Chapter 4: Treemother

Smythe sat Thunder’s saddle just inside the first real line of oak and elm and pine trees that separated the Sorral Plain from the Emerin Forest. His view to the north, over the rolling grasslands, was unobstructed from here; a dense cluster of old trees atop a small rise from which his eye was thrown for miles over the flat plain. The morning sun sat low in the east, unobstructed but for a low band of thin cloud that it had already almost surmounted on its journey upward. A gentle gust rustled the leaves and pine needles around him and rippled his cloak. The air was still cool at this time of morning, but the weather was steadily warming; summer would be upon them soon. Still, he barely felt it; his mind was on other things.

Idly, he fingered the leather reins in his hands as he surveyed the plain, watching for those he was waiting for. On his left, Solovir sat atop a pale grey mare he’d procured from the Chapel stables, bareback of all things, but the tall, white-haired Elf handled her as surely as if she was saddled and bridled, the Elf using nothing more than murmurs, gentle touches on the neck and the lightest of pressures from his knees to control the animal. Eyes the same shade as his long, straight hair watched the plain, too, though Smythe got the impression Solovir could see much more than just grass and trees.

“The plain is quiet,” the Alda’rendi said absently, as if speaking to himself. “As is the forest.” He had strange abilities, did Solovir, most of which Smythe did not understand. One thing he did know, however, was that Solovir could communicate with plants and trees in some way that gave him a sense of the land, though how he did that, exactly, was a mystery. “What do you sense, arohim?”

Taking a deep breath, Smythe expanded his vala out as far as it would go; a good three miles in every direction. Before Aran had come along, that was considered to be quite a way. His master had once told him that among the arohim of old, he would be regarded as uncommonly strong. His mind was immediately flooded with impressions, sensations that formed themselves into a picture that he could see all at once, from every direction, every angle. When he’d first learned this as a young par’vala, it had been a struggle to overcome dizziness and vertigo.

Myriad tiny lights in his mind were the countless birds and animals of the forest, and larger, dimmer ones were the trees. A concentration of bright lights back to the south, almost out of his range, was his army - if you could call it that - and the other residents of the Chapel, now camped in the forest until Smythe gave the order to move again. Elsa was back there; he could feel her in his mind, comforting like a warm bowl of soup between cold fingers on a winter morning. Kedron and Ostin were with the army, too, their lights much brighter and clearer than the others for being arohim.

Induin and Liaren were there also, their natural light added to by the babes growing in their bellies; Aran’s babes. Smythe had never heard of a per’Elda arohim - or any other non-Human arohim. Was it a new thing? Or something old come again? Much closer, Solovir’s aura was different again; somehow bright but murky all at once, like looking at the surface of a clear pond that had just had mud stirred up from the bottom, swirling and eddying and clouding the view. The feeling of it still unnerved Smythe, but less than it had at first. As a Paladin, you got used to being able to read people, so an anomaly like Solovir was unsettling. Induin and Liaren had urged Smythe to trust him, though, so he was trying.

To the north, the plain felt exactly as Solovir had observed; quiet. There were birds and animals aplenty, cougars and coyotes, bison and buzzards, but within the three miles Smythe could sense, there was nothing else but grass. Dimly, he realised he was touching his breast, feeling at the thing he had tucked inside his coat. He lowered his hand quickly, but with his vala so open, he sensed the slight curving of Solovir’s lips without having to look. “You are right,” he replied finally. “It feels quiet to me, too.”

“You are thinking of her again,” the Elf said, referring to something Smythe did not want to discuss. “She has offered you a great honour, eruseni.”

Smythe blew out his moustaches irritably and resisted the urge to touch his chest again. Vayani, the guardian of the forests - a bloody Titan! - had given him a single yellow daisy as a sign that she ‘wanted him,’ whatever that meant. Solovir had prattled on about it for an hour after, saying this and that about honors and such. Induin and Liaren had been much the same. It was not that she was an unappealing creature - she was one of the most beautiful things he’d ever laid eyes upon - but she was so far different from Human or Elf or Dwarf that Smythe had little idea what her intentions were for him, or his people, or even the world.

He also felt ... small, insignificant in her presence, not to mention as wary as brothel owner in the Dawnguard. Just how powerful was she? He had felt her deep anger, her fury, at the mistreatment of her forest. He had at least been able to identify that much in her, as alien as the rest was. What would happen if she lost control of that anger? Solovir seemed to think she was benevolent, a peaceful entity unless angered, but the way he regarded her with such deference made Smythe think there were at least some aspects of the Guardian of the Forests that were not so peaceful. Still, she was beautiful, a goddess in a true sense of the word.

Stop it, he berated himself. A minute in her presence and you’re acting like a randy boy at a Beringardian Moon Festival. You don’t even know what she wants, yet. He had a fair idea, though; that look in her brilliant green eyes had been unmistakable. Smythe had been around more than enough women to know that look, and Titan or no, Vayani was still a woman. What would it be like to make love to her? He shifted in his saddle and cleared his throat, expelling the images of her lush, dark body out of his mind. Through his vala, he watched Solovir in much the same manner as eyeing him sideways; if the Elf smiled again, Smythe might just hit him, despite the fellow’s ability to toss fire and lightning around like rice at a wedding.

Sighing, he retracted his vala. “What do you suppose she wants from me?” He asked Solovir. “She never actually said it right out.”

“I would think perhaps a child, or children,” Solovir replied blandly, as if saying the price of turnips in Ironshire was going up. Smythe blinked and turned to the Elf.

“A child?” He repeated incredulously. “From me?”

“Yes,” Solovir said calmly, meeting Smythe’s stare. “It has been known to happen on rare occasions. Where do you think the Noroth come from? They did not grow out of the ground, as some less than intelligent people believe.” Giants were the progeny of the Titans? It made sense, Smythe supposed. Solovir continued. “Perhaps Vayani wishes to see what a union between herself and an arohim would produce. Her purpose is to grow things, you see, and she has birthed many children. The Eryn’elda are descendants of one such.”

Smythe whistled softly through his teeth. This knowledge was all new to him. “I ... did not know this,” he said softly. “I think many people do not know this.”

“That statement is accurate,” Solovir agreed. “Much knowledge was lost during the car’mori and the years after, but the Treemother is worshipped among the Eryn’elda still.”

“Who was the father?” Smythe wondered aloud. “If Vayani was the mother of the Eryn’elda, who was the father?” Solovir said nothing for long moments. He appeared to be staring inwardly, his pale eyes glazed as if focusing on something far away. Smythe wondered if the man had even heard the question. As he watched, Solovir’s gaze shifted from the plain to the branches above, where the wind was gently pushing at the pine needles. A fat pinecone dropped down, then, passing right by Thunder’s nose before hitting the ground. The stallion shook his head irritably and snorted. “Easy, boy,” Smythe soothed, patting him on the neck.

The pinecone seemed to bring Solovir back to the present moment. “The Eryn’elda will be here shortly,” he said assuredly. “Come. We should go and meet them.” Without waiting for a response from Smythe, Solovir turned his grey and trotted south, down the hill and further into the forest. Smythe followed, letting the Elf lead the way through the trees for maybe a mile until they came to a large clearing fifty paces across, split through the middle by a stream no wider than Smythe was tall; one of the many that broke off from the much wider Emerindrelle to the west.

On the other side of the clearing stood a dark-haired Elf, almost rugged looking for one of his kind, garbed in a tight coat and breeches of forest browns and greens. A sword hung at one hip, a bristling quiver at the other, and he held a long bow before him, arrow nocked but not drawn. He lowered the weapon when he saw Smythe and Solovir, and his eyes widened slightly when they fell on the Alda’rendi. Several more Elves stepped out smoothly from behind trees, and still more dropped down from the branches above, landing silently even on the dead leaves carpeting the forest floor.

“Tarien!” Smythe called with a grin. “You have come!” He and Tarien had gotten along well last time the Elves were at the Chapel.

The Elvish Captain bowed smoothly. “It does me well to see you, hanno’arohim.” Solovir received an even deeper bow. “I am honoured, brother.”

Solovir returned the bow with a gracious nod. “The honour is mine. The leaves spoke of Andil and Elessir’s presence here. I would speak with them.” It was not a request; no matter how polite his words were, Solovir expected to be obeyed.

Tarien appeared torn for a moment, then quickly whispered something to a lithe, silver-haired girl who melted into the trees at a run. “Of course, brother. I will take you to them.” Smythe opened his vala long enough to read Tarien. The man was keeping a tight hold on a sudden bout of nerves. Why would he be anxious about Solovir speaking with the Lord and Lady of Ildernass?

At Tarien’s invitation, Smythe and Solovir followed the Elves further into the forest, riding almost due west for another mile until they reached what Smythe thought must be one of the largest farms in the Emerin. A dozen fields lay spread around a wide shallow bowl three hundred yards across and cleared of all but the largest trees. On the northern edge of the bowl was a good-sized farmhouse, nearly as big as the Chapel and all in red brick with creepers crawling up and around the windows. It even had a tiled roof, indicating that this farmer had been particularly prosperous, especially for a farm this far into the forest, but judging by the state of the building, the residents had long gone.

The storms and tremors had not been kind; the roof had collapsed in at the western end, the dozen windows Smythe could see were all cracked or smashed, and the chimney at the other end had fallen, the bricks fanning outward where they’d tumbled to the ground. The weeds growing up around the house and barn said the farmers had been gone months.

The fields were now occupied by thousands of Elves going about the business of setting up camp. Smythe would not have believed there would be so many if he was not seeing them with his own eyes. “How many is this force?” Smythe asked Tarien as he watched a huge marquee go up near the centre of the bowl, erected by Elves hauling on long ropes. It was made of no material Smythe recognised; for it seemed to blend in with the forest around, making it hard to pick out. He blinked as the greens and browns of the canvas appeared to shift with the breeze.

“Just shy of twenty thousand,” Tarien answered with a hint of pride. “As many as we could manage without leaving our lands vulnerable. Our willingness to work with the Dwarves does not mean we will trust them blindly.”

Smythe grunted. It was the best he could hope for, really. What would Tarien think when he saw the Dwarven force of five times this many spears?

“Impressive,” Solovir murmured as he surveyed the organised, efficient motions of experienced soldiers going about their tasks. Smythe thought the camp would be set up within the hour, judging by how quickly the smaller tents were going up in neat, concentric rings, dwarfed by the marquee they surrounded.

Tarien led them down into the bowl through an overgrown corn field - the tall stalks long since flattened by a storm - to the pavilion, now fully erect and sided completely by the strange shifting canvas except for a wide entryway that was being held open for them by two Eryn’elda. They entered the vast space - easily fifty paces across - to find the Elves had already taken efforts to make the place comfortable. Near the centre of the room, plush fur rugs covered the floor, and off to one side was a long table upon which a pretty Elf girl in a shimmering, diaphanous robe was preparing wine in fine crystal pitchers and matching glasses. How the crystal had been carried all this way without breaking was a mystery.

Elsewhere beneath the marquee, more Elves - many of them in the same robes - bustled about gracefully, hanging drapes and tidying this or that. One woman entered from a smaller opening in the other side, followed by two men carrying a harp as tall as they were. Beautiful and statuesque, she was older than the other girls Smythe could see; rounder in the chest and hips. A seat was quickly found for her, and she began to pluck the harp as soon as she was settled, her slim fingers enticing a soothing melody from the silvery strings.

With no announcement to warn of their coming, the two most impressive Elves Smythe had ever seen came through the same entrance as the harp player. The male was almost seven feet tall and broad across the shoulders, and the female was only half a foot shorter, of a height with Smythe. Both were wound about with strange red-gold vines that looked to have grown on them naturally. Most of their fair skin was left bare by the vines, except for golden leaves that covered only the barest amount required for modesty, and even that was questionable.

Smythe’s breath caught in his throat as he beheld the woman. Surely, such beauty was reserved only for very few creatures in this world. Amina was one, and Vayani, he supposed, but this woman matched them easily. Golden hair like silk fell down around her very shapely body, pulled back from her perfect face by the vines that were threaded there in the shape of a tiara sprouting gold leaves across her brow. Eyes like the finest jade - sparkling in the soft light from the lamps being lit around the marquee - lay above high cheekbones, a delicate, straight nose and a full, lush mouth. Everything about her was lush and ripe, from her long, creamy thighs to her curvaceous hips, to the bosom that surpassed even Elaina’s, straining against the gold leaves that covered her nipples and little more. Smythe thought it should have looked gaudy, or over-promiscuous, but the strange garb only added to her allure. She was the epitome of feminine Elvish beauty.

The man was no less resplendent - a masculine counterpart to his partner and dressed much the same - though to Smythe’s eyes, he paled before her despite his towering presence. As much as she, though, he radiated wisdom and command. All eyes in the tent went to them the moment they entered.

Tarien and all the other Elves present went to one knee immediately, bowing their heads and placing the palms of their right hands to the earthy ground. Solovir, by sharp contrast, merely inclined his head, though more deeply than Smythe had seen him do for anyone else. Thinking that perhaps Andil and Elessir - they had not been introduced yet, but who else could they be? - deserved a healthy amount of respect, Smythe opted for a formal greeting, the way his old master had taught him. Putting one foot forward, he clapped one hand to heart and bowed, gripping Lightbringer’s hilt above his shoulder with the other hand. “Light and love, blood and battle,” he said simply as the Elves came to a stop a few feet away. When he straightened, the lord and lady were smiling.

“It has been long since I have heard those words spoken by one of the eruseni,” Elessir said kindly. Her voice was as honey and wine, yet laden with long years of wisdom. “Your respect honours me, arohim.” She inclined her head deeply, hands pressed to her chest. Smythe tried not to look at what that did to her bosom, but it was difficult; his vala was picking up a strong sexual aura from her and Andil, almost as strong as an arohim’s.

“Well met, Paladin,” said Andil in a voice deep and strong, yet no less mellifluous. “I presume you are the one called Henley Smythe? Elaina Fairborn spoke well of you when she was among us.”

“I am he,” Smythe replied. “It is an honour to finally meet you, my Lord, my Lady. Elaina also spoke well of the hospitality of the Eryn’elda.” After a moment, he added honestly, “though her description of my Lady did not do justice by half.”

Andil chuckled, and Elessir graced Smythe with a broad smile. “Oh, I have missed the arohim perhaps more than I realised. Your compliment flatters me, Henley. May I call you by this name?”

Smythe nodded and returned the smile; he would give her Lightbringer if she asked for it. “Of course, Lady Elessir.” She could call him “goat-face,” for all he cared; it would still sound sweet uttered from her lips. He found himself wanting to read her with his vala, but he decided to wait, for now. Elaina said that with her they had offered it first. Perhaps they would grant him the same.

The Elves’ attention turned to Solovir. “Your presence among us is welcome, Alda’tirith,” Andil said smoothly. “Though I regret the circumstance.”

“It has been long, Solovir,” Elessir added warmly. “Always, you are welcome among us.”

“My oaths hold,” the white-haired Elf responded simply. He said nothing more than those three words, but it seemed to satisfy the lord and lady. Tarien was next, rising from his knee when beckoned by Elessir.

“We have much to discuss,” Andil began. “We offer wine and music, if you will join us.” Not waiting for an answer, the tall Elf turned and strode toward the area with the rugs on the ground. Elessir went with him, and Smythe noticed for the first time that her bottom was uncovered by leaf or vine save for a strip that ran between her spectacular buttocks and up to wind around her midriff. Like Andil, she moved with a blend of grace and power as she sat by him, folding her legs beneath her. Smythe, Solovir and Tarien all took places on the rugs, making a circle. Smythe unstrapped his sword harness and lay Lightbringer at his side, close to hand. Crystal goblets of wine were quickly placed in everyone’s hands by the servants.

Without preamble, Andil spoke to the point. “We have brought our army, Henley, as we agreed with Elaina, in support of the arohim and the Anarion. Now it must be explained how and where the Eryn’elda be directed.” His blue eyes, large and sharp, fixed on Smythe intently. Not challengingly, exactly, but direct. They hadn’t asked him to share his vala, as they had with Elaina. Did that mean something?

After sipping at his wine - by far the best he’d ever tasted - Smythe set his goblet down carefully on the bearskin rug beneath him before answering. “My last instructions from Aran were to remain in the north of the Emerin, near to the Sorral Plain until further notice. I have a small force nearby, and the Dwarves have drengr on the way to assist us, though the bulk of their army marches to Vesovar, I believe.” On Smythe’s left, Solovir nodded thoughtfully.

“Why Vesovar?” Elessir asked. “That is a place for Humans, I understand. Are the Dwarves intending to war with the Humans?”

“They will resupply there, according to Elaina,” Smythe answered. “From Vesovar, they will turn west and meet us on the plain.”

“How many drengr?” Andil enquired, taking a sip from his goblet. The delicate crystal looked small in his large hands.

“A hundred thousand, I’m told,” Smythe said. On his other side, Tarien’s expression grew uneasy. “Including those coming here.”

“I would not have thought there could be so many of them,” Solovir murmured quietly. He stared into his wine as if it were a window to the Dwarven army. “But they always were prolific breeders. It could be possible.”

Elessir eyed Smythe. “Elaina was sure about this number?” When Smythe nodded, she glanced at Andil. “That is enough to wash over us like a moontide, my love, even if we had the trees on our side.” Andil nodded grimly, and Tarien shifted uneasily before draining his cup. Solovir appeared unperturbed, but he hadn’t taken his eyes off his wine.

Smythe tried to alleviate their concerns. “Elaina says that Burin has agreed to help against the Heralds, and help only. On my honour, she would not lie, nor is she prone to mistakes.”

“I would think not,” Andil agreed. “Yet I am troubled; long have we fought the Dwarves, and the best that could be said about our relations now is that it is an uneasy peace. We do not bother them, nor they us. It has worked, thus far.”

“With so many Elves and Dwarves in one place,” Elessir continued, “the slightest provocation could be the spark that ignites a blaze impossible to quench with anything but blood.”

“I could only wish,” Tarien added, “that I had known of the Dwarves’ strength before bringing the legions here.”

Smythe eyed the man. “Are you saying you would not have come? Surely you knew we would be fighting alongside the Dwarves sooner or later. It is inevitable.” Again, Solovir nodded.

“We would still have come,” Tarien replied. “Though we would have prepared ourselves for treachery. The Dwarves are cunning, and should not be trusted.” He cast a regretful glance at Smythe. “I apologise, friend, I know you have your hopes set on overcoming the Heralds with our help, but our success - our participation - will depend on the Dwarves’ integrity.”

Smythe grunted. The Elves were now making him cast doubts on this entire undertaking. He hadn’t considered what might happen if the Dwarves and Elves chose not to get along. Perhaps it was time he met with Elaina in amathani again. She had not been there, the past two nights, but he would try again tonight. “Burin’s sister, Glinda, is held by our enemy, the son of Morgeth. He loves her and wants her back more than anything. This is what will keep him pointed in the right direction. If he sees the Elves as allies in his pursuit, he is unlikely to rebel.”

Smythe didn’t know how to say it any clearer than that. Around him, the others all nodded slowly. “My suggestion - my very strong suggestion - is that when Burin arrives, we convince him that it is in his best interests to remain passive toward the Eryn’elda.” Again, they all nodded, though somewhat doubtfully. Smythe now knew why they hadn’t offered to share in his vala; they did not want to be swayed by his influence. “Who knows?” Smythe added. “This may be the beginning of a new era of peace.” There were no nods, this time.

I bloody hope you’re right about Burin, Elaina. We’re all likely dead if you aren’t. Silence settled over the circle for a time, broken only by the melody of the harp, which made him think of wind playing gently across a calm lake, ruffling the still waters. He swirled the wine in his goblet, waiting for someone else to speak; he’d said his piece, now it was time to see what came of it. He’d always been better at making swords and axes and hammers than dealing with people, and without being able to use his vala, the task of talking the Elves around felt a little beyond him. Perhaps the Paladins of old were comfortable around lords and ladies and kings and queens, but Smythe had spent most of his life as far away from all that as possible.

“What do you say, Solovir?” Elessir asked of the Alda’rendi. “What have you seen in the alda?”

Solovir looked up from his wine for the first time since sitting down, his white eyes again staring at something far away. “This forest has seen enough,” he said to Elessir. “The trees here - the land itself - wishes for an end to the turmoil. The Paladin-” he nodded at Smythe, “is welcome, and the one called Elaina is fondly remembered also. As is my purpose, I stand by the land, and the land stands by the arohim, at least in this place.”

Smythe felt tension in his muscles melting away as Andil, Elessir and Tarien all seemed to accept Solovir’s position. The tension returned, though, when a lithe Elf girl entered the tent - Smythe recognised her as one of the ones that had been with Tarien earlier - and whispered in the Captain’s ear. Smythe heard her easily enough; Dwarves had been sighted a few miles east. They would be at the Chapel by nightfall if they kept their course. Tarien nodded quickly and dismissed the girl before relaying the information so everyone could hear. It was not the full hundred thousand - they would be a week or more away, yet - but the smaller force that Burin had sent to aid the Chapel.

Surprisingly, Tarien appeared relieved. When Smythe asked him why, he answered, “Their force is smaller than ours, and they would not dare attack us among the trees, especially in smaller numbers. Historically, we have bloodied them too many times for them not to remember this. We do not enter their mountains, and they do not enter our forests. It has always been the way.”

“Except that the way has now changed,” Andil corrected, fixing Tarien with a level look. “The Dwarves are walking the forests once again, where for centuries they have feared to tread. You are a good captain, Tarien, but take a care the fire in your heart does not set you ablaze.”

Tarien looked abashed, and offered a humble apology to Andil, but the Lord of Ildernass brushed it aside. “You have done no wrong, Tarien, but in my years, I have seen too many good Elves needlessly throw their lives away. Take a care, and you will do well.”

“I suppose,” Smythe began slowly. “That I should be on my way to meet the Dwarves. I will arrange a meeting tomorrow in the same clearing as we met today, Tarien, if that is suitable?”

“That would be wise,” Elessir said before Tarien could respond. “Ask them to bring only ten drengr, and we will do the same.”

“As you wish, my Lady,” Smythe agreed, bowing his head slightly. He hoped the Dwarves didn’t suspect a trap. He would have to be careful how he suggested the idea. “I will set the meeting for midday tomorrow.”

“Are Induin and Liaren with your people at this Chapel?” Andil asked suddenly. “It has been some time since I’ve seen them, and I understand they are meldin to the Anarion, this Aran Sunblade.”

Smythe thought quickly. How much did Andil know? If he didn’t know about the twins being with child, how would he react when he found out? Smythe felt dangerously under-informed about Eryn’elda beliefs and propriety at times. He made a mental note to sit down with Induin and Liaren later and learn as much as he could about their people. In fact, he was kicking himself now for not having done it sooner.

“They are,” Solovir said quietly. “And they are well, last I saw them, which was only yesterday.” After a moment, he added, “a remarkable thing, this melda. I have always been curious about it.” Smythe noted the fact Solovir did not mention the babies, and also offered an opportunity for a slight change in the direction of the conversation.

“Yes,” Elessir agreed as she fixed those brilliant eyes on Smythe. “I have always found the arohim fascinating. I have never made love with one, however.”

Smythe almost choked on a mouthful of wine. Not at the statement itself, but at the casualness in which she’d made it, as if saying she’d never worn a hat. Tarien and Solovir appeared nonplussed by their Lady speaking so, and Andil merely glanced at his wife briefly before holding out his goblet for a refill. I’ve been living in Herald regions so long, he reminded himself, that I’m still not used to the ways of other people.

“Perhaps,” the Elf lord said as a pretty thing in a diaphanous white robe poured his wine, “our guest will indulge you, my love.” Smythe could not think of anything he wanted more, but he knew that if he took Elessir to bed, he would keep her there for hours - many hours - and time was short. Shorter by the day, it seemed.

“As much as I would relish that honour,” he began politely, “I fear that any time with my Lady would not be time enough.” Did her breasts have to be so ... resplendent? The pale flesh bulged around those small golden leaves with each breath she took, tempting his eyes away from that heavenly face. “But as soon as time allows, I will most readily accept your gracious offer.” There, that was flowery enough for any courtroom, and should navigate any offense that might be caused by him refusing. Regret ran strong in him, though, as he ran his eyes over her vine-wrapped form.