“It was you who sang—in your sleep.” He told her. “Or did you really wander in another place, lady, where dreams are more real and this life but a dream? Though I find the promise in your song good. ‘Who holds the land under the day!’—who holds the land.” he repeated softly as if he found in that a promise.
“What land, lord?” Dwed cut in.
“That which the Bane once destroyed, which is now free again. Look, lady, and see how your song comes true!”
Before Brixia could move Marbon was at her side, his arm slipped beneath her shoulders. He lifted her with a gentle concern which she had forgotten one of her kind might ever show to another. She needed his strength for her support for she felt very weak, as one who arouses after a serious illness.
So resting against him she looked beyond. Uta pranced in a circle about the growing spear of a plant. Grass lay in a waving, lush crown of green about that spear, taller, richer in color than that growing elsewhere. And, half way up that spear of shining red-brown there was a bulge in the bark.
Brixia had never seen growth in action before. Even as she watched that swelling on the trunk cracked, opened to release a pod also red-brown, perhaps the size of her little finger. While before her eyes that shoot which had given birth to the pod grew visibly taller, thicker, put out two branches, and still grew.
The fresh grass spread out in ripples of vivid green on and on from the roots of the plant, shooting up to replace the duller blades which had been there. There were now smaller pods on the two branches. This—this was a tree—a tree growing the sum of years’ thickening, spreading, reaching, in only moments of their time!
“What—where—?” Brixia clutched at Marbon’s nearer hand.
“It grows from the seed you brought out of An-Yak, lady. There we planted Zarsthor’s Bane. But what springs from it is no longer evil. Green magic, Wise Woman.”
She moved to shake her head, brushing so against his shoulder.
“I have told you—I am no Wise Woman.” She was a little afraid now—afraid of anything she could not truly understand.
“One does not always choose power,” he answered quietly. “That sometimes chooses you. Do you think that you could have plucked the flower of the White Heart had you not had within you that which green magic inclined to! I—I sought the Bane for its power, and that dark shadow over-reached me—for I am of Zarsthor’s doomed House and what was evil for him could also root in me, even as this tree has rooted here, its past blackness and evil destroyed.”
“You sought no power, so it was freely given to you in your need. Did not even the Bane lose its threat in your hands? What you wrought then—that was greater magic than any I could aspire to do.”
Brixia shook her head again. “Not my doing—it was from the flower—also, it was in the end the choice of Eldor and Zarsthor—for when they came together in that place they had even forgotten what had tied them in hatred among the shadows.”
She remembered the two worn men as she had seen them last, how they had answered the questions that someone, or something, perhaps even the Bane itself, had put in her mind to ask.
“Zarsthor?” He made a question of the name.
Brixia told him of the two who had demanded the Bane of her, and of how they had at last gone away together, free of the bonds their own acts had laid upon them.
“And you say you have no power?” Marbon marveled. “How it comes to one does not matter—how one uses it does.”
The girl sat up, drawing away from his light hold. “I do not want it!” she cried aloud to all about her—more to the unseen than to him, Dwed, or Uta.
Now the swift growing tree was more than a sapling, ever thickening branches hung lower, burdened as they were with more and more swelling buds. Even as Brixia voiced her denial the first and largest of the buds split its casing. A flower opened—white and perfect. Though it was day and the sun was out over their heads—still the flower was in bloom.
Brixia blinked and blinked again. There was no denying what she could so plainly see. Fruit of the Bane Marbon had said. Brixia bit her lip. The flower she had carried—which had withered away in that fog-land—had it given its life to this? She must accept that such things could be when the evidence stood before her eyes. New thoughts, awakening emotions stirred in her—they were both fascinating and frightening. Perhaps she had been marked for this task in some way on that first night when Kuniggod had brought her into the refuge of that place of the Old Ones—the place of quiet peace.
“What must I do then!” she asked in a small voice, wishing no answer, but knowing she must listen to one.
“Accept,” Marbon stood up, his arms flung wide, his face raised to the sky. “This was the Bane killed land of Zarsthor. Perhaps it has lain too long under the shadow to truly awake again.” He turned his head to look at the walls in the sunken lake basin. “An-Yak is gone. But one can build anew—”
For the second time Dwed spoke. “What of Eggarsdale then, my lord?”
Marbon shook his head slowly. “We cannot go back, foster son. Eggarsdale lies behind—both in distance and time. This now is ours—”
Brixia looked from him to the tree. That stood taller than Marbon now. Unlike the one under which she had sheltered her first night in the Waste, the branches of this were not twisted nor interwoven among themselves, but lifted their tips upward, spread well apart from one another, as if to both welcome the clear sky and roof that portion of the earth covered with the thick fresh grass.
Theirs? Unconscious of what she did, she held out her right hand towards the tree. That first bloom to open broke from its stem. Though she felt no wind against her cheek, or ruffling her touseled hair, the flower drifted straightway to her, settled upon her hand. Did it come in answered to her unvoiced desire—even as Uta (when she chose, of course) would come to her call?
Theirs! Brixia cupped the flower and drew deep breaths of its fragrance. Like an outworn garment the past dropped from her. It was gone—the world was changed, even as Zarsthor’s Bane had become this wondrous thing.