Of Circle and Ash

  “What is an Oakspace, though? I still don’t understand it.”

  “Ah, a question that your kind often ask. I sometimes forget how little you humans commune with nature. Very well, very well, an oakspace is a pocket dimension found on the verdant plane. It is the sacred heart of a tree or other plant, sophisticated enough to create one—though I suppose it would no longer be called an ‘oakspace’ were another species to manifest it.”

  “You are getting off topic again, friend. Just the explanation is required. I fear my hair will whiten as you explain.”

  — conversation between a human trader visiting Vistadora for the first time and a member of the Order of Faune

  Several hours later, Aehyl waited as patiently as she could, given her situation.

  She realized, with some embarrassment, that she was pacing.

  Furrowing her brow, she forced herself to sit.

  As her body lowered, a thin vine of titansnoose, the ever-helpful creeper entwined around the Tower Tree, slithered behind her and gracefully curled into the shape of a stool.

  In the city of the elves, almost anything was possible.

  She sat, brooding, while she waited for the Circle of Elders to summon her.

  From the balcony of the Temple of Faune, her solemn gaze drifted outward.

  In every direction, the great tree-born city sprawled in quiet harmony with the forest.

  Bridges of vine and branch stretched dizzyingly between treetop dwellings. These clusters of homes, neighborhoods formed by younger trees, housed several dozen families each. Artisan shops and workshops nestled in the larger Crystal-Mists, sprinkled throughout the city in natural balance. There were few dense commercial zones in Vistadora, only the seamless blending of life, craft, and forest.

  Behind her, only the massive trunk of the Tower Tree was visible. No cobaltean structures, save the spiraling stairs, marred the grove here. The temple itself was formed within the living trunk, shaped not by tools, but by intention. Its inner sanctum, the sacred Oakspace, existed partially outside the physical realm. Inside that space, she knew, the Circle of Elders now gathered, offering comfort to the grieving Whisperwind family and making preparations for the death rites of Shali and Vectra.

  The death rites were an eleven mourning tradition, gatherings meant to guide the souls of the departed to the Skywood above.

  For four days, the rituals began at dawn. Each morning, rites were performed to honor the dead, and again each evening, with the entire community joining to accompany and support those in mourning.

  On the fifth day, grieving families were encouraged to begin returning to the rhythms of daily life, though it was well understood that the road to healing would be long.

  The rite was considered the most sacred of all Avonmoran ceremonies.

  A low, grumbling whine rose from below, pulling Aehyl from her thoughts.

  Peering over the balcony’s edge, she spotted Draefus fussing on a lower platform. A smile tugged at her lips as she watched the great bear swatting at the trunk of the Tower Tree.

  Since arriving in the forest city, the spoiled creature had worked out a rather simple method of communicating with the magical trees: he pestered them.

  With stubborn determination, Draefus would paw and huff at their trunks until either he grew bored or the tree, astonishingly, gave in.

  More often than not, the trees ignored him. Their patience was, after all, the stuff of legend.

  Still, Aehyl had been surprised once or twice when they actually responded.

  She giggled, remembering the time Draefus had received a firm swat from one of the older oaks in the city after throwing a particularly incessant tantrum. The tree hadn’t hurt the bear, except his pride, but it appeared that even the stately oaks had their limits.

  Needless to say, Draefus had fled from the old oak as fast as his legs could carry him, bellowing as if he were dying. To this day, he still held a grudge. He would stop just outside the tree’s reach, pawing dramatically at the ground and grunting in a show of “courage.”

  Reverently, Aehyl placed her palms against the trunk and whispered a polite request: would the tree, just this once, indulge her bear-child?

  A long moment passed. She was certain the tree would decline. But then, without warning, a thick vine uncoiled from a nearby branch and descended in a slow spiral, forming a ringed stair.

  Though visibly shocked, Draefus wasted no time. He lumbered eagerly onto the vine and scrambled upward, as if afraid the tree might change its mind. When the vine stopped moving, he bounded across the platform and threw himself against Aehyl with a grunting whine she recognized as affection.

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  She hugged him back with a sigh. “You may regret this later,” she muttered into his fur. “The vine probably won’t be waiting when it’s time to come down. And you hate the stairs.”

  After a time, the bear settled beside the seated elf, curling up with a contented huff.

  Aehyl watched him fondly.

  Draefus was large by any standard, taller than she was even on all fours, and close to twelve feet when he paraded around on his hind legs, as the show-off often liked to do. Though still young, he had grown to full size. His thick, muscular frame was padded with a healthy layer of fat, adding to his already considerable bulk.

  He had warm walnut eyes and umber-brown fur with black highlights along his brow, nose, and shoulders. His muzzle held an impressive array of large, ivory teeth.

  Aehyl knew he was more intelligent than most of his kind, though his rash and impulsive behavior often disguised it.

  They waited there for another hour before the Oakspace of the temple finally opened.

  Two grieving elves were ushered out.

  They did not turn to greet the young druid as they passed, moving instead with vacant eyes toward the stairwell.

  “Faune, give them comfort,” Aehyl whispered.

  It was likely that both their daughters were lost, though there was still no word of Shali.

  A hand on Aehyl’s shoulder broke the reflective moment.

  Grimus, usually light-hearted and pleasant to be around, appeared deeply engrossed in thought. Through thin, wrinkled lips, the elder elf indicated that it was time to meet with the Circle of Elders.

  “We must hear your story, young one,” he intoned, his voice distant as his eyes followed the grieving couple descending the stairwell.

  Following him to the ancient tree, Aehyl placed her palms against the bark and requested passage into its most sacred space.

  In response, the door to the Oakspace materialized, etched in the shape of a dark rune, seared deep into the bark’s rough surface. Together, the two elves stepped through the portal and into the clearing beyond.

  Behind them, Draefus remained curled in peaceful slumber.

  The Oakspace was a wide, circular chamber, existing on a plane only slightly removed from the one she had just left.

  The two realms were bound by the tree itself, whose presence stretched through both realities.

  It was an inviolable space, none could enter without the tree’s consent.

  Light filled the hollow, yet it came from no discernible source.

  At the chamber’s center, four chairs rose from the floor as if grown from the roots beneath. Three were already occupied. Kreadus, Xanre, and Trajo sat in quiet patience as Grimus moved to join his peers.

  They were ancient, so much so that they seemed to have walked the earth when the first seeds were sown.

  Kreadus and Xanre shared the white, voluminous hair and deeply furrowed brows of truly long-lived elves. Trajo and Grimus, though younger, still bore the telltale white of age, their skin less withered but marked by time.

  Even so, Aehyl knew she stood before four of the oldest Avonmora still alive. Of them, only Trajo had lived less than a thousand years in this forest.

  Grimus settled into the last empty chair and motioned for Aehyl to seat herself on the floor, a customary gesture of humility before the Circle.

  She lowered herself onto a thin cushion at the center of the room and waited in respectful silence.

  Across the hollow, the entry rune flared briefly to life.

  Portean stepped through.

  His face was drawn and grim, the weight of recent days plain on his features. Yet as he crossed the chamber and took the cushion beside her, he offered Aehyl a quick, familiar wink.

  “You have returned safely to Vistadora, Portean Ana’diere and Aehyl E’dwoare,” Kreadus began, his voice solemn. “But the circumstances of your return bear a grave weight upon our people.”

  It was not a question. Yet Aehyl understood it demanded an answer.

  “Yes, venerable Kreadus,” she said softly. “As you no doubt know, the Great Oak is lost to us.”

  She paused. Emotion surged within her, raw and unrelenting. Blinking furiously, she swallowed hard.

  Her mouth was dry, but she pressed on.

  “The Mother Tree was sabotaged,” she said, voice tightening. “Traitors used dark magic to corrupt her. They infested her with a demonic swarm of venomous beetles.”

  From her pack, Aehyl carefully withdrew the herb jar. Inside, the dead creature lay still, its grotesque form a bitter proof of her words.

  Another silence passed as the Circle digested her words. Though none of them spoke, Aehyl knew they were already deep in telepathic exchange. Their minds moved slowly, deliberately, so much so that even a simple statement could leave a petitioner waiting in silence for hours.

  The jar lifted from her hands and floated gently toward Kreadus, pausing just within reach. With slow precision, his gnarled fingers closed around it.

  He wasted no time examining the specimen inside. Just then, the beetle twitched, several of its spindly legs curling in a lifeless dance. One of Kreadus’s long, arched eyebrows lifted.

  At length—and only after the jar had been passed among the four archdruids—Kreadus finally tucked it into the folds of his robe.

  “We shall examine this creature further,” he said. “You did well to bring us a specimen.”

  Grimus offered a small, encouraging smile.

  “Now, Aehyl, relate to us your tale,” he said gently. “Leave nothing out, from the time you departed until the moment you returned to our city.”

  Aehyl began as directed. She spoke of how she and Portean had wandered the forest with Veilpiercer, searching for the strange reptilian creatures.

  Though hesitant at first, the approving nods from the Circle bolstered her confidence, and soon she was deep into her story.

  She described how the assassin had ambushed her in the hollow, and how Portean’s swift aim ended the threat. When she described the horror’s appearance in detail, the elders exchanged uneasy glances, but did not interrupt.

  She gave them the location where the spy’s remains were buried and produced a small bag containing the recovered items: a sealed vial of honey-colored liquid, the foul-smelling ointment, a pouch of seeds, and a carved bone ring.

  As before, Kreadus lifted the artifacts with a thought, guiding them gently into his outstretched hand. He did not inspect them yet, but tucked the bag into the folds of his robe, motioning for her to continue.

  Aehyl pressed forward. The Circle occasionally interjected, asking for clarification or prompting Portean to recount events from his own perspective.

  Together, they told of the unnatural storm, their encounter with the water troll, their investigation of the area around the Great Oak, and the discovery of Shali in the coastal cove.

  Portean discreetly omitted Aehyl’s encounter with the ghostly apparition, though he emphasized the strange qualities of the storm, believing it might be connected to the larger mystery.

  Hours passed. Weary and hollow with emotion, Aehyl and Portean wept as they recounted the death of the ancient nymph and their desperate escape from the corrupted colony.

  Their tale complete, they fell silent and waited without complaint for the Circle to speak.

  After a time, Xanre, the second eldest among the Circle, finally spoke.

  “It has been a busy time for you, young ones. There is much the Circle must discuss at length. You are weary, and we will dismiss you for now while we consider the matter. Return to us tomorrow, after the first rite of the Whisperwind ceremony is complete, and we shall continue.”

  The young elves stretched stiffly before rising to their feet. Without a word, they departed the Oakspace.

  When they were gone, the Circle remained behind in murmured discussion. They spoke in hushed tones long into the night.

  Then, only hours before dawn, a peculiar popping sound echoed through the sacred chamber.

  It was the sound of something intruding, something unnatural.

  A figure cloaked in a shroud of shadows appeared, and the ancient tree seemed to shiver.