Beyond the Dreams We Know: A Collection Read online

  The serpent tilted its narrow head, watching her with its unblinking golden eyes. “Ah, you are sparing of coin. Wise the frugal heart, so long as thrift does not take council of parsimony and become meanness. But I ask nothing for my advice—this time.”

  Definitely that was mockery. Eliet did not know how to answer it. She said merely, “Coin I might offer, if I knew what manner of coin might be demanded. But as you ask nothing, I would gladly hear your advice.”

  “Very wise,” said the serpent. “Then it is this: Fear may be a useful guide, but it is a poor master. Credulity is dangerous, but self-deception is worse. Kindness is not to be despised even when it costs nothing, but generosity is greater when it bears a cost. It is in giving away your heart’s desire that you will receive it back again, twofold.”

  Eliet blinked. “I will remember,” she said, which seemed a safe promise. She nodded her head deeply in respect, “Thank you.” Courtesy was always wise; she knew that. Everyone knew it was best to be polite to any person or creature one encountered in the great forest, and everyone knew it was best to be cautious as well. Tell no lies and make no promises, that was what Eliet had heard all her life—what all children were taught, but especially those who lived near the forest.

  The serpent turned its narrow head, fixing her with one golden eye. “That would be best,” it said, sounding somehow amused and kindly and mocking and just a little malicious all at the same time. Before Eliet could think how to answer, it uncoiled itself and slid around its branch, up and around the rough-barked trunk of the tree, into the shifting shadows of the young leaves, and disappeared.

  Ponder whuffled through his nose in the way of a horse who isn’t certain about something that’s just happened but isn’t much concerned about it. He tipped his ears back toward Eliet, shifted his weight, sighed, and began to dig a small hole in the packed earth of the road with the tip of one hoof to show her that he would rather go on than stand still.

  “Me, too,” muttered Eliet, not very forcefully. She continued to stare up into the green heights for another moment, but she could see nothing. Nor could she hear anything. Not even one of the little birds that had comforted her through the morning.

  Was it morning still? Or noon? Or later? She was hungry, she realized, but the quality of the light did not seem to have changed and she did not want to stop here in this place anyway. “All right, walk on,” she said to Ponder, relaxing the reins and sitting forward a little, and the horse strode forward with a will.

  -3-

  The forest in early spring was less forbidding than it might seem later in the summer. The leaves were still small and pale silvery-green, and the shade they cast lay lighter than it would later. Sunlight made its way through the high canopy of twisted branches, stippling the earth and fallen leaves, picking out the occasional clump of mayapple or the tiny four-petaled white flowers of woodruff.

  As Neill had expected, the path was wider than a first glance would have suggested, and widened further once his mare turned decisively along the first curve, out of sight of the edge. He did glance back then, but already the broad sunlit farmlands through which he had been riding had fallen away, out of sight. He saw nothing but the gray boles of trees, most too large around for a man or even two to compass; and the shifting shadows and dappled light that came through the branches; and last autumn’s leaves scattered over all the ground and over the path as well, muffling the sound of his mare’s hooves.

  The path turned and turned again, leading around one massive gnarled trunk and another. Then it tumbled abruptly down a series of steep, rocky ledges, crossed a narrow creek, and climbed again on the other side to run along the top of a winding ridge. It was rougher going than any proper road would have offered, and any horse larger or less neat-footed than Raven might have had some difficulty navigating it. But, though the mare laid her ears back and minced sideways several steps in expressive comment when he put her at that course, once she consented to go, she hopped down the ledges as lightly as a deer, jumped the creek, scrambled up the slope on the other side, and finally turned to trot along the ridge. She picked her feet up higher than strictly necessary as she went, because despite her display of irritation, she had enjoyed that slithery course and now looked forward to what else she might find. Certainly she found this path more interesting than any road through farmlands.

  The forest was filled with marvels and curiosities and all manner of unpredictable dangers, all of which one was especially likely to encounter if one ventured off the road. Every child knew it. Neill certainly knew it. Drink from the wrong pool and he might turn into a fox with a golden pelt or a swan with the voice of a flute; taste the wrong fruit and he might fall into an enchanted sleep for a year and a day; unwisely offend the wrong creature and he might find a finger missing, the bones worked into a flute whose playing he would hear in his dreams for the rest of his life. Neill had heard tales that began—or ended—in each of those ways. All those tales were true. He was not afraid of what he might encounter...not precisely afraid. Or no more than was wise. He knew what he had done, entering the forest when it had put itself in his way. He was prepared to be cautious. And polite.

  Yet for a long time he saw nothing out of the way. No alluring pool with ferns trailing their fronds in its opaque water, no mysterious tower guarded by dragons or griffons, no strange moss-draped statue with unreadable letters carved around its base. Neither beast nor bird; only occasional butterflies and once or twice a rustle in the fallen leaves that might have been a lizard or a mouse or some other such small creature. Neill might have turned back—he considered turning back—except that he felt somehow disinclined to check his mare, who still went forward with quick light steps and an inquisitive air.

  Besides, though the path here was wide and easy to follow, he doubted he would find it so cooperative if he turned back.

  And besides that...besides that, he had deliberately chosen to ride into the forest, and even though he did not know precisely what had prodded him forward, he did not like to look a fool by turning about before he found that out.

  The trees gradually increased in girth and grew more contorted in form. Twisted branches often stretched low over the path so that he had to duck low to pass beneath them, or dismount and lead Raven. One hill supplanted another, so he rode more often up or down than along any level way. Yet the path remained clear. Twice it divided, one branch wandering more uphill and the other tending more downward. Each time Neill, guided by no impulse he understood, took the way that seemed narrower and less traveled, and each time that track tended downward. The earth became marshy beneath his mare’s hooves, and they began to pass shallow pools and sloughs. Streamers and curtains of pale mosses festooned the branches that overhung the path, and knobby roots reached out of the earth so that a less neat-footed horse might have stumbled. Raven stepped delicately, unalarmed by the uneven footing, even when she must splash through one or another pool.

  Here the deep quiet of higher ground gave way to a hum of insects, though so far neither flies nor mosquitoes plagued Neill or his mare. Still, it was not a comfortable place. The draperies of moss swayed in a breeze he did not feel and blocked his view, the splash and soft thump of his mare’s steps sounded overloud, the contorted shapes of the trees seemed to remind him of half-glimpsed shadows dimly recalled from uneasy dreams.

  By this time the light was dimming. Somewhere high above the green canopy, the sun was sinking low. If the shadows in this place had been more distinct, they would have grown long and dark. But here in these damp bottomlands of the forest, the light was not clear enough even to cast shadows. It had simply become twilight, though no doubt for a man outside the forest the day was not yet done.

  This was not a good trail for a fast pace, but Raven was walking faster now, responding to Neill’s growing tension. He could not quite recollect what impulse might have led him to turn down and down again when he might have climbed instead, perhaps breaking clear of the deeper forest in
to less close-grown heights. Now every direction seemed the same. The marshy bottomlands stretched out flat and secretive in every direction.

  Then Neill realized that the path too had disappeared, and that truly, every direction seemed precisely the same, and none in the least welcoming.

  Raven checked as his hand tightened on the rein. But when he gave no further signal—he had not even clearly meant to draw her to a halt—she tossed her head, irritated, and struck forward again, choosing her own way.

  Seeing no reason to signal her one way or another, Neill let her go as she would, and found that after all the mare had not lost the path even when he himself had mistaken it. Raven skirted the low branches of one enormous moss-draped tree, and then another, and he saw, as though his gaze focused for the first time, how the lacey foliage of meadowsweet and angelica spread out to either side and the path ran clear between. Though he did not trust this track, the sense of relief was immediate. Neill found himself smiling despite the fading light and the increasingly pressing prospect of a damp and chilly night. The forest might be deceptive, but he trusted Raven to find her way even when he had lost his; and if he had neither candle nor candlelighter, nor bread nor beef, nor soap nor spare shirt, at least he did carry, in his mare’s saddlebags, a few handfuls of grain for her and a packet of dried apples they might share. Damp and chilly the night might be, and he no longer so young as to think nothing of a sleepless night, but at thirty-and-four, he was not yet so aged he could not bear with minor privation if an ill-judged whim carried him out of his customary round.

  Then the mare suddenly planted her feet, jerking her head up in sharp unease, so that Neill straightened his back and peered ahead, laying a hand to the short knife at his belt—not an effective weapon, but the only one he had—and followed the direction of her gaze.

  Not far ahead, a short way off the track, with a narrower path leading to it in a long curve, a door stood open, with lantern light shining through it into the gathering dusk. But this door was set not into any ordinary house or tower, but directly into the massive trunk of a great tree. The tree was even larger than was the general order for the forest; Neill guessed that ten men together could not have stretched their arms around it. Inside, if the whole thing was hollow, it must be larger than any ordinary hut; larger than many well-kept cottages.

  Once his mare had drawn his attention to the tree and the door and the shining lantern light, Neill had no idea how he had come so close without noticing. He was surprised, though in this forest, he should know better than to be surprised by anything. Now he had finally seen that doorway, brightly lit in the gloom, he thought nothing had ever looked more welcoming. The chill in the air was sharpening, and as the sun sank lower, all around came the piping of frogs and the whine of insects and the muted, distant splash of some creature larger than either. But the lantern light glowed steady and warm, clear promise of shelter.

  Neill knew perfectly well what risk a traveler bore, entering any such place in this forest. But, he thought, he had already accepted this risk. The forest had put itself in his way and offered him a path. When he had permitted his mare to take that path, he had tacitly accepted what would come of that choice. He did not look for safety, or comfort, or ease. But he hoped...he thought perhaps he hoped for wisdom, and for a clearer understanding of...something. Some question he had not framed clearly, even to himself.

  When he touched the reins, Raven went forward without hesitation. All around the sloughs stretched out, pools of black standing water as reflective as mirrors. But the mare’s hooves struck a more solid beat as she came up an imperceptible rise to drier ground and then to the great tree and the open door. Paving stones had been laid in an arc outside the doorway, butter-yellow in the lamplight; the wood of the doorway was smooth and irregular, as it will grow around the place where a branch has been lost. The door itself, standing open, was smooth as well, but neither painted nor polished.

  Neill dismounted and stood for a moment, the reins gripped in his hand. He could see nothing of the interior of the tree. The light that shone out of it was opaque as water.

  He had decided already. He had decided the moment he guided his mare into the forest. He stepped forward, into the light, into the tree, leading Raven because he certainly would not leave her behind.

  The light opened up as he walked forward, warm and welcoming. Neill had half expected to find that, outward appearances notwithstanding, he had stepped into a great castle or fortress: something much larger and more impressive than any tree could possibly contain. But this was not so. The space was impressive for a hollow tree, but a hollow within a tree it clearly was. There was a single room, unevenly round, walled with the smooth wood of the tree. Behind him still stood the door through which he had entered and, on the other side of the room, a round shuttered window offered the only other apparent means of access. Above, the hollow interior of the tree extended as far as he could see; underfoot, the floor was covered with mats of woven grasses and one simple rag rug of faded blue and red and yellow.

  Straight ahead, standing a little before the far wall, stood a small but well-made iron stove. Coals glowed within and the black metal poured out heat. Upon the stove sat a wide pot steaming with savory broth and a smaller one containing something fragrant with honey and some unfamiliar spice, floral and warm. To one side of the stove stood a curved table with a short bench beneath it and a chair at its head; to the other side a wide sideboard held a large enameled bowl of water and a narrow flat cake of soap.

  Wooden bowls were stacked upon the table, with wooden spoons laid out beside the bowls; a round loaf of bread and a bowl of butter and a crock of dark red berry preserves had been laid out beside the stack of bowls. A pewter pitcher beaded with moisture sat on the table as well, with several wooden mugs beside it.

  Across from the table, on the other side of the tree, a thin gray cord delineated a generous stall spread with hay and wood shavings, with hay hanging in a net and water in a narrow bucket. Raven leaned in that direction, nothing hesitating, laying her ears flat in acerbic comment when Neill hesitated to let her go.

  No one else seemed to be present. No one occupied the chair or stirred the pots on the stove. Certainly there was no place in this singular room where anyone might stay out of sight. After a moment, Neill led his mare into the stall, stripped her bridle and saddle off, laid these aside, and gathered up a handful of straw with which to rub her down. After which he spotted a shelf holding everything he needed: brush and curry comb and hoof pick. So he went over Raven with these tools as she lipped the hay out of the net and nudged around in the straw to find stray wisps.

  Then he left her, not without a backward glance. But his mare seemed content where she stood. So he washed his hands in the basin and went to examine the pots simmering on the stove.

  The broth proved to be a soup of chicken with carrots and parsnips and spring onions. The other pot contained a thick, creamy porridge of oats sweetened generously with honey and flavored with that unfamiliar floral spice. Neill ladled up generous portions of both soup and porridge, sliced half the round loaf of bread—dark and moist, it was studded with raisins and walnuts—and pulled out the bench to sit, wary of claiming the single chair.

  The food was good, if simple, and as he was hungry, Neill made a satisfying meal. No one came or went while he ate, but as he spread a second slice of bread with butter and berry preserves, he became aware that the chair was occupied.

  At once Neill set down the bread and straightened on his bench, folding his hands on the table. The appearance of his host had startled him, but he was not actually surprised, and after a moment he said steadily, “I thank you, sir, for your hospitality. I hope I have not presumed upon your goodwill in availing myself of the comforts here, which I took to be offered to a weary traveler.”

  The man had come without notice or warning, but he seemed ordinary enough to a first glance, and a second. This was not an impression Neill trusted in the least. The man
appeared old; he was white-haired, with a lean, seamed face. His mouth was thin-lipped, his nose narrow and arched, his eyes deep-set and dark. He seemed in some way half-familiar, which was a second impression Neill did not trust. Whether he was truly a man or some other manner of creature entirely was impossible to know. If he were a man, then whether he was merely old or actually ancient was hard to guess. In either case, whether he was unwelcoming or merely cool-tempered was also difficult to judge. Certainly he did not smile, but regarded Neill from beneath bushy white brows.

  But though the man did not smile, he flicked a dismissive hand at Neill’s careful speech. “Of course you have presumed, Lord Bastard. From your first step within the bounds of the forest. But you are welcome here, and I ask no price for supper or shelter for yourself or your mare. Yet I doubt you came into the forest intending only to seek a plain supper and simple lodgings.”

  Neill had already framed and discarded several guesses about who this person might be—a mage, no. Neill knew several mages, and this man had something of the manner but nothing of the...the feel, for want of a better term. Whatever their other qualities, mages possessed an underlying dispassion. This man...he neither smiled nor frowned, but Neill felt even in so brief a time that dispassion was not his ruling nature.

  The white hair...that might be a sign of more than age. But whoever this man might be, Neill did not believe there was even a remote possibility that a man of his mother’s people would be found here, in this peculiar home, in the midst of the thickest part of the great forest. No.

  A face of the forest itself...that seemed more likely. Yet there was also that feeling of familiarity, of half-recognition.

  He said, “I think...I hoped to find the answer to a question I do not know how to ask.”

  The man lifted white brows. “Indeed, Lord Bastard. Wisdom is not a treasure to be tripped over in the dark, nor a prize to be won. It is born of experience carved from the past and carried into the future. But perhaps you may discover at least the question you wish to ask. Or perhaps you may make yourself in some manner useful. One never knows what task one might discover awaiting one’s hand. Awaiting one of your blood in particular, perhaps.”