The Heartwood Crown

by Matt Mikalatos

  The boy laughed at that. “Do they never walk with you along the forest paths? You are majestic, I am sure, but it is too lofty a name for friends such as you and I.”

  The man was pleased with this answer. “There are those called the Scim who refer to me as the Peasant King.”

  “Are you a king, then?” the boy asked.

  “Indeed I am, though not in the way the Scim think.”

  “And are you a peasant?”

  “In a way. I walk among them without my wealth and power, to show them what they could be.”

  “So you are neither king nor peasant, but are both peasant and king.”

  “Indeed.”

  “So,” the boy said, “the name is both true and untrue.”

  “For them it is true,” the man said. “As they come to know me better, there will be other names. For truly, one name cannot hold the whole of a person.”

  They talked of other names the man had been called. Wind Walker and King of Stories and the True Man and the Magician and a hundred others besides, but none of them suited the boy. “These do not describe the man I know,” he said.

  “Then you choose a name,” the man said.

  The boy thought on this for some time and said at last, “I will call you the Good Gardener, for it is often I have come across you mending the branch of a tree or sheltering the tender shoot of a flower. I have seen you at the water’s edge among the lilies, and you have never even broken a bruised reed.”

  The Good Gardener laughed at this name, so pleased was he. It had been many a year since such a simple and kindhearted name had been given him. “I shall call you a name too,” the Good Gardener said. “I shall call you Patra Koja.” (Patra Koja means, in the language of that day, “Bringer of Peace.”)

  Patra Koja, too, was pleased with his new name.

  This is why the people of Aluvorea never fight in any war, for Patra Koja finds it evil and strange. Even today it is not uncommon to see him walking gentle paths with the Good Gardener, talking about their days and making plans for our future.

  THE BEACH IN WINTER

  A Traditional Zhanin Saying

  * * *

  (NOTE: A Zhanin will use the saying “It is only the beach in winter” to express when someone has discovered a partial truth and claims it as universal. Below you will find a typical exposition a Zhanin elder might make when reminding others of this truth.)

  I return to the beach in winter.

  The tide is high, and driftwood has been tossed casually onto the sloped cliffs. Algae foam slides up the sand, is caught by the wind, and is blown, rolling, to the east. A shoal of black basalt rises from the sand. The waves return to the ocean through rivulets cut in stone. Dark clouds sail through the sky like ships, their hulls punctuated with blue.

  In summer there’s deep sand, the black stone buried, the waves friendly and green, the sky wide and shining. The sand is dotted with a mosaic of bright towels. The seals pop up their glossy heads, watching the strange happenings on shore.

  Sometimes we think we have found truth, but we have only found the beach in winter. We are tempted to say, “This beach has a vein of black stone that rises up from the sand,” but in the spring it is less true, and in the summer not true at all. There are truths that cannot be discovered in one afternoon—there are truths that require a season’s observance, a year’s reflection to be understood.

  The tides change with the moon, the sand rises and falls with the seasons, the birds migrate, the cliffs recede with the erosion of decades. These things cannot be determined in a moment, cannot be observed in an afternoon, cannot be understood in a week’s careful study.

  This is to say nothing of the volcanic growth of islands, the grinding shift of continental plates, the meticulous motion of glaciers, or the slow, careful metamorphoses of the heart.

  MALGWIN AND THE WHALE

  A Traditional Zhanin Story

  * * *

  (NOTE: Zhanin sayings can be challenging to the uninitiated. Some are obvious, such as the greeting “What tide?” or the farewell “Where goes the current?” Less obvious are sayings like “She has saved a whale but sunk the boat.” This saying has several related meanings, depending on the context. It can mean that someone has “bitten off more than they can chew” or that someone is well meaning but ineffective. It can also be used in admiration for someone who will do what is right no matter the consequence. The origin of the saying comes from the story below.)

  It is a moonless night, and I patrol the Big Deep, my companions the stars wheeling overhead, and I listen to the gentle lap of water, the sigh of the wind.

  A seabird lands on the gunnel and says, “Sister, O sister, it is a dark night, but I see trouble near the horizon.”

  “What trouble?” I ask, for I see nothing.

  “It is a quiet night,” the bird says, “and yet I hear an animal in distress. Will you help, sister?”

  And what am I to say? For a woman such as I—a woman who is not even entrusted with a living boat—always gives help when asked. So I tell the bird, yes, lead us to this trouble. In time we come upon a whale, whose head is rising out of the water and singing a mournful tune.

  “What tide, sister?” I ask the whale, but she does not reply. I recognize her song then—it is a parting song. “Where goes the current?” I ask.

  She turns her eye to me then and says, “How long, O Zhanin, have you and I been friends?”

  “Since the world first turned,” says I, for when have the whales and the Zhanin not been friends?

  Great tears roll from her eyes, enough to turn the sea to salt. “Farewell then, old friend,” says she, “for I have made a foolish mistake. One month past, old Malgwin caught me and said she would feed me to her brood. I begged her for a month’s time to say farewell to old friends. She laughed and said she would do me one better, and that if I could rise completely out of the sea for the space of ten breaths she would spare me on tomorrow’s sunrise. She is a cruel beast to taunt me so. I have jumped and jumped all month and still cannot rise out of the water for more than the space of a breath or two. Soon she will find me here and take me to the Sea Beneath, where I will make a short meal for her foul children.”

  “Surely a big meal, not a short one,” says I, but Sister Whale does not laugh at this. Sister Bird snaps her beak at me. But what a strange bargain Malgwin has made. She will not eat Sister Whale if she can get herself completely out of the water for the space of ten breaths. A whale can come mostly out of the water for maybe a breath or two when they breach, but they cannot fly like a bird. They cannot come upon the land like a turtle. It was a cruelty on Malgwin’s part to offer a way out to Sister Whale, but one that was impossible.

  Now Sister Whale has started her keening cry again.

  “Now, now,” I say. “All is not yet lost, for there are several hours until sunrise. You have a friend here, and the Zhanin have never lost so much as a toe to old Malgwin. I have a plan.” I explain it all to the whale. The whale laughs to hear it, and I am glad for her lightened heart, and the bird says it will not work but still goes to get her cousins and siblings and parents and friends.

  As for me, I dive down deep, down to the roots of the world, and I gather up long strands of kelp. Round and round I swim, then, and tie them to the whale.

  Just then Malgwin comes upon me, out of the Sea Beneath, with her white skin and her jagged teeth. “What game are you playing?” she asks, but I know better than to slow my work.

  “Only wrapping Sister Whale as a gift for your children,” says I.

  Malgwin smiles her sharp-toothed smile. “Then I will help you,” she says, and she does.

  Then the birds come, and I climb upon Sister Whale’s back and tie the kelp onto their ankles. “What trick is this?” Malgwin asks.

  I shush her. “The birds,” I whisper. “They will be dragged down with Sister Whale, and what a treat for your children, to eat fresh birds.”

  Malgwin grins at this, and soon
she, too, is tying the birds to the kelp.

  When all is ready, I shout for Sister Whale to leap from the water, and I shout, “Fly, fly” to the birds, and Sister Whale breaches, and the birds lift her into the sky. Sister Whale is completely out of the water. Mostly.

  Malgwin shouts, “What a filthy trick, you clever Zhanin girl! But look: the whale’s tale is still in the water.”

  She is right! The birds are flapping and crying, and feathers fall around us in a great storm. Sister Whale is pulling on her tail, but it will not come out of the water. “Lift your tail,” I shout, but Sister Whale can’t lift it any higher.

  Malgwin laughs and laughs. “It was a good trick,” she says, “but in a few minutes Sister Whale will be our breakfast.”

  She is right, for the sun is just below the water.

  I know what I must do. I paddle my boat beneath the whale’s tail and wedge my boat beneath her. With a great deal of grunting and heaving and pulling, her tail is in my boat. She is out of the water!

  For the space of one breath she hangs there, and the birds are suffering for it. Only nine breaths to go.

  At five breaths a hole bursts in the boat from the weight. I shovel the water out quickly so Malgwin can’t say Sister Whale is still in it. Only five breaths more, and Sister Whale will be saved.

  At eight breaths the birds are beginning to fall into the sea. Sister Whale is listing to one side. Two more breaths out of the water and Sister Whale will live!

  At nine breaths a bird falls, screeching, into my boat. That feather’s weight is too much, and we begin to sink in earnest. Malgwin smacks her lip in anticipation. One breath more is all we need. But the boat is sinking, and Sister Whale’s tail will be in the water!

  At ten breaths I put my hands beneath Sister Whale’s tail and push up. The boat is completely submerged, but my hands hold her out of the water. “Ten breaths!” I cry, and on eleven all the birds stop flying and Sister Whale lands on my boat, reducing it to so many splinters. A great wave crashes over me, and I rise, spluttering, to face Malgwin.

  Malgwin sneers at me and says, “Clever Zhanin girl. But now you have no boat, and no boat means no fish, and no fish means no dinner. Tell that to your people when you swim home. The children of the Zhanin will fast today because of your foolishness.” Then Malgwin swims away, back to the Sea Beneath, to silence the hungry mouths of her children.

  As for me, ay me, I set about cutting the birds free from the whale before the long swim home.

  THE OCEAN

  A Zhanin Song

  * * *

  The storm is not love

  The hurricane is not love

  That is passion only

  Passing from horizon to horizon in a day

  The wind is not love

  The breath of the world is not love

  That is only shared life

  The seabirds are not love

  With all their comings and goings

  They are only loud cries

  The sun is not love

  Though it brings many good things

  Too distant, too fickle

  Love is the ocean

  It surrounds us

  It sustains us

  We dive deep

  Or paddle in the shallows

  Love is the ocean

  THE PLANTING OF ALUVOREA

  An Aluvorean Creation Tale

  * * *

  Here is the way it happened.

  The Good Gardener made a place.

  He shaped the crystal spheres of sky and sun and moon and stars.

  He filled the inner sphere with ocean water, and he placed land in the center.

  He made good, sweet water to flow upon the land.

  He brought trees and plants and animals and people from the earth, and he said to them, “This place is safe. This place is home. This place is yours.”

  Then he took the people into the forest, where he had made an island, and he showed the people a seed. “This seed is full of magic,” he said. “It will bring blessing to the people of the Sunlit Lands.” He placed it in the ground, and its roots sank deep, and its silver trunk grew tall, and its branches reached high. “Every hundred years,” he said, “we will plant another seed, and every hundred years there shall be three new blessings for the people of the Sunlit Lands.” Then he warned the people, “Let no one hold on to their magic, or say, ‘This is mine,’ but rather use it for all people, and for the good of the Sunlit Lands.”

  Then the people were happy.

  The roots of the tree went deep into the Sea Beneath, and it was there that the tree found the Good Gardener’s magic. It brought the magic up through the roots, and into itself, and then out through its branches. The magic seeded and spread and planted and grew, and all the people of the Sunlit Lands were glad.

  In those days the whole of the Sunlit Lands was covered in forest, and magic was everywhere. The woodsman and the king, the baker and the queen, the hostler and the duke, all had magic and were glad. Magic was the fruit of the trees, and all the people ate their fill.

  THE SEED

  An Aluvorean Poem

  * * *

  An enemy has planted fear

  in the orderly rows of our hearts.

  An enemy has sown anger in our fields.

  Fear is the seed of hate.

  We must cast it in the flames

  or be consumed ourselves.

  Anger is the seed of violence.

  We must not be blinded

  by its knife-edged thorns.

  Come, let us work together

  side by side. I’ll tear out your fear,

  and you can weed away mine.

  If darkness falls while we labor,

  let us light a lantern.

  A small candle defeats even a great darkness.

  We will work together

  through this finite dark,

  and see what crop of love

  will rise come morning.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  * * *

  I’m deeply thankful to each person who helped make this book a reality. Here are a few of them:

  Christopher Holman, Lauren Dodge, Kate Allen, and Michael Boncher helped come up with Jason’s many names for a certain ill-tempered brucok.

  Josh Chen gave permission to use both his name and his “what to do if you’re pulled over” trick.

  Elizabeth Kletzing, Lisanne Kaufmann, and Debbie King did the copyediting. I had them fact checking what possum teeth look like, asking questions about how magic works, and checking what I wrote in this book against what was written in The Crescent Stone. They had me feeling like George Lucas at a Star Wars convention in all the best ways . . . They care about the minutiae of this world and of this manuscript.

  Once again, the incredible Matt Griffin (www.mattgriffin.online) did the art for the cover and the map, and Dean Renninger hit it out of the park with the art design.

  Linda Howard opened the door to the Sunlit Lands and continues to champion the people and stories of this wonderful place. She’s an exceptional person.

  Jesse Doogan spends a lot more time in the Sunlit Lands than she needs to, I think because she loves cats, unicorns, books, and people (order may vary). Also, she takes the brunt of my constant texting, which I know everyone else appreciates.

  Kristi Gravemann brings a lot of passion to getting the word out about these books! I am so grateful to have such a gifted person trumpeting the worth of these books to the masses.

  Sarah Rubio is the main sociologist of the Sunlit Lands, and her constant curiosity about the characters and the world they inhabit makes the final product 93.7% better than those first drafts. Sarah, by reading these words, you agree to edit all Sunlit Lands books forever. Hooray!

  There are a whole lot of other people at Tyndale who made this book possible. Books are a team sport, and I love this team. Thank you, Tyndale!

  Wes Yoder, my agent, friend, and constant companion through all bookish adventures. Looking for
ward to many more years on the journey!

  The whole Fascinating Podcast family makes my life better, and they are often my sounding board when I get stuck in life or in a book: Aaron Kretzmann, JR. and Amanda Forasteros, Clay Morgan and Jennifer Cho, Kathy and Peter Khang, and Elliot and Lauren Dodge.

  My parents, Pete and Maggie, and my in-laws, Janet and Terry, support our family in so many different ways that I couldn’t begin to list them all. We are deeply thankful.

  Zoey! I love seeing this world through your eyes. Thank you for your questions, support, and ideas. Your insights are always great ones.

  Allie! Thank you for your passionate love for the Sunlit Lands and the characters in it (except for that one guy). Thank you for always talking through the stories with me. You’re a great help.

  Myca! Thank you for inventing our amazing Guardian of the Wind, Remi. You are a creative and kindhearted person, and I am so thankful for you!

  And of course, as always, my lovely wife, Krista, who makes sacrifices both obvious and unseen to make space for an entire fantasy world in our lives. Many thanks, and I love you.

  Also: you, dear reader. We are making this world together. I am thankful for your part in it.

  1

  THE ROBE OF ASCENSION

  An unbalanced boat risks lives. Unbalanced magic takes them.

  A ZHANIN SAYING

  The boats were nervous. The sail trees fluttered restlessly on the western side of the island, and last night the bay had glowed a brighter green than Kekoa Kahananui had ever seen. He took a deep lungful of the morning air. It was cool and crisp, but there was a whiff of smoke to it. Nothing was burning in the archipelago, so it had to be coming from the mainland.