by Ross Turner
The Redwoods
Book One
By Ross Turner
©Ross Turner
An awful lot has changed,
Always,
Ross.
1
Vivian Featherstone looked out across the vast sea of red pine trees, sighing deeply as her imagination ran wild, inventing and envisioning endless arrays of weird and wonderful creatures that might lie beyond the impenetrable stone walls of her home. Yes, the solid, shielding walls and the strong iron gates that she lived within protected her from any outside dangers, but they were impassable to her also. There was not a single day that went by where she did not wish to explore beyond the constraints of her home.
Her family’s home, their mansion, to be more accurate, was constructed upon the tallest hill amidst the surging ocean of red pines; the grandest for a hundred and more leagues in any direction, and it overlooked the land most regally.
The young girl continued to look out over the forests beneath her, dubbed quite simply the Redwoods, for obvious reasons. What had caused the pines to turn red, when they had done so, or even what the great forest had been called before it had been so casually christened the Redwood Forest, she didn’t know.
It seemed that the forest had always been that way, even though there seemed to be no logical or natural reason for it to be so.
Vivian’s thirst for knowledge was insatiable. No matter how many questions she asked, and how many answers she received, it was never enough. And sometimes, in fact most of the time, it seemed that the answers she desired simply did not exist. Or at the very least her questions could not be answered by her tutors.
From her perch in the smallest window of the highest tower of her home, Featherstone Keep, Vivian could see the stony mountains in the far distance to the south, though no matter how many times she asked, no one could tell her their name either. Those too, she felt as if she knew so little about, save what she had read of in old books and novels. They wove great tales of adventure and sacrifice and sorcery, with the steep, perilous mountains as their setting.
The City could also be seen from her safe nest, though that was over to the east, and was the centre of all knowledge and power and wealth in the Redwood Empire. For as far as anybody had ever travelled in any direction, none had ever discovered any other permanent civilisation. But then, of course, the world was a big place.
Again, Vivian knew little of the great City. She knew that her parents worked there, for they travelled there often, and sometimes the conversations of the maids and servants that Vivian overheard told tales from there even more horrendous and devious than those she had read of the great dragons and fiends of the wilderness.
Vivian was not really in the habit of eavesdropping, for it was a most rude and unsavoury habit, but every now and then she couldn’t help but find herself in the ideal spot for overhearing certain conversations.
She had once asked her father about the City. Her father was a wise, kind and respectable man, and he had told her that the City was the virtus of the people. When she asked him what he meant, he had simply told her that it meant ‘The People’s Power’. And so from then on, though it may not have been entirely correct, Vivian had taken to calling the City Virtus.
The Redwood Empire was great, ruled by the House in the very heart of Virtus, where the great Lords and Ladies of the Redwood Empire came together to meet and decide upon the best courses of action for the people.
Such things often went over Vivian’s head, and regardless, she was but eleven years of age, and thus always excluded from such conversations as those of the House.
Her parents were Dorian and Miranda Featherstone, and they were every bit as noble and majestic as their names suggested. Vivian’s mother and father had long been the leading Lady and Lord of the House in Virtus, which was most unusual, even for a family as wealthy, powerful, respected, and even feared, as the Featherstones.
Their long reign, and their family’s prowess, was the stuff of legend, though Vivian didn’t fully understand where it originated from, there seemed to be an unspoken respect for her mother and father that all customarily showed, even when it was not formally required.
Moving across the very bare stone room that she stood in, furnished only with a small table, a chair, and an empty dresser, Vivian moved swiftly to the opposite window, and looked out now to the west and to the north. There she could see, as she did every day, scattered here and there, the homes of other noble families protruding from above the rosy treeline, all visible in the near and far distance, though none were as grand, nor as splendid, as her home.
She tucked a lock of her soft brunette hair, dashed and streaked with interwoven lighter shades, behind her ear, and thought deeply for a moment.
Wealth and power meant very little to Vivian, especially at her tender age, and she did not understand the great political tension, even hatred, that such things caused, for indeed many of the other families were very jealous of the Featherstone’s wealth and power, and wished for nothing more than to see their line end. Unfortunately for them however, there was little chance of that happening any time soon, especially with young Vivian around, and her parents were undoubtedly trying for another heir.
Such things were very important to grown-ups, though Vivian didn’t really understand why.
Nonetheless, though Vivian’s parents were important, powerful, high-class members of society, not for a moment did that mean that they lacked care or time for their daughter, for they loved and cherished her dearly, more than they had ever loved anything else.
By day, when they were not at Virtus, Vivian’s mother and father spent every waking hour they could spare with her, and when night came, her mother would sing to her in a voice so soft and gentle that her melodic words caressed Vivian’s ears like velvet, and her father would tell her stories and read to her by flickering candlelight.
As Vivian had grown older she had learned to follow the words in her books as her father spoke them, and so in very little time, for her mind was sharp as a blade, she too had learned to read. It was a pastime she thoroughly enjoyed, for it occupied her mind and her imagination both, and allowed her thoughts to grow and wander and explore wherever her body was not permitted to venture.
Even though she had looked out over the Redwoods hour after hour, day after day, for weeks upon months upon years, wondering desperately what lay hidden within and beyond the encasing treeline, she recognised at least that her restraints were there for a reason. For as long as she remained behind the stone walls of her home, she would be forever safe, forever protected.
But such luxuries can only last so long.
Amongst the stories of heroes and heroines that her father told to her, many of his tales also wove the dangerous nature of the wilderness into Vivian’s bedtime stories, teaching his daughter of the treacherous lands that lay beyond the walls, only just out of sight and reach.
“There was once a cave, hidden deep in the mountains, far to the south…” Dorian Featherstone’s voice rumbled deeply and ominously as the sun dipped its head below the treeline to the west. The flickering candle became the only source of light, casting dancing shadows across the warm stone walls of their protective home, and seemed to add great intensity to his words.
Vivian’s bedroom had a large arching window that overlooked the Redwoods to the west, and another, slightly smaller window that overlooked the trees and the mountains in the distance to the south. The other two walls were decorated with painted tapestries of heroes and animals, all bright and bold and vivid.
Her parents had told her that when she was only a baby she would lay in her cot and stare up at the tapestries for hours on end, examining every detail. Vivian found that easy to believe, for even now she loved
to look them over, wondering what else they could tell her that she hadn’t already seen and learned.
She marvelled at the vast number of interpretations there could be had for the same images, simply depending on your mood when looking at them.
Besides that, Vivian’s room was furnished with only the bed in which she lay: a great wooden thing that was exceedingly warm and comfortable, and there were a few scattered chairs and small tables, a dresser, and a wardrobe over against the one wall. Her father sat upon the side of her bed and his hand rested gently and absently on hers, caring and protective, just as it had always been.
“And in this cave lived a monster so enormous and so frightening, that when it reared its head and roared, everybody within a hundred leagues in every direction could hear it…”
As Vivian’s father spoke, his voice dipped and rose dramatically, and in the faint, flickering light, fading and darkening seemingly by the second, both his and his daughter’s bright blue eyes shone vividly, gleaming in the darkness.
“What was it?” Vivian asked, pulling her down quilt up further about her neck and shoulders, a chill running down her spine, shaking her tiny, young frame.
“It was a dragon.” Her father said, his voice low and serious and deadly.
“A dragon?” Vivian asked wide eyed. “But dragons don’t exist, do they father?”
“They never used to…” Her father began, as though there was a long, intricate tale behind what he was about to say. “But when the forests turned red, the blood of the trees changed, and so did the blood of the animals.”
A hundred and more questions raced through Vivian’s young mind, each one tumbling helplessly over the last, all of them flitting so quickly in and out of her thoughts that in fact no sound escaped her lips. Dorian could see his daughter’s darting thoughts and questions. She was always full of questions, and never did he want to stifle her curiosity, but nevertheless, he still sighed deeply.
She was still so young. He only wanted what was best for her. That was all he had ever wanted. But now he feared things had gone too far, and the suffering he had always tried to shield his daughter from would engulf her completely.
“And when the blood of the animals changed, all sorts of things changed with it…” He continued, dropping his voice to barely a whisper, and it seemed to drip with the sadness of terrible loss. “They grew bigger, bolder, and braver. They grew cunning and witty. They evolved into new beasts: stronger, faster, and even fiercer.”
Vivian had never heard this story before, and though her father had told her many, this one was completely different. Nonetheless, it seemed hauntingly familiar, as if she had somehow already known it.
Finally, her tongue found a question from her scrambled thoughts, and she settled her mind enough to speak.
“What turned the forests red father?” She asked. He only smiled ruefully and looked at her carefully with his shining blue eyes, seeming to assess his daughter as silence hung between them for a moment.
She knew he had the answer to her question. She had known for some time, though she was not sure how she knew that. But it seemed after a few moments that he wasn’t going to tell her tonight, no matter how many times she asked.
Vivian was perceptive like that.
“Why won’t you tell me father?” She asked quietly, her voice wavering slightly, of course not through fear, but she had never asked of him so directly before, and she did not know how he would respond.
In fact, she needn’t have worried, for he seemed very pleased by her question. He smiled warmly, which was clear even in the trembling light, and looked fondly at his daughter.
“You’re growing up fast Vivian.” He explained softly, touching her cheek adoringly with his hand. “But you must understand, there are some things that, if I were to tell you too soon, would force you to grow up too quickly, and I love you far too much to do that to you.”
“I understand father.” Vivian replied, in a very adult like manner, and she returned his smile lovingly. Sitting up, she threw her tiny arms around his neck and squeezed him as tightly as she could. He hugged her back gently, his broad arms and shoulders encompassing his daughter tenderly.
There were many things that the great Dorian Featherstone wished to protect his little Vivian from. Yes, of course, the fiends and beasts that lay in waiting beyond the walls of their home, but also from those dangers that lurked within.
Not all monsters come in the form you might expect.
2
It was several months later, after Vivian’s mother and father had been away in Virtus for a few weeks all at once, having been summoned to the House for urgent counsel, that the young girl’s curiosity was once again sparked. Though, clearly, it didn’t really take much for such a thing to happen: she was a curious soul.
Vivian was not a dishonest or deceitful girl, for she had been raised better than that, but nonetheless, it just so happened that one of those occasions arose where she found herself in the perfect spot, just as she was passing the kitchens one afternoon, to overhear a brief conversation between two servants.
Usually she would have simply carried on walking, but for some reason, especially of late, the adults of the house seemed, even her mother and father, to be going out of their way to exclude her from conversation. That simple fact alone had driven Vivian’s hunger for information to even greater depths, for what they were keeping from her were surely the answers to questions she had been asking for months, years - answers that could not be found on any page, of any book, on any shelf, in the entire Keep.
“But Master Dorian and Mistress Miranda could overrule them easily…” Vivian heard one man say, and she recognised his voice quite clearly, muffled as it was from behind the door to the kitchens. The old man was called Briggs, and he had worked for the Featherstones as a chef for nearly twenty years. He was a little rotund and not overly tall, and Vivian often thought that his bright red cheeks seemed full to bursting.
“I don’t doubt it.” A second voice replied. “But from what I hear they’re growing bolder, and every time they make a move it’s evermore audacious than the last.”
Again Vivian recognised the voice, only this one belonged to a man known to her mother and father only as Archer, though, as always, she did not know why. He always accompanied them when they ventured east to Virtus, and so she imagined knew more of their business than most. He was an intelligent man with a very quick mind. He was tall and slender and his black hair was always slicked neatly back.
“I don’t care.” Briggs replied then. “It doesn’t matter how long the Greystones have hated the Featherstones for, our Lord and Lady have the power to change anything they want in the Redwood Empire.”
“That may be so, Master Briggs…” Archer replied carefully. “But ruling by fear alone will do little to quell the Greystone’s lust for power. They would do damn near anything to be rid of our Lord and Lady, and little Viv too.”
Vivian’s breath caught in her throat at the mention of her name, and it was almost a second too late in her shock that she heard Briggs making for the door.
“Desire may not even be part of the equation. We may be too far past that…” Archer continued.
“I don’t see what they can do.” Briggs replied stubbornly, his loyalty to his masters obvious. That was the final comment he made before he opened the kitchen door and strode out into the hallway, but Vivian did not hear it, for she was long gone down the corridor and out of sight, her mind churning over all she had just heard.
Vivian sat alone, staring almost numbly out of the smallest window of the highest tower overlooking the Redwoods. She always found herself here when something was on her mind, and this occasion was no different. Though her senses were lacking somewhat, and she felt decidedly numbed, her mind was working rapidly, churning and writhing in overuse.
Who were the Greystone family? Why did they hate her family so much? Enough even to want them all dead? And why did the other families fear her
parents? Yes, she knew they had significant power in the House, but they were not tyrannical surely?
Such thoughts and questions would not usually be found in the mind of an eleven year old girl. But then, young Vivian Featherstone was no ordinary eleven year old girl.
And then another question formed in her mind. A question that she had not asked before, and immediately, without even so much as a moment’s hesitation, she sought the answer desperately.
Why did her family have so much power? How had they got their power in the first place? All their land, all their wealth, all their respect? Surely they had to have gained it somehow, for some reason?
But for what reason exactly, over all the other Lords and Ladies, from all the other families, Vivian had no idea.
It was in the evening, just about dusk, several days later, when Vivian once again heard the makings of a conversation that did not involve her. She was not making a habit of eavesdropping purposefully, and in fact had simply been entering her mother and father’s chambers to wish them a goodnight, and with any luck for her father to tell her a story.
But as she approached the door to their bedroom and raised her hand to knock, her footsteps silent on the warm wooden floor, she heard their voices from the room within, and paused for a moment, her breath held tightly.
“She’s growing up fast Dorian.” Vivian heard her mother’s voice, soft like silk. Presumably they were talking about her.
“Yes, but she still isn’t old enough to know.” Her father replied, sighing deeply, his voice instead heavy with burden and sorrow.
She really shouldn’t have been listening to their conversation, and she knew it, but for some reason Vivian couldn’t tear herself away, or bring herself to knock. She simply stood there, her head cocked to one side, listening in earnest. Her hand was still frozen, half raised.
