by Sanan Kolva
“We will not allow you to harm our people.” Lucian’s voice seemed to echo, as if more than one person spoke. “You are nothing but food for our roots, useless and forgotten.”
The plants sank back into the ground, dragging with them the mangled bodies of men who Cylin sincerely hoped were dead. Lucian turned to face the village, and the burning fury in his eyes belied his calm voice. On one of the platforms, a child whimpered and began to wail. Lucian’s gaze flew toward the sound even as the mother tried to hush her son. Cylin tensed, not sure what to do if he interpreted the sound as a threat.
He spoke. “They are gone. Do not fear them.”
Cylin licked her lips and spoke. “I don’t think that it’s those men that he’s afraid of, Lucian.”
Her voice wasn’t loud, but Lucian turned to her. “The danger is gone. We have removed it.”
“You’re frightening him, Lucian. Drifter’s bones, you’re frightening most of us.” Cylin swallowed hard.
Lucian cocked his head to one side, considering her words. “We apologize. We are… not as skilled as our host in using words to calm or sooth. We ask your assistance in doing so in our absence. We… must rest.”
“Who is ‘we’?” Cylin demanded. And what in drifters’ bones does he mean by ‘host’?
“We are the Guardian. We are the Tree. We are this forest. We will not harm any of our own. You have our most fervent vow on that.” He looked over the throng watching him from above. “But we distress you, and for that, we are sorry. Devin, Cylin, please care for the things that need done. We will rest, and our host will return.”
He left the silent village. Only after he had vanished into his cave did a cacophony of voices burst forth. Cylin didn’t try to listen to them. Their questions were the same as hers. “Guardian? Devin, do you know anything about… this?”
Devin shook his head in quick denial. “Lord Lucian’s said things about ‘the Tree,’ but I don’t understand any of it. I… I don’t know, Cylin.” He was shaking. “He just… ripped those men to pieces.”
She gripped his shoulder. “Right now, we have a lot of frightened, confused people, and they need us to help them. All right? There could be more bandits in the forest. And we should search their vehicles for anything we can use.”
“Right,” Devin said, but he didn’t move.
No one knows what to do. No one’s taking charge. They don’t know what to do without Lucian. Cylin looked around quickly, then raised her voice. “Searel. Gather scouts and check the forest around the village for any more bandits.”
Myra’s husband started when he heard his name, then jerked his head in a nod and tapped the shoulder of a man near him, waking the other from his daze. Cylin pointed at a cluster of people on the next walkway over. “You there. Head down to the bandits’ trucks. Bring back anything we can use, and watch for any sentries.” The villagers obeyed, relieved to have someone giving instructions and providing an illusion of confidence. “Devin, get Doctor Kinnel and have him make sure no one got hurt when the ground started shaking.”
Devin nodded. “And… what are you going to do?”
She bit her lip. “I’m going to talk to Lucian.”
He wanted to argue, but after a moment of silence, just nodded. “Please be careful.”
“I will.”
She scrambled up the slope to Lucian’s cave faster than she’d ever done before, not caring about the scrapes the rocks and brush dealt to her hands and arms. She checked each room until finally she found Lucian at the very end of the cave, sitting at the edge of a tiny pool. He turned slightly toward her.
“We are here. Is there need of us outside?”
“No, we have things under control.” She kept her gaze on him, cautious. “But what’s this ‘we’ business?”
“We are the Guardian,” he repeated, as if that explained everything.
“Yep, you said that already. Doesn’t tell me much, Lucian.”
“We are with Lucian, but we are not Lucian. We are a part of the Tree.” He considered her. “And that, too, means nothing to you. Forgive us. We do not often try to speak to humans.”
“Well maybe you should. You might make more sense if you did,” Cylin said.
Lucian shook his head. “We are a fragment of magic born into Lucian, but we are not an elf.”
“What’s ‘the Tree’?” Cylin asked, hoping that might offer a little more context.
His lips twitched in a smile. “We think Lucian can explain more clearly than we can. And now that you are safe, the danger is removed, and Lucian is more calm, we will return to our rest.”
“That makes even less sense than what you said before, and I didn’t think that was possible,” Cylin said.
Lucian rubbed his face and let out a long breath, shoulders hunching. “It means that the Guardian is done talking. Dammit.” His head jerked up. “Are you all right, Cylin?”
“Um, yeah, I’m fine. So is everyone else, just shaken up and unsettled.” She eyed him. “You’re back to being you?”
He nodded.
“What happened?”
He closed his eyes and leaned against the wall. “I didn’t recognize that man at first. Then he said he was here for you, and I knew he was with the one who cut you.” His hands clenched in fists. “I wanted him to suffer. The Guardian… intervened. You might be unsettled by the Guardian’s methods, but if it had been left to me, that man wouldn’t be dead yet. He’d just wish he was.”
“I… Lucian… I’m just glad to know he’s gone. He’s dead. That’s enough for me,” Cylin said.
“But not enough for me, it seems.” Lucian turned and met her eyes. “Anyone who hurts my friends deserves to suffer. I don’t have many now who I would call friends. And of any of them here, you’re the only one who never calls me ‘Lord.’”
Heat rushed to Cylin’s face. “I’m sorry. I just never…”
“Don’t. Don’t start now. I’d rather just be Lucian. Just Lucian, who keeps his friends safe.”
She remembered the crack that swallowed Hakon. The thorns and vines that ripped men apart. He did that because of me. To… protect me. And he would have done worse to them.
“I’ve lost too many friends,” Lucian whispered. “I don’t want to lose any more.”
“If you’re sure you want a smart-mouthed, contrary human as a friend, I… I’m still not planning to run off and leave in the middle of the night,” she blurted. It sounded better in her head than aloud.
A thin laugh from Lucian. “I realize it isn’t as obvious when I’m the one in charge, but I’m a pretty authority-averse, irreverent little shit myself. I’m in charge because I’m not about to let someone else give me orders. But sometimes I need someone who’s not afraid to call me on my crap. Most people here won’t. Most people here worship me.” He shuddered. “Devin certainly would never admit I’ve done anything wrong. Doctor Kinnel does, sometimes, but he’d rather not.”
“For an authority-averse, irreverent little shit, you do pretty good as a leader,” Cylin said.
His lips quirked in a faint smile. “When the target for being a ‘good leader’ is that people have food, shelter, and security, and I’m not raping anyone, hitting that goal isn’t as much of an accomplishment as you imply.”
“Then why can’t anyone else manage it?” she countered.
“Because most of them lack the moral fortitude of a turd.” He let out a heavy sigh. “How badly did the Guardian scare everyone?”
“Well, they were pretty alarmed, but no open panic in the trees,” Cylin told him. “They’d probably feel better to see you back to yourself.” Just like they do after you have an episode.
He nodded and slowly pushed to his feet. She couldn’t see him clearly in the dim light of the cave, but once they got outside, the pallor of his skin became obvious, as did the lines of exhaustion.
“Lucian, are you all right?”
“The Guardian used a lot of magic. It’s just… draining.”
“So, what is the Guardian? Or the Tree? The answer I got earlier didn’t explain much.”
Lucian looked down to the trees, as if deciding whether he’d rather face the villagers or answer her. Finally, he sat on a smooth stone. “The Tree was... is an entity formed by magic gone wrong.”
“Magic can ‘go wrong’?” Cylin asked, casting an uneasy look at the forest.
“Not often. And it’s rarely catastrophic. But when it is, the results are never pleasant. The Tree became entwined with my father and its magic infected him. That’s been passed on to his descendants. In some of us, the Tree magic has developed a personality of sorts, reflecting aspects of its host’s character. Mine calls itself the Guardian. It shares my personality, my memories, and my goals, but it is still, fundamentally, a plant-mind, not an elf. That’s why the plural, the ‘we.’ It’s a part of a whole. My brother embraced his Tree aspect so completely that it’s no longer a separate entity like the Guardian, but really a part of him.” His gaze grew distant. “I don’t know whether or not he survived the wars. If he did... this blighted land would be a constant torture to him.”
“Couldn’t he make trees grow, like you did here?” Cylin asked.
Lucian shook his head. “Mirrors of our personalities. Like me, the Guardian fights. When I came here, it altered the trees so that they break down the poisons in the ground and purify the land. That isn’t what my brother, Dash, would do. The Guardian alters the world to conform to its will. Dash alters himself to survive the world. The Guardian purifies the poisons to fix what it perceives as the wrongs. Dash would make himself able to drink the poisons to survive in the world as it is.”
“I think I like the Guardian’s idea better,” Cylin admitted. “The things that have been twisted by the poisons are not things I want to see stick around.”
Lucian gazed into the trees. “Everything’s been touched by poisons. Some just hide it better.”
Cylin followed his gaze, but didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. “Lucian, does Forest Town have any defenses other than... well... you?”
“We have sentries watching the road. The terrain slows down bandits, and the paths aren’t obvious when you don’t know what to look for. But if you’re asking whether the village has any plan for what to do if I’m... unavailable, the answer is that we do in theory, but I doubt anyone other than Doctor Kinnel knows it by now. And he knows it because he wrote it.”
Cylin gave him a long, pointed look. “That’s a crappy plan.”
“No, it’s a good plan that’s had crappy implementation.” Lucian turned to her. “I’ll put you in charge of teaching people to follow it.”
“Right, I’m sure that’s a good idea,” Cylin retorted. “Put the new person in charge of that sort of thing.”
His gaze showed no humor or teasing. “You still remember how to take care of yourself. I can’t think of anyone better.”
They reached the village as the scouts returned. People tensed when they saw Lucian, and watched him cautiously. He smiled wearily. “I’m sorry to have frightened everyone earlier.”
“Don’t worry about it, Lord Lucian!” a scout said quickly. “It’s been a long time since anyone tried to attack. We... weren’t expecting this, is all.”
Around him, others nodded in hasty agreement, murmuring assent.
Even when he acknowledges that he made a mistake, did something he shouldn’t have done, they won’t accept that he did anything wrong. They really do hold Lucian up like he’s some mythical figure, a god among us. Cylin glanced at Lucian, saw the strain in his eyes. And he hates it.
“We brought the salvage to Doctor Kinnel to inventory,” the scout continued. “Guns and other weapons were in good shape. Bedding and clothes are probably salvageable. And it looked like they raided a distillery or something recently, because one truck was loaded with crates of hard alcohol.”
“I’m sure we can put that to good use.” Lucian gave a thin smile. “Any more bandits lurking in the woods?”
“No sir, not even sentries by their trucks.” A pause. “Um…what should we do about their trucks, Lord Lucian?”
“I think most of you have a better idea what to do with a truck than I do,” Lucian answered. “Do whatever you think best.”
“If they’re in good working order, I’d suggest parking them somewhere, keeping up on whatever maintenance they need, and having them available in case we ever need them,” Cylin said.
People looked at her as if she’d started speaking another language. “Why would we need them?” someone asked.
“Transporting people, goods, animals. Any time we need to move something large, or need to get somewhere faster than on foot. They probably have a few spare fuel tanks on the trucks, right?”
“Well, yes, but…” The sentry who spoke looked truly puzzled by the idea that reliable transportation might be important.
How about a way to move people around? Get children to safety if someone attacks again?
“What do you think, Lord Lucian?”
Just take a few steps to protect yourselves! Cylin fought not to snap the words aloud.
“I don’t need the scrap metal for anything. If you want to keep the vehicles, I’ll make a sheltered space to park them,” Lucian said.
“Yes sir.” The sentry nodded firmly as if Lucian had declared they were keeping the trucks.
Cylin didn’t go down to the road with Lucian and the sentries. She found herself walking around the village common. At first she skirted the areas where the plants had ripped through the ground, but finally she made herself walk to the spot where the earth swallowed Hakon. The hole was gone, leaving only a rough seam of uneven ground. A scar on Forest Town.
Her fingers brushed the scar on her cheek. Did you send him, Pryor? Hope you aren’t expecting him back. I’m not yours any longer. I hope you think about that and choke.
Barely a week after the bandit attack, harvest arrived in a flurry of long days and late nights. Once things finally settled back into the normal routine, Lucian followed through on his threat to put Cylin in charge of organizing Forest Town’s defenses.
Many long-term residents accepted Lucian’s proclamation without complaint, but responded to Cylin’s efforts with patronizing indulgence, indicating that they would participate, but didn’t see a real need for the effort. Those newer to Forest Town took part more readily, driven by their own survival instincts. No one directly spoke of the Guardian, but Cylin felt the memory lurking in people’s thoughts.
She recruited Doctor Kinnel to teach basics of wound care and what he called “first aid.” The experienced sentries worked with people on concealment. The hunters taught tracking and foraging.
By the time the first snow fell, training had become a habit. Some people still complained that it was unnecessary, but the grumbling lost most of its strength.
Winter had always been Cylin’s least favorite season: a time of cold, hunger, and death. Last winter, with Pryor, she’d spent huddled in the back of a drafty truck, buried under thin blankets and praying to her family gods that she wouldn’t get frostbite and lose fingers or toes. In Forest Town, winter could be a time of beauty, and even fun. She had a thick, warm coat. Myra knitted her a new hat and gloves. She even had fur-lined, hole-free boots that fit comfortably.
Glad for the warm clothes, Cylin stood beside Devin as Doctor Kinnel scooped a sample of snow into a glass jar, then added several drops of colored liquid from a vial. She leaned over to Devin and whispered, “So, what is this supposed to prove?”
“He’s testing whether the snow is safe, or if it’s tainted and we shouldn’t let the children play in it,” Devin whispered back. “Didn’t the people you were with test the snow and rain?”
She shook her head. “Pryor assumed nothing was safe to consume unless it was filtered and boiled.”
Doctor Kinnel studied the jar, then announced, “Contaminant levels are low this year. I’d recommend boiling before using it as drinking water, thou
gh.”
In a chorus of cheers, children broke away from their parents and darted down the stairs to the ground. Cylin watched in bemusement and mild alarm as they sprang on the thin, wet snow and began rolling it in balls and stacking them. She cast a questioning look to Devin.
“What?” he asked, puzzled. “Didn’t you ever play in the snow?”
“Uh, no, not when everyone told me it was probably toxic and might kill me,” Cylin told him.
“Oh.” Devin considered that. “Well, there’s not enough snow yet to do much with, but next time, I’ll show you how to build a snow person.”
“Is that what they’re doing?” She nodded toward the children.
“I think so.” Devin grinned. “Kind of hard to tell when some kids are trying to build and others are trying to start a snowball fight.”
The first snow melted by the end of the day, leaving the village common a muddy swamp. The next week brought a stronger storm and a steady fall of fat flakes. The trees broke the howling wind, robbing the storm of its fury as it passed over Forest Town.
Devin was showing Cylin how to build crude figures from snow when Lucian joined them. Almost at once, laughing children bundled in coats and gloves jumped on him, knocking him into a pile of snow. Laughing with them, Lucian picked himself up, white snow dusting his black hair.
“All right, whose idea was that?” He scooped up one of the boys. “Yours?”
The giggling boy squirmed, denying the accusation until Lucian set him down and caught another child. The second one managed to grab a handful of snow and threw it at Lucian’s chest. Lucian staggered as if dealt a fierce blow. “What? This one came armed! You know what that means!”
The children scattered, squealing in delight. Lucian scooped a handful of snow into a loose ball and tossed it at one of the fleeing children. That, evidently, was a signal to the rest. Devin ducked behind the questionable shelter of their snow figures as everyone around them began flinging snow in every direction. Cylin imitated him.