A Spell Takes Root

by Keith Hendricks

  “Is that from a song?”

  “Will you not graft it to your song, Khyte?”

  “That may be a beautiful thought, but I do not follow, Inglefras.”

  “Yes,” said the dryad, with the tone of emphatic agreement, “do not follow Inglefras.”

  “You want me to leave?”

  “As if you could,” said Inglefras wistfully. “We are bound.”

  “You admit your enchantment?”

  “Why not? It is not of my making.” The princess’s voice broke, and she kissed Khyte again thirstily. The embrace roared like rainfall in Khyte’s mouth, ears, and heart, and he wondered why his eyes were also wet.

  “I will save you.”

  “With what time?” she asked. “You are already too late. A little later, and you had never known me.”

  “You speak as if you are dying.”

  “Foolish human!” Inglefras’s smile was again playful, and her squeeze conveyed less of the creeping familiarity of the vine and more affection. “Dryads live forever.”

  “Take comfort in that,” said Khyte. “I wish I were immortal.”

  “Immortality is a cold comfort when there is so much I have yet to see and do.”

  Khyte was puzzled. How could immortality bar this creature from doing everything she wished to do? He had a horrible thought—perhaps this flower woman only mimicked intelligence by skewing his own words. There was a certain pattern in their tit for tat; she rebutted his “immortal” and “comfort” with the same concepts.

  “You’re more than the dumb brute I took you for,” yawned Inglefras.

  Khyte stared, his jaw agape. “Are you reading my mind?” When Inglefras’s tinkling laugh drew his lips in for a kiss, he wrestled with this irresistable impulse. The annoyance set his teeth on edge. “I was thinking much the same thing about you,” he growled.

  “You think me a brute?”

  When Inglefras pouted, he could no longer hold his lust at bay and came flush against her, and they spoke no more, as the goblin moon flitted to the horizon and the window became as pale as a spider’s web.

  When he awoke in the empty bed and tried to make sense of his yesterday, all he recalled was breakfast and insatiable coupling, the memory of which flared so much brighter than the dim room of rumpled sheets, plates of half-eaten food and empty glasses that he became painfully aroused. Though they must have eaten, he did not remember it, and as if these forgotten meals were never consumed, he became ravenously hungry, and slurped down a soggy dumpling that soaked up the saltiness of a cold soup, and when he swallowed the bitter mouthful, it felt so lonely in his stomach that he was hungrier now than when he awoke.

  He joined Inglefras on the attached veranda, and pulled the curtain shut.

  “Good morning,” she said.

  “It is a good morning. I slept well, so thank you for that.”

  “Do you think I didn’t enjoy myself? You know little of dryads and less of women.”

  While Huiln had redecorated the adjoining bedroom, the veranda looked the same as when Khyte had lived there: There was a wicker and wire bench covered with cheap cushions, and two planters with the plain but intensely aromatic herbs that goblins cultivated for house flowers. Khyte sat next to Inglefras. “I didn’t know dryads had men.”

  “Who said we did?”

  “You referred to yourself first as a dryad, then as a woman.”

  “You’re reading into that, but I admit it—dryads are both female and male.”

  “Why haven’t I seen any dryad men?”

  “While that does seem unlikely, I can’t say why.”

  “Can’t?”

  “Won’t, if you must, but ‘can’t’ is more polite.”

  “Are you ashamed of them, or do you eat your men?”

  “No more guesses, as your willingness to treat the implicit as fact is wearying. Have breakfast. We have a long day ahead. With luck, we’ll be on Ielnarona this evening.”

  Breakfast was a boring mash of cooked grains that the goblins somehow relished. Khyte fell into the morose, black alarm of a heavy coffee drinker in a world with no coffee. Consequently, when they left, Khyte’s anxiety doubled theirs, as his healthy sense of caution about the day’s undertaking was flooded by the ongoing and unsettling lack of coffee.

  “There are coffee houses on the way,” said Kuilea.

  “We’re not stopping,” said Eurilda.

  “I agree,” said Inglefras. “Why risk being recognized?”

  “This is why I didn’t suggest it,” said Khyte, “as our likenesses could be posted at the coffee houses. But thank you for thinking of it, Kuilea.”

  When Kuilea stubbornly persisted, Khyte felt guiltier about the previous night. “Huiln and I aren’t suspects,” she said, “so one of us could get it.”

  “Because splitting our group worked out so well yesterday,” said Huiln. “By the time we rejoin, Inglefras and Khyte will be honeymooning on Ielnarona.” Despite his glum tone, all of them laughed.

  “I understand your reluctance,” said Khyte, “but I won’t object if Kuilea goes.” When they agreed on a short stop, Huiln glared at Khyte, then stepped into a general store, Kuilea entered a bookshelf-lined coffee house called the Reading Room. and Eurilda, Inglefras, and Khyte, seeing an inn’s patio seating well-dressed guests in swanky-looking chairs, ducked into the attached stable in fear of recognition. Not that they knew the nobles by sight, but the fashions on display were similar to those at Merculo’s castle.

  The stable was a menagerie of noises: hay and manure raked by morose looking ostlers, idle beasts stomping and chomping, carriages rolling in, out, and past, and overly loud political opinions that trotted from the patio to the stable.

  “Shouldn’t one of you stand watch?” asked Inglefras.

  Eurilda glared at the princess. While Khyte feared the thought of the two left alone together, he dreaded another opportunity for Inglefras to issue a careless order. “I’ll go.”

  Khyte was watching the Reading Room’s storefront when he heard: “Khyte of Hwarn?” He froze, not daring to look at the speaker, and walked back to the stable. When boot heels clicked behind him, he turned with his hand on his sword hilt.

  “Khyte of Hwarn?” repeated the smiling goblin, whose fur-trimmed cape, silver buttons, and belt buckle spoke of nobility.

  “If I see him, who should I say is looking for him?”

  “While you do not remember me, today everyone knows Khyte of House Hwarn, kin of the king. I sat a few chairs down at the king’s feast. How did it feel when the king consulted you on those judgments?”

  Khyte was confused, but as understanding settled, he became incredulous. If this aristocrat wanted a chat, he didn’t know what Khyte had done. This would mean the noble left after the feast, didn’t read the Kreonan House Journal, and might have hobnobbed nonstop on the patio since the near death of his king. Khyte couldn’t let such a gift pass him by, as he hadn’t had a payday since leaving Hravak.

  “Imagine my surprise,” Khyte said, “that a lowborn human could arrive on the Goblin World, enter the prominent House of Hwarn one day, and on another pass judgment with the king and dine with the high court of Kreona. Yes, it is as you say—it is good to have the ear of the king.”

  “Given that opportunity, I would advance many ideas for the good of Kreona.”

  “I wouldn’t mind passing a friend’s name to the king. Noble houses, the king’s goodwill, and gold … what are they between friends?”

  The politico looked utterly relieved when Khyte solicited him for a bribe. “To be clear that we share the same noble sentiments, I will give my new friend a worthy gift, and he will present my name to the king?”

  “Whose name is that?” asked Khyte.

  “Baron Julgen Iapato.”

  “Am I your ‘new friend,’ Baron Iapato?
”

  “Must you ask?”

  “I must.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Then it is that easy,” said Khyte. “I am partial to gold.”

  Kuilea exited the Reading Room holding a large wooden mug in both hands. Khyte continued, “And as I must rendezvous with his majesty, haste would hurry both our causes.”

  “Say no more.” Baron Iapato walked briskly to the patio, then into the hotel.

  Khyte took the steaming coffee. “The mug was extra,” said Kuilea.

  “How much?”

  “It’s nothing. Does she make you happy?”

  “Let’s rejoin Inglefras and Eurilda,” said Khyte. “Or you go ahead, and I’ll wait for Huiln.”

  “It’s a simple question,” she persisted.

  “I don’t have a simple answer,” he retorted. “While the man I was last week would say I misplaced my free will, who I am now is happy to serve.”

  “This doesn’t strike you as odd?”

  “Odd? I’m undoubtedly bewitched, for it feels like love, something I have never known. Your suspicions are a bitter medicine when my own will prefers the sweet taste of enthrallment. ”

  “I’m doubly blessed,” came Baron Iapato’s voice, “to meet both Khyte and Kuilea of House Hwarn.” The noble pressed a velour pouch into Khyte’s hand. “After I am introduced to the king, I’ll match this token fee tenfold.”

  “You are too kind,” said Khyte. Kuilea smiled but said nothing. “Here’s my brother,” said Khyte, as Huiln approached with a sack of purchases. “And seeing that we’re late, I’ll just say many thanks.”

  “Thank you, Khyte of Hwarn,” said Baron Iapato, “and please reach out after my royal summons.”

  Huiln and Kuilea entered the stable before asking Khyte what that was about. “It’s just a bit of mad money, in the event I’m disappointed by our pay.” As he was excited by bilking the Baron, Khyte was not watching his tone, and Inglefras and Eurilda stopped their heated conversation.

  “Pay?” Inglefras’s face was flushed, and the usually loquacious princess had nothing else to add to that monosyllable.

  “As I was saying,” said Eurilda. “Khyte thinks the Five Worlds owe him, and with that attitude in play, he’s played you—why am I telling you this? You’ve already put him on your payroll.”

  “I resent your implications,” Inglefras half-shouted—the loudest Khyte had ever heard her speak.

  “I resent you,” said the giantess. “Let’s get on with this.”

  Now that Khyte was properly caffeinated, the group continued toward the Fair Well with Eurilda bringing up the rear and Kuilea leading the way. Though strategic—Eurilda was the most recognizable villain among them, and Kuilea wasn’t a known coconspirator—their marching order was a natural response to Inglefras holding Khyte’s hand and leaning her head against his shoulder, and Eurilda and Kuilea recoiling from this demonstration of affection.

  As Khyte walked hand in hand with a desirable woman with whom he had nothing in common, he started talking to Huiln. This had the two-fold purpose of rubbing it in a little while alleviating any pressure to converse with Inglefras. A self-taught hedonist, Khyte knew that pleasure must crow to be enjoyed.

  “Huiln, what happened yesterday?”

  “You mean when I risked life, limb, and freedom to acquire an unnecessary key and map?”

  Khyte laughed. “Yes, tell me.”

  “Is it funny?”

  “I don’t know, because you won’t tell me. But I have an inkling that the comical pointlessness of your heroics would surely undermine your tale.”

  “Khyte, I don’t know who you are.”

  “You say my name as readily as before.”

  “You’re growing—like a plant. Inglefras, is this more dryad magic?”

  “More of it?”

  To Khyte, Inglefras’s smile signified more than pleasure. Though not even one syllable, a smile drowns out a multitude of lies. How many lies were covered, how many desires devoured, by that noisome smile? “Huiln, are you changing the subject?”

  “Yes. My subtle and brilliant efforts are an embarrassment in hindsight, at least until Merculo’s men discover the key under my bed.”

  “A clever hiding place. The guards might ransack House Hwarn, upturn every table and chair, and forget the bed.”

  “That’s just being mean,” said Huiln.

  “Maybe I’m paying you back for involving me in this rescue through false pretenses.”

  “Who strung whom? Unless you honestly believe Kuilea shot that wire giant by coincidence?”

  “I thought it a stroke of luck,” lied Khyte, laughing.

  Inglefras sighed. “I’m feeling ignored. Get on with your story, Huiln. It might be more distracting than your jibber-jabber.”

  “I’m wounded,” said Huiln. “That banter is well-suited for the king’s entourage.”

  “Get on with it,” she repeated.

  “There was nothing to it. Having been hired by the Bankers’ Capital Building to hide the vast resources in the catacombs, it was a simple matter of deciding which of my contacts would be my mark. I arrived at the BCB with three different appointments, the third of which was Lord Keplin, a crusty, officious heir with a bad head not only for numbers but for managing his vices—including the mistress that robbed him blind. While Lord Keplin would never betray his employer, he made the mistake of introducing me to his mistress, Unvyra, who was happy to exchange the map and key for a hefty bribe. In this way, I didn’t even need to locate or obtain the items; I simply delegated this subterfuge to Lord Keplin’s whore. There was only the problem of getting rid of Unvyra after the fact.”

  “You killed her?” Inglefras’s face made such a close approximation of astonishment that Khyte almost believed her pretended naivete.

  “Since I admired her opportunism and didn’t want blood on my hands, I pretended not to know the layout, asked her to show me the catacombs, then shoved her in and locked the door.”

  “That’s horrible! She’ll starve,” said Inglefras.

  “Judging by the books I cook, she’ll be released today, because they can’t keep their fingers out of the catacombs. When someone does let her out, she’ll have to explain herself rather than impugn my character. Since in confessing my plot, she’ll discredit herself and be labeled a coconspirator, she’ll pretend ignorance and claim she ended up there by accident. She’d be more inclined to throw Lord Keplin to the wolves, as their illicit relationship would lend credence to any fabrication as to how she was locked in their ancient cellar. If I were her, I’d say they were on a drunken bender and Lord Keplin wanted to show off the catacombs.”

  You assume she’s more clever than vindictive,” said Khyte.

  “If her character is vindictive, it would be more profitable to blackmail me than turn me in. Which I can afford, being Son of Hwarn.” Huiln then turned to Inglefras. “Forgive this rude story, your highness. Freedom suits you well—you seem taller and slenderer.”

  “Thank you for noticing. Dryads thrive in the open air and the light of the Abyss.”

  “Seemed” wasn’t a strong enough word—Inglefras definitely was taller. Yesterday, he had to stoop to kiss her; today, her lips were on the level of his Adam’s apple, so that he need only bend, and Inglefras tilt her head. Thinking of this was so enticing that Khyte kissed the dryad exactly as he imagined.

  “I hate to keep crying ‘dryad magic,’ but you are taller today.”

  “That which is natural is no magic at all, and this is normal for dryads.”

  The Fair Well was an enormous establishment comprising an art gallery that stretched for a city block; this was connected to a winery that extended two blocks perpendicularly, so that the combined structure was a cross, and all of it a single story in goblin fashion. On grounds there was an arcade o
f shops and vendors with push carts, and at the winery’s base there was a very busy restaurant. One would call it bustling, except that signifies some chaos, and this restaurant effused restraint in not only its staff but its customers, who queued quietly for fifty yards, waiting for empty tables.

  “Why are they so well-behaved in a line that isn’t moving?” said Khyte. His mouth watered from the aroma of herbed, melted cheese, and he wiped his lips with his sleeve. Famishment smote Khyte, who had missed more than one meal on Nahure, and his knees shook.

  “Fear of the blacklist,” said Huiln. “Not only does the Fair Well set the best table, its prices are modest. The owner, Kuvaki, is famous for saying he’d serve a beggar that paid with good manners and respect, although it’s been years since Kuvaki deigned to serve anybody, and the snobbish wait staff would never honor that sentiment.”

  “How do we enter the catacombs? Didn’t you say they were in the wine cellar?” asked Kuilea.

  “Yes,” said Eurilda, “but the gallery conceals an entrance to the wine cellar.”

  “Wouldn’t it be more direct to go through the winery?” asked Khyte, who craved the savory-smelling food.

  “Though it smells wonderful, I brought a meal for us to share, and we might be recognized in the restaurant.”

  “We might be recognized in the gallery,” retorted Khyte. “And if I’m to be executed, I’d like to be well-fed.”

  “When the Fair Well serves dinner, almost no one is in the gallery,” said Huiln.

  Khyte’s stomach twisted and churned, squeezing out an audible groan. “Let’s be quick about it, then.” When the line of hungry goblins turned to the austere, black iron lattice windows—perhaps for a teaser of an appetizing dish they would soon tear apart, Khyte grumbled through a heady noseful of the piquant aroma—they darted towards the gallery. Despite his urgency to cast off from the Goblin World, Khyte was impressed by the gallery’s exquisite facade, which was sheathed in brass inset with stained glass panes etched with goblin letters and the goblin faces of with austere, authoritative expressions., Not the least of these was Merculo’s head, represented with a grave and condescending stare down a nose elevated well past the point of dignity to a lofty, snobby altitude.