Chapter 10: Serpentine Branches

Chapter Ten

Serpentine Branches

Autumn was the chameleon season in Sailor’s Rise, or so said Bertrand as the first blanket of snow fell upon the skyward city. Over the course of two short but highly eventful months, the summer roots of early fall had succumbed to the leafless cold of an encroaching winter. And for one poorly traveled seventeen-year-old, it was a marvelous sight to behold.

Indeed, Elias had never seen snow before. Acreton scarcely had seasons, but Sailor’s Rise was a different city in its pearly white gown.

“It’s pretty now,” Bertrand said. “Just wait a few months. Picture a wedding dress after it’s been dragged through three months of mud, and you get the idea.”

“You could just let me enjoy this moment,” Elias said.

“I could,” Bertrand replied.

The two friends were appreciating the view from their backyard when Captain Fairweather—or as Elias had learned to start calling him, Irvin—opened the glass-paned double-doors behind them. He leaned forward without releasing the doors and spoke but a single word. “Dinner.”

They needed no further instruction, and they were getting cold, besides.

Back inside the warm aura of a well-lit house, their oblong dining room table was neatly set just as it was neatly set every evening they sat down for dinner. Irvin had cooked tonight, a responsibility shared between them all. Even Elias had prepared a few dinners, though he knew his simply spiced creations could not live up to the high bar set by this family of passionate chefs, even if they were too polite to say otherwise. If the Fairweathers were deeply religious, the temple in which they worshipped was their expansive kitchen. A perfectly golden piecrust was a sacred artifact. Creamy mashed potatoes could inspire a spiritual awakening.

Each Fairweather had his or her specialty. Bertrand’s, perhaps not surprisingly, was baking. His mother and Irvin’s wife, Mable, was the technical expert. She cooked without recipes and balanced flavors with the ease of a songstress striking the perfect pitch.

As for Irvin, the chef of tonight’s rather foreign-looking meal, Captain Fairweather was the adventurous one. It wasn’t just jewels and textiles the good captain brought home every few months, no—Irvin shuttled back new recipes acquired from all across the Great Continent.

“What’s this one called?” Bertrand settled into his usual seat across from Elias.

“Curry,” his father said.

Elias had never tasted curry.

“It’s a bit spicy,” the captain warned. “That’s apparently how they like it in Azir.”

The meal was separated into two large silver bowls, set on either side of the recently polished brass candelabra that centered every family meal at the Fairweathers. In one dish was a mound of jasmine rice and a serving spoon. In the other was what Elias could only assume was curry. It looked to him like a strange soup of an even stranger color: a glistening orange. The curry was filled with potatoes, chickpeas, carrots, and a mingling of spices that seldom made their way to Acreton—the spices of a distant land.

Elias served himself generous portions.

“Bertrand tells me you had never seen snow before, Elias,” Mable commented. Bertrand’s mother was often the instigator of conversation when quiet settled upon a room, whereas decades of sailing had taught her husband how to find comfort in silence.

“That is the case, ma’am,” Elias confirmed. “Seen lots of sand, though. It’s sort of like snow, if you squint your eyes and pretend you’re cold.”

Behind Bertrand, feathery white snow was collecting on the room’s large bay window, cushioning the bottom edge of each windowpane. The cold air was offset by the radiant heat of a stone hearth—and perhaps the curry. Irvin had fed the fire another log before dinner.

Bertrand, meanwhile, was looking redder than usual, and it wasn’t from the fireplace. “This really is quite spicy,” he said.

Elias took a bite, nearly accused his friend of having a weak palate, and then felt the burning sensation himself. It was as if his tongue had been turned into a weapon, a weapon that was being used against him, a weapon attached to his very body. He reached for more water.

Irvin didn’t say anything as he shoveled another spoonful of curry into his mouth.

Mable exhaled and fanned her face with both hands. She was a petite woman with small fingers and graying hair she kept in a bun. Save for their eyes, she looked nothing like her son, though apparently Sorea took after her mother. Mable attempted to change the subject, turning her attention to Elias once more. “I hear you’ve turned into quite the salesman.”

It was true. Since joining Fairweather Provisions three months ago, Elias had improved his sales acumen and built up his confidence considerably. He knew now how to help customers find what they truly needed. He no longer felt like Briley’s apprentice.

“I’m doing my best,” Elias said.

“Are you sure it’s supposed to be this spicy?” Bertrand asked his father.

“It’s got a bit of kick,” Irvin replied. “Nothing wrong with that.”

“Dad, you’re sweating.”

“I think it’s delicious,” Elias assured the embattled chef. “If I try to taste past the spice, I can tell it’s really quite flavorful.”

Bertrand scoffed. “If you can look past the fire, this flaming marshmallow is a sugary delight.”

Mable attempted to conceal a chuckle, tightening her mouth. Laugh lines gave her away.

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“The recipe wasn’t very specific,” Irvin finally admitted before dropping his spoon, grabbing a cloth napkin, and dabbing a constellation of beads from his forehead.

Ever the optimist, Elias complimented the rice as Bertrand asked, “Dessert?”

* * *

Elias spent the rest of his evening where he spent most evenings, which was in his room. Some nights were for gallivanting around town with Bertrand and Briley. But oftentimes, he preferred the solitary comfort of his notebook and the familiar view out his window, though it was looking a little less familiar tonight. The tree branches that greeted him like an old hand every morning were presently covered in snow. Elias was surprised it could pile so high on such a slender foundation. Sand certainly couldn’t do that.

He had given himself an assignment of sorts tonight, one he had put off since arriving in Sailor’s Rise. But if he didn’t write this letter now, he would miss his opportunity for another season. Captain Fairweather was heading back to Sapphire’s Reach, this time without his son, who had been put in charge of managing the books in his father’s absence (Bertrand’s role at The Fairweather Company was ever-changing, as his father insisted his son master every facet of the business if he wished to one day run it).

All of which is to say that Elias still owed Melo seven relics, and this was his chance to settle that debt. But more than money, he owed Melo—and Ginger—an apology he didn’t know how to write. When he’d read his previous attempts aloud, they had sounded more insulting than remorseful, and so they were destined for the fireplace rather than Acreton.

At this point, Elias simply needed to write something and accept that something was better than nothing. And so, his pen hovering over every word, he eventually wrote:

Dear Melo,

Enclosed with this letter are the seven relics you lent me. I’m sorry I could not pay you back sooner. I wish I’d had time to say goodbye. I wish I’d known how. If you’re ever in Sailor’s Rise, please look me up. I think I owe you a beer as well. I want to explain myself better, but even after these past few months, the words still elude me. Ever since her death, I’ve been searching for something I couldn’t find in Acreton. I’ve taken her surname, in case you’re ever trying to find me. Please tell Ginger I’m sorry too.

Your friend always,

Elias

Elias reread the letter a dozen times. It would have to do. Tomorrow morning, he would hand it over to the captain alongside seven hard-earned relics. There would be no changing the letter then. He wondered if Melo or perhaps Ginger would write back.

Elias now possessed eighty-five relics in total, or seventy-eight after tomorrow, which was far more than he had ever possessed in Acreton. He still wasn’t quite saving half his income, but his winnings from the shooting competition more than made up for that fact. He felt rich, if only he weren’t wise enough to recognize that he was still poor.

Bertrand knocked on his door, opening it at the same time. Evidently, Bertrand considered knocking an announcement, not a request for permission.

“Come in,” Elias told him anyway.

“I don’t suppose you own a white tie suit?” Bertrand inquired.

It was not a question Elias had anticipated. “You’ve seen my entire wardrobe. It fits in a single drawer.”

“Right. Well, no matter. I have an extra one that’s a few years old. Obviously doesn’t fit me anymore. Might need a few adjustments”—Bertrand appeared to be measuring Elias with his eyes—“at the waist… and the shoulders… and some other parts. Mother is a skilled seamstress. She’ll make it fit.”

“What’s this about?” Elias asked.

“The Solstice Eve Ball,” Bertrand informed him.

“That sounds rather fancy.”

“It is rather fancy. It’s a miracle we’re still invited, truth be told, but The Fairweather Company has been around for many years, and they’ve yet to rescind our annual invitation. We have four tickets. In years past, Sorea would have gone, but as she is visiting her husband’s family for the holidays—much to Mother’s dismay—we have one ticket to spare.”

Elias wasn’t opposed to the idea, but he did question it. “Why not ask Briley?”

“Briley doesn’t do fancy balls, or dresses,” Bertrand said.

“Are you sure?” Elias still wasn’t. “I don’t want to impose on Mable.”

“It was her idea, so you’d more likely insult her if you said no.”

The last person Elias wanted to insult was Mable. “All right,” he said. “I’m in.”

Bertrand nodded, a satisfied smirk growing across his face. “She’ll take your measurements tomorrow. The ball is this weekend. It will be an experience, if nothing else.”

“I’ve been having a lot of those lately,” Elias noted.

Bertrand nearly turned to leave, stopping as he gripped the door handle. “Oh, a letter came for you.” He retrieved a small tan envelope, the corner of which had been poking out of his vest pocket. “No return address. Could be dangerous. Maybe hold your breath when you open it.”

Elias received the letter, looking equally confused. “Thanks. I’ll do that.”

This time, Bertrand made his way fully out the door. “Sleep tight, Elias,” he said. “See you in the morning.”

Before sleep would have him, however, Elias would open this curious letter and hopefully find out who exactly had sent it. The list of people who might be motivated to send him a letter was short: Melo, Ginger, Mr. Humbledon, perhaps his old landlord looking for that last month of rent. It was a list that did not overlap with the one of people who knew his current whereabouts.

Maybe the name on the envelope was his first clue. Elias Fisher, it read—not Vice. The immaculate penmanship definitely was not Melo’s. It certainly wasn’t Ginger’s.

The envelope’s silvery wax seal was stamped with what he thought might be a serpent coiled around the sun, or perhaps it was a luminous moon. Maybe it was something else entirely. While he couldn’t be certain what the symbol represented, there was something strangely familiar about it.

With the tip of his index finger, Elias broke the seal and opened the envelope.

Inside was a single sheet of paper, folded into two perfect halves. Elias flattened the letter and read its message as carefully as the one he himself had crafted not an hour ago.

Dear Mr. Fisher,

You do not know me, but I know you. Rather, I know of you. In a distant life, your father and I were very close friends. I noted your recent arrival in Sailor’s Rise, and I could not help but wonder about you. I wondered whether you had experienced things you could not explain. Things that disappear. Things you should not be able to do. There are some questions I can answer and others I cannot. If you ever wish to speak, you need only follow the serpent’s path.

Yours in spirit,

Jalander

Jalander? Elias had never heard that name before, though he shouldn’t have been surprised, assuming this Jalander really was a friend of his father. Elias barely knew his dad, let alone the details of his past life.

What he couldn’t dismiss, however, was the letter itself. This man knew something about him, something no one else knew—not even Elias himself.

Things had disappeared. His sole relic on The Sleeping Sparrow, then again just before the Night Market. There was no doubting that last one. A coin had vanished in the palm of his hand.

Things you should not be able to do, the letter went on. The shooting competition. It was not the fact that he had won—he was an adept marksman, after all—but rather the way in which he’d won. Elias had felt something he couldn’t explain then, an uncanny sense of where the bullet would go just as he pulled the trigger. What’s more, he had seen something truly inexplicable, only to convince himself his mind was playing yet another trick on him, much like those missing relics. A faint green line. It had hovered in the air like a taut string between his barrel and that seventh bottle, as if he could see the path his shot would take.

Elias did indeed have questions. Over and over, he reread the last line of the letter laid out on his writing desk: If you ever wish to speak, you need only follow the serpent’s path. The serpent’s path? It was yet another riddle he couldn’t solve. Was it a metaphorical path, he pondered, or a literal one?

That was one question he would need to answer himself, it would seem, if he wished to learn more from this so-called Jalander. It was a strange name. Stranger still was the letter itself. But strangest of all was what Elias had observed with his own eyes.

He stared out into the night, at the familiar tree beyond his bedroom window, the snow now piled precariously high upon its serpentine branches. Something was happening to him. Elias could feel it, and it was not a feeling he would ignore.