The White Tree (10 page)

The world was shadow. In the moment of that thought his senses seemed to fade—the hesitant predawn birdsong became muffled, the fuzzy shapes of the last of the night grew darker, less distinct. His own breath galed in his ears. He reached out for those shadows, extending both his hand and his mind. They didn't come and somehow he knew that was right. He tried again, slitting his eyes until he saw more eyelash than forest, counting the seconds between his deep and steady inhalations. Somehow he expected the slivers of darkness to be cold but the only way he knew they were sinking into his skin was through sight and a dull, far-off feel for its travel, the way you can finally see the sun move when it hits the horizon, or how the moon and fixed stars seem to have jumped whenever you look to the skies of the night. The pain faded from his limbs then; a bright red bramble scratch on his left hand went pink and then to the rusty brown of an old scab. He picked it away with his thumbnail and beneath it the skin was fresh. He closed his eyes and thought if the opposite desire of his mind would cause the opposite change to his flesh.

"What time is it?" Blays asked, rousing him. The nether—naming it for what it was—shuddered back into normal shadow.

"Just before dawn."

"Time for unreasonable men to be on their way," Blays muttered.

They packed up and lit out. Leaves spun to the forest floor. Dante let Blays lead. He wouldn't know how fast to travel if his legs still burned like they had when he'd woken. Birds chirruped in the treetops like nothing were different. He walked with a stillness of thought, feeling light, feeling holy, the calm in the center of a storm of all this life.

He'd stopped pretending like he didn't understand what was happening to him. He'd imagined it would take longer, in fact. That he'd need a teacher or a guide. That he'd need to meditate or pray to be handed the way. He didn't know how the book was showing him the way, only that it was. Dante watched the back of Blays' head bob as he stepped over fallen branches or ducked under live ones. He'd learn faster if he didn't have to watch himself, to keep what he was learning hidden. He needed practice, but couldn't get it when proof of his ability would turn the boy to silence and sidelong glances when he thought Dante wasn't looking. Blays had become something like a friend since the days in the woods had shown him Dante was nothing but an average kid. He didn't want to lose that. He'd had friends before, but not many, and he'd left them all behind the day he'd left the village. He missed them, in an abstract way, knowing they were gone to him and he would never see them again.

He began to forget himself. Little tricks as he walked. Concentrating on the shadows until they curled around his finger. Putting a dark globe on the toe of his boot and seeing how long he could make it keep up with his steps. Thinking on the men he'd read about in the
Cycle
and the thrill they must have felt when they reached out with their hand and made the world change. They were no longer so unimaginable, so distant and alien; Stathus the Wise and Linagan, Jack Hand and Kerry Cooper—he wished he could meet them and hear their words for himself.

"Stream up ahead," Blays murmured, and Dante jumped.

"Okay."

"It should turn into the river."

"That's what streams do, become rivers," Dante said, tucking his chin against his chest and peering into the crossed boughs of the trees to the east, as if looking hard enough would summon up the gray waters of the Chanset.

"We could follow it, I mean," he said, shrugging off Dante's tone.

"That's an idea. Can't follow our tracks if there aren't any."

"Let's cross it, head upstream a bit, and double back."

A couple hundred yards on the other side they turned around, retracing their path as closely as they could. The stream was shallow, fast, and strong, widening abruptly from ten feet across to twenty or thirty of ankle-deep flow, then constricting again, just as quickly, at the next elbow in its path. Its banks were dug deep—if they ducked they couldn't be seen unless someone were watching right from the lip—and its bed was a carpet of rocks, as smooth as if they'd been sanded, some as small as robins' eggs, others sturdy and immobile as the heads of bulls. Big floods in the spring carved it deep, no doubt. They walked on dry rocks at its edge for a while, throwing out their arms for balance, stones thocking together under their weight. The rush of water washed away the sounds of the woods and they spoke, when at all, in raised tones that would have carried like seeds on a breeze if they'd been above the banks. At the bends in its path the banks narrowed on them until the stony beds were buried in cold water that yanked at their ankles with the strength of a man. They slowed at these times, keeping a hand on the wall of dirt to their right or the shoulder of whoever was leading the way.

"This is not a civilized way to live," Blays said after the third or fourth such passage, raising one soggy boot while he balanced himself against the slope of the bank. The waters were getting deeper, reaching their knees when they took a wrong step.

"Want some food?" Dante said. His feet had begun to ache again. He wiggled his toes, fighting back the numbness. The water felt like it came from close snows.

"I want a fire." Blays stomped his feet, squirting water over the pale gray rocks, darkening them with dampness.

"And I want a pony. That breathes fire. And craps strawberries."

"You'd probably eat them," Blays said. He sat down and let out a long breath.

"You wouldn't?"

"Out of a pony's ass?" Blays hawked and spat into the swirling current. "I don't even want to know where you think the cream would come from."

Dante shrugged. "More for me, then."

He found a few mushrooms wrapped up in his pack, squashed by the books as they'd shifted on the walk, moist and drooping in their own fluids. He handed Blays the bigger share and the boy set them on his lap and stared at them a moment.

"This is what I mean." Blays popped one in his mouth, chewed, paused, then swallowed. He dipped a hand in the water and drank. "This is how animals live."

"It's just for a few days, you baby."

"You're the baby."

"Why am I the baby?"

"Because you're always scared like one. No one's going to save us. We've got to deal with this ourselves." Blays ate slowly, chewing each off-white cap for a long time. Dante had to still his arm to keep from punching him. He blinked, looked away. This whining.

"I'm starting to learn," he said when he could trust his voice.

"Good. I'm tired of running this show by myself."

"Not that." Dante pulled his lips from his teeth and put his hand on Blays' wrist. The boy met his eyes, then looked down, saw the gray trailing from Dante's fingers like wisps of smoke.

"What are you doing?"

He called to it, brought the dark places under the rocks like he'd brought the black images of the leaves that morning. He felt a click in his chest, like something there had turned on its side, but he kept the summons, his mind an empty tunnel.

"Stop it!"

"Shut up." The words didn't break his command. Then it was done and he sucked air and freed his hand, shaking it. The tips of his fingers felt as cold as his waterlogged feet.

"What did you do?" Blays said, sharp as his weapon.

"Stand up. Walk around."

"Go to hell," he said, then got to his feet and bounced in place. He walked a circle around Dante and Dante saw the knots fade from his face.

"I'm not tired."

"Neither am I," Dante said, sticking out his jaw. He let the silence linger, let Blays think his thoughts.

"Can you do anything else?" Blays said, gazing into the woods.

"Not really. Not yet."

Blays folded his arms. "No. It's not right."

"Why? Because you can't hold it in your hand?" Dante picked up a rock and chucked it into the stream. Its splash was too soft to hear over the ceaseless whorl of water. "It's like you just woke up, isn't it? Like you haven't been walking at all."

Blays rubbed the faint blond hair on his upper lip. "My dad used to say if you build your life around nothing more than swinging a sword, you'll start to think all things come down to who can swing it better."

And he's dead, Dante thought. "You're a swordsman!" he said instead.

"That's not the point."

"I'm being careful," he said. "I'm not about to mess with things I don't understand."

"It's not enough to save us," Blays said, dropping his eyes.

"It's just a start." He tightened the drawstring on his bag, jerking the knots so they wouldn't slip. He got his feet under him and walked on down the stream bed. Blays kicked pebbles behind him. The only trees that could cling to the steep sides of the banks were small things, deep-rooted gnarls with close-clustered branches, and they walked in the full light of day. They hadn't seen sign of their pursuers since they'd heard their talk the day before. For all they knew the three riders had headed west, lost their trail, and been turning in circles ever since. They were being chased by shadows. With a week to himself, with a month of study, Dante knew he could learn things to put a stop to all this. His eyes stung. Why didn't they just leave him alone? If the book was so special, why had they left it abandoned in a ruined temple? He slipped on a moss-coated stone and Blays grabbed his arm.

"Thanks," he said, brushing his sleeve where Blays had touched it. The stream turned again and the walls grew tight. Overhead, trees leaned over them, casting them into shadow. A gap no wider than an armspan separated the leaves on one side from those on the other, a blue and ragged line of sky so small he thought it could close completely if they faltered. He planted his feet in the water, each step deliberate as a chess move, thwarting the pull of the current. His legs were soaked past the knees. He walked on, eyes split between the treacherous stones under his feet and that thin blue band up above, one step, then another, cold but not tired, alone but leading his friend.

It was hours before the banks leveled out and the trees pressed them to the water's edge. Dante'd cleansed himself of his weariness again but hadn't touched Blays since. If he wanted to ache and struggle to lift his feet that was his business. The stream doubled in width and when he looked to its middle Dante could no longer see the bottom. The voice of the waters moved from the thin nattering of gossips to a deeper, thoughtful hum. Sometimes he wondered where the speed of the stream had gone, then he'd catch sight of a leafy branch on its surface, hurtling past them at twice their swiftest walk, and he'd remember clear waters didn't mean still waters.

He didn't speak up, but it wasn't long before he thought he could smell it, that faint tang of fresh water. Not so stagnant as the pond, less of the earthy musk of dead, wet plants and more that of a moving body, the crisper scent of pebbles being ground into mud and dry dirt taking on water. A final elbow and the forest disappeared in front of them, giving way to the flat gray depths of the Chanset River, half a mile wide if a foot, the same river Bressel straddled eighty or a hundred miles downstream.

There they rested long enough to catch their breath and wring out their stockings, which steamed on the broad rocks where the stream funneled into the river. They crunched down on the last of their carrots, tossing the limp green tails into the water. They felt the sun on their faces.

"Which way?" Blays said, jabbing between his teeth with a stiff sprig of grass.

"North? Put more distance between us and Bressel?"

"Makes sense. Five more minutes, say."

Dante nodded. He cupped his hands to the stream, made sure his water skin was full. He wriggled the feeling back into his wrinkled toes, drying them for the first time since they'd been following the waterway. It might be days before his boots dried.

"What's funny?" Blays asked.

"I don't know why I bother," he said, nodding to the damp on the rocks where his feet had dripped.

"So moss doesn't grow between your toes," Blays said with an air of authority.

"You can't grow moss on your feet," Dante said. A small string of carrot dislodged from his teeth and he spat it out.

"I suppose you've soldiered in the fields where such things are common."

"You have?"

"No," Blays said, scratching his nose, "but my dad told me. Moss on your feet like the hair on the knuckles of grown men's toes."

"Moss only grows on things that don't move," Dante said, but he no longer knew if that were true. He'd passed plenty of days with wet feet, but couldn't remember any that hadn't ended around a fire.

"Be quiet."

"Like trees and—"

"
Be quiet
," Blays commanded. Dante glared at him and saw he was peering down the riverbank. It was a moment before the horseman moved into view a couple hundred yards distant. Dante pressed himself against the rocks next to Blays.

"Do you think he heard us?"

"No," Blays murmured, then wiped his eyes. "Too much other noise. Do you see any others?"

"No. Could be in the woods."

"What's he doing?"

"Looking for sign," Dante said. "See how he zigzags? How slow it is?"

"No wonder they haven't caught us," Blays said, and then his smile went away. "Yet."

A minute went by, another. The man kept to his search, looking up every twenty or thirty seconds to scan the area. The first time he did so Dante pulled his head down so fast he barked his chin on the rock and almost cried out.

"What do you think?"

"I think," Dante breathed, "he's alone."

Blays nodded. "There's two of us."

"Think so?"

"Better now than when the odds are back in their favor."

"I don't know."

Blays touched the hilt of his sword. "We can get him if we sneak up on him."

"He's on horseback," Dante said, swallowing against the dryness of his throat. "He'll ride away. Or ride out of range, then turn around and trample us."

"What if we went down a little closer, then ran out on the banks screaming and running away?"