by Keith Baker
“So perhaps you won’t be laying the weapons down,” Thorn said. She slowly raised her hands. “I’m sure we can still sort this out peacefully. What do you think?”
The last words were directed to Steel more than to the eladrin. She hadn’t expected the balance of power to shift quite so quickly, but it was what she was there for-to learn as much as she could about the threat posed by the feyspire.
Their gear is on par with Cannith third-tier enchantments-the leaves are stronger than steel scales, Steel reported quickly. More important-there’s an extraplanar resonance clinging to the ones that jumped. I won’t try to explain, but they won’t be able to repeat that trick for some time.
The fey warriors were waiting for a signal from their commander. Thorn could feel the knight in the horned helm standing behind her, smell the blood flowing from his wounded shoulder. She remained still as he brushed her hair aside, studying the shard embedded in her spine.
“You have spirit, young one,” he said. “But spirit alone is not enough to earn you a welcome in the City of the Silver Tree. And this stone does not belong with you; we shall take it from your bones.”
“Don’t do this, Casoran.” Drix had been silent, but he took a step forward. “She’s innocent. As I was.”
“Be silent and still, Marudrix. You do not command my blade.”
“No, you serve the Silver Lady. And it was she who told me to return when I had found the stone wrapped in Thorn. Would you defy her?”
The eladrin took a step back, letting Thorn’s hair fall down to cover the stone. “I am the guardian of this path. Do not presume to tell me what to do.”
For a moment, the eyes of the eladrin were on Drix, and that moment was all Thorn needed. She could channel only a limited amount of mystical energy at a time, and she knew only a few tricks, but those spells had proven invaluable in the past. She could alter her appearance with an illusionary guise. She could hide all trace of her passage. She could leap great distances or scale sheer walls with the ease of a spider.
And she could turn invisible.
It was a difficult spell, requiring constant concentration, and the cloak was shattered if she took any sort of hostile action. But when she was surrounded by enemies, it was the perfect thing. She’d woven the arcane patterns in her mind as Drix argued with the horned knight, and when she released it, she vanished from sight.
The eladrin surrounding her thrust their spears forward, but they met empty air. Thorn had dropped to the ground the instant the concealing magics took hold. She rolled backward, out from the center of the ring. She was on her feet again before the fey had time to react, and once again she had her arm around Casoran’s neck and Steel’s tip at his throat. She prayed that Steel had been telling the truth when he’d said they couldn’t teleport again.
“Now where were we?” she said as the mystical cloak faded away.
“A stalemate at best.” It was one of the archers. His bow was still trained on Essyn Cadrel. “You may slay our commander, but your companion will fall. And should you kill your hostage, you will be the next to die.”
“That’s right. And maybe I’ll take two or three more of you with me. What good does that do any of us?” Taking a deep breath, she released the knight and took a step back. “We didn’t come to fight. We came here to protect Drix. He tells me your queen wishes to speak with me. And if you really do have a silver tree in your city… tell me, does it have leaves of gold? And is the bark beginning to crack? Because if it is, I’ve been dreaming about it for weeks now, and I really think I need to see your queen as quickly as possible.”
The archers had trained their bows on her, and the spearmen were ready to charge. But the knight in the horned helm held up a hand, and they took a step back. He turned to face her, blood still dripping down his leafy armor where the arrow was lodged in his shoulder. “I was right, halfblood. You do have spirit. And if you’ve heard the call of the Tree, then it is not my place to strip the stone from you. Let us go to the spire.”
“All of us,” Thorn said, pointing to Cadrel. “If your queen wants to meet me, she can meet my friend as well.”
“As you wish,” the knight said. He reached up and yanked the arrow from his shoulder, flinging it to the ground. He didn’t flinch or cry out, though blood flowed from the ugly wound. He pressed his hand over the gash, and when he pulled it away, the only trace of the injury was the blood drying on his armor. “Follow me, then. The Silver Tree awaits.”
CHAPTER TEN
The Mournland B arrakas 24, 999 YK
Bless Arawai and her wonders,” Cadrel breathed as the city came into view.
Thorn could only agree. She’d seen it in her dreams, yet she’d failed to grasp its wonder. Shaelas Tiraleth… in the Elven tongue, it meant Court of the Silver Tree. And so it was-in more ways than one. Thorn remembered the tree in her dreams, the gleaming boughs reaching up toward the sky, and when she’d heard it was tied to the fey city, she’d imagined a vast courtyard open to the sky. The truth was far more spectacular.
The city was the tree.
In her dream, Thorn had seen ivy rising up along the trunk. The ivy was still there, but she could see tiny figures walking along it. There were windows in the great trunk, tiny slivers of light almost hidden within the creases of the metallic bark. This must be what it feels like to be an ant, Thorn thought as she stared up at the majestic tree.
Even as she let the awe wash over her, Thorn could see the rot that was setting in. In her dream, the trunk had been mirror bright, but the silver in front of her was dull and clouded. She could see long cracks running through the bark, and she remembered the shards that had fallen around her in the nightmare. In places, light spilled out as broken walls opened into interior chambers. If there were any golden leaves left on the tree, they were lost in the branches hidden in the mist. The rest of the branches were stripped bare.
“Sir Marusan,” Cadrel said, amazement still heavy in his voice. “It’s the tale of Sir Marusan.”
“I don’t know if we have time for another tale,” Thorn said. They were walking slowly, and the gates of the Tree were still far ahead of them.
“Oh,” he said, “it’s quicker than the last, my dear. The first version was recorded before Galifar was founded. Perhaps you’ve heard of Kessler’s Lost in the Woods? Marusan’s tale was the foundation. He was a knight-in most versions of the story, at least. In some he’s a farmer. In others, a prince. Not Harryn Stormblade or the Shield of Making, but a good man. On the day of his wedding, he goes riding in the woods. There he finds a great city that is also a tree, and he’s imprisoned by the cruel elves that live there.”
“They aren’t that cruel,” Drix said. “They’re just skittish, really.”
Thorn glanced at the nearest soldier, but his closed helmet hid his expression. “I’ll take your word for it. So what happened to this Marusan?”
“Apparently it had been some time since these elves had encountered a human. Their greatest wizards were curious to learn more about him. So they starved him and froze him and burned him… never enough to kill, just to see what it would take to bring him to the edge of death.”
“They did this at this Silver Tree? The one we’re going to now?”
“So the story has it,” Cadrel said.
Drix shrugged. “They were kind enough to me. Well, aside from the stabbing.”
“Perhaps the wizards learned all they needed from Marusan,” Cadrel said. “So time and again, they pushed him to the edge of death. But Marusan was a man in love. And that love gave him strength he’d never known he’d possessed. He was determined to survive so he could return to his beloved. And that courage impressed one of the daughters of the king, who freed him from the pit and told him how to find the path to his home. But there at the gate, the faerie king blocks his path. The elf lord is armed for war and orders Marusan to return to the pit. The knight knows that he can never defeat this otherworldly champion. And so he does one of the hardes
t things he’s ever done. He begs. He drops his sword and falls to his knees. And he tells his story-tells the fearsome king exactly what he left behind, and why he cannot wait any longer. Tears fall from Marusan’s eyes as he speaks of his beloved, and his warm tears melt the heart of the dreadful warlord.”
“Let me guess,” Thorn said. “The king lets him go, Boldrei herself appears to bless the union, and everyone lives happily ever after?”
“That’s how it plays out in Tasker’s play,” Cadrel replied. “The original story is darker. In this tale, Marusan learns that the city of the tree moved between Thelanis and Eberron, and that time passes differently in the faerie court than it does here. In the week that he’s been imprisoned by the elves, a century has passed in the world beyond. His beloved is long dead, having married another.”
“Well,” Thorn said. “I do love a happy ending.”
“What happens next?” Drix said.
Cadrel smiled. “Marusan realizes that he left his heart in the city of the tree, with the woman who helped him escape the grim pit. He tries to go back to the city, but he can’t find it; the forest has swallowed up the trees. He spends the next few years wandering the woods, trying to find the lost path, and when he finally returns to his domain, he finds the elf woman waiting for him. She’d followed him out, leaving her city behind.
“The story ends there. Maybe they were married and ruled a great kingdom. Perhaps it didn’t last.” Cadrel shrugged. “A week ago, I would have told you that it was just a story. That it was a fable about patience. That was before I saw this. A city that is a tree, hidden in what was once one of our greatest forests. It still seems amazing that it could have been here all this time.”
“I don’t think it was,” Drix said. “They were reluctant to talk about it when I was there, but I think the city does move between the planes, that it isn’t always in the woods. And even when it was, it was hidden. Somehow, when they stabbed me, that concealment was wiped away.”
Cadrel looked over at Thorn. “Tell me that doesn’t interest you, my dear. Magic that could hide a thing like that-keep it hidden so well that we know of it only through an all-but-forgotten story.”
“I’m sure it interests you as well… and for the same reason.”
Cadrel smiled. “Ah, Thorn. We live in different worlds, you and I. You serve one of the greatest powers of Khorvaire. Your masters seek to determine the fate of Galifar and Khorvaire. I am only concerned with protecting my people. There are so few of us left. I wish to know the truth that lies behind the Mourning. But it will take more than a cloak of invisibility to bring back fallen Cyre.”
He sounded sincere and for a moment, Thorn wondered if she’d misjudged him. Then she remembered the sorrow in his voice when he’d spoken of the torments Marusan had faced in the dungeons below the city of the tree. He told a good story, but he was a spymaster too. “And your friend Cazalan Dal? Any new thoughts on him?”
Cadrel heaved a great sigh, and for an instant, he seemed to be a much older man. “I still have no idea what those madmen hope to accomplish. It was a mistake for my lord to send our best into such peril and a loss to our nation that they have fallen to madness. There are too many mysteries in this world. At least the answer to one of them lies before us.”
“Let’s hope so,” Thorn said. They’d almost reached the great tree, and she could see a gate down at the very base of the trunk, nestled in the valley formed by two spreading roots. “It’s interesting that the Mourning destroyed all the other trees and left this one alone.”
“We are the ones who felled the trees.” It was the knight in the horned helm, the first time he’d spoken since they’d begun traveling. “You saw what became of them in the grove where we found you. After the blood of our prince and this one soaked the soil, the greenery that survived the tainting grew thirsty. The plants sought our blood, and the region had to be cleansed. The hungry trees you saw are mild compared to the savage roots that besieged us in the first days.”
“What else can you tell me?” she said to the eladrin warrior, tapping Steel’s hilt as she spoke.
“It is not my place to speak to you,” the knight said. “I will let my queen tell you what you need to know.”
Steel was more forthcoming. I have to agree with Cadrel, he told her. It is a wonder. One of the rarest products of Aerenal is what the Aereni call viraletha-livewood. These trees are infused with extraplanar energy, and this sustains them even if the tree is uprooted. I’ve seen a ship with a livewood mast with a dryad living inside it.
Thorn ran a finger along Steel’s blade, lingering on the tip. It was a signal she’d established after one too many long-winded explanations: Get to the point.
This tree is not an artifact. It’s alive. And it doesn’t belong here.
Thorn tapped the hilt of the dagger. Yes?
When the soldiers teleported in your earlier fight, they weren’t teleporting in the same way that heirs of Orien do. After the teleportation effect, each of them was suffused with extraplanar energies. I believe that they slipped out of our world and into Thelanis, returning at a different point in space and time. Something is anchoring them to this plane, though. They can only remain in the Feywild for a split second before being forced back here.
Thorn ran her finger along the point again.
I’m sensing that same energy flowing through the tree. It validates what Drix said… and even Cadrel’s story. It’s not of this world. It’s a piece of Thelanis anchored here.
Thelanis… Thorn knew all about the history of the Five Nations. She knew twenty ways to kill a man during a waltz. She even knew a touch of magic. But metaphysics and planar cosmology weren’t one of the core subjects at the King’s Citadel. Still, every child of Khorvaire knew the basic stories of the outer planes… shadows of the world, realms embodying certain aspects of reality. Dolurrh, the domain of the dead. Shavarath, the heart of war. And Thelanis, the faerie court, a place of magic and mystery. In the stories, the powers of the lords of Thelanis seemed limitless. A faerie king might lay a casual curse on a mortal that would afflict the hapless person’s bloodline for generations to come, or turn dirt to gold with a snap of his fingers.
Or replace a boy’s heart with a crystal shard, Thorn thought.
The energy flowing through the tree is almost overwhelming. But the necrotic energies suffusing the soil are equally powerful-far stronger here than they were within the mists. The Mournland is consuming the energies of the tree, and that’s responsible for the decay that you see.
They walked between the vast roots of the tree, which rose around them like walls sculpted from silver. There were no sentries standing watch at the gate, though Thorn saw archers looking down from the ledges formed by the wide strands of withered ivy. A face was carved into the door. Once it might have been a handsome male elf, but half of the face was worn away, and the other side was starting to crack. With all that they’d seen and all that she’d heard, Thorn wasn’t terribly surprised when the wooden lips moved and a deep voice issued from the gate.
“Two come before me I’ve not seen before. Tell me, Sir Casoran, should I open the door?” It spoke in the Elven tongue with an accent Thorn had never heard before.
The commander took a step forward and answered in Elven. “I bring visitors to see the Lady of the Tree. Open your door. I will stand for their actions.”
A crack ran down the center of the gate, and it slowly swung inward. The knight led them inside.
The hall that lay beyond the door was vast, as grand in its size as the entrance to Brokenblade Castle in Wroat. Yet Brokenblade felt alive. Even when Thorn had visited late at night, the castle was bustling with guards, pages, and emissaries attending to critical business. By contrast, the Silver Tree felt abandoned, a haunted castle whose inhabitants had vanished in a time long past. No one was waiting inside. A few floating globes of light, scattered far apart and flickering and unsteady, created scattered pools of illumination in the gloomy hall. It t
ook only a moment for Thorn to realize that they moved. One drew close and she saw that it was a tiny, winged sprite, glowing with an inner radiance. It shivered, faltering in its flight, and that was when the light faded. It caught itself quickly, and the light returned.
“Guest quarters,” Casoran told the spirit. The creature nodded, darting forward. The knight glanced back at them. “Follow, and for you own safety, stay within the light. And you”-he looked at Thorn-“sheath your blade, lest it be taken from you. It is a dangerous thing, to carry bare steel in our citadel.”
Unfortunate but hardly unexpected, Steel said. I will listen. Study every detail, Lantern.
“Understood,” Thorn told the knight and Steel at once. She sheathed him on her belt instead of hiding him in her glove; from the scabbard, he could at least hear what was going on around them.
“It’s horrible,” Drix told her quietly as they ventured deeper into the hall. “Look at the cracks along the walls! When I was here, the hall was filled with light and music. There were hundreds of sparks in the air, like stars filling the sky. Now… look there.”
Thorn followed his gesture and saw a host of carved wooden sprites, perched in alcoves in the walls.
“They’re dying,” he whispered. “The tree… I think it’s absorbing their energy to survive.”
“Lovely,” Thorn said, keeping her voice low. She stepped over a large crack in the floor, a fissure that ran across the length of the hall. “Could that happen to us?”
“I don’t think so,” Drix whispered. “I think it’s because they’re part of the tree to begin with. Still, probably best to keep to the light.”
The hallway narrowed, branching into multiple paths; their hovering guide led them up a curving passage. The walls were rounded, every surface carved from silvery wood. The hall was filled with light, though Thorn couldn’t see any source of illumination aside from the little sprite; it was as if the air itself were glowing. Only when the air grew warmer did Thorn realize just how cold it had been in the outer hall. They passed doorways with signs and symbols carved into the surface of each portal. Thorn heard faint music and laughter, and she could smell the recent passage of many people, of wine and hot food. A tavern, she thought. The next door was open. She caught a glimpse of an old elf-no, an eladrin; she was beginning to see the differences herself-polishing a bow while another was setting fletching on arrows. Weapons lined the walls around them. It’s a shop… or an armory. It really is a city.