Chương 33: Chapter 23: Roots and Responsibilities- Part II

By the time we reach the eastern district, the afternoon sun sits high overhead, filling the streets with a warmth that should be driving people indoors. Instead, the district seems busier than ever. People move between workshops carrying bundles of lumber and tools. Merchants guide handcarts through streets that only weeks ago stood nearly abandoned. Voices drift from open windows.

Somewhere nearby, someone is arguing over the price of cabbages with enough enthusiasm to suggest the matter is of regional importance. Life has returned to the district. Not all at once and certainly not through any grand transformation but through hundreds of small changes accumulating day after day. The influence of the grove reaches far beyond the garden walls now. Grass grows thicker along the streets. Flowering vines climb buildings that spent years wrapped in dust and neglect.

Trees that once struggled to survive now carry healthy crowns of green leaves. Small vegetable plots appear in courtyards and empty corners wherever residents can find enough sunlight to support them. The district remains a district. Stone streets still wind between rows of aging buildings. Workshops still fill the air with the sounds of labor. Traders still argue. Children still race through alleyways. Yet everywhere I look, something is growing. Ahead of us, the garden walls finally come into view.

They rise above the surrounding streets in weathered stone and timber, enclosing what was once little more than an abandoned piece of land at the heart of the district. From the outside, there is little to distinguish the garden from countless others scattered throughout the city. The difference only becomes apparent after passing through the gates. The moment we step inside, the sounds of the district seem to soften. The garden stretches across a broad expanse of carefully cultivated land.

Winding paths weave between growing beds filled with herbs, vegetables and flowering plants. Irrigation channels carry water from one end of the garden to the other before branching into smaller trenches that feed dozens of cultivated plots. The garden, once abandoned and overrun with weeds and neglect now had fruit trees occupy much of the outer garden. Apple, pear and plum trees cast patches of shade across benches and gathering spaces while berry bushes fill the spaces between pathways.

Residents move among them carrying baskets, tending plants or stopping to exchange conversation with neighbors. The garden itself forms a wide ring around the grove. At its center, the Heartwoods rise. Their pale trunks tower above the surrounding vegetation, forming a living circle around the Silverwood that stands at the heart of them all. The difference between the two remains obvious even now. The Heartwoods are ancient and the Silverwood is immense.

Its trunk rises from the center of the grove like a pillar carved from moonlight, silver bark gleaming beneath the filtered sunlight that spills through the canopy overhead. Around it, the Heartwoods spread outward in a broad circle, their roots weaving through the earth while their branches intertwine high above to form a sheltering canopy over the grove's heart. Beneath those trees lies the clearing where everything began. Where a single sapling from Elarion first touched Fallowspire soil.

For several moments, Havlar says nothing. The city lord's gaze moves slowly across the garden before finally settling upon the grove itself. Reports, I suspect, have done a poor job preparing him for the reality. Beside me, Garrick notices the expression. Before we can ask, a sudden shout cuts through the garden before the conversation can continue.

"Kaelen!" I barely have time to turn before Aine comes racing down one of the garden paths. The three-year-old barrels past a pair of startled residents, ignores every obstacle in her path and collides with me with all the force her tiny frame can muster. Small arms immediately wrap around my neck.

"You're back." The statement carries complete certainty and I find myself smiling.

"I am." Apparently satisfied, Aine settles comfortably against my shoulder as though she has successfully completed an important task. A second figure appears moments later. Eammon is clearly running when he first emerges from behind a row of fruit trees. Then he notices us watching. The boy immediately slows. His shoulders straighten. His pace becomes considerably more measured. By the time he reaches us, he has transformed from an excited seven-year-old into what he apparently believes is a responsible young man.

"Kaelen," Eammon says with a small nod.

"Garrick." Then he notices Havlar. The boy freezes and his eyes widen. After a brief moment of thought, he steps forward and offers a respectful bow.

"Lord Havlar." The city lord blinks.

"I don't believe we've met," Havlar says.

"We haven't," Eammon replies.

"But everyone knows who you are." A reasonable answer. Eammon studies him for another moment. Then his brow furrows.

"Why is the City Lord at the grove?" I glance toward Garrick. Garrick glances toward me. Only then do I realize that neither of us has actually asked that question. Havlar has accompanied us all the way across the city. At no point has he explained why. The city lord sighs.

"I was wondering how long it would take someone to ask." Eammon brightens immediately.

"So, there is a reason?"

"There is." The boy waits expectantly. Unfortunately for Havlar, so do the rest of us. The city lord regards us with the expression of a man realizing he has somehow lost control of a conversation to a seven-year-old. Before he can answer, movement along one of the garden paths catches my attention. Several familiar figures are making their way toward us. Love what you're reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.

Aibell leads the group, one hand resting on the handles of a wheelchair as she guides it carefully along the packed earth path. Seated within it, Ciara looks considerably more comfortable than she has at any point since losing her leg, though the expression on her face suggests she remains mildly suspicious of the arrangement. The chair itself is surprisingly well made. Wooden wheels, a reinforced frame, even armrests. Someone has clearly put thought into its construction.

"What happened?" I ask. Ciara follows my gaze toward the chair.

"One of the city guards decided I was being unreasonable," she says.

"Only one?" Garrick asks.

"Apparently the others agreed with him." Aibell's mouth twitches.

"He spent half the morning building it," she says. I look at the chair again. The craftsmanship is considerably better than I would expect from a city guard.

"He built it himself?"

"Mostly," Aibell replies.

"Apparently he worked as an apprentice to a carpenter before joining the guard." Ciara snorts, "Which he informed me about repeatedly."

"He seemed proud of it," Aibell says.

"He seemed offended."

"He was offended," Aibell corrects.

"Every time he saw you using those crutches."

"I was managing perfectly well," Ciara says.

"You nearly fell into an irrigation trench," Aibell replies.

"That happened once."

"It happened yesterday."

"Details." The exchange earns a quiet laugh from Garrick. For her part, Ciara appears remarkably comfortable for someone insisting she never needed the chair in the first place. Merrow walks beside them carrying a basket filled with herbs gathered from one of the outer gardens. Her gaze moves briefly between myself, Garrick and Havlar before settling on the city lord. Unlike Eammon, she doesn't immediately ask questions. Which probably means she has already formed several. Aibell reaches us first.

Her eyes move quickly across the group before settling on me. The concern there is brief, subtle, gone almost immediately once she confirms that everyone has returned in one piece.

"Well?" she asks. The single word somehow contains an entire conversation.

'Did the council listen? Did something go wrong? Are we in trouble? Do I need to start worrying?' I find myself smiling.

"The council did not throw us out."

"That's encouraging," Aibell says.

"It improved from there." Ciara folds her arms, "That answer sounds suspiciously incomplete."

"It is," Garrick replies.

"Then finish it." Before either of us can respond, Eammon points directly at Havlar.

"He still hasn't answered." The city lord closes his eyes briefly. The reaction alone is worth the journey.

"You are remarkably persistent," Havlar says.

"Thank you."

"I'm not entirely certain that was a compliment."

"It usually isn't," Garrick says. Eammon ignores him.

"Why are you here?" For a moment, Havlar studies the garden around us, the cultivated beds; the fruit trees; the irrigation channels winding through the soil. Beyond them, the grove itself rises beneath the Silverwood's canopy. When he finally answers, the words arrive with all the dignity expected of a city lord.

"I came to inspect the grove." Eammon stares at him. The silence stretches. Then the boy turns toward me.

"He's curious." I hear Garrick choke on a laugh. Even Aibell looks suspiciously amused. To his credit, Havlar maintains his composure. Merrow, meanwhile, watches the entire exchange with the expression of someone quietly confirming a theory.

"I imagine curiosity played some role," she says. The city lord points at her.

"Thank you," Havlar says.

"You're welcome," Merrow replies. The city lord points at her.

"You are not helping."

"Probably not," Merrow agrees. For the first time since arriving, genuine laughter ripples through the group. It spreads naturally, from Garrick to Aibell, from Aibell to Ciara. Even Eammon joins in, though he appears pleased primarily because he has successfully extracted an answer. Beside me, Aine finally looks up from whatever important thoughts have occupied her attention. She studies Havlar for several seconds. Then she asks the question nobody else considers.

"Did you come to see the tree?" The laughter stops. Havlar glances toward the Silverwood. For a moment, something almost boyish crosses the city lord's face before his usual composure returns.

"Among other things," he says. This time, nobody believes him. Havlar endures several more skeptical looks before deciding that continuing the discussion would only worsen his situation.

"A tour would be appropriate," he says. Eammon immediately narrows his eyes.

"A tour?"

"The inspection requires one." That answer sounds official enough that even the boy struggles to argue with it. only, for a moment. Then Eammon looks toward me.

"He's definitely curious."

"He is definitely curious," Garrick agrees.

"I am standing right here."

"That is how we know," Garrick replies. The city lord mutters something beneath his breath that sounds suspiciously like a complaint before setting off along one of the garden paths. The rest of us follow. Several children race through the outer orchard before being loudly reminded not to climb trees that are still too young to survive their enthusiasm. The warning arrives too late. A distant voice immediately follows.

"Get down from there!" Eammon wisely pretends no knowledge of the incident. Havlar studies everything. His gaze rarely remains still for long. The irrigation channels receive particular attention.

"So, these all cleaned from the river project?" he asks.

"They did," Ciara replies. The wheelchair rolls smoothly along the path as Aibell guides it beside us.

"The eastern gardens that must have dried out during warmer months. The purified channels will change that."

"The harvest nearly doubled in some areas, or so I am told," Aibell adds. Havlar nods thoughtfully.

"And the maintenance?"

"Shared," Ciara says.

"Everyone uses them. Everyone helps maintain them."

"Remarkably sensible."

"We try not to make a habit of it," Garrick says. The city lord ignores him. Merrow gestures toward several residents working near one of the herb beds.

"The channels help," she says, "but the grove is responsible for most of the improvement." Havlar's gaze shifts toward the Silverwood rising above the garden.

"The influence extends that far?"

"Further," Merrow replies. The city lord falls silent once more. As we approach the grove itself, the air seems subtly cooler beneath the canopy. Sunlight filters through layers of silver-green leaves overhead while the broad roots of the Heartwoods rise and fall from the earth like gentle hills. The sounds of the city feel distant here, softened by wood, leaves and growing things. At the center stands the Silverwood. Even after everything that has happened, the sight still draws my attention.

Its pale bark catches the light. The branches spread outward through the canopy while the surrounding Heartwoods seem to gather around it, forming a living circle that shelters the heart of the grove. For several moments, Havlar simply stands beneath the trees, no reports, no council discussions, no maps. Only the grove itself.

"It is larger than I expected," he says eventually.

"Everyone says that," Garrick replies.

"I did not," Havlar tries to deny immediately.

"You thought it." The city lord chooses not to dignify that with a response. Aine slips from my arms and immediately runs toward one of the roots before settling herself upon it like a queen claiming a throne. Eammon follows shortly afterward. The two children have clearly decided the inspection is no longer interesting. Which leaves the adults. Unfortunately for me, that proves considerably more dangerous. Ciara studies me for a moment.

"Now that Lord Havlar has satisfied his curiosity, perhaps we can discuss why the council meeting took an entire afternoon." Aibell nods, "I was wondering when someone would ask." Merrow says nothing. The look she gives me suggests she already knows the answer is important. I glance toward Garrick. The traitor smiles.

"Go ahead," he says.

"Tell them." A faint feeling of dread settles into my stomach. That expression never means anything good.