Enchanted Forests (37 page)

enough by morning to disguise me existing trail, leaving a new

path to lead us astray. I have to be vigilant to keep ahead of such

tricks, if we are to find Lady Arameth." Rahnnic's gaze seemed

to penetrate deep into the woods, as if he were already fathoming

which way to travel in the morning.

He had finally mentioned her name aloud- "They say she was

the most beautiful princess of her generation," Oxal said.

Rahnnic smiled in a melancholy way. "It would please her to

hear such words. A hundred years ago, it was her voice that folk

complimented. To hear her sing to our children—every father

should have such an experience."

Oxal found it odd to hear someone talk of bygone days with

such immediacy. Odder still to sit next to a legend. For all Oxal's

life, the story of Rahnnic and bis bride had been told at the

hearthfires: How Theron raiders had attacked me capital without

warning, hidden until then by the most simple of illusions—fog.

How Rahnnic's defense of the palace allowed his grandfather,

the king, to escape and, with reinforcements, recapture the city

that same year. Such tales of valor had been what drew Oxal to

a martial career. He would often visit the shrine in the old throne

room of the palace, where Rahnnic stood like a statue, frozen in

time within the ward he had formed in the last desperate mo-

ments of battle. Everyone knew that someday the ward would

burst and Rahnnic would rejoin the world, but when it happened

at last, Oxal was not the only one who had to make a pilgrimage

to the shrine and see it empty before he would believe the hero

lived and breathed once more.

The prince's voice fell to a whisper. Oxal averted his glance.

Obviously, it pained Rahnnic to speak of children gone to the

grave. After ninety-seven years suspended in time, the prince had

lost nearly everyone he had known. His grandson now ruled

Irithel, and for the sake of political stability Rahnnic had agreed

not to seek the throne, accepting an honorary role as adviser to

the crown.

But the story was not yet over. There was a chance that

Arameth, wife of Rahnnic, still lived. She had not been able to

bear living out her life without her prince. She waited ten years,

THE HEART OF THE FOREST      247

until her children were of an independent age, and then she van-

ished into the forest to give herself to the dryads. As a dryad, she

would be nigh immortal, and survive until Rahnnic's release.

The talespinners always spoke of how Rahnnic and Arameth

would one day be happily reunited. But in truth, no one knew if

that could happen.

"Your Highness ..."

"Yes?"

"How can you be sure the lady is alive? The search parties her

father sent found no sign of her. How is it you know where to

look?"

To Oxal's relief, Rahnnic took no offense at the question. "In

truth, I have no way of knowing if she lives. But if the sylvan

folk accepted her pledge to become one of them, they would

have taken her to dwell in only one place—the Heart of the For-

est."

"But no one knows where that is," Oxal protested. "Some say

it does not exist."

"It exists. I can find it."

Rahnnic seemed to glow in the numinous way of the Arith as

he spoke. Oxal was reminded of passions he had felt at one glo-

rious moment of his youth when, in the span of three seasons, he

won the city wrestling tourney, was accepted into the palace

guard, and came to know the favors of the potter's fine, worldly

daughter. Oh, to feel such a fire again.

"Are you married, soldier? Do you have children?" the prince

asked.

Oxal shifted uncomfortably. It seemed a sacrilege to speak.

His had been a marriage of convenience. His cousin's foster sis-

ter had needed a husband; he had needed a companionable

woman to make a home. It had been a suitable match, with few

arguments over the years, but how could his situation possibly

compare to that of legend? "My wife's name is Ayana. Four chil-

dren. The youngest still lives at home," he mumbled.

Rahnnic nodded respectfully. "I am sure you miss them. With

luck, this task of mine will soon be over, and you will soon be

with them."

"I think of tittle else," Oxal lied, and felt relief as the prince

returned to his pavilion.

In the morning, the sprites had indeed altered the trail.

Rahnnic forged on, leading the column through brambles and

around thickets. Often he was forced to meditate in order to di-

248 Dave Smeds

vine the correct path. They could have made better time, but the

Arith lord refused to allow his men to cut living branches, even

when it meant a considerable detour.

The latter courtesy did not seem to temper the forest's animos-

ity. Pines dropped heavy green cones. Twice hornets attacked,

forcing Rahnnic to lay a charm to keep them away. The more the

men progressed, the more the trees seemed to moan in protest.

Something was moaning, Oxal realized. A faint, keening chant

drifted on the wind. It was fascinating.

"Hold!" cried Prince Rahnnic.

Oxal stopped. He and several other riders had turned away

from the column and were edging toward the lip of a ravine. The

prince had to cut off the lead pair of soldiers and drive them

back before they would turn away.

"The willows in the ravine are singing a siren melody to make

us tumble into the rapids," Rahnnic explained. "Plug your ears.

Watch each other carefully. We must leave now."

The men obeyed. Eventually the trail turned away from the ra-

vine, and the call faded.

"By the gods," grumbled the old fletcher behind Oxal. "A

man can't void his bowels in this forest without fretting that a

snake will jump into his undergarments."

Camp was made near a lake in a spot clear of trees. The men

preferred to brave the resident hordes of mosquitoes than sleep in

the shadows of the wood.

Rahnnic retired early. Oxal noticed bags under the prince's

eyes and a stoop to his shoulders. The continual use of magic

was taking its toll.

Oxal needed rest, too, yet two hours after bedding down, he

woke. Sleeplessness was me bane of his middle age. After an-

other hour of tossing, he gave up the struggle, put on his boots,

and relieved one of the sentries.

The frogs had fallen silent. Sibilant whispers seemed to filter

from the groves of pine and ash. Oxal shivered. To ease his ner-

vousness, he paced back and forth along the stream bank.

Well after midnight, as the waning moon approached zenith, a

scream roused the camp. Oxal whirled. A sentry, who had been

perched on a fallen log for most of his watch, was frantically try-

ing to lift his feet from me ground. Oxal rushed over.

Surely, he thought, the moonlight was deceiving him. A mesh

of pallid root tendrils poked from the humus and into the leather

seams of the sentry's boots.

THE HEART OF THE FOREST      249

'They're in my skin!" cried the man as if in the throes of a

nightmare. In fact, Oxal was sure that the soldier had been doz-

ing at his post. He sliced through the tendrils with his knife. The

man lifted his feet.

Screams were now radiating over the camp. Soldiers struggled

in their bedrolls. Oxal saw an archer claw at his feet.

"It has everyone," the sentry moaned.

An hour later, Rahnnic set down the foot of his afflicted cap-

tain. A pale nimbus of sorcery faded from the prince's hand.

"I can do nothing," he announced. He dragged his gauntlet

across the ground, disturbing the network of vines that had

emerged from the soil of the camp. Thin as capillaries, they were

tough and sticky, like spider web made of plant matter. At the

juncture of each branching lay a thorn as narrow as a mosquito's

snout.

Oxal shifted self-consciously from foot to foot, worried that he

might yet be stung. He and two of the sentries had escaped be-

cause they had stayed mobile while the vines had done their evil.

All the other men in the company had been punctured by a least

one thorn, save the prince, who would have sensed the encroach-

ment.

"These vines must be woodcutter's bane," the prince added.

**0nce they poison a man's blood, roots will grow from whatever

part of his flesh is closest to the ground. The cure takes weeks

to administer. You must return to the city and convalesce in high

stone towers. Go quickly. Do not let yourselves become thor-

oughly rooted or you will never be able to move again."

He pointed to Oxal and the two unafflicted sentries. "You men

have charge of their safety. Watch them carefully. Within a few

hours, they will begin to wish to take root."

"You aren't returning with us?" Oxal asked.

••No."

"Take me with you," Oxal said.

The prince raised his hand to protest.

"You'll need someone to watch your back, someone to share

the watch at night. A single attendant is far better than none."

Rahnnic let his hand fall. "You are right. If I wish to succeed,

I must not refuse aid."

The captain of the guard spoke. "Your Highness, how are we

to find our way out without you?" His tone implied shame at

seeming weak.

250 Dave Smeds

"Follow our path in reverse. The forest will not hinder you as

long as you ride for its borders."

Oxal did not begrudge the captain his fear. Any sensible man

would abandon the quest. He found a place away from the patch

of woodcutter's bane and waited for the prince.

The next three mornings began at first light after hasty

gulpmgs of cold radons- They rested each midday, making up for

nights spent peering anxiously into shadows. Oxal was reminded

of a campaign across the Far Dunes. The regiment had risked

ambush for days on end crossing the sand. This trek did the same

things to his mind. Alert to every mouse scurry and every sigh

of the breeze, the soldier lived for the moment, storing little in

memory.

Yet they were not attacked. The prince, with only one extra

body to protect, managed to keep peril at a distance. Once, Oxal

was forced to put an arrow in a rabid wolf that appeared in their

wake. Otherwise, the only visible hostility was the forest's con-

tinued attempts to lead the men astray.

Rahnnic spoke less and less. Though his gaze remained alert,

he slouched in his saddle. He sat listlessly beside the fire each

night, leaving the care of the horses and other essentials entirely

to Oxal. His cheeks grew gaunt. By late on the third day after-

noon, Oxal was beginning to worry that his lord would fall from

the saddle.

Abruptly, Rahnnic straightened up. Oxal followed his gaze.

Across the path lay a row of unusually targe trees of many types.

They seemed to be part of a huge circle.

"We have arrived," the prince stated.

Abruptly the massive walnut directly ahead of them swung its

branches, flinging its hard fruit. The horses, stung, reared back.

Only quick hands on the reins kept the animals from bolting.

"Dryad trees!" Oxal yelled, cupping a bruise on his forehead.

"Yes," replied the prince. "The greatest of all. We dare not ap-

proach. The branches are nigh as supple as our own arms, and

nearly as fast."

As if to prove Rahnnic's point, the walnut and a neighboring

juniper reached out, shaping their outer branches like great

claws. The men were only a few paces from the closest twigs.

"What now?* asked Oxal.

The prince dismounted, shaking a nut from his cuff. He led

Oxal and the horses out of the range of more such missiles. "We

wait for moonrise."

THE HEART OF THE FOREST

* * *

251

As twilight arrived, the forest's numerous murmurs grew

clearer. Oxal heard the thumping of log drums and the trill of

reed pipes. Gone was the oppressive air of enmity. The soldier

felt as though he'd sampled a fine ale, sipping just enough to

loosen his muscles and dissipate anxiety, but not so much that his

senses were dulled.

"Is this a trick?"

"The music is not intended for us," Rahnnic explained. "Have

you not heard the tales? This is the anthem of the forest, sung

here every night."

The fey symphony grew louder until it was all Oxal could do

to resist seeking its origin. This was not like the siren call of the

willows. That had been a sinister compulsion. This urge came

from within him. He knew he could stifle it, but had no wish to.

Rahnnic stood. He pointed at me moon, which had risen above

the treeline. "Now we can proceed."

Leaving the horses tethered, the men approached the guardian

ring. The trees swayed menacingly, but Rahnnic raised his arms,

palms open to the sky. He caught the moon's light and fashioned

cords of glowing silver. When he had accumulated two huge

coils, he flung the strands forward. They wrapped two of the

trees, pulling their branches to either side, opening a passage.

"Quickly," the prince said.

Oxal sensed the frustration of the trees. The limbs trembled. A