It was easy to find when you were looking for it. Adal had only been walking for several hours when he came across the footpath to his left. Unlike the well-worn dirt road he currently tread, the trail into Glovedom was ancient and unused. It had once been paved, but that time was long ago. Grass grew between the cobbles and trees wrapped their roots around the stones.
Adal fell in love with it at once. It was old.
When Adal was young, his mother used to tell him stories of extraordinary places. There were places, she had said, where red barked trees transfixed the clouds with their canopies. There were places where packs of leopards roamed across deep green fields like seals swimming through the sea. They hunted the cows—no…sea cows—no wait, that was the manatees—the cows swum through the fields like leopards hunting manatees.
Adal’s mother had never been very good at telling stories. Even in her more lucid moments, Adal had not been impressed. What impressed him was old things. Old wasn’t good enough, and neither was ancient. Things needed to be old.
Leopards, though twelve feet tall and breathing poisonous gas, only lived a paltry 200 years. (Adal had disputed the point, claiming that if such large leopards moved in packs they wouldn’t be able to survive off cows. He figured they ate the grass and lived the typical 20 or so year life span of herbivores. His mother had said if he removed the bloodied muzzles and dead cows, he removed all the romance from her story. She’d sent him to the archives shortly after.)
Neither did the fields hold Adal’s interest. Grass died annually, never reaching its first year. No, Adal had always asked about the interesting part of the story. The soil. What colour was it? What was buried in it? How old was it?
The stories found in soil were the most interesting part of any life. Adal had known this even as a youngster. He had consumed the tales. And his fair share of dirt.
A notch in a tree bespoke conflict, but the colours of soil, they spoke lives. The earth whispered its mysteries into Adal’s ear and he would listen for hours, enthralled. Those hours had turned into days as his interest deepened. He’d forgotten to eat and to sleep. The present didn’t interest him. Now wasn’t old enough.
But these trails were. These trails brought the past into the present. The dirt about the cobbles had been packed by a thousand travelers. The bridges he crossed were several hundred years old. He stepped on stones to cross the stream, and the moss covering them whispered into his ear like he was a girl again. They told him they had been there for eons.
Adal smiled, no longer furious he had been abandoned and shuttled around by his companions. He was no longer tired from carrying his sack of scrolls. He had even nearly forgotten about his horse, though not entirely.
This trail was a reminder, or rather a first lesson, that the world was a worthwhile experience to be lived in, rather than just read about.
Adal approached a chasm, small enough to leap over if one were bold, but deep enough to ensure the bold would not propagate at any great rate. The chasm was spanned by a blackwood bridge. Adal marveled at it. The tree had gone extinct hundreds of years ago for its beauty. The wood was rich and deep, bespeaking a smoothness that begged to have fingers run over it. (Adal liked to claim that the young wood was actually white and darkened with age. He had no idea if this claim was true, but it made him feel better to say so.)
On the bridge was a second marvel. A statue knelt in the pose of pulling something up from the depths of the chasm. It was made from a deep red pottery. On its forehead was inscribed a single rune; Image, if Adal wasn’t mistaken. The statue had been formed into the likeness of a girl, though it was crudely done. But it was not the colour, nor the penmanship, nor even the shape of the child statue, which opened a venue for itself in Adal’s heart. No, what he cared about was the material. This statue had been formed from an earthenware fine enough to stand the test of time. This statue would become old.
His pace quickened in proportion to his desire to see the statue. The statue had a rope in its hands. Adal moved to the statue’s shoulder and peered over the edge. He wondered what it held at the other end of the rope. A lantern for the wayfaring stranger who did not wish to experience the base of the chasm firsthand? Or did the statue anchor some quaint traditional bauble; a basket full of fish? a set of chimes? or another statue to symbolize trust and support? Adal did not see a basket or a bauble or even a single fish. He saw a leg.
He then thought that he remembered another quaint tradition. It involved hanging strangers from bridges. He recoiled from the edge and moved to the opposite railing for some fresh air. He knew he would have to look eventually. It was his duty as a chronicler to observe all parts of history. Besides, he was curious.
Maybe he would just find a leg he told himself. That wouldn’t be so bad. A severed and bleeding limb spun through his mind. No. A body would be better, blue of tongue and… and… Adal took a few more breaths to steady himself. He could take the long way home. It wasn’t much further. Well not from the start. Truth be told it would involve backtracking along almost the entire length of the journey, but he had time. It was the stuff historians were made of.
He smiled weakly at nothing in particular, and then looked back the way he had come. Yes, the scenery had been quite lovely and he hadn’t paid enough attention to it. It would be a shame not to go over it once more just to make sure he hadn’t missed anything. Then, as his foot took its first step away from the bridge, he caught a movement in the corner of his eye. Terrified, yet unable to look away, Adal waited for whatever horror swung beneath the bridge.
The movement, it turned out, hadn’t been beneath the bridge, it had been on it. The statue was alive. It pulled in the rope and helped up a small girl in a red dress. Her long hair was in a demented disarray about her, but her face was red rather than purple.
“Alisa, I saw the glimmer! It wasn’t very bright, but I saw it. The bridge was made in lead originally. I’ve redone the bottom in copper though because the chasm is expanding.”
The maiden child brushed her hair from her eyes and started as she caught sight of Adal. He waved uneasily.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
Adal considered the dark sockets of the animate statue. He could only dream of strength enough to lift a small girl without strain, “A friend.”
“Do not say that word again in my presence. Are you a peaceseeker?” the girl asked, glancing at his pack.
“No. No, nothing like that. An honest person I am. An honest man.”
“Lanet is a peaceseeker,” the maiden child glared.
“Is that a good thing or not?” Adal asked, bewildered, “I’ll not harm you by the way. You can tell your golem that.”
The statue, who Adal assumed to be named Alisa, started laughing. The sound was so genuine it filled him with relief.
“I can decide that for myself, comrade,” the golem replied warmly.
“Comrade? Yes, yes indeed. You are a kineser then? Didn’t know they still existed. Fascinating. What are you doing?”
The girl held up the hooked metal tool in her hand, causing Adal to flinch, “See this rune? I made that. It repairs the bridge. Lanet taught me them,” She added with a flourish of the hook.
Adal spared a glance away from her weapon to look at the rune. It was an older script, so he recognized it: Repair.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
“Quite straight forward. Are you from around here?”
She nodded, “I’m from Glovedom. It’s a little ways down the road from here.”
“I live just North of Glovedom actually. Thought I’d stop by the town for a rest on my way home. Would you welcome an escort?”
The maiden child hesitated, then nodded, “I’m Î.”
Adal frowned, “You’re what, sorry?”
Alisa broke into a new round of laughter. The girl complimented it with giggles, “My name is Î.”
She held out her hand. Adal carefully took it. He attempted to shake it, but instead his arm followed the girl off the bridge and down the cobblestone path. In turn, Adal decided it was best to follow his arm.
They walked in silence for a while. Î felt the silence was amiable. Adal found it uncomfortable.
“I’m researching King Stalwart. That sounds exciting I bet. Want me to tell you about him?” Adal asked.
Much to Adal’s horror, Î shook her head, consigning him to continue awkwardly walking beside her. After another unbearable stretch of silence, Adal said, “King Stalwart wanted to stop Ganthiel from being taken over by the Kineser. He started a system of genocide to betray and eventually eradicate them.”
Î’s grip tightened.
“What do you know of this?” Adal asked.
“Emet said Otto wanted to complete Stalwart’s Legacy so Otto will be made immortal.”
Adal blinked. What may be legend in one place was reality in another, and what was common where you lived might not exist outside the borders of your cozy village.
“Immortal? You cannot become immortal by killing people. Can you? Perhaps I should test. Would you be willing—no, perhaps not? Ah, Emet said they would be immortalized –Remembered forever in the history books. Good method that, genocide,” Adal pondered his words, and decided to change the subject, “Who is Emet? A historian?”
Î stared up at him, big eyed, “What’s a historian?”
Adal drew himself to his full height and threw out his chest and then his back. Wincing, and leaning on Alisa for support, he gasped, “Someone… who remembers… the… past…”
Î smiled as though in sudden comprehension, “You sound just like Emet! I bet you’ll like her.”
“Indeed… I shall,” Adal pulled himself straight, “if your lord permits it. Do you think that’s likely? What’s… well reason would suggest his name is Lord Glove—what’s he like?”
Lord Glove. Now why did that name sound familiar?
Î nodded, “That’s his name. He seems nice. He is always leaving though. And he works for Otto. And he did something to Rebeka.”
“Who is Rebeka?”
“Rebeka was the old kineser. She died.”
“Did Lord Glove kill her?”
A spark of horror lit in her eyes, “Maybe,” Î’s lips started trembling, “he killed all the others.”
As a historian, Adal considered it his duty to take the trusty shovel of truth and dig for the moldering truffles of understanding. Only then could they be tossed into the cauldron of intellect and prepared into a delicious feast of knowledge.
“How do know that?”
“Emet told me. She said he killed them after he took Rebeka from her village.”
Adal lifted an inviting brow, “Lord Glove stole her?”
“No, he bought her. He made Rebeka kill them.”
Adal was intrigued by the girl’s breadth of knowledge, but it was clear she was wearing thin. Conversation would better be had with this Emet fellow. As for Lord Glove… Surely not the legendary general? The one who had burned the very city Adal had gone to for scrolls? It had been destroyed fifty years ago. If he was the same Lord Glove he’d have to be at least Adal’s age. Now there was a man worth talking to. Not like this young generation. Matthew didn’t understand history. He’d just accuse Lord Glove, young or old, of serving Otto.
“Who’s in the right in a war?”
It had been a bit of an awkward question. Better to ask, “Is King Otto a good man?”
Of course not, he’s a king. Just, yes. Caring, maybe. But never good. A ruler couldn’t afford to be good. And if you must be cruel, why not complete Stalwart’s Legacy? Why not be remembered for your cruelty?
It had worked for The Black Dread. Their last banner had been burned a thousand years ago, and still it was forbidden to display the shattered hour glass anywhere but history books. Torture, pillage, and salting of the earth. Entire peoples reduced to dust for coin. Their name was a curse and their legacy one of unimaginable cruelty. And everyone knew their name.
The trio reached a stone bridge. Across the bridge was a grove of empress trees, beyond it, a small village.
The empress trees gave Adal an idea, “Could I speak to the grove keeper before we enter Glovedom?”
Î shrugged.
“Do you know where to find him?” Adal said.
“No.”
If Adal had been Î’s age he would have explored the entirety of Glovedom by now and then some. Where did Î spend her days if she didn’t even know her own empress grove?
A soft pink hue caught his eye: robes fluttering in the trees. Adal trotted towards them. The grove keeper was pruning a branch with shears the length of Adal’s leg and torso combined.
“Avid is ready to give strength for the twelfth time,” the keeper said without turning from his work, “and strong he is. I may need to get longer shears. Though the limb is thin, it will be enough to support many burdens.”
“Has someone died, Grove Keeper?”
The man gave up on the shears and turned to Adal, extending his hand.
“My name is Rezel. There has been many deaths, for this is a time of war.”
“What? Who?” Î asked, worried.
Rezel smiled gently at her, “Not in this village child, fear not. I speak in much broader terms. No, for this grove there will be no burdens accepted. I collect the branch now for what will come. The stake of support may be chosen before death. It is all others which come after.”
Adal had only been half listening, his attention had been diverted by one of the empress trees growing at the edge of the river. It was massively thick, at least five arm spans in width. It supported the clouds, at least three times the height of a watchtower. All around its incredible girth were knots and gnarls; scars from countless thousands of prunings.
“It looks old,” he whispered rapturously.
“That is Altar. Oldest of the trees in my grove. Perhaps the oldest in any grove. It was here long before I was, and shall no doubt be here long after I am gone. What is it you seek?”
Adal wanted to talk about the tree, but Î’s grip on his hand reminded him of his original inquiry. Another day.
“I was hoping you could tell me about Rebeka.”
Rezel gestured for them to follow, and began to thread his way through the trees.
“Rebeka is no more. Her rights of funeral were done in the old way, as per Lord Glove’s wishes.”
Adal nodded, though inwardly he wondered. He was well acquainted with the old ways, of course, but had Lord Glove chosen them to honour her, or to erase her memory?
“What is her name now?”
“Verse. A name which speaks of qualities she once hid,” he shook his head sadly, but then smiled, “Now they are revealed to us all. Verse stands as proud as any other tree in my grove. Whatever our burdens in life, they are far less than we may think. I have yet to see a tree fall.”
“Are you taking us too her?”
“Yes, though be warned. It has been less than a month since Averse’s passing. Verse is not a pleasant sight to behold. Even some of the older trees have bones sticking out of them.”
He turned down a lane.
“And here we are.”
Adal had never visited an empress grove. Any funeral he’d attended he’d had to leave before the vigil. Even for his own mother’s funeral his work at the archive had called him back and away. He didn’t begrudge his work, but he’d always wanted to see the inside of a grove all the same. He liked the idea of being surrounded by history. He had wanted to hear the white watchers and see the pink petals fall to the ground. One glance at the decaying body leaning out of the tree was enough for him. His sightseeing was best done elsewhere. Adal turned away. Î did the same, as did Alisa.
Rezel alone addressed the tree, “Verse, we would speak of your past, but will not do so outside of your presence.”
Adal thought he would be perfectly happy to talk outside of its presence. As it was he’d given up on lunch, and probably supper. Even if it did have figs in it.
Unfortunately, he knew the customs of the grove. Adal turned and bowed to the tree.
“Verse, I am honoured by your presence. My name is Adal. I am a historian seeking truth.”
“I have heard that historians have a fascination with grove keepers, though I personally have never been graced with one’s presence,” Rezel gestured to the ground in front of the tree and Adal uneasily sat, “Let us begin.”
“Glove brought Averse to this village when she was a young woman. Glove was not yet a lord back then—he was only a few years older than Averse. She was to be his kineser. Upon seeing the change Averse brought in a few short days, King Tate, the ruler of Ganter at the time, awarded Lord Glove with the titles and dom he holds to this day.
“Soon after, the dom was attacked by a neighbouring monarch.”
Adal ran his hands through the brilliant green grass at his feet, “I was led here by the ruins of the Burned City.”
Rezel sighed, “After the war, the threat was destroyed, but Averse was near about destroyed as well. Unfortunately, she was not done with hardship. It was just beginning. Her people turned on her. In order to survive, and to ensure Glovedom survived, Averse had to kill those who raised her.”