She had somehow escaped without a wound.
Vir had not been so lucky, his arm had been burned by Rai fire and Dassit had been sure he would lose it and knew that amputation was always hard. Some survived amputation, but you could never tell who. Then the trion had come. The young one that was friends with the man who had become a monster, Cahan. They had performed miracles, Dassit had watched the burn heal before her eyes. She had never seen anything like it. She knew the trion had healed her but she had not been awake to see that; watching them work had amazed her. She knew the Rai healed themselves, but it had never occurred to her that their power could be used to heal others.
Vir complained constantly that his arm itched.
“At least you have an arm to itch. Nine of ours were not so lucky.” He made a dismissive noise, he had always been able to shake off the death of his troops in a way she never had. Vir looked away, shook his head.
“There is that,” he said. His eyes never stayed still. He was uncomfortable here, struggling to adapt to a new life among the trees.
They stood in one of the branch villages, high enough in the cloudtree canopy that there was a chill in the air. Uncomfortable – to be so high. Dassit had slowly become used to it. Come to trust that the edges of this kingdom high above the forest floor were marked, rails and ropes would stop her falling. She was not sure Vir felt the same. No, she was sure he did not. “Over there,” he said.
“What?”
“One of them, those Osere-cursed animals.” She looked along the branch, a height mist was coming in, drifting between the living roundhouses and longhouses. She did not see anything but knew what he would be talking about. Rootlings. The creatures were everywhere in Woodhome, ignored by the people who lived there. Sometimes they stole from the houses, though the Forestals did not see it as stealing. To them it was simply part of the price of living here. Sometimes the rootlings brought them gifts, fruits and mushrooms, histi and raniri. Forestal children played loud screeching games with them, running around the branches, up and down ropes over the great heights without any fear. Dassit found it endearing. Vir was distrustful, to him the rootlings were creatures of the forest which he thought unnatural.
“Just ignore them,” she said.
“It’s not right, they’re diseased, vermin.”
“That is how we thought when we were part of the Red, we are that no longer.”
“They can make you into ’em, you know?” Vir scratched at his arm. “There was a hunter came with those villagers, became one, ran off into the forest.”
“That sounds like a story for children, Vir.”
“They do it to children too, you’ve seen that villager boy, ain’t you? Boy’s half animal.” She had no answer to that – she had seen the child, Issofur, though she felt no threat from him. Vir shook his head, a small, almost unnoticeable movement. “We knew where we were in the army.”
“Our army would have had us dead, Vir. They sent us to die. You lost Tryu because of them.” He did not reply, only looked over at a group of Forestals.
“Can they not do that inside?” She glanced over, the Forestals were lounging against each other, men and women, kissing and touching. Hands running over bodies.
“Their ways are not ours, Vir.”
“They don’t even have firsts and seconds, they go with whoever they want.” Disgust in his voice. He had always been more strait-laced than her. It was what made him a good second but she was surprised by the way he was acting.
“This is our life now, Vir. We must learn to live within it.”
“It is not right,” he said, turning away from the group of Forestals.
“Let’s walk,” she said.
“It is dangerous to walk here.”
“Not if you watch your step. In that way it is no different to dealing with the Rai, and we have done that all our lives.”
“That was different.” No mistaking the resentment in his voice. “That was…” His words tailed off. “That was right. How life is meant to be. Tryu died fighting, like a soldier. Here…” She did not like this side of Vir, she thought he was better than this. Should be better than this. He turned away from the Forestal’s entanglement. “Only five of our people survived the Slowlands, Dass, and that includes us.”
“Far more of ours died in Fin-Larger, Vir.”
“But that was orders, we obey orders. Here it was for what? So we can bring back some woman who is barely alive and mother to a child that’s half rootling? And do that in service to…” He looked away, then went and leant on the railing of living wood, staring over the edge and down into the darkness.
Here they were, at the rub of it.
“In service to what, Vir?”
“You saw.”
“What did I see?”
“The same thing I did. Osere.”
“I saw a Rai, a powerful one.”
“Is he even of the people?” Vir turned to her, his face dark, shadowed. “He was more gasmaw than man.”
“I think that was his armour—”
“His armour is part of him!” He shouted it at her. Looked surprised by his actions. Thought about it then said it again, more quietly. “His armour is part of him.” Vir’s face changed again, every thought showing, every stress and every fear. “You must have felt what I did. It was in the air when he moved. The land shook, and I felt like I breathed the air of a battlefield full of corpses. You cannot tell me that is right.”
“No,” she said. “But he is Cowl-Rai, they are not like us. People like you and I, we are not meant to get close to people like that.”
“It was wrong,” said Vir.
“And when we burned villages, or executed those suspected of being traitors, that was not?”
“I told you that was different.” Vir would not look at her, only fell back on repeating, “That was orders.”
“There may well be something terrible about him, Vir,” said Dassit. “But freeing that woman, it felt like the right thing to do.” Vir shook his head, no longer looking at her. She wanted to change the subject. “Did you see those women, the Reborn? Anjiin’s old walls, but they could fight, right?”
“Yeah,” he said, non-committal. “Right up until he changed.” He stared at her, a challenge in his expression, in the tension of his muscles. “Then it was like they forgot what they were there for, and the other side cut ’em to pieces.”
“Well, yes,” she said.
“I can’t stay here.”
“Then leave, Vir.”
“But I can’t, can I? Not knowing where their woodland paradise is.” He shook his head. “They are degenerates, but not fools.”
“They have said we can leave.” He shook his head.
“With conditions.”
“They make us forget, that seems fair.”
“Let them grub around in my mind? Would you allow that?” She did not answer, because they both knew she would not. She did not know how removing a memory worked, but the thought made her deeply uncomfortable. “And how do I know they won’t turn me into one of them?” He nodded at a rootling.
“I think I like it here. I think you could like it here.” Happy sounds coming from the group of Forestals. “Find yourself a Forestal, Vir. They are a passionate people. Make a home here.” He looked over his shoulder, the group of lovers could barely be seen as the darkness of Wyrdwood night fell.
“This place is not for me.” He turned and began to walk away.
“Vir,” she shouted and he turned. “Tell me you will not try and escape. I do not want to find you on the forest floor with an arrow in your back. We are soldiers, remember? We make the best of what we have.” He stared at her, shrugged his shoulders.
“If that is what you order, Trunk Commander.”