Nee’lahn turned her eyes to the overhanging limbs of her love. Only its branches still spread over the lake, shooting strong and straight from a trunk so thick around that thirty men couldn’t join hands around it. New tears flowed on her cheeks. Oh, my bonded, how proudly you still stand while all around you has fallen to grief and madness.
As she led the others, she studied the lights that glowed forth from the trunk of her handsome tree. Though she should have felt anger at the violation of her beloved, the warm yellow glow cheered her heavy heart. A spark of life inside the dead. She found her feet hurrying.
The others followed.
Once they had reached the far side of the lake, a doorway swung open in the base of the tree, framed by the large roots, kneeing up from the soil. A figure stood bathed in the light. No threat was offered.
“We’ve been waiting so long for you,” the figure at the door said in a gravelly voice.
Nee’lahn slowed as the lute’s song faded away. “Who are you?”
The figure stepped clear of the door’s brightness. It was a large man, dressed in simple rough-spun cotton. He was wide-shouldered, and though once clearly strong of limb, he was now gray-haired and leaned on a wooden crutch for support. “Have you forgotten me already, Nee’lahn?”
She shook her head. “Sir, I have no—”
He waved away her words with his crutch. “Och, it is of no matter. My eyes may have gone bad, but not my ears. All that matters is that I’ve not forgotten the voice of your lute. But then how could I?” He lifted a frail hand. “It’s a voice I helped forge with mine own fingers.”
Understanding struck Nee’lahn. “Rodricko?”
“Ah, the girl does remember the simple woodcutter.”
She hurried forward, pausing a moment to recognize the man’s sharp eyes and beaked nose that shadowed over a thick gray mustache. When last she had lain eyes on him, the mustache had been black as oil. The last fifteen winters had worn the man. Satisfied that it was indeed her old friend, she hugged him tight, holding her lute to the side.
Once done with their greeting, Nee’lahn pulled back. “Have you remained here, in the Fell, the entire time?”
He fingered his mustache, and the brightness in his eyes grew dark. He glanced from her lute to the twisted forest beyond. “Aye, lass.”
“But why? How?” Nee’lahn tried to comprehend what had happened since she had left with her lute.
Mycelle stepped forward. She still had her swords bared. Nee’lahn realized Tyrus and Kral were armed as well. “Indeed. How have you managed to survive out here among the Grim without being consumed?”
Rodricko eyed their weapons. “Be at peace here, travelers. Sheathe your blades and come inside. If it’s stories you ask, then it’s tales I’ll tell—but not before we get out of this snow and in front of a warm fire.
Nee’lahn cautiously reached and pushed Mycelle’s blade down. “Rodricko can be trusted. It is he who carved my lute. He and his family have been friends of the nyphai for untold generations. They are as near to nyphai as any human can be.”
Mycelle hesitated, then nodded. She swung her blades back into the crossed scabbards on her back. She waved the others to follow suit. Lord Tyrus slipped his Mrylian-steel sword away, and Kral slowly hitched his ax to his belt. Meric remained weaponless, arms across his chest. Mogweed hid in his shadow.
“Come inside,” he urged them, holding the door open. “Just follow the stairs here to the room above.”
Nee’lahn led the way, stepping reverently back inside her home tree. A mix of feelings swept through her as she mounted the winding stairs that led upward. The smell of wood oil and sweet camphors triggered a response that strummed through her as if she were a lute string herself. Old memories stirred. Joy and sorrow rang in chorus. The dust of the last fifteen winters’ roads washed off her. Her hand rose and touched the bare wood, seeking the heartsong of the great tree. But she felt nothing there. It was empty. Her legs trembled, but the fingers of her other hand squeezed reassuringly around the neck of her lute. Here was where her tree’s spirit now resided.
As she moved up the stairs, trailed by the group, Nee’lahn suddenly realized the path they were taking. The nyphai never made their homes inside their own trees. Instead, they built shelters and bridges among the branches. Only the bonded to a tree could enter inside the gentle giants, and it was a mingling of spirits, not a physical intrusion, like now.
She glanced behind her. Only once before had she entered her tree like this. Her eyes caught upon Rodricko’s. He nodded and urged her onward.
Where she reached the head of the stairs, a large room opened up, encompassing the full diameter of the tree. A single thick pillar stood in the center of the floor, while around it the space was crammed with cabinets, chairs, and tables, all formed of the deeply whorled, rich wood. The woodwright had kept himself busy over the past fifteen years, making himself a cozy home here.
But Nee’lahn ignored all this. Instead, her eyes were drawn back to the central column, the true heart of her tree. She slowly circled it, searching until she found the spot in the column where a hollow had been carved from it. She held her lute up to it. The two shapes matched.
Rodricko stepped to her side. “Its true home.”
She turned to him, glancing briefly around the room. “And I see you’ve made your own home here, inside my tree.” A slightly accusatory tone crept into her voice.
“Like some burrowing worm,” he said with a sad sigh. “Drilling and coring through a dead apple.”
Nee’lahn touched his hand. “I’m sorry . . . I didn’t mean to imply—”
“No, lass. It ain’t natural. I’ve been among the nyphai too long not to feel the same way.” He looked to his boots. “But after you left, the tree called to me.”
“What?”
He shook his head. “Though its spirit had retreated into the lute, there was still magic in its root, enough to fuel a trace of its spirit. On the day you set off on your journey, I came here to gather my tools, and the tree spoke to me—well not rightly spoke, more a feeling inside my heart and head. It was not done with me yet.”
“I don’t understand.”
He sighed. “Come by the fire, and I’ll explain all.” He leaned on his crutch and led the way toward the tall stone-lined hearth dug into one wall of the chamber.
Her friends were already gathered around it. Fardale lay sprawled before the hearth, almost laying in the flames, content, tail thumping slowly. The others stood, wary, ignoring the many wide chairs.
“Sit,” Rodricko said. “Someone’s got to use these chairs I’ve been whittling away these many long winters. Relax. I’ve warmed elderberry wine beside the fire. And afterward there are rooms and beds above.”
Slowly the group settled to the chairs, and wine was passed from hand to hand, warming the chill from their bones.
Rodricko returned from a small pantry with cheeses and a platter of chestnuts for roasting on the hearth. “I promised you all my story,” he said, shaking the pan of chestnuts as they popped and sizzled.
Mycelle nodded. “How did you survive out here when nothing else can?”
Rodricko groaned a bit as he stood, then settled to his own seat. “It’s not a short tale I must speak, so let me start where all stories should start—at the beginning, with Cecelia.”
“Cecelia?” Nee’lahn asked, shocked to hear the name of the ancient elder of the grove.
Mycelle set her mug of warm wine down. “Who is that?”
“Cecelia is the keeper of the True Glen,” Rodricko said. “The eldest sister of the nyphai. She was bonded to the oldest tree of the grove, and when her tree began to twist and bend to the Blight, she herself was also tortured. Fevered dreams, delirium. It went on for three moons. But at last, when I was certain the end was near, she had a vision—of Lok’ai’hera sprouting to life in a lake of red fire. A fire born of magick. She bade me carve the heart from Nee’lahn’s tree so that Nee’lahn might be
free to search the lands of Alasea for this magickal cure to their doomed forest.”
Nee’lahn stared into the fire. “It was Cecelia’s prophecy that set me on my path.” She raised her face to Rodricko. “But what of you? Why did you not leave? Your duty here was done.”
“So I thought, but as I mentioned, the tree called to me, entreating me to one last task.”
“But what of the Grim?” Kral asked.
“They do not bother coming near here. Nee’lahn’s tree reminds them too much of what they lost. It stands straight and tall while all the rest lay twisted and tainted. The sight is too much for the wraiths to bear. So they stay away.”
Mogweed knelt by the fire and checked the chestnuts. “But all this?” He nodded to the surroundings. “You have to have traveled to bring all this here. The chestnuts, the wine.”
Rodricko nodded. “Twice each passing winter, I’ve journeyed to mountain hamlets for supplies. That is, until just recently.”
Mogweed sat on his heels, eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Yet even on the woodland trails, the wraiths did not attack you?”
“I was still under the protection of the tree.”
“How?” Mogweed squeaked.
Rodricko lifted the wooden crutch from where it rested between his legs and thumped it on the floor. “As Nee’lahn’s lute was carved from its heart, I hewed a branch of this great tree as my walking stick.” He pulled his hands away from the crutch’s grip to reveal a single sprout of green near its apex.
Nee’lahn leaned closer. “Leaves!” A sprouted patch of tiny green leaves grew from the dead wood. Though each leaf was no longer than a fingernail, they were clearly koa’kona. “How . . . ?”
“A bit of magick and a bit of spirit keep it fresh.”
Nee’lahn bent nearer, too—then she stared into the woodsman’s eyes. “It draws off your own spirit.”
“Magick alone was not enough.” He lowered his cane back down.
No wonder the man had seemed to age so much since last she had seen him. “But why?” she asked. “What was so important?”
He met her gaze. “Hope.”
“Hope for what?”
Rodricko leaned back and closed his eyes. “My family has served the True Glen for as far back as we can remember. It is our home, too. If there is a way to bring the Grove back, I would do anything, give up my own blood if necessary.”
“But I still don’t understand. What did my tree ask of you?”
He opened his eyes. “It’s easier to show you.” Rodricko struggled to his feet. “Come. The answer to all lies above.”
Nee’lahn stood, biting back a twinge of misgiving.
The old woodwright crossed to a narrow, curved staircase. It led up to a landing above the hearth room. Without another word, he climbed the stairs with the rest trailing behind.
Nee’lahn heard Mogweed mumble, “I don’t like this.”
On the landing above, small rooms branched off. But Rodricko led the way to the innermost doorway. He rested a hand on the iron latch and glanced to Nee’lahn. His eyes were full of pain—and something else.
Her worries flared brighter.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and pulled the door open. “You had better go in first.”
Inside was another circular room, similar to the hearth chamber, only smaller. In this room, a central pillar also ran from floor to ceiling. And like the column below, this one had been carved. It contained a cubbyhole no larger than a pumpkin.
A soft gentle light wafted out from the opening.
Nee’lahn knew that faint purple light. It was the same glowing hue as given off by a blooming koa’kona. Alone, she moved nearer. Something rested inside the cubby.
Rodricko spoke behind her. “For almost a full winter, the tree had enough magick stored in its taproot and enough traces of residual spirit to keep its branches full of leaves . . . even flowers.”
Nee’lahn glanced back to the doorway, where the woodwright leaned on his crutch. She recalled the day she had left her bonded, remembering it as clearly as if it were a moon ago instead of fifteen winters. Her tree had looked untouched.
With a feeling bordering on dread, she turned back to the carved cubby and what rested inside.
“The tree somehow knew it bloomed its last flowers,” Rodricko said with a low voice. “It called out with its dying breath. One last time.”
Nee’lahn barely heard his words, or the question asked by Mycelle.
“What do you mean?” the swordswoman asked.
“When a koa’kona is ready for its flowers to go to seed, it calls for another spirit, a kindred sister to leave her own tree briefly and mingle her spirit with its own, like a bee passing pollen from one flower to another. So Nee’lahn’s tree called for someone to join with it.”
“But there were no nyphai left,” Mycelle said.
Rodricko lowered his voice. “Not true. Though the Grim are twisted, they are still nyphai. One came to the tree’s call. It pushed past its own pain to respond to the tree’s summons.”
“Are you saying one of the Grim joined with Nee’lahn’s tree?”
Rodricko’s voice cracked. “It was Cecelia, the keeper. She was still fresh to the Blight and new to her madness. She came and shared her spirit so the tree’s last flower could go to seed.”
“Sweet Mother,” Lord Tyrus said. “What happened?”
By now, Nee’lahn stared into the cubby. The answer lay within. A small babe lay cradled in the cubby. The source of the glow was easy to spot. It came from a plum-sized purple seed protruding from its lower belly, where a human baby’s navel would be. She reached but was afraid to touch the seed or babe. It germinated, she realized with shock.
Rodricko continued. “A new nyphai was born from the fertile seed. Normally, the tree and its bonded would nurture the young sister until it was strong enough to plant her seed and grow another koa’kona tree, spreading the grove. But something . . . something went wrong here.”
Nee’lahn saw that clearly enough. The germination from the seed looked to have proceeded naturally enough. All nyphai grew slowly from their seeds, like the trees themselves. And this young one, though appearing only an infant, was growing well for only fourteen winters. But Rodricko was most correct—something was dreadfully wrong here.
Rodricko continued. “I don’t know what happened . . . or what it all means. Maybe it was due to the union with a Grim, a tainted and twisted spirit. I just don’t know.”
“What’s wrong?” Mycelle asked.
Nee’lahn turned from the pillar, her legs swooning under her. “The new nyphai . . . it’s a boy.”
THE NEXT MORNING, Kral climbed down the stairs to the main hearth room. The scent of warm bread and the sizzle of pork flesh had drawn him from his goose-feather bed and quiet chamber. After almost half a winter on the road with only the hard forest floor as his bed and his rucksack as a pillow, he had slept soundly throughout the night and well into the late morning.
He stretched the kinks from his arms and entered the room. He was clearly the last to rise. The others were already seated around a wide table spread with breads, fruits, boiled eggs, and meats. He also noticed a stack of gear piled on the room’s far side: fox-fur gloves, hooded cold-weather cloaks trimmed in ermine, even slabs of dried and smoked beef and hard cheeses.
Mycelle noticed his approach. The banded viper on her arm hissed at him, then settled back to its curled perch. “Kral, sit. Eat. We’ve much to discuss and plan.”
He nodded, his nose filled with the scents of the table. His stomach grumbled appreciatively. He settled into his seat as Rodricko filled a stone mug with hot kaffee.
“I’ve done my best to put together warmer clothes and additional fodder for your trek from here,” Rodricko explained. “But I don’t know what good it will do. The snows are beginning to fall, and the upper passes of the Ice Trail will be impassable before much longer.”
“We’ll leave today,” Mycelle said, “and set a hard pa
ce. With your generous supplies, we can move faster and stretch each day’s march a bit longer.”
Mogweed groaned from across the table, but he remained otherwise silent. Kral could understand the man’s consternation. A few more days here at this warm, well-stocked place would suit him, too. But he also understood the necessity not to delay. Mountain storms were unpredictable, especially this time of year. Blizzards, ice storms, and cold fogs were more likely with each day’s delay.
“But how are we to travel the remainder of the Fell?” Meric asked, his thin fingers wrapped around his stone mug. “If Nee’lahn remains here with the child—”
“But she must,” Rodricko interrupted. “The tree’s seed has sustained the child until now but will not for much longer.”
Nee’lahn glanced up from beside Mogweed. Her eyes were shadowed and tired. Clearly she had not found her sleep as restful as Kral. She faced them. “The boy nears the age when he will separate from his birth seed. Afterward, he will need the tree’s song and spirit to sustain him.”
“So you must stay?” Tyrus asked.
“I have no choice. Boy or not, the foundling is the offspring of my beloved. I cannot abandon it. The song of the lute will help sustain the strange child while I care for him and protect him. I don’t understand the significance of a male nyphai, or why this has come to be, but I must see it through.” She stared around the table. “I’m sorry.”
“I can take you through the woods,” Rodricko said. He nudged his wooden crutch with its little sprout of leaves. “The fresh, untainted branch will be as much a bane to the Grim as Nee’lahn’s lute. We should be safe.”
Kral read doubt in the man’s eyes. The short length of wood had protected the woodwright, but there was no guarantee its meager protection would extend to their party.
The others must have sensed the man’s worry. A heavy silence grew around the table.
Distantly, a wailing echoed through the wood walls. A lonely sound that was soon joined by another . . . and another. As they sat stone still, the horrid chorus grew and swelled.