The Legacy of Lanico: Reclaiming Odana

by E Cantu Alegre

  She had to tame her own thoughts at his slight force of strength. He wrapped his arms around her and they stood in silence. Her face rested in the bend of his warm neck. There, she breathed him in.

  If this was the closest they could get for now, it was still better than a dream.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Her Mysra

  As night drifted over the Castle of Odana, rising melodic sounds of various musical instruments and singing drifted in the air, delectable wisps that stirred the spirit. Enslaved WynSprigns who had musical talents played for the Mysra in the castle hall, as was the way for all of Grude’s celebrations. The slaves adorned bright orange-and-red uniforms designed to convey a sense of merriment, but with frequent usage these years, they had become thin and worn, truly matching the reality, they felt. Grude loved his parties.

  Behind the stage the main singer—the most celebrated WynSprign singer, famous in all the lands, was preparing to usher in the nightly concert for the celebrants. Servants were scurrying to make last-second adjustments to her attire, her hair, and her face. Despite the odd fact that she had aged very little these years, they wanted her to look her best, for her natural look was most homely. A servant patted her cheeks with powder. Too much powder.

  “Phhfff! Ewww, just stop it!” she scolded with a voice of venom.

  “Sorry Mistress Cantata.” The slave servant Trilla dropped her gaze low, her golden locks covering her face.

  “Let’s just hope you didn’t ruin me, Trilla!” Cantata waved her delicate hand in annoyance at the plume of powder.

  Suddenly the muffled announcement boomed from the stage: “To the Mysra guests, and of course, to the lovely ruler Grude . . . We are thrilled to announce the performance you’ve all been waiting for—"

  “Move!” Cantata ordered to the servants bending low to straighten her skirts. She started to storm out. “Outta my way!” she growled and shoved her thin elbows into servants’ sides. “He’s ‘bout to call me on!” She pushed her way through to the stage.

  “Misss . . . Cantataaa . . .!” the announcer belted. His voice trailed at length—a trick to both bolster the crowd and give her precious seconds of time.

  Wild cheers erupted but soon stopped as, suddenly, soft, melodic music began to flute out over the room. The table lanterns were extinguished. It was a purposeful dimming, timed to usher in the main performance, and the only lights in the vast room were now on the dimmed stage. Blinking eyes found the tall, familiar glowing silhouette of Cantata—the famous singer.

  The Mysra faces brightened in the growing light and they clenched their fists in anxiousness as she struck beautiful throated chords. Her spoken voice was grading and awful, but in singing, she mesmerized her crowds. The enchantment of even just her practice tuning her vocal instrument sent chills through the anticipating audience before her. Then came the first familiar notes of her voice in a wildly popular song. Immediately recognizing it, the Mysra went wild, cheering madly.

  Cantata moved and swirled her gorgeous orange skirts enthusiastically to the music. Unusually tall and pale for a WynSprign, she was not visually appealing of her race. She had closely set eyes and wiry black hair. But her voice. It by far surpassed any visual beauty another might possess. Many believed her blessed by the shamed Fray Jaspia herself. Only the Fray who ruled over song and stone could have granted a voice like that. The pitch could rise and fall at incredible octave ranges that no other had achieved.

  She sang out a lofty melody as her musicians directed the beat upward and gave strong strokes and strums. The Mysra responded in the same way, sloshing their ale back and forth to the rhythmic tune. Their own singing was low and thick—making a surprisingly congruous blend with her melody. She shaped her own voice around the rich gruffness of theirs. It was a weaving, a back-and-forth glorious interplay from one song to another that brought true beauty into the rough lives of the Mysra-her Mysra.

  It was no secret that Cantata loved the Mysra. She danced and sang for them with everything in her being, giving them her all. She was their singer. Her own WynSprigns had never embraced her quite as the Mysra did, and she deeply appreciated their love and support.

  Cantata grinned widely to approve of their own singing, and she made eye contact with Grude, who grinned at her slyly across the way. Her famed smile revealed the trademark gap between her front teeth. Her dark wiry hair escaped its stern bun with her spirited twists and turns on the stage.

  Grude loved putting on a great party, and he loved Cantata for the added popularity that she brought him. He was quite fond of her and paid her well for her performances. She, of course, viewed herself superior to the other WynSprigns. Unlike the vast majority of her people here in the Odana, she was not a slave. She was a paid performer, Grude’s muse and a celebrity friend to him. And, perhaps to him alone, something more. He had long adored her – a well kept pet.

  Tonight, was a celebration of the discovery of the secret WynSprign village and promise of the future—of another one hundred years of Mysra succession on the Odana throne. It was the plan for more slaves. A plan to mine the southern Odana Mountains for more trillium, for the mountain chain in those parts had been left unspoiled. Cantata naturally had no opinion of this conquest. It wasn’t going to impact her role, so to her, it didn’t matter.

  At the close of her song, and after the dimming of the cheers, Grude called the assembly to order for his speech. He told his beloved Mysra his plans to increase the trillium and to supply them with the new incoming WynSprigns. With this news the crowd erupted in applause—for too long they had worried over the diminished mineral and the strict allotments doled out daily. Grude made toasts with wine from his private collection and announced his plan to honor Neen as next in line for the throne. More cheers and applause rose from the ranks. No one dared to mention Gish’s name since Grude hadn’t. Neen raised his goblet to answer the toasts of the crowd, but his lips only touched the wine. He was committed to waking early to prepare for the pending invasion.

  Through the cheering, the WynSprign slaves all around stood still. They would never applaud but only held far-off gazes, their minds elsewhere. Defeated by years of toil and abuse, free only in their parents’ and grandparents’ memories, they stood, unmoving, in their tired uniforms.

  ✽✽✽

  It wasn’t until just before sunup that the celebration came to a close, and the castle was mostly silent again. Several slaves met in the castle kitchen to help with the large cleaning tasks that followed such celebrations. The kitchen was in full swing; dishes were still being washed and food still being stored. It had been a celebration of urgent preparation, execution, and clean up. A celebration that meant even more of their people in captivity. Once they finished their work, many hurried out from the kitchen, heartsick and tired, to make their way to their hut-homes near the castle base. Others stayed behind to finish up.

  It was in the contract that Cantata had to assist in cleaning up after a grand party. Until now, she hadn’t. This time, she complained to Grude when he gave her this demand, but he reminded her that help was scarce, and it was just this once. He would agree to continue to turn his head if she didn’t help at other events, because by then, there would be plenty more help. He also reminded her that she was still just a WynSprign—even if she chose not to dwell on that fact. She huffed in frustration, with anger enough to match the tales of the legendary Jaspia.

  It was with great disinclination that Cantata and a few remaining slaves, assisted Tunia. She was an ancient, seasoned kitchen WynSprign who had served so long that she had been under King Oetam’s charge as a young woman. Others buzzed in and out of the kitchen. Cantata hated this reminder of her slave fellows, hated socializing and working next to them. She felt out-of-place amongst them.

  No matter: Grude had assured her it was only just this once and, from the looks of things, she’d be done soon enough.

  “This is the last of it,” Cantata announced hoarsely after she burst through the
kitchen door and slid an oversized tray of unused goblets onto the kitchen counter. Annoyance masked her face. Her sequined scarlet costume brightened the dull kitchen but her wafer-thin body slumped slightly, once free from the weight of the tray, and her exhausted voice was giving out.

  With a dry tone, Tunia responded, “Thanks, Cantata,” and with her thick forearm wiped the beads of coalesced steam and sweat from her brow. Her hands were wrinkled and soapy from hours spent at the kitchen washbasin, for many decades. She pointed a finger toward the royal stemware cabinet that was wide open. “Now then, please just put those clean ones in there . . . and then we’ll be all set in here.” Tunia tottered on the small wood stool she stood on to reach into the deep basin and scrub away at the last of the seemingly endless supply of dishes. Her thick legs were covered with holey stockings, mostly covered by her tattered blue skirt. Her gray hair was bundled into a large white cap that protected it from all the steam and grease in the castle kitchen.

  Cantata groaned at the task, though her height was an advantage here. She had no need for the stool that Tunia had balanced herself on. After a few sets of goblets had been clinged into place, Cantata closed the cabinet door and spun around to head out from this—this greasy . . . dungeon.

  Trilla, personal maid to Cantata and castle-cleaning slave, came in carrying fresh kitchen cloths to replenish the shelves. Like Cantata, she was assigned to assist in the kitchen when her help was needed from time to time. Trilla was pretty, with soft, golden hair. She annoyed those close to her with her smugly cheerful disposition and her turned-up nose. She prided herself on being Cantata’s servant and felt it made her superior to the others. Trilla placed the stack of folded cloths onto their shelf, easing them in, then she looked about and her eyes widened when they landed on her woman.

  “Oh! Hello, Cantata ma’am!” Trilla’s innocent voice suddenly sounded. “Great performance you gave!” She came to life seeing the most popular performer, her own superior, in the kitchen with the rest of the WynSprigns.

  Cantata glanced at her and gave a terse nod as thanks. She didn’t care about that little vermin, or about any of . . . whatever was taking place in here. She turned to accept further instruction from Tunia.

  Before Cantata had said anything, Tunia responded to the young servant girl instead, “Thank you, Trilla, for your help today,” Tunia managed, sensing Cantata’s annoyance. “You may take your leave now.” She glanced over her shoulder at the young slave.

  Chagrined, Trilla wrinkled her nose at Tunia and turned from both of them to leave the kitchen. She would see Cantata later anyhow.

  “Cantata, you’ve been most helpful, but your help is no longer needed either. It seems we’re done and you’ve just placed the last goblet.” Tunia’s voice remained dull and uninterested in the celebrity.

  “Good.” This oily steam is not good for this material. Cantata fingered a loose sequin on her skirt. She then nodded and turned to head to her small private room hidden deep in the castle. As a hired worker under Grude, she didn’t live in dusty huts as the others did, though her room in the castle was a mere closet in comparison to the multitude of other rooms. She sighed as her steps echoed in a cascade of sound against the stone corridors outside the kitchen. She was pleased that she had a place within the castle. After all, she was a celebrity and different from the other WynSprigns. Blessed. Talented. Grude knew this. She was most pleased with his attention to her. He had been making frequent visits to her in the instrument room when she finished her daily vocal exercises.

  Her slim figure wound away from the hustle she left behind.

  ✽✽✽

  The fervent activity in the kitchen had quickly died down once the celebrity was gone and the work had, in fact, been completed. The bustle of the other kitchen staff had ceased. Now, in the still of the kitchen and alone, Tunia shook her head in disapproval of Cantata. However disappointed she was in that particular WynSprign, she was pleased with herself. A smirk lifted on the old kitchen slave’s face. She had made her plan without detection. It had taken time to execute, much time and patience. And this was the perfect opportunity to complete her plan.

  Tunia wrung out her dishtowel and slapped it on the side of the sink with a thak that freckled water droplets everywhere. Then she carefully stepped down from the wobbly stool. Her legs and feet were sore and tired. In the time before the shift changed and other slaves came to replace her, Tunia dragged the heavy wooden stool so she could sit at the thick butcher-block table. Relaxing her stiff muscles, she held a dreamy smile on her face.

  Suddenly the door slammed opened, revealing Nizen’s horrible face. He was more sour than normal, having been unable to indulge in the feast throughout the night. His rank as the head mine guard made him responsible for overseeing slaves while all the other Mysra dined. Tunia was sorry about that. She truly was. She would have preferred he dinned and drank with the others throughout the night – for her own reasons of course.

  “Okay, Tunia, the morning reinforcements are here. Return to your hut at once.” He held the large door open, his red cape spreading out behind him. His thick biceps shifted as he held the door, behind which other slaves could be seen waiting to enter.

  Tunia nodded, grabbed her basket, and then left the kitchen as the reinforcements hurried to the icebox to prepare the kills from the previous afternoon. Waterfowl. Tunia rolled her eyes. She would later have to clean whatever mess they’d make with that kill and she hated cleaning the stray feathers that wafted throughout the space.

  She left the castle as the sun was rising and took the slope down to the base of the castle, where rows of castle slave huts were arranged. The castle huts’ imperfections blurred in the glow of the new day, making them seem cozy and warm. After the battle, Grude planned this housing to have quick access for the WynSprigns to serve him in their castle duties, but he moved the miner slave huts close to the mountain base and their work.

  Tunia entered her weathered hut, tore off her apron, and kicked off her shoes before collapsing on the bed. A smile crept across her face and blessed sleep came soon. Delicious dreams of justice and grand retaliation fogged her mind. Yes, happiness dwelt there. Finally.

  Chapter Forty

  Difficult send-off

  The tavern had never been so busy. Maybell had been running around trying to help fight find chairs for the weary. The sounds of crying babes here and there in the large murmuring crowd, were followed by hushing. Large sacks stuffed with clothes, food, blankets, and kitchenware covered the floor and tables all around-the majority of them didn’t know how to pack for travel.

  Stoutwyn stood, solemnly puffing at his floog. The smoke filled the air around him and caressed his thick braided beard and hair. His brow furrowed with deep thought as he puffed. He believed he was making the right choice, leading them out from here. His mind still questioned his decision. His wife, Murah, supportively sat nearby, looking at him and then at the intimidating crowd he’d face, that he’d lead.

  “I think we’re all here now, Stout!” yelled someone from the din.

  Stoutwyn’s focused gaze gave way to blinks, and he abruptly nodded his head, his great gray beard following the movement. “Aye,” he muttered as smoke emanated from between his teeth. “Okay, everyone! Thank you for following instructions and for coming with your needed belongings!” He set his floog down carefully on the wooden table. “I hope everyone is all packed up and ready to head out soon.” He tried to manage a small, nervous smile. Some in the crowd nodded in agreement.

  He was not about to mince words, though. “Look—I know you’re nervous about what’s to come. I am nervous, too!” He looked at Murah briefly. She smiled at him and nodded to urge him on. “But we have become quite good at hiding over the years, and, well, we will do this again, until we’re able to come back!” Or go to the Odana, he thought secretly, his true desire.

  “As long as we march far enough,” he continued, “we will be safe. Fenner has been working these days at trainin
g the able-bodied. And having been a Major, based on what I’ve seen, I have much confidence in them. They have come a long way and have learned how to use swords and staffs with ease and knowledge—training that the Odana Military of old would have been proud of. And as we all know, those in the hunting group are already well practiced in archery.”

  He wasn’t sure what else to say, but tried, “I know that this is much for you to endure. This is the path to survival. I have every belief that we will have our safety.” He glanced at the hopeful faces that gazed upon his. He honestly didn’t know much about what lay ahead in those woods, save for the legend of the ‘Blue Woman.’ It was likely a fable, he had decided. “We must be brave, courageous—for our warriors that stay behind to fight for us.”

  Once Stoutwyn’s semi-rousing speech had concluded, all soon noticed that the silent and weary warrior WynSprigns, the new ones—the young ones, were waiting for them just outside the tavern fencing. When the meeting adjourned, these new warriors greeted their loved ones and accompanied them to the edge of the woods, assisting them with their loads. For such a large group, it was a quiet walk. They soon reached the thick part of the woods on the northernmost side of the Great Mist. There was silence as many emotions drifted among them. It was a somber time—with the exception of the very old, few of them had ever experienced a time like this, but their group of leaders: Lanico, Trayvor, Fenner, and Stoutwyn himself, had long told them tales of earlier days. Somber days.

  “Okay!” Stoutwyn called as he stopped abruptly at the edge of the woods. “This is far enough!” He looked over at Murah nervously and then back at the anxious crowd. “We have to stop here, before we go further into the wood.” He scratched at his gray head with a wince, as his stomach turned over. “It’s . . . ah . . . it’s time to say goodbye.”