Isle of Wysteria: The Reluctant Queen

by Aaron Lee Yeager

  Captain Evere leaned over Athel’s chart and began making some quick calculations.

  “I don’t understand,” Athel admitted. “What are you getting at?”

  “Don’t you see?” Privet said, finally catching his breath. “If we destroy this tower, every airship within ten thousand leagues will fall out of the sky.”

  Captain Evere stood up. “Right now the entire Navy taskforce that attacked Wysteria should be right smack in the middle of the west sea,” he said grimly.

  Everyone grew deathly silent as they realized the full implications of what Privet was suggesting.

  “Don’t you see?” Privet said excitedly, grabbing Athel by the arm. “We can destroy the entire Navy Fleet, right here, right now.”

  For a long time, no one spoke. It was Athel who finally broke the silence. “How many people are we talking about?” she asked somberly.

  “There’s no way to know for sure, lass,” Evere explained. “The standard destroyer has a crew of four-hundred fifty, plus passengers. Transport ships are designed to carry a thousand marines.”

  “Best guess, then,” Athel requested grimly.

  Captain Evere folded his arms and sighed. “At least three million, probably higher.”

  “Why are we even discussing this?” Privet asked. “Let’s just go up there and smash the whole thing while the Navy Airships are still over open water.”

  “No,” Athel stated firmly.

  “What?”

  “I’m not going to murder millions of innocents.”

  Privet shook his head in disbelief. “They are not innocents, you dummy, they are soldiers. They nearly reduced your homeland to cinders just now.”

  “They are not my enemy.”

  “Of course they are your enemy,” Privet insisted. “They attacked you. That is what the word ‘enemy’ means.”

  “Fine then, they are not evil,” Athel insisted. “They are just ordinary people following orders.”

  “Of course they are not evil,” Privet agreed. “But when they carry out the orders of evil people, they make themselves your enemy.”

  Privet took a moment and collected himself. “Look, Athel, I know you have never been in a real war before, so I can understand why you think the way you do. But the reality of war is this: If you do not kill them they will kill you, so you do what you have to do to survive.”

  “There is more at stake here than just simple survival,” Athel retorted. “Even in war there are rules. Lines in the ground that we do not cross.”

  “No, YOU have rules, rules that make victory more difficult to achieve. Do you think the Stone Council would show restraint if they were in your position?”

  “That’s exactly my point,” Athel insisted. “If we behave like them then we are no better than they are. We have to take the high road and do what is right.”

  “Do what is right?” Privet repeated, throwing his arms up. “Do you have any idea why most wars are fought? Everyone has their own idea of what is right and what is wrong. In war, both sides are doing what they think is right.”

  Even though Privet towered over her in size and strength, Athel stood her ground and folded her arms, matching his will with her own.

  Privet’s expression slowly changed to disbelief as he realized that she was not going to relent.

  “So, what?” Privet asked, pacing back and forth like a tiger in a cage. “We're just going to let the Navy go, and then kill them all once they attack Wysteria again, but only after they've torched even more of your forest and killed even more of your people? The net effect is the same. In order to win this war, you are going to have to kill them sooner or later, so why not sooner, before they can do more damage?”

  Privet stopped and turned to her. “Or, maybe you won’t win. Maybe they'll return and turn the rest of Wysteria to slag. Then we'll look back and see that this was your last chance. What will you say to your dead sisters then? Will you tell them that they all didn’t have to die? That you had the power to end the war right here and right now, but you chose not to because you didn’t want to have a guilty conscience?”

  Athel began to fold before his onslaught, her resolve weakening. “Stop it, Privet. We both know there are things more important than life.”

  “Like what?”

  “Honor,” Athel offered.

  “Honor? Is that what you are going to say during your impeachment trial, when the other Matrons find out that you could have saved their daughters’ lives but chose not to? Oh wait, I suppose they can’t yank you off the throne if the throne is just a pile of ashes. Because that is what you will have. A mountain of ashes and bones, and your honor.”

  Athel took a step back and looked away. She couldn’t deny the power of what he was saying. Was it right for her to risk the future of so many lives, to wager the existence of her entire race, simply because she did not want to do something distasteful?

  Privet stepped forward, looking her right in the eyes. “Honor is just a noise, Athel. It’s just a sound. It may appear to mean something when you are sitting quietly at home, but it doesn’t count for squat when people are shooting at you. The only thing that matters then is surviving. Are you really willing to trade the lives of your people for something as empty as honor?”

  Athel took another step back, wrapping her arms around herself. Her face was full of pain. “I’m not a monster. I don’t want to be a monster. Those sailors have families, spouses and children.”

  Privet’s expression softened, and he gently placed a hand on her shoulder. “Of course you don’t want to be a monster. No one does. But war is a monstrous thing, and you can’t win a war by trying to be the good guy.”

  Athel slowly looked up at him.

  “You cannot win a war if your goal is for people to like you,” Privet counseled.

  Athel bit her lip, compassion in her eyes. “I’m sorry Privet, but I won’t do it. I guess it is selfish of me, but I would rather die as me than live on as a monster.”

  Privet stood up, disappointment on his face.

  “And I would rather live. I would rather protect my people from death. I would rather save the forest rather than allow my enemies to destroy it. You may be willing to die for the forest, but I am willing to live for it.” He looked around, as if expecting the others to enter in on his side, but no one did.

  “Fine,” Privet stated, straightening his uniform. “Then I will do it myself.”

  Privet turned towards the tower, but Captain Evere stood in his way.

  “Don’t tell me you are on her side.”

  “There are more than two sides in things, lad.” Evere cautioned. “Mina and I have been on the wrong side of the dock for most of our lives, so this may be new to you although it’s brimmin' obvious to us. The first rule of piratin' is ‘grab what you can and get out alive.’ It doesn’t matter how much extra you grab if you never make it out. Treasure is only valuable while you are alive to spend it.”

  “Oh great, annoying AND unhelpful.”

  Evere grabbed Privet’s collar and held him close and tight. Privet didn’t flinch. “If we smash this thing,” Evere explained, “our ships will also fall into the ocean, and we'll be stranded here. And while I’m maladroitly fond of you Wysterians, I’m not about to just throw away my life for your cause, so to speak.”

  Privet paused. One by one, he looked into the eyes of the others, giving them a chance to speak up. No one did.

  “So, unless you've got a Gatemaster hidden in your backpack,” Evere smiled, “we best grab what we can and get out alive to fight another day.”

  Evere released Privet. The two stared each other down. For a moment, Athel wondered if they were going to fight. But Privet straightened himself up and turned to walk away.

  All eyes were on Privet as he moved, strong and tall. The deck was silent except for his fading footsteps as he went below deck.

  Holding her notebook, Margaret slowly leaned over to Alder and whispered, “what does maladroitly mean?”
>
  A few minutes later, the Quaranna slowly flew away towards the clear skies in the south, as the Dreadnaught quietly slipped away towards the approaching storm clouds in the east.

  Everyone on the Dreadnaught felt in their hearts that they would never have a chance like this again.

  Chapter Ten

  They were the most filthy bunch of individuals anyone on the palace staff had ever seen. No two dressed alike, their clothes and style of dress ranged from little more than worn woolen rags to rich velvet drapings, finely tailored and ornately displayed. Wide-eyed house-husbands pressed themselves as far back to the walls as they could to allow the group to pass. No two came from the same race. A lizard-skinned Tirrakian ambled alongside a brightly-feathered Maliaoite, while a Kirdishian scuttled through the branches that formed the ceiling, using her long spider-like legs. They were as motley and varied as a group of people could be, yet they all possessed a certain dangerous quality. In their eyes was a kind of intelligence that felt like a weapon, a cunning that was perilous to oppose. Servants and guards parted before them as if they were a force of nature, giving them ample berth as they filed, one-by-one, into the special auditorium that had been grown for this unique meeting. The leaders of the largest thirteen Pirate Guilds had come to parlay.

  Queen Forsythia sat solemnly in the center of the hall. Her face emaciated and ashen, her eyes sunken and tired. Many of the flowers on her long cape were wilted. Her hair had been braided in a heart-shaped crescent that sloped away from her face. Although the hairstyle framed her face neatly, it seemed to have lost its luster. She sat half-slumped in her throne, as if she was in constant danger of falling over.

  Behind her stood Solanum. Her eyes were strange. Just looking at her made one feel like she was about to expose one’s deepest darkest secrets. The candlelight from all the tables seemed to dance around wildly in her eyes.

  As each of the Guild Masters sat, the seat of living wood regrew and reshaped itself to perfectly conform to their bodies.

  “I can’t believe I’m sitting in the same room as a seed-munchin’ Chidd,” Thiric said spitefully as he sat down and struck a match to light his cigar.

  Urbar caught the insult and turned to face Thiric, the shell on his back knocking over the goblet of wine placed there. “How dare you insult my people, you black-haired bag of teeth,” he said in his people’s slow tones. “I will not stand for this!”

  “That’s why you are sitting,” Thiric mused as he puffed out a smoke-ring.

  “So, are these candles supposed to set the mood, or are we having a seance?” came a voice from an empty stool. Suddenly, his magical camouflage was withdrawn. Scales rippled, light refracted, and a stout man with shifting skin could now be seen seated there. The tentacles on his face writhed disapprovingly.

  Queen Forsythia nodded politely. “Candlelight calms the nerves, and this particular scent was specially selected for these proceedings.”

  “Yeah, well, this place smells like my grandma,” Sundgen grunted, his long tongue sliding along the length of one of his tusks.

  “I wouldn’t know. My people are anosmic,” Geto commented, his tentacles worming about.

  “What’s that mean? Sundgen asked.

  “No sense of smell.”

  “There is not a person alive who would find that interesting,” Bolflel assured him before he took another long drought from his mostly empty bottle of rum.

  “It is quite cold in here,” Hildok complained, rubbing his scaly hands over the thick, bony plates on his neck. The Queen tapped her staff and some of the branches above them parted, allowing sunlight to shine down directly on Hildok’s table. He breathed in thankfully, drawing the sunlight into his body.

  Anak looked to his left and his long, sharp beak opened in offense. “I will not be seated next to a Ronesian,” he stated firmly, the feathers on his neck puffing up in anger. “My God, Vestum and his simpering deity have been enemies for centuries.”

  Bazult rolled his feline eyes and ran his paws through the black-spotted mane that ran down his neck. “The Fifty Years’ War was called off by my god, Chert, forever ago. I wish your Old-Trapper would just let it go.”

  “Vestum, The God of Might does not just let things go,” Anak persisted.

  “I'll say,” Bazult asserted, pulling out a satchel full of hand-written cards. “You see this? Over the years, Anak here has sent my family over 300 death threats. All by carrier pigeon.”

  “Really?” Thiric asked, looking over the tip of his cigar.

  “Yeah, they just swoop right in and leave them in the breakfast nook. It really takes the fun out of eating.”

  Queen Forsythia raised her anemic hand. “Please accept my apologies. The seating was assigned very carefully to avoid this kind of situation, but we were unaware that the feud between the islands of Ronesia and Maliao was still ongoing.”

  The Queen twisted her staff painfully and the living wood reformed itself. The section for Anak was now detached from Bazult on its own separate platform.

  “This is not enough,” Anak insisted, his taloned feet digging deeply into the living wood. “Vestum says this man is my enemy and so I must treat him as such!”

  “That’s it! I've had enough of this!” Bazult bellowed. Steepling his paws, Bazult began chanting in his native language. The black spots on his fur began to glow with a pale blue light, his mane floating upwards around him.

  “Please, gentlemen, we cannot have any curses cast here,” Queen Forsythia implored between coughs. “We all agreed as much beforehand.”

  “Don’t worry, Ronesian magic has no teeth,” Anak boasted. “It only shows visions of things to come.”

  The light around Bazult faded and he opened his eyes. “The fifth day,” he said ominously.

  “What?”

  “I looked into your future just now and saw the day of your death. It will be the fifth day of the month.”

  Anuk clicked his beak. “Which month?”

  Bazult smiled, revealing sharp fangs. “The vision did not say.”

  “Pin scraps,” Anuk cursed. “You made that up, grass-sucker.”

  “A visionary never lies about his vision. And now, the rest of your life will be plagued with worrying, agonizing, and fearing. Every day you will ask yourself, ‘Is this month the fifth day when I am to die?’”

  Anuk’s eyes darted around as he realized the truth of the words.

  “Do you still think my people’s magic has no teeth?” Bazult taunted.

  “Gentlemen, this is not the purpose of our assembly,” Queen Forsythia said icily, trying to focus everyone’s attention. She tapped her staff on the living wood, and some of the branches that formed the ceiling grew down, one over each table, and flowered dozens of ripe apples. Vines intertwined with the branches and sprouted plump bundles of grapes.

  “That’s a neat trick,” Thiric puffed, snapping off a bundle of grapes.

  “I trust your stay on the Northern Island was sufficiently comfortable,” The Queen said politely as male servants filed into the room, carrying stacks of parchment.

  “That bonfire around your capital was fun to watch,” Bolflel mocked spitefully, taking a bite of apple.

  Solanum burst into laughter, the sound embarrassingly loud as it reverberated through the hall. The Guild Masters watched her curiously. She had looked so refined, so elegant, but now, as she snickered and guffawed like a drunken barmaid, the illusion of her high-standing seemed completely shattered. She seemed counterfeit, like a street performer whose trick has been revealed.

  The Queen, for her part, gave no reaction, except to calmly reach over and take her daughter’s hand. Slowly Solanum’s laughter died down, to a chuckle, then a snicker, and then finally she again stood quietly and gracefully behind her mother.

  “I apologize for making you all wait so long,” Queen Forsythia said politely but coldly. “I had to wait for you all to arrive and for the timing to be right.”

  “Timing for what?” Thiric asked
.

  Parchments and quills were placed on the desks of each of the Guild Masters.

  “What is this?” Reimay asked, his long rodent tail swishing hesitantly.

  “Contracts awaiting your signatures,” The Queen announced formally. “We are going to bring back one of the oldest traditions. In ages past, in times of war, island nations would hire pirates to legitimately attack their enemies, in return for compensation. I am offering to hire each of your Guilds as privateers.”

  “Privateers?” Hildok scoffed, pushing the parchment away.

  Urbar laughed listlessly, his long neck bobbing back and forth. “Look, it’s real impressive that you fought off the Navy bilge rats...um, no offense Reimay.”

  “None taken,” Reimay assured, twitching his whiskers as he read the contract.

  “...But the fact is, you can’t win this war. The Federal Navy just has too many ships, and they can build new ones faster than you can imagine.”

  “I know,” the Queen assured him dispassionately. “We cannot defeat the Navy.”

  This gave Urbar some pause, and he absentmindedly scratched the edge of his shell with his long, thick nails. “Oh...well. I suppose I can respect honesty like that, but it doesn’t change the reality of your situation. You see, we don’t believe in your cause or nothin.’ We aren’t going to lay our lives down to fight for you, no matter how much you pay us.”

  “You won’t be fighting the Navy,” the Queen countered.

  Sundgen flicked his tusk with his finger, then his head came up. “What did you say?

  “No, you are not listening,” Namtia scolded, her shiny black shin flickering in the candlelight as she held up the contract. “It’s all spelled out right here.”

  Now more of the Guild Masters began looking at the documents, much more closely this time around. Several squinted at the long difficult words, despite their having been crafted to be as monosyllabic as possible.

  “Believe me, I am very aware of your dispositions,” Queen Forsythia reassured. “To reach its full potential, a tool must first be understood by she who wields it. As pirates, your needs are very simple.”