Chapter 3


    The Amber Casket


    -Part the Second-


    The hollow trunk stretched empty for several yards upward, cloaked in dim twilight. At this hour, the lanterns had yet to be lit, and so the vast chamber was illuminated only by the pale light of day that streamed in through several round, unglazed windows. Rough-hewn steps, gnarled like bark itself, spiralled upwards, hugging the inner wall of the tree.


    Mabbé lifted the hem of her skirt ever so slightly and began her ascent, humming a merry tune as her steps fell into rhythm with the melody. She paused upon a landing, her gaze drawn to a bright patch of light painted upon the wall by one of the high windows. For a moment, she regarded her reflection in that sunlit patch as though it were a mirror, then spun herself twice in playful delight. The shadowy arcs of the balustrade seemed, upon the wall, to sprout directly from her form, like wild tendrils.


    Laughing softly to herself, she dashed higher and slipped through an opening in the tree, crossing a thick bough that served as a bridge to the cloister. The branch wove serpentine paths amidst the limestone floor, meandering like a riverbed. Sunlight streamed through grand windows framed by columns shaped like trees, their stone crowns branching outward to form pointed arches.


    Mabbé passed through wide, unguarded gates onto the inner courtyard. Countless other branches crept through balconies and terraces, each leading elsewhere. The thickest of them reached the Tower of the Council, curling around it like a hand about to close into a fist. Wide steps ascended along its length, leading straight to the Oak Hall.


    The guards at the base of the stair, recognising the Master Druid’s granddaughter, allowed her passage without a word. Mabbé climbed swiftly, reaching the towering doors at the summit. She pushed them gently, as quietly as she could manage. Through the narrow crack slipped a ruddy beam of light, iron-hued and solemn. Along with it came the voice of Druid Myr of the Spruce, edged with incredulity.


    "Why do you delay? The title of the Lord of the Fortress will not content Gerod, just as it did not content the Master of Stones. Besides, declaring himself Lord of the Fortress is, for him, the same as claiming sovereign rule over the gnomes."


    "Self-appointed rule will not make Gerod a true king," came her grandfather Nol''s steady reply. "The Council must first acknowledge his claim."


    "Then he will seek to wrest your assent by force!" Myr''s voice now carried the heat of anger, a rare thing, for never before had Mabbé heard him raise it at her grandfather. "Why do you risk so much? What could be more perilous than a fratricidal war with the gnomes?"


    Nol said nought. A heavy silence hung between them, so deep that Mabbé could hear only her own breath. Then Myr spoke again, his tone shifting as realisation dawned.


    "You know more than you tell. The Council... me... What is it you know, master druid?"


    At that moment, Mabbé wavered slightly and braced herself against the door. The hinges groaned, loud enough to bring the druids'' conversation to an abrupt halt. The faint, uneven tapping of footsteps turning towards the entrance reached her ears. A moment later, the great doors were flung wide open. Sunlight poured in, dazzling the girl. She lifted a hand to shield her eyes and, thus half-blinded, stepped into the shadow-cloaked chamber.


    Running her hands down the front of her skirt, she smoothed the fabric, which now appeared darkened in the gloom, as though dyed in alder leaves. Then her gaze sought out her grandfather.


    "Mabbé," Nol intoned, his face as stern as naked stone.


    Myr stood by the Council’s great round table, his hand resting upon the branching back of his spruce-chair. His eyes followed Mabbé, and he inclined his head in a curt, formal greeting.


    "Miss Mabbé."


    It always seemed to her that Myr did not favour her much — nor, for that matter, Macho, whom he was charged with teaching the art of treezardy.


    "I shall take my leave," he added after a moment, setting his hat atop his head. "Master druid, I trust we shall continue our discussion anon."


    Nol inclined his head with the barest of nods, and Myr strode towards the door. Once he had vanished beyond it, Mabbé fixed her gaze upon her grandfather. Adjusting the grip on the carved head of his staff, he made his way toward the Council table.


    He limps like Lathrod,  she thought suddenly, surprised by the comparison to the hideous, fat son of the guard commander.  And yet... so very, very different! Grandfather is dignified in all that he does.  This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.


    Like an eagle.


    Nol set his staff aside and seated himself in the Chair of the High Druid. Reaching for a parchment that lay upon the table, he began to read.


    "What are you doing here?" Nol demanded in a chastening tone, his eyes still skimming the parchment in his hand. "Were you not told about the council meeting?"


    "I was," Mabbé answered cheerfully. She stepped closer to the table and traced the outline of the painted willow leaves upon the Council’s emblem with her forefinger. "But I was bored."


    "Bored, were you?" Nol’s lips curved in the faintest hint of a smile. His gaze, though, softened into something more indulgent. Rolling the parchment into a scroll, he strode to a small oak side table. There, he took up a candle, wax dripping from it in dark green rivulets that glimmered faintly from afar.


    "And you thought to find remedy for your boredom  here? " he laughed, a brief, dry chuckle. Mabbé merely shrugged, sensing he sought no true answer.


    "Still," he added, "it is well you came. I have something to give you."


    The elf-maid''s eyes sparkled with delight.


    "A gift?"


    Nol made no immediate reply. He pressed a seal into a pool of emerald wax before saying calmly, "Go to the workshop and wait for me there."


    Mabbé nodded, her face alight with joy.


    "But don’t be long!" she called over her shoulder as she dashed up the stairs and onto the thick root of the Second Oak, which stretched through a great round window, peering boldly into the Council Hall.


    Through this window she slipped, crossing the root till she reached the mighty trunk. With a firm shove, she pushed open the heavy, green-stained doors — a side entrance to her grandfather''s workshop.


    Sunlight strained to pierce the western-facing window, and Mabbé went to it, flinging the shutters wide. The light surged in, fierce as steam from a boiling cauldron, before racing toward the scriptorium on the desk, drenching the open pages of a tome in quivering gold.


    Mabbé perched on the edge of the chair, her gaze flitting over the clutter scattered across the dark oak surface. Chaos reigned here. Despite her grandfather''s stern nature, his workshop was alway a muddle.


    Her attention was caught by a fragment of browned papyrus peeking out between the book''s pages. Curious, she reached for it and examined the hurried yet elegant handwriting:


    "Not tomorrow, not the day after. When the yellow poppies bloom. Myla."


    Heat rose to her cheeks, and her fingers clenched the paper’s edges on their own accord. Yet she mastered herself, smoothing the note ere slipping it carefully back between the pages.


    She swiftly moved away from the desk and made her way down the spiral stairs that led to the lower level of the workshop, where the alchemical laboratory lay nestled within the hollow of the great tree’s trunk. Sunlight scarcely ventured here, and shadows gathered thick as in a forest of spruce.


    "Alchemy is the child of night," her grandfather was wont to say. Yet Mabbé had no fondness for the night, well-nigh as little as for alchemy itself. She snorted softly at the memory of his words and reached for the flint.


    A flicker of fire darted through the emerald panes of the lantern, casting the laboratory in a greenish glow. The girl wandered toward an empty crucible hanging askew above the hearth, idly stirring its hollow with a metal rod.


    Moments later, a faint sound reached her ears — the uneven tapping of a halting gait. She turned her head and spied her grandfather’s upright figure at the foot of the stairs. In the laboratory''s dimness, the cobalt hue of his cloak shimmered with a turquoise sheen, the embroidered emblem of the Council glinting faintly. His face, pale and noble, seemed even fairer than usual.


    "What are you doing down here?" he asked, a hint of wonder in his tone.


    Mabbé only shrugged, smiling impishly. For a fleeting moment, Nol’s eyes seemed to grow young again, gleaming with a boyish brightness. He glanced around briefly before reaching for one of the small vials — a flask containing a thick liquid, the colour of ripened forest berries. He held it up under her nose.


    "Behold, Mabbé! Unicorn’s and Linden''s Tears. Apart, they are tears of sorrow; together, they become tears of boundless joy."


    The elf-maid furrowed her brow, both puzzled and a touch wary of this strange enthusiasm, which was rare for him.


    "Grandfather," she said, taking the flask from his hand and placing it back among the other vessels, "I couldn’t care less about such things... What was it you wished to give me?"


    "Ah, yes," Nol nodded gently, his smile softening. "What care have you for the sorrows of this dusty workshop, my fair one, my little Linden Harpist?"


    He seated himself upon the stool by the hearth, falling into a solemn silence as he gazed into the blackened steel of the cauldron. His sudden stillness seemed to Mabbé far graver than the strange fervour that had gripped him moments before.


    She    was beautiful once too,  a fleeting thought darted through her mind,  and she loved all those rods and pots.


    Then her mother''s hushed words to her father returned unbidden:  “He only loved her. His first wife. No one else. He could never love another. For many, he keeps that patient smile in his pocket, but in truth, he scorns them all.”


    Kneeling beside the stool, Mabbé grasped Nol’s forearm and shook it impatiently.


    "Grandfather! What was it you meant to give me?"


    Pulled from his reverie as though awoken from a dream, Nol turned his gaze from the crucible to the girl.


    "Ah, yes," he murmured, brushing a hand distractedly through his hair. "Yes, the gift. Wait but a moment."


    He ascended the stairs and erelong returned, a small bundle clasped in his hand. Setting his staff aside, he pulled a second stool close so that they might sit together.


    "I have long wished to give this to thee," he said, his gaze keen as he held the bundle out to her.


    Mabbé frowned slightly, glancing between her grandfather and the gift, then eagerly unwrapped it from its birch-leaf covering. She gasped, though no sound fully left her lips.


    A wondrous casket lay before her, wrought entirely from golden amber. Upon the lid, a unicorn was carved from her favourite shade: greenish-blue, laced here and there with dark streaks, like tendrils of a black moon''s light. Its hooves reared high, wild and fierce, as though the creature were alive.


    She lifted her wide eyes to Nol, who smiled faintly, with a dignified air.


    "Open it," he bade softly.


    Obediently, she lifted the lid. At once, a melody burst forth like a fountain, soaring upwards through the workshop and out the oak''s windows, as though the unicorn itself had sprung to life, galloping across the air, carrying the song upon its back.