Barrington Bayley - The Forest of Peldain

But what was this… he had not counted on the forest being so voracious, so hungry for conquest. It had a greater lust for it than had King Krassos or any of his forebears. Vorduthe saw the forest rage unchecked and invade the sea, mutating all the time.

It would seize the whole world. In time, it would reach the Hundred Islands.

“So now there is a fresh mind to contend with,” the green voice said calmly. “Listen, you speak of illusions. You are troubled by dreams. Well, here is a dream.”

The viridescent jungle faded. Vorduthe felt his eyes close involuntarily. He was falling asleep.

When he awoke, he felt refreshed. He was lying on a low fleece-covered bed. A pleasant breeze, carrying the tang of the sea, drifted through a nearby open window.

His gaze fell on a ceiling of gaily painted timber, typically Arelian in design. Idly he let his eyes scan the rest of the room, and everything he saw he knew.

He was in his sleeping quarters in his villa, on the headland overlooking Arcaiss.

He leaped from the bed and strode to the window. Far below was the harbor, with trade ships floating at anchor. Partly obscured by the headland were the naval docks, and there he recognized some of the ships that had carried his expedition to Peldain.

The sun had not long risen, and cast dazzling streamers of gold on the flat sea.

For long moments Vorduthe stared at the vivid scene. He did not turn until he heard the sound of the door panel sliding open behind him. What he saw then sent his heart leaping.

The Lady Kirekenawe Vorduthe had stepped into the room. She wore a simple sleeping gown. Her hair fell about her shoulders, and she was smiling.

She moved with all the grace and suppleness he had once known and delighted in.

“I woke feeling different,” she said. “So I knew I would find you here.”

Vorduthe himself had slept naked, as was his habit. Her eyes were traveling with hungry anticipation over his body, which was stirring.

He reached out. She rushed to him, her body warm and pulsing.

Together, they fell upon the low bed.

The angle of the sunlight falling through the windows had dipped by the time they finished their exertions. They relaxed, luxuriating in each other’s aroma.

Suddenly she touched his lips with her fingers. “You must go now. It is time.”

“No,” he tried to say, but wife and villa rushed from him. He was in darkness, suspended in warm liquid. His lungs ached with the need for air.

No more than two minutes could have passed.

He struck out for the surface. Mistirea was floating there patiently, and he waited while Vorduthe filled his lungs and regained his strength.

Wordlessly they swam to the shore. The two men stood dripping by the lakeside, facing one another.

“You encountered the spirit,” Mistirea said. “I can see it in your eyes.”

“Yes.”

“Can you hold it in bounds?”

“I do not know.”

“You must understand how to influence the spirit,” Mistirea told him. “Its power is that of a god, but in nature it is elemental, like a young child. You must be the adult that commands that child.”

“It no longer is so,” Vorduthe said, shaking his head. “The spirit grows. It is maturing like a living creature. It has thrown off its childhood.”

Mistirea’s eyes blazed with alarm. “Then you must command it as one man commands another! As a king rules a subject! Impose your will!” His voice fell. “I know you have the strength to do this. I am not mistaken in my judgment.”

“Perhaps.”

“Do not deny it. I am not High Priest of the Lake for nothing. Tomorrow you will dive again.”

He handed Vorduthe a thick-napped cloth with which to dry himself. Vorduthe did so and clothed himself. But he refused to accompany Mistirea back to the temple.

Instead he climbed the hill above Lakeside and sat on the fringe of Cog Wood, looking down. He spent a while studying the lake, noting the way it was cupped by the sloping terrain as if it had indeed been dumped from above, supported by an embankment to the west.

If he quieted his mind, after the manner that Mistirea had taught him, he fancied he could almost sense currents of thought running through the network of pale branches over his head. He understood Cog Wood now, since his immersion in the lake’s mind-jungle. Within the twisted boughs were what amounted to nerves, and they linked up to form a continuous skein throughout the wood. It was an attempt by the lake, at some time in the past, to create a vegetable version of a brain. Perhaps, he thought, the spirit had intended to transfer itself from the lake to this brain, but the wood had proved unable to sustain consciousness. It was like an arboreal version of some sessile creature, stupid and unmoving, but mentally sensitive to what went on around it.

Apparently even Mistirea did not know the meaning of this past experiment. It, like the sculpted hill-maiden, created at a time when the forest had been much less extensive than it was now, had become lost in the mists of Peldain’s history. It never seemed to occur to Peldainians to make a record of events, so that after one generation all was usually forgotten.

Vorduthe’s state of enforced calm did not last long. When it broke, his brooding feelings came tumbling through. He still burned for revenge, sickened by Octrago’s treachery—even though he could, to a limited extent, understand the motive for the tortured prince’s actions.

He had it in his power to exact that revenge. But if he did, Arelia’s turn would come. Not immediately—not for a hundred years, perhaps. But it would come, and nothing could stop it.

On the other hand he could exert himself to tame the being in the lake. Vorduthe was used to sizing up a newly met personality, and he sensed that the lake’s was not yet stronger than his own. As Mistirea said, it was susceptible. But then, Peldain would be saved, secure within its forest barrier, and Octrago would have triumphed.

Also, Vorduthe could not forget that the lake had powers of persuasion of its own. The problem he contemplated was pushed from his mind by the sweet memory of the interlude the lake had bestowed, which put him in an agony of longing and shame. Longing, because for a brief time it had been as if that fateful accident with the barbsquid had never happened nearly five years ago, as if his wife had remained well and happy. Enthralling dream! Enticing, practically irresistible….

Shame, because even while enjoying the experience he had known that it was not real, and that he enjoyed it alone. In reality his wife lay half a world away, still paralyzed, knowing nothing of it.

He despised himself for such solitary indulgence.

A figure in an Arelian kilt was toiling up the slope. As he came nearer Vorduthe saw that it was Troop Leader Kana-Kem. His young face was determined-looking.

He spoke stubbornly. “Forgive me for following you here, my lord. But the men want to know what their orders are to be. Do we strike?”

“Strike?” queried Vorduthe.

“We have not been idle while you have been studying with the Peldainian priest, my lord.” Kana-Kem smiled. “We have been working on some of the local girls—they find us pleasing, and have little idea of secrecy. We have found out where the palace armory is. Our weapons are stored there, and much else besides. Now we have but to plan how to get at them.”

“I commend you, Troop Leader,” Vorduthe said thoughtfully. “What do you suggest we do then?”

“These people are soft, apart from a handful of warriors. We will not be taken by surprise a second time.”

“Just the same it would be a risky enterprise, with small chance of success.”

“If we do no more than put a sword in Octrago’s black heart it will be worth the effort, my lord.”