The Fellowship Sorcerer took precautions and wove a small spell as an anchoring link to the sun. Should he lose his purpose and drift into languor, too much at one with the sugared tides of sap that subsided below ground for winter, the advent of nightfall would recall him. Earth’s shadow would snap that frail linkage. A jarring cry of dissonance would run through his nerves as that binding gave way into chaos.
Should he fail to harken, his bones might be found, clutched at length in the ingrown embrace of the beech. His mind would be absorbed, welded into the current of dreaming that made up the leafed weaving of Caithwood.
Asandir let go of awareness without hesitation, without fear, with no marring note of unease. He immersed his whole being into the slipstream of life that was the joined multitude, root, trunk, and bough, that comprised the forest of south Tysan. In fullest command of all that he was, unencumbered by barriers that would cloud true perception, he became at one with the gnarled old beech.
The dream claimed him wholly. He was knotted root, tasting the mineral-rich darkness of earth. He was leaves, speaking the summer’s endless, whispered promise of tranquillity. In the grasp of winter’s gales, he was bare branch and twig, drumming the untamed tempo of the elements. He was pollen, sifted under spring sunlight, and the spanging snap of bitter frosts. The old beech’s memory extended like fog past the dawn of Athera’s Third Age.
Beneath the layering of the tree’s individuality ran the currents that interlinked its being with its neighbors; and theirs, to their neighbors, until the forest’s webbed consciousness extended its reach to encompass the far borders of the wood. Asandir rode that tranquil sea of soft whispers, loomed from the speech of blown leaves in the wind, and braided amid the gossamer filaments of root hairs. He sensed flowing water, and the tidal pull of the moon; the warm, flooding canopy of sunlight. He knew the blind, reaching growth of the acorn, and the ground-shaking fall of the elder trunk, claimed by rampaging tempest. The lives of the trees entangled in dream like the trackless silence of owl flight.
Deeper, the flow of arboreal awareness lost its seamless, broad fabric of communion. A directional tide stirred the fathomless depths, spiraling outward in tacit connection with the mystery that encompassed Ath’s creation. Within that singing band of unity, Asandir found the signature he sought, encoded in language of sound and light, and steeped in the gentle nurture that was the wise province of trees.
He knew the wood’s heart, the given Name for the patriarch tree whose great presence could be called to awaken the dream of the forest, and make its form manifest in the minds of animate beings. Granted the key he required to arrange for the defense of Caithwood, the Sorcerer withdrew his consciousness. A whispered act of will freed him back into separation. Such was his care, he left no disturbed ripple to mar the transmission of spirit language. Within the core wisdom of everlasting silence, that ageless current passed yet on the unquiet air, leaf to leaf, tree to tree; and sky to earth at the behest of sun’s fire and cloud’s rain.
Autumn 5653
Handfasting
Seventy-five leagues northward, far removed from the chill of woodland nightfall in Taerlin, candlelight rinsed the carpeted chamber where the oldest daughter of the Lord Elect of Erdane perched on a brocade stool. Her lush skirts spilled a lake of pale rose silk and gilt trim around her primly crossed ankles. Walnut hair fanned over her shoulders, combed into a shining cascade of warmth by the lady’s maid who attended her.
‘Oh, Ellaine, to be so fortunate!’ From a nearby stuffed chair, with a pert, dimpled chin perched on cupped palms, her younger sister mused on, ‘Having a prince ask for your hand in marriage! I could burst from the excitement.’
The tortoiseshell comb slid, streaking sparks of static in the dry air, while the candle’s rinsed glow raised Ellaine’s skin to a flush and glinted off lips like ripe peaches.
The sister’s spun fantasy gushed on through bright hopes and girlish dreams. ‘You’ll go to Avenor and wear diamonds and ermine, and we will all die of envy.’
‘The contract’s just signed,’ Ellaine contradicted in her sweet, retiring alto. While the maid tipped her head to run the comb at Ellaine’s nape, her muffled voice showed apprehension. ‘A thousand things could go wrong.’
Her thoughts skittered and fled like dropped pearls. She tried not to think of the horse with the blue-and-gold trappings just arrived, with a train of liveried attendants. The turmoil of their stabling still upset the evening calm of the yard. Dogs barked in the streets. Every hall in the mayor’s mansion reechoed with the fast-paced dialect of strangers. Ellaine’s damp fingers clamped in her swathed lap. Belowstairs, her mother and father stood to receive the royal suit and exchange courtly courtesies until the moment of her formal presentation.
‘You could worry yourself silly!’ A moue on her cupid lips, the younger sister masked a giggle as the maid crossed her line of view. ‘The trade guilds would scarcely see you lose such a prize! Father’s done nothing but count the coin for your dowry for at least the past six weeks. Believe it. You’re going to stop hearts.’ The maid gathered up the smoothed waves of hair and deftly separated the shining mass into neat strands for braiding. ‘You’re not thinking of shaming us all by throwing a scene as he meets you?’
Ellaine swallowed. ‘No.’ Erdane was no eastland city, to encourage its women to bold acts of freedom and independence. ‘But you know there will be unkind comparisons drawn.’
She would not speak the name of Lysaer’s first princess, who had been Etarran, beautiful and proud and spirited as a wild lioness. During her winter’s stay at the palace of Erdane’s mayor, the girls had known Lady Talith well enough to measure her mettle. She had made no secret of her penchant for the blood sport of palace intrigue. Small good her rebellious intelligence had done her in the end; even her sharpened wit had become eclipsed by the Prince of the Light’s blinding majesty.
The maid’s firm fingers braided Ellaine’s hair, unconcerned, as the sisters took stock of the recent tragedy that cast a dampening chill on the hour’s anticipation. The late Princess of Avenor now lay six months dead, a suicide who had plunged from the high tower battlement that fronted her husband’s hall of state.
‘She was barren and in despair,’ the younger girl insisted, while the maid’s efforts bundled her sister’s dark tresses in consoling, brisk tugs that pulled at her small furrows of worry. ‘All you need do is give the prince heirs. You’ll wear pearls and fine gowns and be comfortable for the rest of your life.’
Other benefits remained politely unspoken, that Ellaine’s promised marriage would also bring Erdane the strength of Lysaer’s royal protection. The city would claim the prince’s defense against the machinations of the Master of Shadow, and also a field-trained division of sunwheel troops to secure the trade roads through Camris.
The indolent young sister lifted no hand to help as the maid stretched and caught up the silk cord for tying: dusky rose, to match the dress, wound in twisted gilt threads for strong accent, and tasseled with a dropped spray of pearls. She laced its rich length through the end of the braid, then coiled the magnificent, shining rope into a headdress to crown Ellaine’s heart-shaped face. Elaborate grooming did not settle her nerves. Refined brows and doe eyes flickered in trepidation as a foot page tapped at the doorway.
‘His Lordship the Elect asks that the Lady Ellaine come down for the presentation.’
‘Stop frowning, you goose!’ teased the sister. ‘And leave off measuring yourself against Lady Talith. You don’t keep forward habits. Nor do you delight in ambushing old, scarred captains at arms in their bathtubs. You won’t gad about playing fire with politics, or get yourself abducted by a sorcerer.’
The maid patted down the last wisp of strayed hair.