“Lousy diluted elf… better not be double crossing me,” he muttered.
The string had just clicked into place when heavy hoof-falls crackled through the snow in the distance. He jumped to his feet and dashed along the branches, using them as his own personal walkway elevated over the forest floor. Here and there he had to hop from tree to tree, landing on icy branches but remaining surefooted regardless. He wasn’t terribly concerned about falling. He’d learned long ago—mostly through clumsiness in his youth—that his people could take quite a plunge without much more than a few bruises to his backside and his ego.
When he was close enough to spy his visitor and ostensible ally, he saw something that made his eyes gleam. He sprinted through the trees until Desmeres was below him.
“Ha! Ha! You got the booze!” he piped, jumping down from the tree and thumping hard onto the cask strapped to Desmeres’s saddle.
He leaned down and took a deep whiff. “Oh, I can smell it right through the wood! Those woodsmen know how to drink!”
“Alcohol seems to be the universal language,” Desmeres said.
“And the barrel is even bigger than I’d imagined!”
“This is just a cask, Gwellin. The first barrel will arrive in a few days.”
“Yes… Right, right. I knew that. Naturally. This is just a, what do you call it… a good faith offering. Yes. I’ve done deals like this before.” He rubbed his hands together. “Lumineblade, you know my mother told me never trust a human?”
“Lucky I’m part elf then.”
“She told me never to trust one of them either. Then again, she also told me not to trust any gnomes. Mother kept mostly to herself. Head that way, I’ll show you where we’ll stow this, and get you your spores while we’re at it.”
He crouched and steadied himself one hand on the end of the cask as Desmeres guided the horse in the indicated direction. Tucked somewhere inside the cloak, Douser seemed ready to burrow through the fabric to get a proper sniff at Gwellin.
“You’ve got a good handle on that fleabag, right? Don’t like dogs. No manners,” Gwellin said.
“I’ve met more people in the last few weeks who don’t like dogs than I’d imagined exist. Though in your case, it is justified. You’re about the size of a piece of raw hide I’ve been tossing Dowser to chew on.”
“He tries that with me and he gets a dart right up that big hound nose of his. What’d they say about the carvings?”
“There were mostly blank looks and shrugs. It takes a certain type of mind to appreciate the value of artistry, particularly without something to share by way of example. That sort of person has very little overlap with woodsmen.”
“Figures. You’ve got an eye for it though, right?”
“I certainly have.”
“How about you? Looking to do any selling for me?”
“My hands are a bit full at the moment, but perhaps when I’ve put some of my more pressing tasks to rest. Why the interest in selling?”
“Oh, I’ve got a heap of those things. They’re cluttering up the burrow, but fine work like that deserves to be enjoyed. Not to mention, I’ve got some debts.”
Desmeres smiled. “I presume that is why you seem to be the only solitary gnome I’ve ever met.”
“Oh, no. You can’t trick me like that. There were loads of other gnomes ready to pull their triggers on you back there. Just like there are now.”
“Then let me adjust statement. I presume that is why you seem to be the first gnome I’ve encountered who lives in such an isolated location.”
“For your information, I’m here for the soil.”
“Is there something special about the soil here?”
“Heh. Heh. Is there something special about the soil? Let’s leave aside that it makes trees leap from the ground like grass… Stop here, just by that big rock.”
Desmeres coaxed his horse to a stop at a large, flat slab of slate near the bottom of a short slope leading to a stream. The stone had the lingering residue of assorted bright pigments, as though it was as often as not covered with some manner of decoration.
“Set the booze there and I’ll show you what’s so special about the soil.”
Gwellin hopped to the ground and stumbled forward a few steps, improperly judging the weight of his weapon. A simple wooden door, complete with a small glass window, stood quite obvious and proud in a narrow alcove dug into the slope. No attempt had been made to hide it. To the contrary, he’d mounted painted plaque beneath the window. The lettering was quite intricate and clearly not any of the local human languages.
“'Gwellin Stemsprout: Tinkerer, Artist, Jeweler,'” Desmeres read.
“A fellow needs to wear an awful lot of hats to make his way in the world these days.”
He fished through his pocket to reveal what had to be the tiniest and most complex key Desmeres had ever seen. A quick turn in the keyhole produced a series of clicks and whirs, disengaging something audibly more complex than any lock ought to be. Gwellin trotted inside the burrow. What little of the burrow could be seen was strung from end to end with ropes, gears, chains, and pulleys. He tugged one of the cords running along the ceiling near the door. Wheels in the dim interior spun, flint and steel sparked, and about a third of the many tiny lanterns within the burrow sparked to life, shedding light on his home. The inside was cozy and pleasant by any measure. He’d lined the walls and ceiling with paneling and planking, making it look a bit more like the windowless cabin of a ship than a burrow. The floor remained dark, rich earth.
“Where do you want your cask?” Desmeres called from outside.
“Put it on the slate for now. I’ll move it to where I choose later.”
“I’d ask if that would be too heavy for you, but if you were able to rig branches across the forest to fall, or work your way through an ax handle without being noticed, I suppose moving a cask is within the grasp of your inventiveness.”
“You’re right about that,” Gwellin said.
He opened a chest beside his door and tugged out a sack that hung heavily like it was made from sand, then found his way to a second chest and fetched a smaller sack with musky scent and hauled them outside.
“This,” he said, heaving the smaller bag at Desmeres feet, “is your spore.”
“You’d already gathered some?”
“Yes. I use it in stew and sometimes for tea. Good, flavorful stuff. And this…” He jingled the larger bag, which made a sound like broken glass. “This is what’s so special about the soil, or at least, the soil near the river.”
Gwellin opened the bag to reveal glittering grains of violet crystal. The largest were the size of apple seeds. The smallest were like grains of sand.
“Not that you’d be able to tell with those huge, silly eyes of yours, but this is a big sack of crystal chips. Focus crystal, in fact. Runs down from yonder mountain. I know a bunch of stupid gnomes who have their burrows up in the mountains. They mine for this stuff like big dumb dwarfs. Me, I’m smarter than that. I let the river do my mining for me. Every few days, I just wade out into the water and pluck out the largest ones.”
“What do you use such small gems for?” Desmeres asked.
The gnome shook his head. “Big people always think something needs to be big to be worthwhile. It just so happens chips this small are perfect for making scatter cloth.”
Desmeres raised an eyebrow. “You make scatter cloth?”
“The finest scatter cloth you’ll ever see,” he said, pacing back inside to stow the sack. “I’ve built a special loom for it. The cloth is absolutely guaranteed to hide items from even the most ancient wizard or powerful spirit. Why? Looking to buy some?”
“Not at the moment, but it is always useful to have a supplier. Might I use your stone for a moment? I’ve got to use these spores while they are still relatively fresh.”
Gwellin walked back out with some peculiar bits of equipment. Was a crank-operated drill, and the other was a bit of metal tubing with a spigo
t and some knobs.
“That depends. What are you planning to do again?”
“I have to mix up a binding potion. It should remain potent until administered, which is more than can be said about the spores.”
“Just so long as you don’t spill any.”
Desmeres set out a few bottles, cups, and pieces of measuring equipment. While he dipped tiny spoons into jars and swept them flush to be precise about his measurements, Gwellin went about his own task. He used his complicated mechanism to drill into the cask of liquor, then swiftly threaded his metal spigot into the resulting hole before he could lose too much of the precious amber liquid. Once the spigot was in place, he hurried inside for a cup and returned to fill it to the brim.
“There’s the stuff…” Gwellin said, holding up his prize to take a sip. “Speaking of powerful spirits. I’d offer you a celebratory belt of the stuff, but this has got to last me until a proper barrel comes along.”
“I wouldn’t think of depriving you of even a drop of your hard-earned reward,” Desmeres said, his voice steady as he ground a few dried leaves into the bowl containing the potion in progress.
The little man watched with vague interest as Desmeres added ingredient after ingredient, each time with care to add the exact amount prescribed and in the indicated order. It was clear from his actions that the recipe was an ancient one. Most workings of magic in the north tended to be old, predating the Perpetual War, when the bulk of the most powerful mystic minds turned their attention to combat. Like the first examples of any complex field, the early discoveries often came by accident. Prior to determining just what parts of a recipe actually produced the desired outcome and which were extraneous, the most successful alchemists recorded their recipes in exacting detail, including not just the measurements and ingredients, but the composition of the equipment involved, the direction of stirring and how many times the spoon is tapped on the bowl. As foolish as it seemed, in workings of magic one was often subject to the fickle whims of spirits who could easily foul one’s careful preparations if any seemingly arbitrary action met with their dissatisfaction. If one found a method that worked reliably, one duplicated it precisely each time. The alternative was risking failure or worse, producing unexpected effects.
“Two, three, four, five, reverse…” Desmeres muttered, swishing the spoon as prescribed.
“You see, Lumineblade, this here is why I don’t like potions. Magic isn’t to my taste.”
“There. Five stirs sunwise, seven widdershins,” Desmeres said. “The potion should be complete.”
Gwellin hopped onto the stone and gazed over the side of the bowl, which was practically the size of a tub from his point of view. The liquid had taken on an inky color. Even to his decidedly non-mystic eye it had gained some properties normal fluids lacked. There wasn’t anything overtly different about the potion, just something in the way it rippled and moved, and in the way it caught the light. It was a potent concoction now, to be sure.
“So just what are you hoping to do with this soup?” Gwellin said.
“The less said about those plans the better.”
“Who exactly do you suppose I’m likely to tell, Lumineblade?”
“I dream of the days when loose lips were my only concern.”
Gwellin drained his cup. “Fine, keep your secrets. But until you bring me a lady your size to be my muse, our business is done, so move along or I’ll load up the bow again.”
Desmeres poured the contents of the bowl in to a pair of stout little jugs and securely corked them.
“I’ll indeed be on my way. I hope to have your muse to you directly. These days I’m critically low on allies. Good friends in low places would go a long way to setting my mind at ease.” He stowed his things and mounted his horse. “Expect the first of the woodsman to meet back at the tree with the axe head in it in a few days to discuss the specifics of your new arrangement.”
“Fine, fine. And they believe I’m the one keeping the spirits at bay, right? And that I’ll let them right back in if things don’t go to my liking?”
“They do. Making sure they continue to believe that is your task, not mine.”
He sauntered back to his cask and filled his cup again. “Oh, I think I can manage that.”
#
Desmeres guided his horse out of the woods a day and a half later. As useful as the road would have been to speed his progress, he’d learned long ago that travel when sought by the Elite was a perpetual balance between speed and concealment. A long, tree-lined road was a trifle too obvious and too clear for him to risk lingering on for too long. He’d instead taken his horse back through the dense forest, attempting to keep his speed moderate to avoid burning through the meager supply of feed he’d purchased from the woodsmen.
“I’d always questioned Lain’s refusal to use a horse,” he muttered, eying the nearly empty sack of grain. “Keeping one of these animals fed in a frozen land without constant access to civilization is a chore…”
Fortunately, his temporary destination lay ahead. “The Titan,” as the locals called it, was a difficult thing to miss. From a distance, if viewed on its own, it might have appeared to be a typical, if somewhat broad tree. Beside the other trees, however, it was a towering behemoth, and as he drew closer it only became more imposing. It was an evergreen. Over the decades, its roots had interfered with those of nearby trees, causing them to pitch forward as though it were some ancient god surrounded by a ring of bowing worshipers.
He found his way to the base and briefly admired the inevitable result of so massive and notable a tree within walking distance of a crossroads. Its bark, from the ground to as high as the average arms could reach, was a veritable gallery of carvings. Most took the form of simplistic declarations of love. Other messages merely existed to record the fact that an individual had visited the place. Here and there, more solemn uses had been found. Memorials carved honoring falling comrades were often marked with an arrowhead driven into the bark. Here and there, one could even find a brief prayer etched into the tree, entreating the spirits of the land for a good harvest. Such messages had been present so long that the first among them were healed over and swallowed up by the tree, and many faded carvings had been overwritten by new.
Desmeres dismounted the horse and paced around the base of the tree. Gnarled roots made the ground treacherous for a horse, but here and there they looped up, offering a tiny shelter from the wind. Desmeres was not the first to come up with the idea of passing notes or items in these not-terribly-secret spots, but at the moment it seemed no such messages had been left from Genara or anyone else. That didn’t come as much of a surprise. Genara had farther to go, a slower means to get there, and a more laborious task in general. She would be along soon enough. He fetched a parchment and something to write with, then took a moment to form a proper message.
He wasn’t concerned about just anyone intercepting the message. Lain and he had used this method more than once in the old days. There was an odd honor amongst the sort of individuals who delivered messages in such a way. That honor, however, did not extend to the Elite, and though it was unlikely they would think to search not only for the tree but for the precise location he’d be leaving his note, he would prefer not to lead them directly to him if they did.
“Genara,” he wrote. “I have successfully made the preparations. Count the coils on the grip of my gift to you and count that many fence posts along the road to the west, then enter the forest. Please move quickly. If you’ve found this note then I am still waiting, or I have been killed, because when I can wait no longer I plan to fetch it again.”
He folded the message, tucked it out of sight, and weighed it down with a rock. An hour later, he was nestled amongst the trees in the indicated clearing, warming himself around the fire, waiting for more beans to boil, and coaching Dowser through another lesson.
“Now, Dowser. Here we have a bit of rabbit fur, and there a bit of deer fur. Both fascinating scents to follow,
I am sure, but you’re not going to be much use to me if you are the one choosing which path to follow. So, take a sniff.”
Desmeres held down the rabbit fur.
“Follow,” he ordered.
Dowser practically galloped off, sniffing only briefly at the ground every few steps. In very little time, the pup turned up more snagged fur, but it was that of the deer. What followed was a minutes long attempt to coax the dog back to the start to try again, all the while coping with Dowser’s clear expectation that a reward should be forthcoming.
Desmeres rubbed his face and checked the pot. “Dowser. I have waited literal decades to see some of my plans play out, but you have the astounding capacity to tax my patience after mere minutes.”
He took a seat on a stone near the fire. Dowser clumsily climbed to his lap.
“For better or worse, we may have plenty of time to go through this though. Genara is a capable woman, and one more worthy of trust than most people I’ve met, but the odds are stacked against her safe return. She’s been given enough valuables to satisfy her every want and need for the rest of her days, and her mere presence beside me digs the pit of her own troubles deeper by the day. She is well within good sense to ride off with my things, sell them, and live like a queen in some forgotten corner of the kingdom. But I don’t think she will… And then, of course, there is the very real possibility that she will cross paths with the Elites and be taken into custody. She might even tell them what she knows of me and my plan in exchange for her freedom. Again, it would be the wise thing to do… but I don’t believe she will do that either.
“The woman’s got a good heart, and a sense of purpose.” He glanced down at the pup. “Remind you of anyone?”
Dowser attempted to stand on Desmeres’s lap to lick his nose and promptly tumbled backward. Desmeres picked him up again.
“They are a terrible curse, you know? A good heart and a strong purpose. I wonder how many people have been led to an unhappy end by that two-pronged disease of the spirit? … I suspect nearly as many as people who have chosen the wrong friends. … Pity Genara had to suffer both fates, eh?”
The Redemption of Desmeres Page 31
