Power Released
The grown woman Vantaiga stepped lightly among the lush leaves and flowers of her master’s garden. In the years since her survival of her abuse, she had nurtured the garden into a lush paradise. She had poured her efforts into the plants, partly to return to them the support and help they gave her, partly to please the masters and prevent further assaults, and partly to make a place to hide.
The fear and anger left inside Vantaiga after her beating had made being around the masters impossible. She filled their house and garden with such beautiful, lush plants that she could slip out of any room unnoticed when they approached. She would then seek refuge in the thick foliage of the garden and disappear until they were gone. There were times the masters wished to compliment her on her gardening, but Vantaiga would have none of it.
The masters seemed fine with this arrangement as long as it gave them a household that was a spectacle unlike any other in the city. For them, the price of not knowing the whereabouts of one of their slaves was small payment for such a glorious estate.
The Master of Servants did not seem so pleased about this though. There were times when Vantaiga would find him following her. He did not pursue her for long, and within a few turns of the corridors, she could evade him and escape to the garden. She was grateful his pursuits were half-hearted. She did not wish to confront the wicked sorcerer and certainly did not wish to know why he found her interesting.
She breathed in a stuttering breath as she laboured through her examination of each flower and leaf before her. It had taken days for Vantaiga to recover enough from her beating to rise from her bed, weeks before her ribs healed enough to move freely, and months for the headaches and dizziness to subside. Her lungs, though, never fully recovered. If she worked too hard or if the air was too hot, she had trouble breathing.
At night, when she slept, her breath rattled in her chest, a reminder to the other slaves of what could happen to them if they displeased the masters. Night also brought nightmares, but those Vantaiga kept to herself as her private reminder of the ordeal.
As she studied the plants, she queried them for what medicine they held. Some replied they had medicines for the limbs, and others replied they had medicines for the stomach. There were those that had medicines for the heart, and still others that had medicine for the head. However, on this day, Vantaiga was searching for medicine for the nerves. With the respect she’d gained for having survived her beating, and her unusual knowledge of plants and medicine, she had become the caretaker of her fellow slaves.
The chamomile and feverfew flower reported that they had medicine for nerves. But Vantaiga was looking for something stronger. Two new slaves were having trouble adjusting to their new way of life. If she did not find something to calm them down, Vantaiga feared they would soon disappear like many others before them. She needed something more potent than a daisy tea.
A sudden thought alarmed Vantaiga. It was a warning from the plants. Someone was in the garden. A flash of boots, pain, and fear crossed her mind, but it was quickly pushed aside by the thought of a bushy jasmine tree next to her: Vantaiga immediately thought of the tree letting her pass into it, and with a step, she was silently engulfed within its leaves.
The plant continued to prompt her: With one hand, Vantaiga grasped the tree and reached into it with her mind and newly acquired magic. Her magic seeped into the tree until it contacted the roots and touched the being of the flowered bush.
With some effort, she pulled a faintly shimmering envelope of magic over her. She concentrated on the being of the tree and willed the magic surrounding her into the nature of the tree.
She used her other hand to maintain her focus and drew her fingers down her face and over her body.
At the touch of her hand, her skin and clothes turned the dappled greens and greys of the jasmine’s leaves, bark, and shadows. With the spell complete, she remained motionless and was hidden to all but the most scrupulous of searchers.
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Another secret Vantaiga kept from the masters of the house, and from the slaves as well, was that the plants not only had knowledge of medicines but of magic. They taught her how to draw in the energy of life about her and store it within herself. They taught her how she could focus her thoughts and gestures not only to take on the nature of the plants around her but also to move objects and energy.
t was not the powerful and refined magic that wizards and sorcerers studied, but it was enough to give her tricks to escape her captivity whenever she wished. However, she didn’t wish to escape—not yet anyway. She had sick slaves to take care of, and she was not going to leave until they could all escape together.
Vantaiga waited in the quiet of the jasmine tree, her heart pounding. She listened for sounds of visitors in her garden, but no sounds came. There were no footsteps on the pebbled paths, no branches rustled by admirers, no chatter at how beautiful the flowers looked. None of the bait she set out to distract passers-by from her presence had been taken.
She reached out to the plants and wondered if anyone was still in the garden. Thoughts drifted in from all about her. Vantaiga sighed with relief but decided to linger a bit in her concealment. She took a moment to enjoy her small magical refuge. In the shadow of the leaves, there was cool, quiet security. If only the whole world was filled with plants, then she could stay hidden forever.
Vantaiga cast aside her spell and returned her appearance to normal. Silently, she stepped forward and emerged from the bush. She thought of scolding the garden for scaring her, but she did enjoy the chance to practice her magic. It made her feel empowered, even though the exercise drained her.
She looked at her hand and willed the energy about her to replenish her store of magic. She concentrated to pull in energy as quickly as she could through her fingers. As the magic drew in, her hand and arm felt warm, but no wisps of fog formed as she had seen from the Master of Servants. She was not strong enough to draw in power to chill the air as he did.
Discouraged by the alarm of the false intrusion, Vantaiga gave up her search for medicine and returned to her favourite spot by the willow tree. As she approached, she frowned at a tall, scraggily white flower that greeted her. It was a new addition to the garden that Vantaiga had nurtured by the willow tree, as the two shared a similar thirst for water.
She was not pleased with how it was turning out. It was sparse and homely, more like a weed than anything else. It did not fit in the garden, and she would have to get rid of it if it didn’t have any good uses.
She wondered if the unappealing flower had any medicine to offer her. The plant’s answer came back to her cold and smooth, sending shivers down her spine.
Vantaiga’s shoulders dropped. She couldn’t have such a blemish in her magnificent garden. She wondered this time if there was anything she could do with it. The plant’s chill reply seeped into her mind.
Fear rippled over Vantaiga’s body, and the hairs on her arms bristled. She stared at the unassuming flower. Thoughts stammered in her head, trying to make sense of what it had just revealed.
Vantaiga shook her head. She had trouble processing such a terrible thought after so pleasant a morning. She didn’t want to use such a plant. She didn’t want to kill anyone.
Vantaiga didn’t believe the flower. She knew they wouldn’t kill her. As long as she kept the garden healthy, they would let her live, and eventually, she would escape with the others. But thoughts of her two scared and anxious slaves came to her. Like this unseemly flower, their days were numbered if they did not find a way to fit in. Could she kill her masters to save them? No! Despite her hatred for the masters, she could not bring herself to kill them. There were other ways to escape.
The flower only replied back,
Vantaiga considered that to escape she did need something more powerful than herbs. Perhaps she could prepare a diluted mixture of the plant to make people sleep or feel sick. But how could she test such a brew without notice and without harming someone?
Again, the thought of the hemlock interrupted her.
But surely the masters wouldn’t kill her if she kept the garden beautiful.
The hemlock interrupted her again. There was urgency in the thought.
Dread washed over Vantaiga. She wondered who would wish to kill her—even though she already knew the answer.
Vantaiga’s dread turned to horror. The hemlock’s sombre reply was not what she was expecting.