He glanced at her brown roots extending from her silver gown. Breal came close as if to sniff them, then backed away to stand by Miles.
“You have brought us word,” she said, with such assurance that he glanced up again, startled to see how drawn her face looked. She wavered, insubstantial as a candle flame. He sensed that she was very ill, maybe even dying. His throat tightened.
“What word are you seeking?” he asked. He suddenly felt he would do anything to help her. The deya’s gown fluttered; her arms rose and fell again like wings. But she stayed close to the earth and to her Waytree.
“We few deyas who still remain await news from Meer Zabith.”
Miles knew last winter Meer Zabith had sailed to Jarrosh in the eastern lands of Noor, where dragons guarded the oldest Waytrees in the world. He’d carried her trunk down to Othlore Harbor and helped the old woman aboard her ship, but he hadn’t asked her why she was bound for Jarrosh. Meer Zabith was a seer and a recluse who kept counsel only with the High Meer himself.
“There’s no news from Meer Zabith that I know of,” he admitted.
The silver gray figure thinned like a parting mist. “We hear this, and we drink it into our roots now.” The Waytrees behind her seemed to shudder.
“The dragons must have flown. We fear the strongest Waytrees in Jarrosh have begun to fall. Our roots are not as deep as theirs. Without them we do not have the power to bind the worlds.”
Slowly she drew back. “I will tell the others,” she said.
He saw her fading as she leaned into the birch tree, and reached out, as if to pull her back. “Wait. Where have the dragons gone? Why do you think the Waytrees of Jarrosh are falling?” Breal stood alert, tail lowered, ears pressed back.
“Our roots die with the azure trees. We cannot stay.”
Hissss. A sound not made by wind or trees.
“But the Azures are far away in the east. Why do your roots here have to die? I don’t understand.”
“Too late,” the deya said. “Soon we will be gone, and you will forget.”
“Forget what? Please tell me!” He reached for her, but she pulled back, into the tree. “You can’t leave,” he argued. “The deyas have lived in these Waytrees for thousands of years.”
The deya spirit was a ghostly wisp-woman now, her fading presence more a lingering fragrance than a vision.
“You will all forget,” she said again, and was gone.
Miles leaped forward. “Come back. I call you from your Waytree—” But Miles faltered. She had not given him her name.
A hissing sound sped through the wood from above and from below. A thick, dark line grew up the birch trunk. White bark peeled away like curling paper. A long black fissure suddenly split with a resounding crack!
Breal circled, barking. The birch tree shuddered, its branches raining down. The trunk split wider and toppled to the earth, just missing Miles.
Miles lurched back, stunned, then he flew forward to find the deya. “Are you hurt? Where are you?” Gripping the shattered trunk, he tugged with all his might. Breal dug about the base of the trunk as they both struggled against the heavy weight, but they could not budge the tree.
The forest floor rose and fell, as if heaving in a breath. Miles stumbled against Breal and fell backward on his hands. The birch to his right split open with another loud crack. Miles pushed himself up, trying to find his footing on the heaving path.
The trees swayed and buckled as if riding a stormy sea. Small black fissures grew up an oak trunk, splitting wider and wider.
“Watch out, Breal!”
Boom!
Ahhhhh! Ahhhhh! The sound of voices knelling. Hissssss!
Branches rained down from all sides, from oak and birch and pine. Breal took off. Miles covered his head and raced behind his dog. His breath came hard as he sped down the trail. Dodging branches, it took another half an hour to reach the bridge. Across the river on the crest of the hill, he stopped at last and turned again. Hands on knees, he sucked in ragged breaths and gazed toward Othlore Wood, where a singular storm was raging.
The school gate had opened, and meers and apprentices flooded through. In the glade across the river more trunks darkened; thunderous sounds echoed down the foothills as trees buckled and hit the earth. Deep mist rose above the collapsing canopy, rolling in gray waves toward the center of the wood.
Miles stood in the blowing grass with all the others. The earth was still, the evening sky dark but clear. A light breeze crossed his skin. The Waytrees were not toppling in a wind, not falling in a quake, but in some raging magic beyond their ken. A flock of crows flew upward like a black cape tossed into the air. More birds abandoned the wild woods, screeching and twittering with terror as they darted past. Deer and foxes raced over the bridge into the long grass.
The Music Master, Meer Eason, began to sing the Kaynumba, and others joined him in the ending chant, knowing they could not battle a magic storm coming from the heart of the wood.
Miles’s head was filled with sound; he felt as if his bones were breaking. Centuries ago, the dragons had fought a war to protect the Waytrees. The birch deya said they’d flown. Where had they gone? Miles reached for a branch that had blown clear of the forest, leaning his full weight on the staff.
The birch branch was not yet blackened by the sickness that was taking Othlore Wood. Miles wrapped his fingers around it and felt skin to bark as if he held the hand of one who was dying. His granda’s hand had felt like this—dry, slender-boned, cool to the touch, just before he passed.
“Kaynumba, eOwey, kaynumba. The ending comes, O Maker, the ending comes.” Meers and students from every discipline sang as the trees passed away. Miles tugged his ervay from its leather bag. His fingers passed along the sylth silver as he played the Y-shaped flute along with the chanters.
On the topmost point of the hill, Meer Ellyer appeared, his russet cloak sweeping out behind him. The High Meer’s lips did not move, for silence was his offering, but his hands were held out to the storm so all could see his meer sign—the Othic symbol for wind-fire—dancing blue on his left palm.
“Kaynumba. The ending comes.”
Just before dawn the breaking was at an end. A few small saplings still stood, down by the shore and on the far side of the mountain, but the ancient trees lay flat and smoldering on the forest floor, all pointing inward to the place that was once the heart of the wood.
THREE
THE HIGH MEER’S SCRYING STONE
When the two worlds broke apart,
Noor folk lost touch with the Old
Magic and forgot the way to Oth.
—THE WAY BETWEEN WORLDS
Breal raced up to the house of river stones and sat before the front door, thick tail wagging. Miles should have taken it as a good sign, but he couldn’t shake off his fear. Last night the great forest had fallen. This afternoon a fierce wind had screamed across the school yard and swept three young pupils into the sky. Soon after that the High Meer had summoned him to his house.
Miles tried to calm his nerves. He’d been the only one to enter Othlore Wood yesterday. Did the High Meer think he had something to do with the destruction? Or with the children—some of the youngest in the school—stolen by the wind? He hoped the High Meer wasn’t planning to expel him. He didn’t want to go home. He wanted to stay here and study to defeat whatever dark magic had come to the meers’ isle.
Crossing the porch, he stood with Meer Eason, in the low, circling mist. To his right, just beyond the piles of dead trees, the river shone deep blue with twilight. They’d not spoken a word walking here. Meer Eason drew back his hood, his black face wrinkling with concern as he stepped up to the threshold. Miles wiped his damp hands on his cloak. Eason adjusted his long braid worn down one side in the fashion of a Music Master. No ringing of bells or knocking, just a moment’s wait, and the door creaked open. Inside, Miles removed his muddy boots and slipped on a pair of rush sandals.
The High Meer, Ellyer, was seated on a m
editation cushion across from the Sea Meer, Kanoae. Pillows were strewn across the floor, and three walls out of four were lined with bookshelves. The room would have been very simple, almost stark, if it weren’t for the pale blue, dome-shaped stone on the corner table. The scrying stone: it must be that and nothing else. He’d read about this stone in history class.
Long ago the Dragon Queen gave the scrying stone to the Mishtar, the first High Meer of Othlore, for his service in the dragon wars. The blue amber was said to have been made from the sap of the great World Tree itself, hardened over millennia. No images danced on its surface now, but then only the High Meer knew how to call visions from the amber.
The old man caught Miles’s questioning look and smiled. His golden skin wrinkled like fine silk about his upturned mouth and beside his almond eyes. The thin white hair crowning his otherwise bald head showed a few black strands.
Miles shifted from foot to foot, unsure if he was supposed to sit or remain standing. The rich scent of thool drifted from the steaming teapot. Miles saw Kanoae watching Breal curl up near the crackling fire, head down on his flattened paws. Meer Kanoae had captained the ship that sailed him to Othlore last year. The thick-set meer had cleaned up before this meeting, tied back her brown hair, and traded her wind jerkin for her formal robes. Miles’s mood darkened. The powerful woman was here to escort him home, no doubt.
Meer Eason nudged him. Miles quickly joined Eason in a formal greeting, left hand to forehead then bowing heads once and twice. Meer Ellyer and Meer Kanoae returned it.
Kanoae patted a green cushion on the floor beside her. Miles sank down, feeling like a prisoner awaiting his sentence. Why such formality? Why not just get on with it and accuse him, if that was what they were here to do? But these were meers, and things would be done in an orderly manner. He licked the sweat from his upper lip, his foot twitching with agitation.
The High Meer poured four cups of thool, and Kanoae passed them around. The window was open a crack. Outside the river’s voice sang in low and high tones down the mountain’s throat, its song sounding thin in the absence of the usual sounds of wind whispering through green branches.
No wind blew here now. He clutched his cup, heat stinging his hand as he remembered the young apprentices wrenched out of the school courtyard. The wind had taken only three students, chosen them, it seemed, for it had blown Miles and the rest of the students aside, knocking some into the west pool, smashing Miles and a score of others against the courtyard wall.
He’d caught one of the boys by the ankle as he was being sucked into the storm, but the wind was stronger. The boy flew out of reach, calling Tesha yoven, words used in a binding spell, as he spun higher and higher with the other two above the eastern wall. In a moment’s time they’d vanished in the clouds.
“You worry for the Wind-taken,” said Meer Ellyer.
Miles started. Had the High Meer read his mind?
“Aye,” he admitted. “The children who were stolen were so young.” He paused. “Only three out of all of us, as if they’d been selected.”
Eason said, “Meer Ellyer, do you think the wind that took the apprentices has something to do with the fallen trees?”
“The images in my scrying stone showed other lands where the forests have died,” said Meer Ellyer. “In those lands other children have been Wind-taken.”
“So you knew it would happen here on Othlore?” Miles heard the irritation in his own voice and added a quick, “Sir?”
“I hoped the trees would stand here, Miles. This isle is protected for a reason. It’s the one place in Noor where the Old Magic of Oth is still taught.”
Miles sipped his sweet drink. There was something about a Wild Wind in a passage he’d read in one of his books, but he couldn’t recall what it said. “But why were the children taken?” he asked. “Why is this all happening at once?”
Meer Ellyer frowned. “The scrying stone does not show me all. But I saw the wind sweep the children east toward the dragon lands, where the oldest Waytrees grow.”
Miles thought again of the boy he’d tried to save from the tempest. He was not much older than his brother, Tymm. Why hadn’t he been able to keep hold of the boy’s ankle?
“What brought you to the woods yesterday?” asked Meer Ellyer.
Miles’s spine stiffened. The interrogation had begun. Just what had he been doing in Othlore Wood before it began to fall? Miles put his cup on the floor. Watched the steam rise.
“I heard a calling sound.”
“What sort of sound?” the Music Master asked. Miles rubbed the bridge of his nose and tapped the floor nervously. If he said he’d heard the deyas calling, wouldn’t they ask why? He’d not told the meers about the acute hearing gift he’d gleaned from his last shape-shift. Shape-shifting had been prohibited to the students here ever since an apprentice named Yarta had misused the gift thirty years ago. She’d shape-shifted smaller and smaller until she vanished altogether.
Yarta had gone too far and died, and the practice had been banned to all apprentices ever since. Only those in the Wielder’s Order knew the shape-shifter’s art these days, but they never spoke of it. If the High Meer knew Miles had heightened hearing because he was a shape-shifter, he’d have good reason to expel him. And if that happened, he’d never be blue-palmed, never bear the magic sign on his hand that proved he was a meer.
Meer Ellyer sliced an apple, waiting for Miles’s answer.
“A sort of music. Wind in the trees, I think. I went inside the forest to listen more closely to it.” It was not the whole truth. He’d guessed the sound had been more than wind in the trees, and his acute ears had picked it up from as far away as the school buildings. But he wouldn’t tell them that.
Meer Ellyer asked, “What happened then?”
Miles looked from meer to meer. Even Breal’s large brown eyes watched him from his place by the fire. “A birch deya came out of her Waytree.”
Meer Eason scooted closer. “Go on.”
“She asked if there was any news from Meer Zabith. She seemed to think I was a messenger”—he paused a moment—“but I’d not heard of any news. She was disappointed then, and she said something about azure trees and dragons.”
The word dragons felt like fire coming off his tongue. He hoped to catch a glimpse of one someday.
“This is important,” said Meer Ellyer. “Try to remember exactly what she told you.”
Miles frowned, thinking. “The deya said the Waytrees of Jarrosh are falling. She said the dragons must have flown away.” He looked at the High Meer. “I’ve been wondering what she meant by that.”
Meer Ellyer stirred his thool. “You have studied the Mishtar’s dragon books, have you not? The part about the dragons and the World Tree?”
Miles fidgeted on his cushion. He remembered the description of the great World Tree, Kwen-Arnun, towering thousands of feet over NoorOth. A tree so sacred it was guarded by dragons. In the second age when Kwen-Arnun split in the quake that tore NoorOth in two, when Kwen crashed down in Noor, and his tree-wife, Arnun, shattered in the magical world of Oth, the worlds split with their falling. After the split, dragons waged war with the men who came to chop down the World Tree’s descendants to use as timber and fuel.
“I think,” he said, “if they have flown from Jarrosh, the Waytrees there have no one guarding them.”
“They would not fly away,” argued Meer Kanoae. “Dragons have always protected the ancient azure groves from harm, whether it be men with axes or any other kind of threat. It’s in their blood.”
Meer Eason said, “Still, the Waytrees fell here in Othlore Wood, and we saw no dragons flying overhead.”
“We can’t be hasty in our judgment,” warned the High Meer. “We did not see dragons when our forest fell. But there is more at work here than we can see.”
He refilled Eason’s cup. “The birch deya told Miles the azure trees of Jarrosh are in trouble. Meer Zabith came to me last winter with the same concern after she had a
warning vision. Our Forest Meer knew the ancient azures have the deepest roots. All the other Waytrees of Noor can’t hold the worlds if the azures die. They are not strong enough. She sailed east for Jarrosh after that.”
“And has not been heard from since,” added Kanoae bitterly. “Now if she’d listened to sense and gone on my ship—”
Meer Ellyer held up his hand to silence her complaint.
Miles looked out the window. The river flowed dark outside with the coming night. “What will happen if Oth splits all the way apart from Noor? Not just a rift like the one that happened in the second age when the World Tree fell, but if there is … a complete split?”
The High Meer answered in a low voice. “The Mishtar warned us long ago. If the worlds split completely, all magic will go out of Noor. People will forget how to dream. Then Oth itself will disappear.”
Miles’s mouth went dry. He’d been to Oth, a place so drenched in magic that even the air sparkled with life. If all the magic were to go out of Noor with the vanishing of Oth … “We can’t let it happen,” he said. “How long do we have?”
“I cannot say, but if all the azures fall, the break will be complete.”
Miles stood, overturning his cup. “We have to stop it. You said the wind took the children east. We have to follow. Find the children. Find out what’s wrong with the trees. I’ll go.” He knelt and tried to contain the spilled thool spreading across the hardwood.
“Sorry,” he whispered. Heat climbed up his neck. The cup was chipped. If his little brother Tymm were here, he could mend the chip, but this was the High Meer’s house. No Tymm with his handy glue pot. The High Meer padded to the kitchen, returned, and tossed him a cloth.
“Jarrosh is near my homeland,” said Meer Eason. “If the azures are in trouble, and the Wind-taken children were blown there, Miles is right. It’s clear we must go.”
“We need to set sail now and meet this problem at its source,” agreed Kanoae. “But Miles has no reason to come. He’s just a boy of, what, fifteen?”
The Dragons of Noor Page 3