8-2
With a gasp, Vantaiga spun around in panic. The Master of Servants stepped through the viny branches of the willow and smiled cruelly at her. “I have been watching you for a while now, slave girl. I never thought that such a meagre person could have so much to teach me.”
Vantaiga stepped backwards as he approached her. She tried to act calm, but her words were weak, and she only stammered her reply. “Why—why would you watch me?”
“Because I make it my business to know everything that goes on with the household I’m in charge of. I am also curious and relish learning new things. I find it fascinating what the garden has taught you. I never realised there was so much to learn from plants. They have a magic I have never heard of. After all, they never talk to me.”
He stepped closer, his voice growing darker. “But they talk to you. They love to talk to you. They love revealing their secrets to you, and I would love revealing their secrets to my convocation.”
Vantaiga continued her retreat when the thought of the hemlock broke through her fear:
“Plants… can’t talk… It’s just your imagination.”
“Not my imagination but yours. I have watched you and watched your thoughts. It does not take much magic to know the mind of a slave girl. I know the secrets of the garden that you keep in your head.”
Vantaiga’s mind raced with what he could know. But the thought of the willow tree interrupted her:
“I’ve learned much about the medicines you’ve found in the garden.” The Master of Servants stood before Vantaiga. He towered over her and stared into her eyes. The feeling of being the small girl she was when they first met filled her, as did the memory of the fear and pain on that day.
Yet another thought intruded on her dreadful recollections: It was the briar rosebush.
“But now I see you have the secret of more than just medicine.” He glanced at the hemlock. “And as much as I consider this job and this household beneath me, it does allow me plenty of freedom for my own pursuits and studies. So, I will not have you risking my employers.”
Before Vantaiga could protest, the Master of Servants lashed out and squeezed her throat. Vantaiga gagged but could not draw in any air. In wide-eyed terror, she tried to pry away his fingers as he crushed out her breath. The plants called out to her.
The thoughts clashed in Vantaiga’s mind, confounding her and only adding to her panic.
In desperation, Vantaiga pushed her hand against the man’s eyes and cast a small gust spell she’d learned from the plants. The tiny blast of wind forced its way through the Master’s eyelids. It stung his eyes and made them water so much he was momentarily blinded. Surprised more than hurt, he jerked back with a groan.
Vantaiga broke free of his grip and gasped for air. She struck the man in the chest, blasting the Master of Servants with all the magical force she could muster. He stumbled backwards but easily regained his footing.
This time the Master of Servants kept his distance. He lifted his hand and reached out for Vantaiga’s throat with his magic. Vantaiga held up her hands to use the strength of her will to block his spell. The mage sneered at her attempt and pushed through her will as if it was nothing. She had nowhere near the experience or discipline to match his magic. Vantaiga found herself again clutching her throat and gagging for breath. But this time there was no hand to pry off.
The thoughts of the plants pushed their way into Vantaiga’s fading consciousness. This time they spoke together.
Ringing began to build in Vantaiga’s ears. The colours of the garden washed away into the glaring white light of Coronus, who watched in idle mockery of Vantaiga’s last moments. Desperation for air rattled through her head and pushed out any understanding of what the plants wanted.
Vantaiga began to pass out. Panic and the thoughts of the plants fought for attention in her head. They screamed into her fading consciousness.
Vantaiga felt the world fall away. What could she do? What could the plants do? She couldn’t tell if she was standing, floating, or falling. What could be done to save herself?
A giddy sense of euphoria filled her as the weight of her body vanished. The panic in her subsided, and she was only left with the sense of her mind, alone in the floating comfort of dying. Bodily fear faded from her, and she found herself starkly clearheaded in the brilliant white passage of death. What can plants do? Plants can grow. She struggled through the rapture of her passing and, with her waning mind, extended her thoughts to the grass and commanded it to grow.
Ordered at last, the grass erupted about the Master of Servants. It rose up and towered over him, twisting and entangling itself around his legs and arms. The magical grip on Vantaiga’s throat broke, and she gulped in a loud breath.
Vision and reality came back to her along with terror and an irrepressible urge to run. She was on her back, staring up at the willow branches. She rolled over and darted to the estate wall, while commanding the willow tree to lift her over.
A shout from behind demanded that she stop. The Master of Servants had hacked his way through the heavy grass with his magic and cast blades of force into the wispy branches that held Vantaiga aloft.
Vantaiga was cut loose and fell. The stomach-clenching fear of falling slapped her into action. Her instincts thrust out and commanded the trumpet vine on the wall to catch her. The vine elongated its flower-covered tendrils and grasped Vantaiga in time to bring her to the ground with a soft thump.
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She willed the vine to lift her up in the air so she could tower over the Master of Servants for once. She may be an undeserving child and slave, but this was her garden. Her sense of empowerment stirred an anger deep within her.
She cast a bolt of force at the man. It struck the Master of Servants in the shoulder but did little more than jerk him sideways. The Master growled in annoyance at the feeble attack. With a gesture and a magical word, he thrust out his hand and cast his own magical bolt.
The bolt struck Vantaiga in the stomach with an explosive force. Vantaiga was blasted out of the grasp of the vines, and the air was blasted out of her lungs. She smashed into the stone wall and fell to the ground.
Throbbing pain and nausea welled up inside of her. It was a blow similar to when she was kicked by the guard. This time she knew how to deal with such an attack. She calmed herself and focused on keeping her breathing slow and regular. Air began to make its way back into her lungs, and the stars swimming before her eyes cleared.
She returned her attention to the Master of Servants. Infuriated by her defiance, he stomped towards her. He may be in her domain, but he was much more powerful than her. She couldn’t fight him on her own. She needed to stay focused on the plants and garden.
Because of her atunement with nature, a new thought presented itself. It was unlike any she had experienced before. It was different than the plants. Instead of slow, ponderous, and earthy, this thought was quick and vibrant as the wind.
Vantaiga looked around. The only birds she could see were a few small desert finches perched on a shrub not far from her. How was she to use finches to stop a madman?
A raven flew over the wall to land in the willow tree, followed by another, and then another. They called to her,
Vantaiga took in a deep breath and clenched down on the aching nausea. Ravens, she could use. She jolted herself up and pointed at the Master of Servants. “Attack him!”
The ravens responded with a loud caw and dove at the man. A dozen more swooped over the wall to join the fight.
Now it was the Master of Servant’s turn to panic. The ravens swarmed on top of him, scratching at his face, scalp, and eyes. With a magical word, he cast three jets of fire from his fingers that caught several ravens, instantly incinerating them. With another series of gestures and words, he launched a mass of sticky webs from his hands, ensnaring several more.
“No!” Vantaiga cried out and with a swipe of her hand, commanded the willow tree to strike the Master down with its broad limbs. A heavy branch laden with vines whooshed down into the Master of Servants, knocking him off his feet and through the air.
A new thought called out to Vantaiga. There were still more that wished to aid her. This thought was strange and oppressive. They were both of the earth and air. They came from everywhere all at once, speaking in unison.
A rush of power filled Vantaiga. All the garden was offering itself to her to defeat the evil mage and his vile magic. Emboldened by the fealty of nature, the burning ravens, and the aching memory of the guard’s boot in her stomach, Vantaiga’s anger returned in full. Now she had the authority to allow herself to be cruel.
She pointed at the Master of Servants and, with deliberate words, commanded, “Kill him.”
The ground beneath the Master swelled and all manner of insects poured out. The air became alive with the buzz of hundreds of bees, flies, and gnats. Pain and horror crawled over the man’s skin. In terror, he swatted at the bugs that engulfed him. It was a futile effort. He could not kill them quickly enough. Only the death of their commander would stop them.
The bugs crawled over his skin, his eyes, his hair. He lifted himself onto all fours and glared at Vantaiga with seething rage. His face reddened and shook as he managed the words to his next spell with insects crawling into his mouth.
There was a sound like the sudden rush of air and the Master of Servants disappeared and, with a similar rushing sound, reappeared on the opposite side of the garden, free of the tormenting pests. He glared at Vantaiga for a moment, catching his breath and spitting out insects. He had enough of this fight. It was time for stronger magic. He pulled a small glass rod from his robe, rubbed it on his sleeve, and uttered a single magical word.
A strange, tingling sensation made Vantaiga’s hairs stand on end. Instinctively, she ducked and commanded the willow tree to shield her. The Master of Servants released his spell as the willow brought its branches down to protect her.
An ear-splitting crackle filled the air as a lightning bolt arced from the wizard’s hand to the willow tree’s barrier. The lightning flashed up the branches and discharged into the trunk of the tree. Vantaiga braced herself from the rattling thunder still echoing around her. She commanded the willow to strike the Master again, but it didn’t respond. Vantaiga stopped in stunned horror.
The Master seized upon her hesitation and this time produced a small, dirty ball of white and yellow material from his robe. He spoke his magical words with clear intent to end the fight. Then he threw the ball at Vantaiga.
Shocked by the crack of the lightning and the sudden silence of the willow tree, Vantaiga merely watched as the Master of Servants completed his spell and cast the ball towards her. As the strange sphere left the Master’s hand, it sparked to life as a brilliant flaming ember. In the back of Vantaiga’s mind, a thousand voices screamed,
Vantaiga jolted to command the grass to heave up a wall. A living shield of grass, roots, and dirt sprung up before her. The small, blazing ember impacted the barricade and let out a roaring burst of flame that erupted over the garden and set everything ablaze. The earthen wall crumbled from the blast, but Vantaiga was spared.
Vantaiga and the Master of Servants stared at each other through the flames—Vantaiga aghast by the destruction of her beloved garden, and the Master of Servants shocked by her survival of his fireball. He was not out of spells, but neither was Vantaiga out of plants. The Master of Servants was standing by the desert rosebush, a place she remembered having once been left to die.
With a scowl, Vantaiga thrust out her hand and twisted her fingers together with the thought of the rosebush ensnaring the mage. The rose reached out its thorny brambles and pulled the Master of Servants down. The thorns of the rose dug into his flesh and pulled his face into the ground. Was this how she looked when he turned her into a slave? No. She had been a naked, frail, child before him then.
Now all of nature was at her command. Most of the plants of the garden were on fire, but the insects were limitless. She gave them the thought of resuming their attack.
The insects poured over the Master again, biting and gnawing away at his flesh. Gashing his robes and skin, he tore an arm free of the rose’s thorny branches. He had one spell to cast that would bring a final end to this garden battle. And with the utterance of its final word and gesture, a grey fog poured out from his body. The insects that crawled about him instantly fell dead and the rosebush that ensnared him withered. The cloud fanned out, killing all life it touched.
Vantaiga watched as the fog of death approached her. The only plant that still had a voice to answer her call was the trumpet vine, saved from the blast by being behind her and her shield. She commanded it to lift her over the garden wall.
The vine wrapped around Vantaiga, then raised her above the killing cloud and outside the wall. It lowered her towards the street, but halfway down, it wilted and dropped her. She landed with a heavy thud that left her rattled but not injured.
She looked up to see the remains of the purple vine shrivel back behind the wall. She was free, but her garden was destroyed, and her fellow slaves were still trapped. She had not saved anyone or anything. Her pride and lust for vengeance and power had left everything she loved destroyed.
She became overwhelmed with anger, sadness, and guilt. She slammed her arms into her legs. This was not supposed to happen. This was not what she wanted. She stammered in the alleyway, too upset to react. A surviving raven perched on a neighbouring wall snapped her back to reality:
