Feynard (50 page)

Kevin snapped back,
“Good Faun, science is a rational discipline for serious and high-minded people who wish to understand how the world works! I may be a babe in the ways of Driadorn, but please do not discount my learning. Besides, I do not wish to quarrel with you this darktime. I am going to turn in. Sleep well, everyone.”

“You’re as grumpy as a badger with haemorrhoids.”

“For goodness sake, I am not being grumpy!”

“Petulant pontificating puppy.”

“Akê-Akê, I warn you, I am in no mood for childish name-calling.”

Kevin
turned over in his bedroll and shut his eyes. Fine! They could think what they liked. For a few moments, all that could be heard was the gentle crackling of their fire, and Amadorn’s industrious sucking on the fowl’s bones.

The Faun called out,
“I say, Mighty High Wizard?”

Alliathiune giggled.

“What is it, Akê-Akê?”

“Er
… nothing. I’ve forgotten. Sorry.”

“
Sleep in the Forest’s Peace,” Kevin offered stiffly, before pulling his robe over his head. He was sure he could hear chuckles back there.

“Mighty High Wizard?”

“
What?
”

“Sleep well.”

Kevin dignified this with a loud snort of disgust. Not far from his bedroll, he heard the Witch say:

“The point is well made, however. Is the Dark Apprentice working in concert with this Kraleon creature? Or does it have a different motive for pursuing us?
Perhaps it seeks the Magisoul, for the possession of such a potent artefact would surely advance the cause of evil more than you or I could possibly imagine. Does it wait for us to secure the Magisoul first?”

“One weakens prey before the kill.”

The Mancat’s low hiss chilled them to a creature. They needed no reminder of the loss of their companions.

“That is, assuming we can unearth the jewel and return in time,” Akê-Akê added gloomily. “Did not your bird of this morn, noble Alliathiune, bear a message that the Goblin army is on the march?”

“It did–more than could be enumerated, perhaps half a million in all. And they are destroying the Forest like a plague, tearing down trees for siege weapons and firewood.” She added in a voice brimful of tears, “I wish Zephyr were present, not least for his acerbic turn of phrase, but also for the still mirror he could make. I feel cut off from Elliadora’s Well.”

Amadorn said, “Would you request the spell from the Tomalia, good Dryad? If I knew the appropriate forms I could attempt to duplicate what the good Unicorn managed so effortlessly.”

“That is a fine suggestion.”

“Perhaps we could send a regular bird to the Well? I appreciate that news takes
many lighttimes to reach us here. But communication is essential.”

“We know too that the outlander’s tactics have been employed to excellent effect
,” Alliathiune noted. “Many Fauns were drowned–with my apologies, Akê-Akê–at the excavation site and the diggings brought to a complete standstill by the Druidic storm-singing. The armies of Men have been forced to guard the length of their roadway and they make only half the progress of before.”

“Even so, were even the Goblins to reach the inner Forest we would be lost. Who can stan
d against an army that size? We’ve neither the means nor the strength.”

“Courage, Amadorn.
Much time has already been purchased at little cost.”

“He’s right.”
Near Kevin, the Witch stirred. “Were the Blight healed this darktime and the Dark Apprentice consigned to Shäyol, where he belongs, the problem of these armies would not simply disappear. The outlander has not only bought time, but life itself.”

“Aye.”

“Good Druid, my sisters arrive at the Sacred Well very soon. They will take the Portal as far as possible along the Rhiallandran river and meet these Goblins at a time and place of our choosing. The outlander’s insights have given us a fresh perspective on how the talents of Witchery might be employed to discourage the Goblin advance, through disease, irruptions of the natural order, and strange desires to turn on each other with spear and blade. Even half a million is a number made up of individuals. A particularly virulent itching of the genitals tends to distract one from the purposes of war.”

Akê-Akê
sniggered loudly at this. Kevin also heard him shift further from the Witch. Evidently, the Faun had no desire to have her inflict his shaggy parts with some indescribably pernicious malady!

*  *  *  *

The farmlands of lower Utharia slowly gave way to open plains, dotted here and there with small woody knolls of gloamingbark, oak, beech, and agoya trees. The agoya tree was unique to this region and yielded a small, nutty fruit the size of an olive, which pressed provided an oil used in healing, perfumes, and simple cosmetics, and the pressed remains became a nutritious staple for the traveller called agoya cake. They paused at an isolated homestead to purchase agoya cake to supplement their diet, and here Kevin again noticed the peculiar sign these folk made in the presence of the Lurk. He had thought to question them, but it appeared that although their trade was welcome they would not be encouraged to stay, nor was any casual conversation desired. Utharians were surly as a rule, he thought, forming a rather dim opinion of hospitality in these parts.

Kevin
gazed out over the waving grasses to the far mountains. Zephyr would’ve found it a novelty to eat grass of a distinctly lavender hue! It was mesmerising, the way it rolled and billowed under the stiff breeze that had followed three lighttimes of rain. Pennant grass, it was called by the locals, after the curiously pennant-shaped seed pods that formed on long stalks during the Budding season. He touched the horn at his belt as he often did, feeling the loss of a friend sorely.

“We’ll find a way,” he whispered. “Just you wait and see. Oh, this weak and pitiful
Kevin Jenkins will find a way through to–yikes!”

Alliathiune took his elbow unexpectedly. “Are you mumbling in your beard again, good
Kevin?”

“Dash it all, Alliathiune! You’re as bad as that Lurk, sneaking up on me.” But he smiled down at her. “Have you done something to your hair?”

“Tried to brush it last darktime, emphasis on the
tried
.”

“You really do have a snarl there, dear girl.” He pursed his lips and executed a deft pluck. “And a leafy twig just here. That said, I hear the organic look is all the rage this season.”

“Kevin!”

“You and
the Faun–between you, I’m going to chop this hair off!”

“Please, no. I like it long.”

She widened her eyes in mock surprise. “Is that so, good outlander?”

Alliathiune, drat her once again, made him blush and splutter in tongue-tied embarrassment.
Why, if they got on like cats and milk–after a decidedly rocky beginning–did she insist on keeping only to a friendship? Kevin sighed. He was certain she felt more. Or was he misreading the Dryad completely? He had so little experience of women! But Akê-Akê, Zephyr, and even the Lurk had all assumed there was a romantic relationship developing between them. Could they all be wrong?

Perhaps he should pursue her the more diligently? Or give her time and space?
Or remain confused somewhere between those two poles. But he could not shake the feeling that somewhere beneath her bravado lay a scared Dryad; a vessel of secrets even greater than his own. He must figure her out. He simply must!

Kevin
took a deep breath and struck a dramatically supercilious tone. “I was having lofty and significant High Wizard thoughts when you interrupted with talk of hair!”

“You brought up the subject.”

“Indeed I did. A small matter puzzles me, Allie.”

This time her eyebrows shot up. “
Allie?
”

“A nickname. A shortened form of Alliathiune. It’s quite a mouthful to say every time.”

“Do you not like my name?”

“
Of course I do!” he protested. “You’ve got the wrong end of the stick. Your name is lovely. It’s like … like poetry tripping off the tongue. Nicknames are very common where I come from.”

At least they were in the books he had read. And he was proud of his recovery. What a fine turn of phrase, he congratulated himself. Like poetry indeed! Nicely put,
Kevin!

“Hmm. Is this akin to your predilection for calling people ‘dear’ when they are not your betrothed?”

“Quite.”

“Well, then, I do prefer my proper name, but if you wish to mangle it into some
Earthish custom, what recourse have I? You should not be mean about my hair either.”

“
Sorry
.” Kevin looked away, annoyed at how defensive he sounded. Time to change the subject. “Alliathiune, what is my common name?”

“
Kevin.”

“
Kevin who?”

“Ah
! Now that takes me back–I remember!” She danced a little jig about him with a mighty ‘ha!’ of delight. “Kevin Jenkins, was it not?”

“Well done!”

“So …?”

“So, do you recall how we made our escape from the bandits? I could have sworn, right in the middle of it all, I distinctly heard someone call my name–my full name.
Kevin Jenkins.”

The Dryad walked on apace, turning this over in her mind. Her step
was quick and sure on the trail. Even the rougher parts hardly bothered her bare feet. “It’s a curious thing, good outlander, but I share this recollection. Was it Akê-Akê?”

“Was I what?”

“No, no,” Kevin waved the Faun’s away. “You and Zephyr are the only people–creatures–in all Driadorn who know my full name.”

“Ah
…”

“Indeed. How did this Kraleon thing know my name?”

Akê-Akê dropped back to match pace with them. “Shall I stop pretending not to eavesdrop? Good Kevin, it’s characteristic of the demonic that they know an extraordinary amount about living beings, as if they had access to a private history of one’s life–one’s fears, joys, pain, failures, everything. That is one of the primary dangers involved in conjuring and dealing with demons, which practice I reiterate I do not indulge in. You see, demons would like nothing more to live in the real world like you and I. Theirs is a half-world, as though it were painted in shades of grey than in colour, and this holds for all the senses. Only through the living–specifically, the willing possession of the living–can they experience what it is to live again.”

Kevin
said as carefully as if he were balancing on a tightrope, “In my world, Akê-Akê, demon possession and exorcism is regarded as something that used to happen hundreds of seasons ago.”

The Faun grinned. “
Unlike Driadorn, good outlander. Now, do you not believe in demons?”

“I like to keep an open mind,” said
Kevin, making a face at Alliathiune’s fit of coughing incredulity at. “Look, I’m still gathering evidence and formulating my opinions. I’ve seen so much since I came to Feynard.”

“Good. So what I’m saying to you is that special knowledge marks this creature as a demon–and a powerful one at that, from what we have seen.”

“Oh.”

“Let me know if you need any further information.”

Kevin pursed his lips as the Faun trotted off to converse with Hunter, who was eager to track down dinner. “I guess that means I’m still confused.” Soft laughter at his side accompanied this wry assessment. “So, on the subject of religion, Alliathiune, there’s something I have never asked you. What the creatures of Driadorn believe about death?”

“Ah, an excellent question.” She touched the horn at his side. “The Unicorns believe that creatures ascend to a higher state of being when they die, merging with the great world mind shared by all living creatures. We Dryads believe that those who serve worthily return to the spirit of the Forest, the original spirit of Elliadora, if you wish. She may send us again into the world as a seedling, as a rebirth, so that throughout our many lives we become closer and closer to attaining perfection. I assume that other creatures believe similar things, but I am no scholar or theologian to have studied these beliefs extensively. And what do you believe, good
Kevin?”

“Ahem!” He stumbled on a flat section of road. “I’m afraid to say, nothing quite so romantic, Alliathiune. I believe that when we die, we die. Return to
the mother earth, if you like, and fertilise the ground we are buried in. No soul; no afterlife.”

“You bury your dead?”

“Yes–don’t you?”

“No.” She lowered her eyes. “I probably shouldn’t tell you this, good
Kevin, but I trust you to keep secret the sacred Dryad custom I am about to share with you. Will you promise me?”

He put all his heart into it. “I promise on pain of death.”

“You sweet man!” she exclaimed, tickled by his oh-so formal response. “We Dryads are never buried because we always return to a tree when it is our time. We call death ‘passing on’ in the Dryad tongue. A Dryad will always know when it is her time to return to the Forest–not long before, but long enough. It has happened that Dryads are slain. There was a particularly barbaric practice in the time when Ozark the Dark walked these leafy halls, which involved magically tying the spirit of a Dryad to a particular tree by invoking a binding spell called
laik-Sälïph
, and then chopping down the tree.”