Isle of Wysteria: Throne of Chains

by Aaron Lee Yeager

  Dev’in leaned in and gave her a kiss on the forehead. “Come on, let’s go tell your mother. Tonight we’ll have a real feast.”

  “What we’re we talking about?” she asked dreamily.

  Dev’in looked down, his cheeks burning. “An engagement dinner…if you’ll have me, that is.”

  She looked up at him, blushing beautifully.

  “Okay.”

  * * *

  (Present Day)

  Calla Forsythia dropped to her knees in the parched field, clutching her bleeding hands as the plow shear fell from her grip. Her thick gown was filthy with grime, the colors faded and worn from having been washed improperly.

  “Ii’ilaikara!” she swore, cradling her blistered flesh.

  Orlaya Oleander set down her seed basket and ran over to help her, her hair a tangled mess from having tried to do it up herself. “Calla, you must get some shade. That gown is far too hot to be worn working in the noonday sun like this.”

  “Nonsense,” the lady hissed, rising to her feet. “These are sacred, a symbol of my station. Would you have me wear a loincloth like a man?”

  There was a dark mist over the hearts of the women. They worked mostly in silence, their minds stuck in a pattern, a cycle of reliving the events that had lead up to the men leaving. It was the decline of a dynasty, the crumbling of an era, the end of the forest. All that was left to do was wonder how it had come to this.

  Only Solanum was merry. She danced about the fields, singing scattered fragments of songs to herself, blissfully unaware of the dark times that had befallen them.

  Orlaya shielded her eyes. The sun felt blinding at this time of day, but they could not afford to stop. Above them like canyon walls, the enormous Nallorn trees of Wysteria slouched, dry and withering, their brown leaves raining down around them like ash.

  “The men would have had this field plowed days ago,” she said aloud. “How did they manage it?”

  Calla reached down and scooped up her tool. “It’s not that hard, you just dig a furrow in the ground. A sow could do it.”

  “Well, then, why are we having so much trouble?”

  Calla looked at her harshly. “Your grandmother was Kisatriya, did she not teach you to hold your tongue in the presence of Braihmin?”

  “Oh, please. Does that even mean anything anymore? Look around. The trees are withering away, and you fret about decorum?!”

  She lowered her voice, afraid that if she spoke too loudly, it would make things worse. “The forest is dying.”

  “Calm yourselves,” came a dry voice. High Priestess Oleander approached them with a water pouch. The bells on her robes were choked with dirt, her miter faded from the sun, the seams on her robes crinkled from having tried to mend them herself. “This is Milia’s will. We must be patient and faithful.”

  The two women pulled out their cups and watched with anticipation as a small portion was poured into each cup.

  “That’s all?” Calla complained.

  Oleander failed to hide the concern on her face. “We must ration what we have left if we are to survive till the rains come.”

  “We shouldn’t have given it all to the foreigners,” Dalia Buckthorn barked, throwing her hand plow to the ground. Her makeup was blotchy and uneven from applying it herself, making her normally pretty features looked twisted and dark. “Those dogs drank us dry. I say we find some ships and go take back what is ours!”

  “And who would pilot them, daughter?” Lady Buckthorn asked, leaning on her hoe. “The men learned such trades. Not a woman among us knows how to navigate to another land.”

  “I can do it. If a man can learn, how hard could it be?”

  Lady Buckthorn pointed the handle of her hoe at her daughter as if it were a spear. “You will hold your tongue, you insolent brat!”

  Dahlia looked like she had been slapped across the face.

  “If you had held your tongue when I last asked it of you, we may have convinced some of the men to stay. You bear the fault for a great deal of our suffering; do not make us suffer further by forcing us to listen to your childish whining!”

  Dahlia’s eyes roared with rage, but she did not speak.

  A small group wearily waddled up, led by Archivist Teak, her once long and manicured nails chipped and frayed from lack of proper maintenance. In her arms she held a mostly empty basket, a few misshapen berries and mushroom sitting pitifully at the bottom.

  “Is that all you could find?” Lady Bursage spat as she inspected the foragings, her frosty white hair damp and greasy from exertion. She bent over and coughed painfully into her handkerchief.

  “I’m afraid so. Every day we go farther, and find less.”

  “We have some wheat from the fields, how have we not ground it into flour?”

  Scholar Riverwood and Madam Aster looked at each other warily. “We have run into some…difficulty.”

  “What do you mean difficulty?”

  “The mill stone has cracked.”

  “You mean you broke it,” Madam Aster corrected.

  Bursage sniffed disapprovingly. “So do it by hand. Just smash the kernels between two rocks. How hard could it be?” She bent over for another round of coarse hacking.

  Lady Peony reached into her pocket and pulled out a pouch. She loosed the tie, revealing a rocky collection of smashed kernels, more like coarse sand and pebbles than flour.

  “Surprisingly hard.”

  “We’ve watched the men do this for decades. We are women! We should automatically be able to do this better than they could!”

  Frustrated, Dahlia threw a seed to the ground and drew her staff. She pointed the tip and exerted with all her might. The little seed trembled, but no matter what she did, it would not grow.

  “Bah! What is wrong with you, you stupid seed?!”

  “It’s no use,” Scholar Riverwood explained. “The men are too far away, we can’t draw on them anymore.”

  “It’s not just that, the trees are resisting us.”

  Dahlia threw down her staff so hard it nearly cracked in half. This is ridiculous! We should not be standing around in the dirt, we should be plotting for an attack. You are women of the forest, where is your pride?”

  “Daughter, leave us!”

  “W-what?”

  Lady Buckthorn stepped up, towering over her daughter in terrible majesty.

  “I said leave us. Go home, I will deal with you later.”

  For a second, Dahlia rose up to meet her, her eyes young and fiery, her mother’s cold and steady. Their two indomitable wills clashing between them without a clear victor.

  Orlaya stepped back, wondering if they might fight.

  “Tch.” Dahlia stepped aside and stomped off, scooping up her staff as she went.

  Lady Buckthorn turned back to the others. “Complaining about it won’t help. We’ve got to get the rest of the potatoes planted, or we won’t have anything to eat in the spring.”

  “What about the smoke houses?” Calla suggested.

  “The foreigners ate through those. What remained is already consumed.”

  “The preserves?”

  “We’ve been eating those while we plant,” Lady Orchid commented. “My breakfast this morning was jam spread atop more jam.”

  “I’ve had nothing but pickles for three meals,” Sister Lotebush added. “I’m eating like a pregnant woman.”

  Calla took out a bandage and wrapped her injured hands in frustration. “This is absurd. There should be plenty of emergency supplies in the royal tree.”

  Lady Buckthorn turned around and looked at the tree ominously. It hung over everything, stoic and still. “The royal tree won’t let us go anywhere near her.”

  High-Priestess Oleander gritted her teeth. “She’s a Forsythian tree. She’s become as treacherous as her granddaughter.”
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br />   Orlaya could hear no more. “No, mother, she’s livid because of what WE did to her.”

  The other women were shocked, but did not rebut. Their own sense of guilt held their tongues for them.

  “We broke our most sacred law,” Orlaya blurted out, her eyes swimming. “We didn’t work with the trees; we forced them to do our bidding. We even forced them to harm! Most of the forest won’t even speak to us right now. Half the trees won’t let us go anywhere near them!”

  Oleander’s façade began to waver as she looked out at the dying trees. The empty dwellings they could no longer enter. The former friends with which they could no longer commune. Even from here, she could feel their sorrow, their bitterness at what the women had done to them. They had forced them to attack the men, despite the fact that the men had no intentions to hurt or kill anyone. The men had only wanted their freedom. The trees had sensed this, and their mighty hearts mourned and stung at what they had been compelled to do. Bitterness was not something normally found in the trees, but now it was everywhere.

  “We had no choice. This was Milia’s…”

  She swallowed. It tasted sour in her mouth even to say it.

  “…will.”

  * * *

  Dahlia Buckthorn stomped up the steps to the temple, passing by the sagging gatehouse without introduction or leave.

  Delphinium noticed her passing, and came running out, trying futilely to tie her hair with a ribbon without help. “Lady Buckthorn, may I ask why you are here?”

  Dahlia threw open the door to the High Priestess’ office and stepped inside. “I am here because those old hags have forgotten what it means to be a woman of Wysteria.”

  Delphinium was shocked to hear her speak that way about the matrons. She thought to summon the black guard, but all were assigned to the fields. She could only watch as Dahlia rummaged through the drawers, looking for something.

  “We do not wallow in the dust,” Dahlia spat. “We rise up; we strike our enemies. That is our way, the way of honor.”

  “M-my Lady, what are you going to do?”

  Dahlia found what she was looking for, and held up a silver key. “What I should have done weeks ago.”

  She strode out into the nursery and the domed stone arbor that sat in its center.

  She unlocked the door and flung it open, smiling like an animal at what she found within.

  “I’m going to hunt down and kill that traitor, Athel Forsythia.”

  * * *

  Athel quietly went around the room, stuffing bits of cloth into the cracks and knot holes to give Alder a bit more privacy. It just felt like the right thing to do.

  Carefully, she soaked the wash cloth in the basin of warm water and squeezed it out. Carefully, she took his frail little arm, and slid the cloth along its length, cleaning the sweat and dirt away from his pale skin. She paused at his hand, taking a moment to press his palm against her cheek. Those hands, which had held hers countless times, which had served and cared for her. Those gentle hands. They felt so cold now.

  Carefully she washed his legs, taking a moment to trim his toenails which had grown long and unseemly. He never was very handsome physically, but he always took pride in his presentation.

  Delicately, she washed his chest, starting in the center and slowly working her way outwards in practiced intentional strokes. His breathing was so shallow, she could barely see his chest moving. Only by placing her fingers against his lips, could she detect any breath at all.

  Tenderly, she rolled him onto his side, and washed his back. The skin was rough, crisscrossed with deep lashing scars like a spider web. Her fingers trembled to touch them. For a moment, Athel thought to cry out and curse Madam Bursage for her cruelty, but that would break the solemnity of the ceremony, and even though Alder’s eyes were deeply asleep, she felt he would know if she broke decorum, and Alder deserved a proper initiation.

  After drying him off, she brought out his last good dress suit, the only one to have survived the chaos of the invasion, and dressed him herself. She carefully fastened each clasp of his shirt, affixing the silver cufflinks, and smartly tying the bow of his silk cravat. She set the vest, humming soothingly to herself without realizing she was doing it. She polished up his shoes herself. Normally this was done by servants, but since he had taught her how, she took some small pride in being able to do it herself.

  Finally, she dressed him in the spilt-tailed waistcoat, and combed his hair.

  She leaned back to regard her work. He really did look rather dashing like this, and she couldn’t help but lean over and steal a little kiss from his lips as he lay before her.

  Athel reached around her neck and undid the clasp, pulling free a fine gold chain with her family crest adorned on the pendant.

  With infinite gentleness, she fastened it around his thin neck, allowing the pendant to rest over his heart.

  “It’s been two years since we were married,” she said softly. “I would have given this to you sooner, but I knew you would protest if I did not wait the requisite time according to tradition.”

  She took his hand. “Alder Bursage, I present to you a rare honor. In recognition of your love and service, I hereby give you my last name. From henceforth you shall be known as Alder Forsythia.”

  A tear rolled down her cheek. “There is no greater honor I can bestow, and you have earned it many times over.”

  She squeezed his limp hand. “So, please stay with me, okay? Please hang on. We have a plan to save you. Don’t give up, all right?”

  One of Deutzia’s rootlets that ran along the floor curled up and wrapped itself around Athel’s hand.

  “I hurt,” Athel whispered.

  “I know,” Deutzia shimmered sadly.

  “I’m worried about him.”

  “Me too.”

  There was a light knock at the door. “May I come in?”

  Athel let go of Deutzia and wiped her cheek. “Um, yes.”

  The door opened and Andolf slipped in from the corridor, leaning heavily on his staff. “I’m sorry for having disturbed you. Captain Evere thought you’d want to know that we’ve managed to lose our pursuers. We should reach the Dragon Isles in just a couple of days.”

  Athel didn’t acknowledge it. “It is I who should apologize. I’ve treated you all so badly.”

  Andolf righted a chair and sat down.

  “You are a grieving wife. You’re not evil, your heart is just broken.”

  She chuckled darkly. “You wouldn’t say that if you really knew me.”

  She reached out and affectionately tucked Alder’s short hair behind his ear. “When I first knew him, I was dismissive, impatient, cruel even. I was too immature and naïve to realize what a wonderful man he was. All I could see was a weak body. I couldn’t see what really mattered. Compared to me, he’s like a giant. I feel in awe every time I think about all he suffered and endured.”

  She traced her finger along his chin. “And yet, for all he suffered, he didn’t let it harden him. Those beautiful eyes of his looked out with the same innocence and sincerity as they did they day the first looked out into the world. If Aetria were filled with people like him, it would be paradise.”

  She caressed the side of his neck with the back of her finger. “He looked at me, a scruffy and precocious little brat, and he saw a lady. He always treated me like I was an angel, even though I didn’t deserve it. And I still don’t.”

  Andolf stroked his long purple beard. “You are too hard on yourself, my child.”

  “Do you know why I fell in love with him?”

  The old Spiritweaver thought for a moment. “For the same reason everyone falls in love. We are all made half whole from the day we are born. He was your match; he completed you.”

  She shook her head. “Nothing so noble. Mandi put void magic into him, to bring out his true feelings. She
thought he would try to get revenge on me for all that I had done to him. She put a knife in his hand and expected him to kill me…”

  She trailed off. “…It’s what I would have done if I were in his place.”

  “So, what happened?”

  She placed her hand on Alder’s chest. “The only thing he had in his heart was love for me, so that is what came out. It overwhelmed me, the realization that someone could love me so completely, even as snotty and spiteful as I was. I knew in that moment that no one would ever love me as fully as he did.”

  She turned to Andolf, her eyes wet. “But that was wrong, too. I fell in love for me. For the way he made me feel. He deserved more than that. He deserved a wife that loved him for him. Because she wanted him to be happy.”

  “If you don’t mind me saying so, your attitude is most distinct from that of your kin.”

  She turned back to Alder and took his hand. “I suppose it is. Being married to Alder changed me. He taught me, not through words, but through kindness. He taught me what a true marriage is supposed to be.”

  She took a sharp breath, her wounded heart aching inside her. “I should have lived and breathed to make him happy. Instead, he gave me everything, and I took it all from him. I treated it like a given. I was appreciative of his support and tender caring, but I gave him nothing in return. I was a parasite to him, a disease. Every time I look at his sweet face, I feel like I could collapse from the guilt of it all.”

  Her hand fell away from his and hung limply at her side. “Of all the people I have hurt, he is the one I regret the most. It’s like a collar of stone about my neck, weighted steel in my chest. It hurts so bad, all I can think about is oblivion to end my agony. Between grief and nothing, nothing feels the sweeter to me.”

  “You didn’t know that your magic was stealing his life force.”

  “I’m not talking about that, though it is also true. If anything, it’s just a physical manifestation of what was already happening in our relationship.”