The words flew out of Nolo’s mouth before he could stop them.
A flash of silver moved amid forestry too dense for the sun’s rays to pierce and his heart caught. Is the Queen of All Trees also searching for Sarn? Oh God no. Leave the Kid alone. He belongs here. If she heard his silent injunction, she gave no sign.
“I don’t know what goes on in that boy’s head.”
Jerlo turned away from the forest and the conversation.
“Nothing good I’d wager,” Gregori said.
“Not true,” Ranispara turned, shaking her head.
“I agree with Ranispara,” Inari said, speaking for the first time. “He’s got a good heart, and he made a promise. He'll return. You haven’t seen the last of him.”
“We’ll see. For now, you and I need to have a chat.”
Jerlo gave Gregori a look, which had caused sterner men to quake. He gestured for the larger man to follow and took his leave.
Nolo regarded the forest. Did I imagine seeing the Queen of All Trees?
The forest tangling on both sides of the river seemed darker without her and more hostile. He recoiled from it. Somewhere out there, Sarn's working his way back here, slogging one mile at a time. And he probably thinks we abandoned him.
All the trust Nolo had built with the Kid threatened to collapse, and he could do nothing to stop it.
“What now?” Ranispara moved to stand by him.
Nolo glanced at her. Had she seen the Queen of All Trees? If she had, she hid it well.
“Is there any leeway in his High-and-Mighty’s orders?”
“There’s always leeway.”
“Then spell it out for me because I don't see it. My head’s still spinning.”
Before Nolo could answer, Ranispara seized her fleeing nephews. They wore the colored sashes of the Messengers' guild over their sweat-stained clothes.
“Hold that thought. I’ll be right back. There’s something I need to deal with.”
She escorted her nephews behind the Harbormaster’s office for an overdue chat.
“He’ll come back,” Nerule said.
The boy had met Sarn on many occasions because an illiterate, unskilled youth recovering from ten broken bones had limited uses. Babysitting a small child had been just the thing to keep Sarn occupied.
“It might not be up to him,” Nolo heaved a sigh then turned to face his son. “What are you doing down here?”
“What do you mean by that?”
Inari rested her hands on their son’s shoulders.
Nolo shook his head. They didn't see the Queen of All Trees. Nor do they know about her interest in Sarn.
A shudder tore through Nolo at the memory, and he mashed his lips into a thin line walling himself off from his wife and child. They don't need to know.
In response, Inari’s whole manner hardened, but she remained silent.
Ignoring the cold war between his parents, Nerule held up a spyglass and answered his question.
“I'm keeping watch for Sarn. He’ll come back.”
Will he? Nolo wasn’t certain, but he didn't dash their hopes. I also want to believe he’ll return.
Chapter 9
Sarn raced west by northwest, guided by his head map and a steady tug on his heart toward his son. As he ran, the sack of All-fruit beat a muffled tattoo on his back narrowing his world to the ground in front of him. Nothing else mattered except reaching his son before the thing infecting the forest did.
Ahead, trees whose bases were as wide as thirty very friendly men sidled toward each other. Sarn broke into an all-out run and just squeezed between those hulking behemoths before their trunks touched.
What the hell is the forest doing?
More trees sidled toward each other, but Sarn slid between them, turning sideways to fit.
“Get out of my way!” Sarn shouted as he veered to miss another tree scuttling on its roots right into his path.
As he ran, the ground inclined, and he tripped over loose rocks in his haste. I must keep going. Magic wrapped hot hands around his ankles, supporting Sarn as he slipped on a mossy rock. All around him, trees twined their branches together, weaving a wall he couldn't outrun. Sarn skidded to a halt and glared at the trees blocking his path.
“Let me pass!” he shouted at them, but not a single leaf twitched. “I must reach my son. Why won't you let me?”
Sarn pounded his fists into their trunks, but they refused to budge. Creaking behind him signaled they’d cut off his escape. He was hemmed in on all sides, trapped miles from anywhere and no one knew where he was. Panic flared at that thought but he squelched it. I must stay calm and rational.
Roots scraped the leaf mold aside revealing a dirt surface. They beckoned, inviting him to come closer. When Sarn hesitated, a root scratched a symbol in the earth.
Sarn stared at proof of the forest’s intelligence. A mind’s driving this display but is it a hive mind or does each tree have a mind of its own?
Both had frightening implications, so he put both questions out of mind. I don't want to know. Knowing won't help me escape, and that's what I need to concentrate on.
The ghost boy pointed at the symbols, agitated by their presence.
“What is it?” Sarn pointed to the first symbol.
The roots wiped it out and redrew it. Sarn regarded the broken circles.
“What does this mean?”
The roots traced something on the periphery. But without more precise tools, the addition made no sense. Sarn gave up asking when every question ended in the same result, the roots stabbing at a bunch of incomplete circles.
“I don’t know what you’re trying to tell me, and I don’t have time to find out. Let me pass. I must reach my son.”
Sarn pushed against one of his sylvan jailers, but it didn't budge. To his left, the ghost boy lobbed a rock into the shadows.
“What did you see?”
The ghost launched another stone. Sarn scanned the shadows, but this time, no rats, roaches or other vermin populated them.
Maybe the ghost's just frustrated with my lack of progress. Well if they won't let me through, maybe I can just go over them.
Sarn tilted his head back and tried to estimate how high the lowest branches were—maybe a hundred feet, too high for me to climb without magical assistance. But will I get it?
He waited but his magic didn't offer a correction or to help.
As if they'd read his mind, the north facing trees winched themselves closer together and lifted their lowest branches even further out of reach. Sarn checked his head map. The River Nirthal lay to the north, and so did Mount Eredren. But that way was shut.
Four red icons blossomed on his map. Sarn dove to the side as a branch stabbed the spot where he’d just stood. A tar-like substance oozed out of the cracks in its bark as the corrupted tree wiggled its trapped bough, but the earth held fast to it.
Sick, commented his magic.
Tell me something I don't know like why this is happening.
As usual, his magic clammed up. Sarn put the question aside for now.
A gut-churning wrongness was leaking out of his attacker and seeping into the ground—not a good sign. Behind it, three more infected trees lumbered up, and the enchanted trees barring his path sparred with them without shifting locations. Damn them.
Sarn tried to squeeze past his captors, but it was too late. The infection had spread to the ground under him, and it spawned grabby hands. While he dodged them, he searched for a way out.
I must get out of here before that black stuff infects me too. And it will. That crud's hunting for me.
Turning, Sarn spotted a narrow gap on the west side. He slid through it and took off in a dead run up an incline. But the corruption shot through the earth liquefying it under his feet. Sarn leaped.
A wet tentacle seized his ankle, but he leaned into the fall, turning it into a roll. Momentum snapped his attacker’s grip. Thanks to his magic and a well-timed somersault that took him out of re
ach of the monster’s next grab, Sarn landed boots-first on a boulder and exploded into a series of round-offs.
Midway across the brook, he caught a glimpse of a faceless giant made of mud, and he gaped at it. Thank Fate, his head map had plugged into his hands guiding them to the next stone jutting out of the swift-moving water or he would have missed it.
Sarn landed on the far side as that mud creature dove and merged with the brook’s bed. Its gut-twisting wrongness nauseated Sarn as he turned and ran for the River Nirthal. He still had to cross that major waterway to reach his son. And that wouldn't be a fun swim with a sick stomach.
Enchanted trees shuffled past Sarn heading towards their infected brethren, but he veered around them. They swung at the mud creature slicing it in half. And then there were two monsters chasing him. Sarn cursed and traded hiking for climbing when a rock wall interrupted his route.
The ghost boy popped up and shook its head and chopped its hands through the air. Skidding on loose stones, Sarn just barely avoided another collision with the specter.
“Why don't you want me to go this way? It’s not like I have a choice.”
And at least a dozen mud creatures staggered toward him now.
“Stop making more. You're not helping the situation,” he shouted over his shoulder at the trees, but they ignored him and kept hacking and slashing with single-minded determination.
Maybe they aren't intelligent enough to notice they aren't winning.
The ghost opened its mouth, but no sound emerged since a veil of silence divided the dead from the living.
Sarn rubbed his burning eyes with the hand not anchoring him to the rock wall, and his map took that as an invitation to manifest. A new icon blinked red up ahead. It can’t be worse than what’s chasing me.
So Sarn dug his fingers into the cracks and scaled a vertical cliff. While he ascended, green sparks shot over his hands and up his shaking arms. His newly energized muscles tingled in response, and the sensation almost distracted Sarn from his head map.
Facts and figures he’d become adept at ignoring scrolled past, exacerbating the ache throbbing behind his left eye. Something touched his mind then flitted away as his magic read every rock he touched.
Sarn shook his head to clear it of the double vision, then the rock under his hands reshaped into hands many times larger than his own. Those granite hands seized his, and an image shot through his head—the army of mud creatures were gaining on him, but at least they were still blobby shambling things.
Maybe they aren't intelligent enough to coordinate an attack, but I’d rather not find out. Nor would he since his latest captor offered an escape and followed it up with another silent query.
Yes, I understand; he sent back.
The rock hands extruded arms and swung. At the apex of its third swing, it let go, and Sarn somersaulted onto a narrow precipice.
Below, stone fists punched out, knocking the mud creatures down. How long before those vile things find a way to make that climb?
Sarn swung his legs over the side and dropped onto another ledge his map pointed out. It knifed away from the rock formation and extended about a dozen-feet out. Alarm bells rang in his head. What is it now? Didn't I deal with enough weird things today?
He had, but Sarn obeyed the warnings and crawled out to the edge to investigate.
The ground dropped away in a steep valley. At least, five-hundred-feet down, a group of orange-robed people boarded a small craft. He lost sight of the boat when it sailed behind a cluster of trees. A few minutes later, the boat reappeared, arrowing toward a longboat anchored off shore.
Nolo once said something about orange robes and danger. What religious order wears orange robes? Not a good one if Nolo had warned about them. Could they be part of this?
A burning desire to know what he’d stumbled onto overrode caution. Sarn dropped onto a smaller ledge to access a rough trail snaking down to the river.
Halfway to the ground, Sarn tripped when the ghost reappeared. It waved its arms in a frantic negation while Sarn scrabbled for a handhold. He was sliding toward a two hundred and fifty-foot drop according to his magic, which had chosen to pop the numerical digits into his peripheral vision.
You're not helping; he told it right before he jerked to a halt.
Either by chance or by magical intervention, his sleeve had caught on a spur of rock. Sarn wrapped his fingers around it, and his magic finally roused. Green light leaked out of his hands turning them sticky.
Sarn reeled himself in until he had a stable perch on an outcropping the size of his rump. He checked his backtrail, but it remained clear of monsters for now.
Thank you, he patted the rock supporting his weight, grateful it was keeping his foes occupied.
The boat returned, and more acolytes boarded it. No flashes of orange on shore meant the larger vessel would cast off soon.
If I can reach the beach before it does, I'll have an unobstructed view. Maybe I can figure out who they are, and what they're up to. Because they're up to something. I don't believe in coincidences.
Turning, Sarn placed one hand flat against the vertical rock wall. Like attracted like, and his glowing hand warmed as the contact firmed. Since the fall had ripped his trousers, he applied his bare knee to the rock adding a third point of stability. His right boot hit a stone protrusion, and it bore his weight—good, now to make like a spider and crawl.
Sarn descended until he could jump the remaining distance. Once on the beach, he rushed to the water’s edge, but the longboat had cast off already. Its profile faded into the setting sun framed by the gorge.
It’s late afternoon of what day? Sarn dropped his head into his hands. A weekday, he cursed. Miren had school from ninth until sixteenth bell.
In exchange for food, the Foundlings babysat his son, but this morning, a jerk with a grudge had kidnapped him before he'd fetched their breakfast. Gregori, that Jerk.
Sarn punched the rock wall. Magic sheathed his fist mid-air protecting it from the blow. Rocks tumbled down forcing him to stumble backward into the river to avoid a concussion. Sarn flexed tingling fingers before lowering his hand to his side.
A small hand tugged his heart, and the wind whispered his son’s name. Ran was a white star shining in the darkness of his head map.
Are you in trouble, son? Did that corruption reach you?
It could have, and he had no way to know. Maybe there's a way I can find out.
“Papa come back!”
I'm trying to.
Sarn reached into his map and didn't stop until his fingers skimmed his son’s white star. Pain hammered a nail between his eyes, but he couldn’t stop. He must know if his son was all right. So he kept reaching through the dark patches and the newly sketched contour lines of the cliff he’d just descended into the magic within him and beyond it.
His map flickered in response, then exploded in a shower of sparks. Something dripped down his lips. Sarn tasted blood as the ground trembled, and the world grayed out.
“Where are you, Papa?” Ran asked, but his voice came from far, far away.
“Ran—?”
The name ripped out of Sarn and left a ragged wound behind.
“Papa!”
At his son's tearful call, Sarn shifted from here to there and landed in a heap of elbows and knees. A small shape appeared silhouetted against the white light blinding him. Pain blew the top of his head off. Sarn screamed, and emerald tinged darkness dragged him down into its hungry maw.
“What're you writing?”
Ran fingered the rocks scattered around him. Thoughts of the little stories attached to each one reminded him of Papa. Papa had been gone for a long time.
Uncle Miren scratched his pen on the paper in front of him and ignored Ran and his question.
Ran crawled to the straw tick. Sniffing, he found Papa’s scent—old wood, stale sweat and crushed pine needles. The spicy undercurrent of magic tied it all into an aromatic package he found comforting.
/> Papa had never stayed away so long. Bear looked at him with concerned button eyes and extended his fuzzy arms. Ran fell into them and remembered Papa’s gift tucked safely into Bear’s belly pouch. Bear remembered them too, and they squeezed out of his paunch-pouch into Ran’s eager hands. He spun those seeds and let their soft filaments tickle his fingers. I wish Papa would come back.
“Why aren’t you here Papa?”
Ran sat up. The air felt lighter, warmer even—something had changed. Is Papa coming?
Sometimes Papa’s magic preceded his arrival. When it didn’t dive into the cave, Ran listened hard for the quiet tread of Papa’s boots and willed the door to open.
A hazy outline of a man fell through the closed door. White and emerald fire edged his being, but he was long-limbed like Papa. His cloak pooled around him, infused with magic, making it shine just like Papa.
“Papa!” Ran crashed into the translucent heap on the threshold, and Papa’s magic enfolded him in warmth, brilliance, and love. Joy exploded in his chest as they were swept backwards. Pine needles brushed Ran’s face.
Their cave vanished leaving a purple afterimage that slowly faded into a creepy gray place. Shadows sketched gnarled branches overhead then they too streaked past. Everything was rushing away. But it didn’t matter because Papa was back! Smiling, Ran hugged Papa. Far away, he heard the rustling of papers and the scratching of his uncle’s quill.
In time with Papa’s heartbeat, magic and light strobed around them. But it's the wrong color. White and green light poured out of Papa’s eyes as two kinds of magic clashed. Their struggle for dominance charged the air, heating it and making Ran’s hair stand on end. Without warning, two luminous bubbles pounced on Ran—one white and one emerald—and they fought to cup him in their radiant protection. Ran smiled at their attention.
“Ran?” Papa's grip loosened, and his arms fell away releasing Ran.
Were the dueling powers hurting Papa? Worry pushed Ran back a step to check and the cold damp of home stirred the hair on the back of his neck. In Papa’s eyes, two conflagrations battled it out—one white and one green. But Papa’s eyes only ever glowed green. And they usually had non-glowing white parts and a dark spot in the center, but both were missing.
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