N
emeth was angry. He huddled in the woods close enough to an elven village that he could see a few of the inhabitants passing in and out of the soft gray-skinned trees that they had hollowed out for houses, but he could not stop thinking about his pursuers. He was so much nearer to his destination, but the ones behind him had not gone away. They had ignored all of his warnings, even the catastrophic winter storm that he had conjured to turn them back days ago. They had had him on the run, when it ought to have been the other way around.
The voices in his mind seemed ever louder, especially that of Father Time. He was displeased and threatening retribution if Nemeth did not bring him the book. The tone distracted Nemeth, who was trying to formulate an easy means of stealing food. The irony was not lost upon him
that he was capable of altering the climate, but not of creating a feast for himself out of raw ingredients.
Still, he had used the power of the book to improve his techiques. He sent an illusion to the mind of the slender, golden-skinned lad sitting on a stone, reading a book as he minded the spit on an open fire before his home, a tree hollowed but still living. Nemeth blanched at the sight of the domiciles in this village. They might have looked pastoral and pleasant to him once, but he now saw them as a cluster of prisons.
Not even aware that he was doing it, the boy made a quarter turn to the right on his seat, and continued cranking an invisible handle, never looking up from his book. Nemeth flicked a finger, and the spit rose vertically into the air. The meat on it divided in two—no need to be a hog about it—and one half of it sailed toward him. The rest of it returned to the spit. In the elven boy’s mind Nemeth changed the image of the roast to fit its new dimensions. He would never remember that it had been different.
Nemeth let the chunk of meat hover behind him, dripping savory juices, until he had returned to the spot deep in the forest that he had chosen as his place of rest for the day. He had transformed bushes into a couch, which he covered with a blanket of silken leaves. This was surmounted by a living canopy from a slender rowan tree that let in a pleasant green light but would repel rain or too much sun. A cup of leaves held wine made from dew and berries that had gathered themselves together at his command. All these skills that he had seen in his fellow wizards that had eluded him all his life were to be found within the pages of the book. If he had only known how simple it was to bend the world to his will! The meat landed on a platter he had fashioned out of a stone, using the pattern of an exquisite dinner service that he found in the description of a castle in Oscora, then divided itself further, into dainty slices. Nemeth rested in his bower and commenced to dine.
He looked more at ease than he was. The voices continued to chatter in the back of his mind. Nemeth chewed his dinner pensively, dishes, meat, and haven forgotten. He just wanted his revenge, nothing more. These pursuers were refusing to give up the chase. He was but a couple of days’ flight from his goal. They must not be allowed to follow him there. Every threat he had sent to deter them had been swept aside. They were relentless. Only death would stop them.
Once the thought had come out, Nemeth realized he had no choice. He had been pushed past reasonable alternatives. They knew where he
was. If he had been a different kind of man he would have been able to raise an army of friends to help protect him against them.
I have no friends,
he thought angrily. No, he must raise a
force.
An army.
He thought of conscripting the elves in the village. They were crafty and tough fighters. But they had magic of their own. They might sense his intent and refuse to do his bidding. He could sense their thoughts, all concerned with mundane matters such as the weather and music.
Nemeth sought about him for a useful alternative, peering through the nearby forest for a likely creature to transform. The answer fell directly into his lap: a twig. He held it up. It had long, thin fingers, just like a hand. Nemeth smiled as he felt a stirring in it unlike any piece of wood he had ever touched. There was a voice inside it.
He reached for the book. It almost spun in his hands until he came to the type of tree under which he was sitting. The thin beech was
conscious
of its surroundings. Its pinkish gray bark concealed a lost brother of humankind. Well, they should become more human. Amid the individual runes for each tree he found the collective one that indicated all of this species within this forest. There were more than a hundred. He smiled. An ample number. He had played with wooden soldiers as a boy, the toys given him by his father, when the poor man thought he was raising a guardsman like himself. He was bitterly disappointed that Nemeth would rather try calling the rain than learning fighting stances, but the neighbors liked it, and Nemeth was encouraged to go on. He was apprenticed to a master wizard, and meant to go home after a few years as a trained weather-witch, but he never did. He wished often that he had. He would have avoided the humiliation he had suffered in Orontae. No, that would have meant he would never have had the book in his arms. He held the scroll tightly, feeling its perfection like silk that soothed his nerves. All had been worthwhile if he ended up with this treasure.
These would be his wooden soldiers. It would be so simple. He unlocked the rune and began to change a dot here, a stroke there. He reshaped their branches into thin, attenuated arms, each ending in a spear.
Around him the forest began to come to life. The beeches began to stretch and move, hoisting their shallow roots out of the soil. He felt their anger as they woke up, fury at all living and moving things. They sensed him sitting among them, and turned on him, reaching for him, stabbing at him with their re-formed limbs. Nemeth brushed aside the branches with a swift stroke on the page.
“You cannot touch me,” he said. “I am your master. Furthermore”—he
completed another small stroke, moving a gold line—“you shall not touch anyone else until I am ready for you to do so.”
He sat in their midst as they shrieked and sallied at him. They were as impotent as his enemy. He felt sorry for them. It would be a terrible thing to be transformed against his will. He had done it to himself and hated it, but he had had no choice.
They
had no choice. These were his soldiers, and they would do his fighting for him. The living beeches did not understand, and threw themselves against the invisible barrier he had set around them. The ground shook with the violence of their anger.
“Hold your fury,” he said, though he knew they could not understand. “Soon there will be an enemy for you to slay.”
Nemeth waited. He knew that the followers were approaching, and fast. The merry voices in his head were drawing closer all the time. He must wait for them here. Once they were at the mercy of his army, he would be free to go about his business.
It happened sooner than he thought it would. The book was no longer alone. Another aura touched it familiarly. He felt jealousy welling up within him.
“How dare they?” he demanded, shaking the pillars of his forest seat. How
could
they? He had no true friend but the book. It must respond to him alone.
He knew the answer at once. One of the followers carried a fragment of a copy, just like the one that he had used to trace the book to its fastness.
It didn’t matter. His toy soldiers would wipe them out. They came closer and closer, until the auras overlapped, began to join. It was almost too much for Nemeth to stand. He waited until the aura was at a level with him. With a wave of his hands, he set the trees free. They rushed away, seeking victims for their rage, leaving the jumbled floor of the forest empty.
In no hurry, Nemeth rose from his leafy bower and took to the air. There was no need for him to see what came after.
T
ildi felt the change in the air as soon as they came over the range of low hills toward the dense oak forest. She knew the sensation well. It had been her constant companion during her trip north to Overhill. To a lesser degree, she had felt it in Walnut Tree and in the winter canyon
days before. The leaf felt the master copy nearby, and dearly wanted to join it. Tildi fought being lost in the warmth of its presence.
“It’s here!” she shouted to Edynn.
Edynn cantered silently toward her over the sky. “Are you sure?”
“He’s down there somewhere,” Tildi insisted. “We are drawing closer. Look!”
She pointed toward the sun. The angry gold orb in the sky bore a rune that flickered deep red.
Serafina blanched. “That is power beyond anything I have ever seen before. It’s … excessive.”
“I saw that on my way from the Quarters.”
“And you didn’t think it was strange?” Serafina asked, in a tone that made Tildi doubt her own sanity.
“Daughter, she had no experience then. Let be.”
“Look there,” Teryn called hoarsely. They all glanced down. A gold glimmer spread out over a crescent of woods below them. Tildi could distinguish not only the rune that said
forest,
but smaller words designating individual features. The rest of the group was now in no doubt. They were closing in on their goal.
“There’s a village,” Rin said. “Let us put down there. We will need help if we are to take our thief.”
Unlike Walnut Tree or any of the human villages they had visited since leaving Silvertree, this place had an order that was pleasing to the eye as well as to the ear. Piping and the soft sound of harps melded in perfect harmony with the song of birds in the trees. Most of the elves lived in hollow trees, much smaller and narrower versions of Silvertree. Tildi even recognized that three of the domiciles were of the same species as in her former home. A few houses were of wood or stone, but these were so graceful in construction that they might have burgeoned organically instead of being made. Doorposts and window frames bore delicate carvings tinted with reds, browns, and deep greens, and living flowers twined everywhere.
Elves began to pour out of the graceful houses and tree homes long before the party galloped to a halt on a narrow green. Tildi looked at them shyly. Edynn’s face lit up, and she swung off to meet a slender male with swept-back ears and very long black hair wearing a green tunic and pale gray trousers over light boots. The two of them looked so akin that Tildi had to bite her tongue to keep from asking questions about a possible relationship. The elves at Olen’s home had been very
touchy about it. Even allowing for the fact that their were backward, they were very similar to those of Edynn and Serafina. Tildi was acutely aware how strong the runes in this place were. She could see them everywhere here. The others, not as attuned as she was to the book, could not.
Edynn and the elf embraced and began to speak together. His people gathered around them. The conference was brief, as the forest denizens hastened off to their homes.
“Tildi Summerbee, my honor,” the elf said, bowing to her with his hand over his heart. He knelt so that he was at eye level with her. “I am Athandis. Welcome to Penbrake. We have been warned of this very dangerous book by Lady Urestia, who was in the same council with you. I’ve been sending scouts out regularly to check for signs, but we have never found a trace. You are certain that the book is here?”
“In the woods,” Tildi said. “It’s a distance that way.” She pointed. “I can see traces here, but off in that direction it’s stronger than anything I have felt before.”
“Do you think it not strange that he has stopped here? Can you tell me the reason?”
“I don’t know. All I am sure of is the runes. Has anyone seen anything … strange?”
Athandis looked grave. “Not yesterday or today. The sensitives among us have reported an uncanny feeling, but no one has said they have seen anything.”
“This man is dangerous, Athandis,” Edynn said. “We must have a plan. It might take all of us—no, it will take all of us to capture him, but we must try. The book must be returned to safekeeping.”
“I agree. My people have gone to collect weapons. They are also,” he added, looking directly at Tildi, “versed in the natural magics. We will do our best. In the meanwhile, we will send messengers to the marchioness.”
“Master Athandis!” A slender child came racing toward them. She came panting to a halt before the headman. She was half again Tildi’s height, but could not have been more than seven years old, by smallfolk reckoning. Athandis steadied her, and poured gentle magic into her to strengthen her. The child gasped. “The forest! The forest is moving!”
The headman started to ask for details, but they became evident all too quickly. Tildi felt an onrush of power like the onslaught of driving snow. In its wake came the trees.
These were like no trees that she had ever seen, in any forest. Their
bark was gray, their sparse crowns pale green, but their branches, sharpened to a point, waved and whipped of their own volition. In between cracks in the narrow, smooth boles she fancied she could see dark eyes glaring with hatred. What was worse was that they screamed. It was a high, thin sound that went through Tildi’s brain like a needle. It was full of anger and pain. She was terrified, but at the same time, sorry for them. They were in pain like Morag was in pain, though he did not lash out.