The forest loomed closer with every step. Tildi found she was trembling as the great trees rose over her head, blotting out the rising sun in a mass of shadow. She had never gone into the wild woods alone. If the stories were true any of a dozen large predators were waiting to pounce upon a small and defenseless morsel like herself, waiting to tear her into quivering shreds. Anything that behaved like prey, Pierin had warned her, was likely to be stalked. He had bragged that he always walked with confidence even if he didn’t feel it. She must take his advice and do the same. She worked his knife loose from its sheath on her belt and held the gleaming blade up for a talisman as she approached the forest’s edge. It was a small glimmer of blue-white against the sinister hulks of the dark, gnarled trees, too little to protect her against a threat. Tildi felt as though both it and she would be swallowed up in a moment. The gloom had a presence of its own, one imbued with a forbidding consciousness that focused upon the smallfolk that approached it. Who was she to challenge the territory of these most ancient of creatures? How dare she attempt to travel out of her proper sphere and into the country of wild things?
“Walk with confidence,” Pierin’s voice seemed to say.
Tildi clutched the memory as tightly as she did the knife, and strode forward under the canopy. At that moment she missed her brothers more than she could hardly believe. In the face of her grief, fear lessened, as though she only had room for one overwhelming emotion at a time.
Once she was within the forest the gloom seemed to lessen. The trees emerged from the black-brown mass as individual shapes. For a moment Tildi fancied she could see the word for tree drawn upon each in faint strokes of ink, a trifle darker than the bark. Each rune was just a little different, as though the trees were telling her their names. It didn’t matter that her tired eyes were playing tricks on her; the fancy lessened her fear of going forward. She was meeting new acquaintances, that was all.
A shrill whistle overhead made her crouch in place and clutch the knife hilt harder. Thraik! Her heart pounded. She ran to hide behind one of the huge trees.
No, it couldn’t be thraik, could it? Tildi wondered, scanning the faint blue beyond the canopy of leaves. They’d have attacked her before she entered the forest. Its crown was too thick for the thraik to see her now. Could they detect her presence in some other way, using their own dread magic? The whistle came again, and developed into a warbling song that rang through the otherwise silent forest. She recognized the call of a woods cuckoo. Tildi relaxed, shook her head at her own fancy. There were no eyes in the sky over her head; just a bird or two coming out in the early dawn to seek its breakfast. She wished it a good day’s foraging. Her sleepless night was making her imagine things. Fie on her fancies!
Tildi focused on the middle distance, trying not to mind the straps of her heavy pack cutting into her shoulders or how the boots slid around on her feet in spite of the double socks. The air a few feet before her seemed to twinkle. Tildi put it down to a shaft of sunlight peering through the leaves overhead. Then, into that very place dropped a spider the size of her palm. Tildi gasped and jumped back. It was as if the spider had sent a message ahead of its arrival, warning her to avoid walking into it. How extraordinary! She had never known that this forest was such a magical place. How selfish of Teldo not to have told her about it. Yet it explained why the smallfolk elders were so insistent that young people not come here alone. They disapproved of anything that smacked of sorcery. There must have been an unspoken pact not to pay attention to the enchantments they found in the great forest, seeing as how they had to pass through it to reach the rest of the continent.
What she had read in Teldo’s books said that a magician must always be honest in dealing with the unseen, or it could consume him. Tildi paused. What if she did something false in error? Would she have a chance to make it right again, or did fate come upon one in the next heartbeat?
Tildi let out a snort that echoed in the stillness. She had a long way to go, and if she kept scaring herself she may as well go back to the Quarters and accept whatever fate the elders had in mind for her. She had chosen this for herself, and no matter what came of it she had that comfort. If a real threat arose she would deal with it then. Her practical nature overrode her sense of loss and fear. Instead, it would be wise to concentrate upon her surroundings. All of this was new, as good as opening a birthday present every few feet. That ought to be enough for any respectable smallfolk to go on with.
Resolved, Tildi fixed her gaze on the farthest point of the road she could see, took a deep breath of the leaf-scented air, and marched onward.
Chapter Five
If a fisherman should chance to look Nemeth’s way as he crawled out of the sea, he might think he was looking at a strange kind of huge fish with a gasping mouth and bulbous eyes all but staring out of his pale, domed head. But the shape of the blue-scaled body was all wrong. It was flat between the dorsal and ventral fins instead of from side to side. Where one would expect a tail fluke was a long ribbon of muscle like the belly of a snail, and one of the side fins appeared to be deformed with a long bulge. The gills behind the rudimentary ear holes spread open, the red membranes suffering as they strained to gather oxygen in this too-thin atmosphere. He lay still for a long time on the shore amid the other flotsam: decaying seaweed, weather-beaten chunks of timber, dead fish, and dying crabs. He, too, was dying.
Nemeth had lived a long time this way. To pass along the seafloor he had exchanged lungs for gills and feet for a rippling pseudopod. It was necessary. He could not expose himself to potential attackers or thieves, but it had been a horrible existence. He had hated what he had done to his body. The changes affected his mind, reducing him from the thinking creature he had been to a monster from which he would have run away from on land. Anything with eyes would have. Yet it was the simplest form of which he could conceive that would suit his purpose. Necessity had set a whip to his back. He had outdistanced what pursuers remained, but he never thought he could outrun all of them. He did not have time or the imagination to form himself into something that would preserve his humanity intact yet allow him to do what he did, to live in near darkness in the twilit depths, breathe water, and survive upon the forage he could find near the seafloor. Now he did not know if he could turn back. His tongue still felt coated with the livers of the creatures he had eaten. He had killed with his own hands for food: pale white fish with bulging eyes, giant shrimps that were more bitter than the seawater he had breathed day in and day out, crabs like spiders whose long, spindly legs caught in his teeth like strands of corn silk.
Corn.
It had been a long time since he had tasted corn.
Nemeth grasped for the memory of corn. Fish thoughts were good only for survival. He must get used to thinking like a human again. Yellow. Corn was yellow. The way it looked growing in a field was … pretty; the horizontal sweeps of green stalks with gold tassels waving in the wind. Its milky sweetness on the tongue was the next thing he recalled. It helped dispel the bitterness of the shrimps. He clawed back each vision, each sound, each taste. Clouds. Clouds rolled through the sky above his head. They were the same as the last time he had seen them—how long ago? The color of the sky beyond them was called … blue. His lidless eyes watched the white patterns change, but black crept up around the perimeter of his vision. He did not have much time.
Runes lay all around him, on every leaf, every grain of sand, each fish in the sea. Another wrapped him about like a cocoon, defining him in every way: his shape, his history, his future all expressed as one symbol. It was deformed. Nemeth hated the sight of it. He had been forced to see it every day since he began this journey. Now he must repair it before he suffocated on the hot beach. With difficulty, he called up the memory of the one rune he knew better than any other. For months he had concentrated on every stroke, every detail, every nuance, in order to recall it without error. Now he must summon it or perish.
The sigil appeared in his mind’s eye. He admired it
s perfection. This is how he ought to be. With an act of will he expanded it until it was large enough to surround him, glowing with such golden light that it washed out the pale sunlight. He could feel its hot power coursing through his body, as though the lines were connected to organs and blood vessels, a design more complicated than could be conceived by any ordinary mind. Where the living rune did not match the rune in his mind, he must make it match. A line here needed to be straightened out, a flourish lengthened. Other parts must be erased. As though he was scrubbing out a mistake on a document, he corrected the symbol. Around him, the pattern altered, and he felt himself altering in response.
The first part to grow back was his eyelids. Thankfully, after so many months of inescapable light, he was able to close his eyes. No matter. He did not need to see to complete the transformation.
Behind his ears he could feel the gasping slits close. Inside his chest lungs came into being and expanded, lifting his rib cage almost painfully. Nemeth gasped and coughed. The fins at his side grew slowly into arms, and the scales fell from them, littering the beach with their blue shimmer. He rolled over on one side in the coarse sand, feeling for the burden that he had carried all this time under the left arm. It was there, no longer a part of his physical body, but as close as his soul. He relaxed a little, patting the bundle as if it was a faithful dog. So all was well. He would soon be himself again.
Patiently, he endured the continuing pain. Soon he had legs, toes, fingers. His tongue marked the blunting of his teeth, and he nodded approval. One painful surge as his prominent nose, which had receded into his face, regrew all at once.
That nose had endured humiliation in his past, as had the rest of his person. Such disrespect would never again be his part. The bundle in his arm would ensure that his would always be a name to reckon with. He summoned clothes. It had been months since he had had shoes on, but they could not be more painful than walking the seafloor on his belly.
Nemeth waited until the transformation was complete, and crawled to his feet, careful not to drop his burden. How much he had suffered to gain it! How much privation and pain! The reward would be worth all the trouble, he thought, and a bitter smile bent his lips. The book was his. From the moment he held it in his hands, nothing could harm him or deter him. It was rightly his, and its powers belonged to him. If any could guess his purpose, kings would send armies against him. Mages would call up the most powerful forces in existence. All their efforts would be useless. The power lay in his hands.
Eyes were upon him. Nemeth recalled the last time he had felt every being looking at him. They were laughing, laughing at him! Though it was so very long ago every detail remained fresh in his memory. They were the goads that drove him when the book’s guardians attacked him. They were the extra strength upon which he drew when his spells proved too weak to withstand theirs.
He would show those who had humiliated him that they could not treat him with such trifling disdain. He would cause destruction on the very site of his disgrace, and bring the world crashing down upon his tormentors. As long as he was assured of that, he did not care what became of him afterward. Since the very day he had learned about the book’s whereabouts, he had begun to make his plans. The preparations had cost him dearly—but he had already lost all. Gaining the book would restore to him all that and more. He had nothing to lose in the essay. That knowledge was a shield and a weapon against those who would stop him. But he had succeeded at drawing forth the book. How it had been kept hidden for so long he did not know.
Nemeth hugged the hide-wrapped parcel to him again, as though he was embracing a precious child. He felt a great urge to open it and enjoy its beauty, for it was a beautiful thing. He looked around. This was not a proper place. He must find somewhere more suitable. He could pause in his journey for a moment to refresh himself by turning through a few pages. Nemeth could see the entire book in his memory, every word. It unrolled through his dreams. The stories it told led him on nighttime journeys beyond the confines of his poor human brain, into the realms of other beings, living and never-living. It took joy in its own creation, and shared that joy with him. It was a part of him, or was he a part of it? Of that he was uncertain, though he felt it had preserved his sanity during the months it had taken to walk from Sheatovra to Niombra.
The sun beat down upon him. He had done without its scrutiny for a long while, and disliked it peering into his business now. He shook his fist at the sky, sending a curl of hate in the sun’s direction. His power had not risen to the level where he could snuff out the blazing orb, but it was only a matter of time. All creation would wither at his hand, if he chose. He smiled, and the movement hurt the newly grown skin of his cheeks. He would decide later what would befall the sky and the rest of the world.
Behind him a bubbling growl attracted his attention. From the surf a pale tentacle as long as his body uncoiled. The claw at the end, dripping with blue poison, felt for him. Nemeth watched dispassionately. The creature hauled itself out of the surf, its cone-shaped body rearing up ten feet high, muscular tentacles digging into the sand. It was mud-colored except for the red fleshy lips drawn back to show endless rows of translucent, sharp white teeth, and the bright, flat, golden eyes each the size of Nemeth’s head. It turned one eye toward him, and the slitted pupil widened. A deeper growl issued from its throat, and the poisoned claws whipped around to point at him. The beast lurched up the sand, anger giving it the speed it would normally lack without the water’s support.
The ugly beasts had been following him for some time. He had killed many, but always another came to take its place. It was as if they did not care what had happened to the others. Perhaps they did not believe that the same fate would overtake them. Ah, well.
In no hurry at all, Nemeth sat down upon the sand and unwrapped the book. He did not have time to remark upon its beauty as he would like to have done. He unrolled it to the page upon which the beast appeared. The book always seemed to assist him in finding the right place, the complex runes almost glowing with joy that he wished to behold them.
The monster’s claws reached for his head. They were only feet away. Nemeth summoned a thread of magic, and set a stroke down through the monster’s rune that split it in two. He looked up.
The creature wailed, a terrible sound that echoed down the curved coastline. Before Nemeth’s eyes the reaching pseudopods fell away as the monster’s body parted neatly in two halves from snout to tail. The pupils in the flat eyes widened until the golden irises were a mere rim.
Yes, Nemeth thought, as the twitching hulk poured guts, brains, and blood out upon the sand. You all believe me an easy target, but I command the book’s power now.
Buoyed by triumph, he rolled up the book and wrapped it in the soft leather cover. He rose and stepped over the quivering claw. It would take some time to die, and he could not be bothered to watch it. Seagulls were already circling overhead, drawn by the smell of fresh flesh.
“Feast well, my friends,” Nemeth said, turning his back on his fallen prey. They were the first words he had spoken in over eight months. His voice sounded strange to him. “I must be on my way.”
A bit unsteadily at first, Nemeth set out northward. He had so much to do. So much time had passed in gaining his objective that his work was years behindhand. No matter. He would take care of everything.
Where he went, the grass changed, the trees burst into bloom or withered. A wraith flew overhead, but with a sign from the wizard, it fell from the sky, burning. He hated thraiks. Their very creation was an abomination against nature. When he reached his destination, he would wipe them out without regret.
Unsteadily, he rose to his feet and set out northward.
Chapter Six
“Does this path only go up?” Tildi asked herself, shouldering the pack once more to conquer a particularly steep stretch. Here the hard-packed trail had been cut into terraced steps, each with a squared-off log at the edge to prevent the whole thing from disintegrating into a mass
of mud when it rained. She was accustomed to hard work, but the endless slogging on foot was a new and not very pleasant experience. Pity the nomadic peddlers whose job it was to walk the continent day in and day out, no matter what the terrain and weather!
After a climb that made the muscles of her thighs ache white-hot, she stopped at a ledge about the size of the farmhouse’s kitchen. She dropped the pack and let it fall in between the knobbly roots of her host, an oak tree whose branches stuck straight out over the path. Gratefully she flopped down beside it. Her heart was pounding. She undid the cloak clasp so that the folds of cloth slithered down behind her back, giving her a pad against the rough bark. Tildi settled back with a sigh of relief. It was odd to feel the cool air at the back of her neck where her hair used to be, but it was an advantage in this hot weather. She pressed her palms to her cheeks to help cool them off.
She now regarded the big oaks and beeches as kindly elders instead of the sinister monsters she had thought them when she first entered their domain. It seemed like half a day since she had left her home, but by the twinkle of the sun through the treetops it could not have been more than two hours. She judged it to be late midmorning. The pain in her legs receded to a glow of healthy effort, but her feet in the too-large boots felt hot and sweaty. She took off the boots and both pairs of socks and examined her feet. They were pink from tip to heel, but there were no blisters yet, she noted with relief.
This burrow in the shelter of this tree was very comfortable indeed. How many of her neighbors and relatives had stopped in this very place for a snack? She undid the fastening of her pack and got a drink of water and a bite of bread and cheese from her provisions. Squirrels and chipmunks ran up and down the boles of the smaller trees to either side, angling to see if she was dropping anything they might like to eat. She brushed off her lap and flung the crumbs toward an empty piece of ground. The bolder squirrels dashed in to get them, and fled up the trees with their less courageous fellows in pursuit.
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