Upon leaving the simply-named Orange Hotel for the bracing, invigorating breeze that rustled in the trees lining the avenue’s central strip, Khyte savored the deadness of the hotel district and felt more like himself. There was an Alfyrian, penning a scroll; there was a dryad, cultivating a garden of yellow, sharp-petalled flowers; and there was a dryad street cleaner, disposing of squandered fragments of food and stray paper. After adventuring with false friends, and having played a true friend false, he was happy to lurk where only a few faces smiled to themselves and avoided his eyes.
“Pardon the odd question,” Khyte said, “but do I strike you as young or old?”
“I’d say you looked thirty if I didn’t know you’ve been through an ordeal, and if Inglefras wasn’t known to me. You’re twenty-six.”
“While that’s what I told Inglefras, I shared my birthday with a dozen other children taken as the spoils of war. When I came of age, I learned that my father adopted me for his barren wife after slaying my birth parents. Since the day I celebrate as my birthday is actually the anniversary of the conquest, I could be younger or older.”
Garin looked at him oddly. “Why tell a stranger, not your lover?” When Khyte didn’t answer, the old man continued, “Perhaps I should preface that with ‘pardon the odd question.’” This badinage irked Khyte, for in his tribe, the elderly were not given to levity.
“Though that’s a good question, I’m also surprised to hear that Inglefras shared so much with a stranger. I guess you have one of those faces.”
“One of those faces? Does she entrust me with secrets because my face looks like an iron chest? That’s not very kind.”
Khyte laughed along. “You know what I mean. You have a familiar face.”
“It is familiar to me.” The old man’s eyes smiled.
Unlike human and goblin cities, which favored the cool side of the spectrum, the streets of Wywynanoir held to a warmer theme of reds, oranges, and yellows. Though this presented a bright and cheery image, on closer inspection most buildings were darkened and shut. Not that any were locked. When Khyte was last here, Frellyx wanted souvenirs, selected one of the many curiously uninhabited houses, and burgled an exquisitely handcrafted wooden statuette, while Khyte wanted no keepsake, but took a ewer for his mother. In response to his blunt questions and rude theories on the deserted residences and storefronts, the few dryad residents never provided any satisfying answers and raised a few enigmas of their own, as though they were quick to answer that the backward F embroidered on the left breast of their black tunic symbolized “sapling,” none would elaborate.
Khyte’s reverie was blown to pieces by the aroma of fried meat and a sweet, smoky smell he couldn’t identify. It made his knees weak and his stomach clamor. Though bookstores, trading houses, and grocers were closed, a cafe was open, as if the dryads knew Khyte was ravenous.
Garin also seemed to know Khyte’s mind, for the old man entered the cafe without any word, ordered Khyte a foaming beverage sprinkled with aromatic bark as well as an egg sandwich, and led him to a large octagonal table. Other than two Alfyrians drinking foamy concoctions in glasses as long as their forearms, the restaurant was idle. When one of the two dryads that staffed the counter brought the breakfast on a tea service, there was nothing for Garin.
Khyte wondered what the bird looked like that donated this breakfast, as he knew from his last trip that Ielnaronan beasts were headless, having eyespots just above the shoulderblades. On the Dryad World, only dryads had faces. Or their saplings did; Khyte still had a hard time believing his beloved was only a cast-off from a true dryad.
“You call this place home,” said Khyte. “Answer my questions.”
“I’m only old, Khyte. Don’t assume I’m wise.”
Khyte frowned at this, but barreled ahead. “Why is Wywynanoir so gaudily painted?”
“Unlike you humans, dryads aren’t mammals. Even to warm-blooded plants like your hosts, light means food and relief, and they prefer warmer and brighter colors.”
“So if I built a light blue house here, it would look dreary?”
“If I were forced to speculate, then yes.”
“Aren’t these cities built for the benefit of their guests?”
“The dryads don’t want an eyesore, and prefer to keep outsiders on their toes, so that Wywynanoir’s guests don’t become comfortable expatriates.”
“How many offworlders call Wywynanoir home?”
“I believe there are only seven.”
“Counting yourself?”
“Let me see,” said the old man, “you would think I should have started with myself, but I may not have included me.”
After Khyte devoured his meal, he asked for a refill of the aromatic beverage, which he found nearly as stimulating, and more invigorating, than strong coffee. Before resuming their journey, he quaffed it on his feet, then left the tall glass on the counter.
Other than a handful of elven and goblin tourists admiring the facades of the curiously colorful buildings, the streets were otherwise deserted, and, from the look of it, not a single dryad walked outside, as if each sprouted daily at their stations.
But something in Garin made him wonder. While Garin’s brown skin would not have been out of place in Cuvaerneii, the rising Abyss light revealed a subtle mottling that was very familiar. Although not so green as Inglefras or the café worker, Sarin’s green undertone helped to cast him in his role of faded old man.
“Garin, this absent-mindedness seems a pretense. You’re a dryad.”
The old man became quiet as they moseyed down the street. Khyte was grateful Garin set such an easy pace, for his healing chest twinged as they walked. “You’re a little cleverer than I took you for, Khyte.”
“You tripped when you said ‘unlike you humans.’”
“I suppose I did. My focus was on improvising lies to advance this conversation, which I found very enjoyable. When you failed to see my true nature, I elaborated on your confusion, and found the weaving of lies organic, even tranquil.”
“Were there that many lies?”
“No, but our entire acquaintance, brief as it is, is a lie. You believe you have known dryads when you have never met one.”
“Other than you and Inglefras, there were two behind the counter and those from my first visit to Wywynanoir. Is old Sarin a dryad as well?”
“Though calling him cousin was more honest than most of my lies, and he was our agent on your world, you have not yet met a dryad.”
“Why provoke me with nonsense? Inglefras was no human, and when last I saw her, no woman, either. What is Inglefras if not dryad?”
“Though you may see tree-women in Wywynanoir, no dryads have set foot here.”
“You’re drunk, old man. While they might be shy, who am I to believe built all this?” The district they had entered now was thick with wooden buildings painted a garish red, as if they were intended not for living space, but as toys for enormous children. While he could not read the placards, these structures ranged from the gaudily ornamental, embedded with tinted windows and etched with florid forests and tree-women at work, play, and war, to the strictly austere, with no other adornment other than paint that had been allowed to peel, as if to enhance their stark appearance, and Khyte realized this must be some sort of governmental district. Aside from the lively sway of the majestic trees towering over the city wall, it was just as dead as the rest of Wywynanoir.
“What do you see above the rooftops?”
“Only trees.”
“The highest branches, encroaching like voyeurs leaning in for a better view, are the youngest dryads. Deeper in the woods circling this play city are colossal dryads, with girths unmeasurable by three hundred feet of rope, that have lived longer than your tribe has recorded history.”
Khyte stared aghast at the looming trees. “If those are dryads, what is Inglefra
s?”
“And what am I? Not that you care about that. Here is the truth of it: just as time is fleeting to the gods’ eyes, so to your human perspective, everyday trees stand still, though they never stop growing branches, stretching roots and spilling seeds. In addition to this inexorable but imperceptible motion, the tree-mothers interact at the faster, animal pace of their warm-blooded seeds, the tree-women, which emerge from their shells with feet, hands, voice, and a female figure disguising a malleable, dual-gendered sexuality dictated from moment to moment by instinct.”
“Inglefras is a seed?”
“No. Not only have you never met Inglefras, but she is not a tree-woman. The one you knew as Inglefras is a seed,” said Garin. “Please keep up: it is important to understand. Inglefras is a tree-mother and has never moved from her grove. When the tree-woman you knew as Inglefras started to fall in love with you, since it did not match the goals of her tree-mother, instinct turned her to the male side of her dryad nature.”
“She became a man to reject me?”
“That thought is unworthy of you. Just as you eat, drink, and sleep when nature bids, no matter how steadfast your love, so she must hew to her creator’s deeply ingrained will. Though this tree-woman is fond of you, to her tree-mother you are a wild dog that carries the burrs of a bush and unwittingly helps a plant to propagate. Similarly, the tree-woman clung to you by instinct, and to facilitate her survival, released aromas so addictive that you craved her more than food, air, or the esteem of your friends. Though it seemed inexhaustible love, you were only snagged by this essence, she was only snarled in turn by your passion, and in the eyes of her tree-mother, no matter how deeply you were embedded in each other, it was only by irresistible nature.”
“I remember the strong scent of flowers outside her cell,” said Khyte. “Did that prick me into fear and violence?”
“While that was the hook, do not think you were not your own man, Khyte. Of the many to fall under her spell in Merculo’s castle, all made promises, some plotted and schemed, but only you took action. The great authority of your passionate response made the fiction of your love persuasive; moreover, the extent to which you went in her defense moved both the tree-woman and the tree-mother to pity and to reflect that in this case, the fiction of love might be real.”
Garin continued: “Unlike the seeds on your world, tree-women have a cultural mission: Tree-mothers learn by sending out their seeds. While every tree-woman that returns adds to the dryad’s fount of knowledge, those that don’t merge consign their memories to oblivion. In helping this seed return home, you provided its tree-mother a service of incalculable value, a mission you assisted not only by risking death, but loss of self, boundaries other seed-bearers rarely cross and dryads never cross, for though tree-women die many deaths, tree-mothers simply grow new bodies to send out into the worlds. Which is not to say that in defending you against Eurilda, true Inglefras did not suffer by sacrificing two seed-bodies, as these are limited resources that take months to gestate. Suffice to say that our opinions on humans are changing, and one item on today’s council agenda is Inglefras’s petition to reassess the value of building relations with Hravak.”
“Do you mean all the women—tree-women, seeds, dryads, whatever you call them—that rescued me were Inglefras?”
“Yes, though they differ by slight degrees. While they spawn with the mind of Inglefras, this consciousness diverges over time, just as your Inglefras spawned only with what her tree-mother knew several years ago and on her death will merge a fount of new experiences, and thereby enlarge the compass of the dryad’s thoughts.”
“They seemed to read each others’ minds.”
“Though they are like-minded when they spawn, afterwards their thoughts are their own until they merge with the dryad. Here we are.”
Tree-women milled around a domed building that looked woven, like a giant basket, from enormous red, yellow, and orange sheaves. Inside this sizable amphitheater, rows upon rows of seats flowed from the outer wall to a central dais, on which a circle of stone chairs faced the growing audience.
“Why meet in the hospitality city and not one of the dryads’ own dwelling places?”
“Though our culture, as much as yours, is one of artifice, here it is a necessity, as we only have voice through our proxies. I would tell you more, but I must share my business with the council.”
“Until later, Garin.”
“If tomorrow never comes, I’ll treasure today.”
Though Khyte nodded graciously, his smile flattened when Garin was out of sight, as their brief acquaintance, demarcated by the space of a single conversation, didn’t merit a parting declaration that grandiose. Perhaps it was an unfamiliar dryad idiom, he reasoned.
Khyte wasn’t expecting to find familiar faces in the thronged amphitheater, but he looked here and there anyway in an effort to determine what shape this Council of Dryads would take. While there were sixteen stone stools on the central dais, there were no thrones, lecterns, podiums, or even a table—in fact, none of the traditional trappings for speaking with pomp and authority. While human lords spoke from the backs of great halls to emphasize their power, the tree-women cut the distance even further by immersing the dais in the midst of the audience, so that the speakers were on a raft in a whispering ocean of listeners.
After the dome’s seats were filled, the dais filled as well, with a white-robed, white-haired, elderly tree-woman approaching first.
Thinking he might be asked to speak of his adventure to Nahure and how it pertained to the welfare of Inglefras, Khyte had a premonition of rude heckling and mocking laughter and grew anxious. While his ignorance on many matters might amuse dryads, he would be certain to offend if he couldn’t speak politely about the truth of a dryad’s nature. No matter how cumbersome it made his story, Khyte decided to avoid sex-signifying pronouns such as “he,” “she,” “his,” or “hers,” and use only the name “Inglefras.”
The elderly dryad sat on the outside arc of the circular dais, facing not the other councilor seats, as Khyte had expected, but outward, to the audience. Either this council was not a conversation, or the councilors would turn to business after bowing to the crowd. The roaring susurrus of the audience quieted to receive her words. “I speak for the voice of Quhinei.”
“I speak for the voice of Teuren,” said the next noble dryad.
Having lost track of Garin, Khyte was surprised to see him make his way to the dais. “I speak for the voice of Inglefras.” Though the old dryad’s voice was flat and weak, it echoed in Khyte, whose heart hammered in recognizing Inglefras looking out of Garin’s eyes. They shared not only emerald green eyes, but cheekbones, ears and chin, though these were coated with the wispy hair of pronounced age.
Although indicated several times by Garin, Khyte was not called to speak until the very end; moreover, the entire event, with the exception of his tale, was conducted in the dryad language. He was grateful for this time to compose his thoughts, as he had new concerns: while prior to the revelation that Garin was an Inglefras, Khyte was only concerned with how to conduct himself, he was now consumed with the idea that he no longer knew the beginning of his tale—if they were cousins, was Inglefras also peering out of Sarin Gelf’s eyes? Had the merchant sent Khyte to save himself? Herself? The dryad’s all-encompassing identity flustered Khyte.
When the assemblage grew quiet, Khyte heard the echo of his name. “Khyte,” Garin repeated. “We ask that you relate your adventures on Nahure, and what we found in the catacombs.”
Khyte proceeded to the dais, where the councilors parted, gesturing for Khyte to address the council from the heart of the platform.
Khyte spun the story of many deceptions, from Sarin’s invitation to adventure to Huiln’s conspiratorial intentions, from the size-changing enchantments of Eurilda to the heart-enlarging persuasion of Inglefras, from the steep slopes of Irutak to the diz
zying bends of the Alfyrian embassy and the gray catacombs under the Fair Well.
The voice of Teuren interrupted when Khyte described the manifestation of the Ebotu. “Do you still have this dagger entrusted to you by Sarin of Inglefras?”
Khyte offered it up on outstretched hands so that those near the dais and in the mezzanine could see it.
“Noble Khyte,” said the voice of Teuren, “though you have done much already, returning Inglefras’s scattered seed, and sowing here your seed-memories for us to reap to the heart of the matter, would you relinquish this dagger?”
“If I yield that which is mine, will you do the same?” Khyte waited for the rumbling assembly to dwindle to a murmur before continuing. “I ask Garin, voice of Inglefras, for right of union to his tribe, and you, wise council, to sanction it with ceremony and honor. Know that it is Khyte, son of Kulunun, son of Vestari, son of Cianagh, who pledges; bring Inglefras, seed of Inglefras before me to hear with her own ears, and to be seen with my wanting eyes.”
Though Khyte wasn’t sure what to expect, laughter was the worst result imaginable. When he looked angrily for the source of the booming laughter, there wasn’t a dry eye or a face devoid of mirth, for dryads laugh in unison, just as humans applaud as one.
Even sober Garin—who had earnestly shared a sentiment Khyte could never say with a straight face, no matter how wizened or senile he became—was trying to rein in laughter under a mask of noble restraint. “Khyte, you ask the impossible.”
“Why is it impossible? Do dryads not have cares nor desires, nor wed male and female?”
“Though male and female join to procreate, our feelings and urges are only echoes of our tree-mothers, whose cares and desires we signify. Think of us as memories and imagination breathed to life by the tree-mothers; we would not have you marry a picture, no matter how arousing. Would not your tribe mock you for proposing the same? At best, that would be pornography; at worst, idolatry. Even if the innumerable objections we could mount were surmounted, your own limitations are unsurpassable.”
A Spell Takes Root Page 19