Vir was drunk.
Her branch commander had found a place where the Forestals brewed a foul-tasting alcohol from leaves and proceeded to drink himself insensible. Dassit supposed if that was how he coped then that was how he coped. She had decided to leave him to it and find her own ways of existing. There was no denying that she felt just as out of place here as he did, though less uncomfortable. She had seen more of the world than Vir, visited Woodedge villages who still followed the ways of ancient gods that most had forgotten. Experienced wild nights and festivals where most monks in the more “civilised” largers or spire cities would have been appalled at what went on. She had travelled the skyrafts and been among the families who followed their own ways and had no interest in the gods of the ground.
So she was not as upset as Vir by the Forestals, not upset at all and as she watched them, laughing and talking – and more – in their fluid groups she thought she could enjoy this place. She could end her days here and be happy, hidden away in the branches of the cloudtrees.
If she could get used to the heights.
And the rootlings.
It was still a struggle to see them everywhere; all her life she had been taught to believe they were vermin, dirty. Yet here they were treated as people. Or almost as people. Somewhere between people and pets. The Forestals were clearly fond of them but would also chase them off if they became too bold. Though, it was all done with good humour. Dassit looked over the railing she stood at, had the same awful feeling she had every time. As if the ground, so very, very far below was beckoning her, calling out in a voice so strong it was hard to resist.
“Dassit?” She turned from the railing and the call of the abyss vanished. “That is your name, Dassit?” It was the woman they had saved. Furin? Yes, that was her name. She looked very small, diminished somehow.
“I wanted to thank you. For coming for me.” She did not look at Dassit, her hands were wrapped around her middle and her make-up looked like it had been left on for days. Her eyes were red and raw with old tears.
“It was Cahan, mostly,” said Dassit. Furin nodded, but did not raise her eyes to meet Dassit’s. “I am sorry he was lost. You were close? He seemed to care very much for you.”
“Lovers, briefly,” she said quietly.
“A clanless and a Leoric,” said Dassit.
“Leoric of nothing,” said Furin, even more quietly than before.
“Still,” said Dassit, “power leaves a mark, it must have been a strong attraction.” She had an odd desire to touch the woman, just a brief communion, an acknowledgement that she knew what loss was. Furin nodded, wiped at her eyes in that careful way the people of Crua did, not wanting to disturb face or eye paint.
“A high price was paid, many of yours lost. The priest that was with you still lies unconscious.”
“I do not think the priest will ever wake,” said Dassit, though she was not sure that was the most terrible outcome. “Your village’s monk was grievously hurt as well.” Furin nodded and stood a little closer. Looked around and Dassit knew, from years of being close to command, that she was about to hear something likely to make her life more difficult.
“That is part of the reason I have come to find you.”
“No,” said Dassit. “Whatever it is I am sorry, but the answer is no.”
“It is only to be a guard.”
“The fact you need a guard is enough by itself.” She turned away.
“Ont, our monk,” said Furin softly, “he is not even a monk. He was a butcher. A proud and vain man once but he gave up everything. In the battle, well, you have seen him. He has little left now.” Dassit turned to look at the woman, but she was not looking at her. She was leaning over the railing. Staring down into the nothing. “He wants to go home, to the grove he built. If I am truthful I think he intends to die there, though he is careful not to say it.”
“And you need me to watch him die?” Furin shook her head. Dropped something over the railing and watched it fall.
“Ania says there are likely to be Rai forces there. That if we appear through the taffistone they will report back on it. That the Forestals will not allow us to go because the risk of being discovered is too great.” Dassit looked around. At the tree village, the twinkling lights that marked out the hundreds of small houses in the gloom of Wyrdwood.
“You are telling me,” said Dassit, “that Tall Sera has said you may not leave?”
“Yes. Leaving is not allowed without his agreement.”
“But you are here. Talking to me.”
“The taffistone here is guarded,” said Furin. “But Ania believes that she can get Ont, her, and a few more out.”
“We would never be allowed back,” said Dassit. “They may even hunt us. They have forbidden us leaving without having our minds altered to forget this place.”
“Did you intend to live here?” said Furin. Dassit stepped forward, nearer to the edge of the platform than she liked, and stopped. That dizzying feeling, the call of the abyss making her head swim.
“It is gentle here,” said Dassit. “I had thought maybe to find myself an entanglement and join it. It looks like fun.”
“And then?” said Furin. “Farm mushrooms on a branch? Set up a water garden?”
“Better than being cast out and having nothing.” It was clear Furin had no answer to that, not immediately. She let out a sigh. Stared down into the gathering darkness of twilight. From all around them came the sounds of merriment and Dassit felt very alone. She was not of these people, she was not one of Furin’s people either. Her own people had sent her to die. She had nowhere.
“Ania,” said Furin softly, “is a favourite of Tall Sera’s. She believes that he will forgive her and any who go with her. She will claim it was all her idea.”
“I am sick of war.”
“He is a good man.” The Leoric of Harn was studying her as she spoke, no doubt wondering what sort of woman Dassit was. In turn Dassit wondered what type of woman Furin was. She closed her eyes. “He saved Ania you know, the monk. Wrapped his body around her to keep her from the Rai’s fire. He would have done that for any of us, I think. Even you, though he barely knew you.” Dassit took in a deep breath of the warm forest air, tried to ignore the Leoric’s words. “He just wants to die in a place he loved.”
Dassit let out the long breath. There was a calm here among the branches of the cloudtrees she had always longed for. But sacrifice for another, she understood that and it called to her. The need to let a warrior pass in peace was a powerful thing to her – even if the man was a monk. What he had done was selfless, it should be rewarded.
“How big is this grove?”
“No bigger than most of the houses here. And there is one way in and out. Though the walls can be easily scaled.” Dassit thought about it.
“These stones, when we move through them, is there light? Some signal?”
“Only what shines through from the other side.” Dassit nodded again.
“I will speak to Vir. With Ania’s bow and our spears, it may be enough. If we are quick and quiet.” Dassit looked across at her. “Are you coming?” Furin shook her head.
“I want to,” she said. “But Ania says I should meet with Tall Sera, distract him. That is the best way to ensure he is not watching the taffistone. Ania thinks she can bluff her way through if he is not there.” Dassit nodded, more to herself than to Furin. Across from her, on a wide branch a group of Forestals were laying wreaths of flowers, food and small saplamps before an image of the Boughry.
“We sacrifice to our gods, so they bless the Rai who are meant to protect us,” said Dassit. “What do you think the Boughry offer the Forestals?”
“I think they hope the Forest Nobles will take the gifts and leave them alone,” said Furin.
“Well,” Dassit nodded to herself, “I suppose that’s a sensible enough thing to wish for.”