“It is not my place to speak to you,” the knight said. “I will let my queen tell you what you need to know.”
Steel was more forthcoming. I have to agree with Cadrel, he told her. It is a wonder. One of the rarest products of Aerenal is what the Aereni call viraletha-livewood. These trees are infused with extraplanar energy, and this sustains them even if the tree is uprooted. I’ve seen a ship with a livewood mast with a dryad living inside it.
Thorn ran a finger along Steel’s blade, lingering on the tip. It was a signal she’d established after one too many long-winded explanations: Get to the point.
This tree is not an artifact. It’s alive. And it doesn’t belong here.
Thorn tapped the hilt of the dagger. Yes?
When the soldiers teleported in your earlier fight, they weren’t teleporting in the same way that heirs of Orien do. After the teleportation effect, each of them was suffused with extraplanar energies. I believe that they slipped out of our world and into Thelanis, returning at a different point in space and time. Something is anchoring them to this plane, though. They can only remain in the Feywild for a split second before being forced back here.
Thorn ran her finger along the point again.
I’m sensing that same energy flowing through the tree. It validates what Drix said… and even Cadrel’s story. It’s not of this world. It’s a piece of Thelanis anchored here.
Thelanis… Thorn knew all about the history of the Five Nations. She knew twenty ways to kill a man during a waltz. She even knew a touch of magic. But metaphysics and planar cosmology weren’t one of the core subjects at the King’s Citadel. Still, every child of Khorvaire knew the basic stories of the outer planes… shadows of the world, realms embodying certain aspects of reality. Dolurrh, the domain of the dead. Shavarath, the heart of war. And Thelanis, the faerie court, a place of magic and mystery. In the stories, the powers of the lords of Thelanis seemed limitless. A faerie king might lay a casual curse on a mortal that would afflict the hapless person’s bloodline for generations to come, or turn dirt to gold with a snap of his fingers.
Or replace a boy’s heart with a crystal shard, Thorn thought.
The energy flowing through the tree is almost overwhelming. But the necrotic energies suffusing the soil are equally powerful-far stronger here than they were within the mists. The Mournland is consuming the energies of the tree, and that’s responsible for the decay that you see.
They walked between the vast roots of the tree, which rose around them like walls sculpted from silver. There were no sentries standing watch at the gate, though Thorn saw archers looking down from the ledges formed by the wide strands of withered ivy. A face was carved into the door. Once it might have been a handsome male elf, but half of the face was worn away, and the other side was starting to crack. With all that they’d seen and all that she’d heard, Thorn wasn’t terribly surprised when the wooden lips moved and a deep voice issued from the gate.
“Two come before me I’ve not seen before. Tell me, Sir Casoran, should I open the door?” It spoke in the Elven tongue with an accent Thorn had never heard before.
The commander took a step forward and answered in Elven. “I bring visitors to see the Lady of the Tree. Open your door. I will stand for their actions.”
A crack ran down the center of the gate, and it slowly swung inward. The knight led them inside.
The hall that lay beyond the door was vast, as grand in its size as the entrance to Brokenblade Castle in Wroat. Yet Brokenblade felt alive. Even when Thorn had visited late at night, the castle was bustling with guards, pages, and emissaries attending to critical business. By contrast, the Silver Tree felt abandoned, a haunted castle whose inhabitants had vanished in a time long past. No one was waiting inside. A few floating globes of light, scattered far apart and flickering and unsteady, created scattered pools of illumination in the gloomy hall. It took only a moment for Thorn to realize that they moved. One drew close and she saw that it was a tiny, winged sprite, glowing with an inner radiance. It shivered, faltering in its flight, and that was when the light faded. It caught itself quickly, and the light returned.
“Guest quarters,” Casoran told the spirit. The creature nodded, darting forward. The knight glanced back at them. “Follow, and for you own safety, stay within the light. And you”-he looked at Thorn-“sheath your blade, lest it be taken from you. It is a dangerous thing, to carry bare steel in our citadel.”
Unfortunate but hardly unexpected, Steel said. I will listen. Study every detail, Lantern.
“Understood,” Thorn told the knight and Steel at once. She sheathed him on her belt instead of hiding him in her glove; from the scabbard, he could at least hear what was going on around them.
“It’s horrible,” Drix told her quietly as they ventured deeper into the hall. “Look at the cracks along the walls! When I was here, the hall was filled with light and music. There were hundreds of sparks in the air, like stars filling the sky. Now… look there.”
Thorn followed his gesture and saw a host of carved wooden sprites, perched in alcoves in the walls.
“They’re dying,” he whispered. “The tree… I think it’s absorbing their energy to survive.”
“Lovely,” Thorn said, keeping her voice low. She stepped over a large crack in the floor, a fissure that ran across the length of the hall. “Could that happen to us?”
“I don’t think so,” Drix whispered. “I think it’s because they’re part of the tree to begin with. Still, probably best to keep to the light.”
The hallway narrowed, branching into multiple paths; their hovering guide led them up a curving passage. The walls were rounded, every surface carved from silvery wood. The hall was filled with light, though Thorn couldn’t see any source of illumination aside from the little sprite; it was as if the air itself were glowing. Only when the air grew warmer did Thorn realize just how cold it had been in the outer hall. They passed doorways with signs and symbols carved into the surface of each portal. Thorn heard faint music and laughter, and she could smell the recent passage of many people, of wine and hot food. A tavern, she thought. The next door was open. She caught a glimpse of an old elf-no, an eladrin; she was beginning to see the differences herself-polishing a bow while another was setting fletching on arrows. Weapons lined the walls around them. It’s a shop… or an armory. It really is a city.
The old bowyer looked up at her as they passed. He wore a wooden mask, carved with elf features, the expression calm and impassive. Something about it troubled her. It was so mundane. Why wear a mask with so little expression if not to conceal something below?
Farther and farther they rose along the trunk of the tree, and they passed more and more people. Most were eladrin, their faces hidden by masks, and most were somber and still, like mourners at a funeral. Then a group of gnomes ran past them, laughing and shouting at one another; they were dressed in clothing of many vivid colors, and their unmasked faces were filled with mirth. It was as surprising as a flash of lightning on a dark night, and over just as quickly.
At last they reached their destination, a suite of rooms at the end of a hallway. A sentry stood in the hall outside, but closer observation revealed that it was another statue, the spear and the hand that held it both formed of smooth darkwood. Were you alive too? Thorn wondered. Are you watching even now, or are you just a warning?
“Stay here until someone comes for you,” Casoran said. His eyes gleamed within his horned helm, points of silver fire. “This is for your safety as much as ours. Until you have the blessing of the lady, the Tree will not accept you, and you would be in grave danger if you walk these halls alone. Rest. You will find food and drink within. Take a moment of ease.” He glanced at Thorn and Cadrel. “If the lady does not approve of your presence, it may be the last chance you have.”
“There’s that famous Mournland hospitality,” Thorn said. She smiled at her companions and held out her arms. “Well, gentlemen, shall we see what the chef has prepared for us?”
“Anything would be better than those thrice-damned troll sticks of yours,” Cadrel said, taking her arm. “Of course, in the tales, it’s often unwise to eat the food of the fey.”
Thorn glanced at Drix as they walked into their quarters. “Well, sir? You’ve been here before. Did they enchant you with their wines and culinary wonders?”
Drix shrugged and ran his hand over his hidden heart. “I don’t know. I haven’t been able to keep food down since they brought me back.”
“Not exactly encouraging,” Thorn said. “But for a good bottle of wine, I think I’ll take my chances. Let’s eat, my friends. Then we can determine watches. I know I could use some sleep, but I want a pair of eyes open at all times.”
