Bloodline Tree

he image of red leaves caught her eye from among the spread of antiques as if she had seen a ghost. For a moment, Beryl forgot her task and she picked up the old shield without thinking, only to have it snatched from her hands. The room fell silent, the group of dwarven historians looked up at the giant who was now holding the shield — he was clearly offended.

“I didn’t say you could touch it yet!” snapped the giant, who was already reluctant to show the antiques.

Beryl apologized nervously, realizing she could have jeopardized this rare opportunity. She knew that giants are highly territorial of their possessions, but something about that image caused a lapse in judgement. You can say anything you want to a giant without offending them; you can kick them, even stab them, but nothing angers them like touching their stuff, even if they’re about to sell it.

A burly dwarf with a red beard stepped forward who seemed equally offended. “Going back on your word already Urgin? We will happily leave, but the council will hear about this!”

The giant, Urgin, growled under his breath. He bent low to place the shield on the dwarf-sized table. He then stood upright and straightened his vest. “We giants never go back on our word, Minister Cinnabar. Once I’ve counted the kruts, then my family’s old trinkets will be yours.”

Giants are not known for their insults, but Urgin’s words were a personal insult directly towards the minister. The dwarven government fought hard to recover these pilfered dwarven artifacts from the giant nation. Hundreds of years ago, giants invaded the dwarven valley, erasing dwarven kingdoms from history. After the Breixa Accords, the two nations began fighting with words instead of weapons. The dwarf government has been pressuring the giants to return what little is left of the lost dwarven kingdoms.

Urgin and Cinnabar exchanged threatening glances, but the giant eventually accepted the gold kruts. Beryl and the other dwarves did what they came to do and packed up the artifacts with great care.

Once the last crate was carefully loaded onto a wagon, Beryl felt a hand grip her shoulder. It was the gloved hand of the minister; she turned to see the minister looking intently at her. Paralyzing fear washed over Beryl, she didn’t mean to cause trouble. The minister loosened his grip on her but did not let go. He asked “Why did you pick up that shield?”

Beryl tensed up nervously. “It’s nothing, Minister. I’m not sure what came over me. I – I forgot where I was.”

Minister Cinnabar kept his leathery grip. It was as if he was figuring what to do with her.

“I’m so sorry for endangering the artifacts.” Beryl let out, trying not to cry.

Cinnabar’s old leather gloves creaked as he opened his hand to let her go, but kept her locked with his stare. It was an iron stare that pierced right through her. “It was a simple mistake,“ said Cinnabar. “No harm done.” The words hung emotionless in the air, but then Cinnabar stated one last thing with some emphasis: “But never again apologize to a giant.” He then turned and went to the front of the wagon.

Beryl and a few other historians climbed into a carriage. The wagon of artifacts was bound for Hassium, the last city of the dwarves, and they were to follow it. During the ride, Beryl’s mind drifted back to the image on that shield. The image of the red tree was eerily familiar to her, but she couldn’t remember. There were no red trees in Brexia, none that shade of red. She couldn’t explain it, but she knew the image had nothing to do with autumn; she knew the leaves were always red.

Two of the researchers were talking about Hassium. They were both from the walled city, and came to Brexia to collect the artifacts. Politely, they asked Beryl where she was from, and she replied “Z’conium”. The others all had blank and embarrassed expressions, so Beryl added “It’s near Stoneskill.” The other dwarves immediately recognized that place and said “Ahhh, near Stoneskill.”

The town of Z’conium was not actually near Stoneskill, but most above-ground dwarves have only ever heard of the more famous subterranean towns. Beryl spent most of her childhood underground, but her father got a job in Brexia. She went back to gazing out the carriage window, looking at the city fade into the distance as they followed the Lazuli river towards the homevalley.

The dwarven valley was uniquely wild, and not traditionally thought of as beautiful. Supposedly, it used to be picturesque, but many dwarves offhandedly say it is full of “blood plants”. That term “blood plants” floated to the surface of Beryl’s thoughts. It referred to plants that were not common, but became common after the giants we forced out. They supposedly thrived after the decades of bloodshed, and grew in the cracks of ruins. The giants swept into the valley in a single generation, but it took hundreds of years to force them out. This valley acquired a taste for blood.

When the wagon approached the gates to the walled city of Hassium, the triumphant sound of trumpets echoed through the air. Beryl looked out to see the gilded gates wide open, and an escort of royal guards had joined them. Dwarves were waving from the walls as if they had returned victorious from battle, and standing at the front of the wagon waved Minister Cinnabar.

Beryl and the other historians found themselves caught up in the cheer, and were leaning out of their carriage waving and blowing kisses. At first, the cheers were simple intelligible shouts of joy, but steadily the mob began to chant “Cinn-a-bar, Cinn-a-bar!”.

Beryl wondered if the walled queen herself would appear, but she would not find out. Her carriage became cut off from the minister and his spoils. The crowd rolled forward without them as royal guards steered the carriage towards a fortified portion of Hassium University.

There was food, wine, and a collection of scholars who were to help sort and identify the artifacts. Beryl was treated well, but it was clear that Cinnabar was the hero of the day. After a few hours, the wagon returned, and the real work began.

Mismatched armor was sorted, gilded fragments laid out like a puzzle, and carved stone effigies were sketched first in case they crumbled during the cleaning process. The old pottery was in amazing condition, and there were even a few sealed clay jars that appeared to still contain their original contents.

There were many great finds, but something seemed off; that shield was nowhere to be found. It was late, and Beryl was shown to a small dormitory. That night, she thought of home, and something she had forgotten came to her mind. Her father had red hands. His palms and fingers had a magenta quality to them, but not the backs. They weren’t burns or scars, and she wasn’t allowed to ask about them. He wouldn’t pick her up with his bare hands, so he often wore gloves.

The next morning the scholars were abuzz about the lost kingdoms. She asked them if they knew anything about the old western kingdoms, but they didn’t know anything more than she knew: there were great orchards, and a place roughly known as “the hill of houses”. They asked her why she wanted to know, and she explained that her ancestors came from the west. An eavesdropper remarked “Stoneskill isn’t in the west,” but Beryl ignored him.

Upon returning to her work, Beryl went straight for the shields, hoping the morning light would help her search, but again no sign of the red tree. She asked a scholar about the shield, who seemed taken aback. He said there was no such shield, and scurried away in a hurry.

Moments later, a few dwarves came to Beryl and asked her to meet with the dean in his office, and Beryl followed without question. As she was escorted to the dean’s office, she realized that she did not recognize the people escorting her. They did not look like academics.

“Please, have a seat.” encouraged the dean. Beryl heard the door close behind her. She sat down, feeling small in such a grand office. The ceiling vaulted overhead with elegantly carved woodwork. Even the back of the chair she sat in towered over her.

The dean sat across from her at his ornate stone-top desk. He leaned forward and peered as if she was a puzzle. It was like he was trying to recognize her with great difficulty. Beryl looked behind her to see if they were alone, and there was a rough-looking dwarf standing by the door with his hands in his pockets.

After moments of silence, the dean’s voice creaked like an old door “Beryl, isn’t is? Ms. Beryl Karst?” Beryl nodded, and the dean nodded in return. “And you are from Brexia University, studying history. Your professor recommended you for this task. I even have his note.” The dean pulled a piece of paper from his waistcoat pocket, waved it, and returned it.

Beryl remained silent, unsure what was going on. The dean rested his chin onto his hand like a bird perching on a branch. He was still puzzled, like he wanted to ask something specific but was not able to. He then tilted his head and said “Your colleagues say you are from Stoneskill.”

Beryl’s desire to correct him broke her silence. “Z’conium, actually.” Surprisingly, this caused the dean to straighten up, a smile came to his face, and the air suddenly felt less tense. The dean leaned back and clapped his hands as if that was the answer he had hoped for.

“Z’conium. Ha, wonderful. You hear that Terrum? Z’conium!” The dwarf by the door nodded and relaxed against the wall. He took his hands out of his pockets to crack his knuckles, and Beryl noticed his hands. They were a familiar shade of red.

The dean became almost playful with his questions. “Why were you asking about the shield, dear girl? Don’t you recognize it?”

Beryl was confused and unsure of herself. “Yes… I was sure I’d seen it before, but where did the shield go?”

The dean began to ramble, and Beryl was so focused on his words that she didn’t hear the door open. “The shield is safe. We keep those artifacts away from the others. We cannot have them cataloged or there would be too many questions. Someday though, they will be the pride of our nation. The wrath of our ancestors defending the homevalley to this day.”

“I don’t understand. What does that tree–” Beryl suddenly froze as she felt a firm but familiar grip on her shoulder.

“They said your name is Karst.” Minister Cinnabar said as his heavy leather glove weighed down on her shoulder.

“She’s from Z’conium,” stated the dean to the minister.

The minister moved his hand from her shoulder to the back of the chair. “Your father is Barrite Karst. I see the resemblance now.”

The dean clapped his hands again. “Wonderful, simply wonderful.”

Even the dwarf by the door chimed in, “I didn’t know ol’Bar had a kid.”

In a sheepish voice, fearing she would disappoint them, Beryl spoke up. “Minister, you might have the wrong man. My father died years ago. And he was a simple trader who never traveled to Hassium.”

Cinnabar’s voice became revenant. “Your father was a hero. It is a great pity you did not know. It is yet another thing the giants robbed from you, but another lost treasure I can return.” The minister nodded to the dwarf by the door who pulled a coin purse from his belt and handed it to Cinnabar. The minister pulled out a dwarven gold krut, and handed it to Beryl. “Look at this coin, and tell me what you see,” instructed Cinnabar.

Beryl carefully removed her gaze from the minister and examined the front and back of the coin. “It is a gold krut. It has an image of the walled queen on one side, and crossed picks on the back. Everyone knows the gold krut, it has become the currency of the five nations. Even the elves use it.”

“The giants use it too,” added the minister.

“Yes, you paid Mr. Urgin in kruts,” recalled Beryl.

“It is a bitter irony that their ancestors stole from us, and we have to pay them for access to our history.” A strangely satisfied look grew on the minister’s face. “But we gave Urgin a little more than just kruts.”

Beryl raises her hand to return the coin when she notices her fingers. She notices a hint of color. Cinnabar took the coin and was not surprised by her hands. Beryl’s fingers were a bright shade of magenta. She rubbed her fingers together, but the color did not fade.

“It’s under your skin.” said the minister. “It’s in your blood, in more ways than one.”

“Fascinating!” exclaimed the dean as he leaned forward to peer at Beryl’s fingers.

“The red tree,” Beryl stated, on the edge of remembering something.

Cinnabar moved an extra chair from against the wall so it was right next to Beryl. “When the giants invaded, your ancestors fled under the western mountains. They were farmers, and they tried to grow anything they could in the damp caverns, but they could only get one thing to grow: a red-leafed tree that did not need sunlight.”

“Ol’ bitter bark.” laughed the dwarf by the door. “I can still taste the stew… in me nightmares!”

Cinnabar gave the dwarf by the door a look that made him drop his smile. “What you call bitter bark used to be called Wherdwood” He then leaned towards Beryl in his chair. “Your ancestors raided the valley from their caves for food, and fed on the bark when the Ice Moon passed overhead. It kept them alive during the cold while the giants feasted on the fruits of our valley. But the Wherdwood was a last resort. The leaves are incredibly toxic, and only the bark is edible if boiled, but still not fully safe.”

“My father had red hands…” Beryl said, almost as if the thought had forced its way out of her.

“The color will leave your hand in time, and they would have left your fathers hands, but he was determined.” With a bowed head, the minister added, “this is his legacy, and yours too.” The minister removed his gloves, and they were stained a pinkish red, just like the dwarf by the door, and just like her fingers.

The dean crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair defensively. “Some of us contribute in other ways,” scoffed the dean. His hands had no color, they were just the frail hands of an aged scholar.

Minister Cinnabar gently held Beryl’s hand in his. “After generations eating of the Wherdwood, the people of Z’conium could withstand the toxic dust of the red leaves. Instead of falling ill, we simply develop a rash that passes. But if the dean were to hold that coin, he would not live long enough to spend it.”

Like a chick’s beak piercing through its egg, the memory that Beryl could feel below the surface broke through. She was a child, and went somewhere she was not supposed to go. It was a cavern with a pool that some believed to be magical. She swam that pool to the large red-leafed tree growing in the middle. The bark had deep grooves, and her little fingers and toes could easily find hold. She climbed that tree and played on its branches. The lowest branch was dense like a plank, and she playful walked it like a balance beam all the way to the leafy edge. She plucked one of those leaves like a flower, and tried tearing it along the creases. She sat down amidst the leaves, and felt herself become dizzy. The last thing she remembered is hazily falling into that magical pool. Someone must have seen her, someone must have fished her out and brought her to her parents. She was bedridden for a whole season.

Beryl looked at Cinnabar. “But, they’re just ordinary kruts.”

“Not ordinary.” Stated the minister. “Just like you, those coins are extraordinary. They were forged in much the same way that the people of Z’conium were forged during the nights of the Ice Moon.”

Beryl thought about the coins that Cinnabar paid to Urgin. He thought about how his father often purchased goods from the giants in Brexia, and even traveled into the giant nation for business.

“What happened to my father?” Beryl asked, uncertain if she wanted to know.

Cinnabar dropped her hand. His face became like stone. “Just like the other night when you touched that shield, your father touched a giant’s goods before exchanging the coin. At least, that is what we can gather. The giants labeled him a thief, and the laws against theft are harsh in the giant nation.”

“But it’s that kind of greed of theirs that will be their undoing,” added the dwarf by the door. “They hoard everything they can, and that includes our kruts. We have to be careful, after all. We don’t want our special coins to go somewhere they don’t belong.”

Beryl turned to Cinnabar “What happens if a human, or an elf holds one of these kruts?”

“They would likely die.” Cinnabar coldly stated. “We have not tested this, but we do know that one krut quickly killed a goblin pickpocket.”

“So, you make sure that only certain giants receive the coins,” Beryl said with some intrigue.

The dwarf by the door laughs. “Oi, we make sure those greedy giants receive their payment.”

Minister Cinnabar stood up from his chair. “Your father did, and now we do.” He then held his hand down to help Beryl up. “And we hope you will too.”

The dean snickered a bit. “It’s a historian’s dream to be a part of history!”

Beryl gently lifted her hand and placed it in Cinnabar’s. She said nothing, but knew that she wanted to go with them.

“Let me take you to a glover.” Says the minister as he escorted Beryl towards the door. “And afterwards, perhaps you would join us for dinner with the walled queen.”