Mark of the Fool - Chapter 335

Chapter 335: A Theft of a Sapling




“Oh quiet, you silly birds!” Catherine shouted at the crows in the canopy.

But they paid her no mind and cawed, flapped, and cavorted like there was an autumn festival in the treetops.

“Ah, leave them alone, Catherine,” Stanwic said. “Maybe the tree’s got ‘em happy. They say that every part of an aeld tree is good for food and medicine, and they bring luck wherever they grow. Maybe the animals are happy to be near one. It’s a thing of beauty, ain’t it?”

The tree was young, perhaps ten feet if even that, and despite the onward march of fall, its branches hung heavy with green leaves shining like emeralds. Swollen buds peeked through the leaves, ready to explode into bloom, and its bark was the golden amber of rich honey.

It bled a greenish-gold light that radiated warmth, like the tree was a cheery flame in a hearth.

Then there was the smell…

The smell was…

“It smells like home and hearth,” Rioran said, struck by a scent that reminded him of roasting chestnuts and bread baking. “What a wondrous blessing of Uldar’s.”

“Oh, don’t be mistaken, Rioran, this tree was never created by Uldar,” Stanwic said. “Aeld trees grew here long before the prophet-god came to these lands to save and guide us. They are spirit and tree alike, closer to fae than any mortal, god, or monster.”

“Fae?” Catherine raised an eyebrow. “Fae have no love for Uldar.”

Both hands wrapped around the hilt of her sword, and she raised it like an axe. Rioran stiffened. A noticeable change washed over the clearing. Feelings of calm and peace that had filled the air retreated, leaving fear and discomfort in their place.

“What?” Catherine cried, pointing her sword. “Something’s wrong, like a foul wind in the air! Is this an attack?”

“No.” Stanwic gave her a look. “It’s afraid. You’re holding your blade like a bleeding axe. There’s a spirit in that tree, you know? It knows enough to be afraid of things that can bite its wood.”

“Can it harm us?” she asked.

Stanwic turned his eyes to the surrounding trees, scanning them with care. Then he crouched low, pressed his hand to the ground and felt it. “Aeld trees grant fortune to those who protect them, whether they be monster, mortal or fae. Older ones can have dozens of wild guardians. But this one is young…”

“So it didn’t have time to gather ‘servants’?” Rioran asked, scrutinising the young tree. “Bad luck you have there tree, sprouting so close to our lands. It’s rare anything with sense comes so near Uldar’s Vale. Monsters sometimes wander in, but our patrols do a good job culling anything that might do harm to the vale. As for us? You won’t be making make slaves of us, spirit. We only serve our divine patron.”

The air seemed to bristle with fear, and after weeks of paranoia, Rioran had to admit…it felt good making something afraid of him.

“Oh, stop with that stupid talk,” Stanwic said. “Aeld trees transplanted into castles and towns bring good fortune, good harvest, and some protection. Even to those who follow Uldar. We might be transplanting it from here and into the vale, you know.”

“I don’t trust it,” Catherine said. “I say we report it to Third Apostle Izas and let him decide what’s to be done with it. If he trusts it, only then will I trust it. If not…”

She brandished her sword menacingly.

Stanwic frowned. “There’s sensible thinking in that. The way I see it, the tree is probably Uldar-sent. This path back to the vale isn’t used often: even the patrols don’t normally come in here. But, it was lying here undiscovered for Uldar-knows how long and we just happen to stumble on it? I say it's divine providence…but we’ll let the Third Apostle decide the matter.”

“I say we cut it down now,” Rioran said darkly. “Get it done with. Who knows what evils it might attract. You say it seeks guardians and servants? What if it calls Ravener-spawn here?”

“The divinity on the vale stops Ravener-spawn from even approaching, Rioran. Use your head.” Stanwic gave him a sour look.

“Maybe this tree has magics that could call evil to it; you said it seeks servants and guardians. Why take the chance and leave it here?”

Fear continued spiking around them, permeating the atmosphere.

“Haven’t you gone your own way enough for one mission?” the older servant of Uldar asked the young spy. “You could be in enough trouble as it is. Do you want us to tell the Third Apostle that you not only snuck about the foreigners’ encampment without consulting us and got caught by the Chosen, but you turned around and destroyed a tree that he might want to bring into the vale for the service of Uldar? Use your head, man.”

Fear and anger surged in Rioran, but he swallowed it, barely biting back an ugly response. Nerves—and building fear from thoughts of the impending meeting with Izas—had him on edge.

He wanted to break something, make something feel as much fear as he was feeling and the tree was just steps away. His eyes flicked to Stanwic’s face, the man’s expression was hard.

‘Let it go, if you challenge Stanwic, you’ll bear blessed Izas’ wrath, so let it go.’ He thought, remembering who he was. He had honour. He was trained. Steeped in Uldar’s holy teachings. If he couldn’t even control his own emotions, what good was he?

He’d already fallen once to impulse, would he let himself fail again so soon?

“You’re right…” he grunted. “We’ll report it to the Third Apostle. See what he thinks should be done with this…tree.”

Without another word, Uldar’s servants slipped back into the trees and headed to their horses. Mounting up, they continued down the path at a walk. They were in no hurry after all, it wasn’t like the tree was going to get up and walk away.

Or so one would think.

Long after they had departed, the forest was quiet.

Leaves gently rustled in the wind.

The sun crept across the sky.

And the aeld tree at last relaxed, releasing its earlier tension.

All was quiet.

Even the birds. Only one pair had followed the trio deeper into Uldar’s Vale. The rest stayed and watched. They did not move. They did not cry. They merely watched while something measured the aeld tree through their eyes.

Suddenly, one flew off on black wings, soaring over hill, glen and wood. The crow’s eyes searched the woodlands as though it had passed this way many times before. Or perhaps something that controlled it, had.

In any case, it seemed to know what it was looking for.

And at last, it found it.

Miles from where the aeld tree stood, it spotted a vast pond far below, and within it lay what looked to be a slumbering form. A matted mound of plant matter beneath murky waters.

A crich-tulagh.

The plant monster wasn’t sleeping, it lay motionless, waiting to capture whatever approached the pond to drink: winter was coming; its energies must be full to sustain its life through the long, frozen months.

One of many tentacles twitched as the crow circled, poised for the bird to come within reach. But, those black feathered wings did not bring it near. Instead, it circled high above the pond in unnatural, hypnotic patterns.

Its beak was open, emitting an odd sounding call…like a foul whisper was hidden within. Magic reached across distances, using the inky body as a conduit and the power that flowed was so potent, smoke spiralled from the crow’s wings.

Flames leapt from its feathers.

Power rushed from the burning body as the bird dropped from the sky, striking the monster beneath the water. A terrible will seized the creature and the crich-tulagh found itself lumbering onto the shore. The mound shambled forward with purpose. An evil intellect guided it through glen, hill and wood until it neared its destination: Uldar’s Vale. A golden light called to it, and compressing itself to move through the trees, it answered.

The monstrosity pushed into the clearing, sending the aeld tree’s fear spiking again as vines shot forward, driving into the earth, seeking the young tree’s roots. Distress mounted as it rocked back and forth, trying to escape, almost toppling, but the crich-tulagh seized its trunk holding it firm. Once the earth around the roots had loosened, tendrils coiled around them and lifted the young plant free.

Waves of panic surged from the spirit tree as—

Schlorp

—its roots were planted in the crich-tulagh’s mound of plant life. It seemed the larger plant would feed on the smaller one: sucking away its nutrients until it was nothing but a withered husk, but instead, the plant-monster shambled off through the woods with the young aeld tree protruding from its back. The crich-tulagh tore at the canopy, snapping branches so its ‘precious’ cargo could pass through the forest unspoiled.

Behind, a flock of crows took to the air, surrounding them and scouting for threats. And in this way, the plant monster and its captive made the long journey to a certain abandoned windmill just outside of Greymoor.

By the time anyone from Uldar’s Vale came to investigate the report of an aeld tree, they would find only plant debris, and a large empty hole in the ground.

That fact wouldn’t matter to those who had made the report.

This was especially true for one—they’d have far more immediate things to worry about.

“May Uldar’s blessing cleanse your soul.” The priestess poured water over Rioran’s hair. “Even as his rains wash filth away and feed the land, so might they do the same for you.”

“Thank you, holy one,” the spy said.

“Uldar’s grace lay upon you.” The priestess lifted a bowl of burning incense, wafting the smoke over Rioran’s bare chest. “May his sacrifices give you life and purpose, as they have done for all of his children.”

“Thank you, holy one,” the spy said.

“And may his spirit grant you strength.” The priestess drew a blessed jug of fiery spirits, tipping just enough onto Rioran’s tongue for a slight burn. “Just as his holy spirit empowers the Heroes and priests.”

“Thank you, holy one,” the spy said.

“You are ready to see the apostle,” the priestess said. “Go, Third Apostle Izas awaits you.”

Rioran rose, putting on his shirt, covering the flagellation scars that marked his back: the remains of a few disobedient episodes as a child.

He solemnly made his way to the door and opened it, leaving the cleansing chamber behind. In the hallway, Catherine and Stanwic waited, both nodded to him grimly, then without a word, all three strode down a corridor. The escarpment hymns surrounded them, for they were deep within its confines. They passed doors carved in the shape of Uldar’s servants—holy men and women from ages past—until they came to a set of double doors that looked no different than others set within the long corridor.

Nodding to each other again, Stanwic knocked.

Rioran took a deep breath.

“Come in,” an aged voice called from the other side.

The three spies entered a small chapel that was almost as plain as a natural cavern. The only part of it that looked like mortal hands had ever touched it was a lone statue of Uldar which rose—eight feet tall—in the centre of the chamber’s back wall. Kneeling before it was an ancient figure—breathing slowly and in time with the hymns—with a snow white beard and bright robes that seemed to glow in the flickering light of two braziers illuminating the room.

The scent and smoke of incense drifted in the air, and three cushions were laid before the Third Apostle.

“Sit, children,” he said, gentleness and yet a note of firm command marked his voice.

With instinctual obedience, the spies knelt before him.

“We greet thee holy Third Apostle of Uldar,” they said as one.

“And he greets you,” he said. “Did your mission go well?”

Rioran opened his mouth.

But he was too slow.

“Rioran learned much,” Stanwic said. “But possibly at great cost. The Chosen discovered him while he was investigating the foreigners on our first night there.”