"It's amazing," Ilien breathed.
Carved from the very heart of the ancient tree, the circular room shined like hand-rubbed amber. The vaulted ceiling stretched high overhead in a gleaming, honey-colored arch. It was so high up that Anselm could stand with room to spare. Except for the bed on which Ilien sat, the only other furnishings were a table and chair, currently knocked on their sides. Both were fashioned from the tree's golden marrow.
The Giant bent down and righted the chair and table. "This," he said, "is Hemlock."
Ilien's eyes danced about the room. Though the furniture was sparse, Hemlock was anything but bare. A wood-burning stove, the color of the walls, sat opposite the door. Beside it, a small pile of golden logs lay stacked. Cabinets of wondrous make lined the walls, built cunningly into the tree's interior. Not a single seem was visible. It was as if everything had been milled from the singular block of the tree. Ilien felt suspended in a magnificent, wooden bubble.
"It's incredible!" he marveled.
"Yeah. I think so too." Anselm followed Ilien's gaze about the room. "Much nicer than that cabin with that Missus of mine in it." He suddenly began pounding his hand to his head. "If I could just learn to control my temper!"
"Why is it that the dog house didn't send Windy and me straight to the Swan?" Ilien asked, hoping the question would take the Giant's mind off of bludgeoning himself.
Anselm looked over, a meaty fist poised in mid-strike. "You were captured, seized by the Necromancer. That can happen when you portle."
"Portle?" Ilien bounced gently up and down on the soft bed.
"You know, travel magically?" Anselm said, his fist forgotten. "When you portle, you're no longer where you started or where you're going, neither here nor there, so to speak. It's precisely when you're in-between that Reknamarken can reach you."
The cheery brightness of the room dimmed when Anselm spoke the Necromancer's name. Ilien eyed the corners where he could swear a few, bent shadows crept back up the wall. "But what does Rektum—"
"Reknamarken," Anselm corrected.
"Yeah. Him. What does he want with me?"
"Well, let's see." Anselm put on his best thinking-face. "Have you got anything on you that he might want? Any magical items or such?"
"No. I lost my spellbook and Gallund's wand both." His pencil jabbed him in the rear and he shot to his feet. "Ouch! Oh yeah. I do have this," he said, rolling his eyes as he pulled the pencil out and held it before the Giant.
Anselm squinted at the tiny wooden pencil in Ilien's hand. "I doubt Reknamarken would want that."
"What do you mean?" the pencil railed. "You doubt he'd want me? I'm not good enough, is that it? Too small to be of value? Well I'll have you know that I'm—"
"You want I should give you to him?" Anselm grumbled, his temper beginning to rise.
The pencil fell silent and Ilien put it back in his pocket.
"Now, where were we?" the Giant wondered aloud. "Why else would Reknamarken be after you? Yes. Well, do you know anything important? Trade secrets? Powerful Unbinding spells?"
"No. But I can do this." Ilien incanted his Light spell and Globe sizzled to life above the Giant's head. Anselm looked up at the mischievous light in obvious annoyance. Ilien had flashbacks of the hummingbird incident and quickly sent Globe chasing the shadows in the corners of the room.
"How about dirt?" Anselm asked as he watched Globe go.
"Dirt?"
Anselm turned back, looking more annoyed than ever. "Yes. Dirt. Do you have any dirt on Reknamarken? Do you know anything that could lead to his untimely demise?"
Ilien stiffened. "Definitely not!"
The Giant shook his head. "Too bad."
Ilien sat back down on the edge of the bed. "This is serious! How would you feel if the Necromancer wanted you for reasons unknown?"
Anselm pinned Ilien with a chilling glare. "I'd feel angry."
Ilien met his gaze. "Try scared and confused."
"Never been scared before. Confused?" Anselm scratched his head. "I'd have to think about that one. Hmm. Let me see."
"And now he has Windy," Ilien continued. "What could he possibly want from her?"
Anselm snapped out of his thinking pose. "Why that's easy. You. He wants you. And he knows you'll come to get her."
Ilien flopped backward onto the bed. "But what could he possibly want from me? I'm just a boy. It makes no sense." He stared at the high, golden ceiling in silence.
The oil lamps flickered as if a chill breeze blew through the room. Anselm stooped low, bringing his chiseled face close to Ilien's, his usually ruddy complexion white as a bed sheet, looking like a weathered, limestone statue come to life. He grabbed Ilien's shirt collar between two thick fingers and pulled him to his feet.
"You heard the Swan. You're no ordinary Nomadin. There's something different about you—something special. There's divine blood coursing through you. There's powers untold, and maybe that's what Reknamarken wants. But the real question is, what are you going to do about it? Sure you're scared and confused, but make haste of those feelings, Ilien. They will be your undoing."
Anselm released his grip on Ilien's collar, discovering that he'd nearly lifted him off the floor in his excitement. "You have a lot to think about. But first I think you need some food. You look a little pale." He turned and lumbered over to the cupboard.
As Anselm rummaged through the cupboard's contents, knocking things over and cursing, Ilien realized that the Giant was right. He was famished. He felt like he hadn't eaten in days, which was probably true.
He walked none-too-steadily to the golden table and sat down. As he watched Anselm prepare his food, he pondered for a moment all that the Giant had told him. He was wanted by the Necromancer. That much he knew. But why? Because he had powers untold? Divine blood? What did he mean by that? To top it all off, the Giant talked as if he could actually do something about it. But what? What could he do to stop the Necromancer? He was just a boy. Even the weakest of spells eluded him. It was all too unreal. It made no sense. He suddenly felt dizzy. He suddenly wished Gallund was there with him.
Anselm returned with a large tray laden with food. Large for Ilien, small for a Giant. Anselm tried his best to place it on the table without tipping it, but his massive fingers seemed to overrun everything and soon he was wiping up spilled milk.
In no time at all Ilien managed to wolf down everything the Giant could put in front of him. Sweet bread with honey, a hunk of soft cheese, a bunch of grapes, a bowl of blueberries, several ears of corn and some bread and butter. The grapes and blueberries took the brunt of Anselm's best efforts and resembled jam more than fruit, but the meal was the best Ilien had ever tasted. He followed it all with a tall glass of warm milk. When he was through he felt both impossibly full, and incredibly sleepy. He watched as Anselm cleared away the dishes.
"The Swan said I passed through the Necromancer's shadow. What did she mean by that? Isn't the Necromancer imprisoned in a book?" He grimaced as he watched the Giant simply stack the dirty plates back in the cupboard. He found himself wondering when they were last properly washed, and felt queasy.
"That's true." Anselm closed the cupboard and turned to wipe the table. "But just as you can cast a shadow out the door, so too can Reknamarken. And his shadow falls the farthest. His shadow is darkest of all. There's danger in darkness, evil magic—death itself! Reknamarken's shadow is all that and more."
Anselm finished cleaning up and turned down the lamps. Even in the gloom the room glistened like a vein of solid gold. "I know there are questions without answers tumbling around in that head of yours," he said as he helped Ilien up and led him over to the bed. "But now you need to sleep. You still look a bit sickly. Soon you will know more than you do now, and you'll need your strength if you're to rescue Windy."
"Anselm?" Ilien said as he lay back on the bed.
Anselm pulled off Ilien's shoes and placed them on the floor. "Yes."
"I'm sorry about your parakite."
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Ilien was vaguely aware of the covers being laid over him, and the soft rumble of Anselm's voice singing him a sorrowful song as he drifted off to a deep, dreamless slumber.
Chapter XIV
The Test
Ilien awoke suddenly, his face drenched—not from a cold sweat but from a sickening mixture of dog slobber and bad breath. Kink sat by his side, painting his face with long strokes of his enormous tongue. Ilien shot straight up in bed, waving him off with a yell.
"I'm awake! I'm awake!"
Kink laid his enormous head on Ilien's chest, pinning him back down on the bed. His tail thumped the floor like a hammer. Ilien tried to push Kink off but the giant dog wouldn't relent. "Kink," he croaked. "It's a bit hard to breathe." He reached up and scratched the giant dog behind the ear. "Please, Kink."
After a few moments lost in ecstasy, Kink lifted his head and looked down at Ilien. "Are you alright?"
Kink had acted so much like a regular dog that Ilien was almost surprised to hear him talk. "I'm fine. I'm both rested and bathed now, thank you very much." He wiped his face with his sleeve and knuckled the sleep from his eyes. The lamps had been relit, casting their golden light about the room, and a warm breeze blew in through the windows, bringing with it the faint scent of flowers from the distant meadow.
"The Swan told me to come and wake you. She says to meet her down by the lake right away. Says it's urgent." Kink fell into a scratching fit, oohing and aahing as he attacked his crooked back end. "Buh uf ur tard," he continued, his mouth full of his own hide, "I cud teller yuh neeg mur resk."
Ilien climbed out of bed. His legs felt solid once more, his head clear. To his amazement the clothes he wore looked and smelled as if they had been freshly washed and pressed. He felt his pockets. His house key and pencil were still there. He shrugged. He hadn't felt this good since the last time he'd slept in his own bed. "I'm fine, Kink. Besides, you just told me it was urgent. Let's go."
Kink stopped his chewing and looked at Ilien in embarrassment. "Oh yeah, you're right."
Even though he felt fine, Ilien left Hemlock with a knot in the pit of his stomach. He glanced back at the magnificent tree-house, with its front door magically hidden and its windows thrown wide, lit like enchanted eyes beneath the thick forest canopy, and he felt somehow homesick. The pervading gloom only added to his sense of foreboding. He looked long and hard at the secreted sanctuary, wanting to commit to memory everything about it. He had a sinking feeling it would be the last time he would ever see it again.
He made his way slowly through the forest, Kink leading the way through the shadows. Ahead, he could see the bright outline of the forest's end, where the trees fell away and the sun shined slanting upon the field far away. Behind him, the bright glow of Hemlock's open windows dwindled then died away, lost among the intersecting rows of trees. He quickened his pace. He longed for the comfort of the sun, even if it did always teeter on the moment of sunset.
Soon he reached the field and broke out into the sunlight. He slowed, stopping to admire the strange and beautiful flowers again, telling himself that it would be his last chance to smell them. But he knew he was only lingering to put off the inevitable. Sooner or later he had to face his fears—his fear for Windy, his fear of finding out the truth, his fear of facing Reknamarken.
Anselm's words came back to him. Make haste of your feelings. But he couldn't. With Kink dragging his tail beside him, the stroll to the lake felt like a march to judgment.
Ilien found the Swan exactly where he thought he might, swimming in the shallows of the lake, just off the sandy shore. She moved effortlessly through the water, wielding slowly about to face him. Ilien quickened his pace to meet her, Kink trotting at his side.
"You look rested," she said as he approached, her eyes glinting in the sunlight. "I trust you are."
"I am," was all Ilien could say. He walked to the water's edge and Kink followed behind him.
"You have many questions."
Ilien nodded.
The Swan paddled forward. "I will try to answer all that I can. But first there is something you must know."
"Like who my parents are," Ilien stated.
The Swan hovered backward in the water, her long neck bowing gracefully in a gesture of acquiescence. "Yes, for one."
Ilien looked out over the water. Ripples from the Swan's passage pressed silently on the shore. "If I am Nomadin," he said, his gaze coming to rest on the Swan, "then my parents must be Nomadin as well."
It was the Swan's turn to nod.
"Then is Gallund my father?"
At that the magnificent bird swam forward and climbed ashore, shaking her back feathers dry. "I don't know who your father is."
Ilien looked at Kink, then back at the Swan. "How can that be? You said yourself that my parents brought me here. You saw them."
"You were brought before me by three Nomadin, Ilien. One was Gilindilin, the wizardess. The other two were wizards. Yes, one was Gallund, that's true. But the other was the wizard Philion. It was clear from the start that Gilindilin was your mother, but neither wizard claimed to be your father, though I suspected one was."
"And you didn't ask?"
The Swan peered forward along the sandy shore. "Having a child is forbidden by the Nomadin." She watched a gull as it played near the water's edge. "It took great courage for them to come to me, and even greater courage for Gilindilin to proclaim herself your mother. It was not my place to ask."
"Courage to proclaim herself my mother? You say it as if I'm a shame to her."
The Swan was quiet for a moment. The gull she watched lifted suddenly from the beach and sailed out over the water. "Not a shame," she replied, turning to face him. "A tragedy."
Ilien was stunned silent.
"You may want to sit. There is something you should understand."
"I'll stand, thank you," Ilien said, folding his arms across his stomach.
The giant bird sat down, and though Ilien remained standing, her head still towered above his. "Nomadin are forbidden to love so deeply as to have children. They must live without the love so many others take for granted. It is a lonely existence, to be bound so, but to permit themselves the greatest joy in life is not only to doom the greatest treasure they could ever have, it is to doom all creation as well."
Ilien's face grew taut with frustration. "You're not the first one to tell me that. Why does everyone keep saying that?"
"Having a Nomadin-child is to release the Necromancer himself," Kink exclaimed. "It is prophesied so."
Ilien looked at the Swan in disbelief.
"It's true," she replied, her own face softening. "Reknamarken foretold that a Nomadin-child would free him, and thus would begin the third and final war. For it was prophesied that the Dark Shepherd would rise three times, the third to be the last, and that three generations of Nomadin would meet him in battle. But the final words of Reknamarken would prove a bane indeed, for the Nomadin forbade themselves from ever bearing children, and now the Sons of the First Line are old and weary, and no heir exists to carry on their work." Her eyes lit up. "Until now, that is."
Ilien shook his head slowly, his gaze stunned and distant. "But why would they do that? Why would they just believe him?"
"If you knew the Necromancer, you'd believe him too," the Swan said. "The Nomadin understood what Reknamarken was after, that his prophesy would doom them to extinction, but as first-hand witnesses to the destruction he had caused in the past they decided not to take any chances."
Ilien hung his head. "Well someone sure did."
"Yes, they did." The Swan eyed Ilien with a half-smile.
Ilien hugged himself tighter. "Reknamarken's prophesy has to be wrong. I have no intentions of freeing him. Why would I free him?"
"His prophesy makes no mention of your intentions, Ilien."
Ilien sat down beside the giant bird. He sighed and dug his heels into the sandy shore. Kink plopped down next to him, doing the same with his front paws. "If I
was such a tragedy, then why did she bother to bring me here in the first place? If I was destined to doom creation itself, then why didn't she just—."
"Gilindilin could never have slain her own son!" The great bird rose quickly to her feet and stray puffs of down filled the air around her. "But don't be naive, there were other Nomadin who would have. She brought you here to hide you, from Nomadin and Necromancer alike, for even though the Necromancer is imprisoned in the Void, he yet sees, and though his body has long been destroyed, he has many hands abroad. It is only here, the Drowsy Wood, that remains unreachable to Reknamarken still."
"And my parents back in Southford?" Ilien questioned. "They just found me one night on their doorstep, I suppose."
The Swan bent a solemn gaze on Ilien. "Of course not. You needed to be hidden better than that. No matter how hard Gilindilin tried, she could not hide your birth from Reknamarken. From the start you were sought by the Necromancer's servants, the NiDemon. She cast what spells she could to mask her pregnancy but word would soon get out that a Nomadin was to have a child, the prophesied child. She fled, finally coming here, where Reknamarken could not see, to seek an answer, to hide you from danger."
"No, she could not simply leave you anywhere, Ilien. Whoever she chose to leave you with would need to believe that you were their son, through and through. There could be no doubt to anyone that you were nothing more than a common child from a common woman, that your mother in Southford was truly your birth-mother."
"But that would be impossible." Ilien's brow darkened. "Unless she actually gave birth to me."
The Swan ruffled her feathers, then carefully groomed them back into place with her beak. Kink laid his shaggy head in the sand and looked up at Ilien.
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