“Raggi?” Ormar asked.
“Think of it as a particularly vicious blackberry bush,” Ameras said, after a moment’s thought. “Only with four-inch poisonous thorns.” The image made the alchemist wince.
“The raggi are vermin,” Bomoadua said, with a shudder of her leaves. “They let their foul berries fall just anywhere, with no respect for the rest of the world. No intelligent being should fall to such filth. I took pity on Rolof.”
“And I made a friend,” the wizard nodded, as we strode through the grove. I was starting to identify a certain wild pattern to the way the trees and plants were situated, though it was difficult to understand. “Several, in fact.”
“Rolof enjoys coming here and speaking to the Leshi as much as I like talking to Avius,” Ameras agreed. “They tolerate us, for the news we sometimes bring.”
“It’s not toleration, I genuinely enjoy your company,” Bomoadua assured, slowly, as we came to a grassy break in the grove. It seemed to be a kind of common area, filled with strange grasses in a dozen shades of green and bright dashes of every other color under the sun, as thousands of strange wildflowers swayed in the summer breeze.
At one edge of the gently sloping meadow was a wide pond, surrounded by rocks and dominated by one particularly large outcropping at one end. There were scores of shrubs and other small trees scattered around the wide meadow, and here and there stood clusters of Leshi. I didn’t know if they were talking, trading or just taking in the afternoon sun, but they barely noticed us, to my eye.
“Would you like a drink?” Bomoadua asked, as one of her eyes gestured toward the pond. “Or something to eat?” Another great limb stretched over and grabbed a great cluster of berries off a nearby tree by casually snapping the branch.
“Thank you, that’s lovely,” Ameras said, sitting on the long soft grass. “How have you been? It’s been a beautiful summer,” she added.
“We need more rain,” complained the Lesh. “At least a few more inches, before the equinox. The saplings are stirring,” she added, meaningfully. “If they get dry, they get creaky.”
“That’s the Leshi term for irritated,” Rolof chuckled. “No one likes a creaky Leshling.”
“Of course not,” agreed Lilastien. “This is incredibly beautiful,” she continued, addressing Bomoadua. “I’ve lived on this world for more than a thousand years and I’ve never seen the like,” she said, as another Leshi female glided by. Her canopy seemed infested with insects the size of my fist that seemed to be . . . pruning her. “I am Lilastien, a representative of the Alka Alon Council of this realm. We came on several errands, but among them is seeking a particular substance. A substance with powerful properties that may indeed, help defend our world. Rolof says that you have knowledge of this substance.”
“They speak of striekema, Bomoadua,” Rolof said, with a grave sigh. “I sorrow to bring it up with you, but the need is grave, or I would not have brought them here.”
“What need is so great that you ask for this?” the Lesh asked us. It was difficult to gauge her emotions by her voice – her speech had different inflections than ours. But I saw several of her branches clench up. That had to be a sign of her disturbance.
“My lady Bomoadua, my name is Minalan. Minalan the Spellmonger. I am a wizard,” I said, trying to keep the explanation simple. “That is a human who practices magic, where magic works. One of my charges is to assist the Vundel in creating something that they covet, a magical mineral called snowstone.”
“The snowstone increases the Golden Reefs,” Rolof explained to her. “Therefore our hosts are extremely anxious to acquire it. Only humans have produced it. Minalan did by accident. He needs the knowledge the striekema can show him in order to do it again.”
“Do you realize what you ask?” Bomoadua said, after a long pause.
“I do,” Rolof assured. “And I ask with all due respect. And only because the need is great.”
“We can only ask,” Ameras agreed. “I think I understand why Minalan wants it. I do think it will be helpful,” she added. “He seems awfully clever.”
“You say the Vundel want this?” the Lesh asked, after another long pause.
“They do, my lady,” I assured. “It is said this substance allows the detection of every sort of arcane energy. Indeed, it is the only substance we have heard about that might. I need that capability if I am to determine how the snowstone spell works. Without it . . . well, I am a lot less likely to appease the Vundel.”
“The Vundel are far from here,” Bomoadua pointed out. “But they are our allies. They gave you permission to live here, too,” she decided. “What you ask is profound. But if you need it, I will have to ask the Father Trees. Minalan, Lilastien,” she ordered, “follow me. They will have questions. The rest of you enjoy the moot meadow until we return.”
So, I followed the tree. And came to stand before the strangest court I’d ever witnessed. The Court of the Leshi Fathers.
Chapter Thirty-One
The Court of Leshi Fathers
While our journey into the Leshwood was fascinating, the effect it had on Lilastien and Minalan was more profound. There was a change in both of them, when they returned from the Court of the Leshi Fathers. I know not what they learned there, but from that point on in the expedition both seemed changed, perhaps more distant and distracted. It was of concern to several of us, but we did not feel inclined to mention it to them.
from the Expedition Book of Anghysbel,
Recorded by Tyndal of Callierd
The grove that Bomoadua led us to was on the opposite side of the moot meadow on a hill that was thickly forested . . . with the ancestors of the Leshi. Lilastien walked next to me as we followed the giant tree-being, both of us quietly pensive.
“This isn’t someplace I’d ever thought I’d be,” I remarked, as we strode across the meadow toward the foreboding forest.
“Actually, I’ve always wanted to study the Met Sakinsa,” she reflected. “I was planning a sabbatical to begin that when the New Horizon showed up in the sky. It was more pressing to study your people, at the time. Then I was in prison and could only give it a cursory study. I’ve always regretted it. They’re one of the most important races in Callidore’s history, yet we know very little about them.”
“We have excellent hearing, for one thing,” Bomoadua’s gourd answered. “Many of your people have come to dwell among our groves for a time. Rarely here,” she said, gesturing around with an eyestalk. “They prefer the groves bathed in magic. Our people are less affected by the jevolar than most of our kind, but your people do not like it here. You are Avalanti, yes? We’ve always had very cordial relations with the Avalanti, among your kindreds.”
“You seem very well informed about the Alka Alon, nonetheless,” I observed.
“We have known them since they came to this world. They are not difficult to understand, for animals,” Bomoadua demurred. “Humans are even simpler. Human researchers have also come to us seeking knowledge. Like Rolof. Usually, they have been very polite about it.”
“What can you tell us about the Court of the Leshi Fathers?” Lilastien asked. “Just to prepare us for what is to come.”
“They are the rooted fathers of the grove,” the Leshi said with a shrug of her branches. “They are the oldest among us. They will ask you questions and listen. They will consult the Grandfather Tree. Then they will issue guidance on the matter. What you ask is no small thing,” she reminded us. “They will make their decision with all due deliberation.”
“So, they are your leaders?” I suggested.
“In great matters, yes,” she agreed, as we approached the looming forest. “They give us little direction in the every-year life of the grove. They trust us to run it appropriately, as long as we see to our duties.”
“Duties?” Lilastien asked, suddenly.
“We must raise the young and propagate,” Bomoadua explained. I glanced up and realized just how much farther we had to go. The trees
ahead were massive, I realized. “We must order the grove and tend the forest beyond. We must protect the grove. And we must ward against the pestilence, for that is why we are here. All simple matters, easily managed among the Leshi. The Father Trees only dictate when there is a greater issue at hand.”
“And they are rooted?” I asked. “They can’t move, anymore?”
“They can, but rarely do they do so. Their roots are interconnected. It would take great need for them to walk again. The court is just ahead,” she continued, as she ambled to the edge of the meadow. “We will meet with three of the Fathers. They speak for the rest of the grove. They are gentle spirits but concerned with propriety. Please do not defecate in their presence. It is considered disrespectful,” she added.
“I will keep that in mind,” I agreed. Lilastien stifled a giggle.
As we came to the edge of the grove, I saw just how much bigger the rooted Father Trees were than Bomoadua. The trees closest to the edge of the meadow were the smallest, and they stood fifty or sixty feet. The ones behind soared up to a hundred or more. And they were thick, I noted. The ones at the edge of the court were at least nine or ten feet thick, while the ones I could see deeper in the grove seemed to be even thicker.
Most of the trunks were covered in a thick layer of lichens or moss, or something similar. It was quieter here than the outer forest, too, I noted. While there were smaller plants making up a kind of underbrush, they seemed to be very well behaved. There were insects flitting about as well, some as large as a foot wide, but they seemed to understand their errands and left us alone.
It was a serene place, more like a temple than a grove. The air moved with the slightest breeze through the stately trunks. An exotic, loamy scent filled the air, with the occasional aroma of spice in its composition. There was a dignity about these trees, I decided, something akin to the great redwoods in the Kasari lands.
The Court of the Leshi Fathers was a little clearing set just within the outer trees, and while most of the grove was heavily shaded, there was a bit of grass among the rocks that ringed the clearing. There were several Father Trees that were clearly facing the clearing, and within moments great branches with peering eyestalks descended from their canopies, followed by three long gourds from the first three trees in the circle.
“Fathers, I address you by voice as a courtesy to our guests: Lilastien the Avalanti, and Minalan of the humani. They come here to request a boon of us. They profess great need. They seek striekema,” she said, her voice falling a bit at the end of the sentence.
“This is a disturbing request,” one of the gourds declared, bobbing at the end of the left-hand bough. “But Bomoadua, you forget your manners. We should be introduced. You may call me Strongbranch, in your tongue. I am the newest of the Rooted Fathers, and therefore by custom I am the herald of the court.”
“You may call me Deeproot,” the middle gourd said. It was hung with a long cascade of moss, and the eyestalk of the Lesh hovered above it, almost giving it a face. “I am known as wise, among my kind, and am often called upon to make these sorts of considerations.”
“And I am Wideleaf,” the third gourd said, descending a little lower to address us more directly. “I ensure that the security and sanctity of the grove is maintained. Our true names are longer,” he explained. “They grow with every passing year. But these names are easy for you to say,” he said, with a hint of condescension. Or maybe I was reading into it; he was, after all, speaking through a gourd.
“Thank you for meeting with us, Fathers,” Lilastien began, formally. “The Alka Alon Council of this realm has dispatched me here to see if I could help Minalan procure some striekema for his research, in an effort to assist the Vundel. He finds its abilities necessary to produce a substance that they desire that only humanity has been able to produce.”
“Snowstone,” offered Strongbranch, as more limbs descended to our level. “The Grandfather Tree has heard of it. It has excited the leviathans tremendously.”
“It has caused the Golden Reefs to begin growing robustly, again,” Lilastien explained. “It reduces the etheric density of the Magosphere, which apparently has triggered the reefs to grow again.”
“They have not done that since before we descended from the moon,” Wideleaf reflected. “I understand why they would be excited by that. And you say it was this animal human who discovered it?”
“By accident,” I admitted. “But the Vundel are insistent that I re-create the spell. Which I am willing to do. But I need the striekema to determine which specific energies are at play. We’ve heard of no other substance that has its properties.” I paused a moment. “You all speak incredibly good Narasi, if I may say so.”
“One human language is much like another,” Wideleaf informed me. “It’s novel enough to use language to speak to you creatures in the first place. It matters little which one we use. We could speak in one of the Alka Alon dialects if you prefer.”
“I’ve always been partial to what you call Old High Perwyneese,” Deeproot volunteered. “I learned it when I was still mobile, from one of your ancestors. A Xenobiologist named Greta Mendholson. She was very nice. I liked her music, too. Better than that droning the Alka Alon do,” he muttered.
“Narasi is fine,” I assured them. “You speak it well.”
“So, you think you can use striekema to help with this . . . this spell?” Wideleaf asked. I detected an element of skepticism in his wheezy voice.
“I feel I must try, if it is possible,” I agreed. “I am a wizard. Among my people, we try to solve such problems. The large ones and the small. This one is one of the larger ones. I think we can agree that keeping the Vundel happy is a high priority for both of our peoples.”
“Well, they’re terribly far away from us, and have little influence here,” Strongbranch considered. “But it is the proper sort of thing to do, I suppose. In theory.”
“I’m wondering if you can be trusted with such a thing as striekema,” Wideleaf asked. “Your people seem to be prone to foolishness, since you came here.”
“I cannot argue that,” I agreed. “I blame it on our short lifespans and how easily we’re distracted. We try to make up for it with good intentions and occasional flashes of insight. My intention is to use this substance for the benefit of all the world. My flashes of insight tell me that this is the best thing I can do.”
“I think a sporing is in order,” suggested Deeproot. “It will cut through all of this tedious and inefficient speaking.”
“A sporing?” Lilastien asked, curious.
“It is harmless,” assured Strongbranch. “Merely a fungus that will assist our understanding of you. It will give us a clearer idea of who you are and where your place is in the universe. You object?”
“How can such a thing work without magic?” Lilastien asked, frowning.
“There are more subtle cycles in the universe than mere magic,” Deeproot rasped through his gourd. “We live in the shadow of the jevolar, yet we still maintain our link with the Grandfather Tree through other means than magic. It can be a struggle, sometimes, but the connection is always there, as long as there is life,” he said, philosophically.
“It will not hurt you,” Bomoadua soothed. “It is a gentle infection.” That wasn’t the most confidence-building choice of terms, but I didn’t see that we had much choice.
“We consent to the . . . sporing,” I said, with false confidence.
Without another word, Wideleaf reached out with a long bough from his lower canopy, one that seemed overcome with some lumpy growth. In a moment he had sprinkled it over both my and Lilastien’s heads. A fine rain of dust came down on my face and hair and drifted down my neck and shoulders.
I didn’t feel anything, at first. But then there was a faint tingling, and in a moment, I could feel my perceptions shift, subtly. I might not even have realized it, if I wasn’t a mage and used to considering my own perceptions, but it was undeniably there.
“Interesting,�
�� Deeproot murmured through his long gourd, as three eyestalks peered at us. Another branch with a honeycomb-like structure on it waved over us. “Very interesting.”
“I suddenly feel like one of my own patients,” Lilastien whispered.
“I suddenly know what a cabbage feels like at market,” I answered. I felt a drop hit me. Rain, I realized. It had been overcast all morning, and I’d figured rain was likely.
“Yes, very interesting,” Strongbranch agreed. “I never would have suspected.”
“This will have to be taken to Grandfather,” Wideleaf said. “If this is true, that is.”
“How could it not be?” countered Strongbranch, as I felt another drop, and then another. “It is a sporing. It cannot be deceived.”
“I will attend to it,” Deeproot agreed, withdrawing all his branches. It began to sprinkle.
“Well, that was very interesting,” Strongbranch finally said to us.
“That’s what we surmised,” Lilastien smirked. “What did you find?”
“Oh, it’s raining,” dismissed Strongbranch. “It wouldn’t be polite to discuss such matters while it’s raining.”
“It isn’t?” I asked, confused.
“No, no, no,” Wideleaf assured. “Not at all. Never talk business while it’s raining. Rain should be enjoyed,” he said, spreading his branches. “It’s a gift of the world – and these summer showers are particularly delicious. In rain, the Leshi speak of casual things, pleasantries that do not trouble the deeper mind.”
“Like a cocktail party,” Strongbranch said, using an old Perwyneese idiom for a drinking party. “Remember when the humani researchers held those cocktail parties, at their encampment?”
“Oh, that was back when I had legs,” agreed Wideleaf. “But they were interesting. Your people do enjoy their ethanol. You make it the hard way, too.”
“The Leshi can ferment ethanol with a great sophistication,” Lilastien agreed. “I know that from the lore. They brew it in pods and use it as a kind of antiseptic and pest control.”
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