Undermind

Damp moss drooped from glistening, slime-spattered branches. An oppressive mist hung in the air, smothering what little sunlight filtered down through the canopy. Garrain stepped with careful deliberation, unsure what his feet might set upon. A well-founded concern, in this instance. Swirling fog parted beneath each dank footfall, offering glimpses of movement amidst the putrid mass beneath.

A thick dollop of something fell from the branches above, landed wetly on his head and proceeded to ooze slowly down the back of his neck. Garrain frowned and attempted with limited success to wipe it off before it delved into one of his hard-to-reach places.

He looked over at the hulking alvar at his side, striding through the murk as though it were a pristine greenway, and said, “Is it normally like this?”

Thiachrin looked at him blankly. “Is what normally like what?”

“Is this place normally like…this?” Garrain gestured around him, then froze at the sight of a pusworm wriggling up his arm. Grimacing in distaste, he shook the passenger off.

“Only in the wet seasons,” said Thiachrin.

“Dare I ask which are the wet seasons?”

“All of them.”

“Of course they are,” muttered Garrain. “Now I understand why the oracles rarely leave Fellspur. They’d have to pass through the slime-infested swamp of shadow on their way out.”

“I think this is how they prefer it,” said Thiachrin. “Keeps outsiders away.”

A loud splash, followed by a hiss and a growl from somewhere in the mist-shrouded gloom set Garrain’s ears a-twitching. “Morchi? Ollagor? Is something amiss?”

He found the grawmalkin in the water behind a miredroop tree. They had pinned beneath their paws a wriggling, squirming creature almost as long as an alvar was tall; its tough scales and sharp beak no match for Morchi and Ollagor.

“Just a slaith,” called out Garrain, vanquishing the unfortunate creature with the tip of his glaive, Trowbane. As Thiachrin drew closer, Garrain added, “Still, more fearsome beasts are known to feed on slaith. We’d best be on our guard, lest we draw the attention of a hungry swamp wivorn or demigracken.”

“Or a trow,” said Thiachrin.

Garrain looked at him sharply. “Yes Thiachrin, thank you for that unneeded reminder.”

“Always here to help,” said Thiachrin.

Garrain smiled fondly at the grawmalkin, who were eyeing the slaith’s corpse hungrily. Morchi and Ollagor were brothers from the same litter. Tuleon had been in the process of rearing and training them when he was laid low by the trow. The only other alvar the unruly pair tended to obey was Garrain, so at the family's behest, he'd taken charge of them while Tuleon recovered.

It was becoming increasingly overoptimistic, this notion that Tuleon was recovering, and not just lying there, imitating a lump of wood. Regardless, Garrain found himself warming to his new charges.

Before he let them devour the carcass, Garrain set to work slicing off several chunks of slaith flesh for himself and the blademaster. Slaith wasn’t the tastiest meat, but it was better than travel rations. He used Trowbane for cutting—and searing. Its spellshaped edge was good for more than just slaying trows. There was nary a dry patch of land on which to light a cookfire, nor any kindling dry enough to burn, so this was the only way for them to enjoy a hot meal.

He suspected Ifilwen would be howling in his burial mound at the sight of Garrain using his fine work as a cooking implement. But Garrain didn’t much care what Ifilwen would think about it. The forge master had deserved far worse than death for what he’d brought down on Wengarlen.

After the incident with the escaping slaves and the risen dead, an air of foreboding had settled over the Circle. Nervous wardens roamed the garden paths, and many slaves who had nothing to do with the incident were being put to the sword. If anyone had discovered how a necrourgist had appeared in their midst, they weren’t sharing it with Garrain. He was convinced Ifilwen was ultimately to blame though. The forge master had done something to that dwarrow. Something involving torture. It seemed fitting that Ifilwen had also been one of her first victims. Garrain would shed no tears for him.

Garrain wondered what had become of the dwarrow; aside from himself, the lone survivor of the two-way slaughter. Why he’d let her slip away into the night, he couldn’t say. Had it been shock or fear that had kept his feet rooted to the spot, or had he truly wanted her to go free, after all she’d suffered at Ifilwen’s hands? It likely wouldn’t matter in the end. He couldn’t imagine she’d survive for long alone out there. Not with her wounds, and with the prime passage to the Underneath blocked.

But enough about the dwarrow. Whether she lived or died was no longer his concern. The trow, on the other hand…she would die by his hand. First though, he had to find her.

To that end, he and Thiachrin and the two grawmalkin had been journeying for four days, the last of which they’d spent squelching about in this sea of slime, dense fog and drab trees. The swamplands known as the Illerenes spilled out across much of southern Laskwood. Although there had reportedly been trow sightings in the Illerenes from time to time, Garrain didn’t realistically expect to find his trow here. They were merely passing through on their way to Fellspur.

Birthplace of Jienne the Inscrutable, Fellspur was known for its fireberry wine, its inhospitable location and of course its oracles. The latter were his reason for coming here, although he could go for some of the former right about now. If the stories were true, there were some oracles who were uniquely suited to finding things and people. And perhaps trows.

Coming here hadn’t been his first choice. He’d hoped to get some guidance from Wengarlen’s resident oracle, an alvesse named Mireisse. But upon meeting her, those hopes had been quashed. Mireisse was locked in the silly hollow, smeared in filth and raving about flying metal boxes.

“If the rumours are true, she’s not the only oracle to have suffered this fate,” Nuille had told him. “There have been whispers of a terrible malady…a plague of the mind…”

This had been the first Garrain had heard of it. Then again, if oracles were at risk, Fellspur, source of all oracles, would have ample cause to keep quiet about it, lest their northern neighbours take advantage of their weakness.

Still, the oracles were perhaps his best hope for quickly tracking down his staff, Ruinath, or the trow that held it. Even if the rumours were true, there’d surely be some who remained free of this…plague. All he needed was one oracle to point the way.

Thiachrin had insisted on accompanying him to Fellspur, ostensibly to help persuade the swampfolk to allow him entry to the city. When Garrain had voiced his surprise at the blademaster’s interest in his quest, Thiachrin had told him, “I’m getting restless again. Happens every span or so. I’d been planning to hunt dwarrows in the Underneath, or find a good wivorn’s nest to clear out, but this hunt of yours sounds more fun.”

“A trow hardly poses a challenge of the same level as a wivorn!” Garrain had protested, perhaps a little too vehemently. “I mean, you’ve no magic, but you could slay a trow blindfolded.”

“Something tells me this is no ordinary trow you’re facing,” Thiachrin had explained. “I don’t think the elders truly appreciate the danger it poses. This may be the opportunity of a greatspan; the chance to meet a foe who truly challenges me.”

Jerking Garrain back to the present was the sight of two grawmalkin snouts emerging from the slaith carcass, bloody lips curled back in a silent snarl. Garrain whirled about.

Lamplight pierced the mist, revealing a line of dark figures stalking toward them from the south.

“Who are they?” whispered Garrain, unable to keep an edge of nervousness from creeping into his voice.

“Calm yourself, fledgling,” said Thiachrin, still chewing on a slab of slaith meat. “They’re just rangers of Fellspur, come to greet us.” Wiping juices from his chin, he called out to the approaching alvari, “I wasn’t expecting this sort of a welcome before we even set foot in your enclave.”

The rangers were led by an alvar clad in worn leathers bristling with daggers, and bearing a slender iron spear. There was a scar across his face where some large, clawed beast had raked him. He addressed them curtly. “Youse do be encroaching on Fellspur lands, northerners. Explain yourselves.”

“Oh we’re just here to drink in the pleasant scenery and converse with the friendly locals,” said Thiachrin.

The alvar glared at Thiachrin. “Is that so? Then I bid youse a pleasant journey home. We haven’t the time to be dealing with impudent outsiders.”

“Now there’s no need to be rude,” said Thiachrin. “Care for some slaith?” Thiachrin held out a half-eaten slab of meat.

“I think I should do the talking, Thiachrin,” muttered Garrain. He turned to the lead ranger. “We just wish to converse with an oracle, then we shall be on our way. Please, if you would just let us—”

“Perhaps I didn’t be making myself clear,” said the ranger, patting his spear. “Leave. Now.”

“What, you’re not even going to—”

“Final warning,” said the ranger. “Be turning back now, or we’ll be returning youse to the Grey Mists whence youse came.” As he spoke, he levelled his spear at them, and the alvari at his side likewise raised their weapons.

“Oh you’re welcome to try,” said Thiachrin. “I think you’ll be rather unhappy with the result, but it’ll be an amusing diversion.”

The nonchalant smile never left the blademaster’s face, but suddenly a feeling of menace oozed from his every pore. Several of the rangers took an involuntary step backward. Garrain had to fight the urge to back away himself. He was beginning to regret bringing Thiachrin with him. This was about to get messy. He counted at least nine rangers fanning out around them. Probably more hidden in the misty gloom. Not good.

Their leader was having none of it. In a flash of silvery rage, he thrust his spear toward the blademaster’s throat. At his cue, the other rangers sprang into action. They rushed forward, brandishing scimitars and axes. From the shadows came the sounds of bowstrings being pulled taut.

Grimly, Garrain hefted Trowbane. The grawmalkin hissed at his side.

He heard a twang of loosed arrows.

At that same instant, the blademaster moved.

A glint of metal flicked past Garrain’s eyes. There was a clinking clatter, like a rain of stones against steel, and he felt a gust of wind brushing his face.

Two of the rangers stumbled, suddenly pinned to the ground. They stared down in shock at the arrows jutting from their feet, clouding the water with their blood. Arrows deflected by the blademaster’s whirling claymore.

The leader of the rangers got too close to the storm of steel, and fell back, clutching his bleeding wrist as his spear went flying.

Morchi and Ollagor waggled their haunches, looking ready to pounce. Garrain placed his hands on their backs, stilling them. He didn’t know why Thiachrin had goaded the rangers into attacking, but once the fight had broken out, the blademaster had been very careful not to kill anyone. Garrain had to trust that he knew what he was doing.

More arrows came streaking toward them from the gloom, but Thiachrin deflected those as well. Grinning, the blademaster advanced.

A short time later, their leader’s voice rang out. “Halt! Be lowering your weapons! This northerner does be far beyond our ability to defeat.”

Instantly, the chaos stilled, and the only sound was the groans of injured alvari. Seven of them were unconscious, pinned or disarmed, and the others bore lesser wounds.

Thiachrin leapt from the branch of a silverwood tree, where he’d just knocked another archer off his perch. The blademaster landed with barely a splash in the midst of the injured rangers, who flinched away from him. A moment later, he caught his massive sword out of the air, and stabbed it into the ground at his feet.

“It’s good to see you have some sense, ranger,” he said amiably.

“What’ll be happening now, demon from the north?” asked their leader, his face ashen. “Be doing as you please with me, but please be sparing my alvari.”

“I’ll think about it,” said Thiachrin. “What’s your name, ranger?”

“Utmar,” said the ranger, wincing as he wound soft leaves about his injured wrist.

Thiachrin was silent for a long moment, glancing about the rangers. Then he spoke. “Alright, Utmar, how about this? You’ll go with my companion to Fellspur. You’ll persuade the enclave wardens to let him pass, and take him to see the oracles.”

“To what end?” said Utmar.

“As I already told you, I require an oracle’s guidance,” said Garrain. “There is a certain object, stolen from me by a loathsome creature, that I wish to find. That is all. I assure you we mean your people no harm.”

“And what about you?” asked Utmar, looking at Thiachrin.

“Me?” said Thiachrin. “I’ll stay out here with your alvari. We’re going to be best of friends. But be sure to return before dawn on the morrow, or you wouldn’t enjoy what happens next.”

Hostages, thought Garrain grimly. He didn’t much care for this plan, but it might be the quickest way to get the help they needed.

“How can I be assured you won’t just be killing my alvari the moment you get what you want?” asked Utmar.

“You’re just going to have to trust us,” said Thiachrin.

“I suppose I’m to be having no choice then, demon,” growled Utmar. He called out to another ranger, “You’ll be in charge while I’m gone, Pavlar.” Turning to Garrain, he muttered, “Let’s be getting this over with.”

As Garrain took hold of Morchi’s collar, Utmar spoke again. “You’d best be leaving your pet behind, lest it attract undue attention.”

“Would the grawmalkin be such an unusual sight in Fellspur?” asked Garrain.

“Unusual and unsettling,” said Utmar. “Our pets do tend to be less…”

“Fearsome?”

“I was about to be saying ‘furry.’”

The daygloom had begun to wane by the time they came upon the first spires of Fellspur, rising up from the swamp’s edge like fingers of stone.

Predictably, a guard stepped forward the moment the two alvari emerged from beneath the trees.

“Who does your companion be, Utmar?” asked the guard, eyeing Garrain warily. “You know we’re not supposed to be allowing outsiders into the enclave…”

“Special dispensation for this one,” said Utmar. “Council’s orders.”

“I’ve been given no such orders,” said the guard, suspicion plain on his face.

“Then I do suggest you be taking it up with the council,” said Utmar. “In the meantime, I’m in a hurry. Stand aside!”

The guard locked eyes with Utmar for a long moment. Finally, he stepped out of their way, muttering, “Rangers.”

Silence greeted them as they ascended a wide ramp lit on either side by emberleaf lamps, and stepped out onto a causeway that wound its way between the spires. Most of the residents were indoors. Garrain caught glimpses of movement behind covered windows. The few folk who watched them pass offered only nervous glances or hostile glares.

“Such a rapturous reception,” said Garrain.

“Everyone’s been on edge of late. And we hadn’t been getting many outsiders even before the…” Utmar fell silent.

“Before the what?”

Utmar sighed. “There does be a…situation. It’s the reason we’ve been turning everyone away. Trying to turn everyone away.”

They made their way across the causeway, past a small market circle filled with colourful broadleaf tents. The pungent aroma of cooking meats and miremint assaulted his nostrils, and Garrain was a little disappointed he didn’t have time to sample the local cuisine. Every moment they lingered, he ran the risk of being spotted by the wrong person; someone who might not be satisfied by Utmar’s answers. Garrain didn’t want to think about what might happen to him then.

Utmar led him to one of the smaller housespires, where they waited nervously until a silver-haired elder alvesse answered the doorchimes, clad in naught but a mildwinter breeze. Scowling at the sight of them, she said, “I don’t be ravelling for youse rangers any more, Utmar, as you well know.”

“This does be a…unique situation, Mir Viette,” said Utmar. “May we be coming in?”

“This doesn’t be a good time,” said the alvesse—Viette—holding her arms across breasts swinging low with age. “Youse are interrupting a mighty good humping.”

Garrain could see two unclad alvar standing in the flickering candlelight behind Viette. They looked at least a greatspan younger than her. Lifemates, both? thought Garrain. Best not tell Nuille about this swampfolk custom, lest she get ideas in her elder years…

“All the same, may we be coming in?” insisted Utmar. “This is important. You’re the only one I do trust with this matter, Mir Viette.”

“Do stop calling me that!” snapped the elder. “I’ll always be just Viette, to you. Alright, you and your…friend may be entering, but only because you’re Trascallin’s sprout, and I do have a soft spot for that old bastard. The things we did be getting up to in our youth…”

“Be sparing us the details, please,” muttered Utmar.

Inside the house, Garrain tried to ignore the glowering stares of Viette’s alvari. The interior was crowded, but warm and clean, in sharp contrast to the crumbling, muddy outer walls. A crackling fire and scented candles kept the damp air at bay. The walls were heavy with hunting trophies and floral arrangements.

As Viette donned a lacy evening dress, Utmar whispered in her ear. She shot a glance in Garrain’s direction, her eyes narrowing.

That look sent shivers down Garrain’s spine. Did Utmar just betray him?

Shooing her alvari away into the bedchamber, Viette sat Garrain and Utmar at the table. “So it’s a ravelling you be needing. Youse rangers just can’t be letting me retire in peace, can youse? But I suppose, just this once, I can be doing this for you, Utmar. Now you…” She looked at Garrain. “Be holding out your hand, ranger.”

“You’re an oracle, Mir Viette?” asked Garrain, relieved that she apparently still thought he was one of Utmar’s rangers. Unless she was just pretending…

Viette stared at him. “Were you dropped one too many times as a nestling? Yes, I’m a raveller; an oracle with a gift for finding things. Now hold out your hand!”

Garrain did as he was told.

She clasped his sweaty palm between her leathery hands and said, “Be telling me what you seek.”

“My ah…that is, a greenhand’s staff, known as Ruinath. Shaped from witherbark in the Age of Disharmony. Last seen in the hands of a dangerous monster. I seek the staff and the monster.”

Viette gave him a curious look. “A greenhand’s staff? What need does a ranger be having for such things?”

“That is my business,” said Garrain.

Viette chuckled. “Alright, I don’t be meaning to pry.” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Exhaled. Then she opened her eyes again, and peered into his.

“What you seek is being far to the north, beyond the Arnean Sea, east of the city of Elcianor. Look for the red rock.”

Garrain stared at her. “That’s it?”

“You were expecting scrike’s entrails? I’m a raveller. I do follow the ethereal threads between people and things.”

“So Ruinath will be waiting by some…red rock?”

“Not waiting,” said Viette. “I did tell you where it is being, not where it will be. By the time you will be getting there, it could be someplace else.”

“Then there’s no time to lose!” said Garrain, springing to his feet. “I don’t suppose I could convince you to accompany me on the journey…? I could pay good coin…”

Viette laughed. “Not a chance, ranger. What need does a dying elder be having for coin?”

Garrain blinked at her. Her flesh did have a rather deathly pallor, now that she mentioned it. “Oh. That is…unfortunate.”

“I’d be asking for payment of a different kind…” Her eyes ran down his body, and he shivered. “…but I cannot be making such a journey.”

Utmar and Garrain gave thanks and hastily departed. Garrain was eager to get back to Thiachrin and begin the long journey north. Viette’s ravelling at least gave them a place to start looking.

As they hurried back down the causeway, Garrain noticed they were being trailed by a bow-legged young alvar with a vacant expression on his face, turning his head from side to side like a messenger scrike as he lurched about. He spoke what sounded like a nestling rhyme, except the words were spoken in an unfamiliar tongue.

Confused, Garrain whispered to Utmar. “What’s his story?”

“That does be Dallim,” said Utmar. “He’s harmless, but don’t be trying to make sense of what spills out of his mouth.”

Again, the young alvar spoke, cackling as he tried and failed to leap over a puddle.

“Looks as though he’s…not all there,” said Garrain.

“Mad as a wivorn tied to a tree,” said Utmar.

“He’s not the only one, is he?”

Utmar looked at him sharply “Why’d you be saying that?”

“There’s an oracle back in Wengarlen—Mireisse, I think her name is. The same thing happened to her. And there are rumours…”

Dallim jerked suddenly, staring at Garrain with widening eyes for a handful of heartbeats, before speaking again. “Oh I didn’t be seeing you there. I’m Dallim.”

Garrain blinked at him, unsure how to respond.

“Airth?” said Dallim. “I don’t be from Airth. I think I…saw it once? Or dreamt it, or thought it up. Hard to tell the difference. Be you a dream?”

Garrain looked at him for a long moment. “No, of course I’m not a dream.”

“Oh, you’re really real!” said Dallim. “I’m so happy for you! I do wish I were real.”

If Nuille were here, she might be able to do something for this piteous creature. But Garrain had nothing to offer, besides words. “Look around you, Dallim. This is the waking world, even if you’re too addle-headed to realise it. Now if you would just toddle off and bother someone else. I have no time for—”

“That’s kind of you to say, funny-eared garl, but we both know that can’t be true.”

Funny-eared…garl? Garrain didn’t know how to respond to that. Whoever or whatever this alvar thought he was talking to, it clearly wasn’t him.

Dallim laughed. “You be no trow. You’re smaller than me! You’re a human. I’ve been seeing your kind before, in many worlds. Many dreams. Be you a dream?”

Trow. Garrain’s ears twitched at the word.

As though echoing his thoughts, Utmar said excitedly, “Trow? Be you seeing the trow, Dallim?” He clasped his hands around the young alvar’s shoulders, giving him a gentle shake. “Be you seeing where it is?”

Dallim blinked, and for a moment it seemed as though he’d been jolted back into the waking world. He looked between Garrain and Utmar.

Then he returned to his nonsensical rhyming.

Utmar let out an exasperated grunt, and released him. On wobbly feet, Dallim wandered off, still babbing to himself.

“It appears I’m not the only one looking for a trow,” said Garrain. Then he stopped in his tracks, staring at the ranger in confusion. “If you also need to find this creature, why didn’t you just ask a raveller?”

Utmar gave him a wary look. “I…think you should be speaking first. Be telling me about your…trow, then I’ll be telling you about ours.”

Garrain briefly described what had happened when he and Tuleon fought the foul creature, and his quest to regain his staff, Ruinath.

“Would that you’d just told me that back in the swamp,” said Utmar with a sigh. “This day would’ve been going very differently.”

“You didn’t give me a chance to explain,” said Garrain. “Perhaps you should have listened, instead of sticking your spears in our faces and yelling at us.”

“It’s been a long mildwinter,” said Utmar. “We’ve been up to our eyeballs in problems, and most of them do stem from that trow. I’m sure she does be the same monster you described.”

“Start at the beginning,” said Garrain. “When did you see the trow?”

“Very well,” said Utmar, sighing again. “I suppose our secret had to be getting out eventually. It did begin in lowspring, when that monster did steal atop our sacred spur…”

Utmar’s tale was, if anything, even more inexplicable and horrifying than his own. Somehow the trow had reached their most highly guarded site high on the spur, in an enclave full of oracles, without being spotted. By the time the guards found her, the creature had corrupted the seed of knowledge, source of the oracles’ magic.

With their source despoiled, the oracles had been crippled. Some merely lost their magic. They were the lucky ones. Others such as Dallim and Mireisse had been afflicted by madness; their minds cast adrift, untethered from the waking world.

“Just so we understand one another,” said Garrain, “you’re saying all oracles everywhere are either mad or no longer oracles?”

“I fear so,” said Utmar grimly.

“Then what about the raveller—Viette?” asked Garrain incredulously.

“She does be one of the lucky ones,” said Utmar. “She was a raveller, until the trow came along and ruined everything.”

Garrain’s face grew hot with anger. “You bade her to lie to me! She made it all up!”

“You did be telling me to take you to an oracle,” said Utmar. “I did just that. It doesn’t be my fault the oracles can no longer help you. What did you expect me to do? Refuse and watch my alvari be killed?”

Garrain struggled to quell his anger. The worst thing he could do was start a fight here in the middle of Fellspur. It wasn’t long before he felt his rage subside, replaced by seeping despair. How was he going to find the trow now?

He let out a long breath. “I will not soon forget this subterfuge, Utmar. I know you were protecting your alvari. I can respect that. But this puts us in a very difficult position.”

Utmar looked pained. “If there did be any ravellers left—that is, ones who were still sane and had the use of their magic—we’d already have found the trow ourselves.”

“Yes,” said Garrain. “But I cannot promise Thiachrin will be in a forgiving mood if I return empty-handed…”

A wall of silence hung in the air between them, before Utmar finally spoke again. “I’ll take you to the seed of knowledge, to see the corruption for yourself. Would that be reason enough to convince that basta—your companion that I’m telling the truth?”

“I hope so,” said Garrain. “In any case, this hasn’t been an utter waste of time. I’ve learned more about this trow I hunt. If there’s anything else you could tell me, it’d go a long way…”

“Actually,” said Utmar as they made their way up the steep slope, “I don’t think that creature truly does be a trow.”

Garrain looked at him sceptically. “What else could she be?”

“A demon,” said Utmar. “The trow flesh may be but a guise for something far worse.”

“It’s been five greatspans since a demon blighted the arbor,” said Garrain dismissively. “You called Thiachrin a demon too, but I assure you, he’s just a very powerful alvar.”

Even as he said it, Garrain shivered at the possibility. The last great demon, Calburn the Arborcaede, had challenged Abellion and brought about the fall of Ulugmir, or so the story went.

“Be telling me then, northerner, what kind of trow can corrupt a worldseed? What kind of trow has no bellybutton?”

Garrain stared at the ranger. Was he jesting? “No bellybutton…?”

“I did see it with my own eyes, just before I drove my spear into it,” said Utmar. “Didn’t you see?”

“My companion’s grawmalkin tore open her belly before I got a good look,” admitted Garrain. “All I saw were…” He shuddered. “So you’re saying a creature with no navel…”

“Wasn’t born of this arbor,” said Utmar. “A demon.”

They crested the slope, and followed a wide ledge to the lower branch of the spur, where a familiar scene awaited him.

A misty glade, surrounded by towering silverwood trees, beneath a dark sky. At its centre was a shallow pool. And in the middle of the pool was a tree.

It very much resembled the sacred pools back home, where the beating heart of the seed of life lay nestled in the serpentine grasp of a drackenwood tree. Here too, there was a tree, but it was an old redleaf. And it was dying.

In its withered branches was perched a large tome, with glowing runes engraved across its leathery cover. The tome was open; and as he circled the tree, Garrain saw that the curling script of the tree tongue that had graced its pages was being slowly overtaken by peculiar symbols, like a swarm of beetles creeping across the darkening paper. A crawling pain entered his mind. That writing was not meant for mortal eyes.

There were no lovers entwined beneath this tree. To try to bring another oracle into this world would at best end in failure. At worst, it would bring forth an abomination of the same ilk as the necrourgist who had terrorised Wengarlen.

Garrain stood still, feeling silent tears forming in the corners of his eyes.

What power could do this to a worldseed?

Utmar was right. She was a demon.

They made their way back down the slope in silence, over the causeways, past spires of stone shaped across the millennia by generations of alvari; spires that seemed to Garrain’s eyes to be crumbling into dust.

There was nothing for him here. These were a broken people. A thousand years from now, there would be nothing left but bones and echoes.

“I want to be coming with youse,” said Utmar. “I want to be helping youse slay the demon that did this. Restore the—”

Garrain gave a bitter laugh. “Restore the seed of knowledge? Can’t you see the damage is already done? Even once she’s banished from this world, the corruption will remain.”

Utmar was silent for a time. Finally he said, “Even so, I need to be doing this. My rangers, too. They’ll follow me to the ends of Ciendil if I do ask it of them.”

Garrain didn’t answer immediately, while he turned over the proposal in his mind. A part of him was vehemently opposed to the idea; the part that burned to slay the trow—the demon—by his own hand. Another, more rational voice insisted that he’d be foolish to turn down such an alliance, given that it was no longer just a trow they were facing.

“Perhaps,” said Garrain finally. “But before I accept your offer, we’ll see what the blademaster has to say on the subject. Jevren would have to agree to it too, when we get back to Wengarlen. Either of them is worth more on the field of battle than an entire battalion of Fellspur rangers.”

“Who better to fight a demon than another demon?” muttered Utmar.

Garrain’s heart leapt at the sight of Thiachrin and the grawmalkin waiting on a tiny island in the swamp, under flickering torchlight, near the spot where he’d left them.

The blademaster grinned. “Good to see you made it back in one piece, fledgling. You got what you came for?”

“In a manner of speaking,” said Garrain cagily.

“Great!” said Thiachrin. “I see you’re an alvar of your word, Utmar. A pity…”

Utmar’s face was pale in the torchlight. “Where be my—”

There was a flicker of silver, and a thud, and a sudden gust of wind. Something splashed into the water and rolled, before coming to rest at Garrain’s feet.

Utmar’s head; mouth agape. The ranger stared up at him accusingly.

Garrain looked across the blood-slicked water to the pale arm poking out from behind a nearby rock.

“What?” said the blademaster, wiping Utmar’s blood from his claymore. “You didn’t expect me to let that flock of feckless prattlebirds live, did you?”