by Aaron Yeager
Alder said nothing for many moments, only watched her. At first, his expression was unsure, but then it grew tender.
“Athel, do you really think people will think less of you if they know you can become afraid?” He shook his head slowly. “You are allowed to have feelings, you know.”
Alder scooted back and leaned against a chest of drawers, a surprisingly relaxed position for him. “Actually, I’m quite relived to see that the heir to the Forsythia family can cry. Those tender feelings are a fertile earth from which mercy and compassion grow.”
“Why would you be relieved?” Athel asked.
“Well, outside of the royal circles, it is widely rumored that the Forsythians are so heartless and icy that they don’t even cry at funerals.” Alder said, forgetting himself.
“What?” Athel said sternly.
Alder jumped forward in a panic and knelt before her. “Forgive me, my Lady, I was too bold in my speech.” He awaited punishment, but nothing came. After many long moments, he raised his head enough to see her sitting before him, poking at her food.
“You know, there is a reason we are taught to appear that way,” Athel explained sadly. “Do you know what it is?”
Alder sat up and shook his head slowly.
“When you sit on the throne every person in the kingdom is part of your family, in a sense. You are responsible for them. When a member of her family dies, the queen should cry for them, whether they were a complete stranger or her own child. But no one can do that. No one can care as much about someone they never knew as they do about those close to them. So, to not appear unequal or false and cause strife, the only thing the queen can do is cry for no one. That way no one receives special treatment and harmony is preserved.”
Alder thought long on hard on her words. “But the queen does cry,” he inferred at length.
“Yes, she does,” Athel admitted, “but it must be done without tears. When a woman is queen, her life is not her own. She is not allowed to think or act as she wishes, for the entirety of her life. It is a cage. The most complete and inescapable prison ever devised.”
“That is why you abdicated the throne, isn’t it?” Alder surmised.
Athel nodded softly and began eating her dumplings. “It’s really good,” she praised.
“Thank you,” Alder said.
* * *
Later that night, at Alder’s request, the crew of the Dreadnaught was invited to participate in the Reverence and Rebirth, the Autumn Solstice ceremony held on Wysteria. The holes in the hull were stopped with cloth, so that the only light in the galley came from the impromptu fire pit that had been created. With so much of the ship damaged, there was an ample supply of available firewood.
Having rehearsed with Alder earlier that day, Mina sat next to the fire pit with her Zithero, a multi-fluted instrument used by Articians. The tubes began as a single mouthpiece then curved in two clusters under each arm, so as to appear as if they sprouted from her back. Mina began the music, a soft and quiet melody, using only a single tube, then began another, and then another. Soon the room was filled with several melodies, as if an entire symphony played before them at once. The notes and sounds made the smoke of the fire react, pulling puffs of smoke this way and that, spheres of smoke orbiting each other, mimicking the movements of the sun, moon and stars. The music washed over those present like a curtain of warmth that pierced the gloom of the past weeks doldrums, and all found themselves reflecting on happy times and warm friendships.
Athel and Spirea approached the fire pit dressed in traditional white priestess robes, although from the way Spirea’s cuffs hung over her hands and her hem plopped on the floor, everyone could tell that Athel had loaned Spirea an extra of hers.
Athel took out a handful of incense and threw it into the fire, creating a beautiful puff of sweet-smelling smoke that took on the shape of bright sprouting flowers. “As we enter the time of winter, we bid Milia return speedily and bring spring with life renewed.”
Athel stepped back and Spirea stepped forward, looking quite uncomfortable. She hesitated for a moment then threw another handful of incense into the fire, this time creating a white mist that fell upon the bright flowers causing their images to change into that of falling autumn leaves. “T-The imbalances of the present create the balance of the whole. As the death of a leaf becomes the life for the insects and the nourishment for future roots.”
Alder stepped forward and presented a piece of wood on which had been inscribed the symbol of Milia, two rivers extending upward and branching into many small tributaries in the outline of a tree’s trunk and branches. Athel placed Deutzia on one side of the fire pit and Spirea placed Sumac on the other.
“We give thanks,” Athel continued, “to the spirits of the trees that bring us warmth in the cold, and we rejoice in their fulfillment of the purpose of their creation. May we all likewise fulfill the purpose of our own creation...”
Athel stalled, unable to finish the last sentence. Her hands trembled.
“...By fulfilling the purpose of our creation, we honor Milia, the Holy Mother,” Alder stepped in, finishing the rite.
Deutzia and Sumac shimmered, and rays of light extended out from their branches like a prism, creating an aura of color and energy that illuminated the entire room. The rays of light bent, collecting around the piece of wood, until finally Alder released his grip and the trees held it aloft by their own will, slowly lowering the wood into the fire.
The Symbol of Milia burned brightly, the fire flared up to several times its normal height and then died down, its fuel completely spent. The symbol of Milia hung in the air for several minutes, providing the only illumination as the participants made a toast.
Chapter Fifteen
The Dangers of Contact
Spirea found nighttime onboard the Dreadnaught to be particularly difficult. Without the rattle and bustle of the crew there was nothing to drone out the rhythmic creaking of wooden beams. It felt to her like the moans of the dead, as if she was surrounded by corpses.
That night, however, was different. She found herself unable to look away from Sumac, who was chiming happily in her brand new clay pot, which had been hand-decorated with engravings of Milia and the Sotol family. Sumac’s leaves had been expertly pruned and her soil had been tenderly fertilized. Normally, Spirea would have been furious to learn someone had snuck into her quarters and handled her tree, but Sumac had assured her that Alder had been wearing heavy-gauge gloves. Spirea found herself imagining over and over in her mind the image of Alder gently replanting her tree. No one had asked him to, and he probably knew no one would thank him, yet he had done it as carefully and kindly as if it had been his own. For some reason, Spirea imagined him smiling as he worked, perhaps singing softly as he did so. In her imagination she focused on his thin lips as he sang and wondered if they were soft or rough...
Spirea’s eyes grew wide with fear and she rolled over, staring at the wall of her cabin.
Why am I thinking about that? She wondered to herself. In fact, why am I thinking about him at all? With growing trepidation, she got up and walked over to a porthole to look outside. Confirming her fears, the moon was low in the western sky, meaning that it was already the third watch. She had been doing nothing but thinking about him for hours.
Slowly, Spirea began walking back toward her bunk. She could feel her heart beating forcefully in her chest.
What is wrong with me? I’m stronger than this, aren’t I? Spirea closed her eyes and clasped her hands together in meditation. She breathed slowly, trying to force her heart to slow down. She made herself to think about something else, anything else. She tried thinking about toenails and bassa fruit and accounting procedures, but it didn’t work. As soon as she relaxed, her thoughts would drift back to him again. After several unsuccessful minutes she gave up and slowly laid back down in her bunk in defeat. She wondered what made Alder happy, and wondered what price Athel might sell him for. She let out a groan and covered her fa
ce with her hands in shame. She could feel herself blushing.
“Oh no,” she said aloud. “I’m in big trouble.”
* * *
The following morning was a Sunday, a special day for Ryin because it meant that he would have a chance to win back some of his lost salary from Odger at their weekly Chatlats game.
“Attempting to corner second market!” Ryin called out as he rolled the wooden dice and placed a silver chip on the spinning wheel in the center of the table.
“Remaining Neutral,” Hanner responded as he took a card and placed a chip on the wheel.
“Pledge support in first market,” Dr. Griffin said as he removed a chip from the wheel, then took a peanut out of his pocket and popped it into his mouth.
“You gonna’ share any of those with us?” Hanner asked gruffly as he stretched out one of his viselike hands.
“Okay,” Dr. Griffin said, handing him a peanut. “What you’re supposed to do is break open the shell with your teeth, then chew only the...”
Hanner disregarded his counsel and swallowed the peanut whole, shell and all.
“Or I guess you could just swallow it like a hippopotamus,” Dr. Griffin chided.
“It’s your move, Odger,” Ryin said eagerly, staring down his opponent.
Odger looked up at Ryin with squinty eyes as he shuffled his cards around in his hands.
“You don’t have any more council leverage left in your hand, do you?” Ryin appraised, “Challenge or Accept? The wheel is beginning to slow.”
Odger wiped a greasy strand of dark hair away from his face and sniffed in displeasure. “Accept,” he said dejectedly.
“Chatlats!” Ryin cheered and slammed his palms down on the table. “Oh, you have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to say that.” Ryin scooped up the silver chips from the wheel, which was nearly overflowing at this point. “When we pull into Thesda, I’m going to have a shiny good time with these. No more slimy mineral packets for me. No sir, nothing but rum and salty wenches from here on out.”
“Lucky featherhead,” Hanner grumbled, tossing his cards and gathering up his remaining silver chips.
It was then that Spirea slammed her fists down on the table, causing the wheel to rattle and the dice to fall off the edge. Her raven black hair was tangled, and dark bags hung underneath her wild eyes.
“Cold rivets,” Ryin exclaimed, “you shouldn’t scare people like that early in the morning.”
“Have you been sleeping...at all?” Dr. Griffin asked.
“You guys see her too? Oh good,” Odger said relieved, “I thought I was hallucinating again.”
“Do you want to know why Athel won’t let anyone touch her tree?” Spirea asked suddenly. There was no response. Everyone just looked at her stupidly.
“Well, don’t you?” Spirea insisted.
“I suppose,” Ryin admitted.
“Then why didn’t you say so when I asked the first time?”
“Because you said it so suddenly out of nowhere,” Ryin accused.
“Yeah, you have to segue into things like that. You kind of caught us off guard,” Odger admitted.
“Deutzia is her Ma’iltri’ia, her soul companion and the source of her power. They were born at the same time and from the same tree.”
“Tree?” Dr. Griffin asked. “I thought Wysterians were born like other people.”
“Only men can be born that way,” Spirea corrected, shaking her head. “If Athel ever wants to have a daughter, the only way for her to be carried and born is by her personal Nallorn tree.”
“That’s really weird,” Odger grunted, picking his nose.
“Shut up Jhonstin,” Spirea barked, smacking Odger in the forehead. “Now, listen, Ma’iltri’ia can be notoriously picky about men, and Athel cannot marry any man unless Deutzia first tests him and approves.”
“How does it...er, she...test him?” Ryin asked suspiciously.
“Nallorn trees instinctively examine the soul of anyone who touches them,” Spirea explained as she picked out a small bit of food from her hair. “Now, occasionally a Nallorn tree can become so enamored with someone they examine, even casually, that they will force their matron to take that man to husband, because until she has that man, she will stubbornly allow no other.”
“So,” Ryin concluded, “Athel doesn’t want Deutzia to fall for some random guy, because then she’d have to marry that guy.”
“And the first husband of the Wysterian heir will have access to enough money for all the rum and salty wenches he could ever want,” Spirea said delicately to Ryin, whose eyes grew large. “And naturally husbands have physical privileges with their wives,” she whispered to Dr. Griffin, whose mouth dropped open.
“Now THAT was a good segue,” Odger praised.
“But what are the chances that Deutzia would become enamored with one of us?” Hanner huffed.
“You have as good of odds as any,” Spirea said encouragingly. “It is impossible to predict who a Ma’iltri’ia will or will not like. They are as fickle as their caretakers. You won’t know until you touch her.”
“And Alder will be forced to break off his engagement,” Spirea whispered to herself with a wicked grin as she walked away, leaving the four men to look at each other in shock. One by one, the men began smiling greedily then bolted up from the table knocking chairs and glasses in all directions.
* * *
Athel sung happily to herself as she closed the door to her quarters and tightened the towel she had wrapped around herself after a relaxing morning shower. She loved the sounds the ship made when it was sailing. There was a cool southern breeze blowing over the bow, which made sweet whistling noises as it passed over the knotholes in the wood.
“Good morning, Deutzia,” she greeted happily while she pulled a second towel out from her drawer to dry her hair with.
Deutzia shimmered happily, asking Athel to open the curtains farther and let in more sunlight. As Athel did so, she noticed a strange sound, like something heavy rolling along the floor. Looking down, Athel noticed a small blue marble sitting innocently on the floor next to her foot. Shrugging, she walked over to her drawers, but was stopped when she heard the same distinct rolling sound.
This time she looked down with more suspicion and saw the same blue marble, now perfectly still, next to her foot. She could not shake the thought that it was somehow looking at her.
Growing irritated, Athel kicked the marble. She watched as it stopped and then slowly rolled back into its position right next to her foot. This time it flickered a little, the way someone’s eye does when they blink, and Athel became very anxious.
Without thinking, Athel lifted up the heel of her foot and brought it down, crushing the small sphere and releasing a puff of blue smoke. From outside in the corridor, she heard Dr. Griffin screaming in pain. Athel’s face pinched in anger as the door to her quarters flung open and Ryin walked in.
“Colenat, get out of here!” Athel screamed, hugging her towel more tightly around herself. Ryin paid her no heed as he looked around the room. Athel saw the determination in his countenance as he focused on Deutzia sitting happily on her shelf, and he began walking toward her.
“What are you doing?” Athel called out as she scooped up Deutzia’s pot and pulled her close. Ryin swiped, missing her leaves by mere inches.
“I’m not doing anything,” Ryin insisted as he lunged forward again, grabbing at the tree. Athel leapt sideways, bumping against her bunk. When he turned she slipped beneath his arms, rising up behind him.
“I don’t know what you think you’re doing,” Athel said as she ducked beneath another grab, “but I’m going to kill you if you don’t get out of my room.”
Athel jumped forward, planting her shoulder into Ryin’s midsection as she pushed upward. He grunted as the air was forced from his lungs, and staggered backward out the door and into the hallway.
Still holding on to Deutzia, Athel ran up and locked the door shut.
“Come on, F
orsythia,” Ryin huffed out in the hallway, catching his breath. “You should know that you can’t lock a door on a Ferran.” There was a flash of heat, and the lock and hinges melted away. She jumped backward, still holding the now detached doorknob, and the door fell inward, kicking up dust.
“We don’t want to hurt you,” Ryin said as he entered, “we just want to hold your tree for a moment.”
“Over your dead body,” Athel shouted, trying to look as imposing as one can when unarmed and wearing nothing but a towel.
Dr. Griffin entered the room as well, holding his hand over one eye. “That really hurt,” he complained, “but it was worth it.” He flicked an old arm outward, but nothing happened. He just stood there with it outstretched.
“Am I supposed to be impressed” Athel scoffed at the ridiculous display.
“Try to move,” he sneered.
Athel laughed, but then realized that her free hand was indeed being held, tied to the side of the bunk by surgical threads so fine that she could only see a slight glimmer when the sunlight hit them.
He flicked out his other arm, and a small hook attached itself to the knot in her towel. “It’s over,” he said triumphantly, the wrinkles on his aged face deepening with his smile. “When I pull on this line you’ll have to release the tree or allow your towel to fall to the ground.” To emphasize his point, he tugged on the line, loosening the knot.
“I’m going to kill you for this,” Athel growled.
Ryin shrugged and walked forward so he could catch the pot once it was dropped. Deutzia whispered to Athel and she nodded. Athel dropped Deutzia, catching her pot with the top of her foot, and grabbed her staff off of the bunk, cracking Ryin on the back of the head with it as she spun it around dramatically.
“If you are going to fight a Treesinger, you really should be more careful what you bring in your pockets,” Athel said with a smile.
The smirk left Dr. Griffin's face as the peanuts in his pocket erupted, and within seconds both he and Ryin were enveloped in long growing stems with four leaflets and small yellow flowers. Little roots wrapped themselves around the threads holding Athel and snapped them.