by Tad Williams
“I thank you, Cormach,” said my master, “but you will not. This is for my brother and myself to do. Any blame must fall on us alone. Lord Enazashi would never dare to execute two of the Sa’onserei—not for mere trespass—but I doubt anything would restrain him from revenging himself on you and your folk.”
Cormach objected to this, but after some quiet argument my master won out. “I pray for your success, Lord Hakatri and Lord Ineluki,” the prince said at last, then turned and rode after his men.
“He knew you would not let him come with us,” said Ineluki. “I think the mortal’s bravery was only for show.”
“Perhaps,” Hakatri said. “Or perhaps you judge him too narrowly. But if you truly wish to discover the Hernsmen’s mettle, there will be ample chance later when we return to Serpent’s Vale.”
I wondered for a moment whether the protection my master expected for himself and his brother as Sa’onserei would serve for me as well, but dismissed the thought as unworthy: I felt sure Hakatri would not let anything happen to me.
As we passed the ancient standing stone and entered the ring-grove of trees, I began to notice a new odor, as strong as the sharp, cool scent of the surrounding pines, but different. It had a spicy sweetness to it, but also something darker beneath, a whiff of wet moss combined with a tang that I can only described as earthy or mineral, like the scent of stony ground after the rains have come and gone. My master’s folk name this odor of living witchwood A’t’si—“earthblood.” The poet Tuya had called it “one of the greatest good things,” but I had never noticed it in the finished witchwood of blades or armor, which was the only sort I had encountered. It was overwhelming, climbing straight from my nose into my very thoughts.
As we passed through the outer ring the air seemed to grow damper and warmer. The noise of the wind had become entirely muted among the tall trees, and the light of the moon and stars was strained through the crowding leaves until I could barely see my own hands holding Seafoam’s reins.
My eyes are not as sharp as those of my master and his people, but not so poor as a mortal’s either. As I grew more accustomed to the darkness, I could make out a little more of the center of the grove—not only the shapes of the witchwood trunks, which were thicker and more widely rooted than the tall pines, but also the pale strands of creeper that hung everywhere in the grove, twining up the twisted pillars, dangling from branches, and stretching between trees as if someone had haphazardly tried to bind the trunks together. The creepers were whiteweave—yedu-ame—and I am told they grow only on witchwood.
The stillness and the heavy, wet air pressed on me until I found it difficult to breathe, though my master and his brother did not seem bothered. They were already examining the trees in the central ring, which surrounded an empty space that showed where the first witchwoods had been planted. I heard Hakatri and Ineluki talking quietly to each other and the magnitude of what we were doing suddenly struck me. For the first time in my life I was in a holy witchwood grove, but we had come as thieves, not lawful gatherers. A sudden chill ran through me. I wanted to call out to my master to hurry, but the quiet of the place pressed me to silence. My concerns seemed petty, almost meaningless set against the age and solemnity of the grove, but a part of me felt as if we were about to rob a sacred tomb.
Until my master and Ineluki selected a tree, I had not considered the practical issues of felling one of the large witchwoods and then carrying it out of the grove. I could not see the top of the one they chose, but it was no sapling: I could not have reached my arms all the way around its trunk. While I watched over the horses, who seemed curiously calm (certainly more so than I was) the brothers drew out their swords, Ineluki’s Gleaming and my master’s fabled Thunderstroke—Indreju in the Zida’ya tongue.
My master once told me that it was a pity I did not know more about the making of a witchwood blade, since my own people had always been the masters of shaping the sacred wood. That idea was new to me—one of many things about my own folk I had not known. I learned later that the tree’s core must be pressed, hammered, and suffused with various compounds until it is flexible as well as hard, as strong as any metal. But even that night, as my master and Ineluki labored in that silent grove, I knew that shaped witchwood was stronger than the raw wood of the tree, which is why after a great deal of work—hours of it—the two brothers were able to cut through the trunk far enough to fell the witchwood they had chosen.
“What now, brother?” Ineluki asked as they walked up and down the length of the trunk. “Will we trim it before we—”
“Halt, thieves!” cried a voice from the darkness in the Zida’ya tongue. “Take another step and our next flight will find your flesh.”
We stopped, of course.
“We discovered your allies down the mountain,” the voice continued. “They do not even know we have found their camp, though our archers surround them. Now, step out—and no tricks! We can see you far better than you can see us.”
“We do not fear you!” cried Ineluki.
Hakatri, as always the less combative of the two, called back, “We can see you perfectly well, kinsmen. We are no mortals, though our companions on the mountainside are. Hold back your swift arrows and we will step forward.” And as he spoke, he set down his sword and spread his hands so the hidden enemy—hidden from my sight, anyway—could see them.
“By the Garden!” said the voice from the darkness in astonishment as my master stepped out into the moonlight. “It is Hakatri of Asu’a!”
“It is. Who stands before me?” asked my master.
Then, like one of the spirits of the dead in an old story, a figure appeared from the shadows, taking on shape by starlight until I could recognize an armored Zida’ya holding a long war bow, his black hair worn in a horse-tail.
“I know your face,” my master said. “I saw you at the Site of Witness. You are Yizashi, son of Lord Enazashi.”
The black-haired one made a gesture of respectful greeting, but his face was stony. “And you are trespassing in my father’s lands. Worse, you have stolen a tree from his grove.”
“Your father has no right to this grove!” cried Ineluki. “This was Lady Azosha’s.”
Yizashi gave him a hard look. “Strange to hear the scions of Asu’a so concerned about the rights of one long dead. And stranger still to find them stealing a witchwood tree instead of asking permission. I cannot imagine you would deal kindly with us if our Silverhome folk had come to Asu’a’s sacred grove and tried to take a tree by stealth.”
“Are you calling us thieves?” Ineluki demanded.
“I can think of no better word to describe what I see here.”
“I beg you,” said my master, “let us sit and speak of this without threats—” he turned to his brother, “—or angry posturing. After all, we came from the same Garden, we share the same Exile. When you hear what we are doing here, Yizashi, you may feel differently.”
Yizashi stayed silent. Ineluki said, “But—!”
My master did not give his brother a chance to argue further, silencing him with a single harsh whisper. When he turned back to the heir of Silverhome, Hakatri asked, “Can we speak peacefully, as kinsmen? Let us leave the felled tree here and go a little apart. Perhaps we can even make a fire—I think Pamon, my armiger, is feeling the cold.”
I almost told him he was wrong. I may not be as hardy as my master’s folk, but neither are we Tinukeda’ya as helpless as mortals. But I realized before I spoke that the reason for a fire was not important to Hakatri. He was not truly worrying about my comfort but trying to change the nature of conversation from an armed deadlock to something more like a negotiation between respectful foes, or even between allies.
Yizashi considered for a moment, then signaled his men to lower their bows and move back. My master and his brother—and I, of course—then went to him, leaving the fallen witchwood behind.
> Hakatri said, “And the mortals you have surrounded are innocent. They did not enter the grove. They accompanied us up the mountain but did not know what we planned—or what we intend to do next.”
Yizashi gave him an odd look, then turned and summoned one of his archers and spoke briefly. The archer slipped away. “So, then,” Yizashi said. “We will make a fire and talk.”
* * *
• • •
Yizashi’s company built a fire near the standing stone. The worst of the rains had passed, and only a few tattered clouds obscured the stars wheeling across the sky. My master and his brother explained what had brought them in search of a witchwood. Yizashi, as with others we had met, was full of questions about the exile Xaniko.
“Did he tell you to come to my father’s grove for a tree to make this great spear?” he demanded.
Hakatri shook his head. “No. He said it must be witchwood, that is all.” But instead of revealing the Hernsmen’s stories about the grove, he only said, “We learned about your father’s claiming of Azosha’s witchwood trees from old tales.”
Yizashi was silent a long time when my master had finished. “If you saw me at my father’s side, you will remember that I did not want to turn you away, or to ignore the peril of our neighbors, even if they are only mortals.”
My master nodded. “I remember.”
“But you have put me in a hard situation.” The firelight showed me Yizashi’s face clearly for the first time, and I was struck by how youthful he looked—younger than either my master or Ineluki. “It is one thing for me to disagree with my father—the Garden knows it is not the first time, nor will it be the last. But it would be quite another thing for me to let you take one of his trees, especially when he was already made aware that there were strangers on the mountain.”
“But they are not his trees!” said Ineluki, then turned to Hakatri. “Brother, this is another bootless argument.”
My master did not take his eyes off Yizashi. “In times of great need, no one of good heart can remain indifferent. Remember, I have seen this dragon, Yizashi, and it is truly a fearful thing. It may be mortals who are most threatened by it now, but ultimately we of the Dawn Children will be in terrible danger as well. All you need to do to help us fight this scourge is to turn a blind eye.”
Yizashi laughed, but it sounded sour. “Turn a blind eye? My father does not turn a blind eye to anything that belongs to him. He will ask me what I discovered here on the mountain. I will not lie to him.”
“Bootless,” muttered Ineluki.
“But my father is not as cold and pitiless as you might think him from our audience,” Yizashi continued. “It is just that the arrival of the mortal Hernsmen turned his mind to old grievances. He is not always so hard-minded.”
“I do not doubt it,” said Hakatri. “Still, here we sit in middle-night, waiting for your decision.” I could see that my master’s temper was strained, caught as he was between his brother and Enazashi’s son. There seemed no common ground to be found. But instead of arguing, Hakatri only lifted a stick and poked at the fire until sparks leaped up and swirled away into the night.
“It is not as though the tree can be re-planted, now that it has been felled.” Yizashi spoke slowly, as though listening to how his own words sounded. “Neither can I imagine trying to drag the scions of Year-Dancing House back to Silverhome in chains.”
“You could not,” said Ineluki. “It would be a crime against the Garden itself—”
“I beg you to be quiet and listen, brother. Speak on, Yizashi.”
“The Balance Beam is overhead,” he said at last. “The constellation of mercy. In this confusing hour, I will let the sky advise me.” He extended his hands in the sign of judgment. “The witchwood has been felled. That cannot be undone. But in my father’s eyes, it is a crime that cannot be ignored.” He lifted a hand as a call for silence, though my master did not seem as though he meant to speak—perhaps Yizashi meant to forestall more angry words from Ineluki. “Therefore, I release the tree to you, to be used against the dire beast Hidohebhi. But afterward, whatever may happen, I charge you to come back to my father’s court and tell him what you told me.”
“And what if your father declares it a crime?” demanded Ineluki.
“He is no more likely than me to strike a blow at Year-Dancing House, I think,” said Yizashi carefully. “But nothing can be certain. That is my judgment, and only with that provision can I let you walk away from the grove tonight.”
Hakatri gave his brother a warning look, then said, “We agree, and I thank you for your generosity and forbearance. You have my word we will return to ask your father’s forgiveness.”
Yizashi seemed amused. “If you expect forgiveness, I think you may be disappointed. My father is seldom that way disposed. But I salute your courage in risking your lives for the good of others.”
Hakatri made a gesture of gratitude. “We will not forget this.”
“Then go and summon your mortal helpers, because I do not think you will be able to carry the tree down the mountain without them.” Yizashi stood. “My company and I will leave now, both because I do not want to linger long enough to regret my decision and because I must prepare for the unenviable task that you two have shirked—telling my lord and father what happened here, and what I decided.”
Yizashi led his men away. When only my master, his brother, and myself remained, Hakatri stood. “Let us get to work. There is much to do.”
As the night turned toward morning the two brothers hacked away the largest of the witchwood tree’s limbs with their swords until little was left but the great trunk, then they respectfully burned the unneeded limbs, which would quickly lose their potency now that they had been removed. The smell of the smoke was so strange and so strong that it made me feel as if I had stumbled onto the Dream Road.
When my master and Ineluki had finished, the trunk was still almost ten paces long and very heavy. We harnessed the horses and began to drag it out of the grove, past the standing stone and down the mountain. Along the way we met scouts from Prince Cormach’s company, who then hurried back down to fetch the rest of their comrades. With their help we made a cradle of ropes that allowed a score of the prince’s men to lift the tree and carry it much more easily down the forested mountainside than we could have dragged it.
Many of the prince’s Hernsmen, though ignorant of how close they had been to death during the dark hours, were nevertheless so pleased at leaving the vicinity of the grove that they began to sing as we made our way down from Old Whitecap’s heights.
* * *
• • •
I confess that as we hauled the massive witchwood trunk down the mountain I was already fearful about returning to Serpent’s Vale. The memory of that grim spot, its broken trees, treacherous muddy pools, and most of all, the terrible beast that hid there, worked on my thoughts like an unending cold downpour, but I felt a superstitious reluctance to ask my master about it. For a long time he stayed silent, deep in thought, but because I rode near him he finally looked up and must have seen the discomfort in my expression.
“What troubles you, Squire Pamon?”
“I confess, Master,” I told him, “that I am afraid of going back to that valley.”
“In the end, we can do nothing else.” He looked around for Ineluki, who was riding Bronze a little ahead of the rest of us, lost in thoughts of his own. “My brother has pledged his honor that he will not return to our home while the worm lives. However rash that may have been, he will hold to it even if it kills him. And more and more I despise the idea of leaving the mortals to fend for themselves against such a monster. Do we not carry the blood of the Dragonslayer in the same quantity as the Hikeda’ya? Our forefather Hamakho risked his life again and again to keep our people safe from the great worms.”
The Dragonslayer had led the killing of many of the dragons
that threatened the Garden in the days before its destruction. Though Utuk’ku’s people claimed him as their own—the queen’s clan called itself “the Hamakha”—my master’s Zida’ya people were Hamakho’s descendants as well, though his wife Sa’onsera had parted from him before my master’s people fled their ancient home.
“Why did Lord Hamakho stay behind when everyone else left the Garden, my lord?” The thought of what lay ahead still oppressed me and I selfishly wished to distract myself when I should have let my master plan his strategy.
“Because he was dead,” Hakatri said with a grim look and a shake of his head. “Killed by his own Dragonslayers as the scourge of Unbeing swept over the Garden.”
I was startled. “I have never heard this! Great Hamakho murdered by his own kind? How could such a thing come to be?”
“It is a long tale, full of shame and sorrow,” my master said. “It is also much disputed, especially between Zida’ya and Hikeda’ya.”
“I would still like to hear it.”
He looked less than pleased. “Why, Pamon? Why should you care? It is a terrible story, and it is not even a tale of your own people.”
This shocked and hurt me, and for the first time that I can remember I felt as though Lord Hakatri did not understand me. I had been raised among the Zida’ya all my life. Asu’a was my only home, and though my own Tinukeda’ya people lived there too in great numbers, I had spent far more time among my master’s kind than among my own. Utuk’ku and a few other Zida’ya immortals might still remember the Garden, but none of my own folk did except through stories and prayers. What other people did I truly have but my master’s?
I did not say any of this, of course. Many concerns must have troubled Hakatri at that moment, and all of us feared what might happen in Serpent’s Vale. He did not need me to add to his worries.
But as I rode silently beside him, he took a little pity on me, saying, “In any case, if you are frightened of what is to come, remember that you will not have to face the worm yourself. That is a task only for Ineluki and for me.”
