Chapter Twenty-Nine

"You don't understand," Caramon protested. "We don't have time to waste, waiting here with your people. The centaurs need Soulsplitter now!"

Laird Guithern shook his head. "I know. But there's naught I can do to get ye back to Darken Wood faster. I sent a messenger to the dryads after ye left for the tower, but 'twill take time afore Pallidice returns to guide ye back. Ye may have been nearly a day outside the vale, but here ye were gone less than an hour."

"How long must we wait?" Trephas asked anxiously. Soulsplitter, secured to his war harness, gleamed in the sunlight.

Guithern thought a moment. "About a day, I reckon."

"But that's another whole month, outside this place!" Dezra exclaimed. "At that rate, there might be nothing to get back to!"

"I'm sorry," Guithern repeated. Though his words were contrite, there was an unmistakable crispness to his voice. "I can't change how quick or slow the river of time flows. It's best ye forget yer cares for now. I'll summon food, and mead and music—"

Caramon shook his head. "No. Bring us one of those flying blankets, so we can leave. We can go as far as those caves in the mountains. No offense, Highness, but I'd feel better waiting there."

The Laird bowed, acquiescing, and took his leave. The other sprites swarmed with him up to the palace at the top of the fir tree, leaving the companions alone.

Caramon cleared his throat. "I'll check on Borlos."

The bard sat at the edge of the spire-stone, staring out across the tarn. In the distance, the sprites' wings made the air over Gwethyryn sparkle. He held his lyre across his lap, plucking a quiet, sad melody. He didn't turn at Caramon's approach.

"Well?" Caramon asked. "Are you coming with us, or is this good-bye?"

The bard sighed slowly. "I want to stay," he murmured. "I can't bear to leave."

"It's witchery, Bor," Caramon said, gesturing at the lake. "This place has worked some kind of magic over you. I look at it and I see beauty, but I'd never dream of not going back."

"Of course you wouldn't," Borlos stated. "You have a family to go home to, an inn to run. What do I have? Clemen and Osier? How many years have I wasted playing cards with them, night after night?"

"So you're staying." Caramon couldn't keep the disappointment from his voice.

"Let me finish." Borlos laid a hand across his strings. "I could stay, but I'd always wonder if I could have done more to help the centaurs. I'd never be happy, no matter how beautiful this place is, or how much pleasure I find with Pallidice."

Caramon coughed. "So what you're saying is…

"I'm leaving," Borlos said. He took a deep breath, then let it out.

"Sure, Bor," Caramon said. He patted the bard's arm, then, sensing he wanted to be alone, turned and walked back to join the others.

Borlos turned back toward the tarn, staring across the water. His fingers strayed back to his lyre. The wind caught the chords he plucked and snatched them away.

The lugruidh carried them back the way they'd come, Fanuin and Ellianthe flying beside it. It soared over the tarn and Gwethyryn, crested the ridge at the crater's south edge, and sailed on, among the looming peaks. In time a glint of light appeared in the distance. The companions watched as the crystal cliff grew closer, winking like a diamond in the sun—all of them, that is, save Borlos. The bard stared back, clutching his lyre to his chest.

At Fanuin and Ellianthe's direction, the lugruidh drew up alongside the cliff and hovered within reach of its shimmering surface. The Laird's children swooped toward the stone, hands outstretched, and the rock split, opening into a tunnel again.

Guithern had given the companions bug-lamps before they left; now each of them took one, then stepped into the passage. Fanuin and Ellianthe led them back into the mountain, parting the stone before them; the tunnel closed behind, sealing them inside. After a long walk, they emerged in the caves where they'd awoken after eating the drugged food.

Hours passed. Fanuin and Ellianthe brought food and mead, and Borlos played upon his lyre, his eyes shining as his music resounded about the cavern. Trephas took Soulsplitter from his harness, laid it on the floor, and stared at it thoughtfully.

Finally, with a crack that filled the room, one of the cavern's walls split open. Several swift-flying sprites emerged, darting toward Fanuin and Ellianthe. The winged folk jabbered together, then Ellianthe broke off and flew to join the companions.

"Something's wrong," Caramon said, seeing the grim look on the sprite's face.

"It's Pallidice, isn't it?" Borlos asked. He rose, setting his lyre aside. "What's happened?"

Ellianthe raised a hand. "The dryad will be here soon. But she is ill. The messengers fear she's dying."

A few minutes later, the tunnel in the wall widened even more, and a figure emerged. The companions caught their breaths.

"Oh… ." Borlos moaned. "Oh, gods."

The oak-maiden had changed. Part of it was because of the shifting seasons: gold and flame-red streaked her green hair, harbingers of an early autumn. But the difference ran deeper than that. Her dark, supple skin had turned gray. Her youthful face was haggard, her slender limbs bony. Even her eyes were dull, as though a cloud had fallen across them. She trembled, her shoulders hunched.

"Pallidice," Borlos murmured, his voice breaking.

She peered up at him, a ghost of joy lighting her face, and smiled wearily. She was missing several teeth, and the rest had turned brown. "My love," she croaked. Her voice quavered thinly. "My heart sings to see you again. Would that it were the same for you."

"What?" Borlos asked, then flushed. "I—I'm sorry," he stammered, looking down. "I just—"

"Nay, say nothing, my love. I know what I look like." Pallidice shook her head woefully. "The daemon tree's curse began to work upon my sisters and me, soon after I brought you here. It grows worse all the time. I fear I won't live to feel the weight of snow upon my oak's boughs again."

Borlos's mouth tightened. His hands curled slowly into fists. "No," he growled. "You will. Grimbough will fall, if I have to chop it down myself."

"Peldarin's axe is ours," Trephas added, raising Soulsplitter. "We must take it to my people. Return us to Darken Wood, and I also swear to stop Grimbough from harming you any more."

Pallidice nodded, though there was little hope in her eyes. "Of course. I'll take you. Gather your gear, and follow." She turned, stepping back into the tunnel.

Hurriedly, the companions prepared to go. "Thanks for your help," Caramon said, turning toward the sprites. "We couldn't have—"

He stopped. The winged folk were gone.

"Fanuin?" he asked. "Ellianthe? Where'd they get to?"

Dezra shrugged. "Back home, probably, while we were all staring at Pallidice. Come on. The others are waiting."

Caramon glanced about once more, but the sprites were nowhere to be seen. Shrugging, he put on his helm, shouldered his pack, and followed the others out of the cave.

The earth gave off a faint, noisome stench as Pallidice led them back to Darken Wood. Now and again, a beetle or worm emerged from it and dropped, squirming, to the floor. Strange chittering sounds surrounded them, and obscene, blister-like bulges appeared in the walls and ceiling. The air was dank and close.

Finally, the tunnel opened once more into a familiar earthen vault—the same place they'd met when Pallidice and her sisters drew them in. The tendrils that hung from the ceiling had shriveled; black ichor dripped from them onto the floor. Brown mist swirled about their feet, reeking like spoiled meat.

"Stay here," Pallidice rasped. "I will summon my sisters, and we'll return you to the surface."

Then she was gone, into another passage in the earth. The earth sealed shut behind her.

The companions waited in silence. Borlos turned away from the others, head bowed. Caramon walked to his side and rested a hand on his shoulder. Trephas plucked his lance from his harness and jabbed at a swollen, white spider that crawled across the floor.

Dezra strode to one of the walls, where a huge blister had appeared in the earth. It glistened in the bug-light, and she saw something dark moving within. Grimacing, she drew her dagger to burst the growth.

As she was raising the blade, though, the blister's membranous surface split open, revealing a large, bloodshot eye. She leapt back, yelping, as it stared at her. A heartbeat later, her senses returned, and she lashed out with her blade, piercing the eye. Black corruption spilled forth. She stared as the membrane closed again.

Caramon hurried over. "What in the Abyss was that?"

Dezra shook her head, wiping her dagger with a rag from her pouch. "I'm not sure," she said quietly. "I think someone just saw us."

Caramon frowned, but before he could ask more, a tunnel opened, and Pallidice stepped into the chamber. With her came the other three dryads who'd brought them here. They didn't flounce or giggle, as they'd done before, but hobbled and shuffled like old women. All were horribly marked by Grimbough's magic. Gamaia was obscenely bloated, and had lost all her lovely green hair. Tessonda was horribly scrawny, bones showing through her skin, which was covered with weeping sores. Elirope was worst of all. Her limbs and back were twisted and bent, as though every bone had been broken and badly set. Seeing them, the companions couldn't help but cringe.

“Aye," said Pallidice, laughing harshly. “We are hideous to behold, aren't we? A cruel trick to play on us, who prided ourselves on our beauty."

Borlos shook his head angrily. “This will end, Pallidice. You have my word."

The dryad smiled gruesomely. "Thank you, my love," she said. "Now, shall we bring you back to the surface?"

The other dryads led Trephas, Caramon and Dezra away, leaving Borlos and Pallidice alone. Her eyes downcast, the oak-maiden came forward. "I'm sorry, my love," she said, "but we must embrace for me to take you back through my tree. I won't ask for more than that. I know what I am now."

Tenderly, Borlos rested his hands on her shoulders. He bent down and kissed her gently on her forehead.

"I know what you are too," he whispered. "And it isn't this."

She smiled at him, a joyful look that nearly erased the suffering from her face. Their arms snaked about each other. After a while, the roots came down and lifted them up and away.

Lord Chrethon smashed the runner's face with the back of his hand. The long-legged Skorenos fell to its knees with a howl. It started to rise, clutching at its bloodied nose, and Chrethon kicked it in the chest. It fell flat, wheezing.

"What didst thou say?" he thundered, towering over the fallen runner.

"My lord—I can't—don't—" the runner whimpered, cowering.

Chrethon plucked his lance from his harness and lowered it. "Tell me, or I'll geld thee right here."

The Skorenos looked at the upraised lance, its face filled with terror. "My lord," it groaned, "Lord Leodippos asks more warriors to aid in the search for those who escaped the sacking of Ithax."

Chrethon cursed himself again for letting so many of the centaurs escape. Leodippos's warriors had chased them into the mountains at the westernmost edge of Darken Wood, killing stragglers the whole way, but once they made it to high ground, the horsefolk had become almost impossible to root out. Leodippos was a relentless hunter, but the centaurs had constantly eluded him. They'd started fighting back, too, through ambushes and night raids. Leodippos had already asked for reinforcements once, over a week ago, to shore up his dwindling numbers. Now he wanted them again!

Chrethon wanted to blame Leodippos for his failure, but he knew better. If he asked for more warriors, it was because he needed them badly. It would do no good to deny him.

There were, however, plenty of runners in his horde. He wouldn't miss one. Chrethon thrust his lance, driving it through the cowering messenger's heart. He let go of the weapon's shaft, and it exploded into splinters of wood and metal.

Leaving the corpse, he strode along the hilltop, looking down at Sangelior. Much of the town was empty and dark. Its inhabitants were either dead or searching the mountains for the Circle. Chrethon dreaded having to send still more of his warriors west, but had little choice if he wanted the last of the centaurs dead before winter. He raised his hand, beckoning to another runner.

The messenger came forward hesitantly. It had seen what he'd done to its fellow. "M-my lord?" it stuttered. "What is thy w-wish?"

"Be still," Chrethon growled. "I'm not going to harm thee. Go down and tell the war leaders. They must each send fifty warriors west, to aid Lord Leodippos."

"F-fifty, my lord?"

Chrethon glowered. The runner paled, turned, and sprinted away.

Chuckling wryly, Chrethon turned to look over the town. The runner's uncertainty was understandable. There were ten war leaders left in Sangelior, which meant he was sending five hundred warriors to Leodippos's aid. After that, there would be only another thousand left at his disposal. And what if Leodippos sent another runner, in a month's time, asking for still more help?

Chrethon spat in the dirt. If that happened, maybe Leodippos would feel his wrath, after all.

He reared, forehooves churning the air, then whirled and trotted down the path to Sangelior. He hadn't taken more than twenty steps, though, when he heard the clop of approaching hoofbeats. He reached for his shortsword.

It was another runner, a mare. She stopped when she saw Chrethon, then bowed and hurried forward. Chrethon recognized her: He'd posted her at Grimbough's grove.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

The mare bowed. "My lord, I apologize for intruding, but the tree asks for thee."

Chrethon caught his breath, then rammed his sword back into its scabbard. "Come with me," he bade, then turned and galloped east, toward the daemon tree's grove. The runner followed.

When they arrived, Grimbough was seething with rage. Its branches waved and rustled madly, and its thick trunk throbbed. Chrethon bowed before it. "What dost thou wish?"

The tree's low voice was furious. "The humans have returned from the faerie lands," it rumbled. "I have seen them, in the secret places of the dryads. They will be back in Darken Wood soon."

…soon, muttered the branches above.

Chrethon stiffened. He hadn't thought about the son of Nemeredes and his human friends for some time. He'd begun to think they would never return. But now—

"Do they have Soulsplitter?" he asked.

"Yes."

…yes… .

Chrethon didn't even think of questioning how the tree knew. It had its ways. He spoke with it a moment longer, then withdrew, signaling for the runner who'd accompanied him to the grove. "Find Thenidor," he bade. "Have him meet me here."

Chrethon stood among the twisted trees after the mare left, thinking quickly. He doubted the humans would know yet that Ithax had fallen. They would try to go there first. If they were just leaving the dryads' grove now, Thenidor had time to intercept them there.

But Thenidor had faced Trephhas and his companions before. Chrethon needed another plan, in case he failed again. He knew right away what that plan would be.

Coming about, he cantered through the woods, toward where the Forestmaster lay. He called for Hurach as he ran.