By Ways Unseen

by Daniel Dydek

  “Our packs?” Haydren asked.

  Corith shook his head, coughing. “They weren’t there; I looked for them.”

  “Is that the best thing he can think of?” Haydren muttered, shaking his head.

  “Who?” Geoffrey asked.

  “Remember the flames of my sword flickered when Faschek came back and cast a spell on me, and again when Tagnier first came to us in Monte-Ir?” he asked. Geoffrey nodded. “Well, it did the same thing when Paolound approached. But Paolound wasn’t Paolound then; his spirit was Lasserain. Which means Faschek and Tagnier were Lasserain too, just in different forms. Not Semmelle.” Haydren shook his head with a sigh as he gazed at Haschina below them. “That’s why he was in the Forest; he had been here. Either of those times, I could have killed him.”

  “Who’s Semmelle?” Sarah asked.

  “Magic-user, a wizard I think,” Haydren replied. “I saw him at the junction outside Quaran, and again in Frecksshire. He was at the inn just before you arrived.”

  “How do you know him?”

  “He’s in Guntsen’s Mages.”

  Sarah’s eyebrows shot up. “A magic user from Hewolucs shows up in Frecksshire and you don’t tell me?”

  “I thought he was only coming after me,” Haydren replied. “I didn’t want to be delayed; I hoped we could simply escape him by leaving. I don’t think he recognized me.”

  “He saw you?”

  “I kind of talked to him, a little bit,” Haydren admitted.

  “And somehow didn’t recognize you, even though he was sent to get you,” Sarah said, folding her arms.

  “Well, I guess he wasn’t sent to get me,” Haydren said with a shrug. “Since it was Lasserain and not him this whole time. I guess he must have come to Frecksshire for some other reason.”

  “You think? Haydren, Coberan is under assault from every side; is it possible this Semmelle was in Frecksshire as a spy?”

  “I thought he was just coming after me,” Haydren said quietly.

  Sarah took a deep breath. “Haydren, you really aren’t that important,” she said, gazing out over the village. “Hopefully I can get word to Durdamon in time – hopefully he already knows.”

  By now the sun was beginning to set, though the fires still raged and cast an orange glow nearly as bright as day on the clearing. Berating himself for letting Tagnier live, Haydren tended to Corith, who had minor burns on his back. Geoffrey managed to bring down a large bird that had come to investigate the new happenings in the old village. He fashioned a crude spit and began roasting it as the last light of the sun disappeared from the sky.

  “Should we really stay here tonight?” Sarah asked. “What if Tagnier – Lasserain – comes back?”

  “He hasn’t before,” Haydren said. “Besides, I don’t think this village has given up all its secrets just yet.” He glanced at Geoffrey meaningfully. “Something just tells me.”

  After they had eaten, Haydren wandered alone nearer to the village, where some of the taller buildings still burned. He paused beside one of them, the acrid smoke filling his nostrils as the heat of the fire warmed him. He glanced sideways at the building; his eyes grew unfocused as the smell and the heat awoke something in him. He blinked, then closed his eyes and breathed deeply.

  It began near the end of the last memory: he was waking, disoriented by shouting and screaming. There was fire around him; he could feel the heat. His mother was pushing something into his arms, and thrusting him out of the burning carriage. Smoke filled his lungs and made him choke, and the heat of the fire was nearly unbearable. He began to run away from the caravan; something hit him from behind and knocked him over. The sword his mother gave him fell beneath him as a bandit crouched over top of him. Haydren could smell sweat, and flies; he didn’t even know you could smell flies, but he smelled them. His hand flailed to his belt and he pulled free a red dagger, whose metal seemed pitted like it was coated with heavy rust. He began swinging wildly at the bandit; his eyes closed as blood poured over him. He kept screaming, and swinging, until the bandit collapsed on top of him. Struggling free, Haydren grabbed the sword and yanked it from underneath the bandit’s limp body. The blood-covered dagger dropped to the ground, and he began running.

  Haydren’s eyes snapped open, and he retreated from the village. He returned to the top of the hill, but said nothing to his companions. Removing his cloak and wrapping it like a blanket around himself, he shivered though the heat from the fire reached even to their camp. Was it Melnor too, he wondered, bringing memories to him? Were any actions or thoughts his own? He attempted in vain to quickly fall asleep.

  The next morning they awoke to a warm sun streaming over the treetops; after a short breakfast of what had remained of the bird from last night, Haydren went back down to the village. Only charred skeletons of houses were left, and tendrils of smoke rose hissing from the few hot spots that remained. Sarah followed him quietly, looking around at the broken and blackened landscape. Corith and Geoffrey stayed near the fire.

  “Why does this have to happen?” Corith said quietly, his eyes roving across the charred and smoking landscape. “Do you know how long Haschina has been hidden? And just as we find it, the hatred of Lasserain destroys it completely. Nothing left but a blackened crater, a wound and a scab in the middle of the Woods.” He let out a sharp burst of air. “So help me, Geoffrey, it sickens me.”

  Geoffrey said nothing: he only continued to watch the other two companions threading their way through the remains.

  Avoiding the hill on which they had arrived in the village, Haydren and Sarah walked to the west side of the village. There, an enormous tree like an oak, though nearly as big around as a house, towered skyward. Distracted by the burning village, they had not seen it until now. It rose straight and tall, with a limbless trunk. At the top the branches sprang outward like a fountain. Turning slowly as he traced their line, Haydren saw that the branches encircled the entire village in an arboreal embrace. At regular intervals, several paces apart, stalks like thin tree trunks sprang from the underside of the branches and thrust downward until they reached the ground. Peering beyond the massive tree, deeper into the forest, Haydren could see that the branches with their stalk-like supports continued into the woods as far as the light reached.

  In fact, the branches and their stalks were the forest as far as the light reached.

  “The Kalen Woods is…a tree?” Sarah gasped in wonder.

  “Geoffrey! Corith! Come here!” Haydren shouted.

  From the insistence in his voice, both men leapt to their feet and came running, freeing their swords as they drew near. Haydren pointed wordlessly to the tree; with brows knit, they began looking at it.

  “What is it?” Geoffrey asked.

  “The Kalen Woods is a tree!” Sarah exclaimed.

  Geoffrey and Corith looked more closely, following the branches as they circled the village, their eyes wide.

  “I’ll be…” Corith muttered.

  “Can we bring it down?” Geoffrey asked, craning his neck upward at the branches.

  “Look at the size of this thing!” Haydren said, moving to stand beside the trunk. Geoffrey could help but snort a chuckle; it made for a comical image. But Haydren was right.

  “I can try a spell,” Sarah said quickly; now, when magic’s destructive properties could be used to revive a land infected by this thing’s fear, she would not hesitate. “You should probably stand back, though.”

  The three men quickly retreated deep into the burned-out village; Sarah regarded them with a withering look. “Not that far back!” she said. She turned and glanced at the tree. “On the other hand…” she muttered to herself, taking a few steps backward. Focusing on her target, she spoke a few words; from the clear sky a thunderbolt struck, knocking Sarah onto her back as it exploded against the trunk. When she shook her head and looked up, the tree had a massive burn-scar down its center, but still it stood. Sarah pushed herself to her feet and dusted herself off.

  �
��One more time, I guess,” she said. Haydren approached and laid a hand on her arm, restraining her. When she looked up, she saw the bark had begun to heal itself. By the time her mouth dropped completely open, it was as if nothing had happened to it.

  “Let me try,” he said. Sarah set her teeth, but motioned him forward. He walked over to the tree and drew his sword.

  “I do not know how dangerous it is to use your magic,” he whispered, looking over the blade. The flames did not flicker, but the sword warmed in his hand. “Just enough to rid Burieng of this festering wound is all I ask.” He closed his eyes, and whispered the name of the sword; instantly the metal cooled in his hand. He opened his eyes, and Aerithion burned with white fire. With a shout, he thrust the sword into the tree; it cut like butter, and the blade buried nearly to the hilt. Haydren released the sword and took a few steps backward, waiting to see what would happen. He could see the flames near the hilt, and saw that the light from them suddenly ceased. He sighed, and glanced at his companions; apparently it was not strong enough. When he looked back, a blinding flash of light seared his eyes, its source at the hilt of Aerithion. The light compressed near the guard, then suddenly punched into the trunk of the tree and lit it from within like a shuttered lamp. With a shattering shockwave that knocked Haydren over and battered against his companions further into the village, the tree splintered into a thousand shards that were caught on the wind and blown across the sky, scattering across the Northern Forest.

  When Haydren was able to get up, Aerithion was thrust point-first into the ground at the center of the blackened circle where the tree had been. Far above, the broken ends of the branches hung limply, tattered ends waving in the breeze. Haydren retrieved his sword and sheathed it as he approached his companions.

  “I feel like, if Pladt were here, he would make some comment about the fact we promised the lord of Quaran we would do something about the Forest, if we were able,” he said with a smile. “Didn’t realize it would be in such a fashion, though. Some life surely comes from the stalks,” he continued, glancing back to the gaping hole where the mighty tree had once stood. “But undoubtedly with the trunk gone the forest will die off as well.” He glanced around the village once more. “I think it is time to leave; if we travel west, we will reach the coast in a few days. Perhaps we may light a fire and attract the attention of a ship on its way to Estwind.”

  “And for food?” Sarah asked.

  Haydren shrugged. “If it is Melnor’s intention that I should kill Lasserain, then he’ll just have to provide us with food to keep us alive,” he said. Geoffrey glanced at him sharply; he could not tell how serious his young friend was.

  So they set out in a westerly direction, still following the line of stalks. As the hours passed, gaps began appearing in the canopy overhead. Here and there across the forest, thin shafts of white sunlight appeared, and flowers sprang up where they touched the ground, their seeds apparently rendered dormant while the tree had lived. By the morning of the third day, they were able to douse their torches and walk in the glow from hundreds of such beams.

  Sarah kept her eyes down much of the time, squinting as they walked through sudden patches of light. It should have been her magic, not the sword’s; it could have been, if she hadn’t relinquished the opportunity. Another glow of sunlight blinded her; that was why her eyes burned suddenly.

  Each day, morning and evening, creatures crept near enough – disoriented by the new sunlight in their realms – for Geoffrey to take down with his small bow. He said nothing to Haydren; whatever events were taking place in the young swordsman’s life, the God of All seemed to be drawing him closer regardless of what comments Geoffrey might make.

  Then, in the After-Noon of the third day since departing Haschina, they found themselves finally exiting the forest onto a beach; to the north, the shoreline curved far outward to a small cape. They ran to this point, and as the sun lowered to the horizon they gathered wood and built a raging bonfire.

  The sun set, and stars speckled the night sky. Soon after the moon rose, a small light appeared on the horizon and began to draw nearer. They could hear the creak of rigging, and sails billowing in the wind.

  “What-ho there!” came a cry from the ship. “Who’s out there?”

  “Four travelers on a mission from the Earl of Frecksshire!” Haydren shouted back. “We need passage to Estwind!”

  A splash was heard, and the clunk of oars turning in their locks. A small lamp near the prow of the dinghy lit four men pulling for shore. When they landed, a large burly man jumped nimbly out.

  “I don’t suppose you have any proof of this?” he rumbled.

  Haydren reached into a pocket, pulling out the orders from the Earl, though they were now badly tattered. The man read it, squinting in the low light of the lamp on his boat. Straightening, he handed the parchment back to Haydren.

  “Good enough!” he said. “I am Pelman, first mate of the Night Sky; Bomor, Captain. We trade from Andelen, but a good wind blew us off course as we passed Mage’s Finger earlier tonight. We might not have seen your fire, otherwise.”

  As he turned and climbed back aboard, the companions followed him as silently as he led. Pulling swiftly, the seamen soon had them aboard the trading vessel; after they boarded, the winds rose and pushed them steadily toward Estwind.

  “I’ve never seen anything like it!” Bomor roared at Haydren the next morning. “You’ve some luck, boy; can I pay you to stay aboard my ship for a few runs? At this rate, we’ll raise Croden Island in four days, and Estwind in five.”

  Geoffrey glanced at Sarah, who reclined in some rigging near the stern; she took his glance, smiled, and gazed into the sails and the sun.

  When Geoffrey shook his head and turned away, Sarah’s smile faltered; why could he not see it? Speed was important; she lent them speed. The man would never be satisfied.

  “You look right comfortable,” said a voice, the first kind and feminine voice Sarah had heard since Jyunta, and she looked up with a start. Wrinkled but ample cheeks made small caves out of which merry eyes shone like sparkling gems, but gems that faded with concern as the old woman looked at Sarah. “Oh, but you don’t look too happy though,” she said.

  Sarah tried to smile. “It’s a pleasant day,” she said, gazing up again at the sun.

  “And a good wind guides us,” said the old woman as she looked at the sails stretched taut against the spars.

  The sails began to sag. Sarah glanced at them; she whispered a few words, and they bloomed anew. But again, just before they were fully grown the wind ceased and the canvas flagged. Sarah cocked her head, her eyes wide.

  A soft chuckle brought her gaze around; the woman had her face turned to the sails, but her eyes were on Sarah. Her lips moved quickly, and the sails strained once more. Bomor, near the helm, shook his head and returned to his charts.

  “I am Chlo,” said the woman, easing herself onto a nearby stool. “It is a pleasant day, you look comfortable, and your fair wind guides us; but you are unhappy.”

  Sarah gazed across the deck to the waters past the bow, where in a few days Estwind would rise, and, later, Jyunta, and then Frecksshire, and then – where? Galessern, eventually? Where then? To some other desk in some other place, poring over ancient texts with barely legible spells, waiting for the day she cast the one that killed her?

  Her hand went to her tunic, where an ancient book lay tucked in a pocket. She caught herself, suddenly, fingering the closed pages; so, too, did Chlo.

  “Something you’ve found?” she asked quietly.

  “We needed speed on our way back to Frecksshire,” Sarah said, and gestured to the creaking spars. “Isn’t this giving us speed?”

  “I’ve seen a fleet destroyed when too much wind caught its sails,” Chlo said. “It came too fast to take them in, and every mast broke in half, stranding hundreds of sailors hundreds of miles out to sea.”

  “A sorceress could have stopped it, if she’d been there,” Sarah said.
>
  Chlo laughed. “It was a sorceress who started it,” she said.

  “Were they coming to attack?”

  Chlo shrugged. “No, it didn’t seem so; but they were unwanted.”

  “Was it…” Sarah paused, swallowing. “Was it you?”

  “My mother.”

  “Why?”

  “Probably because she could,” Chlo said simply. “Because she could, and because the people who admired her asked her to. Clansmen are so typically wary of foreigners.”

  “You are from the Clanasoes?” Sarah said, surprised.

  “Gunda.”

  Sarah gazed at her in wonder. “Was – was your mother…”

  Chlo nodded solemnly. “She was Maerlyn. A great sorceress, and eventually wizard – I’m sorry, habits die hard: she was a powerful wizard; how great she might have been…”

  “Geoffrey told me there is a statue of her in Irii.”

  “Was that the man who seemed to disapprove of your magic?” Chlo asked.

  Sarah nodded. “Is it there?”

  “It is. Looks nothing like her, of course: in her youth she was gluttonous; in her age, shriveled and hollow. But to the one who sculpted, she was a god.”

  “Even though she had destroyed so many ships?”

  “But they asked her to,” Chlo said, piercing Sarah with her gaze. “The thing matters not to those who beg for it; once you have what you want, it is difficult to say it is no good thing.”