Silent Hall

by NS Dolkart

  “Do you remember,” she asked the tree beside her, “when a little girl runs here before, all alone?”

  The tree, a big solid elfinoak, said nothing at first. Bandu did not give up. “Many seasons ago,” she told it.

  Finally, the tree made a low groan and roused itself. A little girl? it asked. Like you?

  “Yes, me,” she said, “but smaller. This small.” She lowered her hand, guessing at her size then.

  Hmm, said the elfinoak, I have seen many like that, I think.

  “This one is alone,” she said.

  A lonely girl, the tree pondered. Other than you? I can’t remember.

  “Goodweather asks you to help her.”

  My children will protect you, the castle had said. And indeed, when she thought of it, she could remember the trees coming to her aid as she ran. There were animals in this forest, animals that had wanted to eat her. There had been a big blue cat with teeth longer than Bandu’s little arms, and it had made no sound at all until a dead branch had knocked it to the ground in mid-pounce. Remembering it now, Bandu put her back against the tree and looked around nervously. Maybe she should have brought Criton with her.

  The oak rustled its leaves thoughtfully. Goodweather, you say? I know that name. But from where? A relative, maybe?

  Oh, thought Bandu. This tree had no memory. It might be better to ask a younger plant, but would a younger one be able to deliver her message?

  “Do you touch the roots of the world?” Bandu asked. It was a phrase she had heard the fairies use, and she did not think they were only being poetic.

  The roots of the world? Yes, I believe I do.

  “Then Goodweather can hear what you say to him,” she said hopefully. “Can you say his friend is here, the girl who runs away? Say I need help with open the gate again.”

  I can say those things, the tree assured her, but she repeated her message anyway.

  She went back to Gateway feeling a little better. If anyone could help, it would be Goodweather. She hoped the message reached him.

  40

  Criton

  Criton picked through the ruins looking for something, anything, that could be useful. It was hard to know where to look – Gateway did not really resemble a tower anymore. Without its foundations, it must have collapsed immediately upon entering this world. The fallen stones were already overgrown in places, covered in lichen and ivy and dead leaves. Once, he saw a scrap of parchment peeking out from under a rock, but upon struggling to retrieve it, found that it was only a shred of scroll containing a few scribbled words.

  “…of the syllables suggests fairy influence…” said the longest string of words, and below that, “to request his opinion.” At the bottom of the scrap was the single, half cut-off word, “ight.” Criton threw the parchment back on the ground and kept looking.

  Goodweather. She wanted to name their child Goodweather. And why shouldn’t she? Criton hadn’t even wanted the baby. What right did he have to argue with her about names?

  Still, Goodweather? What sort of a name was that? His baby, a Dragon Touched baby, should have a dragon’s name. Hession, maybe.

  Wait, what was this? Some pieces of splintered wood, rotting among the rubble – the remains of a bookshelf! Criton knelt on the ground, picking at the scraps. Yes, there were books underneath, leather-bound codices that flaked when he touched them. He carefully lifted one of the covers…

  An enormous centipede scuttled out of the book and onto his hand. Criton yelped and shook his arm, and the book tore through the middle, its contents falling to the ground in a pile of dust, mold and insects. The centipede had disappeared. Criton swore and stood up, frantically brushing his hands across his skin and trying to reach his back to make sure that the bug hadn’t gotten back there somehow. His hands found nothing, but his whole body tingled as if completely covered in tiny legs. Had he flung it off without seeing it fall?

  He shuddered, wondering if he dared try another book. He stuck out his foot gingerly, poking at the other covers with his toe. They must all be bug-infested, he thought. Time and the elements had caused the pages to disintegrate.

  Still, it must be possible to salvage some of the writing. The area he was standing in now seemed to contain part of a library; surely some of these books must be intact. He knelt again, and began to dig. Most of the stone blocks around here were far too heavy to lift, but by clearing the dirt away from underneath them, he could try to recover anything that had been trapped when the tower fell.

  After some twenty minutes of digging, his efforts finally bore fruit. With a final tug, he pulled a sealed copper scroll tube from where it had been wedged underneath a gigantic building stone. The case was green with rust and terribly bent, but he managed to tug the end off and retrieve the scroll, proud to have found anything of value among the ruins. He had begun to wonder if Psander had somehow gathered every single useful book that remained in existence. This find gave him hope.

  Elven Numerology, read the scroll’s top line. “Bandu!” Criton shouted. “I found something that might be useful!” He sat down on yet another mossy block and began to read.

  “In studying the numbers most significant to the fair folk,” he read, “no number matches the number eleven in frequency. The number appears everywhere: in the years between elven raids, in the syllabation of elvish poetry, even potentially in the number of children kidnapped in each raid.

  “While child disappearances have been attributed to elves all throughout history, the only sightings ever confirmed by multiple reliable witnesses were recorded in 7382, in the waning years of the War of the Heavens; in 7503; and most recently in 7569. The intervals between these confirmed raids, as Zaradon points out, are all multiples of eleven. It is possible, of course, that raids have been much more frequent than recorded. Zaradon has posited that fairy raids may occur as often as every eleven years, although he has so far been unable to produce solid evidence to that effect.”

  Criton rubbed his eyes. Whoever had written this scroll had tiny, cramped handwriting that forced him to strain his eyes to decipher every word. There were even smaller notes scribbled in the margins, and combined with the obtuseness of the sentences, it made for very slow going. He wished Phaedra were here. She would have pored over this scroll and picked out all the useful parts. Without her, he had no choice but to soldier on.

  “Besides the question of raids,” he read, “the number eleven also appears in poetry attributed to the Kindly Folk, generally in the syllabation of each line. However, the authenticity of all such fairy poetry has been called into question of late. Mage Saphon has suggested that what was once credulously termed fairy poetry is an invention of bards and minstrels, an opinion that has gained some standing in recent years.”

  Criton’s mind was going numb. He yawned and skipped ahead.

  “While the number eleven is by far the most prominent, three and its multiples also appear to be relevant numbers to the Fair Folk, much as they are to humans. It is a strange fact that although accounts of fairy kidnappings – including those not confirmed by reliable witnesses – contain significant variation, the rare tales of a child’s return always follow the same pattern: a child formerly thought kidnapped by elves returns to his bed precisely three years later with no recollection of the time spent away from his family. Although only four unique variations on this tale have been recorded, the cases bear such a striking similarity to each other that the three-year timeline of return cannot readily be dismissed.”

  Enough – Criton could read no more. He was getting a headache. He stood up, scroll in hand, and went to find Bandu.

  Bandu was standing at the edge of the rubble, repeatedly thrusting her arm into the air, curling her fingers around nothing, and yanking her hand back to herself as if burned.

  “What are you doing?” Criton asked her.

  She sighed and sat down. “I try to take sky net from the air,” she said, frustration in her voice. “No good.”

  “I foun
d a scroll,” Criton said, showing it to her. “It’s awful to read, though. It’s all about numerology.”

  Bandu looked at him blankly. “What is nume, nume, what?”

  “It’s about numbers,” he explained, “but I don’t think it’s said anything useful yet. I guess I’ll have to read to the end to make sure I don’t miss anything important before I go looking for more. The thing is, I don’t think I even want to find any more scrolls at this point. This stuff is so hard to read, Bandu!”

  She reached for his hand and squeezed it reassuringly. “You can read,” she said. “You are strong and good.”

  He squeezed her hand too, and sat down next to her. “How do you feel?” he asked.

  “Hungry.”

  Criton nodded. He was hungry too, now that he thought of it.

  “This gate is not the same,” Bandu said.

  “How has it changed?”

  She shook her head. “Not changed. It’s a not-same gate. The gate I come through before is another place.”

  “So they have different gates? If this one won’t open for us, should we try another one?”

  “No,” Bandu answered. “How do we find other one? If we are lost, our friends do not live.”

  Criton nodded, and they sat a moment in hungry silence. Not all the hunger in his belly was really his, Criton realized with a start. The feeling was radiating so strongly from Bandu that he could feel it in his own stomach. It tasted of her.

  “I’d better find you something to eat,” he said, standing up.

  Bandu nodded. “I find Hunter’s things,” she said, pointing. Sure enough, Hunter’s sword, dagger, armor and shield were gathered in a small pile alongside Narky’s spear. “I move them here, so we don’t forget.”

  “Oh, good.”

  “The reading helps?” she asked.

  Criton sighed. “Maybe,” he said. “As I said, it’s all about numbers. It talks about some discussions between wizards about the timing of the fairies’ raids and that sort of thing. One of them thought that the fairies kidnap children every eleven years. The author didn’t agree with him, I think, but if the elves kidnapped you when you were the same age as those kids, and they’re back again now, the eleven year thing might be right. I don’t see how knowing that really helps us, though.”

  Bandu thought about it. “Read more,” she said at last. “But first bring food.”

  He stood to go, but for a moment, Bandu held his wrist. “Be careful,” she said. “Animals here look almost same, but they are not the same. Don’t let them eat you.”

  Criton smiled weakly. “I’ll be fine.”

  He wandered into the forest, more afraid than he liked to admit. Every noise sounded menacing to him; even the wind on his back made him spin around nervously. He thought he heard the sound of water up ahead – that at least was promising. He and Bandu would need fresh water, and so would the animals.

  There were also fish in the stream. Criton could see them darting this way and that, and though they were mostly small, fishing did seem a good deal safer than hunting. Criton knelt down by the water, slowly dipping in his hands and waiting for a larger, unsuspecting fish to pass between them. This might take time, but at least it wasn’t especially dangerous.

  At least so he assumed until the fish noticed him. Within seconds, a crowd of them were swarming around his arms, biting him with their tiny teeth. One of Criton’s scales was ripped off, and then another, drops of his blood running into the stream in little clouds. He stumbled back away from the water, and still the fish clung to him. God Most High, they could bite!

  He breathed fire at his own arms, anything to stop those little teeth. To his relief, the fish fell off him in a small pile. There were a good ten to fifteen of them, but he still thought they would be less of a meal for him and Bandu than he had been for them.

  He glanced back into the stream, where his blood had caused a frenzy. The remaining fish were ripping each other to shreds. Then a larger fish came by and swallowed them all, drifting away placidly. Criton picked up his catch and fled back to Bandu, feeling sick.

  They spent several days at Gateway, and each day Bandu insisted that they should stay a little longer. Goodweather would help somehow, or perhaps Bandu would have a breakthrough and find a way to open the mesh herself. The scroll on numerology, when he finally finished reading it, did not help matters. She kept insisting that the barrier would be easier to open on the third day after their capture, then on the sixth day, then surely on the ninth, and when that passed, on the eleventh. Finally, Criton told her she had to stop trying. Ten days had passed since their triumph in the riddle game. If they didn’t rescue their friends soon, it would be too late.

  “You go,” she said. “Maybe when you bring them here, then I know how to open.”

  “Bandu,” he said, as patiently as he could. “I can’t go by myself. I need you, and so do they. I don’t know anything about this world. If I go alone, I’ll be caught and killed right along with the others.”

  “No,” said Bandu. “You are strong and smart, you can help them. I need to stay. If we go together and help them and we all run, how that helps if I don’t know how to open gate?”

  “I do understand what you mean,” he answered, “but if I track those elves down to their hall without even a plan for what to do when I get there, I’ll just get myself killed. You think I can rescue everyone on my own? How?”

  She looked at him silently for a long time. “They go to Illweather,” she said. “I am sure. They are so angry when they see I name young Goodweather. I never go to Illweather before, but if Illweather is like Goodweather…” She trailed off.

  “Yes?”

  She took a deep breath. “Goodweather tells me once, he has only one seed every many many years, eleven and hundred and thousand I think. If Illweather is like him, he does anything to save seed. You steal and say you burn it, and I think Illweather is afraid and does what you say him to do. He helps you and shows you others and keeps elves away. If he doesn’t, you burn.”

  Criton frowned. “Illweather and Goodweather have seeds? I thought you said they were fortresses, like Silent Hall?”

  “Like Silent Hall, yes,” Bandu said, frustrated, “but not same. They are also trees and thorns and mushrooms and parts of sky also. Seeds are important for them.”

  “I’m sorry, Bandu,” he said, “but I don’t understand you at all. If they’re fortresses, how can they also be plants and sky? Are you saying they’re fortresses made out of trees and mushrooms?”

  “Yes,” Bandu sighed. “Is not really right, but almost. Right enough. If you take seed, then Illweather wants it back and maybe will help you.”

  Maybe. “And where would I find this seed?”

  Bandu looked uncertain. “I think up very high. Goodweather says his seed falls when he is ready, so it has to be up.”

  “All right,” said Criton. “That’s something to go on, at least. If Illweather has only one seed, and if I can find it, and if Illweather doesn’t betray me somehow. Is there something you were planning to do in case that didn’t work?”

  Bandu shook her head. “If that doesn’t work, then I think some other thing when I am there.”

  “I thought so,” he said, sitting beside her. “That’s what I’m worried about. If I don’t have you there with me, who will think of a backup plan? I’m afraid, Bandu. You know this place, and I don’t.”

  He was finally getting through to her, but that only seemed to make her sadder.

  “You need to go,” she said, “and I need to stay. Or they die.”

  “I know,” he told her. “I know. I just wish I had you with me, and I’m… afraid.”

  “Take Hunter’s sword,” she said. “I love you.”

  Luckily, the fairies and their prisoners were not hard to track, even after a week and a half. The group had made such deep and wide impressions in the greenery that Criton simply followed their path until he came to a hill that overlooked the castle Illweat
her.

  Now he understood what Bandu meant about the fortress that was also plants and a piece of sky. A dark cloud hung above the castle, concealing the tops of the enormous trees that were its corner towers. Criton swore softly to himself. Bandu thought Illweather’s seed would be somewhere near the top, which meant it would be hiding at the end of a limb in the middle of a stormcloud. She had said it without certainty, but he was sure she was right: Illweather needed no deception to keep its seed safe – its natural defenses would be more than sufficient.

  But then… what if deception really was among the seed’s defenses? The thought of climbing all the way up one of those towering trees only to discover that the prize was hidden elsewhere – Criton could hardly bear to think about it. Yet what else could he do? If the castle possessed as active a mind as Bandu seemed to think it did, he would likely get only one chance to search for the seed before Illweather began to fight against him, one way or another. Dare he risk the climb?

  Perhaps he didn’t need to climb. A few months ago he had flown, albeit a very short distance. Maybe he could manage it again.

  He slowly bent his knees, trying to remember exactly what he had done before. He couldn’t remember now – it had all been a blur at the time. He tried jumping. Nothing happened. He jumped again, imagining his body soaring upwards as he did so, but he fell right back down to earth, the same as ever. What was the trick? What had he done before that he was not doing now?

  He closed his eyes and tried to remember that night. He had been angry, he thought, about something Bandu had said. He had been running away from her, and from his troubles, and he had gotten lost. No, on second thought, it was only after the flight that he had gotten lost. What was it, now? What had he done?

  He remembered the feeling of jumping without falling, of letting his anger and his anxiety carry him away. Yes, he had been anxious. That must have been the night that Bandu had first brought up the question of marriage. How that had frightened him then! It was not really Bandu that had frightened him, but the thought of being like his mother – of being married to a man who would beat Criton until his whole body was a useless broken thing, just because of what he was. Criton chuckled darkly to himself. How could Bandu ever have become that man in his mind? It seemed so absurd now.