Silent Hall (30 page)

Now he understood what Bandu meant about the fortress that was also plants and a piece of sky. A dark cloud hung above the castle, concealing the tops of the enormous trees that were its corner towers. Criton swore softly to himself. Bandu thought Illweather's seed would be somewhere near the top, which meant it would be hiding at the end of a limb in the middle of a stormcloud. She had said it without certainty, but he was sure she was right: Illweather needed no deception to keep its seed safe – its natural defenses would be more than sufficient.

But then… what if deception really was among the seed's defenses? The thought of climbing all the way up one of those towering trees only to discover that the prize was hidden elsewhere – Criton could hardly bear to think about it. Yet what else could he do? If the castle possessed as active a mind as Bandu seemed to think it did, he would likely get only one chance to search for the seed before Illweather began to fight against him, one way or another. Dare he risk the climb?

Perhaps he didn't need to climb. A few months ago he had flown, albeit a very short distance. Maybe he could manage it again.

He slowly bent his knees, trying to remember exactly what he had done before. He couldn't remember now – it had all been a blur at the time. He tried jumping. Nothing happened. He jumped again, imagining his body soaring upwards as he did so, but he fell right back down to earth, the same as ever. What was the trick? What had he done before that he was not doing now?

He closed his eyes and tried to remember that night. He had been angry, he thought, about something Bandu had said. He had been running away from her, and from his troubles, and he had gotten lost. No, on second thought, it was only after the flight that he had gotten lost. What was it, now? What had he done?

He remembered the feeling of jumping without falling, of letting his anger and his anxiety carry him away. Yes, he had been anxious. That must have been the night that Bandu had first brought up the question of marriage. How that had frightened him then! It was not really Bandu that had frightened him, but the thought of being like his mother – of being married to a man who would beat Criton until his whole body was a useless broken thing, just because of what he was. Criton chuckled darkly to himself. How could Bandu ever have become that man in his mind? It seemed so absurd now.

Ma's husband had made him afraid to breathe, lest a spark escape into the open. He had been afraid to explore, in case that man found him under the bed and broke his ribs again. Only his transformations had ever brought him safety in that house, by allowing him to look more human. The rest of his magic had been suppressed, hidden behind his fear and his rage. Bandu's talk of marriage had brought back the fear of the man who had beaten him, and with that fear came the magic.

Criton opened his eyes. He was still on the ground. Not for long. His mind still held the memory of his childhood, and he turned it to his purpose. Yes, he had it now! He took a third leap into the air, and this time, his body floated slowly back down to the ground. It was the thought of that man that had done it. From here, it would only take practice.

After a few more attempts Criton managed to stay aloft, floating a foot above the ground. If only Ma could see him now! He raised his eyes heavenward. It was time to find that seed, and rescue his friends.

He shot upwards through the air, climbing ever higher. The cool wind beat at his face as he neared the living castle, bringing tears to his eyes. He would be there soon, he thought, and then the wind would not sting him so. Yet as he approached, he could see the tree-towers swishing their branches angrily in his direction. The castle had spotted him.

And then, suddenly, there was a blinding light and a deafening boom. Criton swayed backwards and covered his eyes, dazed. Every hair on his body was standing on end. A warning shot, he thought. This dark stormcloud was not hanging above the castle, as he had believed at first: it was a
part
of Illweather.

He reconsidered his position. At any moment, the castle could strike him down with a bolt of lightning. If he got any closer, it certainly would. But if anything, the castle's reaction to his presence suggested that he had been right about the seed's location. How, then, would he reach it?

One fact, at least, encouraged him: the castle could not read minds. Had it read his mind, it would have known why he was there and killed him immediately. Criton looked down thoughtfully at the castle's base. If Illweather could not read minds, then perhaps it could be fooled.

He took one last look at the nimbus above, then turned and dove back down toward the main bulk of the castle. Closer and closer he came, plummeting ever onward until he was almost at the gate of vines. He changed directions then, and hurtled at the base of one of the corner trees. As soon as he reached it, he began to climb again. Would the castle be willing to strike at its own body in order to keep Criton away from his goal? There was only one way to find out.

The air grew heavy around him as he rose once more toward the cloud. His hair and skin tingled. Lightning. Criton grasped the trunk with his claws and stopped flying. As soon as he had touched the bark, the air lost its tension. From here on, it seemed, he would have to climb upwards on the strength of his own arms. It began to rain.

Criton dug his claws into the wet bark and clung there, waiting for the rain to stop, or else for his arms to weaken and for him to fall to certain death. His clothes grew heavy with water. It was foolish to hope for an end to this rain, he knew. This was no passing shower: it was raining on purpose. The castle would wash him off, and then…

He was a fool. Why had he stopped flying? Just because he had to touch the tree's bark didn't mean he had to climb up it the hard way. Criton gathered up his magic once more, and his body returned to its earlier weightlessness.

Light as a feather, he sped up the wet trunk hand over hand until he reached the lower branches. Yet just as he was passing the first signs of foliage, the tree began to writhe, curling its branches back on themselves and trying to slap him off. Criton ducked as the first massive limb struck the trunk above him with an enormous cracking sound, and he had to hurriedly scramble around the trunk to the other side when the branch swept down toward him. He could not stop there either, because more woody arms were reaching for him all the time. Criton took a quick breath and corkscrewed up the trunk as fast as he could, clambering away from each assault only just in time to face the next. Twigs scratched at his face and tangled themselves in his matted curly hair, snapping off as he climbed ever faster and ever farther, desparately trying to avoid the tree's limbs. It seemed to Criton as if each attack came closer to hitting him. The twigs and leaves lashed him even as the thicker wood of the main branches swished over his head or at his feet. Criton forgot about his friends, about the elves and the children – even about his destination. There was nothing but the climb.

The trunk and branches began to thin as he neared the top, but Criton was still unable to rest. The shorter branches up here were close enough to connect when they lashed out at him, beating him mercilessly as he climbed. Then, just like that, Criton reached the top of the tree and could go no further. He held tightly onto the treetop and swore. Had he missed the seed somehow, or was it growing on a different tower?

He was just considering climbing down again when the whole tree convulsed and tried to hurl him into the air. He clung madly to his handhold, rainwater splashing into his eyes, his nose, and his mouth as the tree attempted to cast him into the storm. A flash of light and a crash of thunder rendered him momentarily senseless. Then came another, and another, and his claws began to slip. He knew he would soon let go, and then the castle would strike him dead and throw him to the ground like a burned moth.

The top of another tree loomed out of the dark vapor, reaching out to slap him away. It missed the first time, but Castle Illweather need only try until it succeeded. It lashed out at him again, and again Criton somehow managed to avoid getting brushed off by a limb. Lightning cracked nearby once more, and the tree that had attacked him out of the clouds became suddenly, sharply visible. Near the top of this other tree, hanging off a high branch, was an enormous acorn. And here Criton was, hurtling toward it.

He had no time to think. Moments before the two trees slammed their upper branches together, he let go of his hold. He only barely had time to steer himself toward the acorn and reach out his hands before he hit the other tree with full force, crashing through the foliage toward his goal. His clawed hands grasped wildly about and by some miracle caught onto the acorn's stem. Then his new tree was snapping back the way it had come, carrying him along with it.

When the tree came to a sudden halt, the whiplash nearly lost Criton his hold again. Still, he held on. The castle finally seemed to have realized what he had done and where he was, and it paused in sudden indecision. This was all Criton needed. He reached one hand down toward his belt and drew Hunter's sword, and with all his strength, slashed at the acorn's stem. Then, his only connection to the tree broken, he fell, plummeting toward the castle roof with his prize clutched under his arm.

T
hief
! The Ancient One cried out in anguish. Its body shook with its rage, so hard that the creatures inside it threw their arms up in terror.
Thief!
cried Illweather.
Catch it!

The elf prince asked where the thief was, what it had stolen. Illweather hated the elves. They always had to know everything. Illweather wanted to tear them open and drink their blood, but that was forbidden.

Catch the thief,
the Ancient One screamed,
or you will regret it!
Elven curiosity could not get in the way of action. If they delayed too long, the seed would be gone forever.

But wait! The thief was not fleeing as expected. It had landed on the lower body instead, and was demanding to be let in. Perhaps the elves would not be needed after all. Illweather reached out a thorny vine and caught the thief by the leg, squeezing and squeezing. It would not escape now! Its blood and decaying body would sustain the Ancient One until the next sacrifice.

A burst of heat met Illweather's senses, burning at its body's surface. What was this? The thief could breathe fire? It was threatening to burn the seed! Illweather snatched back its vine. It could not risk losing its only seed. The blood of thousands had gone into that seed, blood of elves and of their little cousins alike. No new one would grow, not for a thousand years. The seed was everything.

The thief kept making demands – let me in, release my friends – but Illweather ignored it for now. The thorns had drawn blood, blood that did not taste familiar. Was this a new kind of creature? It tasted most like a little cousin – the elves' little cousins tasted the sweetest – but its blood was colder and a little bitter, like a lizard. Perhaps it was a bigger cousin, like the ones that the elves planned to sacrifice tomorrow. Illweather preferred the little ones.

The elves were finally responding to Illweather's call. The Ancient One felt them inside, spurring their mounts through its chambers toward the gate. Where was the thief now? their captain wanted to know.
Up. Find it. Kill it.

The thief stamped its foot and breathed its fire. It was counting to ten, and then it would burn the seed. The count had already reached seven. The elves were too slow. Illweather could not afford to wait for them. It had to stop the count.

With a painful shudder, the Ancient One opened its body to the thief. A big, inviting hole awaited the invader, and it climbed in unsuspecting. As soon as the thief was safely inside, Illweather closed itself once more, noting the relieved sigh of the creature that held its seed. The foolish thing thought that Illweather was protecting it from the elves.

The thief snuffled around in the gloom, asking about its friends.
You will never see them,
Illweather told it.
Now you are inside me, and I can kill you whenever I please. Release my seed, and I will let you live.

Illweather could not feel the thief quaking or trembling, nor did it hear any oaths or cries or labored breathing. The thief only shifted its weight a few times and asked again for its friends.

Foolish creature,
Illweather hummed,
you do not understand. I have lived since before this world, before the elves, before the youngest of the Gods. You caused me pain when you took my seed, but in time, I will grow another. You have only one life, little thief, and I can take it from you. Give me my seed, and you can go.

Illweather moved a limb aside, just enough to let a shaft of light back into the chamber. The thief started in surprise and scuttled away from the light. It must know that the elves were on their way – it was not as foolish as it seemed.

Illweather hated to let this impertinent creature live even a moment longer, but it had little choice. Only the seed was important. Even the elves did not truly understand. They had not been there when the Gods had torn the mother-tree in two and fashioned a world out of its body. They knew the seed was important, that their whole world was built upon Illweather's roots, and the roots of its brother-tree. They knew, but did not understand. They understood only that the Gods had made
them
, and left
them.
They were foolish, selfish things. And they were too reckless to be trusted.

Illweather spoke to the elves, who were already climbing toward the place where the thief had stood. It told them that the thief had flown off in the direction of Goodweather, and they believed it. Off they went, the trusting little idiots.

The thief stood still, listening to the receding hoofbeats.
They are gone,
Illweather told it.
Leave me my seed, and no elves will catch you.

The creature heaved a sigh of relief, but only repeated its demand to see its friends. How Illweather hated it!
The bigger cousins,
Illweather demanded from the elf prince,
sacrifice them to me now.
The thief could see its friends – once they had been slaughtered.

But the elf prince refused, making some excuse about a game. Impertinent fool! What did Illweather care about the elves and their games?

I give you the count of nine,
Illweather told the thief.
For each three, I will eat one of your friends, the bigger cousins.

The thief did not answer. It only walked toward one of the chamber's walls and blew fire at it. Show me to my friends.

Finally, Illweather realized the infuriating truth: the thief was not listening, because it did not understand. None of Illweather's threats meant anything to this creature. It could only understand elf speech and cousin speech.

What then could Illweather do? If it killed this creature or ignored its requests for too long, the seed would burn.

Very well. First, Illweather would deal with this creature's impatience. The Ancient One shifted its limbs to create a passage for the thief to wander. A twist here, a turn there – the thief could believe it was making progress. Illweather kept the passages shifting, so that this creature would not recognize its aimlessness. Good, good. It was time to devour the cousins.

The elves had ceased their games when Illweather raised the alarm, and now three of them were leading the little cousins back to their cell. Illweather could feel the tramping of all those little feet down its halls – delicious little feet. As soon as the elves left them alone, Illweather would consume them and the bigger cousins alike. Their blood would be sustenance, their flesh fertilizer. The Ancient One had only to wait. Soon, the elves would leave…

The elves did not leave. They remained in the room to gloat about catching the thief, even while the thief was still wandering about on the floor above them. Stupid, arrogant fools.

The thief stopped moving. It was standing in the portion of hall that was above the cousins' cell, listening silently. Had it heard the elves' voices? If it demanded to pass through the floor now, it would find all of its friends still alive and well, and Illweather would not be able to slay a single one without risking its seed's destruction. Illweather could not wait to find out. They all had to die, now.

The trouble was those elves again. If they had so much as a moment's warning, they could force Illweather to stop. They would have to be completely stifled, even before their cousins were. As they stood speaking to the young ones, Illweather carefully raised a trio of vines through the cell's floor. The vines curled upwards behind the elves, slowly gaining height, and then snapped forward and caught each elf around the mouth, preventing any cry. Success!

But then, disaster! Even as the vines curled around the elves' limbs and immobilized them, one of the cousins rushed forward, snatched an elf's weapon, and beheaded it with a swift, clean blow. The head, freed from its gag, cried out “stop!” while Illweather was still bringing the ceiling down to crush the cousins. Illweather froze, powerless to resist the command. Then the elf head whistled, and Illweather's failure became complete.

At the whistle, the elf prince felt its kin's distress and stood up.

“Illweather,” the prince cried. “What treachery have you done? Of old it has been your curse to serve us. Move no more today, neither vine nor leaf nor root.

“Find out what has happened,” the prince then commanded its brethren. “We will see how Illweather is to be punished.”

Punished? The fools! The seed would be lost, and the succulent cousins with it! The cousins might now be staring wide-mouthed at the screaming head, but already the thief was prying its way between half-descended roots to reach them! They might even escape, and the seed with them! The elves would be punished too. Oh yes, they would be punished too. Illweather hated them. It hated them all.