Chapter 36

“Now Lennox Elmson, there was an evil man. Killed thousands. Almost wiped out our entire nation. But there is one source, the mighty King Dale of Barkley, who claimed that Lennox's wife, Queen Charol, was even worse than he. Dale suggested she, being filled with bloodlust, prompted Lennox to do most of his evil deeds.”

Faith in the Guardian by Grand Arboler Norman Thicket, year 4021

Life

Oliver Kapur watched the siege unfold from a distance.

He’d climbed a tall tree the moment he heard the war cries and thunder rolling across the valley. From atop his perch, he could see Magen City just over the tree line. Fire-tipped arrows soared over the walls. Lightning bolts flashed too rapidly to tell which side Cast them. A minute later, a roar of thunder followed each magical flash, causing the tree below him to vibrate.

After a quarter hour, Oliver couldn’t watch anymore; it made him sick. He carefully climbed down to the forest ground.

The Capital Grove was dark and empty. Only a crescent of Moon Inferior bathed the land in pale light, and only a fraction of that light made it to the forest floor. Hundreds of thousands of leaves rustled in the invisible breeze overhead. He meandered through the grove, sidestepping around trees, making his way toward the center. Over the sound of rustling leaves, he could hear the shouts and screams of war in the air, like the sound of a slowly-fading nightmare.

How long would the walls hold? He didn’t know. What he did know was that he couldn’t help. Silas didn’t want him to. He was the wrong man for the job. He’d failed miserably, and it was clear that he shouldn’t have even tried. He was a fake. Just like Lennox.

Ilan died believing in my lies.

Oliver found it. Its green needles danced in the breeze as if in anticipation of his arrival. The massive size and brilliant white color of the Tree of Life filled his vision.

The Tree of Life? he thought How can I call it that?

It was just a tree. Grander and more perdurable than the other trees, maybe, but not what he’d allow himself to call majestic or divine.

He stared at the Tree for a long moment, his jaw clenched. “You can’t be responsible for the creation of the world, for the creation of mankind,” he said aloud. “You’re nothing but a plant.”

The tree swayed in the gentle wind in response.

“People are idiots.” He stepped closer to the Tree. “Magic is real. I’ve accepted that. But you? To think you’re some divine creator who chose a guy to save the world? To think you would choose me? Complete madness.”

Silence. The only sound the tree ever made.

Oliver placed his palm on the tree’s bark, feeling its rough texture, waiting to feel… something… anything… and yet, nothing.

It was just a tree.

“If you’re really what the Arbolers say you are, and I’m really what the Salverians say I am, then you’d do something. Say something. Treespeak to me.”

He gazed up at the branches above him. There were so many. The tree seemed to go up forever at this angle, reaching toward the heavens. It was beautiful, yes, but still silent. No tingling warmth, revelatory thoughts, or gentle whispers that were fabled to accompany Treespeech.

Stooping down, Oliver picked up a large, sharp rock. “If I’m just talking to a tree,” he said, “then I’m sure you won’t mind if I do this.”

He drove the rock into the bark and chipped away a bit of the tree’s tough skin.

“Come on! Stop me!” He pounded it again. And again. He growled, pounding the tree with the rock over and over, creating a small hole in the trunk.

He half hoped the tree would respond. Even if it were to summon lightning down on him, at least he’d be dead and wouldn’t have to live through the shame of watching the Salverians be defeated. And if it responded, then maybe—hopefully—it would have pity on him and magically whisk him home to 4027.

“Take me home! I don’t belong here! If you’re real, then you’d take me home!” He continued to jab at the trunk, beginning to perspire.

Another half of him hoped it wouldn’t respond. That would mean he’d been right all along. He’d been right to lead the Secular Branch and to oppose the Arbolers and their false ideals. It would also mean he’d be stuck in this time, with no way home, and would probably get slaughtered along with the rest of the Salverians, but at least he’d die knowing he wasn’t played the fool. It was a vain comfort, he knew that, but it was still a comfort.

He took a step back.

Breathing hard, Oliver dropped the rock, his fingers tingling in pain, and gazed at the chips of wood he’d gouged out of the trunk. Sap slowly entered the hole, like blood to a wound. The simple defense mechanism any normal tree would use to stop a woodpecker. More proof that this was simply… a tree.

With a groan, he fell to his knees, defeated... deceived. Hating Silas, the Justices, and Lennox.

They were all children playing with fire. Magic was their lighter. And Oliver was the one who got burnt.

“It’s all fake,” he said. “It’s all a lie. I knew it from the beginning. You are just a tree. A lousy, rotten, good-for-nothing tree. The Guardian of Magic is a lie. It’s all fake. I’m a fake.”

A wave of exhaustion overcame Oliver, and he rubbed his eyes and leaned forward, resting his hand on the trunk. Over the last week, he’d walked at a brisk pace with his hands tied to a wagon. The night before, he found a soft patch of grass outside the forest to sleep, which didn’t prove to be as soft as he’d hoped. He’d eaten all the bread Silas gave him and drank the water he Cast from the yew wand. And now he’d used the rest of his energy climbing up and down a tree and gouging a big hole into the trunk of the Tree of Life.

Turn around.

He jolted, spinning on his heels, looking around. He stared into the dark forest, his heart thumping, and saw… nothing.

What had he heard? A voice… with a hint of warning in its tone.

Movement and light caught Oliver’s attention. Electric sparks flickered to life in the middle of the air, no more than twenty paces away, as if they were dancing along a single, invisible point. It reminded him of….

Oliver widened his eyes. “Oh, flames!”

He dived into a roll just as a blinding flash of white light filled the darkness. A searing heat passed over his shoulder and an explosion with a concussive blast wave flung him through the air. He landed with a thud on some pine needles, his ears ringing. Even with the breath knocked out of him, he rolled to his hands and knees, survival instincts taking over.

Someone was trying to kill him.

Is it the Tree of Life? Oliver thought. Is this its wrath on me for hitting it with a rock?

A closer look revealed that a lightning bolt had struck the Tree of Life, but no scar or charred bark could be seen, except for the small dent in the trunk that he’d created.

The electric sparks reappeared in the distance, hovering in the air, recharging before it could blast another bolt of lightning at him. No, Oliver concluded. This is someone else.

His pulse racing, Oliver ran behind the man-sized, stone statue of the Guardian of Magic that stood next to the Tree of Life just before another burst of lightning struck it dead center. One of its arms, the one holding a staff, flew off the statue and Oliver ducked, narrowly avoiding decapitation.

“Smoke and ashes!” shouted a female voice from across the way. It was not the same voice he’d heard earlier. This one was shriller with an eloquent accent.

“Look!” Oliver shouted from behind the statue, barely getting his breath back. “I don’t know who you are, but will you please not kill me! I haven’t done anything to you!”

No response.

He braved a peek around the statues legs just as the mage appeared out of thin air. It was a tall woman in white robes with dark hair tied in a long braid. Oliver recognized her.

It was Queen Charol.

She wore white, form-fitted robes and a crown over her black hair. “Lennox was right,” she said as she threw a dull wand to the ground. “He told me you would be here, trying to speak to your false god.” She smirked. “She won’t speak back, will she?” The staff in her other hand was mahogany and clearly still had a minute or two of magic left in it for several more lightning bolts. With a sinister glare, she lowered the staff’s tip at Oliver.

Knowing the statue didn’t offer much protection, he dashed away from the statue and dove for cover behind the massive trunk of the Tree of Life. A bolt of lightning streaked behind his feet, narrowly missing, and striking a small tree in the distance. The tree exploded in two. The top half fell to the earth, leaving a mess of splinters, branches, and leaves on the forest floor.

On his haunches, Oliver pressed his back against the Tree of Life, his heart beating so hard, it threatened to break his rib cage. He gripped the Tree’s white bark as he climbed to his feet. His hands were sweaty, and the smell of burnt wood was in the air.

She’s going to kill me! Oliver thought. The look in her eye terrified him. There’s no way I can outrun her until her magic extinguishes. She’s going to walk around the Tree and kill me! She’ll electrocute me to death!

The three words that then escaped Oliver’s mouth were unexpected and unconscious. They came from a primitive being within him that was programed to survive in any situation. It was a common phrase used often in 4027 in moments of crisis, and for some reason it was the first thing that came to mind.

He clung to the bark and shouted, “LIFE, SAVE ME!”

There was a flash of white light followed by an explosion of thunder. Oliver clenched his teeth, shut his eyes; his whole body tensed.

This was it. Death. This was the end.

The roar of thunder surged over him like a hover locomotive at full speed. It vibrated his entire spine.

Then, the light faded.

Oliver opened his eyes, surprised he was still breathing. What happened?

Trembling, he crept around the trunk and peered around its jagged edges and saw the mage woman fall to the ground, her face contorted in pain, smoke drifting off her chest.

He ventured farther around the trunk… and gaped at what he saw.

A purplish-white vortex cut through the fabric of space and time right before his very eyes, like a tornado of light, swirling clockwise, but without any wind. It made a sound akin to the crackling of thunder. It was the same vortex Silas created to time travel. At his angle, Oliver couldn’t see through the vortex, so he didn’t know who was on the other side. That is, until someone jumped through it—a short man with a staff and wand—and stared directly at him.

If Oliver was gaping before, his jaw now hung completely unhinged at this point.

Staring back at Oliver… was himself.