Isle of Wysteria: The Reluctant Queen (20 page)

“Greetings, red-haired one!” Chief Maaturro shouted as he ran up to her. He clasped her forearm and shook it so enthusiastically he nearly knocked her over. “We have not had an outsider come to our village in a long time. Not since that man from Advan who ran off with your wife, eh son?”

“Don’t remind me,” Naanie bristled.

Chief Maaturro stared at Athel with wild eyes. “Say, can I have some of your hair?”

“Father, please,” Naanie protested.

“What?” Chief Maaturro defended. “I've never seen red hair before. What’s wrong with a little keepsake?”

“You cannot request a part of someone’s body as a keepsake,” Naanie counseled.

Chief Maaturro waved him off and went back to shaking Athel’s arm.

“Well, he is very...spry for a man of his age,” Athel praised, trying to be polite as she leaned back to prevent him from grabbing her hair with his knobby fingers.

“Yes, he is,” Naanie said, looking quite embarrassed at his father’s behavior.

“So, what brings you to us?” Chief Maaturro asked, a little drop of spittle running down his chin.

“Um, your grandson, actually,” Athel explained, finally managing to free her arm. “My ship was weathering the storm when I met him out by the caves and he brought me here.”

Chief Maaturro smiled and slapped Nuutrik on the back heartily. “Ah, so you've gone and found yourself a bride, have you lad?”

“What?” Athel gasped.

Nuutrik seemed to catch the gist of what his grandfather was implying and stuck his tongue out in disgust.

“No, father,” Naanie scolded. “He brought her here because she healed a loteberry bush.”

Chief Maaturro’s eyes came into focus and he looked at Athel more seriously. “Did you really?”

“Sure,” Athel confirmed. “My people are Treesingers.”

For a brief moment, Privet’s face flashed in her mind. She had done it, she had said her people but she only meant the men.

I...I really do sound like my mother, don’t I?

Athel shook her head, trying to clear away the overwhelming sense of guilt that was building up in her. It was still too soon for introspection. The feelings were still too raw. All she could do was push them aside.

“Would you be willing to help us before you return to your ship?” Chief Maturro asked, surprisingly lucid.

“Sure, I guess.”

A crowd of curious people began following them as Athel was led to the far side of the village.

There, Athel saw a depressing sight. Acres and acres of destroyed crops. Squash and pumpkins crushed underfoot where they had grown. Tall stalks of corn slashed and burned. The smell of scorched plants filled the air.

“Who did this?” she asked, sadly running her hand over a dead grape vine.

“The Baakuu,” Naanie said, gritting his teeth. They grew tired of destroying our houses, for they are easily rebuilt. Now, they destroy our crops, hoping to starve us to death.”

“Why do they do this?” Athel asked, aching at the sight.

Chief Maaturro tugged at some of the long white chest hair poking out from the gaps in his armor. “Five years ago, their God Mori'Atu was insulted when Tidnaa did not attend his festival. Now their God commands them to destroy us, and our God Tidnaa commands us to do the same to them.”

“But, you don’t, do you?” Athel inferred.

Naanie shook his head. “Our people have no airships. We have no way to take the fight to the Baaku, so Tidnaa has forsaken us. He does not come to our aid when the Baaku come.”

Sounds less like a god and more like a money-lender.

“Will you help us?” Chief Maaturro pleaded.

“Now, what kind of Wysterian would I be to turn down a field in need?” Athel said, taking off her gauntlets and rolling up her sleeves.

She walked down the rows of destroyed crops, handed extended. As her fingertips touched the remains, her magic flowed into them and life grew anew. Seeds inside the crushed pumpkins sprouted fresh vines, large leaves opened, and large, ripe pumpkins filled the area where only moments before there had been ash.

New green stalks grew high, filling themselves with full ears of corn. Beyond the rows, fields of wheat sprung up where before there had been only field grass. Within just a few minutes, the burnt fields were brimming with full ripe crops, ready to be harvested.

The villagers gasped, looking at her as if she were some kind of heavenly being. As she walked back towards them, their gasps turned to cheers.

Chief Maaturro fell on her, tears of gratitude running down his wrinkled cheeks. Athel grasped his forearm in the warrior’s grip, partly to say thanks, but mostly to stop him from pawing at her.

“This is a glorious day,” Chief Maaturro cheered. “Truly, Tidnaa must have sent you from the heavens to save us.”

“No, I am no angel,” Athel corrected. “My ship just happened to be close by.”

“Oh, but you are too modest,” Chief Maaturro praised, shaking her hand. “Please stay with us for the night and you shall sit and eat at my table.”

“I would love to,” Athel said, noticing how low in the sky the sun had fallen. “But I need to get back to my ship or my comrades will worry about me.”

“Oh, but you must stay and feast with us!” Chief Maaturro insisted. “Honor demands that we show our gratitude to you.”

“I really can’t,” Athel explained.

Naanie placed his fist over his heart. “I know the area well where you met my son. I will go and assure your shipmates that you are safe and will return soon.”

Athel thought for a moment on their offer.

Well, I am hungry. What harm could it do?

“Please, honor demands it,” Chief Maaturro insisted.

Athel shrugged. “Well, if you had said 'etiquette' I would have declined you, but since you said ‘honor’ I suppose I will.”

Chief Maaturro laughed heartily and slapped her on the back. Naanie spoke to the villagers in their tongue and their worried faces filled with cheer.

The village filled with song as everyone set about harvesting fresh crops and preparing a sumptuous meal to honor the angel that had been sent to them.

Within a couple of hours, the entire village felt transformed. Little children ran around playing an odd little game where one would stand at the top of a small hill with a handful of Juupa pits while the others attempted to reach the top of the hill without being hit. The only rule Athel could identify was that no one was allowed to advance while in shadow form.

The child on the hill would throw the pits, forcing the others to remain as shadows to avoid being hit, while the others would coordinate themselves, the ones on the left advancing while the child in the center threw pits to the right, then the ones on the right advancing while he threw left and so on.

At one point, the kids asked her to join in, not fully realizing that she had a completely different kind of magic than they did. Athel simply hid behind a hut and used a long Juupa root to tag the child on the hill. They all began screaming “haatai'i, haatai'i,” which Athel surmised probably meant “cheater” and ran off to the adults in protest.

After that, she wasn’t allowed to play anymore, so she helped the men as they prepared a bonfire. They were a little surprised at her insistence that they honor the spirit of the trees before using the wood, but allowed her do it anyway.

The Kwili had a very communal way of cooking. A large pot was placed at the center of the prepared wood, and each villager took a turn placing something into it, a bit of meat or a handful of chopped vegetable. Each time an item was dropped in, the villager would while recite something solemnly in their language. Chief Maaturro translated for her as best he could, explaining that they were expressing something they were grateful for. It seemed terribly silly to Athel at first. These people had almost nothing, after all. But, as she watched the villagers one by one find something to be grateful for, she began to get into the spirit of it. She even took a turn herself and shared her gratitude for new experiences. By the end, it felt like not only the pot was full, but their hearts were as well.

The fire was lit to cook the stew, and some of the men and women danced around it in something that seemed to Athel about half way between a dance and combat training. Wysterian music was peaceful and flowing, but this was completely different. It was quick and energetic, strong and infectious. Feet pounded on the hard ground in time to the music, while long poles were swung around in arcing circles, illuminated by the firelight. The dancers hooted and shouted, changing just a piece of their bodies into shadow, allowing the swinging poles to pass harmlessly through them.

It was all so exciting and new, that for a time Athel completely forgot about Privet, her ship, and the war. She just got caught up in the celebration of gratitude that these villagers shared with her. The stew was, of course, completely imbalanced in both its ingredients and its seasoning. Alder would have had a fit and prevented her from eating it had he been there. But, he wasn’t, so Athel slurped it down, relishing the delinquency of it all, and fully planning on bragging to him about what she had eaten when she returned to the ship just so she could see the consternation on his face.

Athel lowered the bowl and smacked her lips loudly. A dribble of the stew hung on her chin, and she made a point to wipe it off with the back of her sleeve instead of her handkerchief. Another thing Alder would not have approved of.

It wasn’t that she disliked the way Alder treated her, in fact she found it quite endearing. It was just that he always treated her so formally, it chafed her at times. It wasn’t genuine to who she really was. She may have been raised and trained as a lady, but it was just an act, a mask she wore; it wasn’t her true self.

Athel was just about to join in on the dancing when Naanie returned. His countenance was quite different than it had been earlier. He appeared angry and conflicted. He spoke a few terse words with Chief Maaturro, whose countenance dropped as well.

“Is something wrong?” Athel inquired, suddenly feeling a little bit concerned. “Did you visit my ship?”

Naanie shook his head sadly. “I was on my way to your ship when I received a vision from Tidnaa, The Cunning. He appeared to me.”

“Oh, wow,” Athel said, taking a bite of bread. “You must be pretty special to get a personal visitation like that.”

“No, Tidnaa was just desperate. He didn’t want your crew to know where you were.”

“Me?” she asked, bits of bread falling out of her mouth.

Naanie nodded sternly. “Tidnaa has commanded me to take you into custody. Your life is valuable to him.”

Athel couldn’t believe what she was hearing. The music stopped, and the villagers were all staring at her, whispering to each other. Athel suddenly felt alone, frightened, and surrounded.

She moved to open her mouth, but Naanie was too fast. His arm became a shadow and he reached into her chest. She screamed louder than she had ever screamed before as he grabbed her heart and squeezed. Her vision flashed white-hot with pain, and then everything went dark.

* * *

Athel had the sensation of floating, as if in a dream. Familiar voices swirled around her, some praising, most criticizing. She found herself dressed in an elegant gown of white, a golden circlet around her head. A cloak of chains was held before her, heavy and cold. She pushed it away, and then she was falling.

She landed on a soft patch of grass, at the root of a great tree. She was a child again, barely five years old. She played with the grass in front of her, happily sweeping her hand back and forth and causing the blades to dance and sway. Solanum never had time to play, so she played by herself.

A man and woman walked up to her. They seemed so tall. Solanum held their hands. She looked different somehow, a little scary, even. Her feet were encased in something Athel had never seen before. Stitched leather shaped to cover her feet.

“Is Solanum going to play with me?”

“Lady Forsythia, the Queen, commands you to come with us.”

“But, I’m playing.”

Solanum was discarded onto the grass, and Athel was snatched up. Athel reached out to her sister, their fingers nearly touching.

“Where are you taking me?”

Again Athel was falling. She landed hard at a desk with ink and parchment. Her hands stung from being lashed, little red welts criss-crossed over her skin. Her instructors stood before her. They felt as big as redwood, as inflexible as beech.

“You have not written your name correctly, Lady Forsythia,” one of the instructors said.

“But, my name is Athel,” she answered, her voice small and timid.

“Not anymore. The Queen has decided to name you as the heir actual instead of your sister, so it is no longer appropriate to refer to you that way.”

“When do I get to go out and play?” Athel asked, rubbing her hands.

“There is no time for that. Your real training begins today. We wasted many years on your sister, so you will have to work had to catch up to where you should be. Your name is Lady Forsythia.”

“But, my name
really is
Athel,” she stressed, confused.

The second instructor reached down and snatched up the parchment. “No, Athel is gone, you are Lady Forsythia, now write it correctly.”

A fresh sheet was laid down, and Athel looked at its blank surface, quill in hand.

“Write your name correctly, Lady Forsythia.” The first instructor repeated.

“But...”

“Write your name, Lady Forsythia,” the second instructor commanded.

“My name is...” She slowly lowered the quill to the parchment. Her tiny hand trembled.

“I am...”

Slowly Athel opened her eyes. The world was dark, except for faint rays of sunlight falling down around her and passing through her.

Through me?

Athel tried to sit up, but she could only twist around. No part of her touched ground, or anything else for that matter. She wrenched her head around and realized that she was floating in the air above a metal basin, etched with magical symbols. She reached out to try and touch the basin, but her hand simply passed through it.

Did the basin just...