Privet stepped closer and placed his hands on her shoulders. “Athel, there’s nothing anyone can do for him.”
“No!” she yelled, struggling free of his grip. “I’m telling you, Alder doesn’t have the stillness! Stop saying that!”
Privet tried to hold her, but she pushed him back, hitting her fists against his chest. “I command you. I command you as your Queen to hold your tongue, Privet!”
Privet caught her wrists and she struggled weakly, her crown falling down around her shoulder.
Privet pulled her in close and held her tightly. “I’m sorry, Athel.”
She tried to hold it in, she tried to cry without tears, but she couldn’t do it. In front of her guards, in front of the doctors, in front of the couriers, she buried her head in Privet’s chest and cried.
“I’ve got to save him,” she breathed between sobs. “There has to be a way, some magic, some remedy. Somewhere. What good is it to be Queen of a vast empire if I cannot save the life of one person?”
The courtiers couldn’t believe what they were seeing. They whispered to one another, a mixture of awe and disgust on their faces. The rumor spread through the woods faster than wildfire, from the Hollyberry plains, up to the Sicklewood mountains. A Forsythian Queen was shedding tears.
A deep bell tolled, causing everyone to lift up their heads.
“What is that?” Privet asked, as it tolled a second time.”
Athel looked up, terrified.
“The Spiritweaver is ready to share his findings.”
* * *
Madam Bursage’s frosty eyes carefully surveyed Queen Forsythia as she filed into the room with her guards.
“Lady Bursage, you and your daughters are welcome to be here, but it is not necessary, all his findings will be made known to the forest.”
“And let you censor the parts that don’t suit you? Not a chance,” the bitter woman spat.
The Queen paused and gave the snowy-haired woman a sharp look. The Queen’s eyes were red with tears. It was so out of character, it left even Lady Bursage speechless.
Andolf Kummeritas struck the bronze bell once more, his long purple beard shaking from the vibrations.
The room had been decorated in the traditions of his people. Multiple tiers of gentle incense, the colored wisps of sweet-smelling fumes gathering in the branches above like soft white clouds. Ash’s tree, Trillum, sat in the center of the room in a lavish golden pot, surrounded by numerous vials, crystals, baubles, alchemic circles, and seeing stones.
“Good afternoon, Trillium,” the Queen greeted sadly.
The tiny Nallorn tree sparkled happily in response. Still perfectly innocent, he had no idea that this trial would determine whether or not he would be executed that day.
The Queen’s eyes flicked over to the silver axe Madam Bursage wore on her belt.
She’s planning on doing it herself.
The Spiritweaver closed his eyes and began chanting. The air in the room swirled about, not from wind, but more like a current, as if it were alive with swimming creatures, unseen but still felt. He set a carved opal dish before him and deftly pricked his finger on the point rising up from the center. A single drop of green blood fell down into the dish, where it swirled about, growing in mass and taking shape into the form of a long, pointed thorn. It rose up and hovered beside him, the tip pointed squarely at his throat.
Andolf opened his eyes, his irises filled with swirling light. “As per the ancient contract, this blood spirit will oversee my disclosure. If I am dishonest or withholding in any way, it will immediately take my life.”
The Queen turned to the Bursages. “I trust this is acceptable to you?”
Lady Bursage snickered. “As much as I’d like to see him skewered, I know a blood spirit cannot be faked.”
“We will believe his words,” Iris Bursage confirmed, willing to be more forthcoming than her mother.
All the Wysterian women waited silently in anticipation. In her heart, Athel prayed harder than she ever had before. Please, Great Mother, spare my children.
Andolf breathed in deeply, the swirling incense flowing into his nostrils in rivers and streams. When he exhaled again, the colorful smoke became the shape of a Nallorn tree, a man entangled in its roots, a woman resting upon its branches.
“The magic in your tree is irredeemably broken,” he announced.
Madam Bursage clapped her hands. “I knew it! We should have cut down that little abomination the day it awoke.”
His words felt like a dagger had pierced through Athel’s heart. All of her fears, all of her anxiety. Months of worry suddenly made real. “Are you sure?” she asked hoarsely.
Andolf nodded. “There can be no doubt. I have had the spirits trace the flow of the energies from their source and back again. Wysterian magic was never intended to be used this way.”
The Queen’s eyes were swimming. In a moment of absolute panic, she thought to grab Trillium and run for the exit. Her mind told her such a gesture would be useless and accomplish nothing, but her mother’s heart didn’t care.
As Athel stepped forward, Andolf raised his hand.
“It would appear that that magic flowing through Kamilah has been broken her entire life.”
This made everyone freeze.
“K-Kamilah?” Lady Bursage repeated. “You tested…my tree?”
“Of course. I needed a baseline for the spirits to trace. Your tree was recommended to me as an example of absolute purity.”
Lady Bursage covered her face with her hands. “You dung-eating fool. You tested the wrong tree.”
“I tested a great number of trees.”
“But you were supposed to test this little male tree. Ugh, now we have to start all over again.”
All the Wysterian women began complaining at once.
“Wait.”
All turned to the Queen.
“Wait,” she said again, trying to process all of this. “If you tested Lady Bursage’s tree…then why was the magic broken?”
The room went completely silent.
Andolf cleared his throat. “As I was trying to explain, I tested a great number of your Nallorn trees, and it wasn’t until I tested Trillium here that I discovered how Wysterian magic is actually supposed to work. From there, the spirits were able to trace backwards and discover the problem. Your entire cycle has been cleft in twain, and you are using the broken shards of what you are meant to wield. In fact, it appears that Trillium and Ash are the only ones on this entire island whose magic is whole and unbroken.”
“How can this be?” the Queen asked in confusion.
“This is absurd,” Lady Bursage hissed. “My tree is not on trial here. He had no right to test her. This is a complete farce. Clearly, this old man is trying to deceive us.”
“No, he isn’t,” High Priestess Oleander stated powerfully as she entered with her black guards.
Lady Bursage looked on in confusion.
“Forgive my late arrival,” Oleander said. “But we have just had a breakthrough in the knot sanctuary. Mister Kummeritas is correct. All Wysterian men wielded magic in ages past, and it was natural to them.”
The declaration sent shockwaves through the room. Even the living wood responded.
“That is absurd,” Lady Bursage spat.
Even Athel had difficulty wrapping her head around it, and she had seen her son wither plants on many occasions. A lifetime of indoctrination resisted what even her own eyes had shown her. She nearly vocalized her doubts, but something deep in her heart told her it was true.
They all looked to Andolf for answers. He breathed in the incense deeply to explain.
“Wysterian magic is the cycle of the seasons. Men draw on the strength of the fall and winter, the women use the strength as the spring and summer. The men end the life of plants and tre
es whose time has come; they clear the underbrush and groom the forest, taking the life force from the fallen and storing it in their own bodies for later use.”
“Which is a tradition we still hold to this day,” Oleander observed. “Mi’il create life, Ver’it end it.”
“Yes, I have visited the realm of men here,” Andolf said, stroking his long purple whiskers. “Now, the flow of energy from there goes through a sister tree that links a man and a woman together. Through her tree, a woman takes that life force and uses it to grow new trees and plants.”
“Is that why a woman who has lost her tree cannot perform magic?” Talliun asked anxiously.
“Yes, she still has her magical ability of course, but without her tree to link her to a man, she cannot draw on the life force she needs to power it.”
Talliun placed her brass hand over her heart. “She still has her magic,” she said softly to herself, looking like she might weep.
“At least, this is how it is all supposed to work,” Andolf continued.
“Supposed to work?” Iris asked.
“Like I said before, your cycle has been shattered. Your men no longer have the ability to draw extra life force into themselves and store it in their bodies, save for little Ash, of course.”
“The dragons said it was because they had been cut off from their god,” The Queen recalled.
“Milia’s companion,” Oleander whispered.
Andolf nodded. “However, even though the men have lost their ability, the women have not. Your women are still drawing life force out of the men when they grow new life.”
The women looked at each other in confusion.
“But, wouldn’t that mean we shouldn’t be able to grow new life at all?” Iris asked.
Andolf leaned forward. “There is no extra life force, but there is still life force within them. You are drawing on the life force of the men themselves.”
Athel’s face went as pale as snow. “Is…is that why they live such short lives?”
“Yes, with the cycle currently broken, every time a Wysterian woman uses her magic, she shortens the life span of the men connected to her tree.”
Even the most hardened women in the room gasped at this revelation. Iris covered her face with her hands. Talliun stepped backwards, tripping over an urn. Even the High Priestess was shocked beyond measure.
Athel was terrified. She felt her heart go cold, her skin grew wet with an icy sweat. It was like something had frozen solid every tender thing inside of her, and all she could do was stand there and shiver.
She thought back to Alder, lying weakly in his bed, barely able to breathe.
“So, are you saying that…I did this to Alder? That…I’m the reason he is dying?”
“Well, in truth it was not just you. When he was born, he was bound to his mother’s tree, and she siphoned off him. While you were linked to the tree you were born from, your mother’s tree, and fed off her husbands. Once you two were married, however, a connection was forged between you two, and from that point on you were the one drawing from him directly through Deutzia.”
Athel’s eyes trembled in horror. She looked at her hands as if she thought to cut them off. “So, every time I grew something, every time I practiced, or showed off, every time I summoned a root to heft me up because I was too lazy to climb up myself, I was…killing my own husband?”
Andolf’s eyes became regretful. “Yes.”
Athel threw her staff and backed away from it, as if it were some terrible viper. “No…no! I can’t believe it. I won’t believe it. It can’t possibly be true!”
“I would not lie to you.”
Athel threw out her arm accusingly. “Get out of here! You must be lying! I command you to leave right now!”
“Your Highness, I cannot…”
Athel covered her ears and screamed. “No! I won’t hear any more. Be quiet! Don’t say another word! I would never hurt Alder. I love him! He’s my husband. He’s my best friend. He’s the only person who ever really stood by me. I would never do that to him!”
Athel looked around at the other women, desperate for some kind of validation, desperate for someone to tell her this was a joke or a dream, but most of them were experiencing similar feelings and only looked away sadly. Lady Bursage was unmoved, and offered no sympathy in return.
Athel’s hair fell out of its braid, her crown slipping askew as she stumbled forward and grabbed the Spiritweaver by the collar. “Tell me,” she pleaded. “Tell me it’s not true. I didn’t do this to Alder. I didn’t.”
Andolf lowered his eyes sorrowfully. “You didn’t know.”
“None of us did,” Iris whispered, on the verge of tears.
Athel turned back to her staff, her eyes wild with grief. She released the man and crawled over on all fours, picking up the staff and holding it high above her head.
“My Queen, what are you doing?” Talliun shouted, grabbing her wrists.
“Let me go! I have to break it.”
Athel struggled against her guard, Talliun’s artificial arm whirring and straining.
Athel squirmed, tears running down her cheeks. “Release me! It must be destroyed! It’s killing him!”
“No, my Queen, don’t break your staff.”
“WHY NOT?!”
Talliun looked at her softly, tears in her own eyes. “Because Alder made it for you.”
Athel’s lip trembled as she looked at the staff. The intricate carvings, the loving care and craftsmanship. Despite the unorthodoxy of it, he had covered it in images from her favorite stories, because he knew she would like it that way.
Athel thought again of Alder lying in his bed dying, and her heart collapsed in on itself. Her strength imploded, and she crumpled to the floor, and began sobbing wildly. The staff fell from her hands and rolled away, resting at the feet of the High Priestess.
Athel covered her face and curled up into a ball, her entire frame shaking.
“I will never use magic again.”
Chapter Sixteen
Athel sat over Alder as he lay in his bed. No matter how long she wept, it didn’t make her feel any better.
“I am so sorry Alder,” she grieved. “I am so sorry.”
A couple of courtiers came to the door with messages, but Talliun turned them away.
Athel placed her head on his chest and sobbed. She wept until her tears ran dry, and then she wept some more. She placed her ear on his chest and listened to his heartbeat. It was weak, but steady.
“How many beats did I steal from you? How many nights with your child in your arms did I deny you? How many warm summer days, and cool fall evenings? How many laughs, and friendly smiles, how many hugs? How many places would you have gone, how many things would you have seen? How many things would you have enjoyed, had I not ripped them from you?”
Athel’s tears gathered on her nose, and dripped onto the sheets. “Oh Alder, I would give you every one of my days. I would go back and tear out my magic by the roots if I had known what it was doing to you.”
She grabbed his shirt and clutched onto it as tightly as she could. “Why? Why didn’t anyone know? Why didn’t Milia warn us? How could she let us go on like this? How many centuries has she let this happen? It’s wrong, it’s all so wrong. By Milia’s throne I want to scream until I can’t scream anymore!”
Alder stirred slightly and opened his eyes. “Oh, Athi, have you been here long?”
She grabbed him by the shoulders and held him tightly. “Please stay with me,” she pleaded. “Please, I need you. I can’t be without you.”
Seeing her cry made him worry. “Is something wrong?”
She nodded. “Yes. Yes, something is very wrong. And it’s all my fault.”
Gently, he placed his hand on her cheek and looked at her lovingly. It nearly killed her to see him look at her like that
.
“It’ll be all right,” he whispered.
She shook her head. “No, no it won’t be. Not ever again.”
He looked at her with absolute trust and confidence. It made her feel even worse. “You’ll fix this, Athi. You always do.”
“No, I can’t. I can’t fix this. It can’t be fixed.”
“Yes, you can. You are a daughter of Milia. You have her divine light within you. You can do anything.”
“PLEASE STOP SAYING THAT!”
The volume in her voice surprised him.
Her heart crumbled as she looked at his pale face. “There’s nothing holy about us, all right? There’s nothing divine. We’re not angels, okay? We’re not!”
Her anger collapsed in on itself, and she buried her face in his chest. “We’re demons. We steal light, we steal life. We’re thieves of the worst kind. We don’t deserve your praise. Please don’t love me anymore, Aldi, I don’t deserve it. It hurts too much.”
Alder tried weakly to understand. “You are a good person, Athi.”
She looked up at him, her face red with grief. “No, I’m not. Not even close.”
“I couldn’t stop loving you even if I tried.”
Alder leaned over and kissed her, her tears running down his chin. She kissed him back as best she could, but it felt wrong, and she pulled away.
He placed his hand on her cheek, preventing her from leaving.
“Promise me you won’t give up.”
Athel’s lip trembled. She wanted to run, she wanted to scream. She wanted to be anywhere but here. Seeing him look at her with total adoration was unbearable. She wanted to throw herself in the deepest dungeon beneath the palace, and never again see the light of day. She wanted to cast herself off the white cliffs and into the sea. Yet in her heart, she knew that would be a futile gesture, and would only hurt him more than she already had.
“Okay,” her voice cracked. “But not for me. For you. I’ll find a way to save you. You just hang on, okay? Now that we know what causes the stillness, we can find a way to stop it. You just stay with me until I find a way to heal you, okay?”
“Is that an order from my matron?”
Isle of Wysteria: The Monolith Crumbles Page 47
