Guardian of Honor

She noticed the swaying white branches of the beautiful large tree in the garden below. Concentrating hard, she heard the soft murmuring of the tree’s Song, which spoke of contentment and spring and growing and destiny. The strains came too quietly to grasp and the melody was such that she wanted to listen to the whole of it. Or maybe she just had cabin fever and wanted out. She drew her heavy, warm purple cloak around her, then slipped from her room and down the stairs.

Everything was quiet.

Hesitating, she cocked her head to get the tree’s direction. With slow steps she followed the tune and found herself before a small door that would let her out of the Keep and near the garden. She opened it, and air laden with humidity and the rich secrets of night-growing plants wafted to her. As she inhaled, more notes joined the rich orchestral symphony. She exited, and a few strides later faced the tall hedge maze. Perfectly groomed, it stood a good fifteen feet high, dense and dark and green-black.

Still the tree Sang, and it Sang to her. She could almost hear it Sing her name. She pulled her cloak close and the cowl low and threaded her way through the maze by sound instead of sight. Low bird chirps accompanied the soft tread of her own footsteps.

A few minutes later she exited the maze at a right angle from where she had entered. There was a small lawn, then an old, low wall of stone with a little door that looked to be just her size. She smiled and walked to it, put her hand on the cold handle, pressed the latch and pulled, expecting an awful creak. The door swung silently and easily open.

The moon had risen while she’d been in the maze and now painted the garden in silver light. A profusion of bushes with stark branches of various shades of gray and black were all tangled together as though the garden wasn’t well tended. Most of the Lladranans would have to stoop through the door.

But the white tree lifting graceful branches into the sky was the only life taller than the wall.

A bench circled the tree, and she picked her way through dead leaves along an overgrown path toward it. For a moment she hesitated, then slid her hands up and down the trunk, feeling the bark, smooth in some spots, rough in others. Tree-song enveloped her and she sat on the bench, leaning against the trunk.

She didn’t know how long she rested there, her busy mind quiet, experiencing the tree’s melody, imbued with serenity. It lilted of sap rising through it slowly, slowly, of the anticipation of each bud pushing through bark and unfurling tiny leaves, of the reaching of its branches and how it danced with the wind and the sky and the Song.

There you are! Sinafin said, the hint of a scold in her voice.

She was still the purple bat. In the recesses of her mind, Alexa knew she should be upset with the shape-changer, and there were questions she wanted answers to, but being in the tree’s presence had made all her questions seem less urgent, as if she were measuring time more slowly now. So she just stared at the purple bat and admired its wings.

Sinafin hung upside down from a near branch and gazed at Alexa. Even this wasn’t too disconcerting. She was operating on tree-time, with tree-serenity-philosophy still pulsing around her.

The shapeshifter whiffled, eyes bright. You like the brithenwood tree, very good.

Why? Another question that should be more important than it seemed. Only one concern rose to her mind.

“I’m here to make new fenceposts to defend Lladrana?” She’d culled that from Sinafin’s mind-movie of the night before and the talk amongst the Marshalls in the Temple after she’d been taken to bed like a kid. But within the peace of the garden the spark of irritation failed to flame.

Yes.

“Tell me of the fenceposts.”

They are the primary defense of Lladrana, made by Guardian Marshalls during the last true invasion of horrors, about eight hundred years ago. Before my time. Since then we’ve had only little groups sneaking over. And the frinks. They are new in the past two years.

“I’m supposed to discover how the fenceposts are made and remake them?” Alexa wanted to be clear on this point.

The bat stretched its wings, so transparent that some stars shone through the tissue-skin. Yes.

“How?”

The Song will guide you.

Alexa hadn’t heard voices yet. “How?”

Sinafin was silent, her sprightly tune having faded. The background music hardly murmured. The tree was silent. Nothing answered Alexa.

The next morning the Marshalls had no sooner taken their seats around the Council table than the door flew open with a jar of harpstrings and Reynardus, Lord Knight of the Marshalls, strode in.

They all stood, Thealia slightly slower than the others. Though Reynardus marched to his chair at the head of the table and took it with a haughty look, pallor showed under his skin. He’d dipped in the jerir. Had probably swum back and forth the length of the pool, Thealia thought sourly. She narrowed her eyes. His expression hinted at controlled emotion.

“Events have not progressed well in the hours I have been gone. Hopefully now that I am back and can direct them, they will proceed better. I want to know what has occurred. I see we are all here except the dead Defau and Albertus’s ailing wife,” he said, still standing, knowing they all must sit after he did.

Thealia inclined her head. “I am sure you have been updated on all events.”

“We lost Defau and nearly lost Veya. The Choosing Ceremony failed. If we spend hours on training the Exotique, give her jewels and land as is required, she might still disappear like this—” he snapped gloved fingers, but the sound was still loud.

Thealia’s temper simmered.

Reynardus continued. “Furthermore, I hear you opened the jerir pool not only to the Marshalls and select landowners and Chevaliers, but to all Chevaliers—no, let me amend—” He peeled the gloves from his hands and flung them on the table. “You invited anyone to immerse themselves in our precious jerir. The jerir that cost us great effort to move from a natural pool to the Temple pool. With the right care it could have been saved and used for a year—”

“I thought we had agreed to drain the jerir,” Thealia said. “But you were the one in charge of that. Did you have plans that the rest of us didn’t know of?”

A touch of red lined his cheekbones. “That is moot now. I cannot believe you will let any scum off the city street use the jerir. I heard a stable boy dipped last night, a stable boy!”

Thealia looked at Mace.

His face hardened. “Your son’s new squire,” he said.

Reynardus’s brows rose. “Luthan has a new squire?”

“Bastien,” said Mace.

Someone turned a laugh into a cough.

Reynardus’s nostrils flared. “I should have known he’d have such poor judgment as to take a nobody stable boy for a squire, but for the rest of you to issue a proclamation to all the Towns for use of our jerir—”

“We are the guardians of the land,” Thealia said. “Lladrana needs all the staunch men and women available to fight the evil confronting us. One of the ways to recruit the people we need is to offer them use of the jerir.”

“As I said yesterday, I will be honored to train anyone who dips in the jerir,” Mace said. “Both your sons availed themselves of the jerir, as did some of the most important guild-people of the Town. Every hour more Chevaliers arrive to take advantage of our offer. We are building an army.”

“An army of shopkeepers!” Reynardus sneered.

Protests ran the length of the table.

“With our magical boundary fields failing, more land than ever is being invaded by the greater monsters. And even the Townspeople are affected by the frinks falling in the rain, burrowing into the soil and turning the weak-brained into inhuman mockers,” Thealia said, pursuing the point when the others didn’t. “We need strong defenders. Lord Knight Swordmarshall Reynardus, do you have any report of your Song Quest you wish recorded in the Marshalls’ Lorebook of Song Quests?”

Reynardus paled. He sat abruptly. “No.” The moments it took for everyone to sit were enough for him to regain composure. He swept a piercing gaze around the table and verbally attacked. “I want a moment-by-moment recitation of what happened here at the Castle in my absence. I want a list of the names and ranks of those who have bathed in the jerir. I want an update on our borders. Most of all, I want to know what you have done to train our new Exotique ‘savior’ to control her Powers and to fight.”

At that moment the doorharp sounded.

Reynardus scowled. Everyone looked at the door. Rapping came.

Thealia glanced at Reynardus. “It must be important.”

He shrugged. “Come,” he called.

The door opened only enough to let a Castle serving woman, Umilla, slide in. She was a bowed, thin woman dressed in bright green that emphasized her drab coloring. Her hair was streaked white and black—a sign of the greatest of Power or the most fragmented.

Several Marshalls gasped at her presumption.

Umilla twisted her hands in the dress that hung from her frame. When she spoke her voice was dry and whispery. “There’s a feycoocu in the Castle,” she said.

Everyone stared at her. When the silence stretched, she turned and shuffled away.

“Stop, girl,” Reynardus shouted. “Say that again, and speak up. I didn’t hear you.”

Umilla only turned her head. “There’s a feycoocu in the Castle.” Her words were only a little louder, but the spells in the Chamber amplified them and repeated them: There’s a feycoocu in the castle. There’s a feycoocu in the castle.

Reynard stood. He leaned forward, both hands on the table, his Power focused on Umilla. “A magical shapeshifter? Are you sure, girl?”

“Blessings. It’s been more than a century since we’ve been so graced. A good sign that our Summoning was right. A feycoocu can only help our cause,” Partis said.

Snorting, Reynardus said, “You always take the optimistic road, Partis.” He turned back to Umilla. “Serving girl, come here.”

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