Isle of Wysteria: The Monolith Crumbles (50 page)

Privet looked on her softly. “Athel…”

“Nikki, tell the admirals to call a general staff meeting this evening. I just need a few more hours while they incant some more divinations on Alder…”

Privet stepped up to her. “Athel, this is not some mystery illness, and you know it.”

“Yes it is. We just need to find it and cure it. Nikki, talk to Commodore Wilkinson, see if you can…”

“Athel, stop it. You know what this is.”

Queen Forsythia’s face pinched. “Be quiet, don’t say that.”

She reached out and touched Alder’s soft pale cheek. “He’s only twenty-five. He’s too young for the stillness to take him.”

Privet looked like his heart might break. “It has been known to take men that young.”

Nikki looked on in concern. “What is the stillness?”

Privet tried to push past his own pain to answer her. “Wysterian men don’t die of old age. At a certain point, our bodies just…stop working. It begins in the fingers and toes, and works its way inwards, until everything becomes still.”

Unable to maintain her composure, Athel let her staff slip from her grip. She cupped Alder’s face in her hands and gave him a kiss. “Alder, I need you to wake up now.”

Alder’s eyes opened only slightly, then closed again in exhaustion.

“Aldi, please, wake up!” she begged, kissing him again. “Come back to me, please!”

Privet stepped closer and placed his hands on her shoulders. “Athel, there’s nothing anyone can do for him.”

“No!” she yelled, struggling free of his grip. “I’m telling you, Alder doesn’t have the stillness! Stop saying that!”

Privet tried to hold her, but she pushed him back, hitting her fists against his chest. “I command you. I command you as your Queen to hold your tongue, Privet!”

Privet caught her wrists and she struggled weakly, her crown falling down around her shoulder.

Privet pulled her in close and held her tightly. “I’m sorry, Athel.”

She tried to hold it in, she tried to cry without tears, but she couldn’t do it. In front of her guards, in front of the doctors, in front of the couriers, she buried her head in Privet’s chest and cried.

“I’ve got to save him,” she breathed between sobs. “There has to be a way, some magic, some remedy. Somewhere. What good is it to be Queen of a vast empire if I cannot save the life of one person?”

The courtiers couldn’t believe what they were seeing. They whispered to one another, a mixture of awe and disgust on their faces. The rumor spread through the woods faster than wildfire, from the Hollyberry plains, up to the Sicklewood mountains. A Forsythian Queen was shedding tears.

A deep bell tolled, causing everyone to lift up their heads.

“What is that?” Privet asked, as it tolled a second time.”

Athel looked up, terrified.

“The Spiritweaver is ready to share his findings.”

* * *

Madam Bursage’s frosty eyes carefully surveyed Queen Forsythia as she filed into the room with her guards.

“Lady Bursage, you and your daughters are welcome to be here, but it is not necessary, all his findings will be made known to the forest.”

“And let you censor the parts that don’t suit you? Not a chance,” the bitter woman spat.

The Queen paused and gave the snowy-haired woman a sharp look. The Queen’s eyes were red with tears. It was so out of character, it left even Lady Bursage speechless.

Andolf Kummeritas struck the bronze bell once more, his long purple beard shaking from the vibrations.

The room had been decorated in the traditions of his people. Multiple tiers of gentle incense, the colored wisps of sweet-smelling fumes gathering in the branches above like soft white clouds. Ash’s tree, Trillum, sat in the center of the room in a lavish golden pot, surrounded by numerous vials, crystals, baubles, alchemic circles, and seeing stones.

“Good afternoon, Trillium,” the Queen greeted sadly.

The tiny Nallorn tree sparkled happily in response. Still perfectly innocent, he had no idea that this trial would determine whether or not he would be executed that day.

The Queen’s eyes flicked over to the silver axe Madam Bursage wore on her belt.

She’s planning on doing it herself.

The Spiritweaver closed his eyes and began chanting. The air in the room swirled about, not from wind, but more like a current, as if it were alive with swimming creatures, unseen but still felt. He set a carved opal dish before him and deftly pricked his finger on the point rising up from the center. A single drop of green blood fell down into the dish, where it swirled about, growing in mass and taking shape into the form of a long, pointed thorn. It rose up and hovered beside him, the tip pointed squarely at his throat.

Andolf opened his eyes, his irises filled with swirling light. “As per the ancient contract, this blood spirit will oversee my disclosure. If I am dishonest or withholding in any way, it will immediately take my life.”

The Queen turned to the Bursages. “I trust this is acceptable to you?”

Lady Bursage snickered. “As much as I’d like to see him skewered, I know a blood spirit cannot be faked.”

“We will believe his words,” Iris Bursage confirmed, willing to be more forthcoming than her mother.

All the Wysterian women waited silently in anticipation. In her heart, Athel prayed harder than she ever had before.
Please, Great Mother, spare my children.

Andolf breathed in deeply, the swirling incense flowing into his nostrils in rivers and streams. When he exhaled again, the colorful smoke became the shape of a Nallorn tree, a man entangled in its roots, a woman resting upon its branches.

“The magic in your tree is irredeemably broken,” he announced.

Madam Bursage clapped her hands. “I knew it! We should have cut down that little abomination the day it awoke.”

His words felt like a dagger had pierced through Athel’s heart. All of her fears, all of her anxiety. Months of worry suddenly made real. “Are you sure?” she asked hoarsely.

Andolf nodded. “There can be no doubt. I have had the spirits trace the flow of the energies from their source and back again. Wysterian magic was never intended to be used this way.”

The Queen’s eyes were swimming. In a moment of absolute panic, she thought to grab Trillium and run for the exit. Her mind told her such a gesture would be useless and accomplish nothing, but her mother’s heart didn’t care.

As Athel stepped forward, Andolf raised his hand.

“It would appear that that magic flowing through Kamilah has been broken her entire life.”

This made everyone freeze.

“K-Kamilah?” Lady Bursage repeated. “You tested…my tree?”

“Of course. I needed a baseline for the spirits to trace. Your tree was recommended to me as an example of absolute purity.”

Lady Bursage covered her face with her hands. “You dung-eating fool. You tested the wrong tree.”

“I tested a great number of trees.”

“But you were supposed to test this little male tree. Ugh, now we have to start all over again.”

All the Wysterian women began complaining at once.

“Wait.”

All turned to the Queen.

“Wait,” she said again, trying to process all of this. “If you tested Lady Bursage’s tree…then why was the magic broken?”

The room went completely silent.

Andolf cleared his throat. “As I was trying to explain, I tested a great number of your Nallorn trees, and it wasn’t until I tested Trillium here that I discovered how Wysterian magic is actually supposed to work. From there, the spirits were able to trace backwards and discover the problem. Your entire cycle has been cleft in twain, and you are using the broken shards of what you are meant to wield. In fact, it appears that Trillium and Ash are the only ones on this entire island whose magic is whole and unbroken.”

“How can this be?” the Queen asked in confusion.

“This is absurd,” Lady Bursage hissed. “My tree is not on trial here. He had no right to test her. This is a complete farce. Clearly, this old man is trying to deceive us.”

“No, he isn’t,” High Priestess Oleander stated powerfully as she entered with her black guards.

Lady Bursage looked on in confusion.

“Forgive my late arrival,” Oleander said. “But we have just had a breakthrough in the knot sanctuary. Mister Kummeritas is correct. All Wysterian men wielded magic in ages past, and it was natural to them.”

The declaration sent shockwaves through the room. Even the living wood responded.

“That is absurd,” Lady Bursage spat.

Even Athel had difficulty wrapping her head around it, and she had seen her son wither plants on many occasions. A lifetime of indoctrination resisted what even her own eyes had shown her. She nearly vocalized her doubts, but something deep in her heart told her it was true.

They all looked to Andolf for answers. He breathed in the incense deeply to explain.

“Wysterian magic is the cycle of the seasons. Men draw on the strength of the fall and winter, the women use the strength as the spring and summer. The men end the life of plants and trees whose time has come; they clear the underbrush and groom the forest, taking the life force from the fallen and storing it in their own bodies for later use.”

“Which is a tradition we still hold to this day,” Oleander observed. “Mi’il create life, Ver’it end it.”

“Yes, I have visited the realm of men here,” Andolf said, stroking his long purple whiskers. “Now, the flow of energy from there goes through a sister tree that links a man and a woman together. Through her tree, a woman takes that life force and uses it to grow new trees and plants.”

“Is that why a woman who has lost her tree cannot perform magic?” Talliun asked anxiously.

“Yes, she still has her magical ability of course, but without her tree to link her to a man, she cannot draw on the life force she needs to power it.”

Talliun placed her brass hand over her heart. “She still has her magic,” she said softly to herself, looking like she might weep.

“At least, this is how it is all supposed to work,” Andolf continued.

“Supposed to work?” Iris asked.

“Like I said before, your cycle has been shattered. Your men no longer have the ability to draw extra life force into themselves and store it in their bodies, save for little Ash, of course.”

“The dragons said it was because they had been cut off from their god,” The Queen recalled.

“Milia’s companion,” Oleander whispered.

Andolf nodded. “However, even though the men have lost their ability, the women have not. Your women are still drawing life force out of the men when they grow new life.”

The women looked at each other in confusion.

“But, wouldn’t that mean we shouldn’t be able to grow new life at all?” Iris asked.

Andolf leaned forward. “There is no extra life force, but there is still life force within them. You are drawing on the life force of the men themselves.”

Athel’s face went as pale as snow. “Is…is that why they live such short lives?”

“Yes, with the cycle currently broken, every time a Wysterian woman uses her magic, she shortens the life span of the men connected to her tree.”

Even the most hardened women in the room gasped at this revelation. Iris covered her face with her hands. Talliun stepped backwards, tripping over an urn. Even the High Priestess was shocked beyond measure.

Athel was terrified. She felt her heart go cold, her skin grew wet with an icy sweat. It was like something had frozen solid every tender thing inside of her, and all she could do was stand there and shiver.

She thought back to Alder, lying weakly in his bed, barely able to breathe.

“So, are you saying that…I did this to Alder? That…I’m the reason he is dying?”

“Well, in truth it was not just you. When he was born, he was bound to his mother’s tree, and she siphoned off him. While you were linked to the tree you were born from, your mother’s tree, and fed off her husbands. Once you two were married, however, a connection was forged between you two, and from that point on you were the one drawing from him directly through Deutzia.”

Athel’s eyes trembled in horror. She looked at her hands as if she thought to cut them off. “So, every time I grew something, every time I practiced, or showed off, every time I summoned a root to heft me up because I was too lazy to climb up myself, I was…killing my own husband?”

Andolf’s eyes became regretful. “Yes.”

Athel threw her staff and backed away from it, as if it were some terrible viper. “No…no! I can’t believe it. I won’t believe it. It can’t possibly be true!”

“I would not lie to you.”

Athel threw out her arm accusingly. “Get out of here! You must be lying! I command you to leave right now!”

“Your Highness, I cannot…”

Athel covered her ears and screamed. “No! I won’t hear any more. Be quiet! Don’t say another word! I would never hurt Alder. I love him! He’s my husband. He’s my best friend. He’s the only person who ever really stood by me. I would never do that to him!”

Athel looked around at the other women, desperate for some kind of validation, desperate for someone to tell her this was a joke or a dream, but most of them were experiencing similar feelings and only looked away sadly. Lady Bursage was unmoved, and offered no sympathy in return.

Athel’s hair fell out of its braid, her crown slipping askew as she stumbled forward and grabbed the Spiritweaver by the collar. “Tell me,” she pleaded. “Tell me it’s not true. I didn’t do this to Alder. I didn’t.”

Andolf lowered his eyes sorrowfully. “You didn’t know.”

“None of us did,” Iris whispered, on the verge of tears.

Athel turned back to her staff, her eyes wild with grief. She released the man and crawled over on all fours, picking up the staff and holding it high above her head.

“My Queen, what are you doing?” Talliun shouted, grabbing her wrists.

“Let me go! I have to break it.”

Athel struggled against her guard, Talliun’s artificial arm whirring and straining.

Athel squirmed, tears running down her cheeks. “Release me! It must be destroyed! It’s killing him!”

“No, my Queen, don’t break your staff.”