by Kevin Hearne
“Yer a dryad, is that roight?”
She sighed. “Yes.”
“Never thought I’d see a real one. Izzan honor. Why d’ye need three cloaks, then?”
“To hide. People hereabouts have not been kind.”
“Oh? Howzat? Noice girl loike you, seems as if the world’d be kinder.”
Tempest had barely spoken to any humans—they all seemed more interested in her magic than in her mind. But this old man leaned forward, eyes crinkled up in a kindly way, and it all just came tumbling out.
“We don’t want attention at all. Bruding was the first big city we’d ever seen, and everyone who noticed us gasped or whispered or begged to be healed or worse—made lewd suggestions about wood nymphs, based on some terrible Pickleangelo paintings. We even had to fend off a couple of persistent suitors with rather sharp refusals—as in, the sharpened tip of a dagger at their throats.”
“Thas terrible, that is!” the old man cried, thumping the table with a gnarled fist.
Tears rose to Tempest’s eyes as the quiet darkness of the stall and the old man’s heartfelt sympathy unspooled the feelings that had built up inside her.
“So we hurried to Tennebruss, but it’s no better. We find the same ignorance everywhere we go. We thought autonomy among idiots would be better than our old life. We were indentured servants to a demigod, Tommy Bombastic. He treated us like something between a maid and a…well. The less said, the better. But a passing halfling noticed our hopeless plight and used his legal knowledge to negate Tommy’s agreement with our father. So we’re free now, but we’d hoped the world beyond Tommy’s enchanted forest would be dynamic, cultured, and welcoming.”
“An’ it ain’t?”
She shook her head. “No. We just want to find a place where we won’t be seen as creatures to be exploited—but as people. We need to get far from Tommy’s forest and away from the stares and the whispers. Stormy and Misty are hiding back at the inn, terrified of showing their faces outside.”
When Tempest spoke her sisters’ names, true surprise bloomed on the merchant’s face, and the abrupt rearrangement of his facial features inspired a fit of coughing that sounded like a serious long-term condition. It was obvious he was doing his best to treat her normally, even if it was a challenge. When he finally subsided, he set down his pipe and peered at her through watery eyes. “Three dryads in Tennebruss? Remarkable, that is. D’ye mind me asking if ye hail from Borix?”
“No, we’re from the Skyr. Daughters of the Willowmuck.”
“The Willowmuck! I’ve heard o’ him. Been warned, actually, if ye don’t mind me saying, because he’s one of the most feared willowmaws around right now. Poor lasses!”
Tempest smiled and sniffled. “Father can be frightful, for sure.”
What the human didn’t know was that willowmaws do not begin life as stationary carnivorous trees. In his willowmaw state, Tempest’s father ate most anything that wandered underneath his canopy. But once he’d drunk enough blood to soften his hardened heartwood, he would someday walk the world again as a drynad—not that he was particularly kinder in that form. There were very few of his people left, since edible folks tended to chop them down or set them on fire in their willowmaw forms. Everyone loved dryads and drynads when they lived as slightly leafy humans, looking beautiful and healing folks of any ailment, but no one wanted to tolerate them when they were living the part of their life cycle that required them to be bloodthirsty trees.
“But it seems like everyone is born with the potential to be frightful, doesn’t it?” she finished.
The merchant nodded. “Roight you are, miss. That’s why we must all go out of our way to be kind.” The boy returned with another grey cloak and the merchant waved him on. “Give it to the noice lady; there’s a foine lad.”
The boy shyly held out the soft grey cloak, and Tempest took it and beamed at him. His mouth dropped open and he looked away, blushing. Her smile tended to have that effect on many beings, and she wound up feeling embarrassed for causing their embarrassment; it was a vicious cycle of blushing. She looked back at the merchant, whose eyes were twinkling as he witnessed the lad’s harmless discomfort.
“What do I owe you for these?” She hoped the cost wouldn’t drain the meager contents of her purse. They’d had little opportunity to earn money while in Tommy Bombastic’s service.
“Bah.” The merchant waved his pipe at her, scoffing at the question. “Ye have given me a rare gift just by walking in me tent and talkin’ to a lonely old man, that’s fer sure. Take ’em, and may they keep ye safe and well and remind ye that there’s good in the world.”
Tempest froze. “Surely you are jesting with me now.” Her eyes flicked to the tent flap, wondering if a watchman was waiting outside. “Is this a trick? If I walk out without paying, I’ll be seized for theft or something like that?”
The merchant hastened to reassure her. “No, no, I’m serious. I’ve done very well for meself and shan’t suffer the loss o’ three cloaks. Look, I’ll write ye a bill of sale, saying they’re paid for, and then ye can rest easy.” He crammed the pipe in his mouth and puffed as he scrabbled for ink and paper at his table. His quill scratched over a scrap of paper, which he proffered to her. She took it, noted the date, and read:
Three foine grey hooded cloaks sold to bearer, paid in fulle.
Signed,
Cappy Tallist, Esq.
Tempest sighed in relief. “Thank you, Mr. Tallist.”
“Ah, call me Cappy, and thank ye fer visitin’ me today. What’s yer name, if I may?”
“Tempest.” She drew closer to him. “Are you sure there is nothing I can give you for these?”
“Nah. I have a story that will last me to the end o’ me days. Nobody I know’s ever met a dryad before, although a few have been eaten by the odd tree. That’s mighty foine. The meeting, I mean, not the bein’ eaten.” His eyes flew wide, and he went into a fit of wet, hacking coughs that required a grubby handkerchief and ended with a pained wheeze.
“But that cough of yours. Are you well?”
Cappy sighed in patient resignation. “Well enough, aye. I’m old, is all.”
“Please, give me your hand, Cappy?” She extended her own, and after a moment he took it and she clasped his thick fingers in her slim ones and shut her eyes. The illness dwelling in his lungs was immediately apparent. Steeling herself against what was to come, she whispered of health and grace and concentrated on the masses of the old man’s innards that were blackened or twisted from their natural pink moistness; soon they flourished again and broke up into so much bloody detritus that both she and Cappy began to cough. He tried to pull his hand away, but she held fast to him until he was clear. He finally took a deep, shuddering breath, and then a deeper clear one, tears streaming down his face.
“I don’t know what you did, lass, but…thank you.”
“I renewed your lungs. You would not have lived out the year. If you will take some friendly advice, Cappy, stop smoking that pipe now, so you’ll be around to see your grandchildren grow up.”
The merchant nodded at her. “I will.” His gaze traveled to her arm as she withdrew her hand, and his expression darkened with concern. “What is that? Are you all roight?”
Tempest looked down and saw the smooth brown skin of her forearm marred by a new scaly growth. It was not large, only the size of three peas in a pod, but she knew what it was: willow bark. Healing Cappy had pushed her closer to her time of roots and hardness.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” she lied. She plastered a fake smile on her face, hoping her fear didn’t show. “Don’t worry about it. The important thing is that you are well. Thank you again for the cloaks. Good day.”
Cappy Tallist made some noises that might have been speech, but she didn’t hear anything distinct. She pulled the first cloak over her shoulders and settled the hood to hi
de her face, then snatched up the other two and exited, hurrying back to the Purple Mushroom Inn, where she’d left Stormy and Misty. She burst into the room and tossed the cloaks at them, ignoring their greetings.
“Do either of you have any bark on your skin?” she asked.
“What? No,” Stormy answered indignantly. Poor Misty just looked confused.
“Well, now I do.” Tempest pulled back her cloak to show them her arm and saw their eyes widen in alarm.
“Oh, pixie plops, Tempest! What did you do?” Misty asked.
“I healed someone as thanks for these cloaks.”
“Why in Pell would you do that? Did you not have enough coin?”
“No, I volunteered.”
Stormy snorted. “He probably gave you the cloaks for free, didn’t he?”
Tempest only blinked at her in answer, and Stormy’s face darkened. “I knew it! He manipulated you! Tempest, we’ve talked about this!”
“He was so sweet and kind. He needed help, Stormy.”
Stormy rolled her eyes. “They all need help! But they never help us! They drain us dry until we’re wood, and then they burn us to ashes when they can’t exploit us anymore! You have to stop.”
“I will,” Tempest said, looking down. She didn’t know if Cappy Tallist had intended to gain her sympathy or not. But she knew that she hadn’t felt exploited until just now. She’d felt good about helping him until her sister all but said that she’d been suckered. She was a rube. A sap. A gull. “I won’t help anyone else. Anyway, I got us cloaks.”
It didn’t feel like an accomplishment anymore.
“Thank you, Tempest.” Misty stepped forward, and hugged her, and Tempest leaned into her sister’s embrace. This was what had gotten them through their years at Tommywood—one another.
“I’m grateful too,” Stormy said, arms closed. “I just don’t want to see you in the ground before us. I worry about you.”
“Well, I’m as worried as you are,” Tempest said as Misty let her go. “Because I don’t know what we’re supposed to do next.”
“We were talking while you were gone.” Stormy stubbornly stuck out her chin. “We think we could do well if we struck a deal with a dwarvelish bathhouse somewhere. If nothing else, working for Tommy made us amazing servers.”
“Yeah,” Misty agreed, nodding enthusiastically. “We’re thinking we could go to Grundelbård or Sküterlånd at the base of the hills, and we’ll make good tips, and when it’s time to be trees we’ll put down roots in the forest.”
“Except you’ll eat people.”
Misty sniffed delicately. “Except for that, yeah. But look at it this way: plenty of clean food, thanks to dwarvelish bathing customs!”
“We both think it’s a good plan,” Stormy added.
But Tempest shook her head. “That’s fine if you want to do that, but it’s not a future I would choose. I don’t want to serve anyone ever again. I did it for a hundred years. Now I want to help people.”
“By healing them?”
Tempest steeled herself and straightened her spine. “No. I want to do it the way that halfling man helped free us from Tommy’s contract: by using the law. I want to become a lawyer.”
Her sisters scrunched up their noses in unison and said, “A lawyer? Ew!”
Stormy followed up with “And how are you going to accomplish that?”
Tempest shrugged. “There are law schools all over the place. One of them has to be willing to take me in.”
“Okay,” Misty said, “but can it be a dwarvelish school near us, at least?”
“Dwarf law is mostly about beard cleanliness and beekeeping. I think I should learn human law, since I look more human than anything else,” Tempest said. “And because the humans seem so blasted determined to be in charge of things. Plus, the other peoples might not accept me as easily. I’ve heard there’s a good law school in Bustardo.”
“Bustardo? Is that in Kolon?” Stormy asked.
“No, it’s in the earldom of Burdell.”
“But you’ll be so far away!” Misty protested.
“Only for a little while. After I get my degree I can practice wherever I wish. I can move closer to whatever dwarvelish inn you’re working at.”
“So…we’re splitting up?” Misty asked.
Normally, Tempest would’ve made a joke about splitting logs to break up the tension and calm her sisters. But this time, she felt the tears welling in her eyes and nodded, letting them fall. She’d known this moment would arrive almost as soon as they were free. For the first time in her life, she wanted something different from Stormy and Misty. There was a destiny ahead of her that no dryad had ever pursued, and she wanted to be the first to blaze that trail—straight into the courtroom.
“No!” Stormy glared at her. “We have to stay together!”
Tempest looked her pushy older sister in the eye and cleared her throat.
“I object,” she said firmly.
Just saying the words for the first time thrilled her, and a new, deep longing arose in her heart—a longing for a leather briefcase and a hefty stack of depositions.
This dryad would soon become part of the judicial branch.
It was almost three o’clock, and Alobartalus was ready. He was wearing his shoes with the especially high heels, his spider-silk robe was brushed to a glittering shine, and he’d carefully painted over his freckles with a dwarvelish unguent called Poppi Groppe’s No-Spot Dewdrop Glop. He could hear the crowd trundling up the path from the dock, relieved to disembark from their ship and finally see a legend made real: the Proudwood Lighthouse.
He still had a few minutes, he knew—the barkers and hucksters and street musicians would be doing their best to relieve the island’s visitors of their coin as they walked the Proud Processional. Here, a human child with pasted-on ear tips danced up and sweetly demanded reciprocity for the Traditional Elven Flower Anklet she’d tied around someone’s ankle—the thing was a hideous confection of lurid paper flowers, which no elf would be caught dead in. There, a gnomeric middle-aged woman standing on a box under her flowing robes professed to know the secrets of the spheres and offered to tell fortunes using her Vessel of Elvish Divination—which was really just a painted bucket full of glitter and mistake fortunes from a fortune brownie company in Kolon. And over there, a kilted human with flaxen blond hair plaintively played a pan flute, wiggling the sporran at his waist suggestively in the hope that someone would drop in a copper or two. That, at least, had some merit—many an elven flutist had waggled his sporran at a human lady, doing his duty to follow the king’s edict and spread the elven seed. But real elves didn’t have hair made of broom straw or sporrans made of deboned badgers, and they would never initiate dalliances without a properly ferny grotto and far-superior manscaping.
Amateurs, the lot of them. But Alobartalus didn’t mind. They were fun to hang out with at night, once the crowds had returned to their ships, and they played a mean game of Poop Chutes and Bladders around their campfire. He vastly preferred them to the real elves back home in the Morningwood, who—
Enough of that. The human tourists had fought their way past the vendors and now stood on the threshold, trembling and unsure and filled with awe. After a few moments, one of them got up the courage to pull the golden rope beside the sign on the front doors, which read: YE OF NOBLE HEART MAY RING THE BELL AND ENTER THE REALM OF THE ELVES OF PELL.
A golden chime echoed through the lighthouse, dinging solemnly up the circular stair and donging out the windows on every level, all the way up to the top floor, where an elvish fire burned so ships wouldn’t run aground in the sacred magical mists of the Bonnie Strait, which separated the lighthouse island from the Morningwood proper. Somewhere, Alobartalus’s uncle, King Thorndwall of the Morningwood, Lord of All Elves and Master of Magic, would hear that sound and think, Ah, yes. That thunk-
headed dimwit of a nephew of mine will be doing his little dance instead of bothering me, and he’d better sell several Enchanted Morningwood Rods to fund my imported-cheese habit and leather jerkin collection, or else.
Alobartalus looked in the Silver Mirror of Galadriadwenna, consciously relaxed his furrowed brow, turned his frown into a wise and knowing smile, and wished for the millionth time that he looked like a proper elf. He wished his ears were a bit pointier, his legs a little longer, his flesh less freckled and prone to eczema, and his belly a little more like the inside of a spoon and a little less like a barrel of Jyggaly Juice. If only he weren’t so elf-conscious and elf-critical! Girding his silk-swaddled loins, he strode to the door, tripping only once as his trailing cloak got caught under his high heels.
Standing before the double doors, he muttered, “C’mon, Al. Think elfy. Really, truly, magically, snottily elfy.” He tossed glitter into the air and threw the doors of carved Morningwood open with a dramatic flourish.
“Welcome to Proudwood Lighthouse,” he intoned, looking down his nose at the crowd. Or trying to—even with the heels, he was shorter than most of them, so it was more like he tipped his head back and glared into their nostrils. “I am Alobartalus Olivegarten, son of Dampfnudel, sister of King Thorndwall, and—”
“Oi, you!” called a man from the crowd. “No more o’ them pasted-on ears like outside. We want a real elf! The brochure says, You will be greeted by a Real Honest-to-Pellanus Elf, and so I’s want to be!”
Alobartalus took a step back and tried not to panic. “I am a true elf, my human friend, born under the downy fronds of the most secret clefts of the forest, raised—”
“No you’re not,” a woman cried. “Elves is tall ’n’ willowy ’n’ pretty, ’n’ you look more like me own son, Dordley.” At this, she pushed a child forward, and Alobartalus bit his lip as he realized that he did resemble the pudgy boy more than a little, especially had his freckles been uncovered and his curly red hair revealed.
But he wasn’t going to admit that.
