Undermind

Leaves rustled in the wind. Branches creaked and swayed. His leaves; his branches, reaching gently skyward, soaking in the warmth of the morning sun.

The great green expanse of Laskwood spread out beneath his boughs. He knew every tree, every burbling creek, each and every nook and cranny. All were precious to him; the lives stirring between and beneath and upon them doubly so.

One of his nestlings clambered up his own sturdy trunk, reaching the high canopy of his crown. The little one was bold; too bold for her own good. One slip and she’d fall to her doom. He could not allow that to happen, so with a creaking groan, he reached out and plucked her from his branches and lowered the wriggling nestling to the leaf-strewn forest floor.

“There you are!” cried out his lifemate, resplendent as always in her flowing day dress. She swept their daughter up into her arms. “Have you been climbing your father again?” She kissed her on the forehead, gave her one last squeeze, and set her down, whereupon the nestling ran off to join her siblings in their rough-and-tumble games.

“Now,” said Nuille, a sly smirk spreading across her lips. “How about I do some climbing of my own? I feel the need to make another nestling.”

His branches reached toward her, and with gentle deftness, untied the laces holding her garment in place, lifting it up over her head.

Clad in naught but her smooth, dappled skin and lustrous hair, she shimmied up his trunk to the crease halfway up its length, which opened wide at her approach. Crawling inside, she smiled up at the leaf-covered alvar swaddled within, waiting with barely contained excitement.

The opening slid shut behind her.

Garrain awoke with a fevered gasp, clutching Nuille tightly. Her eyes blinked open at the same moment. She stared at him, then sighed and tucked her head against his shoulder.

“That was…a very pleasant dream,” she murmured.

“I don’t think it was entirely a dream, my light,” he said, eyeing their present state of sweaty entanglement.

“Whatever it was, I want more.”

“Then you shall have it,” he said. “And some day soon, if luck is with us, we’ll bring those nestlings into the waking world as well.”

The two of them had been dreaming these shared dreams ever since the demon, Saskia, had made his lifemate her vassal. An unintended, but by no means unwelcome, side-effect. He had yet to decide if the dreams were anything more than expressions of their shared desires. Whether prophecy or simple wish fulfilment, sleep certainly came easily to them, knowing what awaited on the other side.

It was only afterward, as they disentwined from one another, that they took note of their surroundings and realised that something peculiar had happened.

“Was that your doing?” asked Nuille, raising her eyebrows at the meadow of colourful wildflowers and green shoots that had sprouted across the floor of their housetree.

“I…wish I could say that it were, my light,” he said, as his own leafy eyebrows ascended his forehead. He could feel essence dancing across the surface of his body, whether he willed it or not. Even as he watched, it seemed to shiver forth from his toes, and more greenery sprang up at his feet.

“It is you!” said Nuille.

“Not by my will,” he insisted. “Something is amiss with my magic.”

“That’s odd. Let me take a look at you.” Peering into his eyes, she cupped his moss-covered chin with her fingers, and immediately, he felt a surge of warmth pass through him. “What on all the arbor…?” she gasped. “I didn’t do that!”

She held up her hand in front of her face. A faint glow suffused it; a light that ordinarily only came forth when she worked her healing touch.

He’d felt that same warmth earlier when they coupled, but at the time he’d assumed it to be a deliberate spell cast on him to heighten his mood. Now, he realised it was something far more troubling. Her magic was acting of its own accord, as was his own.

“It seems you did,” he said. “Whatever is affecting my magic is influencing yours in the same manner. Let us see if the other greenhands also have the same problem, although I suspect we’ll find it rather has to do with a certain demon…”

The first greenhand they roused from her slumber was Nuille’s grandmother, Dieste. They found her in the arms of Amur, the debonair oracle who had been charming his way into the sleepsacks of half the alvessi in Redgrove.

“Really, Grandmother?” said Nuille, after Dieste hustled them out of the sleeping chamber. “Amur must be a quarter your age.”

“Alvessi of all ages have needs, Nuille,” said Dieste, without a hint of shame crossing her smooth face. “What is this intrusion about?”

An alvesse of middle spans, Dieste was among the last surviving members of Nuille’s once-prolific family, and the only one who had agreed to accompany them to New Inglomar. By now, with conditions worsening on the surface, those who had stubbornly remained behind in Wengarlen may already have joined their kin in the Vale of Echoes. It was a troubling notion, but there was little could be done about it now. They had made their choice. Dieste’s presence was a comfort, though. His lifemate had always held a deep fondness for her grandmother, as did he.

“I apologise for the disturbance,” said Garrain. “We merely wish to ascertain whether you are experiencing any…oddities with your magic.” He gestured at the trail of greenery that had followed him into her housetree.

Dieste let out a short, sharp laugh. “Oh, you appear to be leaking highspring all over my floor, young keeper.” Raising her wand, she cast a few simple spells. “No problems here. Perhaps the two of you shouldn’t have been so quick to bind yourselves to that demon trow. Nothing good will come of it, let me tell you.”

For the sake of thoroughness, they visited each of the other greenhands in Redgrove. Few were pleased at the early awakening, and none had any issues containing their magic.

This was all the confirmation he needed. Saskia was the source of their magic, so she must be to blame for this. It was time to hear what she had to say about it. But when he tried to speak to the demon, there was no reply; no indication she had heard him. Through the mysterious bond they shared with her, he was getting a faint sense of…hunger? The word didn’t quite fit, but it was the closest he could come up with.

Growing increasingly desperate, Garrain turned to the oracles for answers. Though not truly her vassals, the oracles sometimes had visions or dreams of the demon who had touched their worldseed. And of all the oracles, Dallim had the closest connection to her.

They found the young oracle in his workshop, standing in a basket, stoking a fire beneath the bag of hot air he called a balloon. According to Saskia, these things would be able to lift people high into the sky—and possibly all the way to another branch. Garrain didn’t know if he’d entrust his life to something so flimsy, but if the alternative was freezing or suffocating…

“Oh it’s…it’s flames…crashing, oh!” muttered the young oracle, speaking in the tongue of Saskia’s people, which Garrain could now understand, thanks to the language magic she shared with her vassals. “Oh, four or five hundred feet into the sky, and it’s a terrific crash, ladies and gentlemen. There’s smoke, and there’s flames, now, and the frame is crashing to the ground, not quite to the mooring mast. Oh, the humanity, and all the passengers screaming around here!”

As was often the case, though Garrain understood the individual words Dallim spoke, he couldn’t make sense of the meaning behind them. They did not, however, sound like the kinds of words he’d want to hear while hanging from a balloon.

“I don’t suppose you have seen what Saskia has been doing lately?” asked Garrain.

“I do be seeing,” said Dallim, without looking up from his work. “I do be seeing the funny-eared garl leaping out from under the Hindenburg. So that went well.”

Garrain exchanged a confused glance with his lifemate.

“I think we’ll have to solve this problem on our own, ardonis,” said Nuille.

As they crossed the causeway to their housetree, dodging a gaggle of frostlings that hopped underfoot, trailing icicles, Garrain came to a sudden halt. An idea had just taken root in his mind. “I believe I have deduced the nature of our…condition.”

“You have?” said Nuille. “Then enlighten me, oh wise keeper of mine.”

“The problem is one of essence,” he said. “There is simply too much of it. Before today, Saskia supplied a stream of essence for us to draw upon, but it has become a flooded river, bursting at its banks. We can no longer contain the flow by will alone, and so it…spills forth, to unpredictable effect.”

“That sounds…both good and bad,” she said. “Bad if it continues to leak out. But if we can find a way to control it…”

“That is precisely what I was thinking,” he agreed.

“Let’s try to burn off some of our excess essence with some directed spell flinging,” said Nuille. “A duel, perhaps?”

“A duel would be…most perilous, given our condition,” said Garrain. “But your suggestion is otherwise sound. Through our spells, we might regain balance.”

They hurried out into a quiet, secluded part of the grove, plants and fungi unfurling out of the damp dirt in their wake. Morchi, their constant shadow, followed at a safe distance, looking rather perturbed by the greenery springing up around him.

Garrain began with a small, harmless cantrip, bringing forth a swarm of light-giving fire gnats.

And there was light; great spinning, coiling swarms of light billowed forth from his hands, encircling the trees and spilling up toward the distant ceiling and out over Redgrove—and beyond. Numbers beyond counting; beyond credulity.

Morchi, who would ordinarily try to chase his master’s summoned fire gnats, simply sat there, his eyes darting around wildly. Nuille, who had been in the midst of summoning her own fire gnats, broke off her spell, staring at Garrain with a look of shock. The three of them were not the only ones to be treated to this unexpected spectacle. Cries of alarm sounded across New Inglomar as its residents awoke under an abruptly bright sky.

With a supreme effort of will, Garrain severed the spell’s supply of essence, and the innumerable motes of light began to wink out.

“That is the weakest spell I know,” he said after the sky went dark once more.

“Fuck!”

“I would be more than happy to, but before we do, we need to regain control of our magic.”

She poked out her tongue at him. “We should try some stronger spells. Ones that draw a lot more essence. They may be less likely to escape our grasp.”

“But the consequences if they do—”

“Can hardly be any worse than what will happen if we do nothing. We’d best separate for this, though. You…should wait here.”

Worriedly, he watched as she stalked off into the undergrowth.

Her idea was worth the attempt, though. As for stronger spells, there was one that certainly qualified. Pressing his hands against the trunk of a wide, sturdy blackroot tree, he channelled the bountiful flow of essence into the form he had in mind; a spell he’d called upon once before—and that which he’d dreamt about last night. The spell had no official name, but he called it greenwalk.

The blackroot tree shuddered and flexed. Its branches creaked and flailed about. He hadn’t yet joined with the tree, and already it was responding to his will. The leaves and twigs across his own body reached toward its branches, eager to begin the joining.

A great groaning, rustling sound filled the air around him. Glancing back, he saw to his shock that another tree was also stirring awake. No, not just another. Throughout the grove, trees and fungal towers were trembling and shuddering, flexing stalks, shifting branches and rustling leaves. Roots lifted from the soil. As one, they began to shuffle toward him.

Garrain stared, frozen in place as they closed in, reaching for him with gnarled branches. Eyeing the approaching trees warily, Morchi drew closer, pressing up against his back.

Ending the spell was far more difficult than it should have been. It was as though the spell had taken on a life of its own, and didn’t want to be halted. Finally, and with great reluctance, the trees shook from side to side as roots once more burrowed into the soil.

He stood there for a long moment, waiting for his heart to calm itself.

Turning his mind inward, he was relieved to discover that the essence leakage had greatly diminished. But his relief was short-lived. While his spell had drained off some of the essence threatening to bubble forth, there was more where it came from—substantially more. Whatever Saskia was doing out there to cause this, she hadn’t finished yet. All too soon, he’d be right back where he started.

Unless he kept the spell going permanently.

It occurred to him that he could command a warband of awakened guardian trees to bolster Redgrove’s defences—or strike at their enemies. Yes, the more he thought about it, the more he liked that idea. The dwarrows would disapprove, but they would just have to learn to live with it. With the assassin still out there somewhere, and a rival colony determined to wipe the alvari from the arbor, his people needed every bit of help they could get. The fact that it would also keep his magic under control was all the justification he needed.

Casting the spell a second time, he concentrated on holding the trees and fungi in place. At first, there were a few stubborn individuals who uprooted themselves and slithered across the forest floor toward Garrain and a very nervous Morchi. He pressed his will down upon them, and they slid to a halt.

Satisfied that they were all still and obedient, he commanded them to move again. First one, then gradually increasing in number, until all of them were moving back and forth in a simple, repeated pattern. From there, he tried some more complex movements, and different actions, such as swinging their branches, and climbing slopes.

This was almost too easy. The essence pouring into this grand magic defied belief, and yet he knew he could draw even more if he could only find some outlet for it. He was a little concerned Saskia might burn up, considering how she’d reacted last time he’d worked the same magic on a much smaller scale. Then again, she had told him that had become less of a problem after she’d consumed more foci.

A short time later, Nuille returned, spattered in blood and ichor. Dark veins crawled across her face.

“Don’t ask,” she hissed.

He didn’t ask.

She raised her eyebrows at his newly awakened army. “I wish I could do that. So much…cleaner than what I had to do. And your spell keeps on draining essence, which is exactly what we need right now.”

Eyeing his lifemate’s blood-soaked form, he could see this was going to be a problem. Nuille wouldn’t tell him what she’d done to burn off her essence, but he could guess. It hadn’t involved healing; that much was certain. Healing spells required precise control and attention to detail, but they didn’t draw upon large amounts of essence. That was why most tenders used wands as foci, rather than the staves favoured by keepers. No, today, she had clearly unshackled the dark half of her magic. The problem was that if she had to resort to cruorgy just to burn off essence, they would soon run out of wildlife for her to slaughter.

Eventually, he may be able to teach Nuille the greenwalk spell. In principle, there was nothing preventing her from learning any of his advanced magic. She had less experience with combat and plant-based magic than he did, choosing to specialise in the healing arts—until she’d forsaken her vows, and had turned to cruorgy to save his life in the cavern beneath Wengarlen. All it would take to learn his spells was time and practice, now that she had tapped into the same bountiful supply of essence as he. But time was something they didn’t have. There had to be another way.

“Thondberg’s hairy armpit! This is your doing! That light show has the whole town in an uproar, and now this!?” The voice came from Baldreg, who was stalking between the shifting trees with his crossbow drawn, accompanied by an elder female dwarrow with a slender blade. At the sight of Nuille, his eyes bulged. “What happened to you?”

She glared at him. “Pray that you never find out, Baldreg.”

Breathing a silent sigh, Garrain did his best to explain the situation.

Baldreg’s scowl deepened. “We’ve enough problems of our own already, without having to worry about being stepped on by a bollocking tree.”

“These trees may be our best line of defence against our enemies,” said Garrain. “And as I already told you, without their presence, my magic might produce something even more…spectacular, in defiance of my will. You wouldn’t like that, I assure you.”

“No,” said Baldreg. “Like as not, I would not like that. Just…see that no harm comes to anyone in New Inglomar.”

“We wish no harm on your people—or our own,” he told the dwarrow. “This is as unsettling for us as it is for you.”

“I doubt that,” said Baldreg. “But I didn’t just come here to rant at you. I came to deliver the bad news personally.”

Garrain sighed. The news was always bad, of late. “Very well, let me hear it.”

“We’ve tallied the losses, and ’tis worse than we feared. Another two hundred dwarrows have defected to Grindlecraw’s new colony in Hilterbunt. The flow of new arrivals has slowed to a trickle, and those that come bring word that Grindlecraw’s dwarrows have been spreading propaganda throughout the ’Neath, announcing the formation of ‘New Torpend,’ as he fancies it. It has been barely a fiveday since he left—not enough time for word to reach the ’Neath. Methinks you ken what that means.”

“He planned this all in advance,” said Garrain.

“Aye,” said Baldreg. “And he picked the right place to focus his propaganda. Those who have yet to venture into the Outer Hollows are less inclined to look upon your people with fondness than we are.”

Garrain gave a bitter chuckle. “Because the dwarrows of New Inglomar are our most fervent admirers.”

“I’m sensing…now what is the word the Caesitor uses for it?”

“Sarcasm,” said Nuille. “It is an acquired taste.”

“Aye, sarcasm,” said Baldreg. “Now as I were saying, most of those remaining behind in the ’Neath, being predisposed to hating the alvari, will be joining Grindlecraw’s colony over ours. ’Tis inevitable. There are a fair lot of them, and they are fair tough. They have to be tough to survive down there in present climes. It won’t be long afore they have us outnumbered, and with stronger fighters besides. That leaves us with a serious dilemma.”

“Whether to attack now, while they are weak,” said Garrain. “Or wait until they’ve grown too strong to oppose. At which point you can be assured they will strike at us without mercy.”

“Aye,” said Baldreg. “If we attack first, many of our people won’t be happy about it. We’ll stoke the fires of unrest. There’ll be more defections. And sure as shite, even if we slaughter Grindlecraw and every one of his followers, and raze their colony to the ground, another group of malcontents will rise in their place. But if we don’t strike early, we lose. ’Tis one of those situations where no matter what we do, it will hurt us.”

“We will just have to ensure it hurts them more,” said Garrain.

Baldreg frowned. “I will have to think upon this. I ken what the Caesitor would say. And Ruhildi would stand with her. But the Caesitor is too…” He trailed off, clearly unwilling to criticise the object of his worship.

Garrain spoke the words he couldn’t. “Saskia is too kind-hearted to face the harsh realities of our world. To do what must be done.”

Baldreg grimaced. “So we are in agreement, then? If we choose the…bloody option, you will support us?”

Garrain glanced at Nuille, who inclined her head at him. “I would need to consult with my people, but I think they will follow our lead on this.”

“Good. You will hear my decision soon enough. Until then, get your shite in order, alvari!” Sending them one last scowl, Baldreg and his dwarrow escort strode away.

Back in Redgrove, Garrain positioned the guardian trees and fungi outside their housetree. He wasn’t yet certain of his range of control, and nor did he know what would happen when he fell asleep. Ordinarily, a spell would fade along with his consciousness, but now he wasn’t so sure. Either way, it would be prudent to have them close at hand at first, in case of any further surprises.

Thrice more throughout the day, Nuille headed out to…well, he didn’t really want to know the details of what she was doing.

Further efforts to get answers from Saskia proved fruitless, so there was nothing to be done but try to get some sleep, and hope for the best. For a brief, blissful time, their dreams once again intertwined, and his worries melted away.

Then he awoke to the awful sight of his lifemate shivering and convulsing, her flesh flowing like sand across crackling bones.

“Oh…oh deus,” he said. “Wake up! Wake up, my light!”

She blinked up at him with the slitted eyes of a malkin. They changed colour and form even as he watched—from amber slits to red-ringed circles, to orbs as black as deepest night. “Ardonis?” murmured the shifting form lying in the sleepsack beside him. “What’s happening? I feel…strange.”

He carried her out the door, feeling his own leafy flesh tingle as her rampaging magic tried to slither into him. The awakened trees and fungi were exactly where he’d left them. They stirred at his approach, leaves and fronds rustling in the cool, dank air. Dieste, who had offered to stand watch while they slept, stared at the bundle of shifting flesh in his arms. “What is that…?” Her eyes widened.

“Stay away!” he cried. “I don’t know what her magic might do to you if you draw near.”

Morchi leapt down from a high branch, and sniffed at them. Garrain swatted his friend away, drawing a startled yowl from the grawmalkin.

Trying to calm his whirling thoughts, Garrain ordered one of the smaller, faster awakened trees to pick him and his precious cargo up and bear them away, while the rest lumbered after them.

“It’ll be alright, my light,” he said. “Once you regain control of your magic, you can revert to your true form, don’t you worry.”

“My…true form? What am I now? I can’t…I can’t see very well…” Her voice changed to a husky growl.

“You are Nuille,” he said. “You will always be Nuille, my light. Please hold onto that. Please.”

He didn’t know if his last plea was to her or to whatever god or gods might be looking out for him now that the Arbordeus had forsaken him.

Once they were away from the populated areas of New Inglomar, he dismounted, and went in search of beasts for her to work her magic on—any outlet would do, as long as it wasn’t her own body.

Near the cavern’s edge, where several underground streams fed into the lake, he came upon a river sloun den. Hurrying back to her side, he carried her to the streambank, and set her gently down outside the den. There were nestlings there, he realised. It was a terrible thing he did, but if it came to a choice between his lifemate and these meek, playful little creatures, there was no real choice.

Nuille extended an appendage that changed from hand to paw to pincer. He tensed, waiting for her magic to wring out their bodies, turning them into so much meat.

One of the young slouns crept up the slippery bank, and licked at her hand. She shivered, and shrank, and elongated.

And then he was looking down at an identical sloun, pressing a wet nose against her twin.

“Deus!” he whispered, watching her leap into the water, rubbing up against her ‘siblings.’ “Are you still…in there, my light?”

She vaulted up out of the water. And at the crest of the arc, her form shifted once more, changing into a wet—and deliciously unclad—alvesse.

Wordlessly, he clung to her, and she gripped him just as fiercely. They sank onto the damp moss, heedless of the slouns frolicking in the water beside them. For a time, the world went away, and they had eyes only for each other.

As their gasps reached their crescendo, an exasperated voice sounded in his ears. “Oh you’ve got to be frocking…again!?”