The lower reaches of Treetop were the same black as the trees themselves: gloomy, inconspicuous, and uninviting. Meanwhile, the upper storeys, the residential portion, was brighter, both in terms of light and color. Buildings colored in vivid blues, yellows, and oranges sat in the canopy, a handful even sporting lovingly painted murals, all basking in sporadic rays of sunlight to enhance the ambient.
Stephan’s attention lingered on a painting showing a group of bowmen letting arrows loose on a dragon in flight.
“It happened,” Muriel pointed at the archer the painting focused on. “That’s Lord Dunridge slaying Voracious. The story goes that a gluttonous dragon invaded us from the south, exterminating half a dozen villages before the Ranger of the time rallied several hundred Trackers and killed the beast.”
Stephan committed the mural to memory; the Paladin was nowhere in sight when the dragon attacked. He would have to find out why the man in charge of protecting the innocent from dragons wasn’t there.
“How many people live in Treetop and where are the closest villages?”
“Well, you passed through Hillcrest to get here; that’s some six miles away. There are others, but most folks steer clear of the Iron Forest. Different beasts sometimes stalk the nearby lands. We kill the ones that draw too close to Treetop, but the rest we leave alone. We need dangerous prey to grow and multiply so we can gain levels from them.”
Muriel chatted with Stephan about all sorts of things, explaining how Treetop had around thirty thousand people living in it, with most of the food coming from what they produced themselves and the wild beasts they hunted. Even as he drew to the heart of the settlement, striding across thick branches hewn and flattened into walkways, Stephan hadn’t spotted a single fence or railing.
It’s probably like the stairs and streets in Cliffort, so you can shoot a bow from anywhere or drop heavy objects atop the attackers’ heads.
While the paths were certainly wide enough, looking down into the abyss was ill-advised, and Stephan stopped doing it after a casual glance left his head spinning and his guts roiling. The city sprawled around them, above and below, each tree a distinct miniature district with long, empty avenues connecting them.
Stephan noted how the buildings were only made against the trunk. They formed a full ring around it, sticking out about twenty-five feet, resting on massive boughs more than capable of carrying the weight all by themselves.
“The branches seem thick enough, why not build something on them?” he asked, and Muriel shrugged.
“No need. We’ve got more than enough room. Anyone with the ability or coin can make a new house for themselves either by going up a tree they like or by making a home for themselves around a tree at the edge of the city.”
Stephan had just started considering the approach to Treetop’s planning when Muriel spoke again. “Nowadays, ‘most everyone builds up. It takes three to four hours to walk the city end to end, and it’s easier to add another flight of stairs up to the next branch.”
Muriel wasn’t joking about the size of the city. Even at their brisk pace, she and Stephan still needed an hour of meandering, going up and down to reach the central tree. It seemed no bigger than the rest, but the building surrounding it was one solid block with equally spaced windows and at least twice as wide as the buildings erected around various other trees.
Four men in grayish-black cloaks similar to Muriel’s stood guard, bows in their hands and sheathed swords hanging from their belts.
“Who are you bringing, Muriel?” One of them stepped forward.
“An outsider. Claims he has news for the Boss, seems trustworthy. Says the King and the Queen are dead, and he knows who’s the new Queen.”
The man nodded and turned around. “Bran, go tell Boss we have someone with news from outside. Just word it so Muriel takes the blame if this one’s lying.”
Bran trotted into the building while Muriel folded her arms. “Well, thanks for that.”
“Not a problem, Mur,” then the guard faced Stephan. “Where do you come from and what kind of news do you have?”
“I’m from up north,” that earned Stephan a raised eyebrow, since they were at one of the southernmost settlements in the kingdom, “and like Muriel has said, I have news on troubling events as of late. I’ll share them with your boss, and what he thinks you need to know, he will tell you.”
The captain snorted, but didn’t comment and that was the end of the conversation. Stephan stood in silence, surrounded and awfully aware of how exposed he was, when Bran returned.
“Boss said he can come in.”
Muriel led the way in. Much like its exterior, the building’s hallway was the blackish color of ironwood. The circular corridor was wide enough for four people to pass each other without difficulty, and about a dozen yards from the entrance was a normal, nonlethal spiral stairway leading up.
I guess if the enemy makes it here, a single flight of stairs won’t stop them.
Muriel led Stephan sixty steps up and knocked on the only door at the end of the stairs.
“Come in.” The voice was feminine, with a heavy note of fatigue.
Stephan and Muriel entered and found themselves in a study eerily similar to the one Lord Harrington spent most of his time in. Behind the desk was a pale, elderly woman with long orange hair and solid black bags under her watery eyes. She appeared much older than her bearing and skin indicated, and she looked as if she was suffering from a nasty cold.
“You all right, Boss?” Muriel asked.
“No, I’m horrible, but thanks for asking, Mur,” she said in a voice so broken with exhaustion, Stephan felt tired. “So, who’s this?”
“Says his name is Stephan and claims he has news from Kingstown.”
The Ranger focused on Stephan, the intensity of those bloodshot eyes stabbing through him.
“So, what news do you have?”
Stephan glanced at Muriel. “Is it all right for her to hear it?”
“I don’t particularly care at this point. Speak.”
All right…
“Sir Danso the Wise has fallen to dragons and fiends. As have the King and the Queen. Their daughter, Eleanor, now has the Queen class and is rushing towards Cliffort, where Marshal Harold Harrington will offer her refuge. This will lead to a massive conflict in three months, and he will need allies and reinforcements—”
“My men aren’t leaving this place,” the Ranger stomped Stephan’s hope without mercy. “If what you’re saying is true, that means the outlaws might attempt to stage an invasion or raids, and we will be needed here.”
A thread of crimson trickled down her nose, and the Ranger wiped it off with a bloody handkerchief.
“Someone cast an unknown curse that reverses healing on Marshal Harrington, but it struck his youngest son instead—”
“Leave us, Muriel,” the Ranger said as her tired bearing grew sharper and more alert, the woman shedding at least ten years off her apparent age.
Muriel looked at her commander, then spun on her heel and left the room without saying a word.
The Ranger opened her mouth, but Stephan was already talking. “And before you ask, no, there is no known way to heal the affliction. Luminar Silas has tried everything he could think of, and all he’s achieved was further cutting Bernard’s already limited time.”
The Ranger sagged back in her seat; what little hope had appeared in her eyes had died a horrible death.
“And how do you know all this?”
“I’m Stephan Cobblerson, the Paladin.”
Stephan expected the woman would straighten, offer a salute, or dispute his words, but she didn’t move. Not a twitch of a muscle.
“You can take out the Paladin’s Burden so I can prove my claim.” He took the initiative, but his efforts achieved nothing.
She was still looking at him with mild disinterest. “I have no idea what the Paladin’s Burden is. What do you know about my curse? Is there a way to stop or reverse it? Like you said, Priests are useless, and each attempt to heal me only made me feel worse.”
Stephan frowned in confusion, but still answered the question.
“Silas said it reverses any healing, magical or natural. There was no cure that he could find, and Bernard’s death was, I mean, is inevitable.” Suddenly, the past and the future felt jumbled in Stephan’s head. What had already happened to him was something that was still to unfold for anyone else.
While the Ranger seemed crushed, Stephan kept going. “I was told the headmasters of the four academies have resources to help me grow?”
The Ranger barked a hollow laugh. “I can hardly move my rotting legs, and you expect me to help you? Sir Danso would have healed me first before working me to death like he always has.”
She stopped talking and closed her eyes, regaining control of herself.
“We have the instructors, Sir,” the word dripped with loathing. “Feel free to ask them to teach you anything you want. Most of the things Trackers can do, they can teach to an extent: tracking, stealth, archery, forest management… There’s plenty you can learn.”
She opened her desk drawer and threw him a signet ring. “This will open all doors in Treetop. Now, get out. I need some time to think.”