Deomans of Faerel Read online

  Beside her side on the bench rested the turnip, although it had closed its eyes and had stopped talking. Claire wanted desperately to pick it up, to ask it a million and one questions.

  She tried in vain to return to the field of white, to access the pseudo-net, but failed. Her head throbbed from the effort. Some kind of cooling down period must have been associated with the gland.

  The road on the other side of the bridge soon turned to loose soil. The cow-thing grew uneasy, evidently bothered by the fact it had to work harder to pull the cart along. They’d gone only a few hundred yards when the beast bellowed and slowed. Claire gave in. Things looked safe enough. She tugged back on the reigns and then tied them off. Gathering up the turnip, she dismounted to have a look around and clear her head.

  Not too far away she found a stream. Most likely, it was the same stream she had tumbled into earlier, or at least some arm of it. At this point it was fairly wide, dropping down in babbling steps in the direction she had come from. She made her way to the edge, to a spot where the waters were less active and drew into a pool. There she knelt for some water and caught sight of herself for the first time.

  It wasn’t at all what she’d expected. Although she was clearly a thing of nature, a living plant-person, she looked altogether different than when she’d first noticed her craggy self. She had transformed into something much more normal. In fact, she looked almost exactly identical to the way she had prior to crossing over, complete with cocoa-colored skin and alluring brown eyes.

  Of course, closer scrutiny revealed a strategic camouflaging of curiously supple bark with almost sculpted contours, along with subtle variations in color. Up close, she imagined she looked something like an impressionist painting when viewed too near but could probably even pass for human from a distance. From her head sprang long locks of varying shades of green that hung down to her shoulders. It was most definitely a moss of some sort but looked and felt very much like natural tresses.

  Her heart suddenly sank. She knew that it was very likely she had literally drained the life out of the woodsman, had sucked up his energy and used it to selfishly heal and replenish her own withered body. It was harder to accept than she would have guessed. In all actuality, she had just killed a man, whether she had meant to or not.

  But the long scar on her cheek and the barren patches on her arms and shoulders eased the guilt. The bastard was going to sell her at a market, wasn’t he? She pushed the conundrum from her mind, vowing to never again allow herself to be overcome by such a violent urge, although inwardly she suspected she had no defense against it. She discarded the ragged sack and drank some more.

  A dark thought occurred. If she had remained on Earth, in her time and place, she would most certainly have died. Perhaps Falfax had known that, not just that she had been on the wrong path or that she was even sicker than she’d led on, but that she was actually, literally going to die.

  “Shites,” she said aloud, and then bent to take another look at the reflected image in the water. Who was she to look a gift horse in the mouth? So she had to contend with some new restrictions, some new guidelines. She was alive and healthy. She would find a way to stay that way without harming anyone else in the process.

  She turned her attention to the sad little turnip. It wasn’t moving at all, although it was difficult to tell since it had no limbs and only a tiny slit for a mouth and specks for eyes. With some hesitancy, she lifted the tiny vegetable into her hands and jiggled it a bit. Its eyes winked open and it gave out a tiny huff.

  “Frees? You are frees?”

  Claire felt tears welling in her eyes, although she couldn’t quite explain why she felt so badly for a talking vegetable.

  “Yes, I am free.”

  The turnip’s eyes closed once more, but its mouth remained open. There was a long pause before it spoke again.

  “Speaks with us when you wishes, when you needs help,” it said softly. Its skin had turned brown in some spots. “Roots, roots to feels better. Walks, walks as you pleases but be wary of mens. Better to keeps to the woods, to your home.”

  Claire tried rubbing it with mud, sprinkling it with water, but life was rapidly leaving the little vegetable. Soon, she knew, there would be nothing more to do.

  “Eats me,” it suddenly said.

  Claire gasped. “W… what?”

  “Puts me in your mouth and eats me.” The little vegetable had said it so matter of fact, like it was the furthest thing from as barbaric a request as it sounded. “Eats me and you takes me with you. Eats me and I lives… forever.”

  She was a little hungry. “Well… okay.” She washed it off. “Are you absolutely sure?” But it said nothing. The mouth slit and eyes had vanished altogether. She swallowed hard, shut her eyes and plunged the turnip into her mouth.

  She’d never been a fan of turnips. A whole raw turnip was more difficult to eat than she’d ever expected, especially one that had grown soft and slightly rotted. Especially one that had spoken to her.

  Thankfully, it was only about the size of a ping-pong ball. With her eyes mashed shut, she chewed and chewed while the pixies whirled madly about, until she was sure she had ground the little thing into a pulp. She swallowed what was left in one gulp.

  She cried and laughed at the same time, slapping herself in the face, disturbed by the fact that she had just accomplished two of the cruelest acts she could have ever imagined, and that she was surely utterly and completely out of her blasted mind!

  “Right! I just have to be bloody bonkers! No one goes through this, no one could ever even come up with something this ridiculous!” But it was all too real. She was here, somewhere on another planet, one created by Hell. And apparently very lost.

  She shuffled back to the cart, her head swimming with a plethora of emotions. She looked the contraption over in search of some kind of a clue as to her whereabouts. But it was just a modest utilitarian collection of wood and metal, revealing only that whoever had crafted it had tools for cutting wood, forges for forging metal, and some knowledge of the wheel and domesticating lazy blue animals.

  Big deal. How about an ID tag or, better yet, a netlink and a phone?

  She remembered the rooting thing. Although she now felt immensely better, she sensed that she still needed to root. She was alone out here. And whatever rooting entailed, she’d be much better off attempting it, at least for the first time, in the isolation of the dense forest growth.

  A few meters away she located a somewhat clear patch of soil. There she stood still and looked up. None of the bigger branches of the surrounding trees seemed to be encroaching, at least not too much. It was a crazy thought, but she wondered how high she would… grow? Not quite sure of what to do next, she held out her arms and closed her eyes.

  And then it just happened. Without thinking, a sudden calmness came over her. The light faded and the sounds of the forests dimmed. She felt a tickling rush, as if all of her extremities had just turned to liquid and squirted out like strings of confetti. She found she had eyes, although not the kind associated with any type of normal vision. Somehow she was seeing, hearing and smelling everything, sensing all the space around her at once.

  She breathed in greedily through a dense canopy of green needlelike leaves. Some of the clumps, she noticed, were a bit off, more yellow than green, the spots from which they’d sprouted a bit itchy. But overall she felt glorious, felt just fine. With hardly any effort, she had grown into a sturdy cedar at least ten feet tall.

  A new sensation came over her and she suddenly felt like she was in a large auditorium filled with a thousand scrutinizing eyes. The other trees. She could feel their curious glares, but they remained distant, aloof, resigned to some deep homogenous stasis she was yet incapable of penetrating or understanding. But it was more than just the trees. The bushes, grasses, ferns, flowers, everything else growing around her was alive and just as aware of her presence as she was of theirs.

  “H… hello?” The salutation was project
ed more as a thought wave broadcast onto some universal communication channel than actual speech. No response came back. All around her the living flora stood still, silently listing and bending in the afternoon breeze.

  She tried several times more but was soon overcome by a deep desire to sleep. The coniferous bundles that made up her dense matting contracted and she felt as content as a child wrapped in a warm blanket. Light faded then dropped away and the sounds around her grew muffled, as if the entire woods had just slipped underwater. All at once she let go and fell into a glorious slumber.

  7

  The Gardens of Cynthiana

  Just when she thought she had finally found some comfort, Claire sensed something rubbing against her bark. The hands of a man. She came to with a rustle and glared angrily down at the forest floor.

  “Greetings,” the man standing near her partially exposed roots said. Unlike the woodsman, his skin was a deep shade of gray. He sported a curvy black mustache and a neatly manicured beard that came to a point just below a strong chin. Beneath a flowing purple cape, anodized-blue armor sparkled in the dewy light. He leaned against her trunk, peering curiously up into her branches with riveting violet eyes.

  “I imagine it must be fairly lonesome out here.”

  A tricorne hat, also purple, sat atop his head. A long, blue feather pinned to the back swept out and over his cape like a frozen plume of chimney smoke. A curtain of straight black hair swept down to his shoulders.

  Claire suddenly felt very trapped. She jostled her branches. Needles and pollen tumbled down into the man’s face.

  “Go away.”

  The man patted her trunk and smiled, still looking up, almost as if he were looking right into her eyes.

  “I can’t hear you. Not yet. You’re going to have to shift if you want to have a conversation.”

  He had a strange accent but seemed pleasant enough. But the woodsman had seemed nice, too, had appeared to be someone willing to help. She shuddered once more, this time some of her roots coming lose and snaking out like unearthed pythons. The man took a step back.

  “Easy,” he said softly. He showed the palms of his gloved hands. “I mean you no harm.”

  “That’s what the…”

  But it was no use. He couldn’t hear her. She briefly considered hardening up, returning to the tranquil, trancelike state until the man simply grew weary and left, but she doubted he would do so. Besides, she now understood how vulnerable she was when fully rooted.

  Shifting back was as simple as making a conscious decision to do so. In less than a minute, she’d dwindled back down into the form of a woman. Once her feet had fully formed, she sprang back defensively.

  “Don’t come near me,” she blurted out. “I can run pretty fast if I want to.”

  She realized how ridiculous she must have looked. She was still very much benefitting from the effects of draining the life from the woodsman, and her wood-flesh was in magnificent shape. But she was still very much naked.

  The man offered a wide smile and stood still. Claire was surprised at how handsome he actually was. Quite dashing. He seemed much more refined than the simple woodsman. At his side hung a long sword with an ornate silver pommel. A silver amulet of a strange geometric design hung around his neck. If she weren’t in another land, on another planet entirely, she would have sworn he was a musketeer, or a dashing nobleman of Spanish descent.

  His eyes narrowed. “You have nixies.”

  “What?” She giggled and swatted at the cloud of tiny iridescent beings orbiting her head. “Oh, you mean these blasted pixies.”

  “No,” he said emphatically, “pixies are larger and don’t swarm.” He pointed. “Those are nixies.” He made a face of mild disgust and then rubbed his hands together, purple sparks dancing between his palms. “No problem. I know a spell to get rid of them.”

  “No, no,” she said, brushing a clump of hair-stuff out of her face. The tiny iridescent tribe continued to whirl about her head. She really didn’t see why it was necessary to kill them, if that’s what he’d meant to do. “That’s alright.” One nearly flew up her nose. She waved it away. “They’re really no bother.”

  He shrugged and then held out his hand. “Please, we’ve been expecting you. You must come with me at once. You are not safe here in the woods.”

  That didn’t sound right at all. Her eyes narrowed.

  “Who exactly are you?”

  “I am Yorgan.” He eventually gave up on the handshake. He tried removing the hat and bowing. “I am a friend to the Sisters of Cynthiana, who sent me to find you. They wish to speak with you this day.”

  Claire scrunched up her face. “Cynthiana? I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m supposed to be in someplace called Arythria.”

  The man nodded. “Of course you are. And the Falfax is looking for you as well. But the Sisters wish to speak with you first. It seems a few things are… how do you say… out of place.”

  It wasn’t enough. She crossed her arms and puffed up.

  “Show me some proof. I’ve had a very bad day, you know. Give me one reason why I shouldn’t just change back into a tree and swat you with my branches.”

  That brought another smile. “Because you would be wasting your new life if you do not come with me. You would be wasting the chance you have been given to start anew.”

  She hesitantly followed him back to the now mist-laden road where a stippled horse with a smaller than average head and cloven hooves waited patiently alongside the cart. Clearly it was a military animal, bulging with muscles and full of tempered energy.

  The cart was still there. Yorgan freed the cow thing, which stood for a moment and then turned and jogged back down the path in the direction of the turnip fields, the bell clanking merrily as it disappeared around a bend.

  He helped her up onto the saddle, placing her into a smaller depression toward the rear, and then effortlessly climbed up himself, tucking in the larger seat just in front of her. With a snap of the reigns the horse-like creature moved steadily up the angular trail and deeper into the woods.

  “So, how did you know where to find me?” she asked after a few minutes of awkward silence had passed.

  Yorgan kept his eyes fixed on the trail. “Oh, it wasn’t too difficult.” He motioned to the trees. “These woods are filled with oak and you are most certainly a cedar.” He looked back over his shoulder with a grin. “A much more noble and fragrant tree. That and the fact that your trunk is very sleek, the soil below you looked freshly turned, and that you have no low-lying limbs.”

  Claire was still fumbling over the noble and fragrant part. “Low-lying limbs?” she finally asked. “What does that tell you?”

  “Ah, very much indeed. Nearly all trees have suckers, thin useless branches that sprout along the base of the trunk and drain energy. Dryads have no suckers. When they shift, the legs and torso fold into what becomes the trunk, and the upper body becomes the branches and the leaves.”

  He’d said it so simply. “Hamadryad,” she added, gleeful she’d been able to correct a local.

  “Ah, yes,” the man said. He gave the reins a tousle and the horse broke into a steady but comfortable trot. “So you are. My mistake.”

  The path steepened and soon they emerged from the woods into a clearing. A tall range of mountains rose up from the tree line and into the clouded sky. Claire let out a gasp, but it was more than the mountains that had caught her attention.

  “My god,” she exclaimed. “It’s… so colorful… so beautiful!”

  Yorgan kept up his pace. “Yes, the mountains are quite lovely this time of year.”

  But that was not what she’d meant either. She pointed over his shoulder. “I’m talking about all those lines, those shimmering lines in the air above that mountain.”

  Yorgan pulled back on the reins. He craned his neck and looked over his shoulder. “What? You can actually… see them?”

  “Why, yes. Do you mean to tell me you can’t?”


  Clearly, the man could not see what she was seeing: dotted lines of multicolored light that crisscrossed one another to weave an enormous dome. The lines stretched from somewhere deep within the forests, up and over the sides of the adjacent mountain and beyond. It was as if gigantic netting made from holiday lights had been stretched over several hundred square kilometers.

  Yorgan just shrugged. He clicked and the horse continued on. “My, you certainly are special. Very special indeed.”

  The air grew colder as they climbed, and the trail soon dwindled into little more than a scratch along the outermost spiral of the nearest mountain. Apparently, they were going straight up to the top. Claire wrapped her arms around the man’s waist and held on tightly.

  Yorgan had to fight to keep the spirited steed from straying too close to the edge as they climbed higher and higher, the shrouded forests below now mere suggestions of trees. Claire risked a glance over the edge. Far below she spied long shapes floating through the air, living shapes, bestial things that passed through the swollen mist like living box kites.

  “What is this place?” she whispered.

  “The mountains? You are in the Kesselbachs,” Yorgan explained. “A spine of mountains in the northwestern reaches of High Cambria.”

  He’d been quite thorough in his explanation, but that wasn’t exactly what she’d meant. She stitched up her brows.

  “Please, can you just take me to Arythria?”

  The horse gave a snort. “Arythria is quite far away, I’m afraid. But that’s no matter now.” Yorgan pointed to a spot in the south where the sky held a blackened bruise.” A storm is moving in. A storm like no other.”

  It didn’t quite make sense. It must have been a very horrible storm. At last they drew near a spot where two looming walls of rock folded in upon themselves, the resulting cliff faces dropping perilously down into a treacherous trough that slipped down into a wonderland of sparkling ice and snow. Beneath the failing light the great snowy slip looked almost as if it were filled with diamonds.