Isle of Wysteria: The Monolith Crumbles

by Aaron Lee Yeager

  Setsuna leaned back and propped her feet up on the table. “Why? What were you expecting?”

  Privet shrugged. “I dunno. Pubs, gambling halls, seedy inns. I certainly wasn’t expecting a stop at Advan to pick up the materials needed for Dwale’s new eyes.”

  “Is that what you think of me?” she asked, feigning offense. “A feckless wharf strumpet?”

  Privet rolled his eyes. “No, I think of you as a murderous thief.”

  “Oh, well, that’s better then,” she laughed. “We can’t have you accusing me of being something bad, now can we?”

  Dwale covered his mouth to hide a chuckle.

  “Well,” I’m ready to implant the eyes,” Dr. Griffin said as he walked back in, sipping on an ale stein. “If you could keep the ship steady during the procedure I’d appreciate it. Accidental lobotomies put me in a terrible mood.”

  “Wait, what?” Dwale asked, growing concerned.

  “I’ll do my best,” Privet nodded. “And thank you again.”

  Dr. Griffin took another slurp of ale. “I should be thanking you for pulling me out of that tree hospital. “I was surrounded my so much male musk I thought I might die.”

  “Is he drinking alcohol before surgery?” Dwale asked in concern, reaching out and tracing his fingers over the chilled stein.

  “Oh don’t worry, Dwale,” Setsuna cooed, jumping up and snatching the drink out of the old man’s hand. “Dr. Griffin is a highly skilled surgeon. You have nothing to worry about.”

  Dr. Griffin looked over her firm athletic body and licked his dry lips. “I had no idea you thought so highly of me,” he said, sliding his crusty hand around her taught little waist.

  Her eyes closed in irritation and Dr. Griffin yelped in pain. He pulled his arm away, a throwing knife embedded into the back of his hand.

  “Next time you lose it,” she warned.

  “Got it,” he grunted, holding his trembling wrist. “Well,” he said, sweat dripping down his face, “shall we begin?”

  “Wait, is his hand injured?” Dwale asked, thoroughly frightened. “Is he going to do surgery drunk and injured?”

  * * *

  Albashire could barely contain his rage as yet another stack of papers was placed on his desk by a yawning pixie. With a disinterested chirp, she fluttered away and went back to the others, who were helping themselves to his untouched tea and pastries. One of the more adventurous pixies set herself down into his teacup and enjoyed a lovely warm herbal bath.

  “She said those are today’s notes,” the Treesinger standing over him translated as she thumbed lazily through his pages, scratching off errors.

  “Notes?” he growled, his quill snapping in his grip. A second pixie fluttered over in irritation and placed a fresh quill before him, jam all over her tiny face.

  “The Queen says the second chapter is a little boring.”

  “How can there be notes? She’s not my editor.”

  “She says she’d like you to finish the second act by the end of the day,” the Treesinger said, ignoring him.

  Albashire stood up, causing his chair to screech against the wooden floor. “Now, you listen here. You can tell your queen that…”

  “Tell me what?”

  The entire room snapped to attention. The Treesingers stood up straight; the pixies scattered and tried to look busy, knocking over the tea and pastries onto the floor. A man skulked out of the corner he had been hiding in and began sopping up the spill.

  Albashire turned around to find Queen Forsythia and her guards standing out in the corridor, holding her sleeping baby in her arms. “Oh…uh…I didn’t think you’d hear me.”

  “The Queen is the forest, she hears every word spoken in its borders,” Captain Tallia corrected, her judgmental eyes scanning over him.

  The color drained from his face. “Is that true?” He recalled grumbling more than a few unkind things about her to himself over the past few days. In his mind, he recalled every horror story he had heard about people who had offended the ruler of an island they were visiting and were never heard from again.

  But the Queen only gave a courteous nod. “It doesn’t work quite that way. In this case, I just happened to be walking by. My husband and I are making our way down to the archives.”

  Albashire noticed the small bony man that accompanied her.

  “Would you care to join us?” she offered graciously.

  “Um…”

  He looked around at the guards eyeing him menacingly.

  “Sure, I guess.”

  Albashire held his tongue as they walked through the corridors of the palace, which resided deep within the trunk of the royal tree. Try as he might, he could not bring himself to be comfortable being inside another living thing like this. In his mind, the walls seemed to pulse, as if with a mighty heartbeat. The air felt thick with life, as if a thousand eyes were watching him from every side. And yet, he had to admit there was a softness to this life force, it had a gentle, almost motherly feeling about it, but brimming with power and ready to strike at a moment’s notice, like a mother bear watching over her cubs.

  Up ahead, several men scrubbed the floors and dusted the statues. They scampered out of the way when they saw the women approaching, eyes downturned. It was as if the women here had an invisible wake, parting and silencing the men wherever they went. Only the Queen’s husband seemed different. He would look her in the eyes when he spoke to her, even though the other women clearly disapproved of it.

  “May I ask you a question?” the Queen asked as they walked.

  “Um, yes,” Albashire blurted out, fearing a jab in the back from Captain Tallia if he didn’t answer quickly enough.

  “Most people consider your Tower series to be your greatest work, yet you seem so reluctant to complete it.”

  Albashire was visibly uncomfortable discussing such things in front of everyone, but he didn’t really feel like he could deny her request and keep his head attached, so he answered anyway. “Because I’d wake up in the morning and find my lawn littered with people camping out there, smoking a tuula and dressed like Daians and her shield maidens. They’d break off pieces of mortar from my walls as a keepsake, until finally the west corner of my house collapsed and the whole thing was condemned. I couldn’t go anywhere without getting mobbed. I got so sick of it all. I just wanted to leave it all behind. I guess I decided it didn’t mean anything to me anymore.”

  The Queen looked on him kindly. “I see.”

  Suddenly, they all stopped. Albashire wondered if he had said something wrong, but then one of the guards touched her staff to the wall and the floor beneath them came alight, the rings and grains glowing brightly with rivers of light.

  “It would be best if you were to brace yourself,” Alder warned.

  Before Albashire could ask for clarification, they began descending, nearly falling as the wood beneath them passed though a vertical tunnel. Albashire dropped to his knees, pawing for anything to keep his balance, finally grabbing onto a guard’s leg, who promptly kicked him.

  They were passing deep through the heartwood of the royal tree now. His ears popped from the change in pressure. If felt to him like they were nearly at a freefall. He would have screamed had he the breath to do it, yet the Wysterians seemed completely at ease. They stood there peacefully, swaying slightly as the air whipped around them.

  Gradually they slowed and came to rest, a single long corridor stretching out before them. This place was unlike any other part of the palace he had seen. The walls and ceiling, if you could call them that, were created from solidified amber, which glowed with a natural torchlight from within. The air felt different here. There was no weight to it, no eyes, just a cool, sterile stillness. It felt otherworldly.

  “This is a knot,” the Queen explained as they stepped forward. “A place set aside within the royal tree, disconne
cted from the rest of the link. We use places like this to protect our cultural heritage, and also to create holy places where the daughters of the forest may commune with Milia in private.”

  Albashire swallowed hard. His own god Estus, would have killed anyone who brought an outlander into one of his sacred places. He’d have cursed them with a long and withering ailment, rotting their body slowly from within. And that was if he were in a good mood.

  “Should I even be here?” Albashire wondered aloud, finding it harder and harder to breathe. Suddenly he wondered if he was being led into a trap. He looked back reflexively, but the shaft they had entered through no longer existed. Only a wall of glowing amber remained.

  A greying woman in flowing robes stood to meet them, a shimmering silken scarf covering her mouth and nose.

  “My Queen,” she bowed formally.

  “Archivist Teak,” The Queen greeted.

  Alder turned to Albashire. “The air down here has been magically altered to remove all moisture and any components in the air that will decompose the scrolls. It will be toxic to you unless you wear one of these.”

  The archivist handed each of the women a shimmering silken scarf to tie around their faces. She skipped over the men, but neither did she impede them when Alder took a scarf for himself and for Albashire.

  By now the author was puffing for breath. His lungs felt like they were on fire. He pawed the scarf over his mouth, breathing in deeply through it to keep himself from passing out. The women looked on him disapprovingly.

  With the utmost care, The Queen propped up her son’s soft little head as her husband tied a scarf around his face. The baby stirred slightly, then gave off a tiny coo and went back to sleep. His parents looked at each other and smiled lovingly.

  Albashire watched the two closely as he affixed his scarf. They seemed totally different than any other couple he had seen on this island. The way they regarded each other, the way they spoke. The way they stole a quick caress when they thought no one was looking. He had heard a rumor that this particular queen was unusual for having spent some time as an ensign in the royal navy, but even that didn’t fully explain it. They were like two halves of one single person. He could not help but wonder how different this place would be if more couples were like them.

  “Come, Mister Albashire,” the Queen bade. “I have something I want to show you.”

  Reluctantly, he followed her into a vast chamber. The domed ceiling was perfectly spherical, the holy constellations etched into the glowing amber. Rivers and eddies of light flowed through the material, swirling into one another. Upon closer inspection, he saw the constellations were slowly moving, keeping in time with the real stars in the sky. It felt like he was outside, on a crisp hilltop, surrounded by the dazzling nighttime heavens.

  The Queen brought him to an amber pedestal, one of thousands that filled the expanse of the floor, on which lay a burnt piece of scroll, faded and decayed to the point of complete disintegration.

  “This is very old, so please tread softly around it. Even the breeze from your breath could destroy it.”

  Albashire looked over the markings, so faint as to be nearly unreadable.

  “What is it?”

  “This is the oldest scroll fragment we have. Most of our written history was destroyed during the fires of the unification war, but this remained. It is a piece of the Ballad of the South, an epic poem our bards still sing to this day during the Autumn Moon Festival.”

  He leaned in only as far as he dared to. “What does it say?”

  Alder stepped forward to translate. “…and the great hero Daikon held aloft his sword, and offered to his enemy a moment to make peace with his dark god before bringing judgment down upon him…”

  Albashire furrowed his brow.

  The Queen nodded. “Yes, it is an adventure story, like the ones you write. Think on it. This is the furthest glimpse back in time we have, nearly to the beginning of the second era. Even back then, people told stories to one another.”

  Albashire didn’t know what to think.

  The Queen nestled her sleeping baby closer into her bosom. “Have you never asked yourself why people tell tales to one another?”

  Albashire snickered. “Because they are bored?”

  The Queen looked away coldly. “Because life can be deeply disappointing. The strong take advantage of the weak, the dishonest prosper, the treacherous are victorious, thieves go unpunished, the honest are spitefully used. Our lives don’t always make sense, so people create tales that make more sense. Stories where justice triumphs: where the weak are protected-- a safer place. One where they can succeed and achieve without it being stolen from them. Even if it is only in their minds, or for a short time. Something that resonates with the desires of their heart, a vision of the way life should be.”

  Albashire stood up and stretched his back. “I haven’t thought that way about my writing for a long time. For me, it was just a way to avoid doing any real work. It was a few extra copper in my pocket, but the way you talk about it makes it seem…I dunno, almost beautiful.”

  “That’s because it is. Art is beauty, and beauty is art. Do you know what the word for woman means in my language?”

  “Female, I’d suppose.”

  She shook her head. “Mi’il” means creator. Women have always been creators. We build tools, we build families, we build friendships. To create life is to be a woman. And in our dreams, sometimes we even create new worlds using our imaginations.”

  He wrinkled his nose. “So, how do you explain me?”

  A faint smile crossed her lips. “You’re so creative; I’ve always assumed you had a little bit of woman in you.”

  Albashire nearly snickered at the ridiculousness of what she had said, but the looks of her guards told him to stifle it. It may have seemed absurd to him, but he could tell from their reactions that the Queen had just paid him the deepest of compliments.

  He thought back on the notes she had given him. “So, let me ask you something. Why critique my books? Why not just write about your own perfect world yourself?”

  “I tried to once, but I lack your gifts.”

  “Why, what happened when you tried to write?”

  The Queen turned away and walked towards another pedestal. “The pain from this world followed me there.”

  As the Queen passed a smooth section of the wall, the amber began to glow and reshaped itself into an archway, etched with holy sigils, a thin membrane of amber preventing one from viewing beyond.

  Albashire gasped and stepped towards the archway. “Amazing, what manner of magic is this?”

  The Queen spun around. “Please, do not…!”

  As he reached out his hand, the archway rippled with power and he was thrown backwards. Captain Tallia leapt before a pedestal and caught him just before he crashed into it.

  Everyone looked on in worry as the scroll fragment on the pedestal stirred slightly from the wind his body had created. No one dared move or breathe until the delicate paper settled back down, unharmed.

  Everyone breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Stupid man!” Captain Tallia barked, dropping Albashire to the floor.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know,” he apologized as he stood up. “Just what was that?”

  “That is not for you to know,” Captain Tallia threatened.

  “It is all right,” Queen Forsythia calmed. “It is no sin to know of it, only to divulge the holiness within.”

  The Queen handed her son to Alder, then stepped up and placed her hand upon the archway. The amber shimmered at her touch and seemed to calm down. “This is the entrance to the inner sanctum,” she explained. “One of the most holy places in the forest. A place where the daughters of the forest may commune with their mother goddess directly. I can say no more of it, only that this doorway only appears when Wysterian magic is ne
ar, and only women may enter.”

  Alder lowered his eyes sadly at the mention of it.

  “My Queen, I am not comfortable with you speaking of sacred things before an outsider,” Archivist Teak warned.

  Realizing the trouble he could be in, Albashire bowed as deeply as he could, trying to mimic the Wysterian manner he had seen the men use. “Queen Forsythia, I thank you for the trust you have shown in me by sharing this information with me. I swear to you, by the bones of my ancestors, I will never speak of it to others.”

  “I accept your oath,” the Queen said. “And now, I must attend to the business that has led me here.”

  Teak and Tallia were not satisfied, but they held their tongues.

  The Queen reached another pedestal where Alder awaited her. “Is this what you wanted to show me, husband?”

  “Yes, I believe I have made a breakthrough in my research.”

  Albashire peeked around the armored form of a guard to get a better look at the withered scroll Alder was standing over.

  “This is the remains of a court document from the third era, during which Milia had transcribed the bulk of the written law we have today. Now, you can see here most of the top corner has been burned away, but we can still make out a few lines.”

  Archivist Teak folded her arms, clearly irritated.

  “I’iamma mandi’iu ta orasui’i tovuh verus,” Alder read aloud. “Or in the common tongue, ‘and when they were all seated, Milia stood, taking in hand her…’”

  Alder paused knowingly.

  “…staff,” Teak finished. “I should think a Forsythian house husband would know such a simple word.”

  Alder straightened himself excitedly.

  “You think it is mistranslated?” Queen Forsythia inferred.

  Alder nodded. “I mean no disrespect to our scholars, of course, but yes, I believe they have been mistranslating that final word.

  Teak clucked her tongue in disgust. “There is no other way to read ‘ri’iatu’ other than ‘staff.’”

  Alder bowed to her respectfully. “You are correct, of course, but look here, the burnt section begins half way through the final glyph. I believe that this phrase has been mistranslated because the end of the word was cut off. This is not ‘ri’iatu,’ it is ‘ri’iatuun,’”