Marked Chapter Thirty-Four

As we get closer to Greenheart, we start to see people camping out, around small campfires and tents. Ahead, I notice a weird looking, mottled green bubble about twenty feet across, the left third of which is occupied by a massive trunk that's wider than the bubble itself. I try very hard not to think about the fact that the trunk isn't actually the largest I've seen here, nor draw conclusions about the height that suggests for the trees themselves.

"Tiny Hut," Nax informs me as she catches me staring. "A much more limited magical structure similar in use to a Secure Shelter or Hidden Lodge. It serves as a basic shelter against less than extremely bad weather, although visibly obvious and attention catching. It is a relatively common spell for most reasonably skilled arcane spellcasters." 

"Not basic stuff like fireballs, huh?" I ask with a wry smirk.

"On the contrary, a fireball is a dangerous and powerful spell of similar complexity." Nax looks at me oddly. "A well placed fireball is capable of turning the tides of battles." 

"It... what?" I ask. "Wait, how big a fire are we talking here?"

"A sphere shaped explosion about forty feet across." 

No way. "That... that can't be the same spell that Eranil was describing on my first day of tutoring?!"

"Very likely, yes. It is a common and well known example of arcane battle magics. One might even refer to it as almost a definitive spell. It is very popular in adventure tales both factual and fictional." 

A forty foot wide ball of exploding fire, and that's what Eranil introduces magic to students with? "That seems grotesquely irresponsible," I blurt out. "That's the size of a small building. That's insane! You teach this to students?!"

"On the contrary, although I am pleased to see that you are reacting rationally to the scope of the spell. It tells me that you would respect the power and responsibility of it." She smiles. "It is used as an instructional spell because it is not only famous, but also well outside the capabilities of a precocious novice. By the time a student becomes a journeyman arcanist, they have learned discretion and caution or they are usually quite dead." 

By this point on our walk we're just passing the bubble, and I almost reflexively wave at the barechested man walking out of the side of it with a shovel and a bucket. By the smell even from fifteen or twenty feet away, it's not a difficult guess as to what he's doing, and I watch him bury its contents carefully next to a tree before dumping some powder from a bag in along with it. 

"My training was a little different," Chalmer comments. "A partial study under Lady Nella, in addition to a family tradition. Father and Mother both were capable arcanists, although my mother's skills were inborne while Father's were studious. They used to debate constantly over the merits of each." 

"A significant reason why I took such interest in your instruction," Nax interjects. 

"What, that they argued about magic?" he asks with a grin.

"That they disagreed so fundamentally without rancor or ego coming between them. It spoke well of your blood that you were the most capable mix of them both." About a heartbeat later, she continues, "That, and you were pleasing company and good natured."

"As though anyone who knew you could bear to be anything else around you," Chalmer says with a teasing note in his voice. 

Aaand they're flirting again. I pull my haversack free of my cloak and reach inside for my text, the instructional book Nax gave me. Again, I open it up as we walk, looking disconsolately at the foreign, unfamiliar script. Inside these pages are answers to questions I never guessed at, and wonders I never knew existed only a week ago. 

"Chalmer, we are making Titania uncomfortable," Nax says lightly. "Perhaps the remainder of this conversation can wait until later."

And now I feel guilty. "No, I'm sorry. I don't mean to..." To what? What do I even finish that sentence with? 'Make this awkward for you guys?' 'Be a third wheel, and a flat tire at that?' 'Leech the first cheer out of you guys that you've had since we left the Mansion this morning?' I finally settle on, "... to interrupt." 

Nax doesn't say anything, and I don't know whether to feel more guilty or relieved. Thankfully, though, reality conspires to provide us with a distraction. The smell of roasting meat is growing more noticeable as we walk, and another encampment with a group of three men and a woman, all in simple robes, becomes visible through the trees. They've put together a mud oven, from which smoke rises, and are chatting animatedly among one another. As we get closer, they go silent, turning their attention to us. After a moment I realize the woman is very pregnant, and one of the men in particular shifts in a subtle fashion to put himself between us and her. I wave to them, but none of them reply in kind. 

"... Okay..." I comment as we pass them. "That was weird." 

"Not everyone is as trusting or accepting of strangers as you are, Titania," Nax says. 

"I just waved to them," I protest. "I didn't ask to join them or anything." 

"Children are considered precious in the Eldeen Reaches." Nax relates this in an instructional tone. "Moreso for rustic farm communities. The region seceded from Aundair decades ago, and though they have succeeded in retaining their independence, Queen Aurala ir'Wynarn has long attempted to regain Western Aundair with incursions both militant and political. In defense of their autonomy, loss is still close and familiar to the folk of the Reaches, especially the territories closest to the Wynarn River. They are probably here to see the child born on the solstice, if they can manage it, in hopes it will bring the child fortune and long life." 

There wasn't a lot of context there for me. Still, I make a note to remember 'Queen Aurala ir'Wynarn,' 'Aundair,' and 'Wynarn River', the latter most likely being named for the aforementioned queen's family. Before I can ask for more details, though, I catch sight of a low, stone house, like a jut of massive slate rock half buried in the earth. On the rough, vertical facing of mostly bare stone, there's a doorway of sorts, but with an overlapping leather or hides draping across it from the inside. The contour of the rock looks like it was melted upwards, or shaped like clay from the ground. 

It's hard to define the boundaries of the- city? town? -itself, but gradually the stone houses become more common, along with different, sort of tree top apartments that look like they've been grown directly from the trunks and branches. Rope bridges extend from one to another or to the ground. I watch, fascinated, as a series of trunk climbing vines are carefully plucked by a powerfully built, brutish looking man who looks very similar in a general sense to the fisherman seeking bog eels that we ran across a few days ago. A week ago? Guess it depends on perspective. 

This man's tusks are less pronounced, the hue of his green skin is more olive toned, and his nose a little less squat, but the coarse hair of his forearms doesn't conceal the corded muscle or the prominent veins cross crossing them. He works his way around the tree, selecting only the occasional vine to harvest, and those only sparsely, except for one that he digs out to harvest a foot and a half long, gnarled root that looks a lot like some kind of sweet potato, if a sweet potato was purplish red. Once he's taken the root, he replants the vine, building a thick pile of dirt around it, followed by leaves, then a stacked pile of large, flat rocks carefully arrayed around the whole up to the tree trunk. 

"We have arrived." Nax says suddenly. "Chalmer, Titania, we are almost at the center of Greenheart, the Sacred Grove- and the Great Druid Oalian." The name obviously has more impact to Chalmer than to me, but even so anyone that Nax refers to with the adjective 'Great' is probably someone really significant. But all conversation halts as we cross some invisible boundary.

If the area we just traveled is lush, the region within is almost supernaturally alive. Grasses and vines criss cross the ground, forming natural footpaths over smooth stones barely wetted by trickling brooks that run beneath the vines. Birds of all colors hop calmly from spot to spot, with relaxed, unhurried mammals of all sorts both familiar and strange. Something that looks like nothing so much as a four foot long hamster ambles up to my feet, sniffing at me idly, before moving a little further along and drinking from a trickling runnel of water between the vines. I take extra care not to step on anything; this place feels like it deserves the descriptor 'sacred' and I actively don't want to hurt anything here. 

Nax raises a hand, bringing us to a halt, then steps forward alone, walking to the centerpiece of the grove, a tree more massive than even the giants we've already seen on our way from the teleport cave. Following Nax's cue, Chalmer and I wait where we stand. Even from this distance, it seems impossibly huge, something far beyond anything that could be described by the mere word 'tree'. 

"Oalian!" Nax calls out, and even from almost a football field away, I can hear her clearly. She drops to a knee in her armor, then carefully rocks back onto her butt, taking a seat on the grass. "We have come to bring a warning." 

I look around. Not far away, I see someone standing and facing us; I look back at Nax, who is focused on the tree. I peer up to the branches, remembering the sentry who greeted us at the outskirts, but I'm guessing the Great Druid is a bit better at hiding his presence than that guy was. "Where-" 

Then, the tree shifts. Stirs, like someone waking up from a nap. There's no wind and no movement in the ground, but the tree moves all the same. As it does, I notice that the tree bears needles instead of small leaves like many of the trees in the forest, although the needles themselves are frankly huge. Then the lowest branches overhead shift aside, and the mid day sun shines on Nax from a steep angle. 

I look at Chalmer, who answers my unfinished question. "This is him. This is the Great Druid." 

I look back at the tree. Then the bark parts horizontally from some twelve feet up with a creaking of wood. The gap in the trunk is at least four feet wide. I'm so mesmerized by the sight of it beginning to form words I almost don't realize it's speaking. It has a voice like wind and leaves, like the sound the rain made on my tent the summer before everything went to hell in my life. I don't even know what it just said. 

For a few minutes, Chalmer and I watch as Nax confers with the tree. I guess it sort of makes sense for a wise and powerful druid to be a tree, but... 

Then, Nax gets up, nodding to the tree, before she starts walking back to us. That's it? This is the whole thing we came here to do? Chalmer seems perfectly content to stay back here but suddenly I feel a little disappointed. I know there's some kind of emergency here, but even so I can't quite push down the feeling of being let down. 

Then, I hear the voice again, like wind in the leaves, as Nax has almost reached us. "Living scroll," I hear suddenly, softly.

"Did you just-" I start to ask Chalmer, but the voice continues. 

"Living scroll, step forward and heed my counsel." 

I don't know what else to do. I start walking slowly, watching Nax and Chalmer alternately for some cue that I should or shouldn't do as I'm told. Chalmer seems confused, and Nax looks displeased. "We do not have time for this, Great Druid," she says flatly. "We three still have a great deal of travel ahead of us. I must bring the warning to the-" 

"Be still, young dragon," admonishes the voice. "I called your sire's masterwork forth. I would instruct her." 

Nax's expression transitions quickly from displeased to outright angry. "I mislike your commanding of what is mine." I look at Nax, somewhat worried, not just by the conflict here but by Nax's blithe statement of me being hers. Her... what? Her agent? Her pet? Her property? 

The tree's reply is almost one of amusement. "Though what was your sire's has passed to you, this little one is no more yours than the soil at the mountain's roots. Come, Little Owl. My words to you are yours alone." 

I feel a jolt at the name; the mask I've been wearing is so comfortable I'd almost forgotten I was wearing it. Even if the name had been my motivation for designing the mask in the first place, I'd never have dreamed I'd hear someone call me by it in this place.

"You do not have to go," Nax says to me, her hand on my arm. 

"No. No, it's okay. I don't mind," I say after a moment. "I don't mind at all." I hold my head high and walk towards the tree. 

What I hadn't anticipated was having time to think. I can't just look back at Nax and Chalmer, now, because that would send the wrong message, both to Oalian and Nax. The High Druid choosing to call me Little Owl is an obvious derivation, given the mask, and I'm not foolish enough to think he would have missed my reaction to the name. But if he asks me about it, what should I say? Nax seems wary of Oalian, and given how easily one of his sentinels- if that gorilla guy was one of them- caught Chalmer in a lie, I'm betting I won't do any better about making something up with the High Druid himself. 

Right?

Then suddenly I realize I'm within the patch of light from the parted branches, only about ten feet from the tree, and I'm out of time. "Uh... hello." 

"Little Owl, lost child, and Living Scroll of the Prophecy," he says. "It is a privelege to finally meet you." 

What. "Wait, what?"

"I do not expect you to understand yet. You are young, and events are in motion that threaten to sweep you uncontrolled in their tides. But take heart. Your journey need not be on the trodden or prepared earth you are shown, should you be brave enough to wander. In time, you will see more clearly than the wisest of us."

"Uh, o-okay." 

The horizontal part in the trunk turns upwards at the corners, somewhat like a smile. "To be truly free you must have faith in yourself, and accept that others have faith in you." 

Faith in myself. Father DiMaggio and Bishop Wellhausen immediately spring to mind, and suddenly I'm uncomfortable. It hits just a little closer to home than I'm happy with, much like the fact that he calls me 'Little Owl'. "Just believe in myself? Sounds like the same dumb platitudes they feed us during assemblies in school when they have the Wards visiting..." 

"Wisdom is oft packaged in small sentences to be unwrapped by those with small minds." 

WOW. And here I thought Nax was condescending. "Okay, rude, but aside from that, what do you mean by living scroll?"

"There is no insult in truth. The world is not made up solely of elephants and bison and bears. All creatures have a place in it, even the mice and beetles, yes, even owls." 

I feel the first stirrings of anger, before I forcefully push the reaction down and try to think, to turn over in my mind what he said to me. What he called me. "A scroll," I begin thoughtfully. He says nothing as I start thinking out loud. "A scroll is just paper. What it's made of isn't as important as what's written on it. Stories. History. Wisdom or knowledge." 

"What adorns your flesh is no measure of your content. And your mentor is becoming impatient. Reassure her that the Wardens will call a mote. She will have the time she needs." He pauses, and I can tell his next words aren't directed at me. "I promise you, little dragon." 

Looking over my shoulder, I see Nax, looking impatient and irritable and indignant and probably a few other words beginning with 'i' that describe various kinds of discomfiture. I hadn't even noticed her walking up. "Coming to warn you was a courtesy," she says. 

"Coming to warn us was a responsibility laid upon you by more than your lineage and your inheritance. The abomination will be tracked, corralled, and destroyed. The true concern-" 

"The true concern is that this creation of Katashka is in a place it should not be. It suggests that one of the Lords of Dust has broken free of imprisonment. Not merely broken free, but traveled very far afield from his prison." Nax tilts her head, peering up at Oalian. "If he or one of his creations is this far from Shargon's Teeth, others could be potentially anywhere in Khorvaire." 

"I am not blind to the implications, dragon; I was older than the oldest living dragons by centuries before your grandsire hatched. And, Little Owl," he adds, addressing me once more, "we will speak again." 

The crack in the bark seals shut and vanishes. 

In the ensuing silence and our return to where Chalmer is waiting, I watch Nax fume. As human as she looks, part of me is keenly remembering the sensation of her claws clamped around me. Perhaps it's a quality of her anger, or perhaps the vague hypocrisy of referring to him respectfully but speaking to him dismissively. 

Or maybe there isn't any actual hypocrisy, simply hierarchy. Another example of how she doesn't recognize the Druid greater than herself, just something better and more deserving of respect than a human. And that rather sucks.