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The only thing he needed now was to endure. Patience was much easier to gain when he was tapped into this strong majestic pillar whose roots dug far into the soil. I’ll wait here until I’m certain I’m safe. Even though those warriors passed by, I know they’ll be back.
There was no way to know how long the women would search through the woods, but he didn’t want the warriors to catch his scent when they returned.
Besides, refuge in the old cedar tree was comfortable.
The view was magnificent. The fragrant smells of evergreen from the western forest refreshed his spirits. This was the forest Kaempie spoke so highly of. A haven for deer and elk. No wonder the hunters longed to come here. The undergrowth was thicker than the Bandene woods and flourished with berries and herbs.
A call from below woke him from his musing. When he looked to the east, his heart sank. Hacatine walked in the meadow with an army by her side, and she was calling his name.
“Silvio, I know you’re alone and I know you’re in those woods. Come out. Come on home, lad.”
He watched her traipse through the grass, the swarm of soldiers following her. Black dots across a sea of green, invading the fields like locusts. The Griffons blackened the sky. How she knew he was in the forest puzzled him until he saw the flash of light that bounced from the dagger in her hands.
Forged from the heat of magical powers she had kept aside whenever she had a harvest, the dagger could wield both will and sorcery with incomprehensible license. My baby, Silvio had once heard her call it. Perhaps it couldn’t do everything she wanted it to, but she claimed that once all the Taikan wizards belonged to her, magic would rule the world.
Something that must never, ever happen.
“I sense your presence.” She had the dagger in her hand, light flashing on the ground under the tree, and then into the forest, and back again.
The warriors that had been pursuing him returned. They raced to Hacatine. Silvio watched them converse—pointing to the woods, and then to his tree. He held his breath. Did they know?
Hacatine waved to her soldiers behind her and stepped forward. Her face flushed with anger. Only one other time had Silvio ever seen the queen that mad. It was the day in the great hall when she accused the wizards of tyranny.
“I loathe being tricked, Silvio. What’s more, I despise being tricked by a young, inexperienced conjurer. You will pay for this. You and your mother will bear the consequences.” She held the dagger above her head, exhaling a sigh as though what she was about to do brought her great relief. “You and your nature will serve me forever.”
With that, the beam from the blade caught the sun and the forest behind him burst into flame. Silvio dared not move. He dared not give her the satisfaction of being flushed out of the fire. He stayed in the tree, afraid, yes, but steadfast.
She laughed as she stood in the grass watching the forest burn, the warriors at her side. They stayed through the afternoon until sunset. When the last bit of twilight filled with smoke, they all moved slowly toward the wetlands, towards the water.
The first wave of heat scorched Silvio’s back when the wind from the fire shifted. Hacatine was gone. It would be possible to make his escape, but before he could will himself free, his tree, the old wise cedar, caught fire. Branches above him sizzled. Sap as hot as lava flowed through his veins, transforming into a sticky paste as it fell to where he was. He tried to pull away from the plant’s vital fluid that adhered him to its trunk. It was impossible to break free altogether. The best he could do was bend away from the embers that baked the wood above his head.
Too terrified to cry, his body bent in crooked contortions as he doubled in pain.
That night was the longest night of his life. Wishing he were dead, yet glad Hacatine hadn’t killed him and stolen his magic, he endured the hour. If it hadn’t been for the calming spirit of the cedar tree that he had become a part of, Silvio would not have survived.
Days passed. The sun traveled higher. The golden leaves on the maples floated in the breeze and landed in soft piles at Silvio’s feet.
Frost formed in delicate crystals on everything he could see, and then the clouds dropped snowflakes until a hush blanketed the land in white. Season after season, nothing more than an old gray stump, the tree’s roots dug deep into the moist ground, sucking life from the earth, and transferring their healing to Silvio. Like an embryo feeding in its mother’s womb, the quiet ways of the cedar became his life blood. Silvio learned to accept where he was and, in time, grew accustomed to his crookedness, and to his fate, though he clung to the hope that someday he would be released.
