This was a place more real than any other she had ever witnessed. This world, this hall which existed within the living world was independent of it, and more real than even the reality from which they had just come. Grace was almost certain that this hall belonged to more than one time and world.
Behind them a fogbank obscured the end of the cloister from view, or maybe the fogbank was the end of the cloister, it was hard to tell. The one thing Grace knew from both looking at the fog and from past experience was that it was most certainly a living, thinking entity. It twisted and turned in on itself, as if it were not fog in the least but a dense, consuming smoke that was eddied and manipulated by wind. Occasionally tendrils would lick out of the fogbank as if wishing to caress the three women it had just spat forth from the Mirror of the Moon and into the Hall of the Well. Grace looked down as a stray wisp of fog snaked across the ground and brushed at her ankle, and even as she watched the old woman could see the altar room of the Mirror of the Moon beneath that foot, a world contained in the fog of the cloister. But as soon as the fog touched her it retreated back into itself and the world she once knew was again contained.
“It certainly has grown poisonous, hasn’t it?” Dalah asked, not having taken her eyes off the other end of the hall. Her words urged Grace to turn from her contemplations of the fog to the other end, where she could sense as well as see the malaise of the well, pulsing in a rhythmic green noxiousness, like an evil heart. The great Evyndelle rose out of its inky depths, up into yet more fog and out of sight.
“Yes, but at least it has not yet reached the tree,” Rosalee commented.
“Though I’m sure that even now it’s working its will upon the roots,” Grace took a deep breath and stepped forward. “Well ladies, this is what we came for.”
“Yes,” Dalah nodded, smoothing the front of her yellow robe.
“What is it?” Rosalee asked.
“Where are they?” Dalah responded.
“Who?” Grace wondered.
“Don’t you remember the Norns?” Dalah asked.
“No, we didn’t see them last time, remember, they possessed you, Pharoh and Porillon, not us,” Grace reminded her.
“Can they even possess one that’s not a sorcerer?” Rosalee wondered. “After all, it is a sorcerer that has to work with the Well of Wyrding.”
“Well, if they couldn’t possess one that was not a sorcerer, why then would there be need for three, and only one having to be a sorcerer?” Dalah asked.
Grace was now troubled. Could it be there was something more happening here than merely the problem with the well? “Well, we can’t wait around here all night, there is work to do.”
“Will we be allowed further in without the aid of the Norns?” Rosalee asked.
“The need for three is merely for balance. The Norns possessing you doesn’t really give you any added benefit, it’s only balancing out. What you take from the living world and bring here must be swapped. The Norns’ energy goes there, ours come here.” Grace explained. “From what I understand the Norns have to enter Saracin through us, that’s the possession. While we can come and go by way of the fog, they can only come and go by way of us — we act like a channel to Saracin for them.”
“I never was much good with balancing things,” Rosalee admitted, swatting at some of the fog which twisted out toward her in a playful manner as if she were slapping away a dog. She tightened the red sash around her blue robe. “But if the balance is out of sorts, what happens then?”
“I don’t know, Rose,” Grace sighed. “As I understand it, that,” she pointed toward the enormous pulsing green well behind her, “means that the balance is already compromised. Who knows what Porillon did while she was here? That could be the problem with the Norns.”
“This is very true. And, if there’s a shift in the balance with us being here and the Norns not holding our spots in Saracin, it will only make things worse the longer we stay here, which means we’d better hurry on with what needs to be done.” Dalah made sense, and so they all stepped forward together toward the pulsating green well.
Dead leaves and needles could be seen bustling around the base of the well, and that disheartened them even more. “Evyndelle is dying,” Grace whispered.
It was true; leaves and needles and seed pods and cones lay about the base of the Well of Wyrding in dried, discolored lumps. The tree itself was one of the most amazing sights that Grace had ever seen. It was large enough that looking at the base was not like looking at the trunk of a tree so much as looking at a living wall of wood, bark, vines, and creeping flowers. It was so tall that its upper branches were lost in clouds. Grace knew why there were a mixture of leaves and needles below it, and that was because Evyndelle was a representation of every tree that was ever known, some that were as yet unknown and some that would never be a possibility while man existed. Some said that it even had parts of dryads and averanym in it.
The tree had its own cycles, possessed its own forces and moved with an intent that none could know, not even the Norns who were placed to keep watch over it. It was constantly moved by a wyrded wind that was said to be the movement of fate through the world. As they gazed upon it, a light that they could only describe as the sun broke free of the clouds and shined through the gigantic boughs to shimmer at them, though they knew no sun existed here and instead it must have been the light of the Goddess.
The branches possessed by the Evyndelle sported a variety of leaves and needles from trees as diverse as evergreens and elms, maples and aspens, willows and cherry. They were not surprised to see among the blossoming flowers the tree also harbored lilacs, cherry blossoms, apple blossoms, plum and orange blossoms, all filling the air with a heady, soapy smell they could have lost themselves in. Every magnificent bud and leaf and flower whispered in a wyrded wind, and shifted in giant falls from the clouded sky as if they were watching an ocean of forestry. Flowers of all shapes and sizes clung to leaves and vines that wound their way up the Evyndelle and hung in colorful garlands from branches stretching down to trace their way through the darkening green fluid in the Well of Wyrding.
The well was one of the most beautiful constructions they had ever seen, whether crafted by human, dwarf, or elven hands. It was a light gray stone laid in bricks, yet the stone shimmered with a light and fluidity that reminded them not of stone but opals. There was a fire within the gem-like bricks of the well that was both terrible and incredibly beautiful to behold. The well was larger by far than the tree, and though they could easily step up onto it (in no small part due to the winding stairs that led up to the rim) the well was also as much like a wall as the Evyndelle was.
Along the wall of the Well of Wyrding were carved characters of a past so ancient that none now knew the tales to which they belonged.
There was a faltering of steps, but Grace pushed on and her friends had to follow.
“We’re almost there,” Dalah said, looking at the other two as they approached the first step leading to the well. Rosalee was smiling and watching things in the air that only she could see, and Grace had her eyes so intently focused on the tree that Dalah wondered if she was actually present with them. The dead leaves and needles from the tree gusted around their ankles and Dalah felt with the whisper of dead foliage on her feet the very touch of Death and his three Wisdoms. She shuddered, realizing that while there was a large amount of dead foliage about them, she could not see where it had come from on the tree.
None of them spoke a word, for there was no need and no desire for words. Instead, as one entity, they grasped hands and stepped up the stairs to finally stand on the rim.
“Well,” Grace sighed. “This is—” but whatever she was about to say was lost in a gasp as icy gray webbed hands grasped her ankles and pulled her into the green fluid-air that comprised the Well of Wyrding.
Sometime in the night the Germinant Gob arrived, and whether he had been called by the averanym, the joyous mood, or by some other means was not clear. It was
certain that he had brought with him a guest, though they did not arrive in the normal way, which would be on foot, across the ground.
The first was a gnome who snapped into reality before their very eyes, startling them all out of the near-sleep they had been in.
Though the Germinant Gob appeared like his charges, he was not like any gnome they had seen thus far. They knew that this was the gnome king, the one that would soon settle into a plant of some sort. It was never known what type of plant a gnome would turn into before they began to settle, but once they had settled enough to be a Germinant Gob it slowly became apparent what their averanym shape would be. This particular Germinant Gob, whose name had been forgotten once the title of Germinant Gob had been adopted, appeared very different than they had expected.
He was brown, like all the others, but richer, darker, nearly black. His skin had already taken on a different texture, and appeared to them now like bark. Even with such slight changes as this they knew what this Gob would settle into. However, the branches that stuck out of him here and there, and the fresh needles they were sprouting, told them without a doubt that this diminutive being would settle into an evergreen. Already the smell coming from him was more tree than the dirt smell of the other gnomes.
It was not to him that the dryads bowed, but instead the form that manifested next. The ground before them began to glow a vibrant green, which slowly stretched up into the air, as if a being of pure green light was growing from the ground as a tree might. The green light took the form of a figure, and before long other colors began to intrude on the luminescence that distinguished the person.
The presence was undoubtedly female, and tall at that. Her very presence exuded a type of controlled power that reminded them of Porillon in strength, but was so different than her in discipline. She wore a black robe that looked to be made of fur, and her auburn hair fell in silken waves to her waist. Her skin was a type of white that reminded Angelica of fresh cream. She smiled at them with a graceful upturning of her full red lips, and crossed the clearing to them just as elegantly as the dryads had.
This was, without a doubt, one of the most powerful and controlled people they had ever met. She clasped hands with Joya, and bowed her head low over them to press her forehead against the younger lady’s hands.
“I’m Annbell Bardoe,” the woman said in a deep voice that was heavily laden with a northern accent. “And you are the hunted children of our Gracious Sylvie LaFaye. I’m honored to have you in my realm.”
“If Grace wasn’t your sister, I wouldn’t be nearly so relaxed with you knowing our identity,” Joya confessed with a frown. Jovian wondered how old Annbell was if Grace appeared as old as she did. Certainly the Guardian of the Realm of Earth didn’t seem older than her early thirties.
“As I would expect, for it’s a deadly name to bear in these days,” Annbell conceded, standing fully once more and letting Joya’s hands drop. She greeted each in turn.
“Many things are happening in the outside world,” Annbell told them as she settled down on a copse of grass that was not averanym. She accepted a small stone plate of food from one dryad and a goblet of wine from another, and took a sip before she continued. It wasn’t just food and wine that Joya saw them proffering to their Realm Guardian, but energy as well. She suspected that Angelica and Jovian could not see what was really going on, but with the supplication of wyrd the beings in the Grove of the Averanym were trying to give her it was nearly like they saw Annbell as some kind of deity. Joya was slightly disappointed that Annbell was as common as she appeared. The title Realm Guardian and the legends surrounding them conjured to Joya’s mind all sorts of fantastic images and wyrd, but looking at Annbell, Joya thought she didn’t seem any different than herself.
They hadn’t felt removed from the world, and news of what was going on outside of their adventure, until Annbell had mentioned it. Now they sat forward, intent to hear what was happening around them, as the world continued despite their removal from daily life.
“The Well of Wyrding is still in flux, as I’m sure you all know. Grace ventures now to restore balance to the well, but as of yet we have not felt her success, nor heard news of the outcome. With the corruption still gripping the well a malaise is sweeping the Great Realms. All those that are still touching their wyrd frequently are slowly being possessed by the Chaos that infects the well. All wyrd that has been cast in the past is starting to break down and corrupt.”
Angelica could not help but think of Fairview and how the majority of their buildings were kept standing by wyrd. She hoped that all was well there, for it was truly one of the most magnificent human habitats that she had ever seen.
“Needless to say many wyrders are slowly starting to break as their sanity leaves them. Some Realm Guardians are even reporting to us that smaller towns in their realms are starting to hunt down wyrders and murder them before their wyrd begins acting up too much. Wyrd has quickly gone from being revered to being feared and hated.
“I don’t know what will happen if this condition lasts for much longer. Of course Realm Guardians are immune to the affects, but we can still be overthrown and someone else be supplanted in our place.”
“But how is that possible?” Angelica wondered aloud.
“Through corruptive wyrding that I will not speak of here,” Annbell seemed so resolute that they didn’t even think of urging her to speak. “I will say that with the corruption of the Well of Wyrding, dalua wyrders gain something we do not have, full control of their wyrd without the side effects a regular wyrder has. It was seen last time the well was penetrated by Arael. Dalua wyrders seemingly climbed out of every fissure they could possibly hide in and started amassing. They had the advantage, for they could use their wyrd, where very few of us could.”
“But that’s not the only threat you have facing you,” Angelica pointed out. “Porillon seems to be taking up the post of Arael now.”
“That she does,” Annbell agreed after taking a bite of fruit. “She also has the chaos dwarves on her side. Cianna reports to us that the dwarves have an item called Wyrders’ Bane, and that it has very negative effects on a person with wyrd,” Annbell said.
“We’ve heard of that stone,” Jovian said, and Angelica nodded enthusiastically.
“That’s not the reason I’m here. I have caught you up on the major current events that concern you. I’m not sure where Amber is, she fell out of my sight some time before you came into the Realm of Earth. Porillon is on the move, tailing you rather closely.” She took a deep breath. “The reason I’m here is that Maeven is to come with me.”
“For what?” the dark-haired man asked.
“You are to be a druid, and I’m to teach you,” Annbell informed him.
“I told you!” Jovian said slapping Angelica in the arm, in response to which she yelped a protest of surprise.
“What?” She soothed her arm.
“I said before, when we were in one of those way stations, that I wouldn’t be surprised if Maeven was a druid. Remember, it was right after he met with us and I was grumbling about how much he could do?” The moment seemed to lose a little of the humor once he had to explain it to Angelica.
“Oh yeah,” she said as if she didn’t really remember it, but Joya was smiling all the same.
“What do you mean I’m to be a druid?” Maeven asked, ignoring Jovian. Maeven had never fully trusted wyrd, and though druids called what they did Wisdom, to Maeven it was all the same thing: doing something that normal people couldn’t comprehend, let alone explain or do themselves. He wanted nothing more than to be normal.
“The Goddess has marked you not for the clergy, boy, but for her higher ranks,” Annbell told him with a smile on her face as if there could be no higher glory.
“Higher ranks?” Maeven asked, seeming ruffled by the slight.
“Exactly that. There is the clergy, those that work the Goddess’ will by preaching her words and gospel, and then there are the druids. We do not preac
h but instead seek ever to keep the balance in the world. We are bound, as I’m sure you have felt, to the earth. When you become powerful enough you will notice that the seasons even have a bearing on your being, as if your personality will even change with their coming and going.”
“But I don’t think I have a connection; I haven’t felt anything strange, and I most certainly don’t have any special abilities. I’m normal,” Maeven protested.
“Normal people can’t read trails and paths,” Joya felt obligated to point out.
“Nor can normal people track with your talent,” Angelica said.
Maeven looked at Jovian, and it seemed for a moment that he was seeking comfort in the younger man’s eyes, but there was none to be had.
“I don’t know what to tell you, Maeven,” Jovian said, at a loss for words. “I too believe that you have a connection to the earth, but I don’t know how all this works.” He made a vague movement that clearly meant wyrd and Wisdom. But there was a lurch in his stomach at the thought of being without Maeven. He had taken the other man’s presence for granted, and now that he was leaving, Jovian felt a sadness creep up inside of him.
“And you aren’t meant to,” Annbell said. “It’s hard to tell if you would even understand it if I had time to tell you about Wisdom. Suffice to say that Wisdom and wyrd, while they appear to the outsider the same, are distinctively different. Wisdom is knowing, acquainting yourself with powers and beings of nature that will help you to an end. You can cause change in your reality just as with wyrd, but if it’s not in accordance with balance, the change may not occur.
The Well of Wyrding (Revenant Wyrd Book 3) Page 9