Grand Conspiracy: Second Book of The Alliance of Light. Janny Wurts
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clans kept alive by tradition. Their unbroken, old ways reaffirmed the immutable truth through words that gave thanks, and through timeworn, small rituals which renewed by expression of gratitude. That trees were alive. Their gifts and their bounty might be taken at will. They could be raped and robbed, or they could be acknowledged, a trust of consent sealed in the language of humility, granting each bough and trunk its due recognition for generous sacrifice.
Yet the wisdom of Paravian law had dimmed with the passage of centuries. Men now walked Athera who gave back no such grace. Whether the lapse stemmed from blind carelessness or the vice of acquisitive greed did not matter. The chain-linked communion that was forest discerned no gray shade of distinction. Trees grasped no code but the one that acknowledged the grand chord of Ath’s primal order. They owned no concept to forsake whole awareness for individual separation.
No second was given; no freed train of thought broke the noose for shock or humanborn fear. The vise grip of the dream on men’s minds was unyielding, a crescendo wrought of numbers too massive to deny, each note tuned to urgent communion.
The blow fell, bloodless, in that trampling breadth of vision. Lost in the vast ocean of forbearance that defined the existence of greenwood, the trees’ vision reclaimed hate and violence for peace. Townborn minds stilled and sank into an abiding continuity that frayed sensibility, and awoke a remorse without mercy: of wood cut, unblessed; of saplings uprooted. Each thoughtless twig broken in callous disregard framed a cry of acid-etched clarity. The impact stunned beating hearts like a wound. A day’s pitiless industry, which sought to turn fire and steel to rend life, ripped a chasm of shame through shocked conscience.
Men screamed without voice as the dream of the wood flooded through them and clamped like the embrace of black earth.
There came no reprieve, no concept for pity. Each hand that had moved with intent to strike spark; each arm, to grasp weapons for slaughter; all dropped, limp. Names and identity and meaningful purpose submerged without trace in the flux. What remained was the everlasting communion that passed between root and leaf and spread branch. The peace of the forest seized the mind like fast ice and held with the endurance of centuries.
Determined experience served none in that hour. The strongest and best of drilled veterans gave way, sapped of will and inclination. Any who ventured near Caithwood unprepared, all those who embraced human purpose beyond the encompassing calm of live trees was undone. To the last rank and file, to the most steadfast captain, the Alliance veterans buckled at the knees. They dropped swords and tinder, crumpled like rags, or slipped reins through slack hands and toppled off startled horses. When the messengers came riding from Watercross to inquire, they found Lord Commander Harradene’s troops felled to a man, sprawled comatose on the cold ground.
Flurried searches confirmed: not one Alliance supporter inside Caithwood was left standing. Nor did the camp servants who lurked on the fringes remain in command of their wits. Dazed, even weeping, they forgot their own names, while livestock and woods creatures raided their supplies, and their oxen browsed loose through the brush.
How the clans fared, no city man knew, since no one saw hide nor hair of them.
In the depths of a glen, ankle deep in red oak leaves, Asandir lifted long, lean fingers from the bark of the ancient patriarch that ruled Caithwood. He murmured a run of liquid, sweet syllables, a blessing framed in the tongue of the vanished Paravians.
Clear of eye, his mind and his purpose vised to ruthless alignment, he stepped back from the tree whose compliance had keyed a whole forest’s salvation. Subtle as shadow in his featureless leathers, he traversed drifted leaves with a step like a wraith’s and retrieved the tied reins of his horse. He tightened the animal’s slack girth and remounted. Two hours’ ride through the breezy afternoon brought him to a clearing in a glen, where he met the eldest in the circle of clan chieftains who maintained their caithdein’s guard over Caithwood.
Cenwaith was a great-grandmother, wizened, but not frail. Tiny hands with the weathered grain of burled walnut clutched a bronze-studded quarterstaff. By the scars crisscrossing her knuckles, she had wielded weapons throughout a hard lifetime. Her jacket of fox fur blended her diminutive form amid the changed leaves of the maples.
‘How long?’ she asked him, her voice the aged quaver of water-smoothed stone, rinsed by a tumbling brook.
Asandir paused, his gaze turned to flint beneath a fringe of dark lashes. ‘Days. Maybe five, before the first caravan from the south can use the road without leaving prone bodies. No man bearing steel will escape, even then.’ He brushed a caught leaf from his hair and firmed the reins to stall his inquisitive horse from nipping the sleeve of his shirt. ‘No victim will suffer, rest assured of that much. The awareness of trees regards time very differently. Lysaer’s troops who fell senseless will lie in stasis until they find release from the dream. Your people must take flight as soon as they may. Abide by my warnings. They’ll stay safe as long as none breaks the covenant laid down to appease the roused might of the greenwood.’
‘No steel and no fire?’ The grandame wheezed out a fluttery laugh. ‘Our folk know their place. We’ve laid in stores to hold us through the next fortnight.’ Before then, the last clanfolk would have slipped past Lord Harradene’s unstrung cordon. Their fighting strength would regroup in the rugged mountains in Camris. The young who had families would cross Mainmere estuary by boat to claim sanctuary in Havish. The Alliance’s campaign of persecution was this day deferred, with Tysan’s threatened bloodlines granted reprieve for continuance.
That such survival came at a price, the old woman and the Sorcerer never doubted. Tysan’s trade route to the east was now irremediably severed from the moment northern snows closed the passes; and with slave-bearing galleys disbarred from King Eldir’s coastline, the crisis would find no relief.
Blame for those woes would only lend impetus to Lysaer s’Ilessid’s pitched campaign of intolerance. Asandir foresaw the cost of this day’s reprieve written in bleak terms on the future: more armed troops raised for the purpose of war against mage talent and, ultimately, to hunt down and kill by the Mistwraith’s fell geas, the Shadow Master, who was Rathain’s last living prince. Too aggrieved for speech, he moved to return his borrowed horse.
Cenwaith’s firm touch caught his wrist in restraint. ‘You’ll not be staying, Kingmaker?’
The Sorcerer shook his head, the weariness bearing upon his broad shoulders a yoke he dared not defer for his own needs or comfort. ‘I cannot.’ He gathered himself, while her kind eyes sought and failed to plumb the extent of his urgency. ‘The troubles I forsook in Midhalla to come here have strengthened and grown in my absence.’
Courtesy kept her from pressing with questions. Since he need not seed pointless worry at his back, he answered with direct speech. ‘The trees will lapse back into somnolence on their own, once they’re left undisturbed, and if the crown rescinds its sealed edict to enact their destruction by fire.’
Caravan masters would eventually learn not to hack down live wood. Nor would Tysan’s leagues of armed headhunters fare reiving for scalps with their former impunity. An eerie unrest would settle and linger. In the odd, haunted glen, the oldest stands of forest would cling to isolate pockets of self-awareness. Years would pass, perhaps a century or more, before equilibrium was finally restored.
‘The Alliance offenders who are comatose will be carted away and cared for, if not by the crown, then by their own friends and families.’ A mote of thin sunlight struck through the chill air, and lent fleeting warmth to farseeing gray eyes as Asandir spoke his conclusion. ‘The trained men of war and those minds most firmly committed to violence may linger in trance. But unless they were sickly before this began, no lasting harm will befall them.’
Not so easily solved were the dangers in Mirthlvain left at large in his haste to cross the continent; nor must the stout heart give way before sorrow, that the act which spared Caithwood must force Taerlin’s clanborn to forsake their beloved home territory. ‘The forest will guard itself well enough. Your people can safely return in due time. Once Sethvir finds his way back from the grimward, he will act to settle what