The Questory
Of
Root Karbunkulus
Quill
By Kamilla Reid
* * * * *
Published by:
Kamilla Reid at Smashwords
Copyright 2010 Kamilla Reid
All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
ISBN: 978-0-9866741-3-6
ISBN (print): 978-0-9866741-1-2
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This book is also available to order in print at rootkarbunkulus.com
* * * * *
PRAISE FOR ROOT KARBUNKULUS
“Five Stars!”
Teens Read Too
“It was fantastic! I’ve been reading Root Karbunkulus sooooooo much
it seems like I read it every day!”
Fenya, age 11
"Awesome! So creative!"
Brooke R, age 10
""I rarely find a book that I enjoy that has enough fantasy in it but yours does!"
Hayley P, age 14
“Your book is so addictive! I’ve read it three times now!”
Samantha, age 12
* * * * *
To Lori and Nina
Mmmhmmm….mmmhmmm
Phhfftt!
* * * * *
1
TINTS
Cheating and long pink patent boots. Hilly Punyun’s two most favorite things in the whole world. Next to being the boss, having the nicest hair and winning at all costs, of course.
Hilly stood up on a boulder and lurked over her teammates. Pidge was yawning and Sharmay was sitting cross-legged holding a slice of cucumber over each of her eyes.
The smell of mischief was in the air.
“I can’t find anything,” said Sharmay squinting. Sharmay was not in pink today, unless you counted the upper of her sneakers. The majority of her was in powder blue, because blue and pink are complementary colors. Sharmay always made a point of knowing what Hilly was going to wear ahead of time. Color-coding was essential. As was showing off her most beloved assets, sea green eyes, painstakingly accentuated in a triple eye shadow application known as the smoky look. The smoky look did nothing for the pimples on Sharmay’s chin but a good dose of Chin Skin usually dealt that a handy blow.
Pidge, the third of the Pink trio had chosen a green, layered ensemble. She enjoyed layers. Layers covered up her boobs, which had suddenly seemed to balloon over the past year and were now an uncomfortable focal point in many conversations. And no matter the efforts to divert attention to her best assets- long, shiny, glorious locks of chestnut hair and glossy plump lips, eyes relentlessly fell chestward. Thus layers. Green layers. However, though green is fine with pink, it is not so fine with blue. Apparently. At least not this season. This season, according to Style Bazaar,
Blue and green
Should never be seen
Together except
In a washing machine.
And so Pidge was sent home. She had returned in an acceptable muted yellow ensemble and quickly rejoined her teammates in the aforementioned act of mischief…i.e. cheating.
“It’s just…not working…” Sharmay pulled a cucumber down from her eye and took a bite.
“Wha’dya mean? I thought you had Viewing!” Hilly stepped down from her boulder with a stamp of power.
“Well, yeah but it doesn’t work against a Secret. Especially a Big Secret.”
“So, what exactly can you see?”
“Well…I saw a zit on Zakaron Bleet’s butt.”
Pidge and Sharmay giggled. A zit on Zakaron Bleet’s butt was funny stuff. A zit on any ex-boyfriend was funny stuff.
Hilly closed her eyes and sucked in air, the way one does in order to calm down, to staunch the urge to hit something. Or someone.
Pidge backpedaled. “And remember Sharmay was the one who saw Zakaron cheat on me.”
“That wasn’t Viewing!” snarled Hilly “That was open. And we all saw it.”
“Oh yeah. Right. The jerk!”
“Well, so much for a head start!” Hilly Punyun snitted and with a kick of pink patent, sent the rest of the cucumber across the lawn.
Rats, thought Sharmay. That was her lunch.
Hilly’s eyes narrowed. What, what, what was the next Quest item going to be? She was about to turn back to her teammates and rant when she noticed someone walking alone across the field.
“Hey, isn’t that that Krism guy?” Pidge said, glad of the change of subject.
“Tints don’t have names, Sharmay. How many times do I have to tell you that?”
On the opposite side of the field the boy stopped walking. Hilly saw him clearly then. Their eyes locked. A shiver took her spine but she wouldn’t look away. And then she saw the other boys emerge from the bushes.
Not very many people can say they’ve been in a fistfight. For those that haven’t, it’s not as exciting as it looks. For those that say it doesn’t even look exciting, they are the exception to an otherwise bloodthirsty rule.
There are no exceptions among the fifty or so that have arrived to ‘watch the boys take on the Tint.’
Certainly Krism had been used to this sort of thing. Growing up in service to the Murk Lord was not without its fair share of beatings. He swerved around to face his opponents. They’d already managed a few kicks and punches but he was still standing. His time at the hotel had served him well. His strength was back. His skin was thicker.
From all around came the squealing and cheering of the crowd. Where had they all come from? Peripherally, he could see a shuffling exchange of money. Bets were being placed, odds obviously in favor of the four boys in front of him. And now that beautiful blond girl in pink had arrived and pushed her way to the front. Krism smiled. She was as golden as the sun he’d longed for his whole life. Even more so.
“What’s so funny, Tint?” One of the boys pushed him.
Krism swung his fist. It landed squarely on the boy’s jaw with a solid crack. The boy staggered back. The others moved in closer. Krism’s eyes darted but his body moved with steady calm.
“Filthy Tint!” called someone from the sides. Krism turned his head and - Bam! - a fist had captured his ear and clanged its hatred down the canal. Cheers sprang from the crowd. But what these kids didn’t know was that a volcano had been gurgling and spitting and holding back long, long before. Krism could feel its acid inside his stomach.
An inky, bloody eruption set his eyes red.
Krism was grabbed by his shoulders and pulled away. He had been pounding a boy with his fists over and over without even knowing it.
“Enough!” The words brought Krism swimming back and looking into the dark, hot eyes of a boy. A boy with a crude scar on his forehead.
The mark of the Murk Lord.
The boy helped Krism to his feet where the growling horde of spectators was being held back by a steeled band of rivals.
Tints.
Krism could see, in a silent hold the invisible lines of hate.
One of the fighting boys scrambled up with a bloodied nose and was caught by his friends. “Pigs!” he spat at the new arrivals.
Krism could feel the tautness of the air. In front of him, his brothers and sisters, leftovers of the Murk Lord stood against the mob, poised to fight. For him.
The dark-eyed boy let go of Krism’s shoulders. He turned to him again. He was tall and angry. He and all his gang wore strips of grey, like limp, leather shadows. And on all of them the crude remnants of a broken circle, scarring them inside and out.
“You shouldn’t be there, in that castle. You should be with your kind,” the boy said.
“Yeah, y’ugly, black Tint!” a girl on the other side of the invisible line spewed. A grey leather elbow checked her.
Krism wiped the back of his hand over the warm blood on his lip. His tongue could taste its iron. His eyes wandered back to the scene and scanned for answers. Maybe he was right, this brother. Maybe Krism shouldn’t be here where he clearly didn’t belong. Where he was despised.
He spied the blond girl. Her eyes were wide and dark, locked on him again. She was flanked by two sneering friends but nothing came from her. Root had warned him about her. She told him to stay away, that this girl was trouble, that she hated Tints. But her eyes…they were so beautiful.
Krism pulled away from the gang leader. He walked slowly and purposefully until he stood right in front of Hilly. Hilly straightened and he could see her try to catch her breath. His own breath was fast and hard. He said nothing.
In the next instant he was kissing her and nothing else existed.
Hyvis Punyun had seen the crowd from a distance and never being one to miss a beat of gossip she approached with her authority clearly in tact. She would never in her life forget what she saw.
She screamed. A pitch fully loaded with rage, hatred and fear.
Krism turned. The woman was already almost upon him. Her eyes were blue venom. “You monster. You will step away from her or so help me…”
Krism stepped back.
“Hilly, baby doll. Are you okay?” Hyvis ran to her daughter. Hilly buried herself into her mother’s folds. Hyvis’ eyes narrowed. “You will pay for this…back away…now…all of you!” She threw all her weight upon the crowd. As she maneuvered her daughter away she paused at the leader of the dark gang. “I swear….”
* * * * *
2
BULK POO
There is nothing…no thing…in the entire universe worse than the smell of a wet Hovermutt freshly rolled in Bulk poo.
“Hold still, Stogie!” Root yanked her shaggy companion closer to the spouting mouth of warm water. But Stogie was much, much bigger than her and according to Stogie there was nothing worse than a bath.
“Aw, c’mon, Stogie! You stink! You are not going on the Quest tomorrow smelling like this!”
Even as she said it, Root could hardly believe it. By this time tomorrow she would be on another crazy adventure seeking the next mysterious item of DréAmm’s Second Magisterial Treasure Quest. And tonight at the Gala she would finally get to find out what that mysterious item was. She and her teammates, Lian and Dwyn had spent nearly every single day pondering what it could possibly be and what kind of an adventure they would be led on this time.
They had been given six weeks since the last Quest to train and prepare. But that six weeks turned into twelve weeks due to some Quest injuries that were delayed in their healing. In particular, Tompy Fibler’s Mountain Krok wound kept disappearing and then reappearing somewhere else on his body. He finally trapped it on his elbow where the Medician could shrink it away.
And to add to the anticipation, Jorab had told Root he had a surprise for the Valadors tonight at the gala. She could hardly wait.
Although at this rate, with Stogie still slathered in dung, she’d be hard pressed to make it on time. She could already imagine her Klok, Horologe rolling over onto his little pig hooves and snorting: “You’re late…again.” Sure, it was pretty cool having a toy-sized pig to tell you the time, but he could sure be annoying sometimes. Not like Lian’s Klok, a very nice, very polite miniature sheep. Maybe they could switch? Nah, as annoying as he could be, Root had come to love her little pig Klok, snout and all
Anyways…Bulk poo.
Stogie was now bracing himself against Root’s heaving arms. He was not going anywhere. Besides he was just fine with steaming sour fumes. Reminded him of…well, Bulk poo. And he rather liked it.
“Why happy days to you, Miss Root Karbunkulus!”
It was Elgart.
Elgart was always covered in chalky dust, which made sense because he was always fixing up the House of Gub, which made sense because the House of Gub was always in need of fixing up. Elgart was a bit of a conundrum, constantly whistling a happy tune and yet Root was sure he couldn’t possibly find much in the way of job satisfaction. Honestly, in all the time Root had been here, despite his best efforts, it seemed the castle was getting worse.
As owner of the castle, Master Hillywur Gub had promised to renovate it to the height of its glory days but with every triumph there were twenty setbacks. Sinks sunk. Furniture got webbed into walls. Ceilings fell in. Floors bubbled up. Nothing of his and Elgart’s attempts seemed to last long at all.
Everyone knew it was because of the Krux on the castle but of course no one knew how to get rid of the Krux. Perhaps its dark history surrounding the murder of King Validyn would linger forever, casting its cold shadow, not just on furniture and walls and the ever growing weeds but, dismally, on the food as well. Food was becoming…well, at it’s best, fuel. At its worst, compost. Instances of green bread and hairy juice seemed to occur more and more frequently. Sometimes a curious epidemic of toe rash would hit immediately after a meal and put a muzzle on any physical activities for a whole week afterward. It made eating a rather nervous game of Chicken.
In all fairness to the Krux, despite its nasty business, blame had to be shared. At least in some of the matters of food. Master Gub had for a long time been able to find his scapegoat in the Krux. But after the last outbreak, when only those who ate Mealy Bites got sick, there was a strong conviction that bad cooking had to be at least somewhat responsible for some of these edible failures.
Not only that but clearly the launderers were laundry challenged. Most everything came back shrunk or streaked in purple or dirtier than when it left. Root even discovered the lovely arrival of Moss Ants growing on her socks. Twice!
It wasn’t like Master Gub wasn’t trying. He was. But good employees were of very short supply, especially ones that could tolerate the Krux. Of those that did stick around, seventy five percent seemed to just pass under the ‘weirdo’ radar. The other twenty five percent was split into ‘desperate’ and ‘nasty’. Nasty workers were to be avoided at all costs, being that they actually enjoyed the Krux. They would linger around its cold spots, waiting for a poor, unsuspecting kid to walk right into one. And then they’d just stand back and laugh at the aftermath.
On the cheery side of this, at least for Root, she had become quite adept at escaping the Krux’s cold spots. In fact, most of the Quest kids had managed to avoid them pretty well now. All but Milden Ibbbs. Milden, as sweet as he was did not seem to have the kind of awareness that registered ‘hmmm, seems to be a bit more chilly here, better take off. Now!’ to his brain. Thus, over the weeks Milden had been seen without a nose, with an eye peering from his belly button, puking up toe jam, hair coming out of his mouth and wearing his feet backwards. All the unpleasant results of walking into a Krux cold spot.
It must be said, however that there had been some incidences that were far too calculated to have been the work of cold spots. The use of Widow Squash bombs in particular. Whoever was doing them had gotten away with at least ten attacks so far. Ten disgusting, stinking puke explosions, most of them on the head of the victim. It was gross beyond gross and, with the culprit as of yet not apprehended, Root found herself looking over her shoulder way too often now.
After Milden’s last cold spot encounter, when he was found hanging upside down from a noose in a painting, his father Milwart Ibbbs took him to the Medician. This is when tongues wagged and the news ripped through the castle like wind. Poor Milden Ibbbs was, of all things, allergic to magic. That was why he couldn’t notice the cold spots, his magical senses were too inflamed, almost like having a nose that was too stuffed up to smell the fumes of poison. It was a tragedy Root was sure she’d’ve not recovered from and yet somehow Milden still managed to stay jovial. The Medician gave him a special steam and that seemed to help a bit. At least he could sense the bigger cold spots and manage to avoid them. He was still determined to stay in the race and not a day would go by without an inspirational smile and an ‘Aren’t we so lucky!” from Milden Ibbbs.
There was only one person as happy as Milden. Root had been waiting to see him all morning and now jumped at her chance.
“Any news, Elgart?”
“Nothin’ yet, sweetlet.”
Root tried to keep the corners of her mouth up.
“ I’m sorry, little Root. I know it’s been a long time.”
Well, duh! Only her whole life, she wanted to yell. Not at Elgart. At DréAmm council. Stupid, dumb DréAmm council. Seriously, how hard was it to find out who her parents were? Apparently, very hard. At least according to the Guardian Studaben Picklepug who had a really irritating habit of patting Root on the head while explaining the stacks of paper work to be done and the requests that had to be filed first, not to mention the identity charts to be filled out. “Et cetera, et cetera…” he’d say with annoying smoothness.
And when Root would try to explain that she’d already filed a request and filled out the identity charts, he’d always manage to slip away with promises to discuss it later. Root hadn’t really liked Studaben Picklepug from the get go. He seemed to have so many secrets, so many carnival tricks behind the two-ring circus of his eyes and the way he staged himself, so slick and glossy, it made her skin crawl.
He was hiding something. Root didn’t know what exactly, but something didn’t feel right. Seriously, what was so wrong with wanting to know her family history, who her parents were, what they had done for a living, where they had lived, if there were siblings, aunts, grandparents still alive? And yet, Picklepug seemed to avoid the topic altogether, applying his most favored trick, the elusive promise of tomorrow. “Soon.” He would smile and pat her on the head “Very soon. Yes, indeed.”
For the first little while ‘soon’ seemed to appease. But twelve weeks? That was double the six that had been originally promised. That was nearly two whole seasons. In that time copper and red colored vistas could have backdropped a hundred reunions. Thousands of lost snapshots could have been discovered and hanging over mantles. Bedrooms could have been claimed. Memories spliced. Hearts darned back together.
It’s not that this time hadn’t been productive. Truly it had. In twelve weeks Root had wrapped her head around Quatra, studied Magic Basics and could now light a fire and open the door with the flick of her finger. She had learned the landscape of her immediate surroundings and could point out Mirror Lake or the Apiary or the Concert Hall or the Stables to a wandering visitor. She had polished off thousands of mugs of Chorm.
And she had turned fifteen. Which surprised her because she had entirely forgotten about her birthday.
But DréAmm doesn’t forget its birthdays. Or rather its Birthday. One day, set aside, like a stat holiday, like Thanksgiving. Birthday was the celebration day for all those who have been born. Everyone. Young and old and in between.
Root loved this idea. It was like Christmas in its gatherings and decorating and feasting. Fire Blossoms were strung. Swags festooned along hallways and on the fronts of doors. Beautiful sparkling centerpieces were placed upon tables. Music was played with lyrics that celebrated the marvel and gift of life. Happy Birthday was put to every greeting. We’re so glad you were born! was splayed across streamers. And from the neighboring evergreens, the deep rich aroma of their bark drifted heavily, like the gods had sprinkled cinnamon and honey into the air. It was a joyous and wonderful occasion and Root was thrilled when she and Dwyn were invited to share it with Madam Mordgidika Keen and Jorab, two of her most favoritest people of all. Lian had spent the early part of Birthday between the homes of his parents, Lord Blick and Estrella Fuffleteez and then joined Root and Dwyn later.
Fifteen years old, all three of them.
Two hundred and eighty eight years, Mordge. Two hundred and forty three, Jorab. Root had no idea you could live this long. And still be happy. Now, this was cause for celebration. The frost of winter had spilled a crystal veneer across Mordge’s window. Root scraped the words ‘Happiest Birthday ever’ across it with her fingernail.
They toasted themselves well into the evening and fell asleep on warm fat chairs while Jinter Twostep’s warbled recording got stuck on the same line over and over.
Be not ye careworn
Be glad ye were born
Be not ye careworn
Be glad ye were born
Be not ye careworn
Be glad ye were born…
* * * * *
3
EAVESDROPPING
Birthday made Root want to know her parents even more. They were the ones, after all who had birthed her. She clung to the only vision of her mother she had, a woman with long ebony hair and a ribbon of silver through it. A tiny, mysterious image but it was enough. She tried to talk to Dwyn about his parents too but Dwyn didn’t talk about his parents.
“But don’t you want to know who they were?”
“Nope.”
“Why not?”
“Miss Pramly was my mum as far as I’m concerned. She raised me since I was a baby. Genes don’t matter to me. She was the one who was there. Besides you’re never gonna find out, Root.”
“Wha’dya mean?”
“Haven’t you read any of the history books, yet? Kakos’ attack was so swift and powerful, people died by the thousands. They couldn’t keep up with the dead bodies and ended up throwing them in mass graves. It’ll be years before Council can tally names, if they even can at all. And even longer to piece together any families. I’d bet a zillion bucks that the reason Picklepug keeps putting off requests for identity files is because there are none. They’re either lost or were never made. Why don’t you just let it go.”
After that Root tried very hard to simply ignore Studaben Picklepug whenever she saw him. It was not easy. She wanted to ply him with questions and demand answers and insist on changes. Not that she’d get anything from him anyhow. His secretary Slim Pulpit made sure of that.
“He’s not available.” Slim Pulpit would say with a cigar poking out of his mouth. Slim was nothing of the sort. He looked more like a giant bag of pudding with a head that ovalled side to side instead of top to bottom, a toad head. A thick, toady head. With a thick toady head cleft that cut his chin in two.
Slim Pulpit never let Root talk to the Guardian. Ever.
However, quite unexpectedly, as Root watched Picklepug slip into his office one day, she discovered a consolation, a perfect little inroad. She, to her delight, had discovered a way to eavesdrop on the very conversations of the Guardian of DréAmm, Studaben Picklepug himself. Well, if you can call Quatra eavesdropping. And it wasn’t really him she was hearing. He was in a meeting and Root had tapped into an older woman who was the second part of the dialogue. Root felt bad. The woman had obviously let down her guard in her emotional state and Root had gained easy access to her thoughts. But Root was sick to death of being patronized. She needed answers too.
Picklepug was extolling to the woman and another, a man, the woman’s husband, the virtues of the Quest and its overwhelming success.
“Well, from what I’ve gathered it was nothing of the sort. The dangers those children were placed in were far beyond anything we were promised.” Root could feel that the woman did not trust Picklepug.
“My dear lady, your son is splendid, thanks to his swift, unhindered conditioning during the race. Let’s not forget, this Quest held within it opportunity, a unique rites of passage of which you were fully in agreement with before your son…ahem…lost. And, as has been stated many times, there was never any real danger with which to be concerned.”
Root had rather balked at this. It had felt pretty darn dangerous to her. But, perhaps the teams had been monitored more than she’d known. There was the Brédin. Even just thinking of them made her feel safe. And they were always only a Bean Bug away.
“Indeed,” Picklepug continued “your son was given a chance at a prize well worth the challenge, was he not?” He felt slimy in the woman’s mind.
“And by his being eliminated…” This was the father now, speaking as if getting something off his chest. “…He’s not…I mean… not eligible for…”
“Arthur!” Root felt a sudden fury in the woman. A powerful rage that made Root feel sick. She had to bail; the pressure in her head was too much.
Definitely a lesson there, she thought but not one in which she could ask Jorab. She knew he would never approve of her using Quatra to listen in on conversations. Right now she didn’t care. It was the only way she could get answers.
Besides, it wasn’t like she had access all the time. Hardly anyone had Quatra. Most of the time she was tuning into white noise, like on a television or the hit and miss of radio stations. That is until she quite unexpectedly struck the jackpot of all jackpots in the eavesdropping world. She had been trying to tune in to another conversation of the Guardian’s when she caught a third party wave. It was his Klok! Who’dathunk his Klok, of all things would have Yield Quatra but clear as the wings on its little bat body, this Klok was better than a fly on the wall. Root zeroed in with ease and was soon party to the Guardian’s most private interactions.
Talk about a disappointment. Studaben Picklepug was a real dud on the ol’ grapevine. Most of his conversations revolved around food, what was to be for lunch, dinner et cetera. You’d think he’d been sworn in as Caterer to DréAmm and not its illustrious leader. Surely his most secret exchanges were done elsewhere. They had to be. A country can’t run on menu choices. There were issues. Even Root knew that.
Luckily, peppered in with Cockled Hen and Harvest Pie, the Guardian managed to direct his attention, at least for a time to the matter of the orphans. Hundreds of them, the ones who had been eliminated from the first Quest had to be placed somewhere. Papers were shuffled, documents were stamped and appointments were scheduled. But nothing seemed to be done.
The majority of Picklepug’s speeches to the orphans went something like: “As you know, as Guardian of our great land, it is my sincere desire that you be taken care of but, as you can imagine I am a very busy, important figure and these things take time…a great deal of time, indeed…and…”
Blah blah voice dragging into mud speed blah...
Root saw some of the kids leave the castle, taken in by new families. Most stayed. The House of Gub was their fall out shelter, the only thing sturdy between where they had come from and where they might end up. Madam Mordgidika Keen ensured they were subsidized under DréAmm’s War Act and given plenty of support as they made their transitions.
Root was beginning to wonder if she’d ever learn of her heritage at all. But, as she was reminded, and was this minute being reminded of again:
“There’s still lots of paper work to go through. As soon as something is found, you will be the…”
“First to know…Yeah. Thanks, Elgart.”
She didn’t bother to mention that she would be gone on the Quest tomorrow. What did it matter? Elgart patted Root’s back. She wondered how many he patted each week. How many, out of the hundreds that had returned were still waiting, still wondering about certain traits or who they look most like, their mother or father.
Root just couldn’t let it go. She’d already let enough go. Like the hug. The embrace that she’d seen so many other kids get from their parents. The one she’d always wanted from hers. She knew its shape, its feel, its smell, its sight. A circle of arms. Warm, hearth-smelling, squeezing arms. She had seen it in slow motion, under the stars, in the morning dew, in any way it came to her. The embrace. The arms of her parents wrapped around her.
“Well, I’ll see ya later, Elgart. I gotta get Stogie bathed before my nose falls off.”
“Yeah, I was watchin’ ya. He’s not really up to it, eh?”
“Not at all.” Root sighed.
“Why don’tchya try yer Quatra?”
“What? On an animal?”
“In’t that what I heard you did on that double headed Tagit snake?”
“I did?”
But Elgart was already gone, jumping into action at the sound of a kid’s yelp. Sounded like Milden. “See ya later Rootabaga!” he disappeared around a corner, avoiding a boulder that fell at him from the wall. Or was that a Widow Squash Bomb?
Root turned back to Stogie and thought about Elgart’s suggestion. She had forgotten all about the Tagit. Well, not forgotten but she hadn’t wondered about it enough to question how she had managed to communicate with it at the Black Market. She had just assumed it was the natural cooperation of a beast wanting to escape, the same as her.
But maybe Elgart was right. She looked at Stogie now whizzing about the courtyard, sniffing this, licking that. There was so much to see now that Spring was taking the throne, pushing snow further and further from her kingdom. The spired leaves of tulips were nudging into her air. Everything dripped and dropped in her warm breath. Mud glistened. Puddles grew. A million smells woke from a great sleep. All finding their way to Stogies wet, black, happy nose.
Hmmmmm. Root focused. Her Quatra came a lot easier now that she’d had weeks to practice.
It hadn’t at first. Her mind was very unruly and would tune in to anything from anywhere. Jorab had told her the dangers of this. She was like a radio tower picking up random signals and she had to set her dial for the kind of communication that would serve her best. Otherwise she could attract from unhealthy sources. She realized this early on when she would suddenly feel very depressed or angry, like the woman in Picklepug’s office.
Jorab helped her to learn how to filter these. “What goes out comes in. Your own anger is picking up on others’. You must choose better thoughts of your own first, before you can access the wisdom that will serve you.”
It was not easy. Especially when she related far more to the anger. Thanks to Studaben Picklepug.
“There is always something to be grateful for. Focus on that.” Jorab would then say. And he was right. Root had a lot to be grateful for. She made a list, beginning with Dwyn and Lian and Stogie and Jorab and Mordge and referred to it often in her training.
Another big discipline was protecting her own thoughts from those with Touch Quatra, those that could listen in and even sway her thoughts. This took some getting used to. Jorab would just walk right into her brain and it was a good week before she even recognized the feeling, like an air bubble in her temples.
The next few weeks were spent learning how to ‘shut the door’ to these kinds of intrusions. She had yet to accomplish this once, let alone master it. But Jorab said it was the hardest part and would take some time.
Coupled with the magic basics that Lian was teaching her and Dwyn, these weeks had been an intense study. She felt far from mastery but at least within the realms of competency.
Root zeroed in on Stogie’s brain, fumbling around for feeling, for pulses of thought. She found it all right.
Happy. Food. Sleep. Poo. Happy. Food. Pee. Happy. Sleep. Bulk Poo. Food…
She tried to place ‘bath’ in there, between ‘poo’ and ‘happy’. But there was no room at the inn. Stogie’s five-track mind was full. Root had no choice. She pulled up a pair of sleeves and walked over to him.
“Stogaloo! C’mere boy!”
He bee-lined for her, tail chopping the air. Stink in his wake.
“Oh no!”
He was on her. And now so was the Bulk poo.
“Okay, okay! Off!”
He jumped off and tried to sit still. It was a stand sit stand sit stand kind of dance and it went nowhere near the hose. Root gave up and relied on the one thing she could always count on. She had held it back because it was her last one. But this was a matter of life and death. For her nostrils at least. She reached in her pocket.
Squeak!
Stogie’s ears shot up.
“You want your squeaky, Stogers?”
The wet grass flattened under the beating of his tail.
Squeak!
His sit stand dance quickened. He looked like he would surely die if he didn’t have that squeaky toy in his chompers right this second.
Root eased him toward the hose. Squeakity, squeak, squeak. Once there, with the poor toy in his jaws she knew he wouldn’t move. But she also knew he’d have it destroyed in mere minutes. She’d have to act fast.
Water, soap, spray, scrub, rinse. All in record time.
As the last squeaky remains spit out onto a bright yellow Squeaky pile and a fluffy blanket darted about drying the drowned looking but happy Hovermutt, Root heard her name called.
She turned.
Krism was bleeding and dirty and tears had turned his face into muddy streaks.
* * * * *
4
THE WHEEL
The first Treasure Quest, it was acknowledged had taken longer than was expected. Much longer. And thus, any successional Quests would most likely follow suit. With this in mind, Lord Blick set to establishing a proper facility for the Brédin that were to stay at Gub. Continued maintenance of their training was, according to him, essential.
Over the weeks he had recruited in a lot more Brédin, citing the increased Tint attacks of late but the rumor amongst the majority was that they were to protect the Miists of Kalliope. All six had been collected and hidden somewhere on the premises, their exact location known only to a select few including the Guardian of DréAmm and presumably Jorab.
The Brédin’s training arena was erected just off the hotel premises, along Mirror Lake where it could avoid the reaches of the Krux. It was an incredible architectural achievement that gained immediate attention and praise. Especially since it was built, quite literally overnight.
Root, like everyone else had gone to bed with a view of Mirror Lake’s bronzed shoreline, quiet and recumbent, glazed under the light of a fat harvest moon. When she woke in the morning, the shoreline was gone. Where the thick, wet dunes of its bed had been, there now lay an enormous rupture, as if the moon had sucked its own reflection unto itself, leaving a gaping crater. The belly of this crater was swept up like a tsunami, curving a seismic wave upon itself and then freezing it mid air. A gigantic sand wave.
And there, posted atop the towering sand-wave, like a Great White riding the sea, was the magnificent Brédin arena.
Harmos Weol. The Wheel of Harmony.
A rounded white-stone coliseum of arches and pillars two stories high, the Wheel most assuredly dazzled. The only way it could be reached was by a hidden staircase along the curve of the giant wave. Unless of course you were a Brédin, in which case you could spread your silver wings and arrive in two or three fluttering motions.
At the top of the wave, a staircase of coral and cream tiles led to the main entrance, where the entire floor was a mosaic-ed history of the Brédin, here a masterful tribute to their athletics, there a portrayal of musical prowess. Brédin poetry weaved throughout like a ribbon in the wind…words like artem and pacem. Art and Peace.
The grand archway was marked by the commanding presence of two statues. The first statue was of a Brédin Prince, Aalistus The Sworn, who had taken the first Oath of Preservation those many generations ago when the welfare of the Brédin was in grave danger.
Opposite him was the impressive monument of Watilda Blick, the nose and ears prominent. Clad in the hard-bitten garments of war, she claimed a fierce impression. But the artisan who had crafted her made certain to capture the distinct softness in her eyes, a twinkle perhaps. Or the trace of a warm baked cookie.
Faced with the task of protecting her immortal, peace loving companions, Watilda Blick fused Brédin philosophy with the unique form of defensive arts she had developed as Captain of DréAmm Defense. This powerful union did indeed gain the Brédin their freedom and along side this, a might unsurpassed in all of recorded history. It also made Watilda Blick the first Brédin Master of DréAmm, an honor that has been passed down from generation to generation along the Blick bloodline ever since.
Ironically, its continued preservation now fell upon the shoulders of one who had no interest whatsoever of taking up its torch. Watilda’s great, great, great, great, great grandson, Lian Blick.
Lian, routinely resistant when it came to the demands of his father, Lord Blick, the current Brédin Master, had grudgingly agreed to regular observational visits to the Wheel. It was something that didn’t appeal to him at all, sitting around watching the Brédin train. But even less appealing was the critical tirade of his father should he refuse.
And so he would go and for the allotted time keep his nose in a book or his scrutinizing eyes on an exquisite sample from his increasing collection of the natural world. It wasn’t that he disliked the Brédin; he admired them greatly. It’s just that, to the very core of his being Lian was a Natruid of the most intellectual kind. His mind lay wholly in matters of nature, its living, breathing processes and feats. There was simply no room in this obsession for warrior arts.
When Dwyn asked if he could join Lian, it was at first received with a cringe. It meant conversation, something that Lian chose to avoid as much as possible, being one to prefer the silent communications of earth, air, fire, water and most precious of these, Aether, the Invisible Breath.
But, as Lian gave it more thought, he realized Dwyn could be of benefit by serving as a warning post to Lord Blick’s surprise check ups. In the end he agreed, on this condition and one of minimal talking. Dwyn of course heaved a contracting high-five at him. Ever since his first encounter with a Brédin on Loz of the Squawnch Isles, Dwyn was mad for them, determined to sponge what he could of their wisdom and expertise.
This day, perched in the upper balcony of the Master Wall, an extravagant two-storey panel of the Wheel, and overlooking the sun-baked court Dwyn was mesmerized by the activity below him. In one corner a large company of Brédin were engaged in a meditational choreography of some kind, a slow devotion of strength that serviced every sinewy tendon of the leg and arm and shoulder and mind. Elsewhere, to the accompaniment of a flute, pairs of Brédin moved gracefully and swiftly in a complex sparring of feet and hands. From a high ledge, the Water Warriors could be seen rounding their great wings and diving soundlessly into Mirror Lake, to be lost in its depths until rising once more like silvery fountains into the sky.
During moments of intermission, many Brédin spent their time in quiet contemplation. More than anything in heaven and earth, Dwyn wished to speak with them at those times. When the full attention of their silver eyes could fall upon him and he could hear the ageless wisdom on their tongues.
Lian, of course would allow no such thing. For one thing his father would freak. And more importantly, there were far too many pressing tasks at hand, the latest being the reviewing of Quest competition.
In a well worn notebook he turned to a page labeled ‘Opposition’ and underlined each team name. There were six teams left, including the Valadors. Of these six he had a pretty good indication of where Hilly Punyun and The Pinks stood in the playing field; BIG FAT LYING CHEATERS had been scrawled beside their name.
Then there was Kor’s Kings, consisting of the rotten, puny eyed jerk Kor Bludgitt, his blockhead goon, Flink and…what was her name again?- oh yeah Tamik, the one everyone felt sorry for because she was stuck with them. Though from what Lian could tell, she hardly seemed to care. More often than not she was seen rolling her eyes at Kor and walking away. It was always great entertainment watching Kor get dissed by his own teammate.
Then there was Mekruzela, Milden’s team. This was the kind of team that made one always wonder. Especially with Tompy Fibler on board. Was there ever a time when he didn’t have a cold? And then of course Milden’s unfortunate allergy didn’t help things. Clearly their other team member, Jake Turner, who had been an accomplished Stealthlete before the Quests, helped tip the scales more in their favor. A lot more.
The Blue Knights were interesting indeed. As an all girl team made up of Brittany Goss, Ashley Edye and Alexandra Thorburn they showed considerable skill and strength. That is, if the rumors of their first journey were true. Lian wasn’t sure. Stories were bound to be stretched here and there. Although, they had managed to re-enact a few of their more improbable feats, including a triple-decker sprint, making them pretty darn impressive. Now, if only Dwyn could stop flirting with them. The rules clearly advised against interrelations.
The last team was in no way the last team, especially since it had been the first team to bring home the Miist of Kalliope. Its mates were Sebastian Roberge, Olympia Kolakis and Rory Dumelie. Lian remembered them from the Scholarly. They were good then. At everything. And it seemed they had continued this trend as many a gasp was often heard surrounding their first Quest adventures. The problem was they were, all of them really, really nice, which made hating them difficult.
Ah well, Lian had enough hate for Hilly to make up for it. More than enough. And he was glad that Dwyn had come to see his side of her as well.
“Woah!” Dwyn stood to take in a pair of Brédin poised mid air, mere feet from him, in a sparring deadlock. He had to shield his eyes, as the sun was shattering off their silvery wings, now spread wide and dangerous. Then, in the split of a moment, they were entwined and cleaving the air in an ascent toward the highest clouds. It was spectacular.
“Didjya see that?!” Dwyn tried to imitate the move with what Lian considered to be lame sound effects that were very close to breaking the ‘no speaking’ rule.
“Mmpph.” Lian often mmmpphed in an attempt to stem conversation and get back to business. With the second Item briefing only hours away, they had to ensure utmost preparedness. Using a marker, he turned to another page of his notebook, this one entitled ‘Assets’.
So far, in a mere twelve weeks they’d done pretty darn good. Both Dwyn and Root had managed to gain some magic basics and Dwyn was plowing through his Molds with considerable accomplishment. The only area where he still needed work was on the water forms. For some reason, like his merman experience, he couldn’t get past a half-Molding. He said it was because he had a thing with water. That’s what he called it, a thing. In other words, a fear. But, of course no one could actually say that.
Lian himself had a theory. He suspected that Dwyn’s merman molding during that storm had been a lot more terrifying than Dwyn let on. And the more Dwyn tried to deny that, the worse it got so that he couldn’t even get half a mold sometimes. It was hard to watch. Dwyn would flail in the water and eventually begin a mold but something would block him and he’d start sinking again. The worse part was the look on his face when Lian or Root would rescue him. Terror. And then shame as he dragged himself back to his room.
But if Dwyn was anything he was persistent. Not one morning in twelve weeks did he return to them without a fresh determination to try again.
Lian, in the meantime was thoroughly enjoying his many ecological advances. His room had become his macrocosm with every drop of time placed on invention. He had even impressed himself with a few of his latest creations, including Skim Sandals made of an extremely lightweight water lily…handy for walking across water; and Cooling Beads for the Hovers on hot days.
Both were now neatly packed away in the travel pack, waiting for their big moment in the next Quest, I-2 as Dwyn so coolly put it.
Lian’s father, Lord Blick had no idea that Lian’s room had become its own breeding ground of nature. Lian made sure all visits were anywhere else. The last thing he wanted was his father’s disapproving look and the swift cleaning up of “such nonsense!”
His mother, Estrella Fuffleteez was much more open to Lian’s tinkering. As long as he was getting healthy social interaction too. And so she was frequently urging him into the ick and awk of social events, pouncing on his hair and face with saliva smeared fingers. It was disgusting. And really annoying. He loved his mother; he just wished she’d…
“Oh no! Mum! I forgot she’s visiting today! C’mon!”
“But the Brédin, they’re just getting ready to…”
“Suit yourself. But then you won’t get any treats.”
Dwyn forced himself away from the Brédin. It was a difficult decision but one could hardly ignore the wonders and delights of an Estrella Fuffleteez visit.
“D’y’think she brought more of those chocolate fingers?”
“Probably.”
“Sweet! And maybe more socks?”
“You need more socks? Didn’t you just get some?”
“Well, yeah but I left them at Chanéa Tweeger’s. She had a Swap Party and…”
Lian shook his head.
“…But at least I got a new scarf.” Dwyn held up a long, fluffy soft scarf. A long, fluffy, soft pastel peach scarf. “Nice, uh?”
Lian blinked. “Sure. On a girl.”
“Hey, good thinking. I’ll give it to Laronette.”
“But what about Chanéa?”
“What, she got my socks! C’mon!”
Lian rolled his eyes and walked after Dwyn who was already running toward the castle.
Inside the castle, also off and running was Studaben Picklepug’s rambling trap.
“Yes, I can see your concern for… for… for….”
“Krism!” Root said for the third time.
Krism sat silently beside her. He had been cleaned up but Root could still see remnants of the fight clinging to him, making him look ugly to the Guardian who was now twiddling his thumbs.
“Krism, right. We certainly do not condone that kind of behaviour at all.”
“So, what’s going to be done about it? He can’t even take a walk by himself.”
“Well, as Guardian of DréAmm I can assure you that I will do everything in my power to protect Krimson’s well being…”
“Krism!”
“Isn’t that what I said?”
“Look, Mr. Picklepug, sir. With all due respect, you said that last time and it’s still happening!”
“You’re right! You are right, it is. And it shouldn’t be. Not one little bit. Something should be done about this. In fact I’m going to do something right now!”
Picklepug snatched his bright orange Talker and dialed. All at once the ceiling and the walls of the Guardian’s office all fell away. The three of them, Root, Krism and Picklepug became small as dolls as the darkly stained office of the Guardian’s secretary, Slim Pulpit came towering up to greet them.
“Slim Pulpit.” A voice barked.
Root turned to see the secretary, bigger than the sky staring down at them. A fat cigar hung from his lips. In his hand was a paisley colored Talker. His other hand clung to a folder.
“Hey!” The secretary pointed at Root. “How’d she get in there?”
“Good question, Master Pulpit,” The Guardian scowled.
“They musta snuck in while I was in the men’s room, sir.” Slim Pulpit growled. “I can escort them…”
“That’s fine, Slim. We were just finishing anyhow.”
“We were?” Root was not impressed.
The Guardian didn’t even hear her as he clapped his interest upon the folder in his secretary’s hands. “Are these the float prints?”
“Indeedy they are, sir.” Slim Pulpit gave Root a cold glance.
“Splendid!” Studaben Picklepug was already tugging the folder down. Once shrunk and in his hands he excitedly flipped through its pages. He stopped abruptly and drew his face in to a particular image. For some time they endured his hmms and mmmms, until finally he lifted his head. “I think the posters of my head should be bigger; I am the Guardian of DréAmm after all. Perhaps double in size. And can you look into how they might be touched up…my chin is rather…well, it’s…”
“More than one?” the secretary dared.
“Well, I…I wouldn’t go that far. Just see if they can…”
“I’m on it, sir.” Slim Pulpit promised. “In the meantime there’s a girl here collecting last minute donations for the parade and...”
“Tell her I’ve gone for lunch. That will be all.” Studaben Picklepug handed the file back and was about to hang up when Root loudly cleared her throat. “Oh yes. Now then, hold a moment, Slim. This is your superior, Guardian of DréAmm Studaben Picklepug.”
“I know. I can see you.”
“I know that…I just…never mind…I have with me Miss Root Karbunkulees and her friend…”
“Krism…”
“Krism. Yes, of course. It…erm…it seems we have a problem in that Krism claims to be a victim of frequent bullying.”
“Y’don’t say.” Slim Pulpit picked up his fat cigar, sucked its smoke into his innards and skulked at Krism. Some ashes fell and drowned in the flash and pomp of his paisley jacket
“I do say.” Picklepug continued, waving the smoke out of his face. “And I’d like you to do something about it.”
“Of course, sir. Can’t have that kind of behaviour under our watch. I’ll get on it right away.”
“Thank you, Slim. I shall await your report.” Picklepug coughed.
“Sure thing, Mr. Picklepug, sir.”
“And don’t forget to contact the poster committee and tell them to triple the size of my headshots.”
“Triple, sir?”
“Yes and the touch up work on…my…uh…”
“Your chins, sir?”
“Chin, Mr. Pulpit. One chin. And put out that blasted cigar! ”
“Sure thing, sir.”
They hung up. Root watched Slim Pulpit’s paisley bulk disappear behind the re-establishing walls and ceiling of Picklepug’s office.
“Ahem! See! No job is too small for the Guardian of DréAmm. We are on the case.”
“But…” Root was about to mention the fact that he’d been on the case many times prior and that if her calculations were right, that nasty sack of bull rot, Slim Pulpit was now eight reports overdue! But “but” was all that was allowed.
“Oh, you’re welcome, my dear. It was my pleasure. Now, if you’ll excuse me I have another meeting. Toodles and all that.”
He nudged them along out of his office and then shot down the hall, craning his neck in an undeniable attempt to smooth out three folds of chin.
“I’m sorry.” Root grabbed Krism’s hand.
“Hey, you tried.” Krism smiled lamely. “No one’s even tried for me before.”
“But I just wish…”
“You’re my friend, Root. That’s enough for me.”
Root and Krism lugged themselves down the opposing hallway, hoping not to run into anyone and then, of course running straight into Lian and Dwyn.
“Oh there you are.” Lian said. “C’mon. Mum’s here with our stuff.”
Root looked at Krism and then back to Lian.
“Um…sure, he can come, too.”
But Krism had become quite adept at deciphering a true welcome and an obligated one. He declined quietly and walked away with his eyes cast down. His head lifted only once, when he had come face to face with the door to his room. He entered silently and did not make a sound until the windows were all closed and a barrier put under his door. This way no one could receive the benefit of his sobs.
* * * * *
5
THE HEMOSTYLUS
Estrella Fuffleteez had entered her son’s room and got right to the business of cleaning it up. Lian, she could see was in dire need of pizzazz. From a pocket of her apron she withdrew a favorite Glong-hair brush. This she dipped in a small clay pot labeled Pirate Blue of her mobile unit of paints and swept it across her son’s blanket. What had looked like a tattered rain cloud now seemed a bright swatch of ocean billowing over his mattress. Estrella Fuffleteez was pleased.
She drew back, gleefully assessing further prospects and found target with a table and chair. These she fringed in red. Valador Red. And thus the Pirate Blue-Valador Red motif continued, finding its way into curtain panels and tiles and bathtub ceramics and dresser drawers; and into the skins and furs of things, and along the surfaces of vials and parchments and husks and other such oddities that cluttered her son’s counters and shelves. She was just zeroing in on a few live things, the same of which drew back into corners horrified and panicked, when she was stopped by--
Gasp! Lian scanned what looked to him like the exploded remains of Sailor Barbie and turned his gawping eyes upon his mother.
“Ta da!” She struck a pose that accidentally splat paint onto Lian’s Klok, a toy-sized sheep. Now a Pirate Blue toy-sized sheep.
Root and Dwyn, far too new to this kind of thing, stood nodding, like satisfied patrons of the arts.
“Mum!” Lian instantly decimated her joy. “What have you done?”
“What? I just gave it a little update. And by the way, dear. You shouldn’t leave your underwear lying out in the open. It’s not very attractive.”
Lian snatched his briefs from his mother, the nubs of his ears instantly red. “Just never mind! And…and Undo all this.”
“You don’t like it?”
“No. No I don’t like it. In fact I hate it and want you to put it back exactly how you found it!”
“Oh, you. You’re worse than beige.” Estrella pulled out another brush, one with short thick bristles and slapped it sulkily across her masterpieces. As Lian’s room slowly returned to its Jungle-Laboratory theme, his guests attempted to be seated. Unfortunately there were many more occupants to Lian’s room than could readily be seen and more than one groaned under the weight of a trespassing butt. At least until the butt leaped up, thereby allowing escape into more suitable corners and/or nests and/or webs and/or tiny caves.
Estrella Fuffleteez preferred to stand. Her news was far too exciting to be told any other way. “Hello Root. Hello Dwyn. How are you?”
“Awesome!” They unison-ed with wide eyes, eager for the latest goods. Estrella had been the official Bearer of Stuff over the last several weeks, bringing with each visit items of the coolest nature, the best being her famous chocolate fingers, of which all had polished off in the first hour.
“Alright!” Estrella Fuffleteez took a prominent position in front of her audience. “A-a-a—a—hem!” She smiled with an excited squeak that immediately engaged them. Even Lian had to extinguish his annoyance with a long, affectionate sigh. After he kicked his undies under the bed.
Estrella began.
“Well, as you know the second race is poised to begin and with its inevitable challenges, I wanted to make sure you were taken care of rightly this time. Certainly the Wesh fibre of your cloaks will repel wetness and keep you warm…”
As she said this Root concurred with many distinct memories to prove it.
“But you will need much more in the way of comforts if this Quest takes even half the time of the last.” Estrella continued. “And so, in consideration of this, I am pleased to present to you…Ta da!”
With this, her second ‘tada’ of the day, Estrella stood to the side and revealed something hidden underneath a sheaf of silky green material. Estrella smiled with dramatic eyebrows and pinched the top of the sheaf. A third ‘tada’ was rather a bit overdone considering what it now referred, a large painting of a very, very, fat, fat family. A royal family it would seem, as thin gold circlets pressed firmly into all twelve of their pudgy foreheads. The presumed mother and father took the top peak of the pose. Ten children heaped around them like juicy, plump jujubes. They were all fairly dark skinned save for almost clown like rosy cheeks and the lighter sheen of twelve bald heads. Despite the sedate tones of their togas, they looked quite jovial as chubby lips curved up into chubbier cheeks, which heaped up under black sparkling eyes.
Root blinked. And tried to discreetly meet the eyes of her teammates without actually turning her neck. She wondered if they too felt they had somehow missed something here. How exactly was this picture supposed to help them?
“These! -“ Estrella Fuffleteez proceeded, “are the Royal Arklempts!”
Her audience responded with nods. Politely not getting it at all.
“The famously reclusive Arklempts of N-ye!”
“Oh.”
said Lian finally catching on. “How’djya manage that, mum?”
“They
called me!
The Royal Arklempts, secluded from society, never seen, let alone
heard for fifteen decades, called me
to do their family portrait!”