by Ellias Quinn
“I said nothing about violence, or fighting,” Dalen assured. “I meant only that we have got to be ready for it. And in the case of diplomacy, the suggestion of force will help us to argue our cause.”
“Once you have your army, Commander, then what? Will you think of some clever excuse for a war? No disrespect meant, but I don’t believe that this is a prudent path.”
Alva all around the Ambermeet nodded. Owynth’s head bobbed thoughtfully.
Lyria’s wings and thick staff propelled her upright. “Lord Councilman.”
“Speak, Lyria.”
“Nychta Olsta is the one who stole the Book of Myrkhar.”
Voices gasped and exclaimed. She knew what some of the Council members must be thinking: How did she discover it? Whom did she pay?
“Those of you who do not believe my words,” Lyria continued, “search the histories. Skorgon armies? A nation folding like parchment? The Book’s magic has returned.”
Nider and Lyria met eyes briefly. He winked.
Despair washed over her as firmly-buried memories emerged. The last time he winked at her, she had been living a nightmare engineered by him. She refocused on the proceedings, determined not to let him put her off-balance.
“If you are correct,” Owynth said, “this changes much.”
“Indeed,” Lyria said, pushing the past to the back of her mind. “We have a right to demand answers from Olsta. I propose we send a diplomat to do just that. In addition, I second Commander Dalen’s proposition of mobilizing the army.”
Owynth glanced around the Ambermeet. “Has anyone more to say?”
“I counter the proposals.” Nider drifted upright out of his chair.
The sparring would go on for as long as he was willing to fight, but it was only a matter of time until the proposals gained enough support. Common sense and the deals Lyria had struck would win today, at least. She allowed herself a grim smile.
Chapter 5
Matters of the Heart
The rain picked up and the scent of moist soil filled the atmosphere. More water made it past the tree branches. Matil liked rain – but only when she and her friends stayed dry.
Atop the tree stump, the Eletsol guard flicked his yellow wings to shake out raindrops. He squinched his eyes in concentration while he carefully motioned with his hands around a protrusion of ivy on the tree trunk beside him. Part of the ivy twisted away from the trunk toward the guard, new leaves sprouting until the plant covered his head. The guard’s magic protected him from the weather, but he didn’t seem to care one bit about the outsiders. The other Eletsol in the camp had formed thick roofs out of leaves and living grass. Wind rode through the camp and shook the flowers from side to side. Matil jumped backward when she felt spray from a splash of water. Khelya squeaked. Her boots had gotten drenched.
“I think this rain is out to get us,” Dask said. “C’mon, let’s find some better cover.”
As they left their place under the flowers, Matil caught the yellow-haired Eletsol, Kirra, staring at them from the edge of the camp.
The three, pulling Dewdrop and Olnar behind them, dodged streams of rain pouring from leaves and droplets hitting the rocky ground. Finding no better place, they huddled together with their beetles and supply packs under a strong-smelling red mushroom. The beetles climbed up on the mushroom stalk and went into a state of rest. It was cold enough that no one was in the mood to speak. Matil rubbed her arms and stamped her feet. She noticed another problem with taking shelter under a mushroom; the stalk didn’t leave enough space for them to lie down.
“This mushroom…” she began.
“Is terrible,” Khelya finished. The Obrigi stood with her head hunched to avoid sticking it in the gills on the underside of the mushroom cap.
Dask pointed to the gravel strewn throughout the roots. “Can we make a shelter with those rocks?”
Khelya considered them. “Yeah.”
“It’ll be hard to build in the rain,” Matil said.
“It’ll be easy with Khel’s help,” he said, leaning his elbow on Khelya.
She frowned down at him. “Whenever you say ‘with Khel’s help’, I end up doin’ all the work.”
“That’s because you get upset when we do things ‘the wrong way’, and then you take over.”
“There’s a right way and a wrong way,” Khelya said indignantly. “I’ve tried showing you guys the difference. Maybe this time you’ll learn.”
Dask wiped his wet hair out of his eyes and twitched his large ears. “All right, then. How do we start?”
“Get some rocks,” she said.
Matil and Dask hurried through the steady onslaught of rain to gather big rocks and pebbles in their arms, while Khelya began moving dirt. The guard leaned down from his stump to better watch them. A flat-topped mound of dirt grew, upon which Khelya built three-quarters of a circle with the stones, a high wall that looked like it shouldn’t even be able to stand. Next, she went among the mushrooms, tore off the top of the largest one, and placed it upon the stone wall as a roof. It was dark enough to be night when she finished, and the only light in the area came from the sheltered Eletsol campfires.
They shuttled their supplies into the shelter and lined it with their blankets. The inside was small, and once they had dried off and sat down, the extra space would have been enough for only one more alva. Their warmth filled the cave-like structure. By now the three of them were famished. They took out some of the food stored in their bags: strips of pea pod and dried meat.
“If you noticed, I did a lot of that work on my own,” Khelya said. Her spectral face was turned toward the ground, probably because she couldn’t see the two Ranycht in the dark like they could see her.
Dask held up his hands. “We tried.”
“C’mon.” She crunched down on a slice of pea pod. “It’s not hard to stack rocks.”
“We don’t have your freakish ability to stack them just right so they won’t tip over,” he said.
“It’s a very nice freakish ability,” Matil said, “but it’s harder for us since we’re not builders like you.”
“I’m not a builder,” said Khelya. “I’m a farmer.”
Dask poked her with his foot. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
“I-I’m a farmer.”
“I mean, farmers farm,” he said, “and you didn’t get much time to do that. You’ve probably done more building than farming by now.”
She looked up blindly. “Does that mean…I’m a builder?”
“I wouldn’t call you a builder either.” Dask tore a bite from his chunk of meat.
“Then what am I?”
“Hm. You’re a lotta different things, aren’t you?” He finished chewing and swallowed. “Right now we’re travelers.”
Khelya smiled. “Khelya…Epalen.”
“Ehpullen?” Dask repeated.
“Well, when Obrigi make their work choice, they get a name. Epalen means traveler in the older language. I was called Dylsen, farmer, before I met you two. Never expected it to change.”
“Never? You get a job and you’re always that job?”
She scratched her head. “You know somethin’? Everyone I knew, old or young, was the same thing they’d been since they got out of school. My pa was all turned up an’ yelling when I worried if I’d regret being a farmer. So over and over I told myself I wanted it. ‘Cept…now the farm’s long gone and the world’s turned wilder than a vole with fleas. And I’m kinda—I dunno. I think I’m ready for a new line of work.”
“I’m just glad that doesn’t mean another gang is gonna have it out for us.” Dask snickered and then cleared his throat. “Sorry, that wasn’t funny.”
“It was,” Matil said. “Kind of.” She tilted her head to listen to the patter of rain on the mushroom cap roof. Her mind turned to their travels i
n the past weeks, especially to what Khelya had been teaching her: stories about the Elders, and what the Chivishi said. Dask tried not to be around when Khelya talked about those things, but even when he was and then inevitably argued with her, Matil found it interesting to hear what both of them believed. She just wished she could settle on her own beliefs.
“Would it be all right for Khelya to tell a story?” she said.
“Yeah,” said Khelya. “I could tell a short one.”
Dask waved his hand. “Go right ahead.”
Matil grinned at him and, swallowing any hesitance about her next words, turned to Khelya. “I’d like to know more about Myrkhar.”
“Myrkhar, huh? Scary choice.” After a moment of thought, Khelya snapped her fingers. “I’ve got a story. It’s really important, too.”
“Wait, how’d you do that?” Dask said.
“What?”
He rubbed his fingers together. “How’d you snap?”
“You don’t know how to snap?” Khelya said in disbelief. “Look, let me tell the story first. One thing at a time.” She sat up straight and cleared her throat. “Ready? Okay. When Thosten made Eventyr, it had no magic. So he made a pool of water called the Heart, which held all magic.”
“The Heart?” said Matil. “But…what about the Heart of Myrkhar?” She’d seen Myrkhar’s round symbol in a dream and had never forgotten it.
“Myrkhar made his own ‘Heart’ later—hey, that’s a different story.”
Now Matil wanted to hear that story, but she nodded. “Sorry.”
“So,” Khelya continued, “Thosten made the Heart, the pool of magical water, and then he made the first Elders…along with us, the first alva of the eight races. At the start, Eventyr was a place where no one got hurt, but no one was really awake, either. They flew around like they were dreaming. To wake his new creations, Thosten said to them, ‘C’mere. I’ve got one rule that you are never to break.’” Khelya held up her thumb. “‘Don’t drink the Heart’s water. If you do, you’ll die.’”
Dask snorted.
“After layin’ it down like that, Thosten made the Elders guardians over the alva and the Heart. He put the Elder Calo in charge of the others because Calo cared the most for Eventyr. But Wuren of Day was the strongest Elder, an’ he thought that Thosten was wrong. As the strongest, Wuren should rule. Time went on, and he started to suspect Calo of drinkin’ from the Heart. Must be fair to let the other Elders in on it, too, so Wuren decided to try it for himself first. He had two Elders loyal to him draw away the guards at the Heart Sanctum, an’ then he went in. The inside was a maze that no one could get through unless the Heart let them pass. Even so, he used the sun to light the true path and pushed his way through the enchantment. Finally he got to the Heart. When he kneeled next to it and tried to cup the water in his hands, it burned them something awful, so much that he had to let go.”
“Let me guess,” Dask said. “He didn’t get the message that maybe, you know, the stuff wasn’t good for him?”
“No, he did not,” Khelya said. “With his power he made a stone bowl from the floor of the Sanctum and then used it to lift out some water. Calo, showin’ up and finding the Sanctum unguarded, ran in after Wuren. ‘You can’t drink it!’ he said. Wuren was still convinced that Calo’d already tasted the water, and if he drank, he’d be able to challenge Calo for leadership. He downed the whole bowl. From the first swallow his throat felt like it was bein’ torn apart. He’d never been in pain before that day. Now it was all through his insides. It took everything he had – his magic, his strength, and his jealousy – to keep ‘imself from burning into bits. Calo just watched in fear for his fellow Elder.”
Matil’s mouth had opened in a tiny grimace. Dask seemed impressed.
“Something happened to Wuren as the water filled him. His body changed. It turned cold as death, and he didn’t hurt as much. Soon, he didn’t hurt at all. He felt much more awake than before. Calo couldn’t believe his eyes and asked, ‘How’re you still alive?’ But Wuren felt something else growin’ inside and itchin’ at his fingertips. It was power. He finally realized exactly what it meant to break the rule.
“Calo attacked him and Wuren held him back with magic. The Heart was beginning to shine brighter and brighter, so Wuren carved a big urn outta the stone floor. He filled it with water until the light made him blind. Then there was a sound so loud his head felt pierced through. Finally he could see again, but he wasn’t standing beside the Heart anymore. He stood alone in the wilderness with the cup, the urn, and the water he had stolen. And he didn’t show himself to the others for a year.
“The Elders loyal to him waited and waited. When he came back, his eyes were pure white. His friends said, ‘Wuren, where’ve you been?’ He smiled at that. ‘I am Myrkhar,’ he told ‘em. ‘Don’t y’all wonder, like I do, why Calo has the crown? It’s because of the Heart. He broke the rule.’”
Matil had suspected who Wuren would turn out to be. She nested farther into her blanket. “Did Calo really drink from the Heart?”
“Naw,” Khelya said. “Myrkhar lied to get the others to follow ‘im. But hold on now, I’m almost done.” She deepened her voice to imitate Myrkhar again. “‘I brought back the Heart’s water so we can all drink and be like Calo. Here, use this cup.’ Each one of his followers drank a cupful of water, and they felt the terrible pain, but at the end of it they were stronger and their minds were sharper.
“The Mekydra Time started when Myrkhar’s Elders, who called themselves the Saikyr, went to the alva and said that it was good to break Thosten’s rule. They said that the rule was a test given by Thosten and Calo to see who in Eventyr could discover the goodness of the water. Myrkhar told them he just wanted to share it with everyone else, ‘cause that was fair. He gave the first alva a drop of water each. They seemed to wake up even more. The world looked scarier to them, and now they knew pain, but the water tasted so good that they told the rest of the Elders what they’d done. The Elders who hadn’t taken the water yet were confused. The alva they loved and watched over had done what Thosten said not to. So they listened to the alva, even though they knew it was wrong, and they went to Myrkhar to drink from the urn.
“Again, Calo found out too late to stop ‘em, but the good Elders saw more clearly now, and they were sorry. They went straight to the Heart and begged Thosten to kill them. Thosten was angry, but he saw into them and knew that even though they were corrupted, they would do what was right. He let them live. Their punishment was that they must battle the Saikyr and keep the laws. Speakin’ of which, he gave ‘em a new set of rules called the Great Vishi, and that’s what we follow in the Chivishi.” Khelya folded her arms. “There. Crazy, huh?”
“Crazy,” said Matil. “So the Elders all used to be on the same side?”
“There weren’t any sides back then. Myrkhar made his own side by drinkin’ the water.”
Dask rubbed at his chin, frowning. “I get the entertainment value, but it’s creepy the way you alva talk about dusty old stories like they’re so profound and real.”
“Thanks,” Khelya said.
“Just—alva write books night in and night out. The Chivishi is your average book-scroll-thing, but someone thought it was super special and now we’ve got insane cultists trying to summon thokiri because of some make-believe bad guy in said book. There’s something wrong with that situation, don’t ya think? Maybe if we all stopped believing in bedtales, we’d forget about evil spirits, too. Maybe that’s how this messed-up forest can be fixed.”
“But we do so many terrible things,” Matil said. “What would happen if alva forgot the Chivishi? Wouldn’t Eventyr be worse?”
Dask shrugged. “I think it might be better.”
“That makes no sense at all,” Khelya said forcefully. “The best alva I’ve ever known were Thosten-followers.”
“The ones I’ve met were bottom-o
f-the-barrel, as far as alva go,” said Dask. “Pretending they’re goody-good nicey-nice while they dip into the funds they extort from honest dupes who believe every word.”
“Says the gangster,” she retorted.
“Don’t call me that,” he said.
“Well,” said Khelya, “aren’t you one?”
“He quit,” Matil said. “Look at what he’s done on his own. He even bought supplies and beetles for us with his last bit of money.”
Dask stared at her and then nodded. “Yeah. I quit my gang, Obrigi. I crack jokes about it, sure, but that part of my life is…is over. Got it?”
Khelya’s tone gentled. “I get it. But you can’t assume the Chivishi is bad just ‘cause some Thostenics do bad things. Read it, you’ll see.”
“I got enough of that stuff when I was a flightling in the orphanage,” he said. “‘No lying. No cheating. No sweets unless you work real hard, no laughing except on festival days, and definitely no pretending to be the nurse or she’ll make you sweep the floor until your eyes fall out from boredom. Follow all the rules to get into a magical land filled with Elders and good spirits and special white robes for especially good children!’ Yeah, I think I’ll pass.”
Matil giggled.
“That’s not what it’s like,” Khelya said.
“Khel.” Dask’s voice took on a serious tone. “That’s what it’s like for a lot of alva.”
“But…” Khelya trailed off with a sigh. “I see what you mean. I’m tired. Night.”
“Good night,” Matil said, nervous about the mood in the shelter.
“G’night,” Dask mumbled. “I got first watch. Thanks for the story.”
At Dask’s words, she blinked. Then she lay down and pulled the blanket over her ears. Her friends were changing, weren’t they?
* * *
Matil stood on a rooftop, shivering and looking out over the city. She couldn’t believe how far it spread and how deep its streets ran. Under clouded moon and dark leaves, Ranycht flew from perch to perch at frantic paces. They pushed, jostled, griped, and still had a good word to say about each other. Strong smells – pungent and delicious, rotting and growing – coiled up from the labyrinth of bridges and platforms all over the trees.
