Even more fascinating than the search for what and where, was the study of when. Merter showed how to determine the age of many kinds of tracks and taught the importance of understanding the environment. Dryness, he said, was often – and mistakenly – taken as a primary indication of age. But prints dried at different rates according to many factors like soil type, shade, wind, humidity and such, so that an hour-old print in one environment might look like a three-day print in another. Young trackers had often been fooled in this way and stumbled onto the camp of someone they thought to be leagues ahead of them.
It was during one of Merter’s lessons that they came across the oversized bush where the stone carving of the locust had rested. The locust was gone. At first they thought they had the location wrong, but then Merter found the earthy patch still riddled with crawling things that had lost their shelter. Deep gouges in the soil lead away along a vague hollowed impression of bent grass and broken stalks.
“No wonder it looked so real,” Aedan said with a slight tremor as he began scanning the nearby trees.
When the rest of the party joined them, Fergal stood for a long time looking at the vacated resting place.
Aedan stepped beside him. “Do you think,” he asked, “that maybe the storms that have returned after all these centuries are causing these animals to wake?”
“It’s a reasonable hypothesis,” Fergal replied without looking up.
“What woke the bigger snake though?”
“Maybe it was struck twice. Maybe it never entered the deep hibernation of the others, and all the handling caused it to stir while it was being laid out in the museum by the curators.”
Aedan shivered. “But then how did the smaller one wake? Do you think it could have been struck recently while deep inside the museum?”
“There was a hole leading to the open, remember. If it had been raining during the storm, water could have carried the lightning below easily enough. I’ve heard of that kind of thing happening on farms. Let’s not get fixed on the double-strike idea though. Perhaps the first snake was just a light sleeper, and perhaps the others are now all emerging from their hibernation. Something that I vaguely glimpsed when you pushed me through that doorway – and thank you for that – there was a long scar on the larger snake’s head. I suspect it was the first and last cut of the skinner, and doubtless, it was this that woke the beast.”
“Maybe that’s what made it so hostile to people,” Aedan said.
“I don’t know that hostile is the right word. Basic hunger would be sufficient explanation for the animal’s actions.”
But Aedan could not forget the way the second snake had behaved after being woken more gently. The look in its eyes had not been animal. And he wondered …
Then he remembered something from a long time back. “When we first came through DinEilan, we heard a strange call just before morning. My father said it had the pattern of a woodland fox, but it was too deep. He said there was no fox big enough for a voice like that. I think I understand now. Think I also know why it sounded lonely.”
Fergal grunted. “So then there are at least four of these monsters loose in DinEilan. Two snakes, a fox and a locust. And let’s not forget whatever it was that uprooted trees and did away with the rangers in that first confirmed report. I doubt that even a horse-and-a-half sized fox could have uprooted a tree. It must have been something bigger.”
“Maybe the same creature Merter wanted to look for when we spotted those trees moving after the Fen attack?”
“Maybe.”
“There’s something else I’ve been thinking about,” Aedan resumed, encouraged by Fergal’s patient ear. “Back at Badgerfields in the Mistyvales, there was this giant tree that grew near the manor house. Nobody knew what it was, but we called it a pearlnut. Sometimes I thought it looked a bit like a plane tree with that mottled-looking bark and those fresh green leaves, only that the bark didn’t flake and each leaf was as big as a blanket, and instead of those prickly seeds, the tree produced the most delicious nuts you ever tasted ...”
Aedan reached the end of his breath without getting anywhere near his point. The last words were pushed out like the final drops from an orange squeezed dry. His face was red and he sucked an undignified breath. Placing a theory before the man he now knew to be the chancellor was unnerving him more than a little.
“The thing is,” Aedan pursued, “there were no big trees nearby, but there were others like it miles out into the forest, a huge number of them, far more spread out than any of these strike-point copses – I could see them when I climbed high enough, though it was really difficult to get …”
He shook his head and reached for his point. “It makes me think our tree was an offspring from a seed that had been carried. If that’s so, then could it be possible these giant creatures could reproduce too?”
“And fill the land with the thunder of their walking?”
“Yes, or slithering.”
Fergal blew out a slow breath. “I find myself caught between excitement and dread at the prospect. But tell me – these trees that you saw out in the forest, were they all the same species?”
“I – I, yes I think so. Why”
“Because it confirms a suspicion I’ve had. It’s likely that more than one species was struck but only one of them has spread. I’ve been wondering about incompatibility with the environment – if some of these new species might not struggle to survive, and if it would be possible for them to adapt within days. The biggest problem is actually not adaptation but correct internal functioning. With animals, massively oversized offspring are almost never healthy and they usually die young. These creatures, it would seem, have overcome this – possibly their internal proportions are changed – but even so, the environment may not accommodate them.
“It falls outside the scope of your studies, but a diversion into the natural sciences won’t harm you. Here are some examples that should illustrate the point. Take the enlarged birds – both seed and insect-eating types would now have beaks too blunt and cumbersome for their accustomed sources of food; bees would crush any flowers they attempted to visit; mosquitoes would not be able to land soft and undetected when they drop like acorns; moles’ tunnels stay open in loamy soil, but if they were many times wider they would collapse – that’s why sappers have to use wooden support beams.
“Consider trees for a moment. A tree with a tap root that grows to several times its normal height would need to sink its root to several times the usual depth – and most locations would not have soil deep enough. This might explain the numerous dead giant trees. There are many more examples, but these should suffice to illustrate the difficulties of survival.”
“But … the snake seems to have done it.”
“Quite right. I don’t say that it is impossible, only unlikely. The larger of the snakes is one that has clearly managed to make the rapid adaptation. And it appears to have done more than just adapt. The changes in its form make me wonder if we are even correct in referring to it as a snake any more …” Fergal thought in silence for a while. “But let’s put that aside for now. We were speaking of adaptation. Once the former inhabitants of Kultûhm were no more, it might have learned to take deer, or even hunt in the lake. There are some very big fish there – maybe even some horrifyingly big ones if the same lightning struck the water. It’s possible that it has learned to slow its metabolism, possible that it hibernates for long periods.”
“So … do you think the pearlnut tree was the one that was able to adapt?”
“It appears likely, but much more investigation would be needed to confirm it, investigation that is not going to happen, because, as I understand, nobody goes into Nymliss.”
“Uh … that’s not exactly true.”
Fergal shook his head and sighed. “What else did you find in there?”
“I never went as far in as those giant trees – that would have taken days of winding through the forest, so I can’t really – uh – confi
rm anything, but I did once find the tip of a big skeleton. At least, I think it was a skeleton.”
“So this tree of yours then is the only example we have of possible propagation. I certainly hope you are wrong. Even if only the mole vipers began to multiply – can you imagine how our world would change?”
Osric stepped up. As his heavy boot thumped down, something that had bothered Aedan for years finally dropped into place.
“It’s a trap!” he exclaimed without thinking of the consequences. “Those huge bronze jaws with the giant teeth and the spring by the Lekran ship …”
Osric and Fergal spun on him.
“How did you learn about that?” Osric demanded, almost in a shriek. “Not even Dun is allowed in there. Construction teams were blindfolded and carted in. Only …”
Fergal began to laugh and dropped his head into his hands. “Ah, Osric. I think we should have known better by now, don’t you? How do you think he found out? That academy is yielding its secrets to young Aedan like an overburdened plum tree tossing down its fruit.”
Osric held up a finger in front of Aedan’s face, his lips tight as if he was about to explode with threats and warnings. Aedan could see them gathering under the surface, wrestling for front position, getting jumbled and crowded. Eventually they combined into a soulish “Bahh!” of disgust. Osric shook his head and marched away with thumping strides, crushing the grass underfoot.
“Well could it be?” Aedan ventured.
Fergal was still grinning – at least his eyes were. “A trap you mean?”
“Yes.”
“That is a most disagreeable thought. But I do see the logic of it. Our best guess back then was that it was intended for crippling rival boats somehow, but the design never seemed ideal for any application we could imagine. Though I don’t think I want to know what could be caught in a trap that size, your suggestion is the simplest so far, and the simplest explanation is often the correct one. But this has reminded me of something. One of the builders once made a peculiar report – he found a spear embedded in the woodwork of the deck.”
Aedan dropped his head and looked at the ground, preparing for some red-hot words, but all he heard was a thoughtful “Hmm”.
They spent the next two days keeping watch for the newly awakened locust. There were a few false alarms – the large shape of a mottled crane was twice mistaken for the oversized insect as it beat its ponderous way across the sky, but nothing of the locust was seen.
After a particularly muggy day and a late-afternoon cloudburst, they were drying themselves off before the fire when Aedan remembered something he had kept losing between the cracks in his thoughts.
“Liru,” he said. “You never told me how you came by another weapon. You only took the dagger. What did you throw at Rork?”
She looked away and peered into the fire, which Aedan thought odd as she was normally so direct. She replied with only a hint of embarrassment, “Your boot.”
“Are you ready for this?” Fergal asked.
“Yes,” Aedan said. It was the right answer. It was the only answer, though he and Fergal both knew it to be wind. He looked at the palace and unthinkingly clenched his fists. When he noticed a guard looking at him, he compelled himself to relax and assume a posture more befitting a humble subject.
They had returned to Castath slowly because of injuries, so the journey had taken almost two months. Eastridge was now a military outpost. It was secure, but the presence of soldiers was a hard reminder of the cruelty that lurked beyond the mountains.
When the travellers had crested the last rise and the broad grasslands and proud city of Castath stood beneath them again, Aedan had been struck by its frailness after the mighty walls and hulking sentinels of Kultûhm. Still, the improvements to defences were considerable.
The outer walls had grown taller and there was work taking place on the nearby hill. He felt proud to have been a part of those designs. And then the pride fell and withered with a blade in its back. Betrayal. He could not shake it from his mind. He had been betrayed. Liru, Culver, Fergal – they had all served the city, and the prince had been willing to have them slaughtered to suppress an honest yet inconvenient suspicion of danger.
The only thing that kept Aedan’s anger in check was his caution.
Leaving Castath was an option, but it would mean leaving those who had become family to him. He did not have the heart to start over, not again, not yet. And he still had much to learn.
The party was silent as the bustle of country roads became the familiar rumble of the city – clopping hooves, rattling wheels, the shouting of peasants, haggling of merchants, and the wild games of children. After months of quiet travel it was an overwhelming onslaught. They were approaching the city gate when they were intercepted by a jingling regiment of the special guard, silver armour and spotless white tunics flashing in the sun. The captain of the regiment summoned them to the keep, immediately.
They had expected this.
When they arrived, the whole group, enclosed in a cage of marching soldiers, was taken into the centre of the courtyard where they now waited.
Aedan glanced over at Liru. She looked as angry as he felt. This was not a reception of welcome or thanks. It was quarantine.
At a signal, the regiment marched them into the main building. This time they were shown into a windowless chamber, thickly carpeted and lavishly ornamented, where only the prince and Ganavant awaited them, each behind a large desk.
“Welcome! Welcome!” Burkhart cried, throwing his arms open as if he would embrace them, and staying behind his desk.
Ganavant did not smile.
“We have so much to discuss and I am eager to hear what you have discovered. The whole city is abuzz over your return – somehow the news of your approach arrived before you did.”
It was almost a question. His eyes had a hard glint as they darted from one member of the party to the next, but nobody offered an explanation.
Aedan thought back to the conversation he had noticed between Fergal and a young courier while they were still a ways out. Cunning. The widespread curiosity would make secret murders difficult. He wondered if that would be enough.
When nobody in the group offered a reply, Burkhart resumed. “Before we get started, tell me, what has become of the rest of the party? Where are Culver and the other soldiers?”
Fergal had reverted to his passive, subordinate role. To the prince, he would be no more than a voluminous and offensively bushy clerk. It was Osric who replied.
“Culver is dead, along with Commander Thormar and all the soldiers except those sent back to Eastridge and the two you see here. We encountered many hardships along the way.”
“Osric,” said Ganavant, “how is it that you were among this number? The prince’s commission did not include you.”
“You are correct, Ganavant. It did not include me, but neither did it exclude me. My standing commission from the king in Tullenroe is to ensure the safety of the southern empire and the success of its ventures. When this venture – deemed of the highest importance by our prince – came under threat, my duty was clear. I am surprised it is not clear to you.”
“Your judgements strike me as ill-considered and wasteful of resources. You are a general. A whole town had been lost and you chose to accompany a small band of travellers.”
Osric never made threats. His reputation and presence were so intimidating that he did not need to. He turned now and faced Ganavant with a look that caused even the furniture to gulp.
“Truly Ganavant? Is that how they strike you? Despite the fact that Eastridge was recovered without the loss of a single soldier? Despite the fact that you are still in complete ignorance of what Culver’s party faced? Despite the fact that our prince here named the quest an inquiry of the highest importance, and without my presence it would certainly have failed? Your assessment is strangely at odds with the facts, Councillor.”
“You exceeded your orders,” Ganavant snapped. “You i
nterfered where you were not authorised.”
Osric stepped forward, dropped his plate-sized hands on the table and leaned towards Ganavant. “Interfered?” he said, “Now why would you choose that word? Am I to understand that you had some desire to deliberately exclude the first general of the realm from this quest?”
Any other man would have backed away, but Ganavant stood where he was and looked up with toad-like detachment that could have been indifference or calculation. Aedan had never seen anyone stand up to the general before. Osric was frightening, but it was not Osric who seemed the more dangerous of the two. There was something unnatural, something disturbing about those big slithering eyes that seemed always to be measuring, just waiting for the range to be right.
“Osric,” the prince said, “I concede that Ganavant has been less than cordial. I would ask that we put this behind us and move on. Will you tell me what befell the party, why so many were lost? And please, let us be seated. I have much to ask and I would have you all comfortable.”
The velvet-cushioned chairs looked as delicate as sea shells with spindly flamingo legs. Aedan glanced over at Osric’s, half expecting it to crumple under the bull-weight for which it was clearly not designed.
When it held together, he chanced a quick look at the prince. Burkhart was attired in his usual carefree way. He seemed almost to disdain the elegant fripperies of royalty, as if he wanted to look like a man of the people, comfortable as one of them. But his eyes were not comfortable. They would not settle anywhere, and shadows hung beneath them in spite of a nose that glowed more brightly than before. His cheeks, once pudgy, were taut. Every now and then they would jump and twitch as if spiders wriggled under the skin. This was the face of a man beset by worries, anchored to the floor of a rising sea. Still, he was working hard to appear jovial, leaning back in his chair and fixing a kindly expression on his wilted features.
Dawn of Wonder (The Wakening Book 1) Page 67
