The Redwood Palace

by M K Hutchins

  I heard the soldiers before I saw them. I ducked off the side of the road and lay flat behind the burled roots of a redwood. If they wouldn’t be happy to see a lone stranger in a village, they wouldn’t be any happier to see me here.

  I’d expected a larger crowd. Three soldiers pulled the cart, with two walking alongside—all wearing armbands denoting active service. Eight men with veterans’ armbands rode in the cart. Had all the veterans left a piece of themselves in the west? Feet, legs, arms, hands, fingers, eyes, ears—only one hadn’t visibly lost anything, and he was retching over the side of the cart. Recipes for their various injuries rattled through my brain. I ached to cook for them, to use my skills to ease their pain and strengthen their souls.

  Each veteran wore a polished piece of amber-studded wood on a thong around his neck. I couldn’t see the details, but I’d bet my shoes that they were awards for their service.

  One of the veterans looked even younger than me, about Dami’s age. I hugged my mantle closer around me. I hoped she came home unharmed. I hoped she came home at all.

  That night, I found a still-living redwood tree with its heartwood hollowed out

  from uncounted, ancient fires. It made good shelter, but I still woke stiff, cold, and starving. Foraging would cure all three.

  The forest provided curly fiddlehead ferns, wild onions, and a pair of gorgeous, earthy-sweet morels. Raw, however, all but the onion would harm instead of help me. The next village might loan me a hearth, even if they wouldn’t feed me. I tucked my findings into my bag and continued down the road, cramming down one of the onions.

  It didn’t take long to realize I’d been thinking with my hollow gut instead of my head. Without any salt, vinegar, or honey to balance the raw onion, I’d consumed straight spiciness. The poorly-planned snack muted my senses—the very thing spiciness bolstered in well-balanced food. My vision blurred, my fingertips tingled, and the sounds of the forest dulled around me.

  I stumbled over the undergrowth for the next ten minutes. Even when the ill-effects faded, I was dizzy and weak. I craved salt, badly. My stomach was right; I could use the agility and grace that saltiness brought.

  At midday, I came across the ashes of a half-dozen campfires just off the road. Merchants? A column of soldiers headed west? I didn’t know, but the coals were warm. I used a stick to gather everything into a pile, then scavenged for kindling.

  I lay on the ground and blew gently. Ashes stirred and stung my eyes, but I didn’t flinch. One of my dry sticks smoked, then another. Soon, a small fire licked at the new wood.

  I staked two forked branches on either side of the fire, then threaded my fiddleheads and morels onto a third stick, which I rested on the first two. The remaining onions, skins on, went straight into the coals.

  Then I struck out from the road to find more. A handful of cress later, I heard water—water!—and followed the sound until I stumbled across a small stream. It smelled cold and clean, spiced by the redwoods around it. I grabbed a rock and dug in the bank.

  I muddied my dress, skinned my knee, and ended up soaked. Three small clams were my reward. Less than I would have liked, but I still scurried back to my fire and nestled them into the coals. I rinsed the cress with my clean flask of well-water, then dangled it over the coals until they wilted. I ate it with my fingers.

  The clams popped open. I grabbed them, burning my fingers, and slurped down the juices and the packet of meat inside—sweet, ashy, salty.

  No chef would call it satisfactory, but it was the best bite to ever grace my mouth. I devoured the meltingly-soft onions, sweetened and mellowed by the fire, alongside the fiddleheads and morels. After downing the rest of my water flask, I trekked onward.

  I kept an eye out for bandits, but never spotted any. At least my sorry state signaled I had no amber to steal.

  That afternoon, it seemed like a dozen carts passed me. Most of them had two large wheels nearly as tall as my shoulder supporting the cart bed, with a large cross-beam in front where two or three abreast could pull. Packages bulged under the oiled canvas on the merchants’ carts, with the porters plodding against the cross-beam. The private passenger carts, with painted walls and curtained windows, moved at the same slow gait.

  But not the carter’s carts. These were open to the sky, with two long benches against the sides for passengers. And fast porters. Running, laughing, smiling, sweating porters. They tore down the hard-packed road as fast as they could without dumping passengers. Fresh porters would take over at the next carter station.

  I watched one young woman riding such a cart, clutching the railing as she rode in wide-eyed wonder, hair streaming behind her.

  That could have been me.

  Instead, I trudged. I passed a carter station at dusk—a cheery, well-lit building with a few jays flitting about the roof. Within shouting distance of this place, I could sleep safely, if not comfortably. I waited until after sunset to fill my waterskin at their well. Then I curled up in some promising-looking ferns and pulled Father’s mantle tight around me. I’d been a fool to tell him I wouldn’t need it.

  The next morning, it rained. Hard. I couldn’t find wild onions—let alone anything else. Carts became scarce on the muddy road, replaced by wriggling worms and yellow slugs. I’d been right to walk instead of returning to Clamsriver for more amber. Not that being right stopped my legs from numbing or the rain from flooding my sandals.

  Around midday, I spotted a trio of merchants and, Ancestors forgive me, I slipped onto the back of one of their carts to spare my numb feet. We hadn’t gone an eighth of a mile before one of the porters noticed and knocked me into the mud.

  My hip ached after that.

  Near evening, I stumbled across a redwood circle—an opening where an enormous, ancestral redwood once stood, but had long since given itself back to the earth. A ring of new trees had shot up from its roots, now grown eight feet across each. I stepped inside, where the ground was damp instead of sopping.

  We’d scattered Nana’s ashes in a redwood circle like this, near our home. The trees themselves taught us so much about what we owed our Ancestors; they are the root that continues to give us life. Travelers and the poor alike used these sacred circles as shrines.

  I had no food, so I poured out the last of my waterskin for Nana and prayed that she’d take well to what I could offer her. That she wouldn’t become a Hungry Ghost. That I wouldn’t lose her again, in the afterlife.

  I slept well in the protection of those trees.

  The next morning, the seventh since Dami’s summons, blurred in my memory. Finding a fire, but no clams. Trudging. One foot after the other. Stomach trying to eat itself. Dry tongue glued to the roof of my mouth.

  Passenger and cargo carts rattled past as I neared Askan-Wod, the capital. I thanked my Ancestors for a large, fairly safe road to travel on, that nothing worse than being tossed from a merchant’s cart had happened. I wished I could thank them for real food, too.

  By the time I reached the great gates of Askan-Wod, my head felt like a granite boulder—I didn’t waste effort lifting my eyes from the road. I saw so many feet. Some bare, some in lovely suede slippers, most in sandals. A few with boots. Children, men, women. Their elbows jostled me. I clung to my bag and stumbled onward.

  Merchants sold food from stalls. I smelled noodles with dark dipping sauces, fried fish, and coal-charred scallions. My innards groaned. If I’d had a single amber chip, I would have stopped and bought something salty to increase my agility. Right now, I felt as dexterous as a newborn chick. The relentless noise didn’t help—so much noise. Shouting, laughter, hawking. The stagnant air reeked of sweat and sharp urine.

  I missed mountains. I missed trees.

  At least finding the Redwood Palace was simple. Up. Up to the center of Askan-Wod. My legs burned, but at last I reached the gates. Stout gates with heavy cross-beams.

  An obsidian spearhead appeared in front of my face. I followed the haft down to a pair of thick hands, then up to a f
ace. He was shouting at me. Something about beggars? But I wasn’t begging.

  I pulled my letter from its pocket inside my mantle and offered it respectfully with both hands. The guard frowned, mustache drooping. He shouted instructions inside.

  A young woman appeared, maybe Dami’s age. She had a no-nonsense face with strong cheekbones and a straight nose. Her voice rang out high and clear. “Shall I tell Blue Lady Egal you turned away a beckoned servant of the Royal House?”

  “She’s probably a thief,” the guard said.

  “What’s your name?” the girl demanded. “I’d hate to give my lady the wrong name.”

  “Umm. Dami.”

  The gate groaned open. The girl took my arm. Her sleeves hung elegantly over her elbows—green-ranked. The bleached silhouette of an eagle decorated her fine, emerald green skirt. “Come along, then, Dami. You report to Lady Egal, the King’s aunt and the Matron of the Household. I’m her gate servant.”

  My mind fuzzed. She was talking to me. I took a step forward, then another, letting my gaze settle on her feet. Despite the decorative braid running around her ankle, her sandals were sturdier than mine. I could have used sandals like that on this journey. I wouldn’t mind having ten clean, manicured toes, either. She looked like she belonged in a palace.

  Gravel crunched under my feet and I smelled gardens—buttercups, shooting stars, and blue-eyed grass. The lawn on either side of our path gleamed green.

  I managed to glance up a few times. A multitude of gardens, hedges, and groves made it impossible to count all the exquisite buildings. The Redwood Palace felt like a town unto itself, but it was lusher and lovelier than any town I’d ever seen. Some of the porches were broader than my whole house. Perhaps this place had fallen here from the Ancestor’s Realm. The peaked roofs boasted fine, black shingles. Carved birds, trees, and fish decorated the eaves—all supported by ubiquitous, whole-log pillars, painted or polished to a currant berry red. The lowest rank, the Red rank, was said to have blood on their hands—they were the children of criminals and traitors. But the Redwood Palace used red to show that this place was the heart—the lifeblood—of our nation.

  At least if I hanged for my lies to the Royal House, I didn’t have any children to be demoted to the red rank.

  We climbed three stairs onto a porch, where a door servant let us into a sitting room that smelled almost like the forest. The wood still held its warm, spicy scent, and there was something else—stream violets? Yes, stream violets, with a hint of sharp cress.

  “Nisaat, what have you brought me?” The voice reminded me of the glossy leaves of poison oak—beautiful, but promising pain.

  Nisaat bowed, so I did as well. “This is Yellow-ranked Dami of Clamsriver. The servant you’ve been anticipating.”

  “This wretched creature?”

  I lifted my eyes. Lady Egal was perhaps sixty, but she held herself like a beauty of decades younger. Her slate-gray hair granted her refinement; her dark eyes gave her presence. She sat behind a polished redwood desk.

  “I... I was robbed,” I croaked.

  “Robbed.” Lady Egal tilted her head to the side, inspecting me. She held herself with such poise—was her birthgift of agility? She wore the handsomest dress I’d ever seen, a shimmering blue fabric draping to just above her wrists, a shade that perfectly matched her lapis lazuli earrings. Still, the dress paled in comparison to the woman wearing it.

  I couldn’t hold her gaze. I stared at my feet. “Yes, Lady Egal.”

  “Your nose is sunburned. Your face is rough.”

  I couldn’t let her dismiss me. Reject me. “I journeyed here for six days, with no money and no food.”

  “Really?” Her tone held nothing but elegant scorn. “How did you survive?”

  I fumbled out what details I could. When I finished, silence met me. I stared down at my dirty feet, indistinguishable from my equally grimy sandals. I bit my lip to keep myself from making fists in my skirt.

  “Nisaat, fetch her application from the Hall of Records.”

  Nisaat bowed and hurried off. Lady Egal picked up her brush with one hand, held her sleeve back with the other, and continued writing like I wasn’t there.

  Aches ran through my marrow. Would it be rude to sit? Probably. No one had invited me to relax and the gleaming chairs with their lattice backs seemed too fine for my tattered self.

  Nisaat returned with a single sheet of paper. Lady Egal lay her brush next to the inkstone and took it. “Recite your generations, Dami.”

  I started with my parents and recited backwards, the images of the clay-wrapped faces in my family shrine smiling at me. I knew these names as well as my own. When I reached my great-great-great grandfather and his obtainment of the Yellow rank through military service, she waved a hand. “That’s sufficient. I believe your identity.”

  I bit my lip. My stomach rumbled loudly, then Lady Egal graced me with a regal glance of disgust. “You’re not fit to be anyone’s personal attendant. Or a door servant. I wouldn’t trust you with laundry, or sewing, or maintaining the bathhouses. Fortunately for you, being strong-of-arm will make light the only work I can, in good conscience, entrust you with.”

  I winced. Lady Egal turned to Nisaat. “Take her to Hawak for whatever filthy jobs he has. Her manners are not fit to be seen by the Royal House.”

  Lady Egal gave Nisaat final instructions, something about having the laundry send a servant’s dress to my room for me for tomorrow. Then Nisaat led me out of Lady Egal’s apartments and over another path of fine white gravel.

  “Your papers say you’re strong-of-arm?”

  The base of my skull throbbed. Her words drizzled slow as honey through my ears. “Yes. Strong-of-arm.”

  “Good! That’ll be helpful for scrubbing crocks.”

  Scrubbing crocks. “We’re... going to the kitchen?”

  “Yes. Hawak’s the Master Chef.”

  My pulse pounded, making me dizzier. I’d be by the food. I’d get to smell it. I stumbled, but Nisaat caught me. “Careful, there. You’re not scared, are you?”

  “Scared?” The word didn’t make sense. Food wasn’t frightening. Food was life. Food was art. Food was heartbreakingly beautiful.

  I smelled the kitchens long before we reached them—roasting meat and stewing vegetables, thick and seductive in the air.

  “The kitchen’s haunted. But don’t tell anyone I said that—I want to keep my post.”

  “H-haunted? With Bloodmarrows?” I asked, remembering the young woman’s story about Vengeful Ghosts controlled by the Shoreed.

  “Bloodmarrows were made up by soldiers to excuse their friends when they desert,” Nisaat said with open disgust. “The kitchens are far more interesting. The story you told Lady Egal, about clams and sleeping outside carter stations, was that true?”

  I nodded. How could the royal kitchens be haunted? I stumbled over a dip in the gravel.

  “You’re brave, then. You’ll be fine.” We passed a landscaped stand of spruce trees and ferns, then climbed another three-step porch. Nisaat opened the door.

  Dizzy and weak, I managed to look up. It seemed like acres of polished granite counter stretched before me. Six hearths burned, each with crocks, spits, or smokers. Fresh salmon and sturgeon sprawled on the cutting boards. Baskets of young dandelion greens and heads of soft lettuce glistened from a recent wash—the latter had to be from a greenhouse. Scrubbed turnips and rutabagas were heaped in baskets, lustrous as a hoard of pearls and opals. A dozen young men bustled over everything.

  “Master Hawak!” Nisaat called.

  A middle-aged man strolled over, his face glowing with good health—the sign of an excellent chef. He was broad, from his shoulders to his hands to his face. He flicked me a glance. “I know she looks like a wild bear cub, but I do believe that mud-caked thing is a girl, Nisaat. I refuse to skin and roast her for you.”

  “Thanks, but I’m not that hungry. This is Yellow-ranked Dami of Clamsriver, the palace’s newest servant. Lady Egal
assigned her to scrub crocks.”

  “Looks like she could use a good scrub herself,” Hawak chuckled.

  I rubbed the side of my head. At any other time, I might have protested, but I itched with a patina of grime. The pounding in my head crept down along my neck. I didn’t have the energy to argue, either.

  “Run along Nisaat. I’ll see to your cub.”

  Nisaat bowed and left, her well-made sandals hardly making a sound. Hawak folded his arms across his expansive chest. “Well, well. I’m Green-ranked Master Chef Hawak of Napil. This is my kitchen. The rest of these are my bungling apprentices. Do tell me if you can’t distinguish them from the crocks.”

  He paused for me to laugh, but by the time I digested his joke, he’d continued.

  “I have few rules. No stealing food. You’ll be fed at meal times, not between. Understood?”

  My stomach rumbled. I ached to snatch one dried apricot, one rabbit leg. But I hadn’t come so far to get dishonorably dismissed on my first day. I’d survive until supper. I nodded.

  “Good. One more rule: no rumors. No gossip. No speculation. No... superstitions.” He’d lowered his voice and his broad face turned as hard and unforgiving as a first frost. “None at all. Do you understand?”

  The apprentices seemed to stiffen, fear in their brows. Maybe this place was haunted. “Yes, Master Chef.”

  He frowned at me, then led me through the parade of smells to a sweltering corner stacked with clay crocks of all sizes and glazed bowls dripping with bits of leftovers. “You’ll be washing these. Scrub them until they gleam like chalcedony. Most people don’t realize it, but a clean pot is the foundation of good cooking.”

  My eyes prickled. I knew that.

  I sat and picked up a crock crusted with a plum-rhubarb sauce. We scrubbed crocks at home with sand, but here they had salt—a whole bucket of salt, just for cleaning. The salt mines produced well, but it still seemed extravagant. I tossed a large pinch inside the crock and grabbed a rag.