Isle of Wysteria: The Reluctant Queen (4 page)

Queen Hazel raised her hand politely. “My dear Mr. Norsoto, you are not my enemy, why would I treat you was such?”

Mr. Norsoto opened his mouth as if to say more, but then thought better of it and only bowed.

“If you would be so kind,” Hazel said coldly as she pulled out a message crystal affixed with the royal seal. “I was hoping you might be willing to pass this message along to your superiors in the Navy. I wish to resurrect one of the old ways and speak with them face-to-face under a white flag.”

Mr. Norsoto’s eyes grew wide as he accepted the crystal. “I...I am honored, my Lady. I will do what I can, but I should warn you, by the time they gather in numbers like this, the decisions have already been finalized. That’s just the way these kind of things are.”

Hazel said nothing, only nodded politely as he slowly waddled out of the room. The remainder of the courtiers followed him.

“Croton, what is next on my itinerary? The Queen asked, taking a slow breath.

“Nothing, my Lady.”

The Queen blinked. “It is not like you to jest.”

“I would never, my Lady. Your next meeting with Madam Buckthorn had to be delayed. She is to present her plans for homeland defense. I’m afraid you have nothing scheduled for the next five minutes.”

Hazel leaned back in her throne, quite unsure of what to do with five minutes alone to herself.

“Do we have any chocolate?” Hazel asked, her countenance brightening.

“Already on its way,” the attendant said, a slight smile on his face.

“Oh, you are good!” Queen Hazel gently clapped her palms together as she surveyed the tray of fine delicacies that was brought and presented before her.

“I only live to please,” he responded.

Hazel took one of the morsels and popped it into her mouth. Her braided hair swaying peacefully back and forth as she ate. For a brief moment, she was no longer the Queen, no longer the ruler of a nation on the brink of war. She was just a girl, enjoying a very fine piece of Caldonian Fudge.

“That is soooo good,” Hazel praised as she leaned back in her throne, her eyes half-closed. “Did you know, Croton, that chocolate is evidence that the Goddess Milia loves us and wants us to be happy?”

“I wouldn’t know, my Lady. Milia does not speak to men.”

It wasn’t just his acerbic answer that caught her attention, it was something she sensed in him. Something unusual. Twisting her staff slightly, she focused her attention to the living wood beneath his feet.

He was offended at being called Croton. Nothing showed on his face, but she could read it clearly through the trees. Despite how busy she was, she felt the desire to help him. Part of her mind protested the irrationality of it, but her heart won out. Unable to connect with him through the trees, she had to take a moment to find the right words. Spoken language was frustratingly imprecise.

“Your name isn’t Croton, is it?”

He stood there for a moment, unable to answer. Through the trees Hazel could feel his consternation.

“No, my Lady. My name is Dahoon.”

Hazel leaned forward and covered her face with her hands, partially because that is what decorum demanded, but mostly to hide her cheeks which blushed with true embarrassment.

“How long?” Hazel forced herself to ask, fearing the response.

“Four seasons, my Lady,” Dahoon answered honestly.

“All this time. Why didn’t you say anything?”

Dahoon shrugged. “If it pleases my lady to call me Croton, then you shall call me Croton.”

Hazel chuckled elegantly. “No, it does not please me. We Forsythians value truth over feelings; we always have.”

“Yes, my Lady,” he said with a bow.

“Please do not apologize; I was not attempting to shift the blame to you.”

Hazel picked up the tray of chocolates and held them out.

“I’m afraid I'll never be able to finish these, would you please take them with you as you return to your chambers? I want you to take the rest of the night off.”

Dahoon stood there dumbfounded, unable to respond.

“Of course, if that does not please you...” she began.

“Oh, yes it would my Lady, very much in fact,” he said, allowing a smile to peek through.

Dahoon bowed deeply and scurried off, happily carrying the tray with him.

As the Queen leaned forward to grab a new stack of scrolls, there came a rustling from the far end of the hall. The living branches that made up the wall struggled against something pushing against them. Grunts of exertion meshed with the sounds of rustling leaves as a man’s hand slowly worked its way through a gap in the branches, fingers flexing wildly, like some kind of alarmed spider.

“Balen, may I ask what you are doing?” Hazel sighed without looking up.

“A little help, please,” came the muffled response from within the branches. Hazel tapped her staff and the living wood gave way, spilling out Balen in a kind of half-somersault, half- drunken, flop onto the floor.

“You could have just used the door, you know?”

“Doors are bad luck, and I don’t want anything to go wrong before our wedding day,” Balen explained as he came to his feet and dusted himself off. His attire was unusual for a man, but that was one of the things she liked about him. A loose-fitting jacket that he kept open at the front, flaunting his broad chest, and tight pants that accentuated his toned backside. His physique was truly remarkable, and Hazel felt her heart flutter and cheeks flush when he threw her a quick smile. She remembered exactly why she had selected him to be her fifth husband.

“I am also looking forward to our wedding,” Hazel said with a twinkle in her eye. Normally it would be unthinkable to address a husband so casually like this, but Balen was so darn cute Hazel just couldn’t help herself. She caught herself glancing around for a second to double check that there were indeed no other women in the hall. If any of the other Matrons caught her behaving this way, the repercussions would be severe.

“Excellent,” Balen said, producing an overstuffed leather satchel and dumping its contents unceremoniously onto her desk.

“What is all this?” Hazel asked, leaning back as if she had just been attacked. Bits of fine cloth and wrapped nuggets of cake rolled off the edge of her desk and onto the floor around her throne.

“You have a few free moments, we are going to pick out our wedding colors,” Balen said with a wink.

“No, I have one free minute.” Hazel raised her hand and several male attendants scurried over and began organizing the hodgepodge before them. “I’m in the middle of war preparations, and you want to do this now?”

“Of course I do,” Balen said with a smile. “It is my wedding too, after all. How many times does a man get to be a groom?”

“Once, and be grateful for that,” Hazel said, quickly scanning through a collection of color swatches. “Endless repetition robs it of charm as time passes.”

“My Lady, Madam Buckthorn has arrived,” one of the attendants announced carefully.

“Here, I like this one,” Hazel said, pulling out a fine piece of silk.

“Blue-green, really?” Balen asked, looking disappointed.

“It is not blue-green, it is teal,” Hazel corrected.

“But why that one?” he asked, holding up a couple of alternatives.

Because I've used lavender twice before at my weddings and peach five times, so at least teal is something different.”

Balen stood there looking at the fabric, obviously disappointed.

“Think of it this way,” Hazel comforted warmly. “You will be my only husband who has ever had his own unique wedding color selected just for him. That is quite an honor.”

Balen brightened at this explanation, and he looked around at the other men for validation. When they nodded in return, he smiled and bowed deeply. Sweeping his toned arm respectfully, he spun around and ran for the exit.

The Queen sat up straight and gripped her staff. Her icy countenance returned. The living wood parted and Lady Tupelo Buckthorn strode the hall, looking resplendent in her immaculate armor, her two oldest, Aden and Zelkova, stood smartly abreast to her.

“May I announce the arrival of Wysteria’s greatest warrior family...” a male attendant began, but his declaration was cut short as Balen accidentally crashed into Lady Buckthorn and they both tumbled crudely to the floor. Weapons and bits of metal clattered loudly throughout the hall. Many present gasped as male servants scrambled to help Lady Buckthorn to her feet.

“What did I tell you?” Balen called out from underneath Lady Buckthorn. “Bad luck.”

The Queen, for her part, betrayed no emotion, but inside she felt like screaming.

Odger did the best he could to drown out the screams as he hefted the keystone up onto its pedestal. All around him he could feel the eyes, thousands of eyes. The indignation pieced him deeply. Tears ran down his face and he began to sing. It was a song he had learned in his childhood. A happy song about settling stones, pleasantly comfortable in earth that had given way to them for hundreds of years, finally forming the perfect seat flawlessly suited to the curvature of the stone it supported.

The happiness of the song mixed with the bitterness of his tears as he worked. They had told him that this would get easier in time. They had promised him that the voices would be temporary. They had lied to him. Now, his hands were far too dirty to ever turn back. His grief splintered his world into incomprehensible fragments of mind and body, ever shifting, one hallucination indistinguishable from the next.

The keystone in place, Odger pulled the lever, and the eyes were drawn inwards. Thousands of voices cried out as they were pulled into the keystone, then there was silence again, broken only by the otherworldly hum of the core as its energies waited to pull the Dreadnaught upwards into the skies.

Odger took out a filthy handkerchief and ran it over his forehead, leaving behind far more dirt and grease then he removed. For a moment he looked at his trembling fingers. They looked as filthy as he felt.

There was a familiar chime from the prism stream and Odger jumped backwards. Now that the Dreadnaught was again drawing power from the arteries, its existence was made known to the local Stonemasters, though not its exact location.

The chime rang out again and Odger covered his ears. He couldn’t stand the screaming. There was nothing worse than being a coward, to know that you had the power to prevent suffering, and do nothing about it. Eventually forced to take part in the cruelty. Truly heroes died but once, but cowards died a million deaths, every moment of every day.

And still he dragged himself forward, holding onto life by the tips of his fingernails. Wishing for oblivion, but too fearful to rush its arrival.

Again the prism stream chimed, and this time, Odger placed his hand on the receiver.

“Odger Jhonstin, currently assigned to the Dreadnaught, please respond,” came the authoritative voice.

“A-are you really there?” Odger asked hesitantly, looking around to locate the source of the voice.

“The Dreadnaught has gone rogue, you are ordered to immediately disengage the core and activate your beacon until authorities can arrive. Please acknowledge.”

“You...you're not real!” Odger yelled, taking his hand off the receiver. “You are just in my head.”

“Odger Jhonstin, I repeat, you are ordered by the council to disengage the Dreadnaught’s core immediately. Please acknowledge.”

“No!” Odger yelled, covering up his ears. “It’s all in my head, all in my head!” The voice of his superior called out several more times, but Odger drummed out the noise by singing even louder than before.

“...Don’t you understand? Your family and property, all of your belongings will be liquidated. Is that what you want? This is your final...”

Odger continued singing, pulling out a wrench from his belt and beating the prism stream over and over again, keeping in time with the music as tears and snot ran down his face, until the hallucination finally left him.

He stood there, gripping the wrench as tightly as he could.

It was some time before Odger worked up the nerve to open his eyes again. When he finally did, he realized that his head was right next to the protective barrier that separated the core from the rest of the ship. Just on the other side of the barrier, he saw a pair of polished boots. Looking up, he saw Athel, dressed in her Navy uniform, waving in a friendly manner.

Odger yelped in fear and backed away from this new hallucination. Athel tried several times to ask him some sort of question, but each time he droned it all out by covering his ears and singing.

Finally, with a sigh, she stepped forward, passing effortlessly through the barrier and into the core. The action seemed to affect her greatly, as she wobbled a bit and had to place a hand on the wall to keep her balance.

“H-How did you do that?” Odger asked, a little panicked. “N-Nothing can breach the barrier. A-Are you a ghost?”

Her face pinched and she rolled up her sleeve, revealing the geometric spiral branded on her wrist.

“A Stonemaster’s seal,” Odger whispered. “Where did you get it?”

“Where did I get it?” Athel echoed. “You burnt it into me, you little twig!”

“Oh, I would never do that,” Odger assured, shaking his head back and forth. “Placing a brand on a foreigner would be considered treason. I would be executed on the spot.”

She rolled her eyes and pulled out a small blanket and laid it on the cobblestone floor before her. Kneeling on it, she set down the basket she was carrying and looked around. The core was filled with thousands of glittering gemstones spinning precisely in the air, shimmering from gold to ruby, then back again, a golden thread leading from each one to the center of the room where the keystone hung in its place like a giant diamond. Yet, all the physical beauty of it seemed to give her no comfort. Instead, she wrapped her arms around herself, as if threatened.

“Are you really here?” Odger asked, suspiciously.

“Unfortunately, I am,” she answered, looking a little sick to her stomach.

“But why are you here?” Odger asked, bringing himself up into a sitting position. Of all the hallucinations he had witnessed of late, this one was certainly the most pleasant.