“You assume wrong; Giants never encountered these creatures in their explorations of the Giant World. Which isn’t to say they don’t have a familiar cast—no doubt if Kuilea gave you children, they would look like these mongrels,” she snickered, whatever commiseration she had once shared with the goblin woman forgotten.
“Kuilea?” said Inglefras. “Eurilda I understand, but Kuilea?”
“She is my most loyal friend,” said Khyte, realizing it to be true as he said it, and regretting how he had left things. “Was,” he amended. Though he felt that he should be disgusted at Inglefras’s superficiality and backbiting, he found her just as lovely. If she seemed less curvy, that might be a trick of the dancing light and shadows emanating from the furrow.
Inglefras persisted: “But I don’t find her desirable at all. What did you see in her, Khyte?”
“You’re not a man, and as you said, now isn’t the time. Eurilda, what are your thoughts?”
“Kuilea couldn’t get any uglier, but at least she has a homely smile. As the kindness of dryads is counterfeit, they are only good for shade.”
“No,” Khyte said, raising his voice, “on getting us to Ielnarona.”
“You already have the key, Khyte. Or am I wrong that you’ve somehow brought an ancient controller, and can read the script?”
After a pause, Khyte said, “I don’t know what ancient controller you mean, and I’m not the fastest reader, but yes, I can read it.”
“The secret to skimming even this wall of words is to look for key words. So rather than plodding word by word, scan for ‘dryad.’”
“I’ll look for Ssyrnas, or Wywynanoir,” he said, and directed his attention to the walls.
“You’re not finding either, are you?”
“No, nor dryad,” he said. “But that line refers to the Worlds of Tree-Mothers.”
“Which cities?” asked Inglefras.
“Julingart, Zentoqa, Huytrama ...”
The dryad interrupted, “those ancient cities changed their names. Zentoqa, our first hospitality city, was the old name for Wywynanoir.”
“Touch that line with the controller,” Eurilda said.
“What controller?”
“It’s your dagger, Khyte. I don’t know how it was stolen without maiming the would-be thief, as we found those ancient blades irremovable.”
“I got it from Sarin Gelf, so someone removed one.”
“And it restored this doorway’s full functions when you returned it to the room.”
“How does it work?”
“Touch the point to your destination. Though we should assume they know how to operate the doorways.”
“They won’t stop me,” he said. “We have a detente.” At the touch of the blade to the ancient script for Zentoqa, the furrow’s colors shifted from the warmer, red, orange, and yellow arc to the cooler violet, blue and green side of the spectrum.
While no one blocked Khyte from switching the destination, once he had done so, they were circled by the Ebotu, and in that tense moment he suspected they weren’t observing a peace but saving the gruesome part of their negotiations for later, after the honorable dispatch of their chief according to their inviolable precepts. These civilized cannibals satisfied honor before appetite.
“This place is not for you.”
“I’m open to recommendations,” Khyte said
“Traveling presumes a future.”
“The wretch chooses a destination while we choose from the menu,” said another, snickering.
“Will you have elf, human, or dryad?” There were many giggles. “I’d like all three for a balanced meal, but only the elf’s dark meat, and only if it’s still kicking.”
The realization that the Ebotu intended to eat them alive was chilling, but Khyte had a little hope—actually, a giant hope. No longer caring if he was overheard speaking an ‘unclean language,’ he turned to Eurilda. “The bad news is they hunger to eat us. The good news is they think you’re human.”
“They’ve marked me for a sorceress, and there’s not much room.”
“Unless we find an exit, it’s fight or die.”
“There’s a fourth option. Remember, we couldn’t see them until we saw the doorway. What if we left the light of the doorway?”
“I wondered that myself. If they are simply invisible outside of its light, remaining where we can see them would be an advantage.”
“Could we have so easily brushed by brutish cannibals who are now so eager to stand in our way?
“You think they only exist in the doorway’s light. What of the shadows in the dagger?”
“Maybe premonitions from the blade, or perhaps the blade collected the stray radiation as we approached the doorway’s chamber.”
“Maybe we should leave the doorway,” he said. “Or maybe removing ourselves may render them invisible and more dangerous.”
“It’s our best gamble.”
Khyte turned to the Ebotu. “If you’re betraying our agreement, I see no need to hold up our end of the bargain.”
“You must!” it shouted. “You would judge us for mere intentions, but become a liar and oath-breaker before our eyes. You are a hypocrite, an advocate for unreality!”
“While you’re throwing names around, this one might stick: wizard—with a knife.” Khyte threw the dagger through the doorway. When the strange blade passed the otherworldly barrier, the gyrating light dimmed, and the Ebotu, along the writing on the wall, vanished. While the Ebotu had disappeared, Khyte was yet uncertain whether they were only invisible, or had truly vanished, and he could think of only one way to know for sure. When Khyte ran in circles swinging Azuri’s sword, he did not connect with unseen Ebotu, but did produce laughter from Inglefras, Eurilda, and Azuri. While Khyte’s caution was understandable, it was ludicrous to behold.
“Khyte, take me home,” said Inglefras.
“Not me,” said Azuri. “I won’t travel through that pit in the air.”
“It’s faster than Alfyrian Ladder,” said Eurilda.
“So you say,” said the Alfyrian.
After directing Azuri to the Fair Well’s wine cellar, Eurilda added, “Though Merculo and your ambassadors will have questions, fear not telling them the truth, because I will not return to Kreona.”
“I do not fear you,” said the Alfyrian stiffly, but nonetheless backed from the room before turning to run.
When it was just the three of them, Khyte, Inglefras, and Eurilda stepped through the doorway …
… .and found themselves in a room like the one they left, except this one still had gleaming inscriptions. Khyte’s dagger was a half-inch deep in the opposite wall, where another ancient blade was sheathed in a sconce.
When Eurilda grabbed the second dagger and touched a word on the wall, the doorway’s dancing lights widened, and the glimmers cast larger shadows. Khyte wrenched his dagger free, and read the new destination—Uenarak—but didn’t select another city. If he had chosen correctly, they were already in Wywynanoir. There was only one more abyss to leap, and the giantess barred the entrance to the chamber. He guessed his dagger’s next destination might be Eurilda.
“Aren’t you staying, Eurilda?” asked Khyte.
“You forget the plan. How can we drive up the reward if we’re already here?”
“That was never your plan.”
“But it was yours, and I like money just as much. Besides, if you get the dryad, and she gets you, why should I return empty-handed?”
“You’ll have my friendship, our goodwill, and some reward.” Khyte suddenly remembered Merculo’s ostentatious crown; as jewelry, it was wrecked, but as gold and silver or as a historical artifact, the giantess might accept it as her stake in the ransom. He tossed his backpack down, knelt beside it, and began to rummage.
“How much is that worth?” Euri
lda answered. “Neither Huiln nor Kuilea would rate your friendship more than a krupek.” Khyte growled, discovering the silver spider abdomen was gone, as if it regrew its golden legs and skittered away. When he remembered the ravenous Alfyrian returning a much lighter pack, he knew the truth was simpler. Never trust an Alfyrian, he told Inglefras, but he did not follow his own advice.
As Khyte’s growling mellowed into groaning, Inglefras spoke up. “You’re too hard on him, as Khyte had my will to satisfy, not his own mind.”
“You admit your manipulation?” said Eurilda, raising her voice. Khyte recognized that tone—recently, it preceded kicked elves and hurled goblins—and moved to shield Inglefras.
“I admit influence,” said the dryad. “Nothing more. If it would make you happy, what is done can be undone, and he may accompany you to Uenarak.”
Khyte had never felt dizzier, like the floor yawned under his feet. “I would never leave you.” Inglefras did not turn her gaze from the giantess.
Eurilda also ignored him. “Not only do you offer nothing I cannot take, I might forego reward for the pleasure of seeing you dead.”
“You will not kill her,” Khyte said, then turned to Inglefras. “You will not trade me away.”
“Dear Khyte, it isn’t up to you, is it? I’m surprised you still want me,” said Inglefras. “Can’t you see I’ve changed?”
Khyte grabbed her shoulders, and looked at Inglefras’s lovely face—thinner, but still flush and vibrant—and her figure, every inch of which he had loved. When he suddenly desired those curves close against him, he pulled her close for an embrace, and at the sheer touch of her flowering garment, he knew; though her proportions had changed ever so slightly, hour by hour, so that he had been blind to it, the embrace was a more certain knowledge than the surest sight. Though she—he, Khyte whispered to himself through the roar of denial—was still a soft, pliant, dryad, her—his—shape had changed. The vegetal being in front of him was a new terrain; where once had been hills and valley, the slopes had plunged and the depression had blossomed.
“How…” Khyte’s anguished noise was untranslatable. “Who are you?”
“I have told you several times. Though I bear her name, I’ve never been all of Inglefras. If I’m Inglefras, one of your thoughts is Khyte.”
Eurilda walked around them with a look of bemusement, then laughed. “I see the problem. Your lover is more changeable than you are, Khyte. Did she think becoming a man would bring you closer, just as you cut off your manhood to draw her in?” She leaned in to Inglefras. “You’ve cheated two hearts, because what I once held in mine for Khyte is gone. And there’s now only one coin I will accept.”
The giantess stabbed at the dryad’s heart, but Khyte, whose feet still danced to the dryad’s will, found his own ribs hanging on the ancient dagger. Though his eyes dimmed, he heard Eurilda’s plaintive squall, more snarl than moan, though her gushing, snuffling cry directly after told a different story, as if her tears had welled for some time, only to burst the dam on bursting through Khyte. He coughed, feeling the piercing pluck at his breath, and blood bubbled from his mouth. When he slumped into the darkening world, it rippled with running footsteps and Inglefras calling, answering, and echoing.
Khyte opened his eyes. The dryad’s face was everywhere, like a kaleidoscope of green shades superimposed on the background gray; under each angry face spears were clutched, and this repeated image of Inglefras circled Eurilda.
Having no choice but to fight at her natural scale, Eurilda fell to one knee as she boomed into enormity, but her head still scraped a shower of gray silt from the ceiling.
When the wind from Eurilda’s gigantic sword slash fanned his prone body and the images of Inglefras leaped all directions, including over him, to dodge its sweep, he knew this was no dream. His Inglefras led a legion of Inglefras. I’ve never been all of Inglefras. They stabbed and stabbed, scoring Eurilda’s arm and thigh with spear bites, until she rushed on all fours, like an enraged bear, through the doorway. Though most stepped out of her way, she crushed two dryads in her passage to Uenarak. Khyte wept weakly to see his love’s bloodied body laid out double, then once again his vision faded to black.
Chapter 9
The Tree-Woman
Khyte came out of his daze with a shoulder under each arm and his wound cleaned and dressed. Turning left, he smiled to see Inglefras back in her buxom self, though her hair was a darker green; looking right, he recoiled from the second Inglefras, whose hair was nearly blue, twisted and thrashed free, and went nerveless after two steps. Though they had carried him effortlessly, they struggled to pick up the shaking warrior.
When they said, “Steady, love,” in unison, the pleasurable sound of Inglefras harmonized soothed him, and they steadied him until he found his footing. Though he no longer resisted their strength, since Khyte found it hard to focus and balance—one moment his vision was blacked out, and the next the blurred world poured into his eyes—this took longer than you would think.
“Where is Inglefras? My Inglefras?”
“Your Inglefras is not your Inglefras,” said the one to the left.
“Our Inglefras is not our Inglefras, either,” said the other, and they laughed. “Not anymore.”
“Where is she?” Khyte demanded.
“She is not,” the one on the right said, and they laughed again.
“He has gone ahead to make arrangements,” said the other.
“What arrangements?” asked Khyte. “She should be at my side.”
“Since the apothecaries and hotels will close before we drag you to Wywynanoir, he went ahead for your potions, salves, and room.”
“Another could have gone,” said Khyte.
“He insisted.”
“If we expected to be your crutches,” said the other, “we’d have ridden kiuvathi.”
“I can manage.” When Khyte pulled free, stumbled ahead, and swayed, the dryads rushed to his side.
“You shouldn’t walk unassisted,” said one.
“He can’t walk at all with a hole in his middle,” said the other.
“To be fair, he isn’t walking. He skipped all the way to running.” By a berserk stagger, he forced them to follow closer than his own shadow. Every time he felt their touch, he increased his lurching velocity, and so prolonged their chase.
“Catch him!”
Khyte awoke in black silk sheets wet with sour sweat. Vermilion Abyss-light filtered through shuttered windows into the bright orange room. As he poured a clay jug on the end table into a steel cup, the coarse handle, the cup’s slick surface, and the action of leaning from the bed to pour cold water all felt familiar. This foggy memory of pouring drinks and the stench of his sweat made him wonder how long he lay in this warm bed.
Khyte sat with an effort, wincing from a burning pain under his pectoral muscle. When he touched it gingerly, expecting his finger to come away wet with blood, it came away bright green—not the sickly color of gangrene, but a healthier hue, caked on new soft skin, of asparagus, evergreens, and peas.
After Khyte stretched his tight legs and aching feet to the floor, and satisfied himself that he could walk without making a fool out of himself, he opened the door onto a bright yellow hallway with many orange doors and rubbed the glare from his bleary eyes as he shuffled to the landing. Though Khyte smiled in rapt relief at the sight of descending stairs, for it meant he was no longer on one-floor Nahure, he soon regretted the shooting pains in his calves and hamstrings, for the stairwell was so steep that it seemed not hammered and sawed by a rational carpenter, but grown into place by a plant less concerned with function than with surmounting the obstructions to its growth.
Though climbing two mountains, near-fasting for three days in the Abyss, battling goblins and elves, fleeing guards, and fighting traitors once would not have dented his iron limbs, Khyte now shook and clung to the balustrade. Was
this how it felt to be old? Remembering the fable of Kurto the Young, who fell into a well to emerge in an upside-down world as Kurto the Old, Khyte clutched at his chin, half-expecting a gray beard trailing to his navel and found himself newly shaven. Though this alleviated fears as to the conditions of his care at the dryads’ hands, it did not ease his nonsensical anxiety of waking up ancient, given that Kurto the Young was a rarely recalled fable from his all-too-brief childhood, which he felt he should not so vividly imagine, having become not only a man but headsman at thirteen.
When Khyte reached the last flight, a graybeard in sienna robes was having similar troubles going up. Not only did the feeble old man seem a fearful apparition conjured from his anxious imaginings of himself as an ancient; not only did Khyte think him familiar, though he could not place his name; but this spark of near-recognition set his heart pounding, his mind racing. Why was he so distraught at not knowing this old man?
“Hello. Do I know you?” Though Khyte wrung his brain, he could not place the old man.
“I should be honored if my name was not unknown to the valiant hero who values his life less than a seed. As the tree-women are also curious to meet you, we’re due at the Bryntenysh Council.”
Hearing this circumlocution prodded Khyte’s memory. While he was much thinner, the barbarian could not forget the fat old merchant’s intelligent, probing, eyes. “You’re Sarin Gelf. But you’re so skinny—how long did I sleep?”
“Though I’m not Sarin, he’s like a cousin to me. Call me Garin, if you’d like.”
While Khyte was not himself, he had the presence of mind to note the ”if you’d like.” Apparently Garin was a pseudonym. “Have you lived in Wywynanoir long? How did you come to serve the dryads?” he asked.
“That story is unworthy of you, but a day may fall when you learn the truth of it.” When the stairwell descended to an atrium suffused with pink through the tinted windows, yellow by the glow of the wallpaper, and orange by the sealed wood, Khyte couldn’t help notice that this hotel seemed bleak despite all the warm colors. Only one of the desks was staffed, by a dryad with sky-blue hair, and she seemed as breathless as a tree, not even blinking as he followed Garin through the arch leading to the concourse. Only Garin had laid eyes on Khyte since he had awakened.
A Spell Takes Root Page 18
