The hawthorn shook its leaves, a long sighing response.
Hello, little brother, the tree whispered.
Relieved, exhausted, Ban laid himself down between the trees, head cradled in the crook of two roots. He kissed it, closed his eyes, and gave himself over to death.
He woke suddenly, from a dream of yellow flowers that floated in the air like bobbing butterflies, and gasped at a resurgence of pain. Blackness surrounded him, and not the blackness of a starless sky, but of closed doors and deep well water. He smelled roots and dank earth; a healthy, fertile smell. And blood, too, but fainter. His ears were muffled, his entire body cushioned by mud and roots cupped gently and perfectly around him.
As he slept, the hawthorns had made him a nest.
Or a grave.
He shifted but was caught by the heavy embrace of earth. A root hugged his left forearm against his chest, keeping the wrist secure. Another pair of roots circled Ban’s ribs, pinching shut the leather vest and pressing together his yawning wound.
Sleep, son, little brother.
The words shivered through the ground, passed between the hawthorns.
We hold you, they whispered, shaping the language of trees rounder, louder and more tender both, to Ban’s ears. Like a different dialect from the slick, intense whispering of Innis Lear.
Thank you, he said, attempting the same shapes.
Ban drifted, thirsty but whole. He thought of the starflower hollows in the White Forest, and Elia humming to the flowers, her black eyes bright with magic. The wind teased her to laugh, pushed her toward him. He thought of the garden behind his mother’s cottage in Hartfare, of coaxing the sweet peas to curl and braid together along the trellis lines. Sweet peas spoke in staccato half words. Like night moths and cherry trees.
His dreams looped slowly: Elia here, a girl pulling herself out of the hollow of an oak tree, crowned with stars and beetles; King Lear next, towering like a column of cold fire, his touch withering the earth and stones of the island; Earl Errigal laughing so hard his cheeks pinked, pushing Ban toward Brona his mother, her hair tousled and her jaw mud-streaked because they’d been chasing each other though the White Forest, singing a whispered song to the trees. Elia again, always, and the shivering roots, chuckling wind, and rushing tide that grasped against the rocky beach. Innis Lear.
Memories, all, a tale for the Aremore roots, whispered through thin, cracking lips as he dreamed. And this land’s story in return: bright green summer and the shuffle of red wheat, shaved from the ground for harvest; horses in an easy canter beneath shining soldiers and knights; the glorious sun colored the same as the royal flag tied to the top of a strong sapling oak; Aremoria’s new king; winter snow a careful white blanket, and cozy fire that crackled but did not spark; caves beneath elegant old cities, stone mouths like natural wells, and lazy rivers braiding it all together in knots.
The magic was slow, the trees peaceful and reluctant to speak. Aremoria was not hungry like the roots of Innis Lear. Stars fell, forgotten here but as distant signals and pretty lights.
It was a comforting story. Ban would rest content if he slipped into death here in this cradle of earth and roots.
Don’t die, wizard, the trees whispered. They nudged him awake with root fingers.
Ban opened his eyes.
Dirt fell into them and he blinked fast, tears welling protectively.
He listened.
Through the earth came the sounds of men. A stifled rhythm of talking, footsteps over Ban’s resting place.
All the valley trembled with the presence of an army.
Ban whispered in the language of trees, Yours or an enemy? for he knew not any word for Aremoria or Diota that trees would understand.
Enemy, the trees told him, passing the word down and down.
A tiny insect crossed Ban’s bottom lip, a beetle by the feel of it. He opened his mouth and caught it with his tongue. It crunched and he swallowed, unthinking. He was starving, and his tongue was sticky with sleep and thirst. So much so, he knew it had been days. Two at least, maybe three, since the battle he’d fled, desperate and despairing.
He’d urinated at some point. And now he needed water. That was his priority.
Ban was not going to die.
The realization surprised him, but only for a moment; then it felt right. This was not where his memories would end. Not here, away from the hungry island of Innis Lear. Not without seeing Elia again. There was too much to say. Too much to prove.
Ban turned his head carefully, and put his mouth against a root. Water, I need water.
The ground shivered, shifted so slightly no one on their feet above would notice, and slowly—ever so slowly—roots squeezed, channels were formed, and a thin trickle of water dribbled against his mouth.
Ban drank.
Overhead, the noise of soldiers settled. Night had arrived, Ban was certain.
He moved the fingers of his injured left hand. They did not protest, though they were stiff. The cracked wrist ached, but he would be careful. Slowly taking a deep breath, he tried to feel through the gash on his side. It hurt, crusted over with blood and scab. If he was careful, very careful, he could emerge and walk back to the Aremore camp. The trees would help hide him, and the earth. Warn him of danger.
Do they sleep? he whispered.
Not yet.
Not yet.
Now.
Ban smiled. Please lift me up, he said. Carefully, slowly, silently as you can.
The hawthorns agreed.
He was birthed from the grassy Aremore hill under cover of dappled, deep shadows. Earth rolled away, roots pulling back, other roots pushing him up and up.
Night was deep, the moon a useless crescent in the west.
Ban rubbed his eyes, leaving dirt on his face to cast him darker, a shadow of the land itself. He looked, and all around was a vast army, camped here in this protected valley. Firelight blinked between peaked tents, though banked low except in one or
