by Kamilla Reid
Definitely a lesson there, she thought later but not one in which she would share with Jorab. She knew he would never approve of her using Quatra to listen in on conversations. Right now she didn’t care. It was the only way she could get answers.
Besides, it wasn’t like she had access all the time. Hardly anyone had Quatra. Most of the time she was tuning into white noise, like on a television or the hit and miss of radio stations. That is until she quite unexpectedly struck the jackpot of all jackpots in the eavesdropping world. She had been trying to tune in to another conversation of the Guardian’s when she caught a third party wave. It was his Klok! Who’dathunk his Klok, of all things would have Yield Quatra but clear as the wings on its little bat body, this Klok was better than a fly on the wall. Root zeroed in with ease and was soon party to the Guardian’s most private interactions.
Talk about a disappointment. Studaben Picklepug was a real dud on the ol’ grapevine. Most of his conversations revolved around food, what was to be for lunch, dinner et cetera. You’d think he’d been sworn in as Caterer to DréAmm and not its illustrious leader. Surely his most secret exchanges were done elsewhere. They had to be. A country can’t run on menu choices. There were issues. Even Root knew that.
Luckily, peppered in with Cockled Hen and Harvest Pie, the Guardian managed to direct his attention, at least for a time to the matter of the orphans. Hundreds of them, the ones who had been eliminated from the first Quest had to be placed somewhere. Papers were shuffled, documents were stamped and appointments were scheduled. But nothing seemed to be done.
The majority of Picklepug’s speeches to the orphans went something like: “As you know, as Guardian of our great land, it is my sincere desire that you be taken care of but, as you can imagine I am a very busy, important figure and these things take time…a great deal of time, indeed…and…”
Blah blah voice dragging into mud blah...
Root saw some of the kids leave the castle, taken in by new families. Most stayed. The House of Gub was their fall out shelter, the only thing sturdy between where they had come from and where they might end up.
“You okay, Rooty-pie?” Elgart startled Root back to the present. She shook free of her clinging thoughts and nodded. “Sorry, I was just…thinking.”
Elgart patted her back. “As soon as something is found, I’m sure you will be the…”
“First to know…Yeah. Thanks, Elgart.”
A small boy came around the corner. He was head to toe in disgusting putrid smelling slime. Elgart looked at him. “Uh oh. Widow Squash Bomb?”
The kid nodded and tried not to cry. Root cringed. The use of Widow Squash bombs had become very popular as of late. Whoever was doing them had gotten away with at least ten attacks so far. Ten disgusting, stinking puke explosions, most of them on the head of the victim. It was gross beyond gross and, with the culprit as of yet not apprehended, Root had found herself looking over her shoulder way too often now.
“Alright, let’s getchya cleaned up, kiddo.” Elgart took the boy’s hand and led him toward the stables. “See ya later, Rootabaga.”
“See ya” Root said, trying not to heave in the boys’ smell. And she thought Bulk-Poo was bad.
Speaking of Bulk-Poo.
Root turned back to Stogie now whizzing about the courtyard, sniffing this, licking that. There was so much to see now that Spring was taking the throne, pushing snow further and further from her kingdom. The spired leaves of tulips were nudging into her air. Everything dripped and dropped in her warm breath. Mud glistened. Puddles grew. A million smells woke from a great sleep. All finding their way to Stogie’s wet, black, happy nose.
Hmmmmm. This called for extreme measures. When it came to controlling Stogie, Root had one thing she could always count on. She had held off because it was her last one. But this was a matter of life and death. For her nostrils at least. “Stogaloo!” she chirped and reached in her pocket.
Squeak!
Stogie’s ears shot up.
“You want your squeaky, Stogers?”
The wet grass flattened under the beating of his tail.
Squeak!
He did a stand sit stand sit stand kind of dance and looked like he would surely die if he didn’t have that squeaky toy in his chompers right this second.
Root eased him toward the hose. Squeakity, squeak, squeak. Once there, with the poor toy in his jaws she knew he wouldn’t move. But she also knew he’d have it destroyed in mere minutes. She’d have to act fast.
Water, soap, spray, scrub, rinse. All in record time.
As the last squeaky remains spit out onto a bright yellow Squeaky pile and a fluffy blanket darted about drying the drowned looking but happy Hovermutt, Root heard her name called.
She turned.
Krism was bleeding and dirty and tears had turned his face into muddy streaks.
3
THE WHEEL
The first Treasure Quest, it was acknowledged had taken longer than was expected. Much longer. And thus, any successional Quests would most likely follow suit. With this in mind, Lord Blick set to establishing a proper facility for the Brédin that were to stay at Gub. Continued maintenance of their training was, according to him, essential.
Over the weeks he had recruited in a lot more Brédin, citing the increased Tint attacks of late but the rumour amongst the majority was that they were to protect the Miists of Kalliope. All six had been collected and hidden somewhere on the premises, their exact location known only to a select few including the Guardian of DréAmm and presumably Jorab.
The Brédin’s training arena was erected just off the hotel premises, along Mirror Lake where it could avoid the reaches of the Krux. It was an incredible architectural achievement that gained immediate attention and praise. Especially since it was built, quite literally overnight.
Root, like everyone else had gone to bed with a view of Mirror Lake’s bronzed shoreline, quiet and recumbent, glazed under the light of a fat harvest moon. When she woke in the morning, the shoreline was gone. Where the thick, wet dunes had been, there now lay an enormous rupture, as if the moon had sucked its own reflection unto itself, leaving a gaping crater. The belly of this crater was swept up like a tsunami, curving a seismic wave and then freezing it mid air. A gigantic sand wave.
And there, posted atop the towering sand-wave, like a Great White riding the sea, was the magnificent Brédin arena.
Harmos Weol. The Wheel of Harmony.
A rounded white-stone coliseum of arches and pillars two stories high, the Wheel most assuredly dazzled. The only way it could be reached was by a hidden staircase along the curve of the giant wave. Unless of course you were a Brédin, in which case you could spread your silver wings and arrive in two or three fluttering motions.
At the top of the wave, a staircase of coral and cream tiles led to the main entrance, where the entire floor was a mosaic-ed history of the Brédin, here a masterful tribute to their athletics, there a portrayal of musical prowess. Brédin poetry weaved throughout like a ribbon in the wind…words like artem and pacem. Art and Peace.
The grand archway was marked by the commanding presence of two statues. The first statue was of a Brédin Prince, Aalistus The Sworn, who had taken the first Oath of Preservation those many generations ago when the welfare of the Brédin was in grave danger.
Opposite him was the impressive monument of Watilda Blick, the nose and ears prominent. Clad in the hard-bitten garments of war, she claimed a fierce impression. But the artisan who had crafted her made certain to capture the distinct softness in her eyes, a twinkle perhaps. Or the trace of a warm baked cookie.
Faced with the task of protecting her immortal, peace loving companions, Watilda Blick fused Brédin philosophy with the unique form of defensive arts she had developed as Captain of DréAmm Defense. This powerful union did indeed gain the Brédin their freedom and along side this, a might unsurpassed in all of recorded history. It also made Watilda Blick the first Brédin Master of DréAmm, an honour
that has been passed down from generation to generation along the Blick bloodline ever since.
Ironically, its continued preservation now fell upon the shoulders of one who had no interest whatsoever of taking up its torch. Watilda’s great, great, great, great, great grandson, Lian Blick.
Lian, routinely resistant when it came to the demands of his father, Lord Blick, the current Brédin Master, had grudgingly agreed to regular observational visits to the Wheel. It was something that didn’t appeal to him at all, sitting around watching the Brédin train. But even less appealing was the critical tirade of his father should he refuse.
And so he would go and for the allotted time keep his nose in a book or his scrutinizing eyes on an exquisite sample from his increasing collection of the natural world. It wasn’t that he disliked the Brédin; he admired them greatly. It’s just that, to the very core of his being Lian was a Natruid of the most intellectual kind. His mind lay wholly in matters of nature, its living, breathing processes and feats. There was simply no room in this obsession for warrior arts.
When Dwyn asked if he could join Lian, it was at first received with a cringe. It meant conversation, something that Lian chose to avoid as much as possible, being one to prefer the silent communications of earth, air, fire, water and most precious of these, Aether, the Invisible Breath.
But, as Lian gave it more thought, he realized Dwyn could be of benefit by serving as a warning post to Lord Blick’s surprise check ups. Enough time to slip out of his books and pretend to be engaged in his so-called future. In the end he agreed to Dwyn’s offer, on this condition and one of minimal talking. Dwyn of course heaved a contracting high-five at him. Ever since his first encounter with a Brédin on Loz of the Squawnch Isles, Dwyn was mad for them, determined to sponge what he could of their skill and expertise.
And so while Dwyn sponged, Lian attended the many other more pressing tasks at hand, the latest being the review of Quest competition.
In a well worn notebook he turned to a page labeled Opposition and underlined each team name. There were six teams left, including the Valadors. Of these six he had a pretty good indication of where Hilly Punyun and The Pinks stood in the playing field; BIG FAT LYING CHEATERS had been scrawled beside their name.
Then there was Kor’s Kings, consisting of the rotten, puny eyed jerk Kor Bludgitt, his blockhead goon, Flink and…what was her name again? Oh yeah Tamik, the one everyone felt sorry for because she was stuck with them. Though from what Lian could tell, she hardly seemed to care. More often than not she was seen rolling her eyes at Kor and walking away. She was funny, that one.
Then there was Mekruzela, Milden’s team. This was the kind of team that made one always wonder. Especially with Tompy Fibler on board. Was there ever a time when he didn’t have a cold? And then of course Milden’s unfortunate allergy didn’t help things. Clearly their other team member, Jake Turner, who had been an accomplished Stealthlete before the Quests, helped tip the scales more in their favour. A lot more.
The Blue Knights were interesting indeed. As an all girl team made up of Brittany Goss, Ashley Edye and Alexandra Thorburn they showed considerable skill and strength. Now, if only Dwyn could stop flirting with them. The rules clearly advised against interrelations.
The last team was in no way the last team, especially since it had been the first team to bring home the Miist of Kalliope. Its mates were Sebastian Roberge, Olympia Kolakis and Rory Dumelie. Lian remembered them from the Scholarly. They were good then. At everything. And it seemed they had continued this trend as many a gasp was often heard surrounding their first Quest adventures. The problem was they were, all of them really, really nice, which made hating them difficult.
“Woah!” Dwyn stood to take in a pair of Brédin poised mid air, mere feet from him, in a sparring deadlock. He had to shield his eyes, as the sun was shattering off their silvery wings, now spread wide and dangerous. Then, in the split of a moment, they were entwined and cleaving the air in an ascent toward the highest clouds. It was spectacular.
“Didjya see that?!” Dwyn tried to imitate the move with what Lian considered to be lame sound effects that were very close to breaking the ‘no speaking’ rule.
“Mmpph.” Lian often mmmpphed in an attempt to stem conversation and get back to business. With the second Artifact briefing only hours away, they had to ensure utmost preparedness. Using a marker, he turned to another page of his notebook, this one entitled Assets.
So far, in a mere twelve weeks they’d done pretty darn good. Both Dwyn and Root had managed to gain a fair amount of magic basics. Dwyn was plowing through his Molds with considerable accomplishment and Root was getting quite savvy with her Quatra too.
Lian, in the meantime was thoroughly enjoying his many ecological advances. His room had become his macrocosm with every drop of time placed on invention. He had even impressed himself with a few of his latest creations, including Skim Sandals made of an extremely lightweight water lily…handy for walking across water; and Cooling Beads for the Hovers on hot days.
Both were now neatly packed away in the travel pack, waiting for their big moment in the next Quest, A-2 as Dwyn so coolly put it.
Lian’s father, Lord Blick had no idea that Lian’s room had become its own breeding ground of nature. Lian made sure all visits were anywhere else. The last thing he wanted was his father’s disapproving look and the swift cleaning up of “such nonsense!”
His mother, Estrella Fuffleteez was much more open to Lian’s tinkering. As long as he was getting healthy social interaction too. And so she was frequently urging him into the ick and awk of social events, pouncing on his hair and face with saliva smeared fingers. It was disgusting. And really annoying. He loved his mother; he just wished she’d…
“Oh no! Mum! I forgot she’s visiting today! C’mon!”
“But the Brédin, they’re just getting ready to…”
“Suit yourself. But then you won’t get any treats.”
Dwyn forced himself away from the Brédin. It was a difficult decision but one could hardly ignore the wonders and delights of an Estrella Fuffleteez visit.
“D’y’think she brought more of those chocolate toes?”
“Probably.”
“Sweet! And maybe more socks?”
“You need more socks? Didn’t you just get some?”
“Well, yeah but I left them at Chanéa Tweeger’s. She had a Swap Party and…”
Lian shook his head.
“Hey, at least I got a new scarf out of it.” Dwyn held up a long, fluffy soft scarf. A long, fluffy, soft, pastel peach scarf. “Nice, uh?”
Lian blinked. “Sure. On a girl.”
“Hey, good thinking. I’ll give it to Laronette.”
“But what about Chanéa?”
“What, she got my socks! C’mon!”
Lian rolled his eyes and walked after Dwyn who was already running toward the castle.
Inside the castle, also off and running was Studaben Picklepug’s rambling trap.
“Yes, I can see your concern for… for… for….”
“Krism!” Root said for the third time.
Krism sat silently beside her. He had been cleaned up but Root could still see remnants of the fight clinging to him, making him look ugly to the Guardian who was now twiddling his thumbs.
“Krism, right. We certainly do not condone that kind of behaviour at all.”
“So, what’s going to be done about it? He can’t even take a walk by himself.”
“Well, as Guardian of DréAmm I can assure you that I will do everything in my power to protect Krimson’s well being…”
“Krism!”
“Isn’t that what I said?”
“Look, Mr. Picklepug, sir. With all due respect, you said that last time and it’s still happening!”
“You’re right! You are right, it is. And it shouldn’t be. Not one little bit. Something should be done about this. In fact I’m going to do something right now!”
Picklepug sna
tched his bright orange Talker and dialled. All at once the ceiling and the walls of the Guardian’s office all fell away. The three of them, Root, Krism and Picklepug became small as dolls as the darkly stained office of the Guardian’s secretary, Slim Pulpit came towering up to greet them.
“Slim Pulpit.” A voice barked.
Root turned to see the secretary, bigger than the sky staring down at them. A fat cigar hung from his toady lips. In his hand was a paisley coloured Talker. His other hand clung to a folder.
“Hey!” The secretary pointed at Root. “How’d she get in there?”
“Good question, Master Pulpit,” The Guardian scowled.
“They musta snuck in while I was in the men’s room, sir.” Slim Pulpit growled. “I can escort them…”
“That’s fine, Slim. We were just finishing anyhow.”
“We were?” Root was not impressed.
The Guardian didn’t even hear her as he clapped his interest upon the folder in his secretary’s hands. “Are these the float prints?”
“Indeedy they are, sir.” Slim Pulpit gave Root a cold glance.
“Splendid!” Studaben Picklepug was already tugging the folder down. Once shrunk and in his hands he excitedly flipped through its pages. He stopped abruptly and drew his face in to a particular image. For some time they endured his hmms and mmmms, until finally he lifted his head. “I think the posters of my head should be bigger; I am the Guardian of DréAmm after all. Perhaps double in size. And can you look into how they might be touched up…my chin is rather…well, it’s…”
“More than one?” the secretary dared.
“Well, I…I wouldn’t go that far. Just see if they can…”
“I’m on it, sir.” Slim Pulpit promised. “In the meantime there’s a girl here collecting last minute donations for the parade and...”
“Tell her I’ve gone for lunch. That will be all.” Studaben Picklepug handed the file back and was about to hang up when Root loudly cleared her throat. “Oh yes. Now then, hold a moment, Slim. This is your superior, Guardian of DréAmm Studaben Picklepug.”
