Riven Earth, page 5
Like craven dogs, they licked dryad sap. Oh, how they worshipped, moaning about Astea through their prayers, scuttling after the tree witches for the slightest favour. They enjoyed the attention, those leafy whores did. And the sap lickers were rewarded for it.
I have never regretted killing a sap licker. And I have killed many. It is a pitiful thing that in the war we fought more of our own kind than the tree witches. But such is the power of worship. Their minds were emptied of logic and reason, and they were blinded to reality by the promises of a false god. They were the hand of the oppressors. They were the tool used to keep us in the mud. And worship turned them against us.
Yesterday, I held a babe. As I looked into his little eyes, I realised that the child will never know a life before our kingdom. He will not know of the sap lickers, the endless work, the meager rations, or the fear of stepping out of line. Never will he ponder the terrors of the forest beyond the village. And if I have any say in the matter, never will he hear the word Astea spoken with anything but contempt.
Perhaps seeing that child finally pushed me to write this memoir. I realise now that memory is a fleeting thing. We grow old, the men of my generation. Our children will inherit the seeds we have sown. And theirs will be the world. Let not the mistakes of the past repeat themselves. Let them know what it was like, so they can know what freedom means.
From Greenflower, the sap lickers came. Every day, they rode in on their lomers, staves and clubs in hand as they frowned down at us and circled the village. We grew familiar with the clopping of hooves that announced their arrival. The workers lined up, ready for their assignments.
It was never forced, you see. They claimed we didn’t have to work. Yet food came only in the wagon that followed them. Baskets of rotting fruit and stale bread, scraps of meat from the beast they’d sacrificed the night before. Each pitiful morsel of it had a price in chips.
An empty space of grass surrounded Oakheart and separated our homes from the forest. We called it the work clearing. Dryad magic imbued the trees. A barrier bounced back anything we threw at it, including ourselves. They said it was to keep the forest away – for our own safety. No doubt it was to keep us in. A single path of trampled dirt came from the east and ran through the village. It was the only way in or out. Every night, sap lickers patrolled it.
Every morning, we gathered with our teams and got to work. The carpenters were given felled logs and commanded to make furniture we never saw again. Stone carvers chiselled fruitlessly at rock. The potters shaped clay into vessels they would never use. Women sat in groups, bundles of flax and hemp at their feet as they wove our rough clothes. Cooks dug pits and tossed in earthstones to warm them. They prepped stews to simmer slowly in the buried pots we used in those days.
Cooking was a lengthy process before fire.
I was a rock hauler. Siarok was the name of my sap licker. For all I have said of sap lickers, he was among the better ones. In time, we became friends. Indeed, he joined our side at Greenflower, and he died fighting bravely at Summerpine. But in those days, he was a sap licker, and I was a rock hauler. Our team was of eight men. Of them, only I and Otto still live. Yes, I speak of General Otto, the Hero of Summerpine, and one of my closest friends.
Every morning, we lined up, and Siarok undid the locks that barred our wheelbarrows and pickaxes. In those days before metal, the locks were of briars imbued with dryad magic, and our pickaxes were rough, clumsy things carved from granite.
Siarok would lead us on the path into the forest. The sap lickers never bothered to take count. We had to work if we wanted food. And the forest? Well, they’d instilled its terrors in our minds since childhood. We dared not venture off the path.
It is curious, when I think back on it, just how small our world was. We were the children of Oakheart, as were our parents, and their parents, and theirs. The sap lickers spoke of other villages. But they seemed distant, forbidden even to think about.
As a rock hauler, I was the lowest of the low. No one wanted my job. It meant daily treks back and forth from the quarries. Most of my day was spent beyond the safety of the village. Only the berry pickers, who were forced to scavenge in the trees themselves, were seen lower. Those were the men that had truly angered the tree witches. And yet, in most ways, they were the freest of us all. For even the sap lickers feared the forest beyond the paths.
Fear was the chain that bound us. And ignorance kept us in its shackles.
My work was hard. Siarok would sit in the shade of an old cedar and watch as we all broke our backs trying to break the rock. We loaded our rickety wheelbarrows. And as one, we hauled them up and strained to push them over the bumpy path. In time, I learned each of those bumps. The ones you could avoid, the ones you couldn’t. They were like a hammer up your arms. The wheelbarrow twisted, and you twisted to keep it in line, every muscle burning. Your joints were jolted as the rocks jostled. And in the worst case, they tumbled out of the wheelbarrow, and you strained your back to pick them up.
Few men hauled rocks for long.
We dropped the damn things at the rock carvers. They chiselled what they could. And other rock haulers carried the excess across the work clearing and dumped them in some far away pit.
For each haul, we were given a poplar chip. Three poplar chips fed a man for the day. It may not seem like much, but when a man has a family to feed, it meant working all day. There were no chips to spare, nor time to think. And if one fell ill or woke with a strained back, the choice was to work or starve. And that isn’t much of a choice.
We had an agreement in Oakheart. I have heard some other villages did the same. It was an unspoken vow of sorts, shared by all of us, even the sap lickers. We promised that our children would not work until ten summers of age. No matter how much their hands were needed, we opted to help each other before we handed any work to a child. It was the barest freedom we could give them. Ten years of happiness. Years to make memories of play and childhood, before the endless grind of life.
So it was that I saw my son little in those days. I worked to feed him. He played with the children of town. Like all of us, he was taught his letters. He spent his customary time in worship school, where the sap lickers judged those who might join their ranks in the hierarchy of their priesthood. Most parents pushed their children towards that path. I am glad I was able to influence him away from it.
In the evenings, the working men gathered and spent whatever chips they had spare at Galtus’ tavern. That sly fox knew how to straddle the line between sap licker and villager. He landed himself the best job in town. His days were spent cleaning glasses and cooking. In the evenings, he presided over us rowdy folk. It gave him ample time for his experiments. And in those days, he planted the seeds of science that we enjoy today.
I have many fond memories of that tavern and the times we shared. Indeed, no friendships are like those formed by village life. Many of those friends are gone now. One by one, they were taken from us by the tree witches, dead fighting for your freedom. Heroes, every last one. And I will not have them forgotten.
At home was my Heart. There is so much to be said for the woman that our kingdom is named after. It pains me that she will never be the queen our people deserved. Or have the life she deserved…
*The original text devolves into illegibility here*
Reflections by King Isaiah
The first of the Journey chapters
Written two years after the war
Chapter two
“Another earthquake?” Raia held out a hand, and Mari passed her the report.
“Yes, Your Grace. In Beor this time. General Reyner wants to send men to help.”
Raia bit her lip and glanced over the numbers. Some injuries, but no deaths. It made sense. The whole village was living in temporary shelter. If nothing else, this provided an excuse to build them houses. She dipped her quill in ink and scratched out her signature.
“Can you find me the other authorization he wanted?” she said. “I think it was for men to stop the ashfang attacks in the east.”
“Of course, Your Grace. What shall I do with these?” Mari stepped aside and motioned to a trolley overloaded with books and ledgers. She had a smug smile about her, as if she’d figured out some neat trick by carting them over. Raia hadn’t the heart to point out the long trail of pages and overturned booklets she’d glimpsed when the girl opened her office door.
“Hand me last month’s ledger,” she said. “Leave the rest there.”
Mari stuck out her tongue and reached for the book. Her backside smacked into Raia’s tinel plant, causing the pot to teeter precariously at the table’s edge. Mari turned, and it tumbled to the ground. Clay shattered in a spray of soil. Pale blossom bells sagged sadly onto the stone floor.
“Ah! I’m sorry!” Mari cried. She disappeared beneath the desk, her hands scraping soil. “Ow!” She’d probably hit her head.
Raia opened her drawer and pulled out the Hoverhill report. It was so marked up with her own notes that the original text was hard to discern. She’d circled the build team in charge of the fiasco. The Kittlers, they were called. She leafed through the pile of contracts Mari had brought earlier. It was a good team. A dozen jobs they’d done on budget and in time. A seasoned inspector had even certified the homes were built to code. Why, then, were the villagers so angry?
She did not like using the private build teams. The Crown owned all the land in the kingdom. And the Crown chose where to build per the requests of the village councils. In an ideal world, the Crown would employ all the builders. But her father had introduced hundred-year leases. The rich had snapped them up. They’d funded their own build teams, which had poached all the workers. Now, the Crown’s coffers were tangled up in overpriced projects. And only a little of that money trickled into the hands of the actual workers.
Still, civil unrest in the village of Hoverhill and an inspector’s stamp on the build report. Something didn’t add up. This was never meant to reach her desk. And it wouldn’t have if she hadn’t been searching for it.
Mari had stood up and was looking at her from across the desk. Somehow, she’d gotten dirt and a whitening leaf tangled up in her hair. She’d been trying eye colours, and her tears carried dark traces of it through the powder on her cheeks. She held up the shrivelled plant, her lip quivering. “I’m sorry…”
Raia spared her a smile. “Don’t worry about it. Can you get me that ledger?”
“Of course!” The girl heaved the hefty tome off the cart and threw it on the desk with a loud thud. Raia handed Mari the earthquake authorization, as well as another stack of forms she’d already signed. She cleared her desk, arranged the books, and got to work.
She lost herself in the methodical task of following money trails through the kingdom’s finances. It may have been hours later when Mari cleared her throat. Raia glanced up and found the girl still standing there, the white leaf twisting in her hair as she twirled her finger through the locks.
“Yes?”
“Your Grace, I’m sorry…I…” Mari glanced towards her desk in the corner of the office. One could hardly see it below unwieldy piles of paper. “I mentioned…tonight…”
“Oh, yes. You have a tryst. Go on, then.”
Mari’s face lit up, dimples on her freckled cheeks. “Thank you, Your Grace! She’s really quite pretty, so I should probably change and redo my paints and…”
“What happened to the stableboy?” Raia asked, eyes back on her work.
“Oh, well, Your Grace. You did warn me about it. He didn’t…smell the best. And there’s only so much a girl can listen to about lomers and byuts...”
Raia chuckled quietly. “Go on then, and have fun.”
Mari whooped and turned, slipped on a loose page, cried out, and stumbled her way to the door. It closed behind her. Then her curses came through it, and she came back moments later with a messy collection of fallen papers and booklets cradled in her arms.
“Sorry! I must have dropped these earlier.” She tossed them on her cart, then grinned and hurried away.
Raia found herself smiling as she delved back into the numbers.
When she was done, she slumped in her chair and massaged the weariness from her eyes. For a while, she merely sat there, staring at the oaken grains of her desk through blurring vision. She breathed deeply and was mindful of all her aches. The stiffness in her neck, the soreness in her backside, the cramp in her hand. Her legs were taut and achy. She needed to move. And she wanted nothing more than to lift her swords and train.
But there was so little time for such things now.
She rolled her head, stretched, and looked around the room. She could still see the scorch marks on one of the walls from her father’s errant experimentation. The space had always been too small for him. It was too big for her. His had been a cluttered Viceroy’s office, the floor half hidden by his instruments and notes. She kept it simple. Her desk in the center, Mari’s in the corner, and a single cabinet with her tea sets. All she needed.
She stood, stretched, and walked to the cabinet. She found her favourite set and gingerly picked out a gilded cup painted with blue, soaring garulas. A pity to keep something so beautiful hidden away. But better safe than sorry, especially with an assistant as clumsy as Mari.
From the kettle simmering over the embers in the hearth, she poured herself royal tea. Then she leaned against the wall, held the cup to her chest, and looked out over the Queen’s Garden. She’d lost track of time. The tinel leaves had turned their deepest shade of white. Soon, they’d start greening again.
Beams of Mithras’ sunlight fell across an empty promenade, shadows of the buildings stretched long. The city was asleep, not a soul in sight.
He would be waiting.
Raia sipped. She didn’t mind keeping him waiting. She ran her thumb over the golden trim on the cup and smiled. She could see the royal marriage tree from where she stood. Flowers like rainbows spiralled through its canopy of white leaves. The sight of it put a knot in her stomach. Her smile faded, and soon, she was thinking of little other than the king’s empty chair.
With a sigh, Raia placed her half-finished tea on the desk. She belted her swords and left the office. Through the barren Viceroy’s Hall, past all the rooms she never used, and into the keep’s main corridors. Red carpets and banners lined every stone surface, and gold decor glinted in the shafts of sunlight that fell through the windows. The king’s sigil was proudly embroidered everywhere.
She went down the stairs, through the courtyard, out the door on the western wall, and into the Queen’s Garden, taking a cobbled path that wound between hedgerows and flowerbeds. She passed a frog-filled fountain while unseen insects chirped. Above her, squirrels tussled on the branches of a large maple. The smell of earth and pollen hung strong in the stale air. It was still hot, despite the late month, and the garden was weary with it. Water sprinkled out of buckets above flowers. Tarps shaded plants with parched leaves. Ropes held sagging ivy to faded trellises, stretched taut like arms clutching a falling friend.
He was in the center of the garden. Dressed in black as always, staring up at the royal marriage tree.
“So you came.” His voice was smooth and slick as silk, sickeningly familiar. She walked past him. She’d no intention to speak in the shade of that tree. His cloak brushed the ground as he followed.
She turned the corner around a hedge. “Raia,” he called after her.
She whipped around. Her sword flew out of its sheath, sharp point landing neatly at the base of his neck. He stared at it and swallowed. Then he met her gaze with a smile.
“Well, good evening to you too.”
“What’s your game, Maisades?”
“My game? I have no…Gah!” A sharp flick of her wrist sliced a thin red line across his chest. The button on his cloak tinkled to the ground, and the heavy black fabric cascaded off his back.
“Don’t fuck with me.” She poked him with the blade. “What’s your game?”
His eye twitched, lips twisting in a snarl. “I will make you queen,” he hissed.
“And what do you get out of it?”
He stared for a long moment, his dark eyes glinting in the sun. Then he scoffed and stepped away, adjusting his tunic, brushing pollen off his shoulders.
“Viceroy. That’s what I get.”
“And why would you want that?” she said.
“Power? Prestige? Why do any of us sit in that fucking council?”
She slowly lowered her sword. “No byutshit about changing the kingdom for the better?”
“Altruism is rarely good motivation,” he said. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to try while we’re there.”
“And how can I trust you?”
“I trusted you, didn’t I?”
“You make me queen. I make you viceroy. You kill me. You become king.”
He waved the notion away. “I have no such aspiration. No, I live better than any king in my current position. Viceroy is good for me. Besides, I doubt the Crown will survive two lines removed from Isaiah. One might be enough of a stretch. And you at least have your father’s name behind you. Few men are as celebrated as Viceroy Galtus after all. No one would question his daughter as queen.”
There was a gentle hush of steel on leather as Raia sheathed her sword. She crossed her arms and stared resolutely at the hedges. Maisades rubbed at his scratched chest. “Didn’t have to fucking cut me,” he muttered.
Raia let his voice fade into the night’s silence. For a while, only the insects spoke, sharp and shrill.
“What’s your plan?” she finally said.
He pulled a vial of clear liquid from his pocket. “Gurishawa extract. Simple. Painless. He sleeps and never wakes up.”
“When?”
“Whenever you’re ready.”
Raia nodded. “I want Tyor in on this.”
His eyes went wide. “Tyor? Are you mad?”
“And any other masters you think will join us.”
“No! It’s too risky. Keep it between the two of us…”
