The rest of the elves dropped away behind Treffen as he followed the Branchborn into the little valley at the center of the clearing. The Deeproot Tree rose high into the night sky, Her branches sheltering the entire area. Treffen felt his heart thumping harder as he approached the stately trunk. Blood swished through his veins, and the sound of it echoed in his ears. He could taste the air. Worms burrowed in the earth at his feet, and the flapping of bats’ wings high above fanned a breeze around his face.
The closer he got to the Tree, the more overwhelming the sensations became. He forced himself to place one foot in front of the other, down into the valley.
With quick, graceful movements, the Branchborn Elves were already preparing. They scampered up the trunk like insects, their long limbs wrapping around the branches and finding purchase on the smooth bark. The youngest climbed the fastest, disappearing into the high boughs. The older and frailer stayed lower, circling around, hand in hand. In moments, there was an unbroken line of Branchborn spiraling up the Tree, wrapping around and around.
An ancient Branchborn approached Treffen. The most senior of all elves, she rarely emerged from among the sacred tree’s roots. Called “the Still,” she peered at him through watery eyes, her skin dark green and weathered over rickety, gnarled limbs. Long white hair flowed down her shoulders and swirled in the air. More than any elf he’d ever seen, she resembled the Tree she served. When she took Treffen’s hand, it felt rough and dry like bark. With her other hand, she ended the line of Branchborn disappearing around the Tree.
Treffen’s eyes rolled back in his head as the Still connected him to the elves, all hand in hand around the tree.
“By the leaves . . .” he murmured, but the sound was lost in the susurration all around him. Warm sap flowed through his veins, and his toes curled into the earth. His roots reached all through Crystalia, into every corner of the land. In some places, the land felt sick, tainted with shadow. Others burned with glorious light. His limbs reached into the sky, green branches waving in the breeze. This was the Deeproot Tree. She was the mother of every elf, as much a part of him as his own skin. In that moment, he was Her, and She was him.
Whispers rustled around the Tree as the Branchborn melted against Her. The whispering flowed down the line of elves until it reached the Still. When she spoke, her voice was not the dry scratch of wood, but the gentle rustle of leaves in a warm summer wind.
“Son of the moon, Ranger of the glimmering dusk, child of the Tree, ask your question.”
With a start, Treffen came back into his own body. She’s talking to you. Treffen opened his eyes and could barely make out the forms of the elves as they pressed their bodies against the Tree’s sides and wrapped themselves around Her branches.
“I . . .” he began, unsure how to address the Branchborn . . . or the Deeproot Tree . . . or whomever he was really talking to. A million questions raced through his mind, and he finally settled on the most pressing one. “What is required of me?”
The whispers began again, elven voices sounding like wind through leaves. Treffen could make out words here and there from high above him. Daughter . . . betrayer . . . blood. Again, the Still spoke.
“Our daughter is in peril. Our land is in peril. The Mother Tree Herself is in peril.”
Treffen’s blood was ice. What could possibly threaten the Tree?
The Still continued, looking straight into Treffen’s eyes. “One will leave. Three will descend. One will not emerge.”
Elves murmured in the branches again, and Treffen strained his ears to hear as the Still interpreted the Deeproot Tree’s words, filtering all the Branchborn through her voice.
“The Silver Bear holds the key. The Twisted Tree will show the way. The Grafted Gem will hold the door. The Son of Moon will make the sacrifice.”
Son of Moon. Treffen knew who she meant. The only Lunar-born elf in the Glade. What sacrifice would he have to make? His stomach knotted at the cryptic words.
The Still let go of his hand, and he felt the connection to the Tree fade. It still throbbed under his feet, but the warm flow of sap and the breeze through his branches were blood and skin once more.
The ancient elf nodded at him. “At dawn you leave. Stonebridge holds the answers. You will guide the Questing Knight on his journey.” She smiled then, her dry, wrinkled face crinkling around the edges. “The Mother Tree goes with you, always.”
With those words, she turned and tottered back to the hollow in the roots of the Tree. The rest of the Branchborn melted away into the high reaches.
Treffen was left standing alone in the valley with the Tree’s wisdom pounding into his brain.
He backed away from the Tree and stumbled into the night.