by T. H. Lain
Silatham looked like an enormous, splayed onion impaled on huge evergreen trees. Several rope ladders hung down over the ground, and a curved leaf of the onion—maybe an artichoke—opened out to form a ramp that could support heavy weight; carts, horses, even marching troops. That explained the clearing. It was a mustering or unloading area. Drop your big artichoke ramp, load it up with soldiers, and the elevation renders them well-defended, Devis thought.
Of course, the place was on trees. Fire could be a problem for defenders. Live athel trees were impervious to most natural flame, and the trees had no doubt been soaked with defensive magic. The problem with this bustling town scenario—in addition to the fact that it was a myth—was location, location, location. Devis couldn't understand how this place would support itself. It sat ringed by dense forest that would break a pack mule's leg in a minute. It wasn't large enough to have farms inside the onion wall. And you'd have to haul soil up a hundred feet to grow anything in treetop gardens.
This could only mean one thing. There had to be huge stores of food under this place: steaks, bread, wine, and ale. It all had to have been brought in before the trees grew up to surround it. Silatham had been stuck up there when this forest was very, very young.
Which meant that the huge, central tree sticking up through the onion had to be a fake. It was as big as the rest, but it had to be the route to the stores. Devis was suddenly very hungry. He shifted Mialee on his hip, and her arm flopped free and struck Hound-Eye. The little halfling yelped and moved ahead of the bard.
Devis's arms ached. It was time to give up on the romantic hero bit for a moment. He flung Mialee over his left shoulder and jogged to catch up with Hound-Eye and the others. He winced every time he heard the lute smack her in the head and decided to just walk fast. Diir was already starting up one of the rope ladders. Devis hoped the ranger knew a secret way in.
The elf seemed to know where he was going, and that was encouraging. Devis still didn't trust the glow. The splayed onion looked as if someone had lit a candle inside. This place wasn't all dark, living athel. It was dead, and burning. Devis could actually feel the heat on his face.
From close up, Devis could see gaps, open seams where the woven wood had dried and split from age. This was dead athel like the temple in Dogmar, not dark, living trees.
Devis knew a surprising amount about athel trees, learned from a big-eared elven artisan in exchange for a tune and a good word with a barmaid at the Dog's Ear. The thing about athel wood was, it could grow in the ground—like the temple once had—or on other trees. Elves used to use the stuff to build in the trees before athel became so rare. When it was alive, athel trees could be woven using a technique very similar to bardic magic and it was dark, rich, reddish brown. When athel died, it turned golden yellow like the temple, or white, if not treated properly.
The tops of the dead, woven athel trees of Silatham spread up and out like the petals of a huge blossom, in a shape the elves called ama, "flower." It still looked like an onion to Devis.
The curved platforms were known as xilos, or petals. The xilos formed wide platforms that held what looked like lookout stations. Such a vantage point would be extremely effective in the town's defense, Devis figured, since one could literally get the drop on any enemy charging the wall while staying out of that enemy's reach. As long as the athel resisted the most obvious angle of attack on the outpost, it could stand unmolested for millennia. Which, he guessed, it had. According to what the wrinkled, little letch at the Dog's Ear had said, athel wood could also be coaxed with magic to close the enormous flower petals in a truly heavy siege, creating a spiked, straight wall twice as tall as the "open artichoke" design he gazed at.
The others had all followed Diir up the rope ladder. Only the bard with the dead elf woman over one shoulder still stood gaping at Silatham.
With Mialee's body tied awkwardly to his back, Devis heaved himself and his precious cargo belly-first onto the xilo, keeping the elf woman's lifeless head from cracking against the living wood. Zalyn helped him ease the burden onto the hard surface of the wide lookout spot. He rolled into a crouch and peered over the elven village of Silatham.
The place was a wreck. At least, Devis assumed the inhabitants would think so. In truth, the place was so strange looking to the city-bred bard that he couldn't have said for certain whether it was in ruins or in perfect condition. But he was willing to bet the elves didn't normally burn house-sized fires in their residences just to keep warm, athel wood or no athel wood. The old trees that grew up through the base of the onion were covered in white athel houses that glowed with reflected firelight. Devis wonderd how long it would be before the whole place went up. Even dead, the wood looked to be resisting the flames. Most of what burned, he saw as he looked closer, were the Silath tree support structures, not athel, which just smoldered instead.
He soon spied one athel structure that was unmistakably important, the tallest in the village. Devis guessed that it led to storerooms of food, weapons, maybe even riches. No symbol adorned the outside of the structure, but Devis could feel the holiness of the tall, peaked building. It must have been a temple, and that was exactly what Mialee needed. High up the sides of the central Silath tree, which was no doubt dead athel stained brown, a few cozy residences or study rooms perched above the rest of the village.
Only after adjusting to the alien architecture did Devis realize that what he thought were rustling branches and drifting leaves were actually thousands of undead elves. They shambled about the bases of the trees, unseeing, uncaring, unaware of their condition.
The only structure that any of them were climbing was the temple tree at the center of the village. Dead elves climbed like rats up the rope ladders strung around the temple. Why they didn't go inside, Devis didn't know. Maybe that cleric Zalyn placed so much trust in actually was here and was somehow keeping the dead at bay.
Zalyn moved very slowly toward Devis to avoid making noise in what was left of her full battle dress, and the bard was impressed with the gnome's success. She had left all but the breastplate on the ground outside Silatham, wrapped in her cloak and stuffed behind a tree. The sacrifice would help them sneak into the place. Zalyn approached Mialee and crouched over the wizard's lifeless body. Devis left her alone with her rites, or whatever they were. Despite the destruction, there really seemed to be cause for hope. Mialee would be her old self again in no time, Devis was positive.
They had to get inside that central tree, Devis thought. That would mean getting past the zombies shuffling among the ruins and clinging to the rope ladders. If only Mialee weren't dead. He contemplated the big temple tree. Not every ladder had zombies on it, a few were clear. If he could get to an open ladder with Mialee...
. .. the weight of an adult elf tied to his back would get him killed and both of them devoured, or worse. Maybe Zalyn could turn enough of the things to clear a swath. Diir could help, too, if this really was his town.
Diir tapped the bard on the shoulder and pointed to their right at another xilo lookout. Devis saw a lithe figure, so still the half-elf had missed it before. The silent shape seemed to be watching the village below and the shuffling things that infested it. The bard had difficulty seeing the figure's face through the haze. Diir pointed out the shape to Hound-Eye and Zalyn. The foursome collectively squinted at the figure for a sign of movement.
The crouching form remained so completely motionless it could have been a stone gargoyle. It was, however, covered in pale armor that looked curiously familiar to the bard.
As he caught a glimpse of Diir from the corner of his eye, Devis nearly smacked himself on the forehead. The motionless figure was wearing the same peculiar style of armor as the taciturn elf. In fact, Diir perched on their xilo in a posture that was the mirror image of their crouching observer.
The bard could only believe that the figure was enjoying the show below. Or, he admitted grudgingly, it was an elf just like Diir, maybe with the same memory loss and only a homeward-turning compulsi
on to return to this place.
The four of them communicated through hushed whispers and gestures, and settled on trying to reach the figure, which still had not moved. If it turned out to be friendly, and it had a sword like Diir's, their chances for success would improve dramatically.
Unfortunately, Devis knew they were kidding themselves. It was ridiculous to assume weapons like that grew on trees, even in a place where houses did. If everyone in this place had a Diir-sword, Silatham wouldn't be burning. But still, the distant, crouching elf—please, the bard thought, let him be an elf, if he turns into a wight in front of my eyes I'm just going to jump to my death—was their best hope of figuring out what had happened to the village. Even with normal weapons, if the man was half the fighter Diir had proven himself to be, he would be a valuable ally.
The party silently elected Devis to approach the crouching figure. Hound-Eye would once have been a better choice, but his lame foot would be a liability now. Zalyn and Diir had to stay behind. The elf and that magic sword of his were the group's best hope for survival if Devis didn't make it back. The bard wasn't keen on leaving Mialee's body behind, but Zalyn assured him through hand signals that she would see nothing disturbed the dead girl. He spared Mialee's lifeless face one last glance and flipped a wave to the others, then set off over the xilo toward the still-unmoving figure.
To reach the xilo, he had to climb along the narrow, upraised lip of a drawbridge ramp. He hugged the wood as wind and heat caused the ramp to sway back and forth in its locks.
A shift in the breeze sent heat and smoke washing over him when he was halfway across. Lungs stinging, eyes streaming, the bard crawled blindly on. Devis felt the end of the drawbridge, then his right hand pressed down on something soft. The something squeaked. He squeezed his eyes open against the particle-filled air and saw that his hand rested on a rat. A dead rat, from the look of it. The thing had no eyes.
Yet it squirmed under his gloved palm and Devis saw that it was trying desperately to twist its tiny head around to bite him. Not dead—undead. The little zombie squeaked, and the squeek became a screech.
Devis did the first thing that popped into his head. He smashed the furry rat's body with his fist. With a pop, foul-smelling gore, fur, and flesh burst from the creature. Devis marveled at how much awful stuff had been inside the little body. His nose flared in disgust and he let the rat corpse drop to the ground.
Devis was nearly to the crouching man. The smoke was so thick that Devis couldn't see the man's position, however, and he decided that the smoke would conceal him just as well. After pulling himself off the ramp, he crouched and walked carefully through the haze to a point near where the elf should be, if it was indeed an elf.
The wind shifted and the smoke cleared. The crouching man was gone. Devis rocked onto his knees to look all around just as something heavy struck him across the back of the skull.
Mialee dreamed of eternity.
The energy that was the essence of the wizard no longer thought of herself in terms of a name. She had no name, but she did have vague memories of words. Some words were names, such as "Mialee," "Biksel," "Favrid," and something called a "Devis."
Really, Mialee did not "think" at all in the conventional sense. Thoughts did not move through a brain of tissue and blood, crackling electrically from nerve to nerve. Instead, she existed because she knew she existed. She was energy and vague consciousness. What had been the essence of Mialee the wizard soared through the multiverse, propelled across planes of existence by nothing more than will to move. It orbited distant, blue suns in a heartbeat, stopped in on the end of time. More words resurfaced: "spellbook," "notes," "stars." There was both surprise and delight that stars were not just points of light, but immense beyond imagining.
And there was something else. Memories, perhaps, or hints of memories, of a physical world, one among millions. Why was there memory here?This was no place for memory. What was happening? What could happen to conscious energy?
Another memory intruded. It hinted at life and afterlife, spirits and souls. Was this afterlife? After-what-life? Suddenly, the consciousness wanted very much to be somewhere else. The limitless expanse of the roiling multiverse was on fire...
A hand clasped her ankle. Such a strange sensation, yet comfortable.
A voice carried over the tumultuous ether. The sound echoed in the flaming void.
"Mialee," the voice whispered, shouted, and sang.
"What?" Mialee asked.
Mialee's eyes blinked open.
She found herself looking up at the beaming faces of Zalyn and Devis. A tiny raven perched on the cleric's shoulder. Darji squawked in surprise. "She's awake!"
Hound-Eye and Diir also stood over her, wearing looks of relief. A stranger, a male elf adorned with the same antique armor that Diir wore, also loomed. This newcomer looked as if he'd seen even more combat than Diir. She felt warmth and heard the crackle of a fire in a fireplace, and past the onlookers she could see a high, curved ceiling of smooth, brown wood. The height was misleading because of her prone position. Her eyes rolled left and right and she saw that the room was fairly cramped. It held another couple of strangers and...a child? She smelled incense, tea leaves, and something else, something foul.
The nasty smell was coming from her clothes, which still pinched like a corset. And Devis. And Diir. All of them were covered in—
The events of the last few days came back in a rush, and Mialee bolted upright, eyes wide. She stared at Devis and squinted.
"Snowdrop?" Mialee asked. "Pear best tax collector green?"
The others stared at her. All but Devis and Zalyn actually took a step back.
Mialee frowned. What was going on?
"Snowdrop!" the girl barked. Slowly and loudly, like an aristocrat trying to explain an order to a dim servant, she repeated her question. "Pear...best...tax collector...green? Sextant owl?"
"Zalyn," the bard said, worried, "What's she saying? What did you do?"
"Um," Zalyn explained, "I resurrected her. The most powerful resurrection spell I know. Ehlonna should have returned her to perfect health." The gnome shrugged. "Maybe it had something to do with the broken ne—I mean, many scholars believe the voice comes from—" She shook her head and pursed her hps. "This isn't a normal side effect, I swear."
"What in blazes is a 'sextant owl'?" Hound-Eye asked.
"Troll interrogate sickle, snowdrop," Mialee said more urgently in an effort to get Devis to explain what was going on. "Goblin trampoline bugbear!"
They all just blinked. Mialee fumed.
"Oh, dear," the little gnome muttered, and she dashed off to her large leather satchel. She rummaged through the clanking vials and produced an empty one, then held it up in the firelight to read a tiny label that Mialee could hardly see. The elf wearing armor like Diir's looked at the label over her shoulder.
"What is it, elder?" said the elf.
"Haystack?" Mialee asked in shock. Zalyn didn't look like an "elder." She was barely an adult gnome.
"Yes, that's it," Zalyn said and pursed her lips at Mialee. "Aphasia."
"Marmot proclivity?" Mialee replied. When she received another round of blank stares, she leaped off the wooden table and jabbed an index finger at the vial. "Friendship! Apple friendship!" she repeated, exasperated.
Zalyn looked apologetic. "Mialee, I'm sorry. When you died—"
"Pear turnip swimming?" Mialee asked. She died? She remembered everything up until the point she spotted Favrid down the forest trail, then nothing.
Hound-Eye jumped in. "When the thing, er, killed you, I sort of panicked," the halfling explained sheepishly. Mialee guessed the man didn't often confess panicking. "I took a bunch of those potions and poured them into your mouth."
"It seems one of them wasn't a healing potion, though," Zalyn interrupted. "It was something we call hinual quar, the 'talking dance.' I assure you, I had no idea the brothers kept this sort of thing in their stock. Probably left there by someone trying to
play a joke."
There was something changed about the gnome's voice. She spoke with confidence, authority, and no trace of the nasal accent of the Dogmar gutters. Zalyn frowned and continued her explanation.
"It's a prank potion, really, popular with youngsters and students. They think it humorous to slip it into the teacher's tea before lectures, that sort of thing." The gnome shrugged apologetically. "I believe that we've inadvertently given you aphasia, Mialee. The effect is temporary, I assure you."
"Dragon turtle dangle?" Mialee asked.
"Can she hear herself?" Devis asked the gnome. "Does she know what she's saying?"
"Turnip gazebo wagon, potato," Mialee told him.
"I do not believe so," Zalyn replied, "I suspect that she has every belief that the words leaving her lips are perfectly clear."
Mialee began to say something more, but snapped her mouth shut. It would explain the situation. She didn't remember swallowing any potions, though, let alone dying.
The creature had her by the throat, but her athel wood collar protected her from the wight's crushing strength....
Sweet Ehlonna. Her final memory, walled off by the resurrection spell to keep her from losing her mind when she returned to life. The feeling of brief flight followed by a crunch, and agonizing pain followed by a split-second of chilling numbness before life left her body. The wight had killed her. She'd seen light and colors, dimly remembered. All of which made her presence in this cramped room all the more baffling. Zalyn certainly could not have brought her back from the dead—the little gnome was barely a novice, and not even accepted into her order, despite what she'd said. That was just lunacy.
"Will it pass?" asked Devis.
Mialee nodded agreement for the question, trying not to baffle anyone further.
"Certainly," Zalyn offered, "but without knowing how large a dose she received, I cannot say how long it will take. There must have still been some of the potion in her mouth when Ehlonna granted me the power to bring her back from the beyond. Perhaps it was a half dose, a quarter dose, or—"
