The whole place was in complete disarray.
Books were strewn across the floor, smashed ink bottles ground into the carpet, broken teacups and bits of charred paper scattered everywhere. Many of the shelves were empty, and Talia’s eyes went back to the fireplace; the ashes were mixed with fragments of burned pages.
The room enveloped her in strangeness. It smelled of dust and books, fire and flowers, and gave her a feeling similar to the one she’d had outside the stone temple—a sensation of power, bursting just below the surface. But she didn’t see anything out of the ordinary.
She circled the chamber, tilting her head to read the titles of the books and brushing her fingers across their cracked leather spines.
There were books of history and politics. A few of poetry. Science and mapmaking and shipbuilding. She didn’t understand why they were locked up here. What harm could be found in books?
But midway through the shelves, she began to understand.
Only half a dozen volumes remained in this section, all with titles like The Binding of the Stars and The Death of Dia and The Coming of Man. Books of myths—Ayah would be delighted.
She bent down and started scooping up books from the floor: The Halls of Huen, Myths and Prophecies, The Words of the Gods. Mixed with the many books of myths were even more volumes about the myths: scholarly criticisms, theories, and dissertations, one with the pompous title The Key to the Mythologies.
This had to be what the Baron was hiding.
But why? They were just stories.
A book lay facedown on the mantel, its spine broken. Talia picked it up and peered at the title. One White Tree: Being the History of Mankind’s Time Beneath Its Branches, Its Falling and Its Planting Anew.
She rubbed her finger over the pages.
A pair of armchairs were pulled up next to the dead fire, burgundy cloth ripped in places, stuffing spilling out. She sank down into one of them, laying the book on her knees.
She didn’t mean to. She didn’t even want to.
But she did anyway.
She opened the book and began to read, a familiar story unfolding before her.
The summer was at its zenith, and Talia sat with her mother in their palace suite, eating sherbet with a silver spoon. She was nine, and they were in Eddenahr for a Court event neither of her parents could miss. A damp sheet hung in the window, providing some relief from the arid wind.
“Tell me about the Tree,” said Talia, sherbet sweet on her tongue.
“I always tell you about the Tree. Wouldn’t you prefer a different story, dearest?”
“I like the Tree best. Tell me everything.”
Her mother smiled, and began:
“The Tree was vast and beautiful, shimmering with Starlight, and bearing blue and green leaves as long as a man’s arm. Its canopy covered acres of land—maybe as much as this palace!”
“That big!” gasped Talia, like always.
“That big. All kinds of fruit grew on every silver branch, and it was food for the gods.”
“I bet it was delicious.”
“I bet so. Centuries passed, and the gods forgot that mankind was coming, that they were ever meant to guide anyone but themselves. And then mankind awoke in the shadow of the Tree, emerging from the earth where the One had planted them. Rais and Nira, the first man and woman on Endahr, opened their eyes in wonder, rejoicing in the Tree and the light of the Stars. They were companions for one another, and there was love in their eyes and their hearts, something the gods had never seen before.
“But the gods thought them small and without knowledge, and did not like that mankind had been given love and they had not. They did not understand how mankind could be content, when they knew nothing of the world and ruled nothing on it.”
Talia’s sherbet was melting into a little pool of pink and orange in her glass. She stirred it around with her spoon. “Rais and Nira had a lot of children and grandchildren,” she prompted.
“Indeed. Mankind lived and loved and flourished under the Tree, soon numbering more than the gods. They ate freely of the Tree’s fruit, like the gods and their servants, and this made the gods angrier than anything else. Men were inquisitive and clever, growing in strength and wisdom. They wanted to learn many things from the gods.”
“But the gods didn’t like them,” said Talia. “They grew more and more afraid.”
“Do you want to tell the story yourself?” There was quiet humor in her mother’s voice.
“I just don’t want you leaving out bits.”
“I never do. The gods refused to teach mankind the ways of the world, fearing they would grow so strong in wisdom and knowledge they might challenge the gods and want to rule Endahr themselves. Tuer wouldn’t teach them the ways of the mountains, and Huen wouldn’t show them earth’s secrets. Raiva wouldn’t help them plant and harvest crops or learn music. Uerc wouldn’t tell them how to tame animals. And on and on. None of the gods or servants would share their knowledge, so what did mankind do?” Her mother looked expectantly at Talia.
“They taught themselves how to build houses out of stone and wood, plant gardens, and make beautiful instruments and other things, out of silver and gold and jewels they dug from the earth.”
“Yes. And they learned how to play these instruments and sing by listening to the Servants. When Raiva heard how beautiful mankind’s music was, she silenced the servants, but the music lived on with mankind, beneath the Tree.” Her mother paused and smiled at Talia. “What else did they do?”
“They tamed the animals. They bridled sixteen great silver horses for Rais and Nira’s sixteen grandchildren.”
“That’s right. Their grandchildren had grown restless in the shadow of the Tree and desired to go west and explore the world. They believed they could live away from the gods and their servants, since they had grown great in strength and knowledge without their help. They wanted to take a seed from the Tree with them, so they could plant a new Tree wherever they decided to settle. They asked the gods to give them a seed, but the gods refused.”
“They took one anyway.”
“They did. Tahn, the youngest grandchild, stole a seed from the top branches of the Tree. When the gods found out, Tuer crushed the sacred seed rather than give it to mankind. So, Tahn cursed the gods: ‘Your reign in Endahr will be broken as the seed has been broken. You will not always be immortal, you will one day taste death. ‘“
“Tuer was so angry, he killed Tahn. And mankind rebelled.” Talia turned her eyes to the window. A sudden gust of wind tore through the sheet, nearly ripping it down. Dust rattled against the palace walls and bells sounded from the towers in the lower city—storm coming.
“They warred against the gods,” said her mother. “They wanted the gods to leave Endahr, so they could rule it themselves. They took up a battle cry: ‘Give us the Tree, give us the Tree, give us the Tree!’”