Once A Hero (24 page)

Gena finished the last of her wine, savoring the dryness. "If the Riverens are being that cautious with trade tactics, would they be pushing the Haladina to raid throughout Centisia?"

"That question assumes that the Riverens control the Haladina. The Haladina may be one people, but they spend more time fighting each other than they do fighting outsiders. The fact that Haladina are living in Aurdon may just have reminded others that the world does not end at the edge of their desert. While it is persuasive to suggest that the Haladina are raiding to help their kinsmen in the city, I have no evidence of that. Tomorrow, on the other hand, may change that whole situation."

"Tomorrow?"

"I'm going to look around in the Haladin district."

Dread coiled in her stomach. "Is that wise?"

"I am not worried." He jerked a thumb back over his shoulder at the bedside table. "The Haladin community is quite peaceful, and I have my flashdrakes to keep me out of trouble." He brought his hand down and tapped the ring Berengar had given him against the table. "And I even have the rank needed to keep them."

"I hope both keep you safe."

"I'd trust more in the flashdrakes than this rank." Rik smiled carefully. "Lord Orvir died in a riding accident four years ago. It happened about the time the Riverens had started trading with the Haladina. The Fishers claim he broke his neck when his horse didn't make it over a stone fence. They say he was being pursued by Haladin raiders. Others say he was riding away from Neal's ghost, an idea which carries with it a whole host of complications."

Gena reached out and caressed his cheek with her right hand. "You will be careful?"

Rik kissed her palm. "More so than you can even imagine."

A knock at the door interrupted what might otherwise have ended up in bed. As Gena rose to answer the door, Rik left through the passage into the adjoining suite. Swinging the door wide open, she invited Berengar in and waved him to a chair. "Wine?"

"No, thank you." The count looked around the room as he sat down, then rested the longgunne on the table. "Durriken is here, yes?"

Before she could reply, Rik returned from the other room wearing a pair of breeches and carrying a small cylindrical canvas parcel. "Good evening, my Lord." Rik set the parcel on the table and untied the string binding it shut. As he unrolled it, the weak candlelight reflected brightly from the silvery tools he revealed.

Gena lit and brought two candles to the table as Rik picked the gunne up and examined it. "There is a charge in the barrel, Rik. I quenched the fire with a spell."

"Ah, so it did work!" Setting the weapon down, Rik pulled a small flat-bladed screwdriver from one of the canvas pockets in his tool kit. Using it like a pry bar, he worked it under the strip of metal running over the barrel and around the stock. Warping the metal slightly, he managed to ease the band forward to where the stock narrowed; then it came off easily.

Rik asked Berengar to anchor the stock. Carefully jiggling the barrel, Rik loosened it and slid it from the groove cut into the stock. Keeping it tipped up so none of the powder would spill out, he freed it from the stock and indicated with a nod that the count could return the stock to the table. Rik lowered the barrel to the floor, muzzle first, and leaned it against the table.

He exchanged his screwdriver for a wooden probe that had been whittled flat at one end. He dug it into the breech end of the barrel and smiled. "Most of the charge is here. You worked very quickly, Gena."

"She saved my life."

"Possibly."

"I saw what happened. There is no question of it."

Rik nodded as he dug some of the unburned powder out of the barrel and placed it in the palm of his left hand. "Coarse ground and poorly mixed, with too much charcoal and not enough nitre." He flicked his hand toward one of the candles, and the mixture flashed as it flew through the flame. A white thread of smoke rolled up toward the ceiling while a few sparks landed on the other side of the candle. "At the range Gena described, the bullet would have hit you, but not terribly hard."

"You mean it might have gone halfway through, not all the way?"

"Exactly."

"Forgive me if I do not find that much comfort."

Rik laughed. "Forgive me for being so callous. I have undertaken a study of what effects flashdrakes have on their targets." He ran his thumbnail around inside the rim of the breech. "Just as well he had poor powder, the metal has started to fracture. One full charge or two and this gunne would have exploded."

Berengar smiled and looked up at Gena. "Is that not what I told you?"

"It is indeed, my lord."

"Which is precisely why we restrict these things here in Aurdon." The count tapped a finger against the gunne's silver butt-cap. "I gather you are not impressed with this weapon?"

"I believe you have archers who are more of a threat than anyone armed with one of these. It is poorly made and poorly supplied with powder. It is likely more a status symbol among the Haladina than anything else. Its being found in the possession of a Haladin raider would not alarm me, especially"—Rik nodded toward Gena—"with so able a mage as an ally."

The count smiled in agreement. "I already owe her my life. If things go as planned, my family and Aurdon will be in her debt as well."

Larissa's statement caught me by surprise and, in retrospect, should have sunk into my heart like a dagger. I am not entirely certain why it did not. I would have thought the giddy feeling in my chest would vanish, sucked down into a sinkhole of pain, but that did not happen. The good feeling lingered, blunted a bit, but still there, nourished by Larissa's smile and utter lack of deceptiveness.

A philosopher or poet would likely go on about his emotional turmoil, or agonize over the lack of same, were he in my position. I had already determined that we would never consummate our love. That physical union was unimportant to me and avoiding it the only way I could be certain that I would live and she would not be exiled by her own people. In light of such considerations, the fact that she was married made no difference at all. In fact, her marriage might even allow her greater freedom, since the idea that she would cuckold an Imperator with a Man had to be an outside possibility in the Sylvan mind.

I must also admit that the idea that Finndali's wife loved me was intriguing. Finndali and I lost no love upon each other, so any discomfort he felt when his wife was in my company would not bother me at all. If it ever turned out that I did not survive long enough to give Finndali an accounting of my scars, the scar that Larissa's love for me might leave on his heart would have to suffice as my revenge.

That sounds all cold and calculated. In fact all these thoughts flashed through my brain like ghosts through a haunted castle. Given my exhaustion and the fierce power of love for Larissa, the world had taken on an unreality that made me wonder if everything was a dream or a nightmare.

Larissa gave me no time for wondering. "Come along, Custos Sylvanii, you are awaited at Woodspire." She waved her left hand idly at the line of soldiers, and they parted like light drapes before a breeze. I smiled at Finndali, took away a scowl in the exchange, and followed Larissa.

A few steps beyond the line I caught up with her again. "I am surprised Finndali Imperator remembers me. We have met only a time or three, and the last meeting must have been a decade ago."

"The impression you created on those occasions has kept you fresh in his mind. In the same way, my brother's association with you—an obligation from which he was released after Tashayul's death—has caused a great deal of curiosity about you." She smiled easily as we moved into the towering groves that were Cygestolia. "There are those who believe you a powerful magus who has ensorcelled my brother into slavery."

"And what do you believe?"

"I believe my brother is shrewd in his judgments of Men and fortunate in his choice of friends."

Our conversation lapsed as we strolled into the city itself. Within its confines I learned the true immensity of the settlement. Trees bigger around than Man-castles predominated, and the city existed on a number of levels. Those whose occupations demanded easy access to the ground—farmers, herders, and soldiers, for example—were ensconced no more than thirty yards up. So the divisions progressed every thirty yards or so, with ascetics, philosophers, artists, and the mad dwelling so high up that their homes swayed in the breeze and brushed the moons at night.

When we reached Woodspire, it occurred to me that each of the massive trees was akin to a Man-lord's castle and the surrounding village, but instead of being spread out, it spread up and beyond. The other trees in that sector of the city were further holdings of the family who ruled the area, just as other villages within a fief were owned by the lord in charge of the county or barony.

We entered Woodspire at an opening between two roots. The narrow entrance belied the enormity of the hollow within the tree. Inside, in a wooden cavern that towered a good twenty feet above the ground, horses had been stabled and even some pigs had been penned. Elves moved to and fro from the tree's core. Around the edges of the cavern, where the floor had been dug down about ten feet below ground level outside, I saw tunnels into which grooms and swineherds were carting manure, presumably to help sustain Woodspire.

As we entered, I wondered how such a huge tree could survive with such a hollow at its base, but a moment's observation answered that question for me. The first thing I saw was that a central cylinder rose from the earth to support the heart of the tree. Since trees grow from the heart out, as long as the center had not been worked or worn away, the tree could continue living and growing. Given the size of Woodspire, the hollow's presence clearly had not hurt it.

The tree's exterior had the normal amount of bark one would expect on a titanic pine. The interior surface of the tree had developed a thinner, almost transparent bark that sealed and protected it. The faint stickiness I felt when I ran my hand over it made me mindful of sap or varnish, and the inner bark also reminded me of birch-bark because of how it curled up in a couple of spots.

Larissa noticed my interest in the tree's interior surface as we walked toward the central core. "The trees are maintained by two groups; the woodwives and woodwrights. The former use their skills to heal damage done by pest, storm, or disease to the trees. With their skills and magicks they help the tree repair itself. The woodwrights shape the tree and coax it into all manner of shapes and configurations. Where a stonemason might carve a gargoyle from a block of stone, a woodwright facilitates growth into that same sort of pattern."

As she spoke, we drew closer to the central core of the tree. "Woodspire is two thousand years old and has been possessed by my family for all that time. It is not the eldest of holdings in Cygestolia, but it is one of the most elegant." She smiled carefully. "And the first to host a Man."

She stopped before one of many cylinders faintly visible through the crystal-bark. Where she touched the core, a dark circle began to spread out. It grew as wide as the cylinder, then extended up and down about half again that distance, forming a lozenge-shaped opening into the cylinder. Above and below, floor and ceiling, I saw amber disks. She stepped through the opening and onto a disk and I followed her example. Despite the cramped surroundings I managed to refrain from touching her.

Larissa caressed the interior of the cylinder, and it closed down. I immediately began to feel uncomfortable and cramped—though her presence did render the experience tolerable. When the opening closed completely, I felt a lurch, then we slowly began to move upward. Raising my right arm, I rapped a knuckle against the ceiling, then smiled at Larissa. "This is crystallized pitch."

She nodded, with a sly grin on her lips. "As your body has veins and arteries, so a tree has tubes through which sap moves up and down. Woodwife magick makes it possible to move within these tubes. We do have a stairway worked in the bark on the outside, but I thought you would find this more interesting."

"Indeed." I stood up again. "So are you a woodwife?"

"No, though there is nothing ignoble about that profession. My gifts are directed elsewhere—I am a healer."

"Of animals?"

"Of living creatures, though I prefer mammals to lizards and fish. Had I been there when you collected any of your wounds, you would not have scarred."

"Ah, but I collect scars the way others collect scalps or prizes. They are my mementii hellicus. When it takes time to heal, one has more to remember." I shrugged. "Besides, were you to touch me to heal me, I would be slain, so your handiwork would be wasted."

"Your point is well-taken." She laughed lightly. "I will then offer my skills only if your horse or the Dreel needs them."

"Your generosity is most kind and welcome."

Our ascent through the tree slowed and stopped. Another hole opened in the tube to allow us egress. When we left it, the cylinder in which we had traveled slowly dissolved. The ceiling liquefied and descended toward the floor. It melted away and rose up. Between them the twin liquid fronts expelled the air from the tube. The inner bark sealed itself over, and I found myself in a circular chamber with a slightly rounded floor and a towering dome vault above.

Lozenge doorways opened out of the two chamber walls, defined on either side by dark bands within the wood. I knew that they allowed access to other chambers within the flesh of the tree, because I would have to cross against growth-ring lines to reach the exterior, whereas moving with them as they curved through the wood would keep me on the same ring within the tree.

The woodwright's art is reflected in the two dominant features of Sylvan architecture. Curves are everywhere. While a Man would have created a room as a square, here they were shaped from circles and cylinders, ovoids and capsules. The same sort of twists and curves that gnarl trees are reflected in the curious branching of corridors or eccentric curves of alcoves and hideaways. As I followed Larissa from the entry chamber through the turns of the corridors, I marveled at the artistry of the woodwright who had shaped it, but I was thinking that I was being worked deep into a maze I could never unravel.