by K M McGuire
Voden pushed the groggy bed of coals, and with tedious yawns of smoke, the cinders finally sparked red, blowing kisses of heat against Voden’s cheeks. He felt a peace about the circular motions he made as he irritated the hunks of charcoal, and Voden’s companions sluggishly joined him, watching as he sifted the powder. They hardly spoke, perhaps unable to arouse much thought beyond the mindless furrowing of Voden’s stick. After a bit of time, they found the energy to eat a quick meal before heading out for the final stretch of their journey. Vec and Andar covered the smolders and spread the dirt, blending what was left with the earth so they could hide any trace they had been there. Yael yawned, flicking her hand towards the tents, collapsing them into neat piles, ready to be carried to the caravan. And in no time, they were on their way.
Voden could not come to terms with the excitement swelling in his chest. He felt attentive; his eyes lingered on any detail he could catch, and everything held a sharp freshness to him. The sentiment quivered his heart. At the rise of each hill, he saw the canopy of the Eternal Tree, blazing in emerald majesty against the rusty sea of leaves, until the trees became too thick to see the green beacon any longer.
But evidence of their approach still surrounded him, reassuring Voden that they were getting closer with each clop of the horses’ hooves. The road now tessellated with flagstones of slate and sand colored blocks that brightened the arbor around the path. The brilliant stained-glass firmament of a botanical corridor shimmered above, rusted by the amber and orange leaves that shivered on brittle, rattling twigs. And of those that had fallen from the vault above, they found they had legs with the wind to slither across the well-groomed road. It must have been the romantic breath of the season that brought the mass of wanderers to the corridor, greeting warmly those who happened to pass them by. It was an idealistic day, harmonized with Tastins. Tasmians, and humans alike, flourishing within the metamorphic environment, making Sedar feel intensely alive.
Another caravan passed Voden and his friends on the road; the driver, a round-faced Tastin, beamed at them, tipping his olive tufted cap to them in cheery acknowledgment. Voden was rather perplexed to see a true Tastin. It was true Andar was a mix, but Voden was more enamored by how different a true Tastin looked from his friend. The closer to the city they came, the more Tastins he could see. It was difficult to deny the beauty these people possessed. Even the males were better looking than himself, not to mention the almost immaculate glow that permeated from the females.
He tried to steal glances when Yael was focused elsewhere, knowing she would not understand his fascination, studying the delicate angles of their jawlines, and the perfect almond shape of their heads. It made him wish he had a talent for painting, but he could not shape beauty beyond fading memories. He knew it would be the only way he could capture what he could not put into words. It was only in those who passed by and waved saying, “Hello” with whom he sheepishly replied a similar greeting, staring into the strange variety of eyes that twinkled at him.
He saw the subtle pastel colors flooding the irises, shining against the dark steely eyes, where Voden’s would have been white. Their pupils were nacreous in the glinting light, bleeding with the color of their iris. Blooming from the lens came a starry cosmos that spoke of worlds beyond what Voden could comprehend. Even their skin was bright in color, dowsed in yellowish depths, warm enough to hold the winter at bay. It seemed to glow at the touch of the sun, though Voden felt his mind might exaggerate at how he marveled. He found his attention pulled across his surroundings, staring for moments at the candied trees, weeping joyous, and vermillion flakes of leaves, which led his eyes over to the effulgent river where groups of people flung rocks along its surface, ravenous for the accolade of the best throw.
The flagstone became more uniform, which helped to smooth out the ride, gliding across the stone with relative ease. Voden looked at the blocks pinched more pristinely together, and the sides of the road were marked by a dark ochre line of stone. Every few feet, a reddish stone, shaped like a budding flower, marked the middle of the road. The masonry left no room for the dirt beneath to breathe and was with limited flaw. Voden could only marvel that the amount of travel running across it had not worn it down more. He felt a fluttering in his heart when he looked up at the arches of white framing the path, careening and twining into delicate pinnacles above their heads. They appeared to be made of a single piece of ivory material, like the ribs of a great creature that died belly up for the city to live.
Soft carvings of filigree and leaves filled the length of the arches, splashing down to where the alabaster parabolas met the ground. Draped from its top fluttered powerful banners, long and sovereign, where the flowering bud, similar to the ones trapped in the stone, pulsed at the wind with a lustful red. It beguiled the breath from Voden’s lungs. The sigil was wrapped by six petals spaced around it, as though they cupped the blossom and protected something deep inside.
Out of the top of the bloom came twining lines of gold woven together in unending knots, like fountains, spilling out to the edges, cascading down the deep green cloth. Though they were massive, they were not low enough to touch the top of the tallest cart that filed underneath it. The top of the banner was cut in a V-shape, where a large, round gem sat above, nestled at the center of the peak, glazed in flickering facets of blue.
Voden swore they ebbed with energy, homely and vigilant, and watchful glitters eyed them as they passed underneath the structures. He watched a moment as the pulse of dull light left one crystal and ebbed into the next, filing down the line towards their end point. Still, the trees thickened around the road.
“The arches are pylons,” Yael said, pointing towards the crystals. “They store energy from the sun and send pulses throughout the city. It replenishes the smaller pylons that power the lanterns and registers anomalies of energy spikes.”
“So, in essence, these pylons are a security measure?” Vec asked quizzically.
“A very good one.” Yael smiled. Voden wasn’t quite sure how to take her expression. She seemed to have an odd eagerness as she stared up at the ribs. She turned her attention to the thick trees lining the road, where a cloaked figure stood on one of the branches, unmoving in the shadow of the leaves. Spectrally faced, the hooded figure stood shrouded by a retina-like shadow that covered the persons expression. They seemed to see more than what was possible, burning potential guilt into Voden. A grumbling fear caused Voden to turn uncomfortably away. He peered forward, attention stolen now by what he could only describe as a hedge of trees and vine and bramble, towering above the arches they had just passed under.
Yael watched her companions’ reactions, smiling broadly. “That’s the Gate of Thorns.”
Voden pursed his lips in confusion. The road seemed to stop at the hedge, taken over by the wild growths weaving up to the height of the trees. They made their way to the end of the road, where the deep shadow of the mountainous wall bore down on them with silent judgement. To either side of the road, Voden could just make out thick trunks wrapped by the mingling vegetation. He traced it up until his eyes found a balcony that stretched out of the wall, bark-less wood, layered in the ripples of the grain, and two spear-wielding guards, draped in cloaks that matched the foliage—bright and orange—gazed forever across the plane of the horizon. There was also one of these balconies to either side of the road. In a strange way, they were symmetrical, while maintaining their own organic shape.
Voden’s eyes trailed around the wall of the hedge, wondering what kind of ward this city must have to stop the leaves from dropping. He assumed the rampart, because there were a few speckles of individuals walking along the top, stopping to peer down at the travelers at the gate, though how they got up there, he hoped was a mystery that would soon be solved. His eyes tried to burn a way through the wall, hoping to see through the thick brambly face, but he feared hardly a mouse could squeeze its way therein with how tightly knit the branches appeared. He swore it writhed with a satisfied j
est at his consternation.
“This is where we enter?” came Andar’s voice, poking his head through the window of the caravan.
Yael nodded as though it were a stupid question. They stopped the caravan behind a group of people, and one of the guards in the road approached them. There were a handful of guards, each wearing cloaks ranging from viridian to a cantaloupe orange. The only one who stood out was a red-cloaked Tastin, hood pulled down. Its apricot-colored head was bald and glossy, even in the shade. Voden wasn’t sure if the guards were male or female, the faces being oddly asexual, while the cloaks covered much of their distinguishing features.
“The ones in orange,” Yael said, pointing to the awkward looking guard who had engaged with the group in front of them, “are from the lower branch of the Thorns; they’re called the Radicles. Most are recruits, learning the ropes for how our military functions. After their training,” she pointed over to the smaller group of green cloaked individuals, “they get separated into more specialized units. The green is dedicated for the scouts. The red,” she drew Voden’s attention towards the one by the gate, “means they are in the arcane division: A Bole. They tend to deal with defenses using AD. If they’re talented enough, they won’t need much help. The others are there just to intimidate.”
As she said this, the orange radicle yelled something incoherent, and the man in red nodded, waving his hands. The ground churned, fizzing angrily as the vines blocking the road palpitated and sundered away from the dirt, the growths curling and contracting as far away from the disrupted ground as they could reach. They writhed and convulsed, whipping and coiling in vehement motion, settling into a large arch that opened to the city beyond. The sojourners in front of them paid little attention to the caprice that just took place and stepped forward when they were waved on. In a creaking, twining roar of wood and sinewy shoots, the wall fell back to its impervious structure as the group crossed the threshold of the boundary to Septium. Yael nudged the caravan forward.
“Halt!” exclaimed the radicle in orange.
It was easy to tell he wasn’t much older than Voden and unsure of his authority. Yael obliged. Several of the green scouts rushed over to them, scouring the caravan, looking over every grain of wood. They nudged around Voden and Vec carelessly. Frustration rose quickly in Vec’s eyes. The radicle approached, carrying a scroll. He unfurled it and stared at it.
Without hesitation, he said, “Name, and where are you coming from?” He cleared his throat and scrutinized the group.
“Yael Sahira. This is Voden…”
“Helim,” Voden stuttered, realizing he had not been asked that question nearly enough. The guard scanned him quietly.
“Andar Maithe.”
“Vec.”
“That’s your name? Just Vec?” said the guard irritably.
“That’s all I’m willing to give.” His eyes hardened.
“We came from Barisko,” Yael said, interrupting the potential confrontation. “I have supplies for my shop, and they are here on leisure. Why is the gate closed?”
“There have been some disturbing rumors lately. A price to pay for safety,” he said, trying to brush off the question.
The young man looked over Voden, then Andar, who still had his head hanging out the window. He looked at Vec. His eyes shifted hesitantly and inadvertently turned back to the scroll. Voden noted the newly won smugness Vec struggled to hide as the guard looked up from the scroll, hoping to catch a glance from his fellow Thorns. The scouts backed away from the cart.
“It seems you check out,” he said, as he rolled the parchment up and began to rummage through his satchel. He pulled out another piece of parchment and ran his finger down a list. “There are some new tariffs being implemented, Miss Sahira. Head to the Scale’s office at the right of the gate. Take your cart directly in. The Scale on duty will instruct you further.”
“Thank you,” Yael said kindly, though her eyes burned with annoyance.
The radicle nodded and stared hard at Vec one last time. “Remember, the trees have ears here.”
“Just as long as your trees have beers,” Vec said, “there will be little for them to hear.”
The radicle gulped ever so slightly and waved to the bald bole. “Clear the gate!” The bole nodded and motioned like before. The vegetation separated, forming the arch that opened to the city. The radicle motioned them forward, and Yael urged her horses on, shaking her head once she got out of the radicle’s line of sight, muttering something that made Vec smile, though Voden missed what she had said. He stared up at the orange arch over his head. From this position, he could see it was nearly fifteen feet wide, and he dreaded the thought of being underneath it as it made its descent back to the ground. He could feel his mind soaking with nauseous thoughts, wondering if the arch was pulsing or just an illusion played by the wind.
“Has the gate ever come down on anyone?” Voden asked nervously.
“Yes, dozens of times,” Yael stated. Voden gulped.
“Has anyone ever outrun it?” Vec asked eagerly.
She turned to him, raising her eyebrows. “You might make it through,” she said, “but those vines are vengeful. If you have been marked and go near it without the consent of a bole, and I’m talking a high-ranking bole…” She laughed, coldly letting the thought fill Voden’s own imagination as she wove her fingers together. She shook her head at the foolish thought. “If you want to test the strength of those trees, you’ll find out how frail you are.” She held Vec’s gaze, his face draining of color. Voden, too, felt his blood chill, and he shivered at the thought.
“Have you seen it happen?” Vec asked, skeptically.
“Once,” she said bitterly. “A thief came into our shop. I saw him snatch some food, and I had learned long ago about marking. I’d never used it before, and my mother told me how much trouble you could get into for marking someone without cause.” She swallowed, and the gate closed silently behind them, ruffling the dirt. It stole her attention, where she seemed to convulse from the memory. “I chased him down and saw him running through the gates. I almost caught up, but I tripped. The branches came down, splintering through his skin, digging into the earth. It was months before the red vanished from the vines and dirt.”
The silence between them was harsh. They tried to pry their minds from thoughts of stained remains and countless beings left in the twisted vines. Now, Voden’s attention had been swept away by a mystical glow of blue, ebbing from strange floating orbs, loftily dangling in the trees. They scattered throughout the foliage, following the streets that cut between the trees in winding paths, bifurcating like the roots they could not see. Voden tried to catch some detail through the esoteric mist, but the caravan had pulled inside a tree. No, it was multiple trees, fused together towards the top, with several orbs lingering shyly around the room they had entered.
The sensation was strange to Voden, and his eyes trailed around the grainy structure, struggling to understand what these trees had become. The doorway, if that was what you could call it, was shaped by the knot between the two larger trees that made up the room. It was as though someone hollowed them out in a weirdly organic fashion, and sheets of stone filed up the face, like large blocky scales, starting like swords sunk in the ground, dissipating to remnants the further up he looked. The room was lined with two smaller trees, bent over diagonally and fused to the inside of the larger ones, with static lumps of what Voden could only describe as knots, forming the staircase that whirled up to a second story.
The trees mushroomed out into a balcony, littered with more bluish orbs, and several yellow-gowned Tastins scurried about. The balcony led off to other compartments, which Voden assumed had other rooms and meeting rooms for these beings to go. The horses clopped on bluish granite, the dark purply veins of stone spiraled out from the center of the floor and spread like a peel of lightning around the room. The vault of the ceiling seemed to stretch to the final branches, where Voden could just make out a soft glow of light
flickering from above. The place bustled with many yellow-gowned individuals, and a few in purples, while even less were in white. The desk that sat before them lined the opposite wall, just as smooth and wooden as the majority of the room, curving with the shape of the tree. Some of the people at the desks looked over piles of parchment, while flicking gemmed beads along abacuses that seemed to have spawned from the stomp-like desk, and each row of the counting device was a different color. One of the white gowned individuals held a hawk with a tiny roll of paper tied to its leg. She conversed with a purple-gowned Tastin, who nodded through the chat.
The yellow attire seemed to be for the lower leveled Scales, though Voden wasn’t sure he cared that much, and if he did, he was unable to ask Yael any questions while her teeth gritted together in annoyance. She was being led by a pouty looking human, dressed in yellow, over to the long desk. She positioned the caravan over a segment of the marble cut separate from the rest. The man held his hands up, which made Yael huff indignantly, obviously not enjoying how she was being treated. The man walked away, satisfied with where the caravan had parked, hurriedly heading to direct the next cart to a seated Scale.
Yael turned to look at a rather unresponsive Tastin female, hands folded atop a mound of parchments. The Tastin’s dark hair was pulled back on her scalp, as though wanting to get rid of her wrinkles by force. But her frustrated brow annulled any chance of changing that. Her eyes drifted through a mist of disdain, which snatched much of her potential beauty from her tightly pursed lips.
“Name,” sprouted her voice from what sounded like a hollow cavern in her chest. Voden expected it was her heart speaking, though he feared to make his opinion known. Her voice was so bland it hit their ears like a putrid mass.
