The 13th Descent: Book One of The Rosefire Trilogy (22 page)

“You could say the same about me,” he says.

“Exactly.”

He pauses, sighs and says, “It does feel like we’re cheating.”
Unsure of what he means, I pull a face at him. “Here I am, experiencing this devoted, overwhelmingly perfect love, and all I had to do was show up,” he explains.

Feel
ing him pulling away, I blanch and dejectedly nod, acknowledging that we are on the same page.

“So, we’ve got to shelve what we’re feelin
g, and…date first?” he asks, screwing up his face.

“Sadly, yes,” I
reply, even though remorse is starting to scramble my moral compass.

“Alright,” he says with a mock sigh. “Deal,” he says and then quickly
throws in, “Hey, Ren?” as he pulls me into a friendly hug.

“Yes?”

“Can I take you to dinner?” he softly says in my ear.

“I’d love to go to dinner with you,” I say,
smiling up at him.

He offers me his arm
and we leave the home we made as Joshua and Shoshanna to have dinner with the family we had a hand in making all those lifetimes ago.  We walk down the hill, through the cooling breeze of this Midsummers Eve dusk, intermittently looking over our shoulders to get another glimpse of the old world love we know, but in today’s world, we know it is not enough. 

We walk hand in hand, side
by side, in reflective silence, until the soft evening sounds are muted by a mighty crack of lightning that is Prince Dural initiating the coming of Midsummer rains. Like a timely, well-rehearsed dance, Princess Avira then blows a gale that pushes the clouds heavy with rain overhead and Lady Tallulah releases the powerful downpour, as Uncle Craig, Prince Arthos, willingly accepts it, as we all do, knowing that our small patch of the earth is being cleansed and blessed to receive the four Luminaries and their chosen Tor clans.

Knowing that there will only be one crack of lightning, I drag Josh towards the
shelter of the nearest tree. “The rains are early this year,” I point out, smiling at the happy cries coming from the village. “Usually they come when it’s dark.”

“Maybe the
rains coming at dusk is a message,” Josh says, his voice and his expression grim.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“
That the light is fading,’ he says, looking up at the shrouded sun slowly withdrawing from the skyline, “and that this might be our last chance to set it right before the darkness comes for good.”

“What story will it be tonight, mon chou,” Nanna asked as she tucked me into bed.

“The one about
the king and the apple seeds.” 

“Again?”

“Again, please. It’s my favourite.”

“Why
, Renay? Why is it your favourite?”

“
Because the king needed a rose to help him turn something ordinary into gold.”

“
Once a century, the Archangel Prince would pick an apple from divine Tree of Souls to give to a worthy king or queen to empower their rule, their people, and their lands with great knowledge and prosperity.

This story happened at a time we now know as the
Bridge between the Ages, and it was uncertain time for all. Many lands were in need of the heavenly apple, but the Archangel Prince only had one to give. To help him make his decision, he visited with the crowned ruler of every land and asked them how they would use the knowledge and prosperity he had to offer them.

‘
I would like to possess the knowledge of all of the greatest war lords and the means to better arm and defend our lands,’ said one king.

‘
I would like to know when I have met the right woman – one of noble birth who will be a dutiful queen and will fill the royal nursery with sons,’ said another.

‘
I would like to better understand the movement of the stars, so I can see if my firstborn son will continue to rule as I have,’ said an aging king.

‘
I would like to know more about art and architecture, so I can turn my kingdom into one of great beauty and culture,’ said a newly crowned queen.

A young
king of a small land already blessed with great knowledge and prosperity asked his wisest adviser what he should say to the Archangel Prince.

‘Ask only for what you need,’
his advisor proposed. ‘Say to the Archangel Prince that you don’t need the whole apple, only the seeds.’

‘
Why only the seeds?’ the young king asked.

‘What does
one seed have the potential to grow into, your Majesty?’ the advisor asked his king.

‘An a
pple tree,’ the young king answered.

‘Precisely,’
said his advisor. ‘Many apples with many seeds will grow into many trees.’

‘To bring
future knowledge and prosperity to our land, and the lands of my peers?’ the young king asked to make sure that he understood.

His wise adviser nodded
, and asked the preoccupied young king, ‘Do you not agree?’

‘I do,’ he sadly answered. ‘
But, with no living family, I would like to have the apple to help me find love, and my queen,’ the lonely young king explained.

‘
You asked for my advice and now you have it, but ultimately, the choice is yours,’ his wise adviser said.

The young king, torn between giving more to his already harmonious land and mending his
sad and lonely heart, thought on it day and night, and, in the end, he chose to act on his wise adviser’s counsel.

Impressed with the young king’s unique request, the
Archangel Prince agreed to give him the apple seeds. He cut open the heavenly apple and placed the five seeds in the palm of the young king’s hand, and then he sliced the remaining flesh of the apple into quarters to give a piece to each of the four other rulers he had visited with.

After the
Archangel Prince had left, the young king felt guilty that his fellow rulers were only being given a taste of the heavenly apple, but he was given what could, one day, grow into an entire orchard. So, the young king decided to keep one seed for himself and sent the same three kings and a queen a seed of their own.

After
eating his piece of the heavenly apple, the war king, now happy to be knowledgeable and prosperous in battle, thoughtlessly planted his apple seed in a field his soldiers ended up using as a training ground. As a result, the seed was trampled and a tree failed to grow.

Afte
r eating his piece of the heavenly apple, the king of princes planted his apple seed in his private garden, but consumed with finding a queen who would bear him many sons, he neglected to water the seed, and as a result, a tree failed to grow.

Afte
r eating his piece of the heavenly apple, the old star king planted his apple seed in the courtyard where he spent the most time, but as he was always looking up at the stars and not at the earth under his feet, he forgot where he planted it, and a tree failed to grow.

Afte
r eating her piece of the heavenly apple, the art queen, now happily surrounded by talent, brilliance, and grandeur, decided to give her apple seed as a wedding gift to her nephew who was bravely travelling to a new land to marry his true love, the daughter of a common-born farmer.

The day the nephew arrived at the
modest farm he was to call home, he planted the apple seed apart from the others in the orchard so he would always know which tree it was. But, sadly, the old farmer died shortly afterwards, and to pay back his debts the farm was quickly sold and the seed was lost deep in the earth.

Years passed before the nephew and his wife returned to the farm to retrieve what they hoped was now a young apple tree. They
found the struggling sapling, and following the advice a wise man gave them, they dug it up and took it to the land with the richest soil they could find with the hope that replanting it there would give it the best chance to grow and bear fruit.

Immediately after
their arrival, they met with the king of the small land and explained the history of the sapling. The astonished king joyfully gave them permission to plant it in the royal Orchard next to his young apple tree.

Seeing
that the woman was with child and the man was the nephew of a great queen, the king invited the couple to stay with him, and shortly thereafter, a healthy baby girl was born to the happy couple. They named her Regina Rose: Regina for the king’s kindness and Rose for her mother.

Regina Rose grew into a kind and beautiful maiden, one that the king, now a
man, had fallen deeply in love with. On her twenty first birthday, the king and his Regina were married in the Royal Orchard under the arch where the branches of the two apple trees - one planted by the king in his younger years and the other by the couple shortly after their arrival - had grafted together over time. From this arch of conjoined branches grew apples so golden they shone through the night like stars as the king and his true love stood beneath them and said their vows before the Archangel Prince.

During the
course of ceremony, the Archangel Prince told every guest in attendance about the young king’s request for apple seeds, and how he kept one for himself and gave one to each of his fellow rulers. He also explained that the only two seeds that survived were the two that were given in love, and how from the richness of the earth they both grew into trees whose branches joined together to bear golden fruit.

‘
Age looks to the past, youth to the future,’ the Archangel Prince said, ‘just as this wise king did in his younger years. And in light of this generous act, may he and his loved ones continue to receive,’ he said, toasting the happy couple.

In celebration, the
Archangel Prince and the wise king presented each wedding guest with a golden apple together with a piece of advice from a great wise man who now tends to the Tree of Souls in heaven, ‘Many apples with many seeds will grow into many trees.’”

After
the thorough rain blessing the night before, this Midsummer morning on the Apple Isle feels like it does each and every time – like the newest, crispest, freshest day of the year. The mouth has been wetted, the earth has been cleansed, and every living being here turns their faces up towards the rising sun intuitively hoping that the warmth of this sacred day will stay good on its promise to light the way ahead.

After a restless night’s sleep, the bright rays streaming through my curtains summon me out of bed, and as my feet touch the softness of my carpeted floor a little after seven a.m., I think of Josh do
ing the same three hours earlier. I wonder if he is still outside basking in the Midsummer sun for the first time in this second earthly lifetime of his, or now that he has seen in the start of this fateful day, if he is hiding away as the Solstice sun climbs higher in the sky, afraid of what noon, and the minutes, hours, and decades afterwards might bring.

I set my self in motion, taking
the blue summer dress I had already chosen to wear today out of my wardrobe and laying it across my bed. I call it my waterfall dress because it is glacier blue, light, and pretty, and because its skirts fall from my hip to just above my knee in shimmery tendrils of different lengths. The main reason I picked it out is because it is as comfortable as it is eye-catching, both of which are necessary when facing a field filled with Tor People on their most sacred, and most celebrated, day of the year.

Although
some of the Tor go all out: some dressing according to ancient custom, some in striking creations of their own, or some decide not to stray from their natural appearance at all, turning up in what they were born in which is always interesting. There may not be a dress code, but other expectations are set in stone: coming with a chip on your shoulder or a closed mind, or forgetting to bring your manners will get you ejected right quick.

Noon. No
on is when it all starts. Again, I feel a foreboding, but it is soon shut down by all of the things I am looking forward to. Noon is when I’ll see Mike. Noon is when I’ll see my father. Noon is when I’ll see Benni Dhoo and all of my ancient family and friends. Noon will be the first time in millennia when sitting in the middle of the X with my counterpart.

I asked
for Josh to meet me in the crypts below the Heart Rooms where the Sacred Annals of the Four and the Advent Arches have always been watched over by the Guardians of the Four Corners. Ten a.m. sharp was the time we agreed to, so we can get ourselves, the Annals and the Arches to the Clearing with time to spare. He assured me, repeatedly, that he remembers the important stuff like where to go, who the Guardians are, and what the Annals and the Arches are for, but my gut is still not convinced, and I decide to pass his door at fifteen minutes to, just in case.

And,
I do, only to find him having stern words with Zach through his half-opened door. They see me coming and immediately stop talking. I roll my eyes as I approach them as if to say, Yeah, guys, that wasn’t obvious at all.

The
prickly wall of tension surrounding Zach hits me heads on, and when I look over at Josh, the sadness in his eyes drenches me like a cold bucket of water.

“Is everything alright?” I ask.

“Fine,” Josh answers, his attempt at sounding perky failing miserably. “Would yo
u like to come in?” he asks me as he opens his door wider and throws Zach a scowl he thinks I didn’t see.

“Sure,” I say, quickly turning my attention
back to Zach. I am staring right at him, but he doesn’t lift his eyes to me. Now I’m positive that I don’t like him, and I think he knows it. “You must be Zach. Hi. I’m Ren,” I say, trying my utmost to sound pleasant.

“Hi,” he murmurs down at the floor
. After a few rapid blinks, he looks up expectantly at Josh.

“Tell them I’ll be there,” Josh snarls at him.
Zach opens his mouth to speak, but thinks better of it. “We done here?” Josh asks, unmoved.

Josh,
the kindest, gentlest man I have met to date, acting this cold towards another person makes me inwardly shiver, and going from Zach’s pained grimace, it’s not just me. Zach gloomily nods, and with that, Josh grabs me by the arm, yanks me into his room, and slams his door shut.

I wait a few seconds for
Zach to walk away from the door. “OK. That was weird. What the hell is going on?” I demand.

“There has always been an unexplained tension between me and
Zach, and now I understand why,” he says as I watch the coldness in his eyes melt into unshed tears.

“Do you want to talk about it,” I ask, reaching for his hand.

“Yes. Yes, I do…I really do,” he shakily says, “but we’ve got more important things we need to get done,” he says out of breath like something deep inside of him just cracked wide open.

“We’ve got a few minutes,” I gently point out.

“No. We really don’t,” he replies. He clears his throat, straightens his posture, reaches over my shoulder and warily opens the door like he is expecting to see the boogeyman on the other side.

“Josh-”

“Ren, we’ve got to get the Annals and Arches to the Clearing,” he stresses.

“Yeah, but-”

He physically turns me around so I am facing the open door. With him acting this far out of sorts, I am now well and truly freaked out and I’m not afraid to say so. “Josh, you’re really scaring me,” I tell him.

“I know I am.”

“Well, stop. Please,” I say, choking back tears.

“I’ll
try,” he says, wrapping his arms around my waist. “I’m sorry,” he breathes as he rests his forehead on my shoulder.

I don’t like his tone. “Sorry for scaring me? Or sorry f
or something else,” I nervously ask.

“For scaring you. For not being there for you
. For all of it,” he says as he moves to stand beside me and folds his sweaty hand in mine. “It’s fast getting to noon, Ren. We’d better go,” he says, with what is that? Regret?

He hasn’t
done any of this in ages, and he is rusty and scared. I get it. He and I are here together at this time for a reason none of us are one-hundred percent sure of, and that is unsettling to say the least. I get that too. So, as I lead my ancient husband over the threshold, I decide to cut him some slack.

H
and in hand, we walk the length of the hallway, down the stairs, through the Entrance hall, behind the West wall, up the long corridor into the Heart rooms and straight over to huge oak dining table where we all shared a meal two nights before. Instantly and uncannily reacquainted with this unique piece of furniture he had crafted millennia before, he squats down under the table top and slides back the wooden side panel to reveal the passageway door in the stone floor behind it: a passageway that will take us deep below the Castle to the Guardians crypts, and the Sacred Annals and the Arches they have watched over since their mortal deaths centuries ago.

With a
bright torch in hand, Josh leads the way down the short flight of stone steps into the dark, dank tunnel, and after we descend one hundred and thirteen of my undersized steps, he shines his light on the massive boulder, double his height and ten times as wide, blocking the entrance to the crypt. He looks over at me expectantly, but I have already pulled the sewing needle out of the inside of my pocket.

As I
prick the pad of each of my ten fingers, I think of how the Tor People believe that I represent the Moon and Joshua represents the Earth, and how with the prick of each finger, my blood, our blood, pays homage to the celestial bodies surrounding us: my little fingers, Mercury. My ring fingers, the Sun. My middle fingers, Saturn. My index fingers, Jupiter, and my thumbs representing all that can be given and received.

I gently squeezing the sides of my fing
ers until a drop of blood appears on each one, and with the ten drops of blood visible, I press both hands onto the coldness of the rock where my blood has stained it many times before. As this unyielding stone absorbs and accepts that my life blood is that of a Rose, Josh waits to its side, listening to the dead-quiet on the other side. After a few more seconds, he easily pushes the gigantic rock aside like he is opening window drapes, and comes to stand beside me. Gawping at each other in disbelief that we are here, once again as joint custodians of the Sacred Annals, together we take our first step inside.

S
tanding  before the Guardians of the Four Corners lifelessly resting in their row of gold embossed marble crypts, I whisper, “The Air Guardian has changed since you…um…were last here.”

“Why was Lord
Evander replaced?” he asks me at normal volume: his way of alerting me to the fact that we can’t wake the dead, and that no-one can hear us all the way down here.

“Avira inherited the position of Luminary from her father
back in the tenth century. New Luminary, new choice of Guardian,” I explain.

“And a Guar
dian has never been woken,” he clarifies.

“No. A Rose has always pressed her blood to the stone, since, well, the first time I did. But, if anyone else tried, the Guardians would be summoned. And before the intruder’s next breath, all four Guardians would be here, and they would
be pissed-”

“And that next breath
would be their last.”

With a serious face, I nod.

“We better get this done,” he suggests as he moves to stand before the first black marble crypt flecked with white. He leans forward to better see the gold words embossed on the stone slab covering the remains of the Guardian from the North and reads aloud, “Ryan. Woodwose King.” He respectfully bows and says, “We thank you,” and moves to dislodge the tall wooden Arch, made up of oak branches and bracken from the Tree of Souls, from the head of this great Tor leader’s resting place, and turns to lay it upright against the stone wall behind him. Then, he reverently lifts up the Sacred Annals of the North sitting at the foot of King Ryan’s grave: sanctified pages that date back two thousand years ago through to Midsummer last year, all bound together with gold thread and covered with small boards of planed oak. He hands it to me, and after I deferentially run my hands over the smoothed wood, I carefully place it into the back pack.

We move to stand before the second crypt that belongs to the Guardian from the East. “Nagmah. King of the Sylphs. We thank you,” he says with a bow, and lifts up the
Arch made up of spindly branches from the Tree of Souls and all of the airy spaces in-between, and then goes back for the Sacred Annals of the East bound with gold thread and sheets of clear glass.

“Vesta. Queen of the Salam
anders. We thank you,” he says as he bows to the third Guardian in the line, and moves the Arch made of hickory and kindling from the Tree of Souls over with the others, and then moves the Sacred Annals of the South bound with gold thread and thin panels of charred hickory into my waiting hands.

“Meredith. Ondine
Queen. We thank you,” he says as he bows before the fourth and final crypt. He moves the Arch made up of plaited reeds, seaweed and shavings from the Tree of Souls over with the others, and places the Sacred Annals of the West bound together with gold thread and covers made of small river pebbles tightly knotted in strands of seaweed, in the corner of the bag I’m holding open.

Josh lift
s the weighty back pack holding the four Annals up to my back. I slide my arms through the shoulder straps and he secures them and the midriff strap in place. “All good?” he asks, circling me to make sure that I’m not straining with the added weight.

“Yep,” I say, proving it to him by standing up
even straighter.

He walks over to
where the four Arches are leaning in a pile against the wall. He picks them all up at once and swings them under his long, brawny arm. My father never made it look that easy. Josh didn’t even snag his clothes.

“What?” he asks
me and my shocked expression.

“Not heavy?”

“A bit. They’re more awkward to carry than anything else,” he replies. “You could probably carry them,” he thoughtfully adds.

“Could I?” I ask, trying to remember if I ever have.

“You could,” he asserts as leads the way out of the crypt.

Seeing as we will be
coming back here shortly after midnight, we leave the rock where it is and ascend back up the passageway to the underside of our dining table. Like he has been doing this every day for the past couple thousand years, Josh strides up four of the five wide stone steps, slides open the panel with his free hand and manoeuvres the Arches and then himself through the opening without knocking any part of them, or him. He turns to where I’m waiting to come through after him and looks at me expectantly.

“What?” I ask
.

“Undo the strap around your middle and turn around so I can reach in and lift it off your back,” he says.

“Huh,” I grunt, and immediately follow his instructions. The last time I did this, I had a canvas pack on my back, trying to shimmy through this gap low on my stomach like an uncoordinated turtle.