Dassit Gan-Brinor had never been so confused in her life.
At first she was struggling to understand how she could be alive. Struggling to understand what had happened at Fin-Larger. A rock that opened and became a door into a different place. Pushed through it by the Forestal, her and Vir, and the monk and all that remained of her Fifty. She didn’t remember much of the moment, only pain, though she knew from talking to Vir and the others it was not caused by the travel. She was hurt, sick, and the Forestals had treated her, along with the monk and Vir who had sat by her side through her days of pain and delirium.
She had hallucinations in that time, of walking along the Star Path, watched by the vast, glowing forms of every god she had ever heard spoken of, gods of every grove and stone that had been dedicated. She accompanied herself, spoke with herself but these versions of her were strangers. The gods watched and she felt unworthy. Like she had not fought hard enough, that she had run when she should have died.
In her dreams, she had been a moment away from falling from the path to tumble down into the world of the punished, the Osere below. Only the words of herself, her other selves, stopped her.
Stay on the path.
Eventually, she had woken.
Then she had been brought here.
Down through the Forestals’ tree town.
Walking through Woodhome, she had wondered if she really had died, had walked the Star Path and found herself in the promised land of the Cowl Star: the paradise of the worthy dead. She was sad, but not surprised that Vir was here with her, also dead.
If she was dead.
She thought she must be dead. The forces of the Blue had overwhelmed Fin-Larger, sad that Vir had paid with his life for his loyalty. He deserved more.
“Strange all this, innit?” he had said as they walked along a path suspended far above the ground. “The Rai never told us about all this. Not sure I like it. They don’t have firstwives you know, or second or third, or the same for husbands. They just do what they want. With who they want.” She didn’t answer, not at first. Couldn’t answer. “You all right, Trunk Commander? Or those mushrooms they gave you still got you spaced out?”
That was how she knew it was real. Vir’s voice, his suspicion. It was exactly how he should act in a Forestal city. But not how he would act on the Star Path, she was sure.
There were groups of people everywhere, laughing, joyful children running. The guards in hoods and dark make-up smiled at her as she passed. Music, the singing of people and rootlings. She did not know rootlings could sing. There were gasmaw farms and the smells of good food on the air. More rootlings and garaur everywhere. Even crownheads. Herds of crownheads, in a tree.
“You are right, this is not how they told us the Forestals lived,” she said.
“Not natural,” said Vir. “Living like this, in a tree.”
“How many got out of Fin-Larger?” she said.
“Not including us?” he shrugged. “Twelve.”
“Twelve out of fifty,” she said, and found she had no appetite for more conversation.
Now, she waited in a room inside the hugest fungus she had ever seen, a room that was pleasantly cool despite the heat of the air outside. With her were others. The death monk, the Forestal who had brought them here. A trion who was small and thin, shy, but gave her a smile before turning to stare out across the forest from a hole cut into the bracket fungus. Another man came to join them, very tall, and he carried with him a quiet authority. He went and stood with the trion. Dassit’s side hurt, she put her hand against it.
Another man arrived soon after, he was huge, but looked as shocked as she felt. His clothes were bloodied, his make-up smeared with dirt and something about him made Dassit think he had come straight from battle. He held a forestbow, but did not seem like the other Forestals she had seen. There was a brief conversation. From it she learned the tall thin man was Tall Sera, leader of the Forestals, the trion was called Venn and the huge man was Ont, monk of a god called Ranya, one who Dassit had never heard of.
Tall Sera left soon after. Leaving the rest of them alone. It was not a comfortable silence. The trion continued to stare out of the window, the rest sat there. They were there for a long time, the night grew thicker, the sound of it increasing in volume. The air cooling until eventually, the death monk, Fandrai, spoke.
“It’s very quiet,” he said. “Maybe we should get to know each other.”
“It is a waste of time anyone getting to know you,” said the Forestal woman.
“Are you absolutely sure they are going to execute me, Tanhir?” said Fandrai.
“Yes.”
“They are taking their time.”
“They needed you to look after the Trunk Commander.”
“I thought you were not meant to bring strangers here,” said Fandrai. “On pain of your own death.” That was news to Dassit.
“She gave me my life when she did not have to. I owed her.”
“Why bring me as well?”
“Because I want to watch you die,” said Tanhir, her voice dripping with venom. Then she added, grudgingly, “And I needed you to heal Dassit after the poison you gave her.” The Forestal glanced across at her, gave her a smile and Dassit thought, for a second, maybe there was more there than just a debt owed.
“You are a healer?” said the trion, going over to the bound man.
“It is not my primary purpose,” said Fandrai with a smile, “but I know my way around the human body.”
“He is a murderer,” said Tanhir. “That is why he is condemned. Have nothing to do with him, child.” The trion looked shocked, stepped back and ran a hand through messy, thickly curled dark hair. Fandrai chuckled.
“I am not a murderer, I am a devotee of Hirsal, Lord of the Swarden.”
“For whom you murdered.”
“Devotion takes many forms, the forest will be fed and its armies must be replenished,” said Fandrai, looking over at Tanhir. “Your own hands are hardly clean of blood. Or do you claim the Boughry to be gentle and sweet?”
“Have you just come from the same battle as Ont?” said the trion, stepping between the old man and the Forestal. Dassit did not immediately realise they were speaking to her, as they did not quite look at her.
“No,” said Dassit eventually. “I think the man – Ont? –” she nodded at him, he nodded back “– has only just arrived. I came here a few days ago.” The trion studied her, there was something very attentive in the way they considered her.
“You were hurt in a battle?”
“I was hurt before the battle, stabbed. But the battle did not help.”
“Could I try and help you?” said the trion.
“I am not about to undress in front of strangers,” said Dassit. It was as if her words, spoken quickly and in embarrassment, were a weapon that wounded the trion. “But thank you.”
“I…” They tripped over the word, blinked. “I need only lay my hands upon you. For a moment.” They were plainly embarrassed. “If you will allow it?” Would she? It seemed foolish; if Fandrai with all his arts could do little then what could this child do with a touch? On the other hand, she had travelled through a stone to this place and the pain in her side, it was like something lived within her and was trying to eat its way out. What could it hurt to try?
“Very well,” she said. The trion placed their hands on her shoulders. At first there was nothing. Then a gradual warmth that spread through her body and when it got to her side, where the pain was sharp and cold like shards of ice, it lingered there. The pain slowly ebbed. She wanted to speak but could not, the trion above her was lost in some other place, eyes closed, in communion. The oddest feeling came over her. Like wandering out of camp at night and sitting on the grass in the warmth, letting the silence soak into her as she watched the Cowl Star above. Like a moment of peace in the turmoil of her life.
“What are you doing?” The warmth fled. The trion stepped back, looked half ashamed.
In the entrance to the mushroom stood a man, big. Not as big as the monk, Ont, but far more threatening. He blocked the light, it made him into a silhouette. A dark figure, clad in close fitting, jagged armour that hugged the lines of his body. He turned his head, looking at those gathered. He wore no make-up and sported a beard, something rare in Crua. But none of these things were what really struck her.
What hit her hard was the aura the man brought with him, something powerful and frightening. She had seen spearmaws move through the woods, known on an instinctual level that they were inimical to her, that they would kill her without a thought. This man made her think the same thing. He was exactly what she had always thought Forestals were, something primal and dangerous, and yet he did not seem to be one of them. Tanhir did not look like she recognised him. In fact, she moved back a little in her seat when he came in. He smelled strange too, like forest loam when it was wet, like dark still pools among the trees that you knew were not safe to drink from.
Tall Sera came in behind him.
“This is Cahan Du-Nahere,” said the Forestal leader, “some of you know him. Some of you do not.” He looked at Dassit. Another Forestal came in behind him, a woman who looked like she would rather be somewhere else; she nodded at the monk, Ont, and sat by him. “I have two problems,” said Tall Sera and he turned to her. “The first is you, Trunk Commander, and your troops, even though they are not many.” Any trace of the warmth put into her by the trion fled. “And you, Tanhir, and your obsession with that man,” he pointed at Fandrai. It had never occurred to Dassit that Tanhir may be acting without the permission of her people in pursuit of Fandrai. “You have brought people here who should not be here. Who,” he turned and gave a small nod to Dassit and Vir, “and I apologise for saying this, we do not know well enough to trust.” Dassit shrugged, what he said was fair. “The other problem is Furin, Leoric of New Harnwood, and Harn before it.”
“What of Furin?” said Venn. “Is she all right?”
“They have taken her,” said the man, Cahan, his voice more of a growl than speech, there was something cold and distant about him. “They intend a Slowlands execution for her. In the east.” The trion visibly shrank. Dassit wished a Slowlands execution on no one. The thought of it made her blood run cold. “It will not happen,” growled Cahan. He did not look at anyone, his hands were balled into fists. Did Dassit imagine it or were spikes growing from the wrist guards of his armour? “I will not let it.”
“And there is my problem,” said Tall Sera. “I will rob the Rai, we have always done it. They expect it. But I will not send an army of my people to stop a Slowlands execution. We are ambush fighters, not an army.”
“They will come for you,” said Cahan. “As soon as the south is dealt with you will be the last inconvenience.”
“That may be true, but the later it is, the better for us.” Dassit was not sure she agreed.
“Bad idea to let your enemy draw breath before you attack,” she said. The lack of pain had made her bolder. Tall Sera cocked his head, looked at her.
“That may be true but I have made a decision. The Forestals will not assist in the return of Furin. However,” he looked around the room, “Tanhir has told me you are quite the tactician, Dassit.”
“Me?” She was not sure she liked the sound of that. Tall Sera nodded.
“Yes. You. This will be dangerous, some troops will be needed and you have thirteen soldiers with you, all of whom need to prove their loyalty to Woodhome.”
“Or?” said Vir.
“A swift trip to the forest floor from the top of the city,” said the Forestal who had come in last.
“Ania is brutal, but right in a way,” said Tall Sera. “Those who have not proven their loyalty cannot be allowed to leave with memories of this place. Though we will not execute them, we have ways of removing their knowledge of us.”
“Should throw ’em from a tree,” said Ania. “Much simpler.”
“You want us to save someone from a Slowlands execution?” said Vir. He shook his head. “There’s nothing there, nowhere to hide, no way of escape. Dassit, me, twelve soldiers. They’ll slaughter us. I choose forgetting.”
“I will be there,” said Cahan. It did not make Dassit feel much safer, though there was a real sense of power from the warrior. “And the Reborn walk once more. Where I go they follow. They are an army in themselves.”
“And you will go, Tanhir,” said Tall Sera, “you have disobeyed me and a price must be paid. You will take the monk of Hirsal with you.”
“What?”
“You heard me,” said Tall Sera, “you may need a healer.”
“I can do that,” the trion stepped forward but Cahan shook his head.
“We cannot risk they may take you, Venn. They want you. You are important to them.” Under his breath, Dassit was sure he heard the man say, “and me.” For a moment the trion tensed up, then Tall Sera was there.
“He is right, Venn. And there is much here for you to learn.” That seemed to convince the trion, they stepped back.
“Very well,” said Tanhir. “If a fight is the price of my transgression I will ready my bow.”
“I will go too,” said Ont. “I can use a bow, and Furin is my Leoric.”
“I’ll go.” Tall Sera looked surprised as Ania stepped forward. “Someone needs to keep an eye on ’em,” she said, “and I like to kill Rai.”
“Did no one hear me say I choose the forgetting?” said Vir. Dassit was looking around the room. Thinking. What Vir said was sensible, to leave here with no knowledge of the place and start again? Hard, but they would be alive at least. At the same time, she had the oddest feeling of familiarity, as if she knew the people around her from somewhere. Maybe some had been there when she was in her sick bed, hallucinating?
“I know we ask a lot,” said the monk, Ont, and he was speaking directly to her, “we can fight, but we are not soldiers, your help would be of great value to us.”
“You are not soldiers,” said Vir, “and we’re not suicidal. Anjiin’s ruins, Dass, this is madness.”
“I’ll go,” said Dassit and she was not even sure why. Just, looking at the monk, it felt right, like her own voice whispering in her ear, the same one she always listened to on the battlefield. Vir looked as though he was about to fall off his seat. “I can’t speak for my troops, and will not force them to come, but I’ll go.” Beside her Vir sighed and shook his head.
“We should leave soon then,” he said, “Osere-cursed long way to the eastern Slowlands.” The Forestal, Ania, turned to him.
“Not necessarily,” she grinned. “I believe there’s a taffistone there?”