Chapter 11 — The Field Between the Suns

The kingdom of Ashvale was a wound that never quite closed.Once it fed half of Aurelian with barley that rippled gold each summer; then came the plague, the conscripts, and the tax fires. By the time the eclipse‑war ended, its earth had hardened to gray crust, and the only things that grew were stone crosses marking forgotten farmsteads.

That was where Ravan and I arrived at dawn, escorted by a company of Tenebris seed‑wardens and thirty orphan children who had volunteered to carry watering cans. The air stank faintly of decay, but the horizon stretched unbroken, as if begging for second chances.

"Neutral ley‑lines," the Blind Archivist had promised, consulting dusty atlases. "Far from palace veins, far from Custodian scars. Soil remembers grief, yes, but grief loosens when roots push through."

I wasn't certain whether he meant soil or souls.

The Journey

Our convoy crossed realms through Veil Gate at the canyon's edge, stepping from Nightspire's violet dawn into Ashvale's anemic sky. Vael circled overhead, scouting for bandits too desperate to honor treaties. He reported only ravens—ordinary sort, not silver‑sand spies.

Wagons rattled. In the lead wagon sat the mirror seed in a crystal reliquary, glowing like captive moonlight. Next to it, sealed iron box held the root‑iron fragment for study; two ward‑smiths watched it with nervous concentration.

Behind us rolled barrels of soil from Nightspire's upper terraces—black loam infused with small pulses of twin‑light. Calia had insisted we bring it; "A bit of home for the seeds," she said, patting barrel lids as if comforting pets.

Ravan rode beside me on sable stallion conjured from living shadow—its mane danced like solar flares. I steered a mortal dun mare, resolutely flesh and blood. The contrast amused onlookers—demon emperor astride nightmare, soul‑witch queen on farm horse. Symbolic, I decided: power married to grounding.

He caught my glance. "Nervous?"

"I've never planted a garden under two suns," I admitted. The second sunrise—Afterlight—followed us even here, faint pastel streak chasing real dawn.

He smiled, soft. "Then we'll write the horticultural manuals."

Marking the Field

At mid‑morning we reached the heart of Ashvale: a shallow basin ringed by charred barley stalks. Children spread, staking ribbon boundaries shaped like eight‑point star loops—Archivist's design to honor Custodians. For each stake hammered, they shouted the name of old hero or new dream; their voices echoed between ruined granaries, chasing crows.

I knelt, plunged hand into soil. Dust crumbled around fingers; thirsty but not dead. I murmured a small coaxing charm—ancestral language that tasted of warm bread. Faint pulse answered, as if land recognized care. Good.

Seed‑wardens unloaded moon‑grass rhizomes carefully sealed in clay tubes. These were siblings of the terrace plants—taken before corruption, kept sleeping in frost chamber. They glimmered faint jade.

Beside rhizomes, the mirror seed sat in reliquary, its prismatic facets spinning lazy rainbows.

"Place it at center," Archivist instructed, voice wind‑thin. "Root‑iron grows outward if memory safe in heart."

Memory. The price still tugged, hollow inside me. I pictured children's smiles I could no longer quite conjure—imagined those smiles transmuted into resilience for field. If void needed filling, let it fill with hope for them.

I lifted reliquary; glass warm. Ravan touched my elbow, steadying. Together we nestled seed into small earthen hollow, covered it with Nightspire loam.

A hush settled. Clouds parted. Afterlight's second blush spilled, bathing basin in gentle rose‑gold. The seed answered—beam of dawn‑color shot skyward, dissolving to motes that drifted down like birthday confetti. Children squealed, trying to catch them.

Roots sprouted, delicate crystal threads weaving through soil. Where they passed, ash flaked off, revealing brown earth beneath. A path of living glass drew shape like dew‑lined spiderweb.

Ravan exhaled. "It begins."

The First Planting

We broke into teams. Children dug furrows. Ward‑smiths sprinkled salt‑chalk runes for pest warding. Vael soared, releasing small packets of pollinator spores—tiny ember‑fireflies bred in Nightspire apiary.

I demonstrated planting: press rhizome, whisper encouragement, cover gently. Orphans mimicked, some adding songs—verses about barleysword knights and lava dragons. Songs didn't match meter, but soil seemed to relish.

Hours passed. Sun climbed; Afterlight faded into ordinary blue. Sweat soaked collars; laughter mingled with occasional "Ouch!" when someone struck flint chip.

By noon, a thousand moon‑grass starts dotted rows.

Calia placed last rhizome, wiped brow. "Now water."

Buckets passed hand‑to‑hand from temporary cisterns. Water gleamed faint aqua—infused with diluted phoenix tear, courtesy of court alchemist. Phoenix tears encourage rebirth; the orphans giggled about "crying birds that save plants."

As water soaked, blades unfurled faster than natural—half an inch in minutes. The mirror seed at center pulsed slow heartbeat, regulating.

I stood dead‑center, closing eyes. Magic lines thrummed below—quiet, balanced. No corruption trace.

Relief washed.

Unexpected Guests

Just as we prepared to break for bread crusts, a horn sounded from ridge. Vael descended quickly. "Riders—five. Aurelian crest, but white pennants." Truce envoys.

Ravn signaled no‑blades. We waited.

Dust plumes resolved into mounted priests—Sun Church robes color‑stripped, sign of penance. Lead priest, silver hair braided, dismounted, kneeling. "Empress, Emperor," he hailed. "We come with tribute—graygrain."

I frowned. Graygrain, a fungus‑resilient cereal lost during war. "Tribute?"

"Grows only in quarantined monastery plots," he explained. Two acolytes produced sacks. "We heard of Dawnroot Glen, seek to sow interlines for crop diversity."

Ravan looked to me; I nodded. "Accepted. Share knowledge too—rotations, fungal countermeasures."

Priest bowed deeper. He stood, eyes shining at moon‑grass rows. "Light returned," he whispered, humbled.

Night Watch

Planting done, camps pitched. Children slept in canvas lean‑tos; seed‑wardens patrolled perimeter; I sat near central mirror seed, notebook open, noting growth patterns under starlight.

Archivist joined, offering flask of ink‑root tea. "You listen to grass?"

"Trying." I tapped ear. Faint hum—like distant chimes.

"Roots speak memory of place. Soon they'll ask: Who keeps us? Make answer clear or corruption creeps anew."

"Stewards," I said. "I'll appoint caretakers—mortal and demon pairs."

"Wise." He sipped tea, eyes unseen. "Hole in your memory still aches?"

"More echo than ache. As if waiting." I hesitated. "Will it seal?"

"Perhaps with new laughs." He inclined head toward sleeping children. Night breeze carried faint giggles from dreamland. My chest warmed.

Archives seemed content, trailing off into shadows.

Roots of Iron

Deep night. Stars glittered. I walked rows, checking for pests. At far edge, where ash layer remained thick, I sensed vibration. A stray rhizome had sprouted where we hadn't planted—its blade darker, edges metallic. Root‑iron spontaneously generating.

I knelt. Blade sang low, almost pleading. I remembered vision: arrow forged of root‑iron causing Nightspire's fall. Could that future still brew here?

I touched blade; chill shot finger to elbow. But behind chill, sorrow—like orphan child seeking parent. Uncontrolled root‑iron yearned for purpose; corruption exploited that hunger.

I whispered promise. Blade shimmered, losing metal sheen, softening to normal jade.

Lesson: ignore corners and root‑iron will turn feral. Must integrate responsibly—guide hunger.

I uprooted blade, transplanted within central circle near mirror seed, adding loam, rune pebble. It pulsed once, contented.

So field between suns demanded vigilant gardeners, not absent monarchs.

Morning of Second Day

Roosters from distant hamlet crowed. In dawn's first light—and Afterlight chasing—moon‑grass stood knee‑high, shimmering. Graygrain seeds sprouted tiny shoots. Field looked like patchwork quilt of silver and ghost‑green.

Ravan led sunrise meditation: soldiers, children, priests, demons knelt, palms on soil, breathing unity. Even Vael's wingtip grazed ground. Warmth pooled; when they rose, moon‑grass swayed like crowd applauding.

Cartographers staked perimeter stones etched with bilingual runes: Dawnroot Glen — Pact of Balance. One stone left blank for future languages.

As tasks wound down, a Custodian glyph flickered in sky—eight‑point star winking—then faded. Approval?

I released breath.

Departure

At noon, we packed. Ten seed‑wardens remained as permanent stewards, teamed with two penitent priests and half the orphans who insisted field was home now. Calia cried, hugging them, promising books and blankets soon.

Ravan summoned shadow‑steeds. I lingered last, kneeling at mirror seed now encased in burgeoning trunk of translucent wood. I placed hand. Pulse steady, like lullaby.

Guard them, I told empty memory space inside me. Echo vibrated, filling with soft seedlings of hope.

I mounted mare. As we rode out, moon‑grass blades leaned toward wind, as if waving farewell yet eager to root deeper.

Nightspire Return

Council greeted our report with relief. Chronicles scribed, emissaries dispatched to Byzant Vale to replicate model. Root‑iron fragment stored in vault ringed by Dawnroot petals—balance within cage.

Later that night, on terrace barren of planters, Ravan brought lanterns and picnic cloth. He conjured platter of rye cakes; Calia sneaked honey. We sat under stars. Afterlight blush reflected in his eyes.

"So," he said, biting cake, "first inter‑realm farm thrives, no Custodian smiting, children singing off‑key."

"Progress," I agreed, sipping cordial. I reclined, shoulders brushing his. "Perhaps next we fix Mirror Wing fully."

He laughed. "One cosmic crisis at a time."

Silence pleased—comfortable. Wind carried faint scent of fresh earth from field miles away; the connection lingered.

I turned to him. "Do you recall promise to plant gardens with me?"

His smile softened. "I planted one today."

I shook head. "That was survival. I mean home garden."

He considered, then pointed at empty terrace. "This roof still barren. No ley‑lines now. We can sow mortal lilacs and demon glass‑vine."

"Together," I said, offering pinkie.

He linked pinkie—informal vow.

Stars sparkled brighter, maybe amused at petty ambitions compared to cosmic calamities—but I knew those tiny ambitions anchor realms.

Somewhere, Not‑Yet memory nested—laughter of future children running between lilacs and glass‑vine, bridging suns without my needing to surrender it.

I breathed deep. Terrace smelled less of ash, more of possibility.

The field between suns would root deeper each dawn, and this rooftop garden would bloom apartment to them—proof that after wars, after arrows that sing and stones that judge, life insists on simpler songs: soil, seed, hands intertwined.

We sat until torches guttered, speaking little, envisioning colors of blossoms that never existed before twin dawn.