Chapter 3
The Amber Casket
-Part the First-
Eastern Sén Serén, known as the Haven of the Grey Crags, stretched both along the sea and inland, where it was chiefly inhabited by tidecomers — the Water Wardens, whose homes nestled among the mighty coastal boulders. The sea waves here were usually gentle and unthreatening. The haven, like the rest of the city, was shielded from their fury by the nearby Isle of Pine Mist. Unlike the cliff-bound western reaches of Sén Serén, the eastern shore lay low, forming a small bay and a headland, at the tip of which stood one of the city's two great lighthouses, wrapped snugly in the branches of pines, like a warm shawl woven from the prickly wool of mountain alpacas.
Near the lighthouse, beneath a solitary pine tree standing apart from the rest of the grove, sat Mabbé. She traced a finger idly over the shaggy, grey-green moss that clung to the root and stared absently at the tree’s bark, which gleamed with a faint pinkish hue in the afternoon sun.
“What are we even looking for here?” she asked Macho impatiently, her voice loud enough to reach her brother perched aloft on the pine’s branch.
Macho glanced down at her, then sealed the glass vial in his hand, where fresh golden resin gleamed like molten sunlight. Tucking it into the pouch, he climbed down the trunk to the ground.
“You? Certainly nothing,” he retorted sharply, settling on the root beside Mabbé. The sunbeams struck his face, prompting him to tilt his hat — woven from soft linden twigs — lower, so the brim cast a shadow over his eyes.
“How is it,” he continued after a pause, his tone laden with grievance meant for no one in particular, “that after all these years of learning the trees, poring over books to master their anatomy and ways, I still know nought of their souls? Whenever I try to speak with them, they remain as silent as if bewitched. What am I doing wrong?”
Mabbé, who cared as little for trees as one might for last season’s leaves, shrugged indifferently, her finger still tracing patterns across the moss.
“Ask Grandfather,” she suggested flatly.
“Grandfather, Grandfather...” Macho bristled at once. “I’m not you, always running to him with every trifling question. Besides, Grandfather isn’t a treezard.”
“He’s the High Druid, the mightiest Tree Child in Séras,” Mabbé declared proudly. “That’s far more than a mere tree-wright — especially one who still gets his own title wrong when he writes it.”
“I was in a hurry...” Macho began clumsily, then caught himself. “Besides... What would you know? You prattle like a child tugging at a druid's cloak just because it shines prettily.”
He adjusted his hat again, though not because it truly needed fixing. It was a gesture he made whenever anger gnawed at him — and as he grew older, it seemed to happen more often. Mabbé smiled inwardly at the sight of his irritation. Don’t try to outwit me, brother. I know better where to strike to make it sting.
“The title of High Druid is just that — a title,” Macho added after a pause, his tone softer now as he traced circles in the sand with the toe of his boot, grinding it down as though it were a pestle. “Or perhaps it’s more than that... if one knows how to wield it. But Grandfather’s forgetting how.”
Mabbé brushed a speck of moss from her skirt, green as the dapples on the linden leaves that sprouted from Macho’s hat, then frowned as she looked at him.
“What are you really getting at?”
“Everything,” he said boldly. “This whole Council is senseless; it only shows how weak the Forest Folk have become. The High Druid ought to rule alone, with a firm hand. Grandfather could do it — he could — but instead, what does he do? He wastes time listening to every petty druid, every Stone Sage, vodyanoy, or dragonmage just because that’s the way of things. And meanwhile, the steppes to the west blaze anew, year after year for nigh thirty years. Dragons do as they please. They plot with gnomes, who grow stronger by the day. The balance of the elements teeters, and Grandfather does nothing. All in the name of elementals’ freedom. I care nought for their freedom when the trees begin to shrivel and lock themselves away in silence. And now there’s the matter of the Fortress — and your precious Al...”
“Leave Al out of this!” snapped Mabbé, quicker than she meant to. Her cheeks burned as she caught the glint of her brother’s dirty blue eyes — a mirror of her own.
Macho grinned wickedly.
“You truly still pine for that wandering songster? He’s flirted with half of you during the Linden Nights, strumming his lute for any lass willing to listen, and each of you means the same to him — nothing. You’ll never tie him to you, no more than you could bind the wind with a rope. If you’ve yet to grasp that, you’re a bigger child than I thought.”
Mabbé didn’t answer at once. A shadow of sadness flickered through her thoughts. When did we begin duelling with every word, racing to wound each other deeper? Yet that thought was eftsoons overtaken by a prouder, more possessive one. When did he learn to speak to me this way? Not long ago, he would have done anything for me.
“You don’t understand a thing,” she said coldly, rising to leave. “You all say the same nonsense. But none of you know Al like I do. None of you know who he really is. Only I know. And Al is mine. He always was and always will be.”
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Macho merely shrugged, adjusting his hat once more ere turning his gaze toward the calm waters of the sea, sinking into his own thoughts.
Mabbé huffed, a sound like a vexed woodland creature, and lifted the hem of her skirt slightly to avoid snagging it on the rough pine bark. She moved around the great root and began walking up the cliff path toward the elven quarter of the City of Trees.
Al.
Yes, only I know him, she affirmed fiercely in her heart.
She had understood it from the very first day they met — or rather, the first night — whenas, among the darkening river thickets, Al showed her how fresh rain retunes a lute anew.
It was a promise fulfilled.
In the bustling market square of Sén Serén, she had heard a voice call out:
“Hey, girl!”
When she turned her head, she saw an elf-boy leaning carelessly against the trunk of an aspen, grinning like a mischievous imp. Seeing Mabbé's gaze, he peeled himself away from the tree, strode towards her without hesitation, and asked bluntly:
“Are you the granddaughter of that one they made High Druid?”
There was something in his grin that made Mabbé tolerate even the cheeky ‘ that one’ he used for her grandfather. She stopped to answer.
“Aye.” She lifted her chin proudly. “And what of it?”
“Take me to him,” he said simply.
She snorted like a young animal and furrowed her brow, studying him with growing curiosity. He was a nobody — a scruffy urchin in threadbare clothes — yet he drew the eye like the ruby jewel she had once glimpsed hidden away in her grandfather's workshop. His hair gleamed with sunlight's warmth, even beneath the grey shadow of clouds roaming the sky that day.
“Why should I? And besides, you can’t just come in to see Grand... the High Druid. Go to the Stag Warden. He’ll put your name on the list and tell you when the Grand... the High Druid will receive you.”
'If ever,' she added inwardly, though she found she couldn’t tear her gaze away from the boy’s grin, and her face had already begun to brighten.
Al pulled a wry face. Mabbé lifted her chin even higher and nimbly sidestepped a raindrop falling from the tree, then began walking slowly towards the road leading to the Two Oaks.
“I did,” Al said cheerfully, following after her. “He told me to come back next week. That’s too late for me. See, your grandfather’s looking for a courier, they say. I’d be perfect for the job, but if you don’t help me, he’ll pick someone else, and I’ll lose my chance.”
“What’s in it for me?” Mabbé smiled, glancing sideways at him. “Makes no difference to me who Grandfather picks — you or someone else.”
At that, Al stepped in front of her, blocking her path. He drew a lute from behind his back, and Mabbé was startled to realise she hadn’t noticed it therebefore. If there was anything in the world that interested her beyond the simple pleasures of daily life, it was music.
Which, after all, was a pleasure in itself.
“You’d be supporting a future bard. Isn’t that enough?” said Al, and Mabbé’s eyes sparkled like sea waves catching sudden sunlight.
“You’re a bard?”
“A bard in the making. Yet I may play anything you like.”
“And,” he added in a quieter tone, leaning towards her, “I’ll share one of the bards’ secrets with you.”
A robin chirped loudly from a nearby birch. Al glanced lazily towards the sound, then returned his gaze to Mabbé, smiling with a mysterious, disarming charm.
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She climbed ever higher, and the lively, joyous bustle of the town grew clearer in her ears, replacing the quiet of the headland and cove. Shaken from her musings, the girl slowed her step, her gaze greedily sweeping over the market stalls and workshops that sprang up in dozens along the ascending road, emerging here and there from beneath the sprawling roots of birches and pines. Mabbé smiled to herself, narrowing her eyes in contentment. Sén Serén was like a hive of wild bees, like a skirt of many colours, and she felt herself an inseparable part of its whirling tapestry.
At the top of the cliff stood two waiting carriages, each with a cradle woven from ash twigs suspended upon two sturdy wheels. Mabbé approached the first, where a small wingless dragon, harnessed to the carriage, cast her a sidelong glance with its almond-shaped eye, greenish-blue and set deep within a head as long and knotted as the root of a great tree. Sparing the creature only a fleeting look, the elf-maid shrugged lightly and leapt nimbly into the cradle. The dragon snorted under its breath.
"To the Two Oaks!" Mabbé commanded.
Only then did the carter take notice of her. He turned from his perch on the dragon's back, and upon recognising the girl, broke into a smile.
"Aye, aye, I'll take ye there, Linden Maiden! Why wouldn't I?" he declared merrily, then muttered something in the dragon’s tongue. The creature returned its gaze to the road, and moments later the carriage creaked into motion.
“A fine day it is,” the carter remarked after a while. “The Month of the Beech has dawned like a tale spun of the Tree Masters' craft.”
“Fine, fine…” Mabbé replied absently. She settled herself comfortably in the cradle, resting the back of her head against its edge and gazing upward. Bridges, like colourful spider threads, stretched below and above them, from tree to tree, from bare branch to branch, their railings carved to mimic forest blossoms.
She began to hum a child's song to the treetops and the sky, replacing forgotten lyrics with soft lilting notes: ... a gown of gold so bright... given in delight... yet the mirror is cloaked in sorrow’s dust...
The carter laughed heartily and joined in with her tune, his voice ringing clear amidst the rustling trees.
The Two Oaks were also known as the Twisted Ones, especially ‘mongst the gnomes and elves of northern and western Séras. The castle, home to the Council of Druids, sat atop the slope of a gorge, with the river Jahotka winding through its depths some sixty yards from the edge of the cliff. The White Mistress’s Road led the way to the Oaks, flanked on either side by birches, young and old alike, bowing gracefully to passers-by, as though honouring the retinue of a sylph-king.
Mabbé stepped down from the cradle upon the courtyard's ancient stones. Reaching beneath her hooded cape, she found the pouch hung around her neck and paid the carter for the journey. Once the carriage rolled away, she turned and lifted her gaze, striving to take in the vast bulk of the towering castle. It resembled a stout birch tree, thick at its base, branching higher up into a dozen towers-boughs. Sunlight still streamed from the southwest, gilding the pale, lace-like limestone walls, blurring the line between stone and the living oak trunks entwined with the castle itself. Sliding her hands back under the warm wool of her cape, Mabbé made her way toward the castle's grand gates.
The Stag Warden appeared as if summoned, emerging from behind the leg of the great Tree Stag. Both inclined their heads to the elf-maid — the stag with majestic dignity, the many-coloured leaves adorning its antlers rustling like a starched skirt, and the Warden, a wild, skittish young imp named Gab, with a clumsy bow. He was barely older than Mabbé and seemed woefully lacking in the natural talents required of a guardian of the Two Oaks. Tradition had thrust the duty upon him far too soon.
Mabbé's charm did not seem to make his role any easier.
“Is the Master Druid within the castle?” she asked.
“Aye, my lady. In council within the Oak Hall,” Gab replied.
Mabbé grimaced, and the Warden peered at her from beneath a curtain of hornbeam-coloured hair.
“They’ll be ending erelong,” he added. “Some druids have already left. Best head there yourself, my lady, and see.”
“Thank you,” Mabbé said, lifting her chin and smiling charmingly, as befit the granddaughter of the High Druid. Gab’s gaze, lingering upon her, gave her mood a pleasant lift.
The Warden's eyes shifted from her face to the immense wooden gates, which the stag nudged open with its antlers. Mabbé stepped inside, entering the heart of the great oak.