Chapter Thirty-Six

Sarken Wood had grown worse, the daemon tree's corruption spreading farther west. The companions rode with weapons in hand, watching the shadows, and imagining ail sorts of nameless horrors lurking within the gloom.

Despite their fears, however, the forest was empty. Except for the occasional crow or scuttling beetle, the birds and beasts were either dead or had fled into the highlands. There was no sign of the Skorenoi, either. They were all in the hills, searching for Lysandon.

The deeper they went, the worse the woods became. The earth beneath the unclean, eddying haze grew treacherous. For a while it was a spongy morass, then it became barren, choked with sharp stones. The centaurs struggled through it all, moving ever eastward.

Night fell over the forest, but they didn't stop. The humans raised guttering torches to light their way, letting the centaurs keep both hands free to hold their bows. The brands' flickering glow seemed horribly weak in the vast, befouled forest. They rode on through the darkness, the leaves whispering madly above.

Finally, as the sky began to brighten again, the party drew to a halt. "We're here," Trephas said.

Pallidice's grove was even more blighted than when they'd left it nearly a week ago. Some of the oaks had burst open, scattering shreds of rotten wood upon the ground. Others stood like gray skeletons, seemingly devoid of life. Only a few withered, brown leaves still clung to the branches of Pallidice's tree, rattling in the chill wind. Its bark was cracked and pitted, the color of bone. It might have been dead, but for the dark, thick sap that trickled in bubbling rivulets down its trunk.

“Gods," Caramon murmured, his voice choked with horror. He swung down from his mount's back, staring at the oak. "How can Pallidice live inside that?"

"She has no choice," Trephas replied as Dezra and Borlos both dismounted as well. "Her soul is one with the tree. I only pray she survives."

"There's only one way to find out," Dezra said. She pointed toward the tree with her sword—the centaurs had given her a new blade, as well as a dagger to replace the one that had killed Thenidor. "Go on, Bor."

The bard's eyes widened. "Me?"

"You're the one she knows best," Caramon said. "If anyone can bring her out of the tree, it's you."

Borlos glanced at Trephas, who nodded. "She'll remember thee. Just put thy hand on the trunk, and speak her name."

Bowing his head, Borlos let out a long, slow sigh. Hesitantly, he stepped toward the tree. He raised his hand and touched the bark. The sap that coated it was warm and sticky.

"P-Pallidice?" he stuttered. He took a deep breath. "Can you hear me? It's me, Borlos."

For a long moment, all was silent. Then, slowly, the oak split open and a pale, withered shape emerged. Borlos stumbled back, crying out at the sight of the dryad.

Pallidice was gnarled and bent, her skin the color of parchment, mottled with crimson welts. Her once-thick hair clung in brown wisps to her scalp. She stared at Borlos, one of her eyes milky-blind, and smiled. Most of her teeth had fallen out. "My love," she breathed, her voice raspy and thin. She reached out with a shriveled hand, tipped with cracked, yellow nails. "You've returned to me after all… ."

Borlos stepped back, his face stricken with pity and disgust.

"Pallidice," Trephas said. "We need your aid."

The dryad glanced at the centaur, then at the others, seeing them for the first time. "No!" she exclaimed. "You promised you wouldn't ask me for help again. I cannot—"

"The Skorenoi have Soulsplitter, Pallidice," Trephas interrupted. "Even now, one of Chrethon's minions takes it to Sangelior."

Pallidice stared, horrified. "How did this happen?"

"That isn't important now," Dezra interjected. "If you don't take us to Grimbough's grove, your tree will die, slowly and painfully—and you with it."

The dryad blanched, hesitating. She bowed her head a moment, trembling, then nodded. "Very well," she said. "I'll find my sisters, and we'll do as you say. I can only take the four of you—not those two," she added, pointing at other centaurs, standing behind Trephas. "I lack the strength to open a passage large enough for them as well as you."

She stepped back into her tree, and it sealed shut behind her. When she was gone, Trephas turned and spoke to the other centaurs. Bowing, they wheeled and trotted away, into the noisome mist. The companions waited in silence, eyeing the shadows. Finally, the oak opened again, and Pallidice emerged. Three other dryads—each horribly misshapen—also approached, from their own trees.

"You remember Gamaia and Tessonda," Pallidice said, gesturing toward the other oak-maidens. "The third is Anethae. She will take the girl."

Dezra frowned. "What about Elirope?"

Pallidice shook her head, gesturing toward the trees. Elirope's oak had collapsed, felled by rot. Dezra shut her eyes, sickened.

They split up, the dryads leading the companions to their trees. Borlos remained, staring at Pallidice with trepidation. The oak-maiden smiled sadly.

"You needn't fear me, my love," she said. "My tree can still be healed: my sisters and I fight Grimbough's blight with all our power. If the daemon tree is destroyed, we can yet reclaim these woods. I shall be young again, as you remember me." She spread her arms; wrinkled skin hung from them in flaps.

Weeping, the bard stepped into her arms. She embraced him, drawing him into her tree. The parched wood closed around him, and they were gone.

Gyrtomon returned to Lysandon at dawn, running at a full gallop to the Yard of Gathering. Hurriedly eating a handful of grass, he trotted across the meadow to join the Circle.

"My son," Nemeredes said, embracing him. "It gladdens my heart to see thee."

Gyrtomon shook his head. "Thou wilt not think so, after the tidings I bear." He stepped back and bowed his head, gathering his thoughts. "Leodippos comes hither, his full horde with him. I've seen them on the march. I don't know how they learned the way here, but they'll be here by dusk."

The chiefs were unsurprised. "I thought this might happen," said Nemeredes. "The satyr must have told them how to find us."

"Satyr?" Gyrtomon asked, frowning. "What satyr?"

The Circle told him, then, of all that had happened in the past two days. When the tale was done, Gyrtomon bowed his head. "My brother," he murmured. "I should have been here. I should have gone with him."

"No, my son," Nemeredes said. "Thy place is here, with us. If Leodippos means to attack, we need thee to lead the defense."

Gyrtomon took a deep breath, composing himself. "Perhaps," he said. "Although I don't see what difference it will make, if Chrethon slays the Forestmaster."

"That hasn't happened yet," Eucleia said sternly. "It mightn't happen at all, if Trephas and the others succeed."

"We must hope they do," Pleuron added firmly. "There's naught else we can do to help them. We can only fight Leodippos, and pray the rest turns out well."

"Very well," Gyrtomon declared. "But we'll need every lance we can spare. We must bring the attack to him, before he gets here."

Eucleia nodded, her steely eyes gleaming. "Let us end this moot, then," she said, turning to the other chiefs. "Wake thy people, and have them arm for war. And be quick—we march when the sun is high."

As Pallidice led the companions into the heart of Grimbough's domain, the chaos-corrupted earth became a nightmare. Hideous, unblinking eyes stared from the walls, gleaming in the bug-lamps' light. Wiry worms and huge, horned beetles covered the floor in black, writhing patches, crunching underfoot. The roots and tendrils that dangled from the ceiling coiled and writhed, weeping putrid, milky juices.

There were obstacles, too. The dirt was rife with huge boulders that blocked their way. Elsewhere, the soil grew soft and wet, and they had to turn aside to keep from sinking into the mire. In still other places, the earth turned dry, veined with cracks that hissed brown, noxious mist. It stung their eyes and burned their throats. Through it all, a chorus of mad voices chittered around them, as the leaves had muttered aboveground.

"It's getting worse," Borlos murmured. "We must be close."

Pallidice nodded, parting the earth with her withered hands. "Aye," she rasped. "The daemon tree's power is strong here—I can feel it in the soil, working against me. I can resist it now," she added, seeing the companions' brows knit in concern, "but I don't know how much longer I can go on. The time will come when I must find a tree through which you can leave this place, and you'll have to go on above."

On they went, twisting and turning. The tunnel turned steadily more treacherous. The insects on the floor bit and stung, and some of the bulges in the walls held not eyes but mouths full of sharp, snapping teeth. The oozing tendrils whipped at their faces, trying to blind them. Pallidice's breath came quick and hard, and she stumbled every few steps. Still she insisted, over the companions' objections, that she could go on.

Finally, she collapsed from the strain, falling against the tunnel wall, where the snapping, hungry teeth nipped at her bare skin, drawing blood. With a groan, she dropped to her hands and knees.

"Pallidice!" Borlos cried, hurrying toward her.

Insects started crawling over the dryad's body almost immediately, climbing on each other as they sought a patch of flesh to feast upon. She moaned, and the tunnel began to shudder. Clots of earth fell from the ceiling. At either end, the passage began to close.

"Rouse her, quickly!" Trephas called from the rear of the party. "We'll be buried alive!"

Dezra got to the dryad's side first. She knelt down beside Pallidice, ignoring the crackling of insects beneath her, and rolled the dryad over. Pallidice trembled at her touch, her eyelids fluttering. Dezra slapped her face.

"Come on," she growled, glancing around as the walls began to slide. She struck the dryad again. "Wake up, damn you. Don't you dare let this tunnel collapse."

Borlos crouched down, shoving her out of the way. He bent over the dryad and brushed the dirt from her haggard face. Then, tenderly, he leaned over and pressed his lips against hers. At first nothing happened, but finally Pallidice's eyes opened. She stared blearily at the bard, then returned the kiss, threading her arms about his neck.

Borlos pulled away. "No," he told her. "This isn't the time, and it sure as Shinare isn't the place. Let's get you up."

With Dezra's help, he got the dryad to her feet. She pressed her hands against the earth, squeezing her eyes shut; after a moment, the tunnel stopped shuddering.

"I think," Caramon said solemnly, standing ankle-deep in loose soil, "it's time to go back to the surface."

No one argued.

Searching, Pallidice found a suitable oak, and opened the tree to form an exit. One by one, she carried the companions out, back into Darken Wood. They blinked in the light—most of the trees around them were bare, letting the sun's rays through to touch earth that had been shrouded in shadow since the world was young.

"I know this place," Trephas said. The terrain was uneven and rocky, covered with trees that were either dried-out husks or swollen with rot. Brown haze clung to the blighted earth. "We're close to Sangelior—three leagues, perhaps."

"Would that I could take you farther," Pallidice said, shaking her head.

"No," Caramon said. "You've done all you could. We'll make the rest of the journey on foot."

"Do we have time for that?" Dezra asked, glancing up at the sky. It was early afternoon: they'd been traveling under the earth for more then half a day. "Can we get to Sangelior before the satyr?"

"We'd better," Borlos said.

Trephas slid an arrow from his quiver and nocked it on his bowstring. He turned to face the dryad. "My thanks for thy help, Pallidice."

She smiled weakly, then turned to Borlos and took his hand. "Farewell, my love. I pray to Branchala we'll meet again."

The bard raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. Then he let her go, and she turned back to the oak. She stepped inside, and was gone.

Borlos stared at the tree for a moment, then bowed his head, sighing. Caramon rested a hand on his shoulder. "Come on," he said. "We've got a long way left to go."

Borlos nodded. "Sure, big guy," he said. "Lead on, Trephas."