Five: The Power Rising: Chest of Soul Prequel, #1

By Michelle Erickson

In the tatted lace of legend, there were Five Creators: 

The Tree: Ammon of Rozan-Steading 
The Pillar: Jaydren of Stones Fist 
The Keeper: Soline the Water-witch 
The Weaver: Revaya the would-be Queen 
The Blaze: Vael, the Betrayer 

Ammon of Rozan-Steading exists to bring change. 
While serving as a Guard at the Fortress, he met the other four Creators and hopes to free them. 

Jaydren of Stones Fist was forced to kill his family. 
He has plans to escape, but can’t do it alone. 

Soline doesn't remember where she came from. 
When she was three, her world was colored by pain that never ended. Her goal: return to the sea, no matter the cost. 

Revaya was told she would be Queen someday, 
but only after a journey she’d never take by herself. 

Vael was carried to the Fortress by harpies, 
monstrous winged creatures that abduct those with ‘talent'. 
He plans to burn whatever stands in his way. 

These Five are already legends. 
Inside them, their power is rising. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michelle Erickson
• Release date: Jun 9, 2013
• ISBN: 9781536567960

Book preview

For Trish, a great story-teller

***

This book would never have seen the light of day

if not for the brilliant insights and talents of one particular person.

Because of Trishelle,

the Five live, breathe, and have a life between the covers of this series.

It was her idea to incorporate them into the Chest of Souls epic.

She has a lot of great ideas and a lot of talent.  Enjoy.

Book Cover Copyright 2014 Mates Laurentiu

Second Edition

Copyright 2014 Michelle Erickson

All rights reserved.  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without permission in writing from the author.  All characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

ISBN Softcover: 978-1-300-44647-7

Prologue

Chapter 1:  Macshara

Chapter 2:  Home

Chapter 3:  Family Trees

Chapter 4:  Dead Lands

Chapter 5:  Defective

Chapter 6:  Drum

Chapter 7:  Fortress

Chapter 8:  Commander

Chapter 9:  Temis-Belt Maker

Chapter 10:  Tour

Chapter 11:  Introduction

Chapter 12:  Tooth

Chapter 13:  Oasis

Chapter 14:  Hired Help

Chapter 15:  Reunited

Chapter 16:  Cook 

Chapter 17:  Growth

Chapter 18:  Room Service 

Chapter 19:  Bad to the Bone

Chapter 20:  Stupid

Chapter 21:  Spar

Chapter 22:  Buyer

Chapter 23:  Away

Chapter 24:  Timing

Chapter 25:  Fifty-Fifty

Chapter 26:  Murtas

Chapter 27:  Scrubbed and Raw

Chapter 28:  Pickin’

Chapter 29:  Return Party

Chapter 30:  To the Top

Chapter 31:  Little Tappers

Chapter 32:  For and Against

Chapter 33:  Tellings

Chapter 34:  Temper

Chapter 35:  Stick

Chapter 36:  Spiran, Pagi, and Wahka

Chapter 37:  Whipped

Chapter 38:  Jaydren

Chapter 39:  Intervention

Chapter 40:  Binding

Chapter 41:  Plague

Chapter 42: Water Witch

Chapter 43:  Plans

Chapter 44:  Escape

Chapter 45:  On Board

Prologue

The hair on the back of Sera’s neck rose in warning. 

Her yellow eyes scanned the seemingly-empty sewing room, but her senses told her she was not alone. Only one person walked unseen on Rozan-Steading.

Now aware, she could hear the slow shuffle of old feet, labored breathing, and the smell of evergreen.  The sum of these traits equaled the full-blooded Mala, Quin. 

She indicated the chair across from hers, telling him, Rest yourself.

Quin was beyond the meaning of the word ancient.  He was old enough to have been among those cursed before the land was ripped apart by powerful Macshara.  Old enough that he would not have made the effort to come here unless it was essential. 

What brings you here? she took up her sewing from the basket at her feet, not bothering to look his direction because there was nothing to see.

I had a vision. Quin’s voice trembled with age, raspy and dry.

Her fingers trembled, but not as much as her heart.  Quin’s visions were never wrong. 

It was about your son.

Which one? her voice was tight with anxiety as her heart brought the beloved faces of six sons to the forefront of her worries.

Your heart already knows.

His tone offered sympathy, but did not change the facts.

In my vision, he straddled a large body of water, with a foot in Shara and the other in the free land.  As I watched, each land changed beneath his feet.

She was bewildered. What does it mean?

There was a knock at the door and her oldest son, Ammon, entered and looked around.  Who are you talking to?

Do you see anyone? she countered.

No, he admitted, but his eyes went straight to the chair.

Son, aren’t you supposed to help with the milking?

I was, but Axel’s finger’s bleeding.

How did that happen? she braced herself for the worst.

I dared him to put it in the separator.

She pushed aside the dare; Ammon was always daring the other children to do things.  They should know better.  Still, the injury didn’t make sense.  It shouldn’t have done that! she objected.

That’s what Antel said when he came in the barn and I told him what Axel did, Ammon smiled.  So he did it and it cut his finger too.  Then Pa came in looking for Antel and didn’t believe us when we told him, so he put his finger in the separator and it got cut.  He sent me to come get you.  He’s waiting in the kitchen.

That didn’t sound like her husband, who always took care of minor injuries.  He wants me to fix his finger?

He looked at the chair again and then her.  No.  It’s just that...

He was guilty of something more than a dare.  Her husband had sent Ammon and that meant serious trouble.

Pa doesn’t know what to do about Abbi.

What’s the matter with your sister? she put down her sewing.

Ammon’s face grew red, never a good sign.  He ducked his head and mumbled, Remember what I do to animals sometimes?  He hastily added, Even when I don’t mean to?

She closed her eyes, knowing it was going to be bad.

Well, I stuck a coon tail on the back of Abbi’s head.

She bit her lip to keep from saying things her son should not hear coming from her mouth.  She managed to control her surge of anger and calmly said, Run and tell your father I’m coming.

Ammon ran from the room.  Sera slumped back into her chair, asking Quin, "How could it possibly be Ammon?  He causes ten times the trouble the other children do!"

Accept him for who and what he is, Sera.  He has the gift of the Mala, and you’re the only one left that can teach him how to use it.

Quin! she released her exasperation in that one word.  "Perhaps you didn’t hear what I did!  Ammon used his gift to put a coon tail on the back of his sister’s head!"

Look at it this way, Quin’s voice was full of amusement.  Ammon exists to bring change.  He’s just beginning with his sister.

Chapter 1:  Macshara

A woman screamed.

Ammon looked up from the twice-burnt ground of Rozan Steading and scowled as his mind registered facts.

The screamer was running toward the pea field.  She was a teenager, her body thin rather than slender.  Her boy-short brown hair was standing up in odd lengths all over her head.  Around her neck was a strip of narrow leather - a Temis-Belt. 

It was all he needed to determine she was a Macshara; one of the ‘gifted’ – an innocent-sounding description for a living weapon of war.

His dark mood broiled beneath the likelihood another belted Mac would be nearby.  There was only one reason for a Mac to be alone on the dead lands.  Her Trainer was dead and she was being hunted, captured, and returned to the Fortress – or killed.

In the distance, two more figures appeared.  One, Ryman, he recognized.  Ryman’s presence meant the one with him had to be a Macshara.  Ryman was so hated by those at Rozan-Steading he didn’t dare leave his father’s lands without a Mac. 

Ammon’s first priority was that of all landsmen: prevent fighting Macs from killing more of the land.  He furiously ran toward the girl, vowing he would not allow feuding Macs to destroy centuries of hard work.

Things rearranged themselves in his mind as he witnessed the Mac at Ryman’s side begin hurling fire balls at the running girl.  Ryman was pointing and shouting directions. 

To her credit, the terrified girl didn’t pause in her flight, just veered to the right and left to avoid getting hit.

As her bare feet hit the edge of the field, Ammon slowed his pace.

I’ll get her, Ammon, called the farmer that had been working the edge of the reclaimed ground.  He urged the girl on, opening his arms in welcome, walking toward her, casting a smug look at the now-infuriated Ryman.

The law strictly forbade owners of Macshara to duel on farming ground.  Eons ago, free-range Mac-battles had caused severe famine that decimated three quarters of the population.  If it had not been for Rozan-Steading, the remaining fourth would have starved.  Thankfully, Steadings were thereafter placed under official protection. 

Now the screaming Mac was on protected ground, it meant the girl was safe and could stop running.  Here, she was subject to Steading laws, not fighting laws. 

Like the farmer that was still walking toward the running girl, Ammon had always envisioned the farm community having a Mac of their own.  If this girl could manipulate earth, air, or water, she could help make the ground fertile faster and they could reclaim more.  The more they claimed, the less ground the Macs owners would have to fight over and the wars would end.  That was his family’s goal:  peace and enough food for all.  His heart swelled with hope at the thought of how much this Mac might mean to them.

A large fireball erupted from Ryman’s Fire-Mac.  There was no stopping it as it burned its way to the girl.  Ammon charged forward, already knowing it was too late, but still yelling, "NO!"

The blast caught her body in midair as she jumped from a small rolling rise in the ground.  Ammon covered his face to protect it from blistering, still able to hear the air sizzle and feel the heat.

He brought his arms down in time to witness her morph into misty rain, a look of fear frozen on mist-etched features froze in his mind and then replayed.  He would never forget her face, whoever she was. 

Farmer Dunn, who had been a foot away from the girl, had been caught in tail of the fire ball.  Several other farmers ran to his aide, but Ammon already knew the outcome.  Fire from a Mac wasn’t the same as a fire you built.  It burned hotter and went deeper.  He was already dead. 

The rainy mist the girl became hung in the air and gently broke apart, falling lightly to the ground, keeping custody of her outline as her mist settled on the dying plants. 

Ammon had never witnessed the death of Macs up close before, but knew they became their element at death.  He was fascinated and horrified, but more than anything else, he was angry; fist-punching, head-banging, rib-breaking angry.

Water-Macs were the rarest of Macshara.  Of all the elements, water would have been the most helpful in a land made barren by being ripped, torn, blown, and burned in Mac wars. 

Because of Ryman, the scrawny waste of flesh, she was dead.  Ammon took off at a run, closing the distance between them.  He wanted justice. 

From the corner of his eye, he watched his father purposefully striding toward Ryman, the long planes of his face hard.  His jaw was clenched and Ammon knew his father had witnessed the death of the Water-Mac.  He looked as if he were going to hit the baby-faced criminal. 

It wouldn’t be necessary, not if Ammon reached Ryman first.  He felt it fortunate that he had longer legs than his father and he was closer.  He might get in two, maybe three good punches, before his father stopped him. 

Not only was the law broken, a good farmer and better man than Ryman was dead, a Water-Mac destroyed, and the ground beneath Ammon’s feet was now covered with wilted, dead, or scorched pea plants. 

Except...he recalled the soil where the Water-Mac’s steam had touched it and knew plants that should have withered were still living and, unless he was mistaken, already growing.  He glanced back to be sure.

There was no mistake.  The new growth amidst the devastation was evidence what a Water-Mac could mean in reviving the dead land. 

Ammon’s fury blossomed to rage as his long legs covered the remaining ground.  The Mac-owners never understood the time and effort it took farmers to resurrect land or how much landsmen, such as his father, had to pay farmers to plant and replant, fertilize and harvest. 

Ammon was crossing land that had taken centuries to bring to the point they could plant peas and only peas.  This ground had never provided anything for harvest for two hundred years.  Instead of gathering the peas for food, the farmers plowed them under to provide humus for the soil, feeding it, restoring life.  This had been the first year the field had been able to accept a new variety of peas, which, until the Fire-Mac blasted it, had been thriving.

You bloody-ash loving...! Ammon bit off the rest and ignored his father’s voice ordering him to stop.  He wasn’t in the mood to obey and his father didn’t sound that serious about stopping him.  He probably wanted Ammon to hit the offender.

Ryman hadn’t heard Ammon.  He was busy complimenting his Macshara on a job well done.  The Mac’s eyes flickered upward to Ammon and widened.  With one fist, Ammon punched Ryman in the face, but not as hard as he wanted to.  Ryman hit the dirt and didn’t move.  He pulled up the Mac’s arrogant master by his fancy shirt front and hurled Ryman toward the ruined pea crop. 

It wasn’t enough. 

He stalked toward Ryman, noting the Fire-Mac fighting a smile.  He hadn’t known they even knew how to smile.  He found he wanted to hit the ferret-faced Mac, but that would be like beating a horse for carrying a stupid master.  Ten out of ten times, he’d choose to beat the master.

"Ammon, stop!" his father’s voice ordered again as Ammon’s large booted foot lifted Ryman – somewhere near the ribs – and sent him flying over more of the crunchy pea plants.  They disintegrated as Ryman skidded over the ground.  He came to rest next to the dark boots of the gathered farmers that had been tending the pea field.

His father passed by the moaning Ryman and put himself in Ammon’s path, his large rough hands pressed against Ammon’s chest and he scowled, looking at Ammon with a warning in his eyes.  Ammon slowly unknotted his fists, becoming aware that half the village council was watching. 

He took a deep regretful breath and tried to believe their presence was a good thing.  He couldn’t take personal satisfaction by pounding Ryman into the ground with the Council present.  On the other hand, Ryman couldn’t order his Macshara to roast Ammon. Maybe.  Such things had happened before, though the farmers had no proof that the missing people had been burned, drowned, buried, or blown away on purpose.

Ryman, explain, his father demanded as he stood between Ammon and Ryman who was currently holding his ribs and gritting his teeth.  Ammon smirked as the swelling around Ryman’s left eye made it impossible for Ryman to open it.

Renegade (pant, pant) Macshara, the liar wheezed, struggling to get to his feet.

Ammon opened his mouth to object, but caught his father’s quick shake of head and, with great difficulty, clamped it shut.  His father had millennia’s-worth of experience dealing with the wealthy fighting class.  Ammon wished he could bang the rich boy’s head against a rock – the only substance denser than the man’s pride.  He knew he wasn’t alone in thinking that Ryman would serve a higher purpose as compost.

You broke the farm-land law, Ryman, Ammon’s father said smoothly, though his dark eyes blazed.  Every farmer present knew that after Macs fought over ground, it became as hard as harpy skin and barren ten feet down. 

The law is clear, his father continued in what Ammon considered an extraordinarily calm voice, You have violated the trust.  His father’s voice then became hard and cold as steel, Therefore, we are within our rights to claim one thousand acres from your father’s holding for reclamation; five hundred for breaking the law, five hundred for the damages to reclaimed ground.  Do you agree to meet these terms?

Ryman brushed off the back-side of his pants and shook his head, his lips thinned to one cold line.

Ammon, escort Ryman to his father to be hung, Ammon’s father quietly said, folding his arms across his broad chest.

Behind him, the Council was doing the same.  All of them looked as if they ate nails for breakfast. Ammon felt a surge of pride for the men he normally made fun of and took a step forward, hoping Ryman wouldn’t realize he’d never reach his father alive.

I - I wish to make a trade, Ryman managed to stammer, looking alarmed as the word hung finally penetrated his thick skull. 

With scorn in his voice, Ammon’s father asked, What could you possibly offer us other than land?

Ammon glanced at his father, the Master of Rozan-Steading, wondering at his question.  His father could not be bought, so bribing him would never work.  From the time Ammon was old enough to be taught, he had always understood the motto every landsman and farmer lived by:  Nothing was more important than land and the reclaiming of it.  That creed was what guided every person’s actions that lived on Rozan-Steading. 

Perhaps his father’s question was simply to make Ryman think.  Ammon found this idea laughable.  If Ryman could think, none of this would have happened.  Ammon’s family had been nibbling at the edges of Ryman’s family holding for time immemorial.  It was a good thing that, as a whole, Ryman’s family line was populated by stupid self-inflated men with hot tempers.  It had resulted in making Ammon’s family one of the most land-wealthy in the world.

Ryman’s eyes took on a calculating sheen, My father told me there’s a position open at the Fortress.

Ammon stiffened.  The Fortress.  It was a guileless name for the thick stone-slab prison on the far western shores of Shara.  Macs were trained there.  The only open position would be that of a Guard.  Their work was dangerous, but they were well-paid for as long as they survived.  Most, according to what Ammon gleaned over the centuries, became Trainers of Macshara.  He inwardly shuddered at the thought.

Ryman’s un-bruised eye shifted upward and Ammon glared down at him as Ryman defiantly sneered, Your son could find a place to use his muscles.

Why would a position at the Fortress interest us?  We’re farmers, his father returned. 

Ryman’s pig-eyes narrowed, Aaron, my father will never agree to give you more acres.

This was undoubtedly true.  Ammon overheard Ryman’s father tell him that if he lost another acre, he would be disowned.

He should have thought about that before leaving a Fire-Mac with you, Ammon jeered.

Ryman’s un-swollen eye darted away and the Fire-Mac shifted uneasily, shooting a hate-filled glance at Ryman.  It was evidence Ryman hadn’t been given permission.  The Mac would probably feel the brunt of Ryman’s displeasure once they were out of sight, not that Ammon cared what a Fire-Mac felt.

Ammon’s father turned his back on Ryman and used his hands to speak in signals to the group of farmers who, one by one, gave small nods.  He was silently asking the members of the Council permission to take action. 

When this was done, his father took a deep breath and said, I suggest a compromise, he paused and Ammon stared at him, his gut warning that something unpleasant was coming.  His father’s face was not as calm as it should be and two fingers on his right hand were twitching – an ominous sign.  His voice was clear as he said, My son, Ammon, will take the position at the Fortress.

With a sinking heart, Ammon gawked at his father, too shocked to care what Ryman thought. 

Yes! Ryman eagerly agreed, looking pleased that Ammon was flummoxed. The Guards are the best fighters in the world; everyone knows they only want the strongest men to control the Macshara.

The Mac paled, hung his head, and winced.  Ammon had no time to wonder why.  His father was serious about sending him to the Fortress.  That meant he would be leaving Rozan-Steading to become a Guard at the Fortress – all because of Ryman’s idiocy.  He glared at the offensive cluck-hearted coward.

"In front of these eight witnesses, you agree that Ammon will receive the training and the position?"

Yes. 

His father tipped his head to one side and Ammon nearly smiled, he’d seen this particular stance a million times.  His father was going to turn the agreement into something that would benefit Rozan-Steading.  Maybe he wouldn’t have to go.

We accept the offer on one condition.

Anything, Ryman promised, a trickle of sweat betraying his inner turmoil.

"Ammon will be paid in land, not minerals or political favors."

Now Ammon knew why his father was doing what he was doing.  As for himself, gaining more land was worth the price of leaving Rozan-Steading. 

Ryman’s face went white.  I don’t have the authority to authorize that!

His father pointedly used his boot to nudge the blackened pea plants.  I suggest you find a way.

Knowing Ryman as well as he did, Ammon discreetly moved within striking distance of the Mac, who took a step back and looked at his master – a silent plea for help.

His father’s eyes locked on Ryman, Otherwise, we’ll send our Council to the city to post your violation of the treaty protecting all farmland from Macshara.

The threat was real.  The least damage this action would accomplish would be Ryman’s family would be stripped of their holding; not just land, but all buildings and wealth.  The most severe penalty would be all of that plus the family would become the servants of the offended. 

In this case, that would be more of a punishment for those served rather than those forced into servitude.  Ammon would stay at the Fortress forever to keep Ryman’s family from ever setting foot on Rozan-Steading.

Now they had reached the point for a decision, Ryman darted a look at his Mac and was surprised to see Ammon there, standing behind the Mac.  He gave Ryman an unfriendly smirk and put his heavy hands on the Fire-Mac’s shoulders.  Ammon felt a swell of pride as his father gave him a nod of approval for effectively neutralizing Ryman’s one source of power and possible salvation from shame and disinheritance. 

Ammon’s father coldly smiled, The penalty for breaking that law is all your father owns becomes ours.

Ryman swallowed hard, looking as if he’d be sick.

"You have a choice.  Sign over your personal land or death."

Ryman, the idiot, looked astonished, Who told you about my land?

Ammon was sure every farmer wanted to smack him.  He wished, more than ever, that he could.  It was a stupid question.  All land, when transferred, was noted in red on the community map.

His father’s warning voice interrupted Ammon’s fantasy of ‘accidentally’ breaking Ryman’s neck as he told the criminal, "Your personal thousand acres and the position for my son, or death."

Ryman’s voice broke as he sniveled, What choice do I have?

Ammon felt an unwanted spark of empathy because Ryman was being given the same choice as Ammon in the matter:  none.

Chapter 2:  Home

You three will escort Ryman, his father motioned to the most intelligent and respected farmers in the Council.  Be sure to get the agreement in writing and file a notice with the tribunal of our agreement.  Ammon will need the letter of recommendation from Ryman’s father for the position at the Fortress.  He emphasized, "The letter must be signed and sealed before three witnesses.  If Bas is as reluctant as his son, show him the notices I’ll prepare for you to post and educate him about what happened today.

Ammon, call Fen.  You three, gather what you need for the trip.  The rest of you, please return Dunn’s ashes to his family and help arrange the burial.

As the three farmers left to prepare for the trip, Ammon stripped off his shirt and handed to one of the farmers who respectfully gathered the ashes into the shirt and carried it from the field.

Ammon gave a sharp whistle, though, for him, it wasn’t necessary.  Fen was the family woof.  She was magnificent and had won many prizes at the Sharian fair for size, intelligence, and obedience.  She was the largest female woof on the Steading and often herded the moos and baas to and from different pastures without needing anyone to tell her to do it. 

Within moments, Fen appeared, gracefully racing over the ground toward them, her tongue hanging out of her mouth as if she were laughing.  When she arrived, she sat at Ammon’s feet, tail wagging.  He scratched behind her ears and she licked his wrist, her large pale eyes focused on him with love.

His father spoke to her, Fen.

She instantly stood, looked at him, her ears pricked forward and her large head tipped. 

Watch him, he pointed at Ryman.  If he tries to escape, kill him.

Ryman fearfully backed away as Fen growled.  Her growl had always been impressive, but this time, it rumbled so deep and long, Ammon sensed she wanted to rip him apart now. 

Normally, Fen’s emotions covered Ammon with puppy-like adoration.  Now they were feral.  Her ears were laid back, her fangs were exposed and the growl became thunderous.

Ammon’s father looked at Ryman and warned, There are no laws concerning woofs.  Your life is in your own hands at the moment.

Ryman swallowed hard, staring at the enormous canine.

Fen, when the other men get here, come back home, Ammon told her. 

In resentful silence, Ammon followed his father to their ancestral home, feeling the grit of duty rub him raw.  He loved the Steading, with its abundance of life and rich soil.  Being told to go to the Fortress felt like a prison sentence and he had done nothing wrong; maybe there was a way out of it.  He felt the lie for what it was and fought against the despair that loomed on the horizon.

Fen seems angrier than normal, why? his father asked, once they were out of hearing range.

She’s always that way when she’s going to have pups, Ammon shrugged, his eyes lifting to the giant sacred trees ahead of them, loving the deep rich green of their leaves, needles, and brown nut-filled cones. 

The side of his father’s mouth lifted, At least her pups are good news.  We can promise Dunn’s widow the pick of the litter. It will hardly compensate for the loss of her husband, but knowing Dunn’s wife, she’ll know the value of the woofs.  She’ll sell.

This didn’t make Ammon feel better.  He’d planned on choosing one or more of the pups for himself.

How many will she have this time? his father asked.

Twelve.  It will be her last litter, he said, feeling a sense of loss. 

His father’s brow creased, a sign he also felt the upcoming loss of Fen.  He felt a rush of affection toward his father.

Don’t worry, son, Dunn’s widow will offer to sell first to someone on Rozan-Steading, as our law states.

He hadn’t been worried about that.  If no one wanted to barter for the pup, a slim possibility, she would be free to sell it at the fair.  In all of Rozan-Steading history, not one woof had ever been sold at the fair.  There was always someone on the Steading that would barter for a pup, they were that desirable.  One of prize-winning Fen’s pups would be especially valuable.

No, the sadness came from the knowledge that he might not see Fen again.  She was the daughter of his mother’s woof, Deja, born within hours of his mother’s death.  Deja had brought her pup to Ammon and dropped it on his lap.  Ammon had held the gift, burying his face in Fen’s black fur to hide his tears.  He had always planned on keeping one of Fen’s pups and naming it Deja, but had never gotten around to it.  Fen had been enough.

Their family home rambled over most of seven acres.  According to the histories Ammon read, it had been grown by his father’s side of the family.  The name of the man that had started growing the magnificent structure was Newt, and they had all benefited from his insight.

Most of the homes in the area were not as well-grown, nor were any as old.  He paused at the bottom of the stairs.  The ancient wood recognized his touch and gave him a solemn welcome.  Until he had been six years old, he had not understood that he was the only member of the family to actually feel as if an invisible blanket of leaves rested over him whenever he returned after being away for more than a day. 

Their home was one of the few that allowed his family to not duck sideways to enter any room.

The front of the house had, at one time, been a tree as large as the one that their family names had been grown on.  A hundred feet across, three times that tall, his ultimate grandfather had been able to coax the tree to bend itself to his ideas for the home, leaving spaces that eventually became hallways reaching to yet other family homes.  The rough bark was missing from both inside and outside walls until you reached the roof.  There, the bark was thick and offered the ultimate natural protection against the elements.  Thick wooden pillars covered with ornamental designs were staggered throughout the structure.  They’d been there longer than Ammon had been alive. 

His father’s ability with wood had been used to polish the entire indoor structure to a soft glow, to repair any and all cracks, and to teach Ammon to do the same. 

If anyone needed a piece of furniture replaced, Ammon could knock on wood and tell the tree what he wanted it to be and it became what he envisioned.  The extra wood was used for fire, mulch, and to make toys.  Nothing was wasted. 

With a heavy heart, he followed his father up the broad staircase, enjoying the feel of smooth wood, sensing its enjoyment about his gratitude.  Once inside the family home, the details of the structure were swallowed by the scent of fresh-baked pie.  His mouth watered and it made his heart ache in protest for what he would be missing when he left.  His sisters annoyed him in many ways, such as their habit of moving baked goods out of his reach (not an easy task) and scolding him for stealing one (or several) pies at a time, but he gave his approval to their cooking.  It was the best on the Steading. 

His father led him into the well-stocked larder.  Once inside the vast room that fed their large and ever-growing family, his father closed the door and leaned against it, looking up at him with concern, I’m sorry this falls to you, son. 

The rough hands scrubbed over the familiar face as the dark-as-midnight eyes focused. You know the danger, Ammon.  They’ve been looking for someone like you longer than we’ve been landsmen.

Ammon realized his father was talking about more than Ammon’s muscle mass and the inherent danger of the Fortress itself.  He was talking about Ammon’s talents.  To those that knew Macshara, his abilities with wood and most especially, with animals, were only legends of legends.  His father didn’t know about the deeper secret, the one he shared with only his mother.  He refused to feel guilty.  His mother had warned him to never tell his father and when he got married, to only share it with his wife if he trusted her with his very soul.

We managed to keep your mother’s gift a secret, but she remained on this Steading her entire life.  His father’s face grappled for a moment with the continued pain of loss.  Finally, he took a deep breath and continued, his words a mere whisper, Those in the Fortress have no idea the symbols on the trees of life are more than decoration.

The trees of life, the most sacred duty his family had on the Steading, all had markings near the names grown on the trunk.  Each symbol denoted talent.

This – his talent, the trees, the fact he was the strongest – was all understood.  What wasn’t clear to Ammon was why he had to go.  His siblings were all smarter.  It was a well-known family fact that he got so caught up in the moment, he didn’t think things through. 

He had to ask, "Why do you want me to do this?"  He knew the tone of his voice would tell his father he felt unqualified, discouraged.

His father braced his hands on some of the shelving.  You’re the only one that can.

Send Aiden, he can think circles around me!

Aiden’s too young.  He’s in the clumsy stage right now.

True.  Aiden had fallen up the stairs the other day and after saving himself by grabbing the edge of a large knot on the wall, the knot closed over his fingers because he told it to ‘Hold!’  He could see his father was thinking the same thing because there was a ghost of a smile playing at the corner of his father’s mouth.

Axel’s old enough, Ammon countered. 

But he doesn’t know how to handle himself in a fight.

The memory of Axel cowering under the sink when Ada, their youngest sister, lost her temper was funny enough to almost make Ammon chuckle.

His father confirmed, Axel does better at running than fighting.

He couldn’t disagree.  Axel was fast.  He’d become fast enough to outrun Ammon because Ammon gave him lots of incentive.

"You are my choice, Ammon."

He didn’t want to be.

"You are the strongest of my sons."

This was true.

We don’t know what dangers might be inside those walls.

Also true.

Over my lifetime, no landsman or farmer has ever been able to get inside and find out how to end the insanity. 

The look in his father’s eyes made him summon his bravado and he managed to say, Until now.

His father turned away and Ammon had the feeling he was fighting some inner battle.  It certainly couldn’t be emotion.  His father never wept.  Not since his wife had died.

We know little about the Fortress and less about the Guards.

All Ammon knew about the Guards at the Fortress was from second or third-hand tellings at the fair.  Training of some sort was involved and there were rules.  Ammon wasn’t big on rules. 

In the shadows of the pantry, his father’s face was as somber as Ammon had ever seen it since his mother died.  He clenched his jaw and put his hand on Ammon’s shoulder, looking deeply into Ammon’s eyes, If they ever see what you are capable of, they’ll put a Temis-Belt on you and bring you, and every Mac they have, back to Rozan-Steading to destroy everything we’ve recovered. They’ll make you watch as they kill every one of us and burn the family trees to ash. 

Then they’ll never know, Ammon assured his father.

*

The two Macshara faced each other on the training field of the Fortress.

The man had a thick head of dark hair, was taller than average, and aristocratic in his bearing.  He was known as Jaydren, the most powerful Earth-Mac to be captured and held at the Fortress.  He had been a prisoner since he was sixteen, four millennia ago.  He had been bonded to his newest Trainer that morning, an arrogant fool unable to think more intelligently than the dead ground they stood on. 

The woman had equally dark hair, was almost as tall, and had an icy demeanor.  For the past five millennia, Soline was the most powerful Water-Mac ever witnessed.  She stood like a statue at the other end of the field, her Trainer, a chubby man who had bonded her a week previous, begged her to quickly kill the Earth-Mac because he was too powerful.  She glared at him and he went silent.  She was more aware of the Earth-Macs potential than her Trainer ever could be and on more levels than the simpleton could ever understand or be taught.

The Trainers stood at their Mac’s side, supposedly to control them or order them what to do – as if they could not see it for themselves.

Today was different in that the current Commander of the Fortress was also on the field. 

Today was the same, because this situation had happened several times over the many millennia they had been kept at the Fortress.

Jaydren gave a mocking bow Soline’s direction, and she stiffly curtsied.  It had been thus since their first match, the day they decided to ally themselves. 

They stared at each other for a long moment, letting those near them fill with apprehension.  Jaydren slowly raised his arms and she looked at him with cool disdain, tilting her chin upward, as if daring him.

The tense situation ended when Jaydren dropped his hands. 

His Trainer and the Commander were transformed into brick, just as his previous Trainer’s as well as several Commanders had been. 

Within an hour, the current Captain would fill the post of the soon-to-be dead Commander.  Soline looked at the ground at the pile of salt her Trainer became and scattered it with her foot. 

Jaydren picked up the bricks and looked into the two-dimensional sets of eyes of the startled Trainer and Commander.  Both were too shocked to make any noise beyond gasping.  He took the bricks to the edge of the cliff and threw them as far as he could out into the ocean, to join the hundreds of others who’d met a similar fate.  Those encased inside the brick remembered to scream far too late. 

Determined to stay outside as long as possible, he crossed to the wall of the Fortress and sat next to the rock that covered the hole he had uncovered long ago.  He moved the rock and stuck his hand into the hole, resting his fingers on the surface of the building. 

He concentrated, throwing his mind down below the basement, to the large slab of Paynach stone.  He manipulated his element to widen the fissure.  He wouldn’t have long to force it open, if the moment came.  When his now-brick Trainer drowned, the Temis-Belt on his neck would tighten and he would have to retire to his cell.

Soline sat next to him, manipulating the water that ran beneath the Fortress.  She’d brought it to where the