by AZ Kelvin
“Papa, she’s…”
“Oddly beautiful, yes?”
“Yes, very.” The long trek seemed like it was a year ago and Quinlan could not have been happier with day’s events.
“The woodland way has a natural beauty to it.” Riklan smiled down at him and ruffled his hair. “Go on, wash up for dinner. We have an early start in the morning.”
~~~
The next morning Riklan and Quinlan prepared to leave.
A golden-haired Gwylari woman stood at the desk writing in a ledger.
“Shin Lahqui, Mare,” Quinlan said, and this time he knew he had it right.
The woman turned around. “Shin Lahqui, young master, but Mare I am not. She is mine birth sister. I am Sairyn.”
“Oh, I’m Quinlan and this is my papa.”
“Riklan, lah ahm, Sairyn,” he said, using the Gwylari casual version of good morning.
“Lah ahm, Master Riklan. Mare left thee a bundle.”
Riklan took the gunnysack and looked inside. “Palerin?”
“Fruit of thyne own kindness,” she said.
“Surely not?” Riklan seemed surprised.
She simply nodded. “We sang over it through the night.”
“What, Papa?”
“Do you remember the seed I gave Mare?”
“Uh-huh.”
“They’ve grown the seed to a flowering bush since then.”
“I don’t understand.”
“We’ll talk about it today while we ride,” he said and turned to Sairyn. “Our gratitude, please pass it on to Mare.”
“’Twill be so. Dost thee desire to break the night’s fast?”
“Yes, indeed. We still have a good day’s journey ahead.”
She swept her arm toward the tables. “Please sit.”
Sairyn brought out a small tray and two glasses of a deep red liquid by the time they settled in. “Fresh-squeezed palerin juice, bread, goat cheese, and hot kaurapuuro.”
“Ahh, wonderful.” Riklan tore pieces off the small bread loaf and sliced enough cheese for them both. Sairyn set two steaming bowls down in front of them.
Quinlan felt like he was starving to death and quickly took the kaurapuuro she offered him. He stopped when he saw what was in the bowl and looked up at her in disappointment. “What’s in it?”
“Oats and apples, with walnuts, cinnamon, and honey,” she replied.
Quinlan reluctantly began to eat. Once he tasted the oatmeal, however, the bowl was soon empty. Sairyn brought him another, which he finished off as well.
They ate their fill and bid farewell to Sairyn before heading to the corral. A Gwylari girl about Quinlan’s age stood with the stableman where they already had their horses at the gate. The man handed Riklan a gunnysack smaller than the one Sairyn gave them. The girl handed Quinlan what looked like a small cookie.
Unsure what to do, he looked up at his papa, who nodded.
“What’s th—” Quinlan started to ask.
“Bee biscuit!” she said loudly before she ran off in a flash. She came back a quick second later with a few of the golden-brown biscuits. She gave one to each horse and ate one herself. “Food for all!”
Quinlan cautiously took a bite of the biscuit. He knew the flavor immediately and finished off the rest. “It’s honey, Papa.”
“I know, Quin. I’ve seen bee biscuits before. Much like what we just had for breakfast.”
The girl ran over to Quinlan, whispered to a flower on her blouse, which came free, and handed it to him.
Quinlan slowly took the flower from her and looked up at his papa again.
He cleared his throat and shrugged. “It’s a good thing, Quin.”
Quinlan could see his papa was trying not to smile. He looked back at the girl who grinned wildly, laughed twice, and ran off again, this time behind the inn. She did not return.
“What do I do with it?”
“Keep it for now—it’s probably magic, you know.”
“Magic? A flower?” Quinlan pressed the flower against his shirt and let go, but the flower fell to the ground. He picked it up again. “How does it work?”
“You’ll have to go ask the one who gave it to you.”
“Uh-uh!” he said and used the corral fence to get up on his horse. He tucked the flower into the folds of his travel bundle and looked at his papa.
“Okay, we’re good to go then.” Riklan turned his horse down the trail and urged him on.
A short way down the road they came upon a roadside market nestled in a group of Gwylari farm fields.
Quinlan couldn’t count how many people were out tending the fields around them. A small crowd gathered in each of the fields working at what seemed to him as different stages of the same task.
“Greetin’s, good Vakerians!” a stocky Raskan merchant with hair the color of dark red wine called out to them. His speech held the heavy burr of the Raskan Highlands.
“Greetings in return, friend,” Riklan replied. “You’re a long way from home.”
“Home of ma childhood, aye, but I call Rou Vale home now. I came here many years ago and the vale cast its spell upon me. I’m Jarl. May I fill a need fer yer journey?”
“Thanks, Jarl, but we’re fresh from the wayhouse. Well rested and well stocked.”
“A place of warmth and comfert,” Jarl said.
“See here, Quin?” Riklan swept his hand in the direction of the fields. “This is what I meant about Mare and Sairyn growing the seed we gave her into a fruit-filled bush while we slept. This is Gwylari magic.”
“Aye, it amazes the mind,” Jarl said. “I never tire of watchin’ them work with the flaura.”
The melody of the chanting drifted through the air as the Gwylari farmers walked along the planting rows.
“Jarl, can you tell us what they’re doing?” Riklan asked.
“Certainly.” He stepped around the corner of the market stand. “Do ye see the older Gwylari lads and lasses out front there? They’re called furows. They walk out ahead of the others but still in rhythm with the chant. They work the soil with a two-prong tiller leavin’ a small mound of soil in the middle of two troughs. The ones behind them, they place holes in the dirt mound in the right spots with those slim wooden rods.”
“How do they know where to put them?” Quinlan asked.
“Taught by their kinsmen,” Riklan said. “Just like anyone else.”
“Now, watch there.” Jarl pointed to the group behind the furows. “The sowans come afterward ta lay the seed. They’re the master weavers of the flaura and incredible ta witness.”
Gwylari adults carried seed bags and followed behind the furows, chanting and weaving their hands in intricate designs. The sowans called to the flaura to bring forth the living energy of the land. A wispy blue-green glow rose up from the ground, forming a small flat cloud with a stem trailing back to the dirt. The seeds were drawn from the seed bags by the magic of the chanting. They floated up and out of the bag, traveled the short distance, and landed on top of the small cloud. The flaura cloud collapsed in upon itself back into the dirt taking the seed along with it.
Quinlan watched in wonder while the wizard-farmers planted their seeds. “Is that magic?”
“’Tis ta me, laddie,” Jarl said. “They’ve tried ta teach me, but I’ve nae the skill ta make it work. Now, the last group out there, they’re called loamin. They go by and finish up.”
Other Gwylari, mostly older children and young adults, followed after the sowans. They chanted a rhythm both different yet in harmony with the first one. They filled in the hole with water and smoothed over the planting row before moving down the field. The seed took to sprout as soon as their chant was done and the loamin moved on to the next one.
“Look Papa—élan,” Quinlan said pointing to the groups of birds flying in and among the farmers.
Along the field rows behind the Gwylari was a small host of élan flying back and forth performing small tasks to aid the farmers. Larger élan or groups
of smaller ones carried bodas of water to the Gwylari loamin, who used them to perform a chant of harmony, instantly growing the seed into a sprout.
“Aye, youn’ master,” Jarl answered. “The élans are close companions with the Gwylari and work with them in the fields, orchards, and markets. If there’re Gwylari nearby, ye can be sure some élan are close ta hand.”
The avian creatures were of various sizes, shapes, and plumage. The feathery semiplumes curled and bent to form intricate shapes as the intensity and hues of the colors shifted and changed. The more intricate and colorful the display, the more attractive the élan was to prospective mates.
“Incredible, isn’t it, Quin?” Riklan asked.
“Uh-huh.” He was too distracted by the magic occurring right before him to say any more.
Jarl held his arms out to the fields. “The Gwylari tend great fields and orchards like this from shore ta shore and grow enough food fer all people across the breadth of Arden.”
The chants of the Gwylari, combined with the glow of the flaura and the shifting colors and patterns of the élan, was a beautiful magic to behold. Quin watched and listened, mesmerized, before Jarl’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “The freshly tilled dirt will transform inta a green-frosted field of new sprouts in the space of a mornin’s time.”
Jarl moved back to the front of the market stand. “The colors, flavors, and textures of Gwylari foods are renowned fer their incredible variety and flavors. The ability of the Gwylari ta blend with the flaura allows them ta grow food fer any number of specific uses.”
“Don’t you just eat them?” Quinlan asked.
“Aye, lad, and sometimes too many.” Jarl grinned and patted an ample belly. He walked along the front of his stand to show off different produce. “Colorful fruits and vegetables with exotic flavors such as this muskmelon, and this crookneck cucurbit here, are grown fer festivals and gatherin’s.”
“Cucurbit?”
“A strange name it has, but really ’tis a squash.” Jarl moved down the market stand. “Some crops are fer makin’ breads and puddin’s, others fer tasty jams, spreads, and sauces.” He handed both of them a small square of yellow cake from a basket of samples.
“Mmm, what is this?” Riklan asked around a full mouth.
“A favorite of mine, bread made from ground corn.” Jarl ate a sample piece as well.
Quinlan found the corn bread tasty, but it needed a good deal of water to wash down.
“Still other crops produce foods fer dryin’ and preservin’ so they last many days on lon’ travels or fer storin’ through the winter. Grains, nuts, and seeds of every variety are harvested from all over Arden. Here, take one of these as well.” He handed them each a small woven hemp drawstring bag. “Nuts and dried fruits fer the trail.”
“Gratitude. What do I owe you?” Riklan asked.
“Naught. The pleasure of conversation this mornin’ is enough fer these tidbits.”
“Kind of you in turn to take the time to speak with us. Pleasant day, Jarl!”
He waved as they turned their horses down the road. “Gratitude, laddies, fair travels!”
*~*~*
Chapter Two
The sun sat just past its zenith overhead when they crested the final rise of their trip and stopped for a moment. Quinlan took the opportunity to check one more time for any last bits of the trail mix Jarl had given him. He upended the drawstring bag, but barely a crumble fell into his hand.
“Here!” Riklan called out a second before he tossed his bag of trail mix to his son.
Quinlan managed to grab the bag after a brief impromptu juggle. “Ha! I got it. Gratitude, Papa.”
“There it is, Quin—Telovin,” Riklan said, looking down at the Gwylari market.
Fields of crops filled hundreds of acres surrounding the market grounds. A wayhouse ten times larger than the one at Rou Vale sat in the center. Market tents stretched out from the wayhouse to the fields. Flags and banners waved in the wind and gleamed brightly in the noonday sun. To Quinlan, it looked like an island of rippling colors nestled in a sea of green.
“Look there, Quin—a kolosye.” Riklan pointed to a creature wandering among the tents. The shoulders of the quadruped animal stood as tall as the tent tops. The head was well above the massive body at the end of a long and slender neck. The tan, black, and white fur blended into a mottled brown blur at this distance, but the largest land animal on Arden was an awesome sight nonetheless.
“It’s as tall as the wayhouse!”
“Taller, I think, even.” Riklan looked up and pointed toward the sky. “And there among the clouds. Do you see the wyndrif?”
Quinlan looked up to see the sky flyer soar among the puffy white clouds. Wyndrives were native to areas of strong winds like open plains, coastal cliffs, and mountain ranges. Reptilian bodies twice the size of a man hung from massive bellows of semitranslucent flesh connected by lightweight bone and muscle. The bellows caught, channeled, and propelled air through the creature in a highly effective method of natural flight. The vivid colors of the skin stood out even from this distance. The wyndrif was nearly as big as the kolosye when all of the bellows were filled with air.
“Will it come down?” Quinlan asked.
“Perhaps, we can ask when we get there.”
“We’re going to see a druid?”
“Yes, his name is Bertrynn.”
“Why?”
“He may have work for me. And also, we need to find a place for our family and people to make a new home.”
“Because of the blood water?”
Riklan looked over at him. “Who calls it such?”
“Lanry and Gwenna,” he answered. His older siblings had spoken about it. “They told me it washes up into our beds when we’re not there.”
“It’s not blood, Quin. They’re only trying to scare you.”
His brother and sister always did things to him they thought were funny. It made him mad. “I hate them,” he said.
“I know you don’t hate them, Quin, and it is wrong of you to say so.”
“But, they—”
“I will”—his papa stopped him with a look—“speak with them both about lying when we get back, but their wrong does not pardon yours. If you let words flow from your mouth like a river, then you may end up with a flood you didn’t intend. A wise person uses their mind to stem the sea of thoughts and uses reason to gauge the flow of their speech.”
Quinlan was confused and looked uncertainly at his papa.
“Okay…” Riklan laughed lightly. “Just do as your mama tells you. If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all.”
“Don’t say anything at all,” he said at the same time and nodded his head. “Okay, Papa.”
“You’re a good son, Quin, and I love you.”
“Love you too, Papa.”
“The stables aren’t far off. We meet Bertrynn tomorrow, so we have the rest of the day to explore the market. Come on!”
Quinlan was in favor of any period of time when he wasn’t sitting on the horse.
The marketplaces of the Gwylari were full of wonder and astonishment, especially for the young. Multicolored flags and streamers flew from huts and booths. Baked goods of all kinds filled the breezes with tantalizing smells and aromas. Toys, wind-spinners, puzzles, and games for all ages were on display. Craftsmen displayed tools for fine craftworking. Fabrics featuring a kaleidoscope of colors hung in rolls of many sizes. Merchant trading was open to all.
The farms and markets of the Gwylari were spread throughout Arden, forming a central system of commerce and trade. Perishable produce was stored in dirt-covered longhouses cooled by blocks of the rhew-caled crystal that perpetually radiated cold.
“Papa, look.” Quin reached out toward an open cooling chest.
Riklan grabbed his hand before he touched it. “No, Quin! Rhew-caled is enchanted ever-frost crystal. Don’t ever touch it. It may be colder than winter’s breath, but it’ll you burn
worse than a firebrand.”
“How can it burn me if it’s cold?”
“It doesn’t burn with flame, but it burns all the same, trust me. I’ve seen it peel the flesh from a man’s hand.”
Quinlan’s stomach turned at the thought of peeled flesh.
The merchant noticed the exchange and apologized for leaving the crystal exposed as he replaced the cover of his cooling chest.
Riklan nodded to the man before he turned back to his son. “Don’t you touch it, you hear?”
Quinlan quickly nodded. “Yes, Papa. Why is it so cold?”
“The Kalnuvian frost mages have a citadel near the capital of Niege, where they mine a crystal found only in Kalnu and enchant them with the frigid winds of the frozen White Sea.”
Quinlan looked up to check if his father was hiding another smile.
Riklan looked down at him and put his arm around his shoulders. “Would I jest about such a thing?” he asked and they walked on.
A great many animals, of fur and feather both, busied themselves going from merchant to merchant, running errands, delivering messages, even hanging streamers and banners with a great flourish of color and motion. Flocks of élan and other birds sat upon the tents and huts or flew through the aisleways, dodging obstacles and people along the way.
An array of different plants and flowers filled the tent framework and tops. The myriad of plants and blossoms growing together around the market grounds shimmered with flaura of a thousand different colors.
Quinlan watched an élan land on a bush branch and immediately adopted the foliage colors and textures. The élan blended in so perfectly he could not tell if it was still there or not.
“Papa, the bird!” He pointed to the bush where the élan had set only a second ago.
“What bird?”
Just as he asked, the élan shed its adopted colors and flew off past the tents.
“Oh! Yes, look at that. You know, Quin, many of the animals and creatures of Arden can change the colors of their feathers, fur, or skin to match the nearby plants and camouflage themselves or to stand out against them when they want to attract mates.”
A commotion caught Quinlan’s attention. He looked to see several Gwylari leading a group of horses down the main aisleway.
