by Lloyd Baron
“My Queen,” One of the strong looking trees says from the far end of the table. “This has placed us in an awkward position. They will do what we decide but then all the others will know that they follow us. We must consider this when we make our-”
The Queen holds up her hand and silences the Woodland. “I am only interested in the voice of one calling himself Clayton.” Her eyes slide into his and they narrow slightly. “Of all the Woodlands, it is you and your companion here who have visited this world most. Acting with a childish sense of mischief the pair of you have come to the forbidden world and played at being human. The garments you have designed for yourselves are evidence of that, for they are cut into a fashion that is current to this world.”
Clayton tries to glance away but the Queens penetrating stare holds his eyes firmly in place. The pit of his stomach churns in a way he has never experienced and for the first time in all of existence a creature of creation is sick. Glorious thick sap gushes into his mouth and he wretches across the table. The others about him exclaim in fear for they do not know what he is experiencing. Moonwell’s arms wrap around his shoulders and she stokes his back.
The Queen smiles to herself and waits for him to recover. This had been a test of some sort. The knowledge of that is suddenly clear to him as he watches his monarch play with a leaf lying close to her wrist. He wipes at his mouth with a cloth of yellow moss, and shrugs the comforting embrace of his friend from him. She looks at his face with a concern he has never witnessed in her before. He composes himself and dares look back up at the Queen. She seems ready to continue, satisfied with whatever goal she had hoped to achieve.
“It is as I thought,” she says knowingly in her deep but musical voice. “You are becoming closer to being human than you are Elemental. You care for this girl beside you. You fear being found guilty by your Queen and your body reacts to the feelings within it.” She casts her gaze around the group. “You all have views that you wish to share and I will listen and discuss them with you. However, I want more than that to hear what these two feel about the world in which we must make this choice.” She focuses those bright penetrating eyes upon him once again. “What do you think we should do?" The tiny hairs along his leaves stir and he swallows. He is about to answer when something else enters his mind. He tries to push it away but he finds that more than answering the Queens question he wants to ask one of his own.
He composes himself and leans forwards slightly. The wooden chair creaks beneath him. It is odd that the furniture would be made out of wood. The thought flitters across his mind and he knows it is his way of stalling what he wishes to know. He swallows again.
“The king of Fire,” Moonwell blurts out from beside him. “He seemed to think that this world was not a creation of the Gods.” Clayton’s eyes widen. That was the thing he was working up to asking. Moonwell’s hand squeezes his shoulder as she continues. “He said that you all suspected that it was not. If it was not one of the Gods then what could it have been?”
The Queens face pales slightly and she smiles sadly. Hesitantly she begins to recall the days when they first walked upon this world. Her voice quivers with each word and Clayton realizes then that the Queen herself is very attached to the world. He suspects that she has already made up her mind about what she wants to happen here but needed someone else to justify it for her. She finishes talking about the first great war of the Elementals and pauses. She casts her eyes down at the tabletop and subconsciously reaches for the leaf that is laying there. Something is disturbing her greatly. She pulls her hands away and tucks them into her lap. When she looks back at them her eyes are brimming with unshod tears. Before he knows what he is doing, the yellow moss at his wrists has extended and breaks away from him. The Queen glances down at it and then sweeps it from the table to dab at her eyes. Moonwell’s hand gently caresses his shoulder and the back of his neck. He shivers.
“The God that first called us pulled us from this place and thrust us into the emptiness of this new space. Those of Elementals that build the stars had worked their wonder and left us with the rock to begin our creation. However, we noticed that the stars were ridged and they seemed to be in lines. Very poor work. It was unusual also that the God did not speak to us. Normally words are spoken of how the world should be. Sweeping forests or burning sands. Sometimes worlds are made by mad Gods who wish to punish or to teach lessons. We stood upon this empty place and waited. When no word came we began to build. You all know that we were left here for so many turns of the sun that we started to think of this world as our own. That was the spark for that first war between the Elements.” She dabs at her eyes again and then with a kind smile slides the moss back over to Clayton. He reaches down for it and slowly re-knits it upon his cuff. The Queen sighs and carries on with her story.
“It was during this war that the God decided to call us back. Some of us felt like we had been tested in some way. Others were saddened by our return while others were glad to be rid of this world. After all it is our purpose to be creators. Some of you had become willful in those suns and felt the need to sneak back here from time to time.” Her eyes catch Clayton’s and he lowers them, ashamed of himself. “I do not blame you. I envy your heart. I also wished to return here but I also understood the importance of our work in the universe and to the Gods. So I took the slumber and turned my back upon it.” She takes a deep breath to seemingly steady her nerves. They all know what part of the story is to follow.
“The Breaking,” she says it in a rush. “Always sad for us to unmake a world we have created but it is needed so that the Gods can develop new worlds if that is what their hearts desire. I am glad that we have only had to do it a handful of times.” The others around the table murmur agreement. “It is this that almost confirms that whatever called us to make this world was not a God. For this world was working and its people were strong and should have made the God happy. The only word from him that was said was “break” and so we began. Who are we to defy the word of a God? However, our attachment caused us to act slowly and it was this that gave the Goddess I the star time to reach out to us. Whoever, or perhaps whatever, she is, she has the power to touch us and she knew of our contract upon this world. She bade us to stop the unmaking and return to the slumber. The last thing she said to us as we returned was that we may once again be called to this world. For what she did not tell us. I am to believe that this is that time and if the human prophecy ends within this sun then perhaps we are a part of that. And it is for this reason that I have called you here. For I do not know if we are meant to fight with them or if we are to fight against them. All I do know is that returning to the slumber is not an option open to us. The darkness upon this world will find us there. So my question to you, my Clayton is this. Do we join with fire and burn this world clean or do we join with the humans and hope we find a way of saving it?”
Clayton can feel the eyes of every Woodland turn upon him. It is only two pairs of eyes that he looks into though. Firstly he turns and looks into the most beautifully pale eyes her has ever seen. In them he sees a life, a future and love. He then turns and looks into the stern, sad eyes of the Queen. He takes a breath to steel his nerves. “We fight to save this world.”
“But for us or the humans,” Moonwell asks urgently.
“We do it for both. We all have a right to this world.”
“Fire will not see it like that,” one of the others mutters.
“Then they will once again be our enemy,” the Queen says as she stands. “We will be going to war then.” With that she turns and walks from the dome.
Wit closes the door to the cobbles office and shudders. Either he is not doing his job properly or the palace staff are in need of replacing. The shoes made for the Princess to lay in her eternal peace used up almost quarter of an inch too much leather for the soles. The cobbler broke down in tears. He stuttered that he must have made a mistake and that if it was reported to the Queen that he would lose his reputation and his
life here in the royal household. What was a quarter of an inch of leather after all? It was not as if the princess would be walking in the shoes.
Something clicks in his sharp mind and he gasps. His papers slip from his fingers and scatter across the floor. Why? What would be the reason for it? He drops to the floor and begins to gather his papers. Getting them into a semblance of order he regains his feet and begins to sprint down the long hallway. If he is quick he can catch an audience with the queen’s personal man servant before he leaves for his mid-afternoon meal with his wife.
Elmo is sat behind his desk, scribbling in a diary when Wit bursts into the room. Wit has always been a man of protocol and rank. As Chancellor he should outrank a mere servant. However, he is the direct servant to the Queen. To the tight mind of Wit - who sees people almost as numbers themselves - he cannot quite work out where he stands with this humble little man. Only a few weeks ago he was far above Elmo as he was a simple scullion but now. Elmo just does not add up.
“I am due for a lunch,” he says giving Wit a withering look. “I do not have the time to debate the possible missing copper in the budget.” With that the man closes his book and gets to his feet. “Now if you do not mind, Chancellor.”
“I am very sorry, sir,” Wit says as he begins to leave the room. “It was just that well I think I might have stumbled across something that I think the Queen might want to hear.”
Elmo’s expression darkens. “You wish to see the Queen?”
Wit nods. “I think it is very important.”
“I can get you an audience with her majesty tomorrow if she is feeling better.” Elmo opens his diary and starts to scribble the appointment down. “I will mark you in for just after the mid-morning meal. She should be free for a few minutes.”
“Yes that should be very satisfactory. I just hope that she is feeling well.” He lingers in the doorway, the knowledge that he believes he has uncovered eats away at his resolve. The numbers flicker in front of his eyes, events, dates, shoe sizes and apples. Things do not add up. In fact the only way that they do add up is if he is right. He has to be right. For if he is not then the numbers are wrong and numbers are never wrong. He is about to speak when the door behind Elmo opens and four people, talking in hushed tones step through it. One of them is Cook, still clutching her ladle. Another is the cobbler, waving his arms dramatically. Almost shoving them both in front of him is Gareth Zian. His face a mask of concern. The last person is someone he is not expecting. Wearing a simple black gown of mourning is the Queen herself. She takes one look at Wit and sighs.
“I suppose there is no avoiding this. Master Wheu. What is it that you think you know?”
Wit steps into the room and bows formally to his Queen. His mind whirls with what he is about to do. As the final number slots into place he takes a shuddering breath. Even though he is certain that he must be right he suddenly has a doubt.
“Come on lad,” Gareth barks. “The Queen is busy.”
“Yes,” Wit gathers his papers together. “We have twelve Tet red apples in the wasted. There is the matter of a quarter," he pauses and collects his thoughts. “Almost, it is not quite a quarter of an inch too much leather cut for the last shoes.” He licks his lips. Nerves batter against him and he has to push through them. This is the Queen and if he is wrong. No he is not wrong for it adds up. “Your Majesty. Your daughter, Princess Narinda is not dead. The girl we are laying to rest is an impostor.”
Everyone in the room stares at him. Elmo drops back into his seat, dropping his head into his hands. Cook mutters a strong curse and grabs hold of the cobbler’s shoulders, pulling him into her large bosom.
“Apples,” Gareth whistles and turns his attention to the Queen. “What should we do?”
Queen Narmada sweeps past the others and puts herself directly in front of Wit. He wants to take a step back but he holds his ground. He bows again. Sweat breaks out on his face and he wipes the dampness from his palms on his coat. “How old are you, Master Wheu?” The Queen’s voice is firm and sharp.
“I am nineteen suns old, your Highness.”
“Cook discovered the truth because of the girls eating habits. Parr because her feet were the wrong size and now you. Wit you are a bright young man with a glowing future before you. Tell me something. What are you planning to do with this information?”
Wit stares straight up into the startling eyes of the Queen and swallows. Numbers begin to tumble in his head but something else happens at that moment. Two voices whisper through his mind. A girl pleading for him to listen to his heart and a man demanding that he is loved. The voices are unknown to him but in the thudding roar of the numbers that explode within his head he knows that the truth must be told.
“I plan on doing nothing. I needed to make sure you knew. The numbers need to be put in the correct place.” The Queen gives Gareth a startled look and the color drains from her cheeks. “Have I spoken something just now that has upset you?”
“You are the man I was told about in a dream. A man who sees the numbers of the world will come forth and speak truth. He will be the guide of time and the lover of the Marinish King.” Wit blinks at the last part but he does not speak. The Queen continues. “You are just a boy. I am sorry to tell you this but you are a major part of the Prophecy of Ages. I will get word out that I have found you for you will need protection.”
“Protection from what?” Wit asks, his voice shaking. “I am starting to think I have made a mistake.”
“You may wish you had, lad,” Gareth says from the doorway. “I will begin to send out the coded messages.” He takes hold of Cooks arm and hauls her out of the room. Parr the Cobbler scurries out after them. “Close that door!” Wit hears Gareth yell a moment before the door slams. Elmo gets up from his desk and walks around to stand beside the Queen.
“The real princess is safe,” he says handing Wit a hanky.
Wit dabs at his face. The numbers keep crashing inside his skull. “Where?”
“She is out of the city. We sent her away. She is in a place where she will be protected and no harm will come of her.”
The numbers stop. Wit looks from Elmo to his Queen. Something just happened. Something huge in the world just washed over them all. Sadness settles over him and he feels a tear slipping from the corner of his eye. He pulls the sealed parchment from the inside of his pocket and stares at it. It was sent to him by mistake. It was meant for Elmo. He had almost forgotten about it until he felt that wave of sadness.
“What is that?” The Queen asks nervously.
Wit hands the rolled parchment over to Elmo. The numbers in his head begin again. A slow counting down from ten. Ten. Elmo breaks the seal. Nine. The personal man servant for the Queen of Atlant rolls it open. Eight. He reaches into the breast pocket of his uniform and pulls out a small pair of eye glasses. Seven. The small man reads the hastily written note upon the paper. Six. His eyes widen with a sudden terror and his fingers begin to let go of the scroll. Five. The paper floats from the stricken man to land at the petite feet of the Queen. Four. With a fearful look at Elmo she drops to the floor and grabs the message. Three. A wail erupts from the woman as her eyes scan the document. Two. The door at the back of the room bursts open and Gareth Zian bounds into the room. One. The old man slides across the floor, sweeping the Queen into his embrace. The numbers stop and Wit glances down. The message is from someone called Riochald. He scans it and draws a deep breath.
There are only a few words scrolled upon the parchment. “The Angels are dead. I alone survived.”
She watches them fight and her heart sinks with despair. There is nothing she can do to assist them any longer. The world is slowly falling into the raging torrent of darkness and her light is fading fast.
The power of the star can no longer support her needs. Her many plans and weaving of destiny have led them all to this moment. The healer’s death had been a massive blow to her plans. She has spent so many suns training him and knew the role in which he was
to play. Now she will need another to take his place. Time is running out for her and for the fate of this and all the other worlds.
She sits down and stares into the globe of power resting in the bright floor of the star and tries to reach out. Maybe she can do something to help them. Maybe she can just touch them with her power and save them all. Her attempt fails like it has every time before and she sighs with frustration.
She has been too long in this star, watching and manipulating the worlds without being able to touch them, her powers are dwindling. Her only hope comes from the Prophecy that she has foreseen.
There will be a grand battle of the dead. Six armies of darkness will rise and the heroes will fight them to save the world. But she has never seen the end. Her visions always cease at the moment the armies meet.
All she knows is that she has to get them to the right places for that moment to happen. The Book of Prophecy worked like a charm. But it also gave the darkness time to prepare. She had not seen this battle as she had not seen Riochald’s attack on her own people in any vision. Things are starting to change, and they are moving out of her control.
She watches the scene before her and hopes with all her being that they make it from the city safely. But as she watches the grand Tree City of Gossa-Mesa bursts into a ball of flame and thousands of souls cry out in pain as they are ripped from their bodies.
She grabs the ball and screams.
Have they failed?
Is the Prophecy of Ages over?
She watches as the huge and once beautiful city collapses in on itself and drops into the crashing waves below.
She has little time to grieve as the wall of her star and prison cracks and darkness begins to pour in.