The tracker led in Brant and Dart. Brant wore a grim expression.
“Has there ever been a fire like this before in Saysh Mal?” Tylar asked.
“No. The Huntress controls root, leaf, and loam, protecting any ravaging fires from spreading. The only time I’ve seen such wild burns is in some of the lowland jungles of the hinterland. But never up in the highlands.”
“Until now,” Rogger murmured.
“Could she still be raving?” Brant asked. “Could a simple fire have been started by lightning, and in her madness, she did not stanch it but let it burn?”
Tylar looked to the thief for answers. Rogger was the one of them who had most recently visited this land, when he stole the skull.
His eyes held a worried glint as he rubbed the scraggly beard under his chin. “Eylan,” he mumbled and flashed Tylar a significant glance. “You saw her state when Brant broke the seersong’s grip on her. Her mind all but tore apart in the struggle. Taking the skull and hauling my arse out of there may not have been the wisest theft.”
Krevan made a grumble that clearly agreed with Rogger. But he kept any further accusations to himself.
Rogger continued. “Seersong is like a worm that takes root in a body rich in Grace. Look how it persists in the bones of Keorn, well after his death. Once embedded deeply enough, like with Eylan, or long enough, like with Keorn, the song becomes irretrievably entangled in mind and flesh.”
“And when you took the skull…” Tylar said, beginning to sense the depth of the error.
“Are you familiar with tanglebriar?” Rogger asked.
Tylar frowned. There was no need to answer. Everyone knew about tanglebriar, the thorny and stubborn growth that could be found everywhere throughout the Nine Lands. It proved almost impossible to kill, even with fire.
“Tanglebriar,” Rogger said, “is like any pernicious weed in a garden. You rip it free, only to have it grow back wilder. But tanglebriar is even more insidious. You tear off what’s above the soil, and its roots respond by digging deeper, spreading wider, bursting forth more robust than the original thorny stalk.”
“And you think seersong might be like tanglebriar?”
“If it fully gets its roots in you.” Rogger turned to the fire. “Taking the skull might have been like ripping tanglebriar. Whatever had already been planted in the Huntress over the years may have responded in kind. Driven deep, spread wider, bursting forth with an even more ravening madness.”
“Mad enough to let her own realm burn?” Tylar asked.
Rogger just stared toward the devastation. “There’s only one way to find out.”
Tylar’s eyes drifted away from the charred forest and turned to the tallest sentinel of it. Its crown of leaves caught the morning light and glowed with green fire. An ancient pompbonga-kee. The oldest of all the forest-and home to the Huntress.
No matter the risk, they would have to venture down there.
They needed answers from this realm. If they were to follow the footsteps of Keorn back into the hinter, they would need to start in the lands here, where his tracks ended. Additionally, Brant said a chronicler from the school in Saysh Mal possessed a map of the neighboring hinterlands, centuries old and sketchy at best, but better than having no guide at all.
But most important of all, Tylar had another reason to point his arm toward the castillion rising above the mists. He preferred not to enter the forbidden hinterlands with a ravening god at his back.
Obeying his silent command, the ship smoothly banked out over the wide jungle, turning its stern toward the smolder, and aimed for the tallest tree in the forest. With the dying fire behind them, the spread of cloud forest appeared like a vast emerald lake, swept by fog, untouched. And as the sun climbed above the horizon, the mists thinned, slowly revealing the breadth of canopy and the fervent vitality of the steaming and damp jungle beneath. It was a pristine world, beyond man and god. Seeing it like this, Tylar wondered how it even could burn-and who would be coldhearted enough to let it.
Brant joined him. “In the shadow of the Huntress’s castillion, a large bowled meadow lies open to the sky. It should be wide enough to land the flippercraft.”
Tylar nodded across the deck. “Inform Captain Horas. Help guide him to the spot.”
As the boy left, Tylar turned to discover that others had gathered here, the remainder of their party, drawn by their approach into Saysh Mal.
Krevan’s woman, Calla, had entered and stood at her leader’s shoulder, staring out toward the spread of misty jungle. Though she still wore the gray cloak of her guild, she had shed her ash for this voyage, a rare sign of trust. Tylar had been surprised to find her skin as pale as milk, softening her considerably, until you looked into her eyes. They remained as hard as agates and as sharp as the daggers at her wrists. She may have washed her face, but she was still a Flagger at heart.
Filling the doorway was the last member of their party, the loam-giant Malthumalbaen. Tylar had spent the previous morning talking to the man. While the giant’s tongue might be thick and coarse, there was a quick wit about him-though perhaps tinged a bit more darkly by his brother’s passing. Still, a certain easy companionship developed between them, a balm for Tylar’s own misgivings. Perhaps sensing this, the giant had filled the emptiness with tales of his brother’s exploits, mostly involved with the bottomless pit that was his brother’s belly.
With everyone gathered, Tylar spoke to the group. “Once we land, we’ll leave the mekanicals stoked high in case a hurried departure is necessary. Krevan and I will inspect the state of the immediate area. The rest will remain with the ship.”
Malthumalbaen spoke from the doorway. “Mayhap I should go with. A strong arm may serve where a quick sword fails.”
Tylar bowed his head at the offer. “I would prefer that strong arm guard the ship and those inside.”
Other objections were voiced Tylar held up his hand and dismissed each in turn. “Lorr, I know your skills at tracking, but even in the best of moods, the Huntress has forbidden the Grace-bred from her lands. Calla, your gray cloak is no match to our shadowcloaks. And Dart, I will be bringing more than just Rivenscryr.” He patted his belt, where a diamond-pommeled sword was sheathed, a shadowknight’s blade. “And I have a tiny repostilary of your blood should it prove necessary to anoint the Godsword.”
He turned to Rogger.
The thief held up his own hand. “I’m fine with staying inside the flippercraft.”
“Keep the skull hidden,” Tylar said.
“What skull?”
Tylar rolled his eyes and swung back forward. The ship sailed over the treetops, skimming mists. He stepped over to join Captain Horas and Brant.
“The Grove lies below the castillion. On its east side. See the shadow cast by the rising sun?” Brant pointed to the marker. “That’s where we want to go.”
As the pilot corrected their glide, Tylar’s gaze followed where the shadow pointed, farther off to the west. The blaze of the morning sun stretched across the valley to ignite two of the tallest peaks in the western range, pinnacles so steep that even the creeping vines could not scale them. The bare rock, rich in salts and crystals, captured the sun’s rays and ignited with fire.
Brant noted where he looked. “The Forge,” he said. “The two peaks are named the Hammer and the Anvil.”
“With the fire between,” Tylar said.
“They flare at sunrise and at sunset,” Brant mumbled, plainly drawn into old memories. “In the forests near the Forge-that is where the rogue god burnt to ash.”
Tylar tried to spy the spot, but the ship rolled back around, putting the Forge astern.
It took another quarter bell to reach the ancient pompbonga-kee. The mists below remained thick, gathered close around the leafy crown of the forest. The tree’s shadow stretched across the white shroud.
Brant spoke in low whispers to the captain.
Horas was not so quiet. “And you’re sure there is an open glade below? We’ll be dropping in blind.”