“I shall assemble a special squad,” she said, snapping into action. “We will search through every former Sotol household and possession. No stone shall remain unturned.”
“Thank you, Captain.”
Nikki watched anxiously as the Wysterian women got to work, their voices curt, their speech short, their movements quick and purposeful. “I don’t understand. What does this mean?”
Queen Forsythia stood up and gripped her staff tightly. “It means we must hasten our plans to attack the monolith. This forest is no longer safe…for anyone.”
Chapter Six
The Buckthorns kept their manor sparsely decorated, preferring mounted weapons, armor, and heraldry to the lavish murals, pottery and golden filigree preferred by most of the aristocrats. Only the occasional silver climber filled with black roses hung near the windows, and headless statues holding glowing crystal candelabras lined the corridors.
Dahlia Buckthorn leaned back and kicked up her boots, resting them on the back of a man trying to polish the table legs as she inspected the flawless silver flintlock pistol in her hand. The man froze in place in fear as a bit of dirt rolled down his shoulder.
“Supposedly this new strain of stranglevine seed is pretty impressive,” she mused as she pulled out the ramrod and forced the seed down the muzzle. “The shell is thick enough to handle more powder, giving you almost twice the range. In fact, it’s supposed to be so strong you could actually fire it unsprouted through the torso of a full grown man.”
“Well, when the foreigners turn on us, we’re going to need something a lot stronger than what we’ve been using,” her sister Barberry chuckled as she packed away the family ledgers, each containing meticulous records of all their vast holdings, “We lost a lot of good Treesingers during the invasion.”
“Yes, we did,” Dahlia said distantly. “A Nallorn tree will not kill someone who means it no harm, but a seed is still asleep, and will kill whoever we need it to.”
The walls of living wood shifted in disapproval, but Dahlia ignored it. She perked up and looked down the length of the barrel. “Do you think these really can go through a man like a lead ball?”
“I wouldn’t doubt it. Lady Orchid has proven herself to be a skilled cross-breeder, despite her disadvantage.”
Dahlia smiled knowingly. Lady Orchid’s grandmother had taken a man from a Vayshya-class family as her first husband. And while that may have been a good move politically at the time, it violated tradition, and that was not something so easily forgiven, and never to be forgotten. To the Buckthorns, the Orchid line was forever tainted.
“Of course,” Dahlia sneered as she set the primer and cocked the hammer, “there’s really no way of knowing whether or not that is just an idle boast.”
“I suppose not, unless you were to test it,” Barberry chuckled as she slid the box of ledgers back into the safe. With a snap of her fingers an impenetrable layer of amber sealed the door shut.
Dahlia kicked the man in the head and rose to her feet. “Well said, sister,” she growled, rising to her feet.
The man tried to get back to work, he tried to ignore the barrel being lowered towards his back, but the fear took him, and his hands trembled as he fumbled with the polishing wax.
The humor left Barberry’s face. “Sister, I said that in jest.”
Dahlia’s eyes filled with pleasure. “Man, rise to your feet. I need to get a clean shot for this experiment to be any value.”
The man’s entire frame shook, but he obeyed, slowly rising to his feet.
“He’s one of our best polishers,” Barberry protested. “Go try it on some foreigner, don’t throw away a good worker.”
Dahlia licked her lips as she tightened the grip on her pistol, aiming it straight at his heart. “Man, you will not move or defend yourself. That is an order. Do you understand?”
There was no pleading in his eyes. No request for mercy on his lips. Only the sadness of a long and painful life, now at its end. “Yes, my Lady.”
He dropped his hands to his side and stood up straight. Even Barberry had to admit, there was almost a nobility in the way he held himself. That was fitting and proper for a servant of the Buckthorn household.
The front entrance bell rang out, startling all three of them. The shot went wide, clipping his arm and embedding itself into the carved mahogany entryway. The entire mansion rocked in anger.
The man trembled as blood dripped down from his wound, pattering on the floor around his feet.
Dahlia’s face twisted with disgust. “Clean that up, you filthy pig,” she cursed, cracking him over the side of the head with her pistol as she walked over to the front entrance. The butler was already there to open the lavishly ornate door, but she shoved him out of the way.
“I got it,” she snarled, flinging the gate of living wood open with a flick of her finger.
The woman on the other side had eyes as large as dinner plates.
“Did…did I just hear a gunshot?” she asked aloud.
“Hmm? Oh that. Yeah, probably.”
Barberry joined her sister at the entryway. “Oh, hello Iris, what brings you here?”
Dahlia cut her off before she could answer. “We’ve already been ransacked twice. Once by the navy and once by our own. Going through our books, tearing apart our storerooms. What exactly are you people looking for anyway?”
“Oh no, I’m not here on business. This is…um, may I come in?”
Dahlia turned around in frustration. “Sure, I guess.”
Iris stepped into the immaculate entrance hall, looking surprisingly sheepish for her.
“You don’t look well,” Barberry noted.
“I haven’t been sleeping much. It’s taking its toll on me, if you know what I mean.”
Dahlia plopped herself down, the floor rising up to meet her, forming itself into a lounge chair. “Actually I don’t. I sleep well every night. I have one of the men fan me with a palm leaf. Keeps me out like a whicker beetle.”
Dahlia stretched and gave off a self-satisfied grin. “The sleep of the just.”
Iris forced herself to smile. “I’ll have to try that.”
Three men scurried in and set out a beautiful tea for them, complete with an array of sandwiches and pastries. The aroma rising up from the expensive herbs filled the room.
“Is…is that man bleeding?” Iris asked, motioning to the hasty bandage wrapped around his arm.
Dahlia shrugged. “I dunno. Maybe.”
Without thinking, Iris reached into her pocket and unwrapped a packet of expensive soma leaves to make a compact, but when she held it out to the man, he scuttled away.
“This will heal you,” she assured.
“No ma’am, that should be saved for use on a woman,” he said, eyes downturned. “Soma leaves are very difficult to grow, even for an experienced Treesinger. They should only be used on that which is worthy of them.”
Iris looked on him sadly as the man poured her tea then left. The Buckthorns forbade their men to turn their backs on a woman, so he and the others had to carefully walk backwards until they were out of sight.
“What is his name?”
Dahlia looked up from eating a crumpet. “Him? Oh, I don’t know. Man, what is your name?” she shouted.
“Woad, my Lady,” came the urgent response from the study.
“There you go, his name is Toad,” Dahlia said, stuffing a scone into her mouth.
The jingling of armor preceded the imposing form of Lady Buckthorn as she strode in, accompanied by her sister and aunt. Dahlia and Barberry shot up and crossed their fists over their hearts in salute, looking like statues when Lady Buckthorn finally arrived.
“I heard a seed-pistol discharge,” she asked in her powerful gravelly tones.
“I was conducting a test of the new seeds from Lady Orchid,” Dahlia repo
rted smartly, her eyes fixed forward, unwavering.
Lady Buckthorn gave a low snort, accepting the explanation. “Iris Bursage, Daughter of Aspen, Daughter of Cliffwood, it pleases me to see you here.”
Iris stood up as well and gave a shallow bow. “Lady Buckthorn, I am sorry for coming by unannounced.”
Lady Buckthorn raised her gauntlet. “Braihmin families are always welcome here. Only lesser families have to make appointments, you know that.”
“Yes…I guess that makes sense.”
Lady Buckthorn motioned for them to sit and return to drinking their tea. Iris took a bite of an apple tart, but couldn’t taste it. All she could think about was the fact that while they stuffed themselves with sweets, the men who prepared them in the next room were eating bowls of rotting cornmeal. It had never bothered her before, but now…
Iris shook her head and tried to change the subject. “I was very sorry to hear about your daughter, Lady Buckthorn. Aden was…”
“My daughter was a fool.”
Iris was so surprised she didn’t know what to say.
“She gave her love beneath her station, and she shamed us all for it. But that does not mean I did not care for her.”
Lady Buckthorn scooped up a hard-boiled egg and cracked the shell between his fingers. “In the end, my daughter died a warrior’s death, and I will always honor her for that.”
Iris tried to accept that explanation.
“Why are you here?” Dahlia asked, growing impatient.
“I came to see about the man we sold you.”
Lady Buckthorn sat down and took a sip of tea. “You mean Akar?”
“Yes…I’m surprised you remember his name.”
Her face softened. “Of course I know his name. He is quite simply the finest houseman we’ve ever had.”
Iris crinkled her nose. “He is?”
“Without a doubt.”
Lady Buckthorn stood up, her daughters did the same and she strode off. It took Iris a second to realize that she was to follow, and she had to run to catch up.
“To be honest, I should have spoken to you about him already. Four thaain is a paltry amount for such an excellent worker. I really must commend you for training him so thoroughly. Madam Bursage’s reputation is well earned, to be sure.”
“Oh well…you’re welcome, I guess.”
Lady Buckthorn led her past the study, through the training halls, and past the larder, into what had been until recently a filthy series of storerooms. Now, flawlessly clean shelves and racks lined the sparkling walls, each item cradled into an individualized seat. It was so organized and tidy it could have been a museum.
He built these shelves himself, can you believe it?” Lady Buckthorn boasted as she walked up to a podium housing a thick bound book. “Each item accounted for and its location labeled in this register,” she explained, flipping through the pages. “Things that would have taken us hours to find before now take only seconds.”
“Akar did this?” Iris mused, unable to reconcile what she saw with the defiant biter she knew.
“Yes. In fact, I have placed him over all our storerooms. From here all the way to Sweetdale.”
A light rattling alerted the women to his presence. Akar was in the adjacent storeroom mounting a Wysterian armored gown onto a special form he had built, allowing it to stand as if it were being worn.
Iris stepped out anxiously to see him, but was surprised at what she saw. His bruises were fading, but his nose had not healed properly. It now had a crimp to one side. On his cheek, a cruel black branding of ii’ainta. But, it was his demeanor that was most startlingly different. He stooped over, eyes downturned, palms facing the ground. When the women approached, he moved to his knees and bowed completely, allowing his broken nose to touch the sparkling marble floor.
“My ladies,” he said in reverential tones.
Lady Buckthorn strode over to examine his work. Around the armor, a tasteful shrine had been built, containing portraits and letters about its former owner.
“Tell, me Akar,” Lady Buckthorn asked, reaching out and touching several fresh links in the armor’s mail, “did you repair Aden’s armor yourself?”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Did anyone ask you to?”
“No, my Lady. It seemed proper.”
“Well said.”
Lady Buckthorn turned back to Iris, who was flabbergasted beyond words.
“If it wouldn’t be such an abject shattering of tradition I’d bestow him with our last name right here and now. As it is, he will have to wait the requisite two years first.”
“I look forward to it with every breath I take, my Lady.”
Lady Buckthorn smiled warmly. “I’m sure you do.”
Iris could hardly believe what she was seeing. In all her years, she had never before seen Lady Buckthorn smile.
From the doorway, Dahlia glared at Akar as he knelt there submissively, disgust on her face as a pair of men scuttled in and presented Iris with a small chest.
“Here, ten thousand thaain,” Lady Buckthorn announced proudly.
Iris looked up. “But…I…”
“No, I must insist. No Buckthorn has ever received anything without honorable compensation, and I do not intend to be the first. Even twice this amount would still be a fair price for him.”
Iris reluctantly accepted the chest. “Well...okay. Do you mind if I speak to him?”
“I cannot fathom what for, but do as you like.”
Lady Buckthorn turned to leave, the other women following her.
“Oh,” she said, pausing at the door. “Akar, after you speak with her, I would like you to draw up a proposal to reorganize our wine cellar. It could benefit greatly from your touch.”
“It is already finished, my Lady.”
“Is it really?”
“Yes, you will find a copy there, next to the register.”
Lady Buckthorn found the scroll and glanced over it. “How did you know I would ask this of you?” she said, impressed.
“I didn’t. It only seemed proper.”
“Good lad.”
And with that Iris and Akar were alone. She knelt down to get a better look at him as he knelt before her. Through the holes in his coarse clothes, she could see the deep scars covering his body. It bothered her to realize that she had inflicted most of them.
Iris wrapped her arms around herself. She was finding it surprisingly hard to speak to him.
“Um…I wanted to ask you if they are treating you well…” She regretted asking it as soon as it left her lips. “Are you…happy here?”
“A man’s truest joy in life is to serve his Lady. Her joy is his joy. I am unworthy of your concern. Please rest assured that I am perfectly happy.”
“Oh…o-okay.”
She caught a glimpse of his eyes. The fire was gone. The fire that had haunted her every waking moment. The fire that had stood up to a Treesinger as powerful as she was without flinching. The fire that had called her a coward. The fire that kept her awake at night.
Her lips parted. “Look, about the way I…the things that I…”
She shook her head and stood up.
“…never mind.”
Akar bowed deeper as Iris left with the chest, confusion in her eyes.
After she left, Akar remained where he was, until finally Dahlia stepped out from behind a statue of Milia where she had been hiding.
“You may have the rest of them fooled,” she snarled, “but not me.”
“If I am worthy of punishment, then I will accept it. I am a man, which means I am a barbarian and a savage. It is your sacred duty to civilize me.”
“Oh shut up!” she barked, her face twisting into a hideous scowl as she viciously kicked him in the head. The blow knocked him over onto his side. “I know you don
’t believe a word of that!”
She drew her staff, ready for him to retaliate, but Akar only calmly returned to his submissive position, blood trickling down his ear.
“Now, who’s the coward?” she spat, before turning around and stomping away.
Only once he was truly alone did a wicked smile cross his lips.
* * *
Margaret was so excited she could barely stop herself from jumping over the side of the sloop as she sailed towards the familiar rocky mesa of Thesda rising up out of the roaring acidic seas. Hundreds of black navy ships clouded the skies around the island, but she paid them little heed. She was a Stretian, which in the League was tantamount to being a double-class citizen. She was also a Stormcaller, and now that she had a bit of practice under her belt, she had a rare and invaluable skill. No matter which side won this war, she was sure that the winning side would have enough need of her to grant her the freedom to do what she wished. In her mind, she was safe either way. Although she cared very much for the new friends she had made on the Dreadnaught, ultimately she knew in her heart that this was not her war.
“Like grandpa used to say: Not my circus, not my monkeys.”
Happily, she took one last opportunity to rummage through her bag of loot. Seed pistols, bags of enriched potting soil, curled stem light fixtures, shieldmaiden vases, rose-petal hairbrushes, and the leaf-embroidered hand towels from every restroom in the palace. But her pride and joy was an authentic Wysterian wedding gown from Athel’s aunt Silvervein, for which Margaret had left a really nice thank-you note behind for when she discovered it was missing.
Margaret sighed as she pulled out the miniature replica of Athel’s magic staff that Alder had carved for her from one of Deutzia’s old branches. Margaret had wanted it to be exactly like the real thing, but knowing that it would be on display for students, Alder had insisted on changing the carvings of adventure novel characters into traditional inscriptions of Wysterian poetry.
Summoning a nice little crosswind, she settled the ship into one of the smaller docks. Compared to blowing a full-sized navy patrol boat around, this felt effortless.
Isle of Wysteria: The Monolith Crumbles Page 19