by Eve Forward
Valerie extended her hand, concentrating, spreading her fingers before her face. Sparks of green and blue crackled around her fingers and discharged with faint popping noises off the tips of her black pointed nails.
“Powerful,” she reported, “Just as before ... except this time I’m also getting a lot of interference from the tree itself.”
“Robin!” cried a cheery voice. The centaur minstrel turned, and saw Arcie, grinning broadly, motioning him over. He trotted up, ears pricked forward curiously, as the Barigan dismounted and tethered his pony.
“The girls’ll be messing about with yon old tree for some fair time,” confided the thief. “No telling what they want with it, really. Let’s us just get comfy whilst we waits ... Sam! Blackmail!” he called, motioning them over. “ ‘Tis been a long ride. Let’s rest and refresh ourselves, and give our minstrel friend here a chance to show off his talents!”
Confused but compliant, Sam dismounted and secured his horse, as Blackmail did the same and Arcie queried Robin about his repertoire of music.
“Arcie, are you sure it’s a good idea to be making a lot of noise here?” Sam asked, looking around. “After all, this is Fenwick’s woods ...”
“Bah! Fenwick!” scoffed Arcie, making a dismissive gesture with the wineskin he was holding, and subtly winking at Sam, the old code for I’m-doingsomethingherejustplayalongandhelpme-out.
“Fenwick could not find his own rump with both hands.”
It was unusual for the Verdant Company to travel by night, but they had done so in the past, and would do so again. Fenwick had long ago learned the limits of his army and knew just how far to push; several hours of forced march, a period of rest, and then on again. Slowly the Company ate up the distance, and even had the energy for a cheer when they saw the valley of Glina spread out below them ...
“A tune, minstrel, a tune,” insisted Arcie. “Give us ... oh, I dinna ... do ye know ‘Jack and the Dryad,’ perhaps?”
He pulled out his pipe and began stuffing it, as the four of them relaxed at the edge of the clearing. The centaur flushed nervously and took out his harp.
Valerie and Kaylana, at the base of the Fa’halee, looked over at them as the first strains of music began.
Valerie frowned.
“What are those sunlight-crawlers up to now?” she muttered. Kaylana shook her head.
“We have not the time to deal with it. We must find the entrance to the Test, if it is indeed hidden by this tree. Touch tip to root where Hero stood.’ But where is that?”
“I would suppose there.” Valerie pointed to a small slab of marble stone set into the deep moss near the base of the tree. They walked over to it and read the inscription, as the sounds of centaur and human voices raised in loud bawdy song belted across the grove.
“Here in the First Year of Light, Triumph of the Victory, The Elven Lord Tiratillais Pallindarthinar Fallinnamir-”
Kaylana sputtered with difficulty over the ringing Elven name, “did pass his Lands and Kingship into the Hands of the great Hero Fen-Alaran, witnessed for all eternity by the Blood Guardsman, Ancient Spirit Tree, the Fa’halee. May all the Children of Man in Trois keep this Grove sacred.”
“Sacred groves, isn’t that one of your Druidical things?” Valerie looked at the Druid, who frowned.
“Yes and no. All Druidic practice was lost with the Victory. Elves worshiped trees as symbols without understanding them, or knowing what the trees themselves worshiped. Elves knew the dance of life, but they followed Light, rather than walking the balance. But, both they and my people are gone now, and there remains this puzzle to solve. To touch the tip to the root...”
“Looks like a job for you, Druid. Bend this tree and let’s get this under way.”
Off to the side, she could hear the Barigan complimenting the centaur on his playing, and plying him with
“A drink to soothe yer golden throat, my lad.” An explosion of equine coughing followed, and the voice saying merrily, “Good stuff, aye! Finest Barigan whiskey, that are! Have some more, ‘tis better after yer throat go numb.”
Kaylana looked up again, at the immense span towering over her. The marble marker was directly at the base of the tree. She admittedly had quite a bit of power over plants, but to coax such a giant to fold itself double, wood and fibers snapping and straining ... She set her brow, and sunk the end of her staff into the soft soil at the base of the tree, until she felt the shivering roots of the tree’s life beneath it. Her green eyes closed, and she concentrated.
Sweat beaded her brow, unfelt as her mind dived into the roots and struggled with the tree. She tried coaxing, but the tree seemed to ignore her, its thoughts too ancient and slow even for her methodical magic. It was too ...
Elven, she realized. Its aura pattern was unlike any tree she had ever known. It was a plant that did not belong to the Six Lands, and possibly not even to this world. But what other world was there? Where the Elves had gone?
Somewhere, beyond the stars or behind the sun, was there a land full of these huge red trees?
She tried then to force the tree to bend, attempting to wrest control of its life-force, to shrink half its cells while expanding the others, to pull it around as a blossom follows the sun, but the tree resisted like a rock. When she persisted, it seemed to lash out, a slap of powerful Elven magic that made her stumble, concentration slipping.
She was barely able to channel the excess power away through her staff. All around her, the moss and tiny plants instantly folded themselves over obediently, as Kaylana slumped against her staff, panting. It would take a whole circle of Druids to bend this giant. As her burning eyes opened, she saw by the shadows that perhaps a quarter hour had elapsed. Sam and Blackmail and Valerie watched her curiously, Arcie seemed to be mournfully regarding an empty wineskin, and the centaur was trotting back and forth, hiccuping and singing a bit. He blinked at the grass as it folded up under his hooves and stumbled over to them.
“Whatcha doin’?” he asked, smiling lopsidedly.
“Trying to touch the tip of the tree to its roots,” replied Valerie, impatiently, “and obviously not succeeding.”
“If it was a younger tree,” began Kaylana defensively.
“Why don’ you jush cut the tip off and put it there?” asked Robin, looking up and swaying.
“How are we supposed to cut it off?” retorted Sam, feeling he ought to defend the Druid somehow. “Not even I want to climb up this thing, especially that last twenty feet where it’s no thicker than rope. And I certainly can’t fly up there.”
There was silence a moment, and then everyone turned to look at Nightshade, who stuck his black pointed tongue out at them.
“Oh, come on, cutting yon tip off willna work,” exclaimed Arcie. “That’s cheating.”
“What else do you expect from villains?” Valerie said, a smile starting to form.
“If you cut the tip off, the tree will never grow any taller,” Kaylana put in, but without much protest.
“It can’t work,” insisted Arcie. “That’s, I mean, it are cheating. No magic Test are going to work that way.”
“You never know ‘til you try,” hiccuped Robin sagely.
There was a pause.
The Verdant Company swept through Glinabar, horns blowing. The remainder of the Company, staying on call in the city, leaped to horse. Fenwick shouted orders, and in a moment a great net of skilled warriors, mages, and woodsmen swept out into the night, curling around over many miles. It was not long before the hunting horns blew the triumphant signal-a trail.
“Fine work, my feather-wether darlingkins,” cooed Valerie, as the raven swooped down with a triumphant croak, a pointed sprig of bushy green needles in his beak.
He had easily flown to the top of the great tree and nipped the last foot or so free, noticing to himself the sharp taste of sap. Now Valerie carefully lay the sprig upon the marble slab and stood back. Nothing happened.
“See, I told you so-” Arcie began, when sudde
nly a green light burned from the trunk of the Fa’halee. With a flash it resolved itself into delicate swirling carvings in the wood, done in colors that glowed from within, unfaded by moonlight.
It was like a mural of an archway, definitely reminiscent of the one they had encountered in the Smuggler’s Net. Surrounding the archway was a mural of trees, through which scenes of hunting and archery could be seen. On the archway itself was the figure of a man, a woodsman by gear and garb, with a familiar look about him. He wore a green jerkin, fringed vest and boots, brown leggings, and carried a longbow and sword. One hand held the collar of a Feyhound, white and red as birch and cedar, and the other was extended towards them, palm out.
“Fenwick!” exclaimed Arcie. “Why did thems put Fenwick’s picture down here?”
“It is not Fenwick,” answered Kaylana. “See, the pointed features, and an older face.”
“It’s the Hero Fen-Alaran,” said Robin, wonder filling his voice despite the alcoholic haze. “Grandfather of Lord Fendalis, who ish the father of Sir Fenwick. Am I dreaming?”
“Yes,” replied Sam seriously, looking at him. Robin nodded thoughtfully.
“I thought sho,” he said.
“Fenwick’s grandfather?” Arcie asked meanwhile, looking at the mural. He felt a terrible urge to draw a big hairy mustache on the figure.
“It makes sense,” said the assassin. “What does that inscription say?”
Sharp runes were cut into the stone over the archway.
Sam could pick out a letter here and there, but ancient languages hadn’t been a big part of his training.
“It says,” translated Valerie, “This is the Test of the Strider...”
“Spider?!” yelped Arcie, looking around.
“Strider, Barigan,” corrected Kaylana gently. “That is the name once given to those we now call woodsmen.”
“Ah,” Arcie relaxed. “Go ahead, Valerie.”
“Thank you,” said Valerie coldly. “Test of the Strider, ‘for the Emerald Stone. Let you who are keen of eye and ear, quick of foot and bowsight clear, enter this test by pressing here.’”
“Rhymes,” commented Sam. “Sort of. Well, we’ve been in this dilemma before ... Who’s to go?”
Blackmail raised his head, as though listening to some thing, and then walked quickly to the edge of the clear ing, where their horses were tethered.
“Here, Robin,” Arcie spoke up, “what kind of wood d’you suppose that are?” He carefully pointed to the carving’s outstretched palm, carved from some goldenpink wood. “It looks to me as it has the same texture as your harp!”
“Really?” hiccuped the centaur, trotting forward. “Let me see...”
He reached out a hand...
“Stop!” called out Kaylana, but too late.
Robin, hiccuping, curiously pressed his hand to the wood ... and vanished, in a brilliant flash of green light.
“Got him!” crowed Arcie, and he and Sam trium phantly exchanged an enthusiastic ritual rogue’s Partners Handshake.
“How could you do that!” exclaimed Kaylana. “He does not even know what he is doing! He had done nothing to you!”
“Miss, remember, we’re evil!” replied Arcie, with a grin. “Them Tests kills people. When ponyboy appears out here, dead of some weird occurrence, it’ll give us a clue as to what to expect in there, the better for one o’ us to survive, whoever’s stupid enough to go in there next.”
Seeing Kaylana still fuming, Sam tried to comfort her.
“You never know,” he said. “He may even succeed. All centaurs are traditionally taught how to use a bow, certainly, and the Test asks for someone quick of foot and keen of ear ... he’s got more in the way of feet and ears than any of us.”
There was a clatter, suddenly, and Blackmail reappeared, motioning them urgently. Distracted from the glowing Test mural, they followed him to the lip of the bowl-shaped clearing. The dark knight motioned for silence, and they listened.
On the night breeze, faint but getting closer, came the distant sound of hunting horns.
Robin found himself in an open forest glade. There was no sign of his companions, or of the huge tree, the one with the reddish bark and the deep gray-black needles.
Indeed, the whole area seemed misty and dreamlike.
Dream, he thought through a slight alcoholic haze that was slowly clearing. The dream-Sam I spoke to said I was dreaming, so I must be dreaming still. I wonder what happens in this part of the dream? I feel like there’s something I’m supposed to do ... The hazy images of trees drifted around him, and the faint sounds of birds, animals, and wind in leaves tickled his ears. The smells of the forest reached him, leafmold and moss and pollen. Leaves of dark gray whispered overhead, against a sky of paler gray, with white clouds. Piles of dead leaves, some orange and red and yellow from autumn, drifted under the illusion trees. A faint path seemed to stretch before him.
He started forward, stepping across the muddy ground ... and then jerked back as a pair of snapping blades just missed his left forehoof. He froze.
It’s like a trap! he thought. A trap in a forest? How do I get out of here? The area was probably a very carefully prepared set of traps, with perhaps a single safe path through it... that was the way dreams usually went. The trees undoubtedly hid all kinds of fatal and intricate devices.
It’s a dream, he told himself sharply. I’m going to wake up now. Now! But the forest remained there. Like it or not, he was going to have to play by the rules. He examined the ground in front of him. It was muddy and soft for a few paces, then led into moss, leafmold, and finally stone. At the end of his field of vision, bounded by the ghost trees, he could see a large standing stone archway.
That must be what he’d have to get to. In the mud were various tracks.
Tracks, thought Robin. I remember ... something about a test? Like, maybe, a woodsman test? Tracking something? But tracking what? There were all kinds of prints here ...
He cast his mind back to the mural in desperation. The woodsman, standing there, the hunting of stags, bears ... He looked at the mud. Stag prints! He knew a bit about tracking; the Commots were bounded by some fairly wild lands, and any young colt who wandered in had better know his way around or risk becoming a meal for a wood-tiger or hulah; If herbivores traveled a path, it might also be known to predators.
He stepped on one of the stag prints cautiously. There was the faintest of faint sounds, and he ducked as an arrow whistled over his head. Not the stag, then. But what?
The Feyhound. It was the only animal in the central image of the mural he had seen ... That had to be it. He looked at the tracks again, and finally found one that looked like that of a large dog. He put his hoof on it.
Nothing happened. His hoof rested firmly.
He looked around. There were other dog-like footprints around, but only one set of the size and angular shape of the Feyhound. He stepped into another, and then another. He was making progress.
The Feyhound, he noted, had a strange loping gait, if these indeed were its tracks. It had a kind of rhythm to it, like that old song they had used to dance to at festivals in the Commots.
The connection with music made him secure, and his four legs swiftly adapted to the loping gait, constricted slightly because his body was much longer than that of a Feyhound. Left hind, right fore, right hind, left fore...
So natural was it to the music that he hardly needed to see where the tracks were. His hooves dropped one after the other into the safe areas marked by the prints of the Feyhound. It was not until he reached the hard earth where the tracks finally petered out that he noticed the tracks had been getting fainter and fainter ...
Robin lost the rhythm and stopped. He looked behind him, but the way he had come had dissolved in flowing mist. Ahead the earth shifted into bare stone, with no tracks visible.
He hiccuped mournfully to himself, the whiskey making his thoughts woozy.
Best stay with what I know, he told himself. I had the rhythm th
ere, same beats and pace as the Dawn-Summer Dance. Just go forward, keep moving, and hope I hit enough safe spots to make it.
With that, he took out his harp, and strummed a few quick notes to recall the music to his memory. Then he put it back safely, and started his feet into the steps, in place.
Centaurs and their kindred, fauns and satyrs and suchlike creatures of the mystic woodlands, seem to be built for dancing. With the swift angular grace of a fine horse, and two extra legs, centaurs in particular are noted for their incredibly complex dances of celebration and religious ritual. Robin could almost hear the shing-shing of the dancing bells on his hooves as he pranced in place.
He’d left the Commots to live a life of music, and gone into Mizzamir’s offer with the hopes of seeing the world.
Well, he had seen the world, and now parts of it were trying to kill him, even in his dreams. He caught the cadence, and stepped out at a brisk pace, moving his legs in the lope of a running Feyhound and heading as fast as he could. A section of floor slid away under one hoof, but his threelegged stance held him up and let him move on without a pause where a human would have stumbled and fell. He ducked as a spear whistled by, and pranced away as the two sections under his alternate feet gave out at once, and dodged the strike from a hissing snake that darted out of a crack at his legs. Then with a final leap, he landed on the moss in front of the standing stone archway, and was safe.
He caught his breath and looked around. The dream scene dissolved in mist, and he was left standing at the far end of a long hallway. The archway had turned into a pedestal, on which rested a strung longbow and a single silver arrow. Across the hall, at the far end, he could dimly make out a target, a fuzzy blur in the distance, rings not even distinguishable. His jaw dropped.
“Hoofrot!” he exclaimed. His voice echoed in the huge empty room. “I can barely see that thing, let alone hit it.”
He picked up the bow. It was very fine, of dark wood ringed with bands of dark gray, about the same shade as the leaves in the illusion. It seemed to be in perfect shape, but then, why should it not? A dream bow was not bound by the problems of being left strung. He took up the arrow, fitted it, and looked at the target again.