To Scale the Emerald Mountain (The Willowbane Saga #1)

8. CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER EIGHT

A s expected, the bath is divine.

I soak to my heart’s content until the water starts to cool and my fingers shrivel. I drain the filthy water, dry myself with a fluffy gray towel, and wrap my long and sopping hair. I put on a luxurious matching bathrobe and head to dress in my room.

Being at Locane’s house has far surpassed every expectation I have had so far. It brings me hope that it’s a good omen for what’s to come. Just as the thought hits me, I immediately strike it down and remind myself not to get too comfortable, too trusting. I will not be staying here long term, and only need enough time to formulate a plan and be better prepared.

It’s clear that Locane is being purposely evasive—and that makes me doubt his intentions and motives. I’m convinced that he helped me escape captivity. In fact, a large part of me wonders if he orchestrated the whole thing. But if he had, why did he wait so long to reveal himself to me? Why let me wander aimlessly for two weeks before intervening?

There’s no denying that he prepared for me to come here. None of this is adding up or making any sense. The more I think about it, that ever-present headache begins to build behind my eyes until it makes it hard for me to think at all .

Giving up the mental fight, I change into a night dress. It’s thin, comfortable, and a deep shade of green. Far less revealing than the flimsy white shift I dropped in the wastebasket of the bathing room. I climb into the bed and groan at the soft down mattress and pillows swallowing me.

Sleep takes me instantly.

I’m eight, sitting in a wooden rocking chair in front of a roaring fire. The smell of smoke and fragrant peppermint tea wafts up my nose while Nana brushes out my long hair.

“You know, your name comes from the Mother’s namesake herself. They say that when Ellhora arrived here, she fell as a shooting star from the night sky. As soon as the Mother separated from her home in the sky, the hole she left was empty and desolate, a gaping wound where her beauty once lay. It called out to the cosmos around it and filled with wayward stardust, desperate to be whole again. It pulled particles from everything nearby until it was filled. They say that is how our smaller green moon was created.”

Nana pauses her story and her brushing. The smile in her voice is apparent when she asks, “Would you like me to keep going?”

I nod excitedly.

“They say that when Ellhora arrived, the whole planet was nothing but endless salt seas—that when she fell, she hit the ocean floor. Instantly, her great power started giving life to this world. While ocean life spawned around her, she pushed her power down straight to the core of this world and pulled with all of her might. Molten liquid gave way to her, allowing her to build her land. Liquid solidified as it hit the cool waters until a landmass appeared.

“They say on that landmass sprouted a tree. A tree holding all of the power and vitality of the Mother. It grew and spread roots, sending some of its energy back into the earth that gave it life. An endless cycle began of give and take from this planet and Ellhora—who’s lifeforce and magic were confined to the tree. And so she made her home around the tree, building the city of Willowood.”

“The willowbane tree,” I say matter of factly.

“That’s right, my clever, darling girl.”

My face lights at the term of endearment.

“They say that the willowbane tree was protected and overseen by Ellhora. Then three gods appeared and demanded a piece of her magic; the gods demanded to give it to the masses. They say that when Ellhora refused them, the gods stole from her magic before poisoning the tree, weakening her and turning the willowbane tree into a petrified shadow of what it once was.”

I roll my eyes. “You start everything with ‘they say,’” I point out to her curiously. “Why? Do you not believe the stories?”

Nana smiles down affectionately at me. “I wasn’t there, who am I to say?” Her hazel eyes hold a playful twinkle.

I smile back at her and ask, “You’ve seen the petrified willowbane tree?”

“Oh, yes. It’s a very popular tourist destination in Willowood—the Gleisheon Territory’s capital—where your mother was from. Usually crowded, but still very much worth the visit. You will see it one day.”

I beam at the thought. “Ellhora was a great beauty? What did she look like?”

“Well, my darling girl, no one knows for certain. It is said that she appears different to everyone. If she truly created her children in her image, how could she not look like us all?”

Nana finishes with my hair and sits in a chair beside me. She smiles at me lovingly and says, “It used to be a popular trend to name daughters after the Mother. It was believed that it would bless the daughters to be great, strong, fearless women. But as years went on, less and less parents felt that their daughters lived up to their names of greatness. The trend died out. But your mother knew that you were a girl when you were still in her womb. And knew she would name you Ellya. Tellisha knew that—no matter what your life went on to be—you would be great. You are so like her. And at your young age you’ve already achieved the greatness she wanted for you. She would be so proud of you.”

A swell of emotion crests at Nana’s words, and tears sting my eyes as she hugs me. Before the drops have a chance to fall, the creaking of a door opening slowly catches my attention, and I am hit with a familiar scent. My heart races with joyful anticipation as I turn to look. I know who I will see from the air of familiarity and scent alone.

The threat of tears instantly fades as my face breaks into a wide smile.

I wake gasping and clutching my chest that feels as if a hole has been punched straight through my empty heart. Taking in my unfamiliar surroundings, I gradually remember where I am and how I got here.

The sky is still black as pitch outside, not yet morning. The house is silent. The soft hoot of an owl somewhere sings a soothing song to the night.

Thinking about the memory and the implications of my mother’s loss, I toss and turn for several long minutes before I resign myself to the fact that I won’t be going back to sleep.

I light the small handheld flicker lantern on my nightstand, a small drop of my power fueling its light, and walk downstairs. My mouth waters at the thought of peppermint tea. My steps lead into the kitchen, hoping that I will find some kind of tea, even if it’s not peppermint. It’s a warm and balmy night, but the craving for the comforting drink is too strong to ignore.

Stumbling around in the darkness, my lantern only helps me so much in the unfamiliar room. I stub my toe on a leg of a large island and curse under my breath, trying to ignore the throbbing pain and irrational anger that comes with it. Setting my lantern down, I place my arms on the island and take deep breaths. Lifting my head, I find the silhouette of a large range and the shadow of a teapot sitting on top.

There’s that at least.

Finding two flicker lamp sconces on either side of the range, I easily power them with a smile. Perfect. Turning the key on the wall to increase their light, I bathe the room in a soft glow. After lighting several more lamps I take stock of the kitchen and am surprised when I quickly find just what I’m craving. I open the tin labeled ‘peppermint chamomile’ and breathe deep.

It smells like home.

I’ve just started on the kettle when a cutting voice calls from behind me, “What are you doing?”

I jump, startled by my sudden company. “Fucking Mother, don’t do that!” My hand clutches the spot over my heart.

“What, speak to you?” Locane says blandly.

“No. Creep up like that. I didn’t even hear you.”

“Perhaps you should try to be more aware of your surroundings.”

“Perhaps you should be in bed. I didn’t really want company for my midnight tea.” I get back to work, pulling a jar of honey from an exposed shelf and slam it down on the island. Turning on the spot, I scan the room for mugs and find them quickly on another exposed shelf. I stride to it with purpose and pull down one, not bothering to ask if he would like any.

“Why are you making midnight tea?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” I tell him in a clipped tone.

“Any particular reason why?” Locane pulls down a second mug. He places it next to mine, insinuating that he plans to join me.

“No, I just… I had another dream,” the words spill from my mouth of their own accord.

Shit. Why did I just say that? I don’t want to tell him any of it.

Locane’s eyes light up with curiosity. “What was this one about?”

“Tell me something and I’ll tell you,” I say defiantly.

“Your Sight comes from your grandmother, the one you call Nana.”

I laugh. “I already know that. What do you know of my grandmother?”

Locane watches me hesitantly. “Not really anything other than that, or the little you have told me.”

I glare at his vagueness. “You have to do better than that. How did you know about her abilities? About mine?”

“I heard whispers,” is all he says.

“What whispers? And from who?” My frustration is mounting, and a drop of blood drips from my nose. Making a displeased noise, I find a towel to dab up the fluid.

“Just whispers, when I was on the Mother Continent. I had been there for many years. I only came back recently.” Locane grabs the tin of tea and drops a silk bag in each mug.

“And you came back because of these whispers?”

“Yes. ”

“Why? Why was I imprisoned? How do we know each other?” My voice raises with each question. I’m tired of his elusive answers. The headache I’m growing so accustomed to is stabbing into my temple.

“We will talk about it tomorrow. It is late. We are both tired.”

I take a step towards him and say, “No. We will talk about it now. Or I’m leaving.”

Locane closes the distance between us, almost touching, and peers down at me in a way that is only partially due to his towering height. “If you leave, they will catch you, and you will go right back to that life of imprisonment,” he tells me coolly.

“Honestly, Locane, at this point I think I’d rather be a prisoner than deal with your moods, avoidance, and lies. It’s starting to become a prison all its own.” My voice carries venom as I stare up at him, managing to look down my nose despite having to tilt my head up.

We silently square off for long, tense seconds before he finally backs down, stepping away from me to no longer invade my space. He moves the two mugs and jar of honey onto the breakfast bar then collects the steaming kettle from the range, pouring water into both mugs. “Follow me,” Locane says and makes his way through the door into the living area.

I trail behind him on wary feet.

Locane motions for me to take a seat before he goes to the bookcase. He scans the titles for a moment before selecting one and setting it on the small table before me next to a map of the Kingdoms. Reaching for it, he snaps my attention back to him by sliding on the couch next to me, our knees nearly brushing.

“These lands are dying. On this Continent, there is not much fertile land anymore. There was a time when the Plains of Ire had a different name, and the plain was not overgrown with the life choking littaweeds. What Salhaas is today is a skeleton of the lush fruit groves and fresh lakes it used to boast. The Salt River was not always the Salt River. It once provided sustenance and a livelihood for large populations of rivertowns at the edges of both Quinndohs and Salhaas. Even the deserts of Quinndohs used to have beautiful oases dotting the landscape with coconut and banana trees around sparkling pools of freshwater springs. The Kingdoms thrived individually once, but now rely heavily on each other to survive.”

I gulp in trepidation as Locane begins his explanations. He leans forward to slide the map of the Kingdoms of the Continent across the gleaming surface of the coffee table.

“Though Salhaas is part of what is called the Kingdoms, it has always been ruled by a Queen. And the Queendom now has virtually nothing left to give.” Locane points to the smallest portion of land at the top left corner of the map, indicating Salhaas. “The Salt River is dead, no longer sustaining Quinndohs with fresh water. Most of the towns that were built on its shores died with it. Its poisoned waters are continuously seeping into the land.”

Locane snakes his finger down the line of blue river cutting a track between Salhaas and Quinndohs before slicing through Brhadir.

Swallowing thickly, I try to take in this lesson of sorts, as well as the map before me. My tired mind is unable to dig for memories to correlate with what he’s telling me. Trying to search for them builds a subtle ache in my temple; I drop the effort to instead concentrate on Locane.

“Brhadir still has the most farmable land and freshwater, given the bloodline power of the ruling family. They have the ability to not only manipulate water, but create new water sources where the land allows. Brhadir also has the largest population of any of the Kingdoms, with many villages and smaller cities dotted throughout the Emerald Mountains and at the base.”

Miniscule city and village names are penned across the map for Brhadir; far more than the sprawling deserts of Quinndohs, or the tiny sliver of Salhaas.

Flashes of some of these settings in Brhadir flicker through my mind, refusing to be forgotten any longer. Including the small village—Glehsdor—Locane entered and ran from only hours ago. Though I can’t quite pinpoint where exactly in the Kingdom I may hail from, the vivid images coming to me let me know that I’m deeply familiar with many of these cities and villages in Brhadir.

“The King of Brhadir and the King of Quinndohs rely heavily on each other. All freshwater in Quinndohs today is imported from Brhadir.”

“How?” The quiet question slips past my lips. The notion of water being imported from such a distance to sustain the population of an entire Kingdom seems insurmountable.

“From the alliance built between two kings shortly after the Original War ended,” Locane gives as an empty clarification.

“That doesn’t explain how all that water is transported.” My hand runs absentmindedly over the soft satin of the couch, waiting for his response.

Locane heaves a deep exasperated exhale through his nose. “The first Kings of Brhadir and Quinndohs conceptualized a system of pipes running between the Kingdoms, up the coast of the Vhelisean Sea. The King of Brhadir used his power to create an infinite fresh water spring feeding straight into the system. It has been maintained and powered by common water wielders since. A very lucrative career.”

My mouth pops open to continue to question; but Locane swiftly cuts me off with a slightly raised voice, emphasizing his desire to move on.

“And you might think the King of Brhadir has more power—being that he holds the leverage to deny Quinndohs the water they desperately need—but the King of Quinndohs truly has the upper hand.”

A noticeable sneer grows across Locane’s face as he speaks of the two kings.

“Traders from the Territories of the Mother Continent will only sail from the Ruby Shore to the Bay of Quinndohs—through the Great Trench. The King of Quinndohs orchestrates and vastly controls all trade between the Kingdoms and the Territories, bringing in essentials that won’t grow anywhere on these lands: wheat, sugar, cotton, etcetera. The Capital of Quinndohs is the only portion of that Kingdom that anyone can comfortably survive, given the progress of the city due to the trading ports. Are you following?”

I gape at him, trying to take in the glut of information he is presenting to me. Apparently my understanding of both the Kingdoms of the Continent and the Territories of the Mother Continent is limited to the bare basics.

“I think so,” I say weakly.

“I have a well-kept journal containing all of this information. You can brush up later. You had a vision about the banishment, so you are aware of how our Continent and the Great Trench came to be, yes?”

“Yes. Ellhora broke off a small portion of land trying to banish the gods who forced their way into our world,” I tell him, the memory of the vision taking form in my head.

“Correct. Did you know that on the Mother Continent, the northern portions of the Territories are the ones that have colder weather patterns and intense winters, while the southern portion has warmer, wetter climates? The opposite of how it is here. Although Quinndohs certainly does not see much rain, and Brhadir is quite humid in the summer months.”

My brain hurts trying to keep up. I say nothing, afraid that if I do, Locane will not make it to whatever explanation comes with this lesson.

“In the Kingdoms, the farther south you get, you see more frigid, snow filled autumns and winters, while northern Quinndohs stays stiflingly hot nearly year-round. On the Mother Continent, water sources flow from north to south and here… Here it flows south to north. Strange, is it not?” Locane looks at me quizzically.

“I did not know about any of this,” I tell him, my cheeks heating with embarrassment.

Needing something to do with my hands, I stand to get my tea, lukewarm and over-steeped by now. Not wanting Locane to lose momentum and shut down the conversation, I say, “That is odd. Were the opposite temperaments like that before Ellhora banished the other gods?”

I add honey to his tea as well and hand it to him after giving both mugs a good stir, the spoon clinking against the ceramic.

“No. I don’t believe they were.”

Locane takes a drink of his tea, grimacing slightly, and sets it down. He sinks in further to the couch, leaning in towards me and knocking my knee softly with his. He searches my expression and continues. “I believe that when Ellhora separated the lands she shifted some kind of balance, and that this land has been slowly dying ever since that fateful day.”

Mulling over his words, I remember Nana’s skepticism about widely accepted histories and stories about the Mother. Even as a child, Nana’s doubt was apparent to me. Recalling the memory as an adult, it’s obvious that she didn’t believe all the stories and wanted me to know about her doubts.

Head cocked, I watch Locane closely. “Do you think Ellhora did that on purpose? Perhaps with the intention of eventually deterring the gods from wanting to stay?”

“That is a good theory,” Locane tells me approvingly.

“This is all very interesting, but what does it have to do with me?”

My heart rate increases, and anxiety creeps in. The notion of learning some portion of why I have very few of my memories, why I was in a dungeon, is starting to be as terrifying as him not telling me anything at all. The realities of perhaps getting my answers and not at all liking them are hitting me like a hammer to the gut.

Either way, I am terrified.

Locane rubs his hands together, barely biting the inside of his full lip. As I watch him, his demeanor changes ever so slightly. His eyes shine with a new gleam I have not seen yet, alive with an emotion I can’t place.

“Have you ever heard of the gems of the gods?” he asks me in a fanatical whisper, drinking me in with an intense gaze.

The words hit me hard, and I suddenly feel like I can’t breathe. Although those particular words aren’t ringing any recognition, the image of a large emerald pulsing in a cave wall comes to me .

Something alights in my bones. My skin is positively buzzing. My very cells are calling out and demanding to know more.

I swallow audibly and tell him in a choked whisper, “No, I can’t say that I have.”

My words don’t sound convincing, despite them being the truth. Locane must think so too because he leans into me further, a sudden flash of something dark crossing over his face.

“Are you sure?” The question is thrown at me as more of an accusation.

“Yes, I’m sure. Well, I mean, no. I’m not sure. But I’m sure I can’t recall anything about any gems,” I stutter, suddenly overtaken by the need to explain myself. Crippled by the need to appease him. “If I have heard of them, I don’t know. I don’t know,” I finish weakly.

Locane’s face quickly shifts back to neutral as he loosens a stiff breath. “Of course. It has been difficult tracking down a lot of this information. I have only found one ancient book, nearly impossible to read, mentioning them at all. And even so, their existence is not expressly stated.”

“Well, what are they?”

“There are five: emerald, sapphire, ruby, diamond, and amethyst.” Locane pauses dramatically and studies me, searching for recognition. “The five gems created by the gods with magic supposedly stolen from Ellhora.”

“Magic stolen from the willowbane tree?”

Locane’s eyes widen a fraction, and I cringe at the slip.

“And what, Ellya, do you know of the willowbane tree?” he asks, deathly calm .

A sheen of sweat breaks out over my lip as he assesses me with cool eyes. The intensity of those dark depths unnerves me to my core.

“What?” I spit defensively. “Why shouldn’t I know of the willowbane tree? Nana said it’s a popular place in the Gleisheon Territory. I’d venture to guess that ‘popular tourist destination’ and ‘big dark secret’ don’t generally go together.”

“No, I’d say they don’t. And I didn’t say you shouldn’t know about it. I simply asked what you do.” His expectant eyes rove over my face, intently waiting for an answer. Waiting for me to give something else away.

“Just that it sprouted and grew where Ellhora landed. And that it was essentially the beating heart of this planet—holding all magic and life of the earth. And that it was poisoned by the gods during the Original War,” I tell him, desperate for the intensity of his gaze to die.

“Yes, it certainly was poisoned.” He cradles his chin between thumb and forefinger, stroking gently, deep in thought. “Anything else?”

“All I know is that Nana had doubts about some of the stories about Ellhora.” Red splotches of shame stain my cheeks as I share pieces of that memory that I vowed to keep to myself.

Locane moves his hand quickly away from his face to cradle my chin. I gasp in surprise.

“And what did she doubt?” Locane asks, eyes jumping back and forth between mine. I jerk my head, trying to dislodge his hold, but he only grabs tighter. “Answer me!”

“She just told me a nursery story about our smaller moon and Ellhora creating our world. She kept saying ‘they say,’ and it just sounded like she didn’t really believe any of it,” I explain, panicked. “She didn’t really tell me anything. I swear.”

Locane exhales sharply and releases my chin, tucking a stray piece of hair behind my ear. I take in a deep breath, not realizing that I had barely dared to breathe.

“Of course. She’s too insightful not to doubt,” he mutters quietly to himself, something akin to disdain dripping from his words. I knit my brows at him, the muttered statement insinuating he knows more about my grandmother than he has let on.

I’m about to confront Locane when he suddenly lifts his head to me, face serene.

“It always amazes me the pretty lies people are so willing to believe simply because they’ve heard them enough.”

I gape at him. “What does that mean?”

Locane gives me a scolding glare. “What would make you, personally, doubt the stories our history books tell us about the tree? About magic?”

Thinking hard about everything I know of accepted history, I separate it from the gems of the gods Locane is telling me about. I shake my head, brows narrowed. “If the lifeforce and magic of the earth were solely tied to Ellhora and the tree, why didn’t it all die when the tree was poisoned at the beginning of time, stolen magic or not?”

Locane smiles wide and laughs. “And do you know what our history books don’t tell us?”

I shake my head. “What?”

“They say nothing about the gems forged into the earth, about the method in which the gods gave their magic. Why does no one question this? ”

“I don’t know, Locane. I don’t know anything about any of this,” I tell him, my irritation at his dancing around answers increasing.

Locane senses my frustration and sighs with his own. He gets up and moves over to me, kneeling on the ground at my side and grabs my hand.

It is wholly unnerving.

“What questions would you ask about the gems?” He stares at me with expectation, on bated breath.

I think for a moment, and my reply comes to me naturally. The questions seem obvious. “Which god created which gem? Where are they now? And there are three gods, but five gems. Did Ellhora create one? If so, why? And who created the fifth?”

“Yes!” Locane yells, slamming the flat part of his fist down on the arm of the couch, making me jump. I attempt to swallow my nerves as I take in the overall unhinged energy he is starting to exude.

“I suppose you don’t know any of these answers?” My voice is barely a whisper. The picture of how I fit is unfolding rapidly before me as my vision of the emerald washes over me again.

“No, I do not,” he answers.

I peer up at Locane as he watches realization wash over me like being doused with a frigid bucket of water.

Averting my eyes, I stare into the depths of the empty hearth of the fireplace. “But you think I can help you get those answers.”

A cold tear slides down my cheek.

A gentle touch on my face turns me to Locane, still kneeling at my side. He wipes the tear with his thumb, the gesture almost tender. He looks me deep in the eye with an odd expression of adoration and utter confidence.

“I know you can.”