by GARY DARBY
She glances at Alonya and then to all of us firmly says, “Let’s leave it at that, for now.”
She turns her head to the front, and I can tell from her posture, that like with Phigby, there’s a time when you can press the issue and perhaps get a response, and then there are those times when you are going to be ignored.
This is one of those you’re-going-to-be-ignored times.
Glancing over at Cara, she gives me a little shrug meaning she knows too that there will be no more discussion on that particular topic. I also notice that during Fotina’s answer, Phigby has held his gaze down while he stroked his beard.
I recognize the look. He knows about this “Queen Sight” but is not going to add more to Fotina’s response. Which, between his silence and Fotina’s less than full answer, makes me think that there must be something either very special about this “gift” or perhaps very sinister.
But which?
As no one seems to be in the mood for conversation, I turn my attention back to the unfolding countryside. Soon, on each side of the roadway, like sentinels, slender, dark-leafed trees shaped like tall spears line the travel way as far as the eye can see.
Each seems perfectly manicured with not a leaf out of place, with their interlaced branches pointing straight down as if the leaves were scales that protect the tree’s trunk.
Just past the sentinel-like trees, I can see what appears to be an orchard of some type, as each tree is precisely spaced from its neighbor on each side.
The limbs of these tree are leafless and thin and spiral out and up in twisting shapes as if their roots were above ground and not below.
Below each tree, set against their trunks is a large, wooden bucket with a funnel-like sill that laps around the tree. I can see an amber-appearing liquid that glistens in the sunlight and runs down the smooth bark into the lid catch and then into the bucket.
“Interesting,” Phigby mutters. “Honeydrip trees.”
I look at him questioningly. In answer, he rumbles to me, “There are a few such orchards in the Northern Kingdom, and those are close to Wynsur Castle. Each spring and fall, the tree branches exude a gooey concoction that tastes remarkably like honey. It appears that the Golians use those buckets to collect their bounty.”
I rub at my sore jaw. “Too bad that they don’t use some of their bounty to soften their Warrior Bread. My whole mouth still feels as if I’d been chewing on rocks.”
Cara points while saying, “Honey without bees?”
“I said it tastes like honey,” Phigby retorts. “I didn’t say it was honey. I’ve eaten it only a few times, but I have to admit, I could barely tell the difference.”
He gestures at Scamper whose nose is high as he sniffs the air currents. “And I dare say that Scamper wouldn’t turn his nose up at it if he had the chance to get at one of those buckets.”
I glance down at Scamper to make sure the little scoundrel doesn’t heed Phigby’s words and scurry off to dive into one of the Golians’ honey tubs. They’re so deep I’m afraid he might drown in one before he could get out.
However, ever since we began walking on this road, he’s not once jumped down to go off exploring, which seems remarkably restrained, at least for him.
After a bit, Desma orders that we pick up the pace, but it’s not as brisk as before, and the dragons barely move any faster. Soon, we begin to pass vast, tilled fields and orchards of enormous trees that are filled with fruits that I’ve never seen before.
Cara points and says, “Look, Phigby, those look just like the sweet green pears we pick at home, but they have orange stripes.”
“Yes,” he answers, “and each is bigger than your head.”
“We call them tyger pears because of the markings,” Fontina explains. “There are mountain tygers with similar stripes, hence the name.”
I gesture toward a line of bushes, higher than the dragons’ heads, that form an orchard just off the way and run back from the road farther than the eye can see. “Red grapes, as big as my fist, and vines thick as my arm.”
I turn to Fotina, and she gives me a wan smile. “We call them grapes, too.”
Wide-eyed, Cara points. “Are those apples? They look like apples, but they’re blue, almost turquoise.”
“And it would appear,” Phigby offers, “that it would take both hands just to hold one of them, too.”
I turn and ask Fotina, “Is everything in this land, giant-sized?”
“Remember, Hooper, to us they’re not ‘giant-sized,’ as you call them,” Fotina answers. “But I understand your question from your perspective. Let me ask, would one of your apples fill your stomach?”
“Probably,” I reply.
“It is the same with us,” she points out. “You grow your food to fit your needs and appetite, we do the same, or as you would say, giant-sized, though we don’t see ourselves as anything but normal-sized just like you consider yourself the same.”
She lays a hand on Golden Wind while saying, “I admit, there are some things that even we consider overly large, such as some of your dragons.”
Pointing ahead, she says, “Or like that beast.”
“Beast?” Cara sputters. “More like behemoth.”
I turn and stare at where Fotina’s pointing. A red-and-black-striped animal is plodding between large furrows in an adjoining field. “What is that?” I sputter. “It’s as big as a dragon!”
“That,” Fotina returns, “is an Elepho Oxen.”
I point and huff, “Those horns must stretch almost as wide as dragon wings, and that plow it’s pulling, why it could till all of our largest fields in one morning.”
My eyes wander back from the gigantic oxen to who’s behind the plow and my eyes grow wide. I almost choke as I motion toward the giant, “Is that a—”
“Yes, Hooper,” Fotina responds in a patient voice. “That is a he. A Golian male.”
I notice that Alonya is craning her neck to get a better look as if she too, like us, has never seen a Golian male before.
Fotina says over her shoulder, “In Golian, there are far, far more girls born than boys, which is why all of our warriors are female. We prefer to have the males do, shall we say, safer occupations, for obvious reasons.”
I peer again at the giant. In size, he’s close to both Desma and Alonya, but his dark hair is curly, not straight, and he’s dressed simply in a cloth tunic that goes almost to his knees and belted at the waist. His sandals are open-toed, and he carries no weapons.
When the column head, with Desma’s carrying chair, comes alongside the farmer, he takes one look, immediately halts his enormous bullock and swiftly kneels. Desma acknowledges his tribute with a raised hand but doesn’t slow the column.
As he stands, his eyes grow wide as he catches sight of our party. He takes a faltering step backward as he spots the golden and the other dragons. Unmoving, he follows us with his head until we all pass.
I glance back over my shoulder and see that even though we’re well beyond him, his eyes haven’t left us.
After a bit, I notice that the road we’re on doesn’t twist or turn but stays in a direct line. To no one in particular, I say, “This lane seems perfectly straight, no curves.”
“And you won’t find any,” Fotina declares. “Can you tell the direction we’re traveling by the road itself?”
I swivel my head around to take in the mountains and the sun. “Uh, I think we’re going west.”
“We’re going exactly westward,” she states. “All roads in Golian proper run both east and west, or north and south, all in a perfect line, and all in precise grids. They never deviate from that course, either.”
“Then,” Phigby mutters, “it’s as I’ve heard. Golian is a very orderly society.”
“Yes,” Fotina dryly intones, “at least in road building.”
She gestures over her shoulder at the mountains behind us. “This thoroughfare is the Denalian Way. It runs from the Denalian Mountains that we’ve just left straight
to the heart of Dronopolis.”
Cara gestures at the fields on each side. “Your land appears amazingly fertile.”
“We’re not just warriors,” Fotina answers. “We do have other abilities, as you shall see once we reach Dronopolis, though I suspect the outer world knows little of us other than as soldiers.”
At the mention of Dronopolis, Fotina lets out a deep breath and pulls at Alonya to slow them down until they’re almost at the end of Golden Wind’s tail and out of earshot. There, they put their heads together and hold a very quiet conversation as we continue our march.
Glancing back at the two, I see my chance to ask a question, actually several questions, that I’ve been wanting to ask ever since Alonya and Desma stood face to face.
“Phigby,” I murmur, keeping my voice low, “are Alonya and Desma really sisters? If they are, why would Alonya grow up on the other side of the mountains and Desma in Dronopolis?
“If Queen Gru is their mother, why didn’t she tell Desma about Alonya? Does this mean that Alonya is a princess, and we need to address her as—”
“Hooper!” Phigby snaps, his eyes big and open, his face showing great concern. “Open your mouth, wide, now!”
“What?” I sputter. “What for? There’s nothing wrong with my mouth.”
“I said open it wide!”
A sudden fear grips me, and I spread my mouth as wide as it can go.
Phigby leans over, looks into my mouth and lets out a deep sigh of relief. “No,” he says, “I was wrong. You are indeed all right though I could swear your tongue was tied to a crazed, stampeding horse running full speed without any sense of direction.”
Cara giggles and I can feel my face turn warm. “I was just asking a few questions,” I mutter.
“A few questions,” Phigby snorts. “And all I have are a few whiskers in my full beard.”
“Actually, Phigby,” Cara says to him over her shoulder. “I’ve had the same thoughts as Hooper.”
She points ahead to Master Boren. “So has father, and I suspect Amil and Helmar as well. There is something distinctly odd about all this.”
Phigby lets out a long sigh. “I know, child, but you and Hooper need to contain your curiosity, as do the others in our company. We are on dangerous ground here as if we were back on that steep mountain trail, only it grows much narrower with each step that brings us closer to the Golians’ home city.
“And a wild tongue,” he grumps with his eyes on me, “will not aid our cause right now.”
He glances back to where Fotina and Alonya stride together. “Lady Fotina knows this as well, and she is hoping against hope to prevent what she fears most but has little power to stop, I’m afraid.”
I keep my mouth shut, though it’s easy to hear the anxiety in Phigby’s voice. Cara, however, hasn’t been on the receiving end of his verbal whip so she asks, “What, Phigby? What does Fotina fear?”
Phigby stares straight ahead before he sighs deeply. “That the moment the queen lays eyes on Alonya she will have her slain on the spot.”
Thoughts of Golden Wind
Dronopolis. Dangerous ground indeed, Master Phigby, for all of us.
Dronopolis. A proud city of a proud nation whose values and traditions once provided a bedrock for their community and its citizens.
Dronopolis. Where all are responsible not only for themselves but for the community as a whole. Where duty is expected, honor demanded, and courage a given not just among the Amazos, but among all.
Dronopolis. Where for generations, stretching back almost beyond memory, stalwart queens guided the domain through personal example, not lofty oratory, through fulfilling moral principles, not hollow actions, through simple truths and not devious lies.
Dronopolis. A warrior culture, yes, but oh so much more than that. Perfect? Of course not. No society can claim such an honor.
Dronopolis. Where are you now, oh proud and noble city? Too many forsake the old ways, and the price has been high. Too many recognize the lie but do nothing. Too many accept the lie and stand aside. Too many embrace the lie and became one with it. Now, you live a lie and are but a flimsy façade of your past greatness.
Dronopolis. You discarded the truths that lifted you and replaced them with falsehoods. Now you wiggle in slime, and where there was once refinement, there is coarseness, cleanliness, now filth. The lie that you embrace, what will it bring upon you?
Nothing less than rage and fury, death and destruction, and our little company will be swept up in it.
May we ever remember your mistakes and may we never repeat them. But oh, that you should regain that which you lost and always remember why.
23
“No . . .” Cara gasps. “Phigby, you can’t mean that. Her own mother would kill her? That’s—that’s barbaric. From what I’ve seen, these are civilized people, even if they are giants. Civilized people don’t kill their own children.”
At first, Phigby doesn’t respond, then says in a voice that’s woeful and barely a whisper, “I wish that were true, dear Cara, but in some parts of our world it is not. Queen Gru may not acknowledge that Alonya is her child, for any number of reasons, foremost among them that she may not want any challenges to Desma’s succession to the throne, or more likely, any challenges to her own rule.”
“And Alonya would pose such a threat?” Cara asks.
Phigby shrugs. “Once a king or queen takes up the crown, for most, their most important task, perhaps in their mind their only task, is to remain in power. Any threat, real or perceived, is usually dealt with harshly and rapidly.”
He glances over his shoulder at our two giant companions. “Yes, Gru may well see Alonya as a danger to her rule and not as a long-lost child that’s been found and returned to the fold. There would be too many questions, too much speculation and suspicion as to why this particular child was sent to live in the outlands.”
I seize upon his words. “Exactly, Phigby. If she is a princess, what were she and Fotina doing out there all alone? I don’t know much about royalty, but in the Northern Kingdom, it seems that neither the king nor his sons go anywhere without guards to protect them, but Alonya did.
“Why, the day we met her, she was all alone out in the forest, yet, Desma was surrounded by a whole cohort of warriors.”
“Yes,” Cara acknowledges, “but don’t forget that Desma did approach us alone without her guards. From what I’ve seen she’s as brave as Alonya, but their temperaments are utterly different.”
“True enough,” Phigby replies.
He pauses as if collecting his thoughts and choosing his words carefully. “We have to remember that Golian society is not our culture, and their ways are not our ways.
“As for Desma, this is a warrior culture and I suspect that having a warrior princess sit safely in the palace while others risk life and limb is to them not a trait they expect of a possible future queen.”
“Father,” Cara murmurs, “often says that ‘to be a good leader, one must learn to lead; to be a good follower, one must learn to follow. You can neither lead nor follow well until you have learned to do both well.’”
She pauses and then says, “Alonya dresses like an ordinary warrior whereas Desma does not. At South Pass, Alonya ate the same food as we, but Desma’s food was specially prepared and served on fine plate ware.
“Alonya shared our path and hardships; Desma looks at us with contempt and would have killed us all at the smallest slight.”
“Yes,” Phigby murmurs and I can see his eyes light up as if a new thought has struck him, “what better way to know your kingdom, and to be a wise ruler than experiencing what the least among you have instead of the high and mighty?”
Cara and I both turn at his words but this time, she beats me to the question. “Are you saying that Alonya was deliberately sent out into the wilderness—”
“The training ground!” I snap. “It was more than just a place to learn fighting skills, wasn’t it, Phigby? And Fotina, she’s more than
just—”
Phigby holds a hand up to stop me. “We are once again on dangerous ground. Both of you, I have said enough and no more questions.”
Cara and I glance at each other, and I can see in her eyes that she has the same thought. What have we stumbled into? Just who are Alonya and Fotina, or even Desma, for that matter?
I glance back at Fotina and Alonya; they’re still speaking in low tones, and I can’t help but wonder what their conversation is about. Are they plotting to escape?
If they do, where does that leave us? Is Fotina having the same sort of conversation with Alonya that Phigby just had with Cara and me? If so, how will Alonya take it?
So many questions, not enough answers, and Dronopolis grows nearer with each step. I turn again to peer at the two and think to myself if they are going to try and escape, their time either grows short or perhaps is already over.
I have this almost irresistible urge to lean over and ask Golden Wind what she knows, but I resist the impulse. Besides, she wouldn’t answer, and I’d look pretty foolish talking to a dragon and expecting her to reply.
We pass more fields and orchards, and from the soil’s dark color, I can tell that Cara was absolutely right when she said that this land is rich and fertile. In my mind, I find it just a bit odd that the Golians know not only how to make war, they also know how to care of their land.
This surprises me as I pictured the Golians as being nothing more than soldiers who knew little else but war, but now I see superbly cultivated fields, orchards, and a beautifully constructed road.
I also have to admit that I pictured them as cruel and sadistic giants who would rip the head off their enemy and suck the blood out. Having been with Alonya and Fotina, I know how mistaken I was in my thoughts.
And Phigby was right, their ways are not our ways, and I should be much more careful in judging others by what I think is right, wrong, or customary.
