The Mire of Melds

  One shall come among us with no talent for Faune’s domain.

  Trained in the Order, they will strive to be worthy and yet… they will be too much.

  By the forest, it burns my inner eye just to glimpse it.

  — Calvandrel, “The Inked Seer,” Faune’s Fateful Children: The Collected Letters from The Gathering

  Portean was the last to wake from the effects of the powerful Oakmeld.

  Groaning, he sat up, then immediately regretted it.

  Pain flared behind his eyes, a hammering throb that made his vision blur. A wave of nausea rolled through him, and he swayed unsteadily.

  A hand touched his shoulder, steadying him. Gently, it eased him back onto the bedroll.

  “Rest easy, son,” came Grimus’s voice, low and soothing. “My apprentice managed to take us out of harm’s way. You're just feeling the aftereffects of her channeling such strong magic. I only recovered a few hours ago.”

  The last part reached Portean like a dream, the words jumbled, spoken in some strange, lilting tongue.

  He let his head sink back onto the bedding, surrendering to the exhaustion that clung to every limb.

  Grimus rose from the stricken woodsman, swaying visibly with the effort.

  He found Aehyl resting beside Draefus, her head nestled against the great bear’s burly shoulder like a pillow.

  Though the beast appeared calm and alert, the druid’s eyes picked out several deep lacerations scoring his thick hide. Superficial wounds—for Draefus—but still, bloody reminders of the threat they had only narrowly escaped.

  A wave of gratitude washed over him. Had either Portean or he sustained such injuries, they would be bedridden for weeks. Draefus’s sheer mass and stamina left him nearly impervious to all but the most brutal of blows. He was a formidable protector for Aehyl.

  Grimus lingered on that thought. Her finding the cub, raising him, earning his trust, it felt too purposeful to be coincidence. Perhaps it had all been part of some greater design.

  Upon emerging from the spell, Aehyl had remained conscious just long enough to make Portean and Grimus comfortable.

  It was the only explanation for the tidy state of their camp.

  Bedrolls had been laid out, and a small fire still smoldered at the center, its embers waiting patiently beneath a hook meant for a teapot that had never materialized.

  Apparently, the poor girl had collapsed beside her large protector soon after.

  The old elf did not know where they were. It was dark, and he recognized little of the surrounding landscape.

  He only hoped that when his son awoke, he might be able to discern their location.

  Portean was, by far, one of the most widely traveled elves in all of Crystal-Mist—bested perhaps only by the ancient Kreadus himself… and, of course, by the handful of traders who followed fortune’s winds across the mountains.

  With a tired sigh, Grimus lay back on his bedroll, wondering where they were.

  They should still be in the mountains, and yet… the land was flat. That much he could discern.

  How she had managed such a jump, he didn’t know.

  The thought troubled him, but he was also relieved.

  Wherever they were, he thought absently, there was little chance those creatures could follow.

  He pushed the questions aside. He was still too tired to focus, too scattered to dwell.

  He had just begun to think about how much he needed sleep when his snores began.

  The party awoke, groggy and disoriented, still drained from the tremendous magic of the battle.

  Aehyl was already up.

  She tended a small cookfire where strips of rabbit and partridge sizzled quietly. Grimus wasn’t sure where she’d managed to find the game, but he was grateful nonetheless. Beside her, Draefus waited expectantly, clearly unimpressed by the meager meal, but unwilling to wander off in search of something larger.

  The bear remained close, glued to his mother’s side.

  His deep, walnut-colored eyes scanned the clearing with quiet intensity, as if expecting more scaled assassins to lurch from the brush and strike the smiling she-elf at any moment.

  Grimus noted the deep lacerations from the day before were now fully healed.

  Aehyl must be back at full strength.

  Getting a bit too near the breakfast, Draefus earned a scowl from Aehyl, who planted her hands on her hips and fixed him with a stern look of admonishment.

  The massive bear let out a low huff and plopped down nearby, clearly sulking.

  Grinning, Aehyl darted toward her pack, recalling more than one morning when Draefus had decided that meals didn’t need to be shared.

  Still keeping a wary eye on her spoiled ward, she retrieved a small metal canister filled with her favorite tea blends. Selecting one of the little bags, she returned to the fire and emptied it into a pot of water already boiling beside the meat.

  Feeling refreshed, the young druid stirred her tea absently, a strange sense of anticipation rising in her chest.

  Her father had lived a short life—at least by elvish standards—but he had traveled the Obsidian Empire extensively, and she remembered his lively stories well.

  One in particular rose to the surface, and a smile tugged at her lips.

  She had been just past twenty when he came bounding into their quaint home near the eastern border of the Crystal-Mist, fresh from a convention in Jerrico.

  He’d surprised them with a gift, laughing like a fool as he handed it off.

  Aehyl could still hear Philia’s delighted giggle as she around the room, clutching the ridiculous-looking puppy in her arms.

  They’d named it Bones, which was really all there was to the skinny, wriggling creature, and from that day on, the scrappy little beast had been Aehyl’s constant shadow.

  Her smile faltered. Bones hadn’t lived long, not from an elvish perspective.

  She pushed the dark thought away, forcing her focus back to the joy in the memory. Glancing at the enormous cave bear still sulking by the fire, she wiped away a single tear. That night, her father had told them wild tales of Jerrico and the madcap humans who lived within its massive walls.

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  She had never forgotten those stories. Could it really be the architectural wonder her father had claimed it was?

  After all these years, she was finally going to see for herself.

  I would give anything if only the trip could have been made with him, she thought quietly.

  Returning to her duties, the young druid gave the tea a final stir and turned the roasting game.

  As the savory aroma rose around her, her thoughts drifted to the torn sigil on her chest.

  During the meld, the mark had flared to life once more—searing with pain, yet flooding her senses with the same heightened awareness she’d experienced in the Mother Tree’s grotto.

  The intensity had faded after her rest. And though the mark still burned irritably from time to time, she was growing used to it.

  Satisfied the meat was done, she poured herself a tin of tea and looked out across the camp as her companions began to stir.

  Grimus roused himself with a groan, glancing toward Portean, who was also just waking from his long-needed rest.

  The old druid shook his head, still trying to clear the fog from his mind.

  He felt ravenous. A quick glance at the woodsman confirmed the same was true for him.

  Without a word, the two rose and joined Aehyl at the fire.

  “A fine morning to both of you,” Aehyl greeted as they approached, her voice warm. “I was beginning to think you’d never wake.”

  She gave Portean’s arm a playful pat.

  “Finally?” Portean replied with a wry grin. “After what you pulled back there, I wouldn’t be surprised if we’d been out two days.”

  Aehyl smiled, a glint of mischief in her eye.

  “But you have, my warrior friend.”

  Portean squinted at the young elf, trying to gauge whether or not she was serious.

  After a moment’s thought, he seemed to reach some private conclusion, shrugged, and reached for the nearest rabbit on the spit.

  Grimus, chewing through mouthfuls of hot partridge, made a sour face at the revelation, but said nothing for now, too content to eat.

  Seeing that her companions were preoccupied with the meal, Aehyl rose to prepare Draefus’s portion. She returned with a tossed mix of fruit, berries, an uncleaned bird, and the raw flank of a rabbit, dropping it near the bear’s resting place.

  Though Draefus gladly ate cooked meat, often pestering Aehyl for scraps, she preferred to encourage him to eat his food raw. And, when possible, to hunt for himself.

  “Aehyl,” Grimus began between bites, “what happened during your meld? It shouldn’t have taken as long as it did. Don’t mistake me, young one, I’m not ungrateful, but I need to know exactly what occurred if I’m to help you shorten the casting next time.”

  Aehyl chewed thoughtfully. “I’m not entirely sure,” she admitted. “I did what I’ve practiced outside of Vistadora. I reached out, tried to form the connection, but it was different. Fainter?” She hesitated, brow furrowing.

  “That’s not quite it,” she added. “It felt... diminished somehow. Like the life inside the oak wasn’t fully present. Less alive, less…” She trailed off, searching for the right words, then moved on.

  “I didn’t think it was going to accept me. I only felt the faintest echoes, barely a trace of pressure on my skin. I was about to stop, but then I heard a whisper. Just one word: Please. It asked me. Begged me. To accept.”

  She shrugged again, a flicker of confusion tightening her expression. “I didn’t understand, but I accepted anyway. Willed it. I didn’t know what else to do.” She glanced at the others, then returned quietly to her meal.

  Grimus gasped. The bone in his hand dropped to the camp’s floor.

  “By Faune, child, I thought you knew! The Oakmeld is a merging of essence, not communication. You don’t speak with the tree. Not even around Vistadora, where the trees are… unusual.”

  He leaned forward, his thick brows knitting together.

  “Communication happens through pressure on your meld map, charted across your spirit. The tree doesn't speak, it responds. And you’re meant to do the same in return.”

  He stared at her, troubled.

  “At least... that’s how it’s always been. If you heard something, if something spoke, it may have been trying to stop you. Cut the flow. Something was wrong.”

  Seeing the confusion clouding her face, he tried again.

  “Each point of pressure you felt was a map, child, a network of willing trees. Each one was accepting you, offering passage. The more you feel, the more options you have. It’s not normal to hear anything.”

  He squinted at her. “Who taught you this outside of Vistadora?”

  Aehyl shifted uncomfortably. “No one. I just… did it. One day I tried, and it worked. Trajo was so excited, he assumed you had already taught me.”

  Grimus groaned. “And you didn’t think to correct him?”

  She gave a sheepish grin. “I thought I understood it.”

  The old druid ran a hand down his face, shaking his head, but then a sudden thought lit his expression. He straightened, breath catching. “How many points did you feel, by the end of the meld?”

  Aehyl looked up, visibly uncomfortable. There was something distant in her eyes. “I felt… all of them,” she whispered. “My whole essence was filled with pressure points, from the tips of my ears to the ends of my toes.”

  Grimus tried to nod as naturally as he could, though the weight of her words stunned him.

  From across the fire, Portean let out a long, low whistle.

  “Well,” Grimus said slowly, his voice quiet, “it seems you might be the one teaching me a thing or two about meld maps now.”

  Noticing the curiosity growing on Portean’s face, he elaborated.

  “For each meld, a druid expands their map, a network of viable vessels committed to memory. Only so much information can be gathered at a time. Even sensing a few dozen accepting trees can be disorienting.”

  He paused, the lines on his face deepening. “But if what you’re saying is true… you didn’t just learn the Crystal-Mist. You’ve absorbed most of the Obsidian Empire too.”

  He gave Aehyl a long, meaningful look.

  “If my guess is right, there’s only one druid left with more knowledge of the land’s vessels than you—and his name is Kreadus.”

  Another sharp whistle came from Portean, and silence settled over the camp.

  “I need to examine the tree that brought us here,” Grimus muttered, rising stiffly to his feet. “Wherever here is.”

  Aehyl blinked. “But… if I’ve felt them all, how can I keep expanding my map? The pressure was everywhere.”

  Grimus rubbed his chin, reaching absently for his pipe. Draefus, sensing the lull, waddled over and butted his head against Portean’s shoulder for attention.

  “The meld map needs time,” Grimus murmured, puffing thoughtfully. “Time to settle. Time to make sense of what’s been learned.”

  He exhaled a long plume of smoke.

  “Kreadus once told me: the more you use the spell, the more attuned you become. With enough use, the points begin to condense, refined by the spirit itself. It clears space for more. That’s the only way I can explain it.”

  He lapsed into silence again, mind drifting toward the same pressing thought, where had the oak dropped them?

  Finally, Grimus straightened. “Now then. Let’s take a look at that tree.”

  Just ten yards beyond their camp, a dense copse ringed a slow-moving spring. But the moment his eyes adjusted, realization struck him like a blow to the gut.

  By Faune… the plains.

  He’d been too dazed, too ravenous to notice, but now the truth was inescapable. Somehow, the tree had carried them far beyond the borders of the forest.

  And there it was. The only oak nearby that could’ve possibly answered the meld.

  It was an old, gnarled thing, long dead.

  The tree jutted from the bank like a skeletal fist bursting from the ground. Bleached and splintered, its massive trunk loomed like a monument to decay.

  Grimus licked his dry lips and stepped forward cautiously, dread mounting with each footfall.

  This… shouldn’t be possible.

  Then he saw it: a faint shimmer crawling along the earth, a residual pulse of magic, inching outward from the base of the tree. Wherever it touched, plants grew, matured, and withered all in seconds. The ground around the oak had been sterilized in a perfect ring of unnatural death.

  The spell was nearly spent, but the echo of what had happened lingered in the air like a scream.

  Aehyl stood beside him, stiff as stone. He hadn’t heard her approach.

  And now he understood her cheeriness. It hadn’t been joy, it was deflection.

  She was terrified.

  “Where are we, Portean?” Grimus asked, voice hoarse.

  The woodsman gave his father a sharp glance, then looked to Aehyl, who stared at the tree with wide, unblinking eyes.

  Revulsion twisted her features.

  Portean turned away, his brow furrowing as he scanned the horizon.

  Rolling hills stretched out in every direction, not yet green from the slow start of a late spring. Shallow ravines cut through the terrain, filled with sagebrush and hardy shrubs clinging to the rocky soil. Scattered trees—northern pines and rough-barked cottonwoods—punctuated the landscape, but they stood far apart, stunted and wind-worn.

  Prairie cactus grew in thick, defiant clumps, many of them beginning to bloom with startlingly large blossoms. Most of the plant life here was low, rugged, and battle-hardened—so different from the soaring, vibrant forests of the Crystal-Mist.

  The exposed stones littering the hillsides bore familiar marks, granite and limestone, pushed up by time and weather.

  Portean studied every detail, mentally sorting flora and terrain. Slowly, with the patience of a hunter tracking something elusive, he reached back through memory.

  And then, recognition struck.

  His breath caught, and for a moment, he simply stared.

  Aehyl had transported them, not just out of danger, not just through a forest path, but across four weeks of hard travel. In the blink of an eye.

  He turned to face her, his voice low with awe.

  “By Faune, Aehyl… you’ve brought us to the Plains of Trahern. We can’t be more than a week’s leg from the Obsidian Palace itself.”

  Aehyl said nothing at first. She stood unmoving, her eyes still fixed on the corpse of the oak.

  She had casually nurtured it—to death. A thousand years of energy, all at once.

  What did the other side look like? Her power had been even more concentrated there.

  The breeze rolled softly across the plains, ruffling her hair and tugging at the hem of her cloak, as if beckoning her forward.

  But she felt no triumph, only a hollow echo of something that might have been wonder. Or dread.

  Grimus exhaled slowly beside her, the line of his mouth drawn in thought.

  “This wasn’t just a spell,” he murmured. “It was an echo of connection. Something called to you, and you answered.”

  Portean turned away, his gaze lingering on the far horizon.

  “We’re too close to power we don’t understand,” he muttered. “The Obsidian Palace is a week away, if that. If anyone saw that tree…”

  He didn’t finish.

  Draefus bumped gently against Aehyl’s side, pressing his heavy head into her shoulder.

  She reached up, absently running her fingers through his thick fur, grounding herself.

  “I didn’t mean to bring us this far,” she said quietly. “I just wanted us to be safe.”

  “You may have done more than that,” Grimus replied. “You may have started something. But what power you tapped …”

  The elf trailed off, words hanging in the air like distant thunder.

  Aehyl looked once more at the ravaged oak, its roots curled like ancient fingers into the spring-fed earth.

  A faint shimmer still danced across the death-ringed soil, echoes of the spell fading with each breath of wind.

  Behind her, the campfire smoldered, their breakfast long gone.

  Ahead, the road would only grow darker.

  What do you think is happening to Aehyl?