by Angus Wells
Initially they were of the wolf-headed monstrosities, nightmare images of fanged mouths and hate-filled red eyes, of fire and battle, but these he could understand, and after the first shock of waking, he was able to dismiss them. Others troubled him far more.
Chief among them was the image of Varent’s handsome face smiling as the ambassador described the quest, then turning as the man prepared to leave, revealing a hidden face that snarled, laughing, becoming the visage of the lupine demons, his black cloak swirling, becoming a pair of vast, nigrescent wings that raised a great wind as the figure flew upward, a bat with a wolf’s head, spiraling into the sky, its mocking laughter echoing behind it. Sometimes he would hear Bracht’s voice then, saying, “A wizard has many faces”; and sometimes he would dream of the freesword, falchion in hand, the other scooping coins, his blue eyes filled with contempt and accusation. Sometimes he dreamed of Reba, the spaewife’s musical voice repeating the words of the augury, and then he would see both Varent and Bracht emerge from the shadows behind the blind seeress, both beckoning him, requiring him to choose between them. He would turn to Reba then, seeking her guidance, and she would shake her head, dissolving into the candle’s flame, leaving him, alone, to choose between the waiting figures.
Less often, the infrequency surprising him, he dreamed of Nadama. He would see her somewhere in the palace, in a garden or an empty hall, and she would raise her arms, smiling, and he would move toward her only to find his limbs leaden, dragging slowly as he sought to run. Tobias striding past him to sweep the girl up in his embrace, their kiss a lingering insult, their close-pressed bodies abruptly hidden behind the bulk of his father, By-lath lifting a condemning hand to point at him, his leonine features set in lines of outrage.
On all of these occasions Calandryll would wake sweating, the blanket crumpled about his feet or tossed aside, and lie staring at the night sky, listening to the snoring of Varent’s men and the soft shuffling of the tethered horses, simultaneously longing for the sleep his body craved and dreading that descent into confusion. He wished that he might consult a dream-speaker, but knew that such interpretation would not be available until he arrived in Aldarin, composing himself once more to sleep only to find the camp waking when it seemed he had just shut his eyes.
He would rise then, reluctant to discuss the troublesome nocturnal visions, and dully eat his breakfast as he struggled to respond in kind to Varent’s diplomatic apologies that no greater comfort was available, aware of Bracht’s critical gaze as he wearily readied his borrowed horse and climbed without enthusiasm into the saddle. The two men had little to say to one another, Varent mostly remaining with the column while Bracht was constantly at Calandryll’s side. The mercenary was polite enough, and Varent appeared satisfied with him, but when they halted the Kern’s silence, for all that the ambassador ignored it, seemed pointed. Calandryll felt that he studied Varent, awaiting some justification of his distrust.
HE was pleasantly surprised, after some seven days of journeying, to find that his aches began to decrease, that his limbs began to respond more readily as he saddled his borrowed horse and climbed astride; no less that the riding itself grew increasingly enjoyable. His humor improved then, and as it did, the dreams became less frequent, his sleep deeper, so that he once more began to assume his natural cheerfulness.
‘You toughen,” Bracht remarked one day when he urged his horse to a canter, riding out ahead of the cavalcade, the mercenary dutifully accompanying him.
“Yes,” he agreed, unwilling to admit how uncomfortable he had been.
Bracht put it bluntly into words: “You were soft.”
“I am not accustomed to sleeping rough,” he allowed.
“You’re more used to beds than the ground,” the Kern responded. “To cities and servants; to luxury.”
It was indisputably true, but Calandryll refused to acknowledge that veracity. His feelings toward the Kern were ambiguous: he felt a heed to prove himself to Bracht, to augment the acceptance he had felt after the battle with the demons, but at the same time could not forget that the freesword rode with him for pay, no other reason. Bracht’s mistrust of Varent rankled, for Calandryll had faith in the ambassador and the coolness that stood between them irked him, stemming, he felt, from Bracht’s unreasonable dislike of Varent. He drove his heels hard against the gelding’s flanks, lifting the animal to a gallop. The horse was willing enough, but no match for the Kern’s big stallion: Bracht matched him easily, riding as if melded with the beast.
“But now you harden,” the Kern shouted over the wind rush.
It sounded almost like a compliment and Calandryll turned his face, grinning. Bracht smiled back and Calandryll felt a flush of pleasure, the more determined to win the freesword’s respect.
They thundered across a broad meadow ringed round with stands of slender birch, the trees silvery in the morning light, the sun shining warm out of a bright blue sky, white cumulus bulking across the western horizon, where land and sea met. Birds sang among the timber, more scattering from their path, and Calandryll gave himself over to the sheer pleasure of motion. It was as though the troublesome dreams were left with the column that receded behind them, the purity of the carefree gallop washing away all doubt, leaving only the quest ahead. Bracht’s welcome comment reassuring him, firming him in his resolve. He stretched low over the gelding’s out-thrust heck, willing the animal to greater speed.
Ahead, the flanking woodland closed on the meadow, the grass becoming an avenue of sun-dappled green down which they raced heck-and-neck. Calandryll glanced at Bracht, seeing the Kern sitting upright in the saddle, the reins held almost casually in his left hand, the thick tail of glossy black hair streamered out behind him. He was smiling still, his stern features relaxed, his own pleasure writ clear.
Then sunlight gave way to shadow as the ground dipped and the wide-spaced birches were replaced with denser, older trees. Ash and beech and oak filled a broad bowl, the timber spreading up the ridge sides, heavy boughs thrusting out to hide the sky. Bracht reined the stallion down to a walk, gesturing for Calandryll to follow suit as the trail became a winding path overhung with gnarled limbs that might easily sweep an incautious rider from his saddle. Beneath the horses’ hooves the ground was rich with humus, black and muffling so that the sound of their passage became an aural match to the obfuscation of the light. There was a solemnity to the forest, the air still, cut through with occasional shafts of brightness, prompting Calandryll to think uncomfortably of a temple, its dark interior lit only by the high, narrow windows. Bird song was a distant chorus, dimmed, it seemed, by the bulk of the great trees. Calandryll realized that he held his breath, as though the weight of timber imposed a sense of reverence, and when he next glanced at Bracht, he saw that the Kern was no less impressed.
They rode slowly through a vault of beeches and found themselves in a clearing as abruptly sunlit as the entrance to the forest had been shaded. Bracht halted, Calandryll at his side, staring at the enormous tree that dominated the glade. It was an oak of proportions to suggest tremendous venerability, boughs spreading in a mighty corona from a trunk so wide around rooms might have been cut into its interior. Beneath the span of its limbs the ground was thick with winter-fallen leaves, a carpet of dry yellow that contrasted with the fresh green of the springtime shoots rising to meet the sun. Bracht dismounted and Calandryll followed suit, aping the mercenary as he tethered his stallion and moved on foot toward the tree.
Dead leaves crackled beneath their boots but there was no other sound. No bird song or hum of insects, no rustle of breeze, disturbed the silence, as though the sheer solidity of the tree absorbed everything about it. There was an expression on the Kern’s face Calandryll had not seen before, a look of awe; of reverence. He watched as Bracht approached the massive oak, arms raised as if in homage, setting his palms against the furrowed trunk, murmuring in a language he recognized as the tongue of Kern, in which he caught only the one word: “Ahrd.”
Fo
r long moments Bracht stood, resting his weight against the tree, as Calandryll waited, then he straightened, turning a solemn face to his companion.
“I have never entered the Cuan na’Dru, never seen the Holy Tree, but I think this must be kin to Ahrd. I think this must be a sign, though of what I do not know.”
Calandryll frowned; he knew the folk of Kern hailed the tree, Ahrd, as their god, but he had not thought of Bracht as at all religious; and it seemed strange to worship a thing inanimate. Nonetheless, he could not deny the power that emanated from the vast growth. In that sunlit glade it was a tangible thing; it seemed he inhaled it with the rich, loamy air, felt it in the green-tinted light that bathed his face: he nodded.
Then gasped, clutching at his sword, as a voice said, “Bracht understands.”
It was as if the tree itself spoke, or the woodland, for the words were soft as the rustle of wind through leaves, the faint rattle of stirred branches. He felt his skin prickle and saw the Kern draw his falchion, light glinting on the polished blade as he spun, ready to meet an attack, and realized that his own blade was out, raised in defense.
Gentle laughter whispered across the clearing and the same voice said, “I offer you no harm. Rather, I would protect you.”
They both turned, eyeing the surrounding ring of beeches, seeing no one. Calandryll looked to the oak, anticipating some hidden archer; a volley of shafts. The voice said, “Put up your swords; you are safe here,” and Bracht lowered his blade, studying the tree.
“Ahrd?”
His voice was hushed. Calandryll, raised in worship of Dera, was less ready to accept such an explanation.
The voice came again, out of nowhere, out of everything around them. It seemed to emanate from the air itself, from the oak, from the sunlight.
“Put up your swords. There is no danger here, not for you.”
Bracht sheathed the falchion; less readily, Calandryll returned his straightsword to the scabbard. The sun seemed to shine brighter then, filtering through the widespread boughs to fill the glade with a gentle, green-hued radiance. Calandryll sniffed, anticipating the scent of almonds, that olfactory warning of sorcerous materialization: he smelled only the rich, woodland odors. They grew stronger as the light increased, momentarily dazzling him so that he was not sure of what he saw, could only guess, still suspecting trickery. It seemed the great bole of the oak shifted as though filled with some inner, mobile life, the wrinkled wood bulging, roots wavering from the soil, a shape forming that came out of the tree itself, stepping confidently toward them. He set a hand to the hilt of his sword; felt Bracht’s grip on his wrist, stilling him. The figure came closer, growing clearer with each step, and he gaped, staring at it.
It was formed in roughly human guise, but clearly no fleshly being, as though crude-carved from the oak, a dendriform thing. Its skin was the seamed grey of ancient wood, green-leaved twiglets sprouting from the gnarled round of its head, cracks for eyes and mouth, the torso a wooden trunk extending narrow arms that ended in thin twigs, the legs like roots, their bases thick with earth and dead leaves.
“You came to me in peace and I would send you away in like manner,” it said.
“Ahrd?” Bracht repeated softly.
“Not Ahrd,” said the creature, “but Ahrd’s kin, as you thought.”
Bracht raised a hand, the fingers spread wide in a gesture Calandryll recognized as obeisance. The gentle laughter sounded again, serene as the oak itself; strong, too, as that massive growth. It washed over them, warm as sunlight, reassuring: he felt his doubts dissolve.
The being halted, facing them, and he saw that the twin columns of its legs did, indeed, penetrate the soil, driving down roots as if seeking the sustenance of the earth. He stared at that part of it he thought of as a face and it seemed to smile, though that might have been no more than the play of sunlight on the gnarled surface.
“Listen,” it advised, “and be warned. Deception cloaks your path and you must choose your friends with care. Beware the face of lies and hold no secrets one from the other, for you are bound as root to branch and the one may not survive what you face without the other. Remember that when the deceiver spins his web: trust is your ally and your strength,”
“You speak of Varent?” asked Bracht.
“I speak of wizards and of gods,” the creature answered.
“You speak in riddles,” Calandryll said. “Can you not speak clearer?”
The twigs atop the thing rustled as though in negation. “I cannot,” it declared. “There are … limitations. Were Bracht not born of Cuan na’For, I could not speak at all. Now go—I can tell you no more.”
The voice faded, soft as a dying breeze. The tree being turned, roots tearing from the soil, and walked away. Calandryll stared, watching as it trod ponderously to the oak, seeing it embrace the great trunk, the light shimmer again as it merged, becoming one with the tree as if it had never been. He looked at Bracht, who raised his hand again, toward the tree, spreading his fingers, then bowed and walked toward the horses.
“This is a holy place,” the Kern murmured.
“It is a strange place,” Calandryll allowed.
“You saw the soul of the tree,” said Bracht. “You heard Ahrd’s kin speak.”
“I saw a creature formed of magic.” Calandryll looked back: the oak stood noble in the clearing, but now it seemed no more than a very ancient tree and his doubts returned. “But I have seen much magic lately.”
“You doubt its warning?” Bracht demanded.
“I heard riddles,” he returned.
“It spoke of Varent.”
Bracht’s voice was firm. Calandryll studied his face and shrugged.
“Or of Azumandias.”
“You are of Lysse,” said Bracht. “What do you know of Ahrd?”
“I know the tribes of Kern worship it—him?—though few have seen the tree,” Calandryll answered. “Do you not call it the Holy Tree? It is supposed to lie within the Cuan na’Dru, is it not? And none dare enter there.”
“You worship Dera—have you ever seen her?” Bracht countered.
Calandryll shook his head. “No, but Dera was born of the First Gods—who can doubt her?”
“She is a goddess of Lysse,” Bracht said. “Ahrd is the god of Cuan na’For.”
“We are in Lysse,” Calandryll responded.
“You say that was not a warning sent by Ahrd?”
Calandryll heard the conviction in the Kern’s voice; read it in his eyes. He shook his head helplessly.
“I am not sure what it was. Perhaps Azumandias sent the thing to confuse us.”
“Varent said Azumandias could not find us. How could he know we should come to this place?”
“I know not.” Calandryll felt confused. “You say it warned us against Varent?”
“Aye, I do.”
Bracht nodded. Calandryll stared at him, confusion mounting. “Why do you mistrust him?” he asked.
Now Bracht shrugged.
“He has an air—something about him.”
“That you dislike. Is that reason enough for your suspicion?”
“Suspicion has often kept me alive,” Bracht said.
“But still you accept his coin.”
Accusation crept into his voice; Bracht ignored it.
“Why not? He pays me well.”
Calandryll snorted, growing angry.
“And so you accept his commission. Even though you distrust him.”
“I may be wrong,” Bracht admitted. “But now … I heard the byah speak.”
“Byah!” Calandryll frowned.
“The spirit of the tree. Ahrd’s manifestation.”
“Ahrd is a god of Kern,” said Calandryll, “and we are in Lysse. You cannot be sure Azumandias did not send the thing.”
“I know,” Bracht said, simply.
“Dera!” Calandryll raised his arms in frustration. “Whoever sent it—Ahrd, Azumandias; Dera herself for all I know!—it spoke in riddles that you choose
to hold against Varent. How can you say for sure it did not warn against Azumandias?”
Bracht shrugged; Calandryll sighed.
“If you believe that, why don’t you leave his service?”
“I gave my word,” Bracht said, frowning as if he considered the question unnecessary.
“To a man you don’t trust?”
“Until he proves me right,” Bracht nodded.
“I don’t understand you.”
The Kern grinned tightly. “Is there no honor in Lysse?”
“Of course,” Calandryll answered stiffly, sensing insult.
“I took his coin and gave my word in return,” Bracht explained. “Until he shows himself treacherous I’m bound by that.”
“It might be too late then,” Calandryll said.
“Perhaps,” Bracht nodded, “but still—I gave my word.”
“And that binds you.”
“Yes,” Bracht said, “it binds me. What am I without it?”
Calandryll studied his face. The Kern’s answering stare was guileless and after a few moments the younger man shook his head, seeing that Bracht would not be shaken from his conviction: his honor was a binding thing, and he would serve Varent until such time as the ambassador showed himself false. But that time would not come; of that, Calandryll was certain. Varent’s purpose was honorable and sooner or later Bracht must accept that. Of the byah’s purpose he felt less certain. He had felt no doubts when the tree creature spoke, but now that it was gone he was less confident. Its warning had been ambiguous: it had offered no direct hint that it spoke of Varent, so why should it not have referred to Azumandias? That seemed, to him, the logical conclusion if it was as Bracht believed, a manifestation of Ahrd. But how could the Holy Tree hold power in Lysse? Might it not, as he had suggested, be some further trick or Azumandias’s? He determined to discuss the apparition with Varent as soon as he was able.
“Come.”
Bracht’s voice roused him from his musings and he mounted the gelding, following the Kern back through the forest to the ridge where they had first descended into the dense timber.
