“Why’d she do it?”
The question echoed in the empty throne room. Whose bright idea was it to grow a palace out of a tree? Siren shook the vibration from her toenails. She tilted her head to glare at the source of the question: Condur of the Biltrose. It was an uncomfortable question: uncomfortably asked. He stumbled around the pronoun--though his dry, martial pragmatism ushered him through.
Siren’s councilors seldom asked about the forest goddess. When they did, inquiries were seldom in good faith: “What does your goddess have to say about that?” or: “Where was your goddess then?”
But Condur wasn’t like the other councilors--not as far as Siren was concerned. For one, she trusted him. That’s why she’d granted him command of her armies (a position which, if she’d had her way, would have remained her own).
“I don’t know, Condur,” she muttered, her cheek resting flatly on one hand. “She’s a fucking deity. Why do they do anything?”
He’d been a father to Siren--or as much of a father figure as a nearly full-grown woman could hope for in a strange land. Most of her Noriac language had come from him, and she had often heard her own thoughts expressed in his gruff, quiet, and oddly high-pitched voice: but that usually just made hearing his opinions--or indeed his questions--that much more irritating.
Now his bald head furrowed, and his white, hyphen eyebrows (oddly emotive, on their blank, brown canvas) tilted outwards. They were always doing that--tilting. In or out; consternation or concern--two emotions which Condur often expressed toward his archon.
“What, you didn’t ask?”
Her glare was dry, cold, and unchanging. For a brief moment, she’d regretted his accession to clan head.
“You think I didn’t ask?” she seethed, wondering why she’d ever prayed for this man. “That I didn’t ask at least half a dozen times?”
It took some internal politicking to remember that Condur had, simply by coming to power, saved the fledgling Sirennica from an early dissolution. He was the weight which suspended this paper house--fully loyal to the archon, fully trusted even beyond his clan ties. And his vices were few: yes he was bald, but he was not particularly old. He certainly wasn’t foppish.
His uniform was the soldier’s: boiled leather collar with a cascade of bronze-disc scales coming down over his breast; a broad, stiff belly belt with a large, bronze diadem fixed at its center to protect his soft guts; descending from that, more bronze scales to cover his manhood; trousers beneath them, buried just below the knee in the kind of fur-trimmed, close-toed boots that a cold subordinate might not think twice about mutinying over. His simple, brown cape was hardly visible behind the hard fold of back muscles which edged out from his chest.
She noticed that now his eyebrows had declined inward, a distinctly paternal variety of concerned distrust.
Siren closed her eyes, breathed deeply. He means well, she reminded herself. One of the few who does.
“She doesn’t answer questions, Condur. She just insults me and insists she’s on my side.” Then he frowned, averting his eyes so that his disappointment instantly seemed reflective rather than reprimanding.
The palm-sized black stone sat inertly on the council desk. Condur sat in his own seat. Beside him, in Dakur of the Tandun’s prescribed position, sat Siren. She never used the throne if it wasn’t necessary. She enjoyed examining it from afar, the symbolic nostalgia helped her appreciate it. And it was magnificent. All dark, southern wood (even Burgis couldn’t produce wood like that) and wrapped in a patterned lattice of braided gold wire. Not a very comfortable chair, to be sure--in more ways than one.
“Look…” she continued, “we’ve got to spin this. People are going to be asking questions, and--”
“They’re afraid of her,” said Condur, nodding.
“They’re idiots.”
“They’re your subjects.”
Siren shrugged. “Luckily, Vallan didn’t seem too concerned. He was too distracted by a ten-spotted ladybird.”
Condur didn’t laugh. “The rumor mill is turning, my lady, nonetheless. I think, perhaps, Vallan is more astute than you give him credit for. And just as…sneaky. Even before I came down to the palace, today--”
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding,” she growled. “We can’t have been back for two hours!”
“Nobody’s accusing Vallan of being reclusive.”
They sat there in silence, pretending to think, but really just sulking. The afternoon light washed in through shuttered windows. Siren gazed out to a rolling hillscape of golden canopies. Maples, elms, and oaks. Red, gold, and orange. The odd spike of a green pine where it had come in from the mountains. The beautiful, vibrant, perennial death throes of the world’s greatest arboretum. An omen? She hoped not. Omens and boons were best kept separately--and too often conflated by peasants.
“I’d ask the gods to damn this, Condur, but it seems they already have.”
He smiled mirthlessly. “I’ll warrant the tribespeople would agree with you there.” Then he chuckled, a slightly cackling gush of breath.
“And for what? Just a rock! Not even a stick…” he blew out a long, wet sigh. “What are you supposed to do with a rock?”
It was a curious question--ill-informed, but curious. What am I supposed to do with it? She didn’t feel the need to correct his rather characteristic assumption that a boon should be a discrete weapon--like the villainous Dala Brelum’s tree felling ax. Like a dozen other enchanted curios which he’d made a habit of gifting to his favorite lieutenants.
But…what if it really isn’t a weapon?
Then, she decided, it would simply have been the last in a long line of painful miscommunications between the goddess and her chosen.
These fruitless musings were interrupted, rather unpleasantly, by a lieutenant crashing through the doorway. He nearly slid to a halt, unsure whether to first address his commander or the lady of the realm. He was largely unarmed, his collar and cape turned in for a more comfortable waist-length jacket which obscured the belly belt. No genital scales adorned his warm trousers, but his leather sandals were still fit with plates over the shin and top of the foot.
The young man pursed his sweaty lips, trying rapidly to catch his breath.
“Well, spit it out, Cornul,” Condur graveled, “you’ve just interrupted a very productive bit of politics.”
Siren smirked. Took the words from my lips, old man.
“Yes, sir,” the lieutenant stammered. He straightened himself out, discipline forcing out his anxiety. “There’s bandits come down from the eastern vale--”
“Get over here, you damned fool,” Condur graveled, “we can’t bloody hear you.” He turned to Siren and shrugged, a wry, boyish smile tugging at the commanding air which he’d set into his broad features.
The lieutenant approached, looking completely unfazed by Condur’s outburst. “Bandits out of the eastern vale. The garrison at Povel Kat is preparing to engage. Requesting reinforcement.” He said each further piece like a postscript. He was still panting rather heavily.
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“Is that all?” Condur asked, a single eyebrow dramatically raised. The lieutenant briefly searched the ceiling for an answer, then quickly nodded.
“Tushikans?” An edge of anticipation sharpened Siren’s voice. “Fucking magicians.” She glanced once more through the grated windows, gleaming at the seasonal colors.
“A perennial threat,” Condur muttered, tapping his fingers on the desk. Siren’s smile piqued at the word. “And a good deal more noxious than thundervine. What kind of reinforcements do you need? And what of the local tribespeople? They’re in Povel for the season, aren’t they?”
“Yessir,” responded the lieutenant immediately. “The local tribespeople are raised, sir: one hundred and fifty on the hoof, another two hundred or so fighting men. A full mobilization, I think, would be most prudent, general.”
“For bandits?” Condur asked incredulously. “How small is the contingent at Povel Kat?”
“My apologies,” responded the lieutenant, “I only meant, sir--well, since they’re Easterners--”
“How many are there?” Condur whispered severly.
The lieutenant coughed. “Scouting reports have been mixed, sir…so--”
“How fucking many?”
The lieutenant’s face puckered, assailed by Condur’s furious spittle.
“Two thousand,” said the lieutenant, his tone still remarkably even. “Maybe…well, maybe up to four.”
Condur closed his eyes and sighed. “Between two and four thousand, lieutenant?” his voice was chillier than the autumn breeze which swept through the grated windows, setting the hearth fire to crackle and pop. “Do I need to explain to you the difference between ‘bandits’ and ‘a fucking army?’” He didn’t look angry, though, and the lieutenant didn’t shrink at all against the latest outburst. “Where?” he demanded.
“East of Lake Andow. Coming South through pond country. Last night, they were camped as far south as…well, the tribes call it Sparrow Woods. More coming through the badlands. We’re worried they’ll move to our south-eastern flank--”
Condur stopped him with an impatient wave. “I’ll need a fucking map, lieutenant.” But he held his finger up, beckoning his sweat-sheened officer to stay.
“Quite a conundrum, my lady,” he said, looking, perfectly composed, at the archon.
“Quite an opportunity,” she replied, grabbing up the jet black starstone. Condur looked pleadingly at his lady. She grinned back. “Ready us a chariot, Condur, and round up the Hollow Guard.”
“Lady--”
“I’m going to find a stick to put this rock on. I’ll meet you out front.” And with that, she was off, spinning effortlessly past the panting lieutenant, marching off into the halls of her palace.
“I think she wants to fight ‘em, general,” she heard the lieutenant say with a harried chuckle. His voice disappeared in resonance with the palace’s many great, wooden beams. She couldn’t hear Condur’s response, but thought she’d know what he would say:
“Yes,” and he’d wear a joyful frown--his most pleasant countenance. “It seems politics hasn’t changed that about her.”
She coursed through the halls like a malignant wind, dodging porters, slaves, and resident clansfolk. They reeled upon noticing her, trying with an almost mortal desperation to stay out of her way. She left lines of them staring bewilderedly after her, backs up against the still warm, wood-paneled walls. Some fell reverently to their knees, always too late, and softly cursed themselves. Their surging heartbeats joined the thrumming chorus which shivered in the living timbers of the Verdant Palace. Siren heard it in her feet. Her race became a dance.
In this vivacious way she emerged from the central doors, wide and welcoming the autumn air, and stepped out front. She howled enthusiastically. Guards slammed their spears against the hard dirt, driving a percussive rhythm over the subsonic symphony which resonated from the open doorway. The perks of being an archon.
She raised her feet, slamming them in turn against the wooden steps as she descended into the courtyard. Citizens, free people, and slaves, going about their business in the palace square, fell to their knees. Siren never got used to that--it reminded her of the treatment which Burgisnorian doges demanded. She had never demanded it. It still made her smile.
Siren passed under the high arch, carved from a single, contorted tree, which hung over the base of the stairway. It was over her like an enormous yoke, beset with images--unwanted reminders--of Burgis’ blessings. She shifted her shoulders, shrugging off the metaphorical weight of it, her hips describing a wide ellipse, as her bare feet came against the packed, bare earth. She breathed in the dry air, the lingering scent of woody decay barely perceptible beneath a fresh, piney breeze from the mountains.
“Today,” she declared, to a sudden silence, “we end the Tushikan threat, and secure the eastern meadows. For good.” Cheers erupted, bows articulated. The few Hollow Guards who lined the palace entrance hummed, and rattled their lanyards of arbor wolf fangs. They clacked spears against helmets of arbor wolf skull. The clamor died down with a palpable air of anticlimax, but the people had started congregating around the palace gate, waiting to cheer off their warlike leader.
Siren ambled off rather contrary to the entrance she’d made. She didn’t relish what she was about to do. She stopped eye level with a sapling elm which had sprouted, unbidden, in front of the line of trees which lined the palace courtyard. She’d defended this sapling, with the authority of her position, against Duldue, Chief Gardener and well-respected thorn in her side from Clan Burgisfel. But the cycles of the seasons…death and life…
“Sorry little guy,” she muttered, touching its still smooth trunk gingerly. It bent easily at her touch. The ground crackled between them. Broad spear leaves, precocious on this gangly babe of the forest, sloughed off against a mild gust.
“Ugh,” she commiserated, “not that it’s any consolation, but we’ll plant another in your stead.” She looked up, unable to meet the elm’s groaning young body. A perfect row of its tall, mature progenitors glowered down with their hungry, green shade. She thought about the arguments with Duldue, remembered vociferous rumors circling, and snowballing, among the Burgisfels. Rumors concerning their own regrettable clan head, Vallan, and his much-fantasized relationship with their archon. Clan Burgisfel nearly fell to mutiny over this little sapling. “Maybe somewhere less crowded, next time.”
In a moment, the roots surfaced, crawling tendrils breaking eagerly through hard earth. They reached toward Siren’s outstretched hand, spreading like a mindless horror. Too slow to be threatening. Through the growing wetness in Siren’s eyes, all was a bleary, green glow.
“Eat,” she commanded weakly, and the roots caught the black lump of starstone in their polydactyl maw. They stopped. Siren blinked away the tears, and they fell from her high cheeks to dissipate on the cool dirt. When she looked again, the greenness was gone. The next breeze peeled off what few, dull leaves remained affixed to the gray twigs.
Let us pray…let us hope that your sacrifice was not in vain. Then she wondered, tearing vines of brittle, shriveled root from her prize, if the spirit of a tree could be distinct from the spirit of a forest. She hoped so. She was all done crying over Burgis.
What she revealed from that woody, skeleton grip filled her with a shameful thrum of giddy excitement.
“What’ve you got there, Lady Siren?” Condur bellowed from beneath the arch. She hadn’t heard him bounding down the steps, but was presently aware of the clattering host of Hollow’s following him thither. Those who had been at their post folded seamlessly into the march.
“You got here quick,” she said. She didn’t look his way. She didn’t want to see that shackle of an arch that her general was passing under.
“Am I early, my lady?” he responded sardonically. “Habit of mine, I guess. Not one of your blessedly few vices, though. Should I walk more slowly?”
“No, actually…I just finished up.”
“What happened to the little sprout?” he frowned. All the clan heads had rather enjoyed the tumult which the young tree’s defense had caused. Even Vallan, whose very life was nearly threatened by it.
“It bravely gave its life, Condur. For the glory of Sirennica.” She stood at regal attention, raised her newly acquired staff across her breast.
“You shouldn’t mock your own salute, Siren,” then his eyes tightened. “What is that?” If the sight of the rock itself had left him nonplussed, the sight of it mounted to this smooth, wooden shaft had his mouth watering.
The shaft was smooth and ovaloid, coming to a straight but gnarled-looking talon on the toe. At its head, the comet glittered darkly, with an illusory transparentness, crowned by coiling stems laureled with sprouting greenery.
“It’s a fucking miracle stick, Condur.”
Condur sighed, looking disapprovingly at her. “I could tell these lads not to go running their mouths about that, but it would be to no avail.”
Siren gave them all a quizzical looking over. “Well, they’re coming with us. Besides, the whole city will be running their mouths about this, if all goes to plan.” She patted Condur’s shoulder, a bit of premature consolation. His telltale look of worry met her own beaming visage.
Then she noticed what he, apparently, already had. The cheering cries of her subjects had all but muted. Fearful eyes looked through the gates, where they weren’t cravenly averted. The stamping, rattling, resonant noises of the Hollow Guard hung over the proceedings like a dark ritual.
If all goes to plan…then what? The humble subjects of Sirennica always had a way of spinning Burgis’ blessings into the nightmare stuff of campfire tales. The goddess’ reputation simply preceded her.
Then it’ll be on to the next thing, she decided--purposed or depressed, it hardly mattered which. She could almost feel the lurch of fate’s great wheel turning--and Siren, merely a dumb spoke, lazily enduring its turns.
I’ve got the worst fucking goddess.
But at least she had a fun new toy to play with...and a willing party of playmates practically gathering at her doorstep. Siren allowed herself a smile. It was cold, mean, and infinitely gratifying.