of course it is. More than half the navy betrayed us and defected to the Wysterian Alliance. We don’t know how many that remain might still be on the fence about it. So, to keep an eye on the rest of you, the Stone Council has decided to fold what is left of the navy into the Himitsu secret police. You and your subordinates will now report directly to them.”
Admiral Roapes pursed his lips, causing his white goatee to sway slightly. “And I assume you are the head of the secret police?”
Isle of Wysteria: The Monolith Crumbles Page 9