the reach of the war, and the tone of the landscape changed.
Buildings were older and more ornate. Indeed, if there was one
thing to be said about the people and the architecture of Tressor
at a glance, it was that much more time and effort were put into
expression. Clothing was more colorful and vibrant. Buildings were
more than just shelter; they were nuanced and accented, often to an
almost sculptural degree.
And then there were the fields. All of the
Northern Alliance’s greenest land was also closest to the border.
The same shifts in the front that had chased away the cities could
easily wipe out the farms. Therefore they were kept small so that
if one was destroyed, it was not so great a loss. Even those fields
safe from battle tended to be small because any land far enough
from the front to avoid combat was also cold and rocky enough to
need tremendous care to bear any crop at all. For that reason
farmers could only manage small plots. Here the farms and
plantations seemed endless, literally covering the whole of the
landscape in both directions at times. Just one such farm could
probably feed half of Kenvard.
Myranda looked out the window of their coach
at the green expanse, workers still toiling in the fields as the
light faded. They were tending to thorny bushes Myranda had never
seen before.
“Excuse me, Valaamus, but what is this farm
growing?” Myranda asked.
“Ah! This is a rakka plantation. They are
rare so far north. Surely you have heard of rakka?”
“Yes… yes, I think so. Your provisions. The
berry you bake into your bread.”
“Yes indeed. Very hard to grow. Closely kept
secret. Most of our plantations are much farther south, but where
the soil is right, our enterprising farmers are always willing to
give a rakka crop a try.”
“I understand the plants are quite finicky,”
Deacon said. “Surely the climate here would be too volatile for
them.”
“Again, it is the soil that is most
important. If the soil is good enough, it is well worth the effort
to have the slaves dig up saplings down south and bring them here
to bear fruit.”
Myranda looked to the window again, eyes
scanning the workers.
“Slaves…” she said.
“Of course. Rakka requires much work. It
would not be possible to grow it in quantity without slave
labor.”
“We abolished slavery in our kingdom,” she
said.
Valaamus nodded. “A recent decision, I
understand. Bold, in the aftermath of war, to make so sweeping a
change. Surely more strong hands would be preferable, particularly
when rebuilding is necessary.”
“We now believe that freedom takes
precedence,” Myranda said.
“A fine philosophy. I wish you luck in
putting it into practice.”
“We’ve done well enough so far,” Myranda
said.
As evening slid into night, they approached
the place where they would take their meal and sleep. It was a
small, comfortable cabin overlooking a lake and nestled in a dense
forest. The carriage pulled to a stop not far from the cabin, where
a small shrine stood by the lakeside. Myranda and Deacon gazed at
the shrine. It was tall and carved of stone. Like most Tresson
creations it was elaborate without being gaudy, and even without
understanding the symbolism, there was a solemness about it. The
top of the shrine was a carving of a lantern. A flame burned
inside. The rest of the shrine was an obelisk carved with the
likeness of ivy and accented with copper inlays tinged green with
the passage of time. On either side of the shrine, each rising only
as high as the hub of the carriage wheel, was a line of stone
slabs. The sweeping, curling script of the Tresson language formed
the names and ranks of hundreds of Tresson officers in total.
An attendant opened the door to the carriage.
Before Myranda could step out, the thumping of heavy footsteps
caused the attendant at the door to quickly retreat. A moment later
Myn’s head filled the doorway, looking somewhat reproachfully at
the diplomats who had tucked Myranda away
Buildings were older and more ornate. Indeed, if there was one
thing to be said about the people and the architecture of Tressor
at a glance, it was that much more time and effort were put into
expression. Clothing was more colorful and vibrant. Buildings were
more than just shelter; they were nuanced and accented, often to an
almost sculptural degree.
And then there were the fields. All of the
Northern Alliance’s greenest land was also closest to the border.
The same shifts in the front that had chased away the cities could
easily wipe out the farms. Therefore they were kept small so that
if one was destroyed, it was not so great a loss. Even those fields
safe from battle tended to be small because any land far enough
from the front to avoid combat was also cold and rocky enough to
need tremendous care to bear any crop at all. For that reason
farmers could only manage small plots. Here the farms and
plantations seemed endless, literally covering the whole of the
landscape in both directions at times. Just one such farm could
probably feed half of Kenvard.
Myranda looked out the window of their coach
at the green expanse, workers still toiling in the fields as the
light faded. They were tending to thorny bushes Myranda had never
seen before.
“Excuse me, Valaamus, but what is this farm
growing?” Myranda asked.
“Ah! This is a rakka plantation. They are
rare so far north. Surely you have heard of rakka?”
“Yes… yes, I think so. Your provisions. The
berry you bake into your bread.”
“Yes indeed. Very hard to grow. Closely kept
secret. Most of our plantations are much farther south, but where
the soil is right, our enterprising farmers are always willing to
give a rakka crop a try.”
“I understand the plants are quite finicky,”
Deacon said. “Surely the climate here would be too volatile for
them.”
“Again, it is the soil that is most
important. If the soil is good enough, it is well worth the effort
to have the slaves dig up saplings down south and bring them here
to bear fruit.”
Myranda looked to the window again, eyes
scanning the workers.
“Slaves…” she said.
“Of course. Rakka requires much work. It
would not be possible to grow it in quantity without slave
labor.”
“We abolished slavery in our kingdom,” she
said.
Valaamus nodded. “A recent decision, I
understand. Bold, in the aftermath of war, to make so sweeping a
change. Surely more strong hands would be preferable, particularly
when rebuilding is necessary.”
“We now believe that freedom takes
precedence,” Myranda said.
“A fine philosophy. I wish you luck in
putting it into practice.”
“We’ve done well enough so far,” Myranda
said.
As evening slid into night, they approached
the place where they would take their meal and sleep. It was a
small, comfortable cabin overlooking a lake and nestled in a dense
forest. The carriage pulled to a stop not far from the cabin, where
a small shrine stood by the lakeside. Myranda and Deacon gazed at
the shrine. It was tall and carved of stone. Like most Tresson
creations it was elaborate without being gaudy, and even without
understanding the symbolism, there was a solemness about it. The
top of the shrine was a carving of a lantern. A flame burned
inside. The rest of the shrine was an obelisk carved with the
likeness of ivy and accented with copper inlays tinged green with
the passage of time. On either side of the shrine, each rising only
as high as the hub of the carriage wheel, was a line of stone
slabs. The sweeping, curling script of the Tresson language formed
the names and ranks of hundreds of Tresson officers in total.
An attendant opened the door to the carriage.
Before Myranda could step out, the thumping of heavy footsteps
caused the attendant at the door to quickly retreat. A moment later
Myn’s head filled the doorway, looking somewhat reproachfully at
the diplomats who had tucked Myranda away
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