Airlean Tales

It took Azalea an embarrassingly long moment to regain her ability to talk. By the time she had finally found words, Echo was already strutting into the garden with an easy smile and a friendly wave.

“Heidi, my girl,” he called. “How do you fare on this lovely afternoon?”

Woodland animals scattered at his approach—deer that had been lapping at the brook, raccoons that had been rummaging through the flowers, squirrels that had been digging up nuts. They retreated to mill around a young woman with a basket of vegetables swinging on the crook of her arm. She straightened at the sound of Echo’s voice, her eyes searching for its source.

Azalea blinked. The woman was…cute.

Short, pale hair the color of butter lettuce swayed below her chin, topped with a flowery pointed hat. A loose blouse was tucked into a floral skirt, cinched at her waist with a braided belt. She looked more like a cottage farmer than any sort of witch.

Azalea’s eyes narrowed. This couldn’t be Echo’s friend. She was so…soft. So normal.

The young woman—apparently named Heidi—gave a bright smile at Echo and waved back. “Why, if it isn’t Mr. Wolf!” she said. “What a lovely surprise!”

Echo grinned and gestured Azalea over. The animals around Heidi’s ankles scuttled off into the safety of the forest; two intruders were apparently too many for them.

“Heidi,” said Echo, pointing at Azalea, “this is—who was it? Ah, yes. Eat Dirt Wolf.”

Azalea cast a dour glare in his direction and turned to Heidi with a pleasant smile. “Azalea. Pleased to meet you.”

“Azalea!” said Heidi, beaming. “What a lovely name. It sounds so familiar.” Then she clapped her hands together. “But of course! I have a skull with the same name.”

Azalea blanched. “A…a skull?”

“Yes, I believe you’re right next to Katherine the Seventh. Or was it Pimpernel?” Heidi turned on her heel. “But where are my manners? You simply must come in for tea.”

As she sashayed to the base of the oak tree with a light, absentminded tune on her lips, Azalea leaned over to Echo.

“She has a skull,” she whispered urgently. “With my name.”

He shrugged. “You should be flattered. That’s the Cabbage Witch for you.”

“Cabbage Witch?”

He spread a hand towards a plot of dotted green. “From all the cabbages she grows.”

“That’s lettuce, not cabbage.”

“Does it matter?”

“It’s different as night and—never mind. Why does she have skulls?”

“Never thought to ask.”

“Echo.”

“What? I’m not one to judge somebody’s hobbies.”

“I am if it means she’s killing people!”

“Nonsense. There’s no one to kill around here.”

“Then where are these skulls coming from?”

“Who knows? Maybe she bought them on market day.”

“Wolf—”

Heidi’s soft, cheery voice broke through their train of heated whispers. “Come on up,” she called.

She led them to the base of the oak tree. Azalea expected to see a flight of stairs winding around the trunk, or perhaps a ladder nailed to the wood. Instead, there was only an impossibly long braided rope leading up to the house’s front porch. Perhaps a pulley system, then? Or some other manner of hidden entryway?

But before Azalea could ask any questions, Heidi had sprung upon the rope, spry as a monkey, and scaled it with disturbing speed. In a manner of seconds, she was standing on the porch with her basket of vegetables easily in hand.

“I’ll put on the kettle,” she called down. “Climb at your own leisure. There’s no rush.”

She disappeared into the house, leaving Azalea to gape wordlessly at the rope.

“Cat got your tongue?” Echo said amusedly.

Azalea pointed at the rope. “Does she climb this every day? Just to get inside her own house?”

“Seems like it.”

Azalea craned her neck up, up, up to look at the house in the tree boughs. “All the way up there?”

“Seems like it,” Echo repeated. He bowed. “After you.”

Azalea gritted her teeth and seized the rope, pulling herself upward. The fibers were remarkably silky under her fingers. Up close, she could even see a hint of color in the strands—pale green, almost like…

Oh, Myths. It was Heidi’s hair. The entire length of rope was braided out of her hair.

Azalea didn’t know how to feel about that. Impressed? Disgusted? Fascinated? How long had it taken for Heidi to grow her hair to that length? How many times had she brushed it? How had she washed it, dried it? Azalea couldn’t imagine the amount of oils and extracts necessary to have kept that much hair in good condition.

“We don’t have all day, Red,” Echo said from below.

She glared down at him, but doubled her pace, scaling the rope carefully. She had no fear of heights, but swinging from a rope at this distance made all the vegetable plots spin together in a sickening way, so she fixed her eyes upward. A few more agonizing minutes and she pulled herself on the porch, dusting off her skirt.

“Well?” she called down to Echo.

He crooked his neck to one side, then the other. Leaned over to stretch his waist. Cleared his throat.

“Oh, just hurry up and climb,” Azalea said.

Then Echo fired his windsoles, arced up in the air, and landed nearly on the porch. All without lifting a finger.

Azalea’s jaw slackened. Echo only clicked his tongue.

“You really should have thought of that first, Red,” he said.

She flushed. “Well, I—I saw Heidi, and I just assumed—”

“I know, I know. You watched who went before you and followed their example to the letter.” Echo shook his head. “That’s the tragedy with Academy students. They have such good instincts, but they never use them. Nope, follow who’s in front of you. Follow them off a damn cliff.”

Azalea blinked owlishly at him for a moment, wordless. Echo arced a brow in her direction.

“What?” he said.

“You were an Academy student, weren’t you?” Azalea said slowly.

He chuckled. “Do I look like I had that kind of money, Red?”

“Do you need money to infiltrate those kinds of places?” she challenged.

Another chuckle. “You’re learning fast.”

“Da used to say that hatred comes from one of two places,” Azalea said. “The first is ignorance, which turns into fear. The second is a love that turns sour.” She regarded him carefully. “You don’t seem to be ignorant about anything. So I think…you hate things that you used to love.”

Echo shoved his hands into his pockets with a wry smile. “Well, Red, your da’s a sage fellow, but he also happens to be very wrong. People hate things for all sorts of reasons, and most of them are irrational.”

Azalea frowned. “You’re saying that you’re irrational?”

“Oh, very. You should see my histrionics when the baker’s out of blackberry pie.” He turned and pushed the front door of Heidi’s house wide open. “Now, are you ready for tea?”

The treehouse—tree-cottage, really—wasn’t quite so idyllic and fastidious on the inside. It was a messy yet charming brew of an antique shop and an evil witch’s lair. Rustic wooden shelves were stuffed with jars, some with herbs, some with powders, some with body parts and organs and eyeballs steeping in a viscous liquid. A large cauldron sat on a firepit in the center of the room, mint-colored and painted with wildflowers. Skulls were placed on knit table scarves and hung on the walls next to embroidery samplers—large, brutal, animalistic skulls with harsh angles and horns, too outlandish for Azalea to recognize.

She sighed, relieved. They weren’t human skulls.

Heidi was pulling out little jars of tea leaves and setting them on a pastel table covered with lace doilies. “Have a seat,” she said, gesturing to the bone-white chairs—oh no, they were actually made of bone, weren’t they?—dressed with cute embroidered cushions.

Azalea sat gingerly on the nearest chair and tried not to think about what creature it was pulled out of. Echo sprawled opposite her as if it were common practice for him to lounge on piles of bones.

“The rope out there,” Azalea said, turning to Heidi. “Is it hair? Your hair?”

“Why, yes it is,” Heidi said brightly. Her fingers reached up to flutter once through her cropped locks. “My mother, you see—she used to say my hair was enchanted and I oughtn’t cut it. But goodness, it could be inconvenient. So I eventually did.” She frowned. “Mother never came home after that, though. Maybe she couldn’t forgive that betrayal.”

Azalea opened her mouth. Then closed it. Heidi’s answers had a nasty habit of spawning infinitely more questions, and Azalea was beginning to fear asking them.

Heidi grabbed a cutesy kettle and made her way to a large clay jug. She peered inside, then gasped.

“But pardon me!” she said. “It seems I’ve forgotten to refill the water pot.”

“Oh, it’s alright,” Azalea said reassuringly. “We don’t need beverages.”

“Nonsense, everybody needs liquids. Bodies are mostly made of water.” And with that delightful comment, Heidi plunged out of the porch, diving eighty feet to the ground below.

Azalea squeaked and reached for her, but she was already gone. She gaped at the empty space where the witch had once been. Had Heidi gone all the way down just to fetch some water? Did she have to do that every time she needed water?

“There has to be a more convenient way to retrieve things,” Azalea said dumbly.

Echo shrugged and leaned in close to examine one of the skulls. “No harm in a bit of exercise.”

“She must climb hundreds of feet every day!”

“And has the muscles to prove it. You should see her biceps.”

“What happens if the hair rope burns up? Or if it’s a rainy day?”

“Oh, I’m sure she’s resourceful enough to figure it out.” He flicked at the skull’s snout with his finger. “Say, is this the ‘Azalea?’ I see the family resemblance.”

Azalea buried her head in her arms. Hopeless. Her entire journey was utterly hopeless.

She was distracted by a soft feeling brushing along her legs. She peeked through her fingers. It was not a bolt of silken fabric that had spontaneously gained sentience, like she expected, but a beautiful black cat with huge eyes and a pink button nose.

“Oh!” Azalea said softly. “She has a cat.” She picked up the cat and rubbed two fingers over its head, between its soft ears. She partially expected it to thrash or claw at her, but it only curled lazily in her lap. Something warmed in her chest.

Echo snorted, eying the cat distrustfully. “Of course she has a cat. What self-respecting witch doesn’t?”

“You shouldn’t call girls witches.”

“It’s just an occupation. I say a baker is a baker, and a witch is a witch.” He squinted at the cat. “Maybe you have latent witch blood. That cat seems to like you.”

“There’s no such thing as witch blood. Everyone is capable of magic. And loving animals.” Azalea scratched under the cat’s chin, and it purred. “I wonder what its name is.”

“Her name is May May,” came Heidi’s voice. She clambered in from the porch, a bucket of water precariously balanced on her head. “Oh! And she’s getting along with you! That’s wonderful. Usually she tries to claw out the eyes of anybody new.”

Azalea recoiled a little bit. May May hissed at her until she returned to patting her head.

“Something about you must feel familiar to her,” Heidi mused. She filled the kettle with water and snapped her fingers. Fire blazed to life under a small wood-fired stove in the corner. “What tea would you like? I’ve all the regulars like jasmine, chamomile, peach, rose hip—oh, and some you’ve probably never tried, like mercurial zest or aurora stardrop.”

It seemed like a waste to take regular tea at a witch’s cottage, so Azalea requested aurora stardrop. Echo asked for bloodhemp and sulfur, which sounded completely inedible. Still, Heidi mixed leaves without complaint, humming cheerily as Echo’s cup began to give off a foul odor.

“Heidi, my dear,” said Echo, “we’ve come to you for a bit of advice.”

“Advice!” said Heidi. “How rare.”

“Yes, well, this small child is headed to the Noadic Range.” He clapped Azalea on the shoulder. She glared at him, and May May hissed. “Any words of wisdom for her that could potentially keep her alive?”

Heidi slowed. For the first time, her lips thinned and her eyes lost their gleam.

“That’s a very dangerous journey,” she said softly. “Are you quite certain?”

Azalea swallowed. Somehow, being told that a location was dangerous by a witch who daily climbed hundreds of feet and made bloodhemp and sulfur tea and decorated with skulls gave her mission more weight. But she couldn’t back down. Not with the Storm looming.

“I have to,” she said firmly. She raised her chin. “Please, Miss Heidi. If you can tell me what you know about the dangers…”

“Oh, I don’t enter the Range,” Heidi said. “I glean what I can from the outskirts, but any further, and it’s simply too easy to get lost. The Range is always changing, you know, much like the Talebloom beyond the Hedge.”

“But you navigate the Hedge all the time for ingredients,” Echo said. “You must have discovered some secret.”

Heidi gasped. “The Talebloom is completely different from the Range! Don’t mention them in the same sentence.”

“But you just—”

“It’s full of life, and color, and delicious things to eat, while the Range is too cold for anything tasty, or the tasty things are too magical to be edible.” Heidi shuddered. “That is the most potent predator of the Range: hunger.”

Echo grinned at Azalea. “Sounds like somebody better get used to butchering intestines.”

“I’m fine with butchering,” Azalea said sullenly. “You’re the one who has to make it look all gross.”

In the corner, the kettle began to sing on its stove. Actually sing. It wisped out an airy little tune like a small flute. Heidi plucked it from the stove and began to pour boiling water into the teacups.

“Other than hunger,” she said, humming thoughtfully, “there are loads of vicious creatures to look out for. Dragons. And ghosts. But mostly dragons, all sorts of them. What would you like in your tea?”

Azalea blinked, unbalanced. She wished Heidi would stick to one topic. “Oh. Um. Uh, what do you have?”

Heidi waved a hand toward her shelves of powders and eyeballs. “All sorts! Pickled luckroot, ground leviathan’s tooth, extract of Sera’s Clover…”

Azalea swallowed. “Do you have…honey?”

“Let me check.” Heidi uncapped a plump clay jar and peered inside. “Oh dear. It looks like I’ve run out. I suppose I’ll have to ask the bees for some more—”

“Wait!” Azalea blurted, as the young witch looked ready to plunge out the door again. “It’s fine! I take my tea plain.”

“Are you quite certain? It’s no trouble.”

It seems like immense trouble! Azalea thought, but she managed to smile disarmingly. “Yes, it’s fine. Thank you.” She eyed her teacup, which seemed to be sparkling, little pinpricks of prismatic light bubbling in the liquid. “You were saying…about dragons?”

Heidi returned to her seat and idly stirred her cup of tea. “The dragons, yes. You see, fighting a dragon is quite different from corruptions. They are noble creatures, wrought with mana themselves, and thus cannot be maddened or corrupted. If anything, the terrible flood of mana from a Storm simply makes them sleepy.”

“Sleepy,” Azalea repeated, disbelieving.

“Oh, yes, like a child who’s suffered too many sweets,” said Heidi will a gleam in her eye. “Nevertheless, the mythical beasts will demand your fear and respect. They are decently large and often endowed with great wings, sharp claws, and impervious scales—but the true threat, like the greater corruptions, lies in their ability to manipulate mana.”

“Manipulate…mana?”

“Breathing fire or water, releasing electricity from their spines, spewing venomous bile, even changing the ground about them. Abilities that you might see from a grand, ah, what is it you city folk say—Class Four or Five.”

Azalea paled and pressed shaking hands around her warm teacup, willing some of the heat to bleed into her bones.

“My,” said Echo. She almost jumped at the sound of his voice right next to her ear. “That sounds absolutely dreadful. I guess we’d better stay away from the Range.”

She shot a glare in his direction and tried a sip of her tea to regain her composure. The taste was sweet and full with a shimmering aftertaste, like dancing lights over snow-capped mountains. Aurora stardrop was a very fitting name.

Rejuvenated, she turned back to Heidi. “Is there any way to pass peaceably? Or even tame the dragons?”

Heidi tapped her cheek. “I don’t think so. Dragons do not answer very kindly to orders.”

“But the Whisperer has found a way with them.”

“Who?”

“You must have met him,” Echo said. “He’s the ominous-looking fellow who lives in the Range. Black mask, red cloak made of dragon scales—”

“Oh!” Heidi said, smiling brightly. “The nice skull seller. Yes, he’s quite lovely.”

“Skull seller?” Azalea said faintly.

“Lovely?” Echo said amusedly.

“Yes, where else would I have gotten all these wonderful skulls?”

Azalea decided not to answer that particular question.

Heidi leaned forward and laced her fingers together. “The Whisperer is more dragonkin than mortal,” Heidi replied. “He was raised by a brood-mother since childhood. Or, well, so he has claimed. I suppose I wouldn’t know any better if he were lying.”

“Oh, yes, people lie all the time about who they are,” Echo observed sagely, sipping at his noxious tea.

“I don’t want to hear that from you,” Azalea said dourly.

“Don’t be too hard on him,” Heidi said sympathetically. “What’s to say the lies are not more truth than the truth, after a certain point?”

“What?”

“Ah, the metaphysical question as old as time,” Echo said with a wise nod. “What makes us ourselves?”

“That’s not—what? Who cares?”

“Why, everybody,” said Heidi, surprised. “It’s the question that drives people to live.”

“You’re not making sense,” Azalea said crossly.

“What is sense,” hummed Echo, stroking his chin, “but collective learned behavior adopted by a culture over several generations?”

“Oh yes,” agreed Heidi. “That’s why I’ve lost all sense. My mother died rather young and I haven’t a grandmother, so there goes my hope of having generations. And having sense.”

Azalea’s head was beginning to hurt. “The, the dragons,” she stammered. Yes, back to the initial topic. That was her best option. “I can’t—I can’t quite tame a dragon, so, um, I’ll need some other way to survive on the Range.”

“Yes, any chance that we could find a more…accessible method?” Echo said, rubbing his chin. “I imagine that friendly dragons are in short supply.”

“Perhaps we could call the skull seller here,” Azalea tried. “I mean, he has to sell skulls somehow…”

“Oh, I’m sorry, but he only comes calling as he so pleases,” Heidi said sympathetically. “He’s very inconsistent, you see. Sometimes he’ll come every day for a week, and other times, he’ll disappear for months on end.”

Azalea slumped a little. She’d expected as much; the idea was simply too convenient to be true.

“What about where he lives?” Echo said. “Has he mentioned his residence at all? A nest, perhaps, or a den?”

Heidi shook her head. “If you must have an immediate audience with the skull seller, I’m afraid that there’s only one way.”

Azalea leaned forward in her chair. Echo raised a brow.

“When you enter the Range, challenge a powerful beast,” Heidi said. “He will seek you out then, hopefully before you perish to the trial.”

Azalea trembled as Echo whistled. “A…beast?” she repeated.

“The seller is drawn to powerful things,” Heidi said. “He feels the insatiable need to challenge them, conquer them, grow from them. If you make a big spectacle, I’m sure he won’t be able to resist. He’ll flock to the sight at once.”

Of course. Was that why the Whisperer had appeared in Northelm—to fight the Class Four basilisk? And why he had attacked Halcyon—to challenge a powerful Hunter? It certainly explained several of the Whisperer’s appearances. Yet Azalea could not shake the feeling that there was something more to the story. Sometimes she wondered if the Whisperer was also following her.

Azalea squared her shoulders. She brushed a protesting May May off her lap and got to her feet. “Then it seems that I have my plan,” she said. “Thank you for your time, Miss Heidi, and your generous knowledge.”

Echo stood quickly. “Hold on, Red. This all sounds lovely and convenient, but let’s take a moment to think it through. You’re going to willingly challenge not just any beast, but a beast on the Noadic Range. This will be the strongest enemy you’ve ever faced in your entire life. Quite possibly as strong as a Class Five. What’s to say you won’t get crushed like a bug in five seconds flat? Or what if the Whisperer never shows up and leaves you to die?”

Azalea met his mismatched gaze. His face was placid and devoid of emotion, but it almost sounded like he was…concerned. It deserved a truthful response.

“When I left Mythaven, I had already come to terms with the fact that I will probably die,” she said quietly. “The important thing now is that I do my best to find the Whisperer.”

“What makes you think he’ll listen to you?” Echo demanded. “No, even if he does listen…what makes you think he’ll stand a chance? He’s one person.”

“He’s one more person,” Azalea corrected. “Which is what we need.” Karis Caelute had been only one person, and without her, all of Grimwall would have perished.

Echo’s eyes scoured Azalea’s hard face and the stubborn set of her jaw. He sighed and slumped back in his chair, shrugging loosely.

“It’s your life, Little Red,” he said. “I won’t tell you how to ruin it.”

Azalea nodded, trying to veil the depth of her nerves. It was impossible for her to conquer a creature that was as powerful as a Class Four; she would simply have to rely on a timely interruption from the Whisperer before she was inevitably roasted into an afternoon morsel.

Suddenly, with her doom close at hand, Azalea found the future rather difficult to face.

“Well, I think it’s very brave,” said Heidi sympathetically. “Would you like some treats to hurry things along?”

“Treats?” said Azalea.

Echo waved an arm. “Ah, yes. I forgot to mention. Meet the vendor of my bait.”

Bait. Bait?

Oh.

Of course Echo would not have synthesized corruption bait himself; he would have purchased it from a contact. And it only made sense that his contact would be a reclusive witch with great familiarity in unstable brews.

Azalea’s shoulders loosened. At least terribly dangerous concoctions were not being cooked up by the average unknowing housewife or ill-meaning thief.

“I thought…I was a little worried, you know, that all sorts of people were making bait,” she said, relieved. “I’m glad that it has to be made by a witch or a sage.”

Echo shook his head. “Little Red, you have an overwhelmingly high opinion of the average civilian’s magical capabilities.” He glanced at Heidi. “I think it’s best to forego the bait. Better for her to pick and choose her target.”

“Thank you, though,” Azalea added quickly, flushing. “You’ve been so very hospitable. And very helpful. Really, it might save my life.”

“Oh, I hardly said anything useful,” Heidi said. “But you’re very welcome. I do hope you survive. I imagine the skull seller would be quite put out to see you die.”

Azalea frowned. “Why’s that?”

“Look at the time!” Echo said promptly, leaping to his feet. “I daresay we’d best get going.”

“Wait,” Azalea said. “What does she mean?”

Echo was hurrying to the door. “I’m sure she would love to say, but you know how it is, occupational secrets, forbidden draughts and brews, world-ending prophesies, things that witches must not share.”

“Ah,” said Heidi after a belated pause. “Yes, I’m very secretive.”

“Lovely seeing you, dear Heidi, and thank you for the pleasurable company. I’ll slip in something extra on our next trade.”

“Think nothing of it,” Heidi said with a wave. “It’s good for me to practice mortal tongues from time to time!”

“Um, thank you, Miss Heidi,” Azalea said quickly, even as Echo was not-so-subtly gripping her shoulders and pushing her out the door. “You’re very nice. And you have a lovely cat. Have a good—good day, night, um, bye!”

The door clicked shut. Silence fell over the porch of the tree-cottage.

Azalea turned to Echo, putting her hands on her hips. “You were very rude.”

“Absolutely,” he agreed. “You should see my bedside manner. It’s atrocious.”

Azalea sighed and jumped down from the porch, landing with a soft swell of her windsoles. It had been plain enough, even to her, that Echo was trying to conceal something from her. But in a way, he was right. There wasn’t much time afforded to her, and in the end, the Whisperer’s secrets did not matter in the face of his sheer power.

“Then onward we go,” she said, turning her steps north. “The Range awaits.”