Forest For The Trees (Book 3) (5 page)

Someone had set private plans into motion.  The most
likely candidates for that were Mendell and Harbon, who had won their positions
through Xenos’ influence.  Adrian’s sudden absence cleared the way for Xenos to
step in and take hold of the reins.  Whatever plans they were about, it boded
no good for anyone.

Jide knew one thing with absolute certainty as his
caravan entered the flat grounds they would shelter upon until the dawn.  His
‘absences’ had become accepted by the army drones surrounding him.  They each
assumed he snuck off to ply his trade and arrange for valuable gear to become
wealth in his pockets.  He would use their misappraisals as he had in the past,
leaving him free to travel as he needed after he asked questions in the eastern
camp.

One way or the other, he needed to find what had
become of Adrian.

*        *        *        *        *

Frost had crystallized on the soft pink petals of the
moonflower overnight, Thomas noticed.  The silky petals and bright silvery
pollen displayed no indications that their diamond encasement affected their
thriving growth.  That surely meant the spring thaws had begun in the outer
forest.

The freeze would pass by mid-morning, to be replaced
by the swelter of high summer.  At nightfall, the air would either cool to a
pleasant temperature or else swing to an extreme of hot or cold.  Heat had
dominated the last six evenings.  They were due for a few days of winter.  Yet
frost never formed in this particular area except as it faded and fled from the
lands outside the Rovasii.

Springtime.

Thomas continued after taking brief note of the
frosted flower.  It was only worth a moment’s attention.  Of all the sealed
areas, this was the least, hardly more dangerous than the normal stretches of
deep forest, its phenomena only useful for teaching purposes in training new
Guardian recruits.

Such classes seemed as much a part of the past as his
own days of bygone youth.  Since the slaughter of the village, the remaining
three Guardians had attempted to train two youths in the ways of their
profession.  Neither had proven to contain the steel needed by the highest of
the high, the best of the best.

The sole instruction Thomas now gave was to the
village’s survivors, on how to exist within and deal with the strangeness of
this unnatural area.  It had been hard on them, especially for the still
wounded amongst their number most of all, yet they adapted as they knew they must. 
Within the sealed grounds formerly used as a training area, they slowly pieced
their lives back together.

Regardless of the time since the attack, a thousand
tasks still needed seeing to despite their relatively small number.  Thomas
passed a group who were busy curing meat to be stored for the coming months of
off-season cold that would plague them until mid-summer.  Two women tested
several piles of owlcrest fruits to see if the cores were healthy red, or if
the plants had spawned a poisonous crop with purple centers this time, as they
were wont to do without warning.  The owlcrests would store well for months
provided they were safe to consume.

Perhaps the change that tested the non-Guardian
survivors most was simply living on the ground.  The men and women had walked
between the massive Euvea roots often enough in their lives, but lived most of
the time in the tree-borne buildings of their ancestral village.  They had
cobbled together shelter from what materials they dared scavenge from the ruins
or collected from the surrounding forest.  After the years, those constructions
had been improved upon until genuine buildings stood scattered about the sealed
area.

Thomas hopped over a knot of creeper vines that grew
thickly around one tree.  They had spread along the ground in search of other
trunks.  Nearby, a great cave-like hole marked where an ancient tree had fallen
many years past, the forest giant ripping a rent in the earth as it took the
ball of its roots with it during the topple.  The hole, once discovered by the
survivors, offered possibilities.  One of their many projects had involved
digging back the pit’s walls, making it wider and deeper until the original
hole formed a descending doorway into a room suitable for storage.

The senior Guardian found Ceryl sitting on an upswell
of dead roots left undulating through the ground when they broke from their
former host.  She glanced slightly at him as if she had been waiting which, in
all likelihood, she had been.  Thomas expected nothing, and the matronly woman
continued twisting the twine threads she wove into a thicker rope.

If anything had changed, she would have mentioned it. 
The usual scene greeted him when he pulled back the canvas draping that serving
as a doorway.  Thomas ducked his head to descend the sloping entrance.  Dirt
scattered onto him when his hair brushed the bare ceiling.  Sacks and
provisions crates filled most of the room except for the blankets wrapped
around piles of leaves to form a rude mattress.  He squatted on his heels easily,
arms balanced on his knees, his hands dangling while he studied the man before
him.

The wraith’s eyes told Thomas most of what he wanted
to know without the need to ask inane questions.  “You’ll stay dead until you
accept the truth.”

Colbey did not stir.  He remained laying on his side,
staring blankly at the wall carved into the earth and wormy roots.

“Trying to kill yourself again won’t pay your lien
either.  The debt you owe won’t be filled by removing yourself from the world,
and it would be a despicable waste as well.  Better to spend it balancing the
scales with hard work and service.”

The younger scout appeared not to have heard the older
man.  Thomas sighed and rose to his feet.

Colbey looked a ragged mess in the faint light
filtering through the hole.  His unshaven countenance matched the ragged
clothing, which would have remained unwashed by the man but for Ceryl looking
after his needs.  For ten days he had kept to this underground den, refusing to
reenter the light, only eating when food or water were forced into his hand.

“Nothing is ever so bad that you can’t make atonement
for your mistakes.”

Thomas stared a moment longer until it was clear he
would receive no response.  Colbey would have to willingly decide he wanted to
live before there could be any hope for recovery.  Nothing forced on him would
do him an ounce of good.

It nearly broke the older Guardian’s heart, seeing his
most gifted pupil so.  Leaving Colbey as he was took all his willpower, and yet
he could be treated no differently.  In the way of the Guardians, the strongest
lessons were always the ones learned on one’s own.

By the time they reached Thoenar, Marik would have
gladly cut the head from each of the prisoners personally, if such were to be
their fate.  Seventeen had died in escape attempts during the march.  None had
succeeded in their bids for freedom, earning instead only tighter bonds and
heavier guard watches.

They followed a road northeast to the capitol city,
one that would bring them across the Pinedock River before they reached the
first buildings.  It was the worst part of the city, the closest to slums that
Marik knew of.  Refineries, renderers and other enterprises of fragrant aroma
were located outside the western city, which meant the western districts were
the least desirable living space to be had, especially on a windy day.

Marik was familiar with the area, having visited it
the previous summer in order to track down a group of assassins.  He expected
the company to journey to the main road which he knew led into the city proper,
except the Arm chivied his white horse off the path a few miles short.  No road
markers or side roads were visible, leaving Marik confused until he noticed a
man clad in a Galemaran soldier uniform standing beside a copse of trees. 
Clearly he had waved the kingdom’s preeminent warrior aside.

The mercenaries were exhausted.  They had been looking
forward to genuine sleeping quarters and fresh food upon arriving in the city. 
Following the Arm back into the wilderness brought forth a colorful round of
expletives.

Within a quarter-mile they discovered what had
prompted them into the trees.  They broke out of the small wood into a broad
field that held similar forested walls bordering its sides.  The field, mostly
grass and wild growth in the parts as yet untouched, contained hundreds of
tents, piles of supplies and a lookout tower constructed from whole logs.

Easily over two-thousand soldiers moved about the
camp.  To the side, in a vast cleared area, groups of men engaged in what Marik
instantly recognized were training exercises.  Shouted commands from the
column’s fore directed the prisoners to be handed over to the soldiers coming
from the camp to meet them.

Guard duty had, since the beginning, fallen on the
Crimson Kings men.  With so many prisoners, fighters from the Arm’s forces had
been required, but it was to the mercenaries that fell the duty of prodding the
captured invaders.  Only after several harsh pokes did the prisoners
reluctantly moved forward into the care of guards far better suited to the duty
than a ragged band of war dogs.

The Arm called for his men to rest while he conferred
with the leaders in this odd outpost.  With no place to go, the soldiers and
the mercenaries milled about, never mixing, until Dietrik nudged him in the
ribs.

“There’s a familiar chap, unless I’m much mistaken.”

Marik followed his friend’s gaze to see the man with
whom the Arm conversed.  It took him a moment to place the face.  “Curse me,
that’s Trask!”

As if his oath had attracted the man’s attention, he
saw the captain shift his gaze sideways in his direction.  Trask raised a
single eyebrow upon seeing Marik before returning his focus to what the Arm
said.

“What’s Trask doing here?” Marik asked Dietrik in a
lower voice.

“From the look of matters, it is a training facility. 
I went through a year in a similar place before they assigned me to my
division.”

“New soldiers, right?  Not a bad idea, but anyone they
gathered in a hurry probably wouldn’t be worth the cost of their uniforms.”

“Don’t assume anything, mate.  This looks like final
boot days, if you understand my meaning.  Remember the recruitment drive they
pushed so hard on during the tournament?  I’d wager these are a handful of the
fellows they gathered at the time willing to throw in their lots with the
army.”

Marik examined the field with a closer eye for
detail.  “That would make Trask a training instructor.”  He nodded, the idea
appealing to his sense of logic.  “An experienced field commander would be best
for training green recruits.  He can teach them what’s truly important in a
battle.  And he proved he’s a decent strategist when he led us against the
Nolier depot in the Green Reaches.”

Trask’s men finished dividing the prisoners into
smaller clusters.  At his bellowed order, they escorted the invaders to a
corner of the camp near the watch tower.

The Arm stood before his men, raising his voice barely
enough that the mercenaries to the side could also hear.  “It is well, and an
excellent march.  After all we have been through, these trainees will look to
you for examples of true Galemaran men.  This is an opportunity for you to help
your fellows in the steps that will take them toward being stalwart warriors
such as you have proven to be!”

He personally led the men into the camp.  Clearly they
would be sleeping in the wilds rather than a warm bed within the city.  Scowls
graced every mercenary face while they trudged in his wake.  Marik only made it
seven steps before a hand fell on his shoulder.

Captain Trask’s expression was the same determined
neutrality Marik remembered.  “Still trying to dodge out, eh?”

Marik faced him.  “Captain, I am certain I have no
idea what you mean by that.”

Trask shrugged.  “You’ve saved me the trouble of
coming to look for you.  As I understand it, you’ve received private orders.”

“That’s not what I would call it.”  Marik hesitated to
admit Celerity’s directive, especially considering how her orders had come to
him.  What did Trask know about it?

“I’m to tell you to report as you were ordered to. 
Which is to say, at once.”

“It’s nearly nightfall!”

“I doubt that makes a difference.  Those witchy types
in the court passed along the word that you’re supposed to do whatever you’re
supposed to do the moment you arrive.”  When Marik continued gaping at him, the
man snapped with the hard attitude the mercenary also remembered so well. 
“Whatever you are to do, I suggest you be about it!  Matters of warfare don’t
wait for you to catch up on your sleep.”

He departed abruptly to see that the prisoners were
correctly dealt with.  Marik swore.

Dietrik clasped his shoulder for a moment in
sympathy.  “You’ve handled the likes of Mistress Celerity before, mate.  And
come out none the worse for it, I should point out.”

“I don’t like this one little bit.”

“Neither would I.  But I imagine whatever they have in
mind might go for the worse if you irritate them by dallying.”

Marik handed Dietrik his pack, keeping only his
borrowed sword.  He’d had enough experience in the city’s western districts to
know walking through them unarmed would be foolish.  “You’ll probably be asleep
when I get back.”

“We won’t wait up.  Not after a march since bloody
sunrise.”

With a nod, Marik departed into the growing darkness. 
There were any number of possible needs that would demand immediate attention
on the part of men and women organizing a kingdom’s defenses, needs that
required tireless attention with no regard for sleep or rest.  It was imagining
what possible connection
he
might have to any of those that left him
baffled.

Celerity was the one who demanded my presence, both
through the mirror and again through Trask.
  It took no great powers of reasoning to put that much together.  She
had expressed singular interest in him before.  Likely this summons was for
exactly the same reason as last time.  The chief mage must have no faith
whatsoever that he’d honed his scrying abilities to the point where a new
attempt to locate his father, and thus the red-eyed man she obsessed over,
would prove any different than the last try.

Except…when last he had seen her in the flesh, she’d
promised to pass along any information regarding his missing father that her
investigations pried loose.  Yet summoning him from across the kingdom, and
leaving orders with Trask for his immediate appearance seemed extreme if the
matter were so simple.  The issue of Rail Drakkson could hardly be of much
importance to the royal enclave.

Only the fact of the red-eyed stranger manifested any
interest in Celerity at all.  By now, after her various efforts, and the efforts
of her subordinates, she must have either located the man or decided she never
would.  His summons could have no relation to the search.

Nevertheless, Marik hoped she would have news.  Since
leaving his hometown of Tattersfield, he had exhausted all the possible leads
he could think of in the search for his father.  Scrying Rail had resulted in
nothing except having the mirror explode in his face.  Searching through
traditional means would be fruitless, as he would ask thousands of questions of
people who certainly would never remember seeing Rail after so many years. 
What little evidence he possessed declared the man had left Galemar anyway,
meaning he could be anywhere in the world.  Marik simply had no trail to
follow, nor the skill to use his mage talent to locate his father.

The master scryer of King Raymond’s mages, a man named
Tru with skin darker than sodden mud, might have finally broken through the
barrier that prevented Rail’s image from forming in the mirror.  He might have
learned more of his father’s current whereabouts.

But if that were all, the information could surely sit
on the shelf until such time as he or Celerity had the opportunity to pass it
along.  They would never go out of their way to demand his presence, let alone
alter their busy schedules over it.  The search was important to him; merely a
bit of inconsequential fluff to them.

He had considered the summons at length during the
trek to Thoenar.  Between him and Dietrik, their conclusions fell flat. 
Neither had conceived of a solid reason behind the summons.  Having Trask
underscore the orders with a directive to continue without delay only confused
it further in Marik’s mind.  By the time he picked his way through the
ramshackle buildings in the city’s southwestern districts, he had decided that
the search for the red-eyed man persisted.  Tru must have used up all the
blood, hair and nail clippings Marik had previously left in whatever spells his
own scrying techniques demanded.  If so, then it made sense that the magician
needed to re-supply from his only available source.

Thoenar at night might be less active than during the
daylight candlemarks, but it was by no means still.  The night was in its
infancy.  General businesses had closed for the day, not that there were many
in the seedier residential districts.  Only the taverns, eateries, places of
social gatherings and the odd brothel remained open.  Main streets remained
thronged, the vast herds of human livestock thinning as each head wandered off
down various byways in search of more interesting places.

To Marik, the flows were both familiar and alien.  He
had grown used to them during his last summer, living in the city for a month. 
At the same time, without the tournament running nonstop through day and night,
the crush of pedestrians thickened in the city streets after sunset.  Marik
needed to push his way through the crowds with greater force than he
remembered.

The number of people lessened slightly when he passed
through the city wall separating the Third Ring from the Outer City, then still
more upon entering the Second Ring.  He unexpectedly encountered resistance at
the wall that shielded the Inner Circle from the commoners living without. 
Cityguards charged with admitting only the residents or those with business inside
the original city needed convincing that he fell into the latter category. 
Obviously Celerity had grown so used to living in the old city, and seeing him
there during the tournament, that she’d forgotten that at any other time he
would have trouble passing through the wall.

He talked his way through without much trouble in the
end.  After all, the purpose of the guards was mostly to keep out beggars and
possible thieves.  Anybody who looked well-to-do or in possession of a
plausible story could enter, and the guards knew they would catch four
different shades of holy hell for denying entrance to anyone expected by a
noble resident.  Their eye had caught on his clothing, which he explained away
as being fresh from the battlefields.  Marik lied only slightly in order to
speed the process along, describing the military camp outside the city and
implying he bore messages from Captain Trask to the palace.

That satisfied the cityguards.  Marik walked on,
startled by the numbers in the streets within the Inner Circle.  Last summer,
as soon as night fell, the streets emptied to the point of nearly being
deserted.  The current crowds hardly merited the name, leaving only twenty
people or so within sight along the streets.  Still, that alone told him
exactly how much of a draw the tournament had been.  He would not have guessed,
despite knowing that an enemy army could have hidden within the sprawling
confines of Tourney Town without the local cityguard’s knowledge.

Marik proceeded directly to the palace as if he’d last
been there yesterday.  As before, he presented himself at the gates to learn
that he was indeed expected.  He assumed the man leading him onto the grounds
would turn left, toward the separate tower the mages apparently resided in. 
Instead, the man brought him directly to the palace.  Only once before had
Marik entered these hallowed buildings, on his very last visit when he’d come
to tell Celerity he would be departing the city.