" Tis neither good nor evil in its own right," Fadecourt assured him.
"I think I've heard that argument before—that no object is good or evil in itself, just in how we use it."
"Oh, no, friend Matthew! In this world, at least, there are some things that are evil in themselves, such as demons and lamias, and things that are good in themselves, such as churches and bells. A good thing can be profaned and turned to evil uses, it is true, yet a wand of holly branch is not among these, though it is a tree of power, like the rowan and the hazel."
"And the oak, and ash, and thorn? Not to mention the mistletoe, and the ivy, and the brier rose and..."
"I take your point; it may be that each wood has its own certain power. I would not know of such things—I am not a magic-worker," Fadecourt said, aggrieved.
Matt felt instantly contrite; a friend did not deserve that of him. "Sorry, Fadecourt. I just get nervous with things I don't understand."
"You shall come to understand it presently, friend Matthew, I am sure."
Matt looked down at the wand. It was almost certainly a powerful gadget, to be used for good or ill. He hefted it, making slow, experimental passes toward the darkness as the night murmured about him.
He was careful not to say anything, though—not yet.
CHAPTER 12
Work in Progress
Fortunately, the one wand spell Matt finally decided to try that night was putting people to sleep. He pointed it at each of his friends in turn and recited,
And in each case, the friend in question promptly grew heavy-lidded, started yawning, and was asleep in minutes. Matt didn't sleep himself, though—he wasn't too sanguine about pointing the wand at himself. He had a notion it might set up a feedback cycle, and that was one magical equivalent to physics that he didn't want to find out about—t least, not from the inside. Besides, somebody had to stand watch.
It was a good excuse. The reality of the matter, of course, was that after that attack, he didn't feel much like sleeping. Neither had his friends, he supposed, but he hadn't been about to give them much choice. They had to be fresh and alert for tomorrow. So did he, but he'd cross that bridge when he came to it—though not until after he'd checked under the boards.
It was a good thing Matt had specified that they wake with smiles on their faces, for as soon as they remembered the night's events, they began to feel nervous again. By joking and forcing laughter, they managed to keep each other halfway cheerful; but as soon as they set out, they began to sag. Everybody was eyeing the low grass and scrub around them suspiciously. Matt made a few tries at light conversation, but they sank without a trace.
When Fadecourt figured out that they weren't having much luck trying to bolster their spirits, he began telling them the tale of Worlane, greatest of Hardishane's paladins—of his unrequited love for the eastern princess Lalage, and how that love drove him mad when he learned she had married. He turned out to be an excellent storyteller, so the tale caught them up and out of their own predicament very quickly.
They had hiked perhaps an hour when they topped a rise and saw a dark line shadowing the western horizon, with flashes of green where leaves tossed.
Matt halted. "What's this—a major forest on our line of march?"
"It would appear so." Fadecourt frowned, perplexed. "I came this way not five days ago, and there was naught but meadow and thickets."
"Your thickets have thickened." Matt felt his scalp prickle. "I think I smell sorcery at work."
Yverne looked up, startled. "Can you smell it, then?"
"Well, not literally," Matt admitted, "though there is a sort of...Well, no, it's not a feeling either, it's..." He ran out of words and threw his hands up in exasperation. "What can I tell you? There isn't any word for it! It's a sixth sense, I guess—the one I use to do magic with." He frowned down at Yverne. "Does that explain anything?"
"Enough," she answered, but her eyes were glazing.
Matt turned away. "Come on. I want a closer look at that forest."
Narlh and Fadecourt exchanged looks of misgiving, but they all went forward.
Matt stopped a few hundred feet from the forest. He didn't like what he saw. It was a dark, somber place of gnarled oak trees and bristling thorns, set against the backdrop of huge old evergreens. Matt mistrusted it on sight—any forest that was halfway between conifers and deciduous trees would have had relatively young oaks and elms. Whatever kind of forest it was, it wasn't natural.
In fact, it fairly reeked of sorcery, filled with menacing shadows and gnarled, evil-looking trees. Fadecourt could only scowl, shaking his head. "I could have sworn this forest was not here, Lord Matthew."
"And you would have been right, too." Matt pointed at a huge old trunk. A vine was writhing up through the underbrush at its base, moving even as they watched, rising and thickening as it wrapped itself around the huge old bole. It wasn't the only one—other vines were twining up around other trunks and sagging down from the branches.
"Work in progress," Matt explained. "This forest is still under construction."
Fadecourt said slowly, "It is true, by all the stars! The wood is not quite finished yet; it is still a-building!"
Yverne tore her gaze away and turned to Matt. "Yet how can it be new-made, and still be aged?"
"It just looks that way," Matt explained. "I suspect that, in reality, if the term applies, it only came into existence last night, after I managed to win that little clash with the local wand-waver and pull Yverne back together."
"Wherefore?" Fadecourt asked.
"To stop us, of course." Matt frowned. "My only question is, what to stop us for?"
"To kill us," Narlh growled, half opening his wings.
"How?" Matt asked, feeling very practical. "They could have sent an army against us back uphill—they could have caught us in any of those gullies."
"Yes," Fadecourt said, "but the armies could not have come to us in time."
Matt absorbed that for a minute before he answered, "Then this forest is just here to hold us up while they mobilize the militia."
Fadecourt nodded.
"So the last thing we want to do is stand still."
"Well said." Fadecourt strode resolutely toward the forest wall.
"Uh, maybe not." Matt held out an arm, to bar the way. "I don't know if I'm eager to go into a place when I'm being invited."
Fadecourt turned back to frown. "What do you mean? I see no one who gives us invitation."
But Yverne gasped, and Matt just nodded toward the trees. Fadecourt turned back to look.
A faint trail had appeared, not much more than a deer run. By its side stood an old man in a robe that must have been at least two hundred years out of date. Matt squinted, but he couldn't make out the details of its decoration—nor of the oldster's face, though he could see a long, gray beard.
Fadecourt frowned. "Odd."
"Yes, isn't he?" Matt joined him in his frown. "You don't suppose he grew up in there, and hasn't heard that fashions have changed, do you?"
"Nay, I spoke not of his garb, but of his face. I have seen him somewhere—or his portrait, at least. I could swear to it."
"Don't." Matt laid a hand on his shoulder. "Strange things happen when people swear things around here. Believe me, I know. Don't do it if you can possibly avoid it."
"But what of this fellow in gray?"
"He shouldn't, either." Matt stepped past the cyclops. "But I think I'll see what he wants."