Uprooted(50)

But he had stepped down from that plane; he had given me real kindness. He’d let his magic mingle with my own again, that strange breathtaking intimacy, all to save Kasia with me. I suppose it might seem strange that I should thank him by shouting at him, but it meant more than thanks: I wanted him to be human.

“It’s not right,” I said loudly. “It’s not right!”

He stood up and for a moment we faced each other across the table, both of us furious, both of us, I think, equally shocked; then he turned and walked away from me, bright angry streaks of red color in his cheeks, his hand gripping hard on the window-sill as he stared out of the tower. I flung myself out of the room and ran upstairs.

For the rest of the day, I stayed by Kasia’s bedside while she slept, perched on the bed with her thin hand in mine. She was still warm and alive, but he hadn’t misspoken. Her skin was soft, but beneath it her flesh was unyielding: not like stone but like a smooth-polished piece of amber, hard but flowing, with the edges rounded away. Her hair shone in the deep golden cast of the candle-glow, curling into whorls like the knots of a tree. She might have been a carved statue. I had told myself she wasn’t so altered, but I knew I was wrong. My eyes were too loving: I looked and only saw Kasia. Someone who didn’t know her would see a strangeness in her at once. She had always been beautiful; now she was unearthly so, preserved and shining.

She woke and looked at me. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” I said. “Are you hungry?”

I didn’t know what to do for her. I wondered if the Dragon would let her stay here: we could share my room, upstairs. Perhaps he would be glad of a servant who could never leave, since he disliked training a new one. It was a bitter thought, but I couldn’t think of anything else. If a stranger had come into our village looking like her, we’d have thought them corrupted for sure, some new kind of monstrosity put forth by the Wood.

The next morning, I made up my mind to ask him to let her stay, despite everything. I went back to the library. He was at the window with one of his wisp-creatures floating in his hands. I stopped. Its gently undulating surface held a reflection, like a still pool of water, and when I edged around beside him I could see that it reflected not the room but trees, endless deep and dark, moving. The reflection changed gradually as we watched: showing where the wisp had been, I guessed. I held my breath as a shadow moved over the surface: a thing like a walker moving by, but smaller, and instead of the stick-like legs, it had broad silvery grey limbs, veined like leaves. It stopped and turned a strange faceless head towards the wisp. In its forelegs it held a ragged bundle of green torn-up seedlings and plants, roots trailing: for all the world like a gardener who had been weeding. It turned its head from side to side, and then continued onward into the trees, vanishing.

“Nothing,” the Dragon said. “No gathering of strength, no preparations—” He shook his head. “Move back,” he said over his shoulder to me. He prodded the floating wisp back outside the window, then picked up what I had imagined to be a wizard’s staff from the wall, lit the end in the fireplace, and thrust it out directly into the middle of the wisp. The whole floating shimmer of it caught fire in one startling blue burst, burned up, and was gone; a faint sweet smell came through the window: like corruption.

“They can’t see them?” I asked, fascinated.

“Very occasionally one doesn’t come back: I imagine they catch them sometimes,” the Dragon said. “But if they touch it, the sentinel only bursts.” He spoke abstractly; frowning.

“I don’t understand,” I said. “What were you expecting? Isn’t it good that the Wood isn’t preparing an attack?”

“Tell me,” he said, “did you think she would live?”

I hadn’t, of course. It had seemed like a miracle, and one I’d longed for too badly to examine. I hadn’t let myself think about it. “It let her go?” I whispered.

“Not precisely,” he said. “It couldn’t keep her: the Summoning and the purge were driving it out. But I’m certain it could have held on long enough for her to die. And the Wood is hardly inclined to be generous in such cases.” He was tapping his fingers against the window-sill in a pattern that felt oddly familiar; I recognized it as the rhythm of our Summoning chant at the same time he did. He stilled his hand at once. He demanded stiffly, “Is she recovered?”

“She’s better,” I said. “She climbed all the stairs this morning. I’ve put her in my room—”

He made a dismissive flick of his hand. “I thought her recovery might have been meant as a distraction,” he said. “If she’s already well—” He shook his head.

After a moment, his shoulders went back and squared. He dropped his hand from the sill and turned to face me. “Whatever the Wood intends, we’ve lost enough time,” he said, grimly. “Get your books. We need to begin your lessons again.”

I stared at him. “Stop gaping at me,” he said. “Do you even understand what we’ve done?” He gestured to the window. “That wasn’t by any means the only sentinel I sent out. Another of them found the heart-tree that had held the girl. It was highly notable,” he added dryly, “because it was dead. When you burned the corruption out of the girl’s body, you burned the tree itself, too.”