Sitting up in her hospital bed, her face swaddled in bandages, she gave a crooked smile. “Just like old times.”

Her mum chuckled tiredly. “This isn’t how I’d hoped we’d be spending the second evening of your return, Sass.”

“We could make a dash for it,” she suggested. “You know this is totally unnecessary, right? Come morning, I’ll be good as new. Well almost. My broken teeth might take a bit longer to repair themselves.”

“The nurse was adamant that you stay overnight for observation,” said her mum.

“Yeah, and what do you think they’re going to observe tomorrow?”

Alice looked at her, the realisation slowly dawning on her face. Then she sighed. “I’d better go have another chat with him. The hospital can’t legally force you to stay, but he won’t be happy about this.”

“Better an unhappy nurse than me being poked and prodded in a secret government lab for the rest of my life.” She let out a breath. “Maybe they were the ones who sent the goon after me.”

“You watch too many movies, Sass. Get some rest while I sort out your discharge papers.” Her mum hurried off to find the nurse.

Lowering her headrest, she stared up at the white panels of the ceiling.

 

Saskia drifted awake, blinking up at rows of rough-hewn wooden planks. For a long, confusing moment, she had no idea where she was. Then she remembered. This was her house in New Inglomar, the colony she and her friends had established in the sprawling, cavernous enclosure of Dwallondorn. She was no longer the human girl she’d been dreaming about, but the mountain of rock-hard flesh and taut muscles and fangs and terrifying claws known as a troll, or trow, as the people of this world called them.

She’d been having a few of these weird dreams lately. Well okay, weird was par for the course for her, but this particular flavour of weird dream gave her glimpses of events on Earth that she had no recollection of experiencing in real life. In one of the fragmented dream visions, she’d spent time in a remote, mountainous wilderness, being pampered by some strangely dressed, and very welcoming people. Another one had featured a bustling, colourful foreign city, and a trip to an…embassy? And this latest one, a hospital bed, her mum and…self-repairing teeth? Government labs? Goons? What was that all about?

Assuming they meant anything at all—which was by no means a given—could these dreams be visions of her future? As an oracle, she couldn’t rule out that possibility. They clearly weren’t visions of her past. She was pretty sure she’d remember a little thing like returning home to Earth.

Well whatever. If it was her future, she’d deal with it when it came. She had a few minor things to worry about in the here and now. Her to-do list included such trivialities as: finding a way to plug the arlium volcano that was bleeding Ciendil dry, and would eventually lead to its demise as a frozen, airless wasteland; trying to reconcile two species who had been at each others’ throats for centuries, whose apocalyptic conflict had triggered said impending demise; and attempting to overthrow a literal god, who wanted nothing more than to erase her and all of her allies from this world.

No big deal, really. She’d be done by Sunday.

The smell of cooking meat lured her out of her room, where she found Ruhildi frying up a fantabulous breakfast of almost-sausages and not-quite-bacon.

“Ooh, is that for me?” she asked, snatching up a sausage out of the pan and swallowing it in one bite.

“Sashki!” Ruhildi swatted her lightly on the leg. “They’re still raw in the middle.”

“Tastes fine to me,” said Saskia. Nothing wrong with a half-raw sausage. Or a completely raw one, for that matter. There were very few things her trollish tastebuds wouldn’t consider edible.

“It won’t kill you to wait until they’re properly cooked,” said Ruhildi, scowling up at her.

Saskia’s belly disagreed, and made its case with a loud burble. “Just be glad Rover Dog isn’t here,” she said. “He wouldn’t have stopped at one sausage.”

Rover Dog, her troll with benefits, was out exploring the Outer Hollows with Baldreg, scoping out suitable sites for future settlements. The big guy wasn’t prone to staying in one place for long. Still, he’d be back. He always came back.

“Och aye,” said Ruhildi. “He’s a brazen one, that trow of yours.”

“Still, I do enjoy his company—in small doses,” said Saskia.

“Small, loud, house-shaking doses,” said Ruhildi.

Saskia’s cheeks flamed. “We don’t—do we?”

“Och aye. Sometimes I fear you’ll bring the roof down on our heads.”

Saskia let out an embarrassed laugh. “We really need a bigger house.”

The house she shared with Ruhildi and Rover Dog (when he was around) could charitably be described as ‘cosy.’ When she was feeling uncharitable, it was ‘the shoebox.’ Still, it was hard to justify building a troll-sized house for themselves when so many new colonists were still waiting for their own homes to be built. Most days, Saskia was out with the work crews, acting as a heavy lifter for the construction effort, while Ruhildi divided her time between working the forge and acting as de-facto town mayor. Neither of them could spare much time to work on their own meagre abode.

Dwarves had been arriving in droves in recent weeks as conditions worsened in the Underneath. Summer had come and gone with temperatures barely rising higher than the average mildwinter. Now it was highfall, and rivers were already turning to ice. Crops had failed, food was scarce, and starving elven bandits had been raiding the outer villages for what little they had left. This had come at a time when most of the city of Torpend remained in ruins, and many of its residents still didn’t have homes to live in. The prospect of leaving all of that behind and moving to the comparatively warmer climes of the Outer Hollows was looking more and more appealing to the average citizen.

With this many people joining the budding colony, there was no way the work crews could build houses fast enough to accommodate them all. Some of the dwarves had attempted to renovate the crumbled ruins of Old Inglomar, to varying degrees of success. Without stoneshapers to work the masonry (aside from Ruhildi, who had her hands full), it was generally quicker and easier just to build new homes from scratch using wood and other materials from the forests of subterranean trees and fungal growths that grew in the hills of Dwallondorn.

This had worked well for them in the first couple of months as new colonists arrived in small, controlled waves, but now, as hundreds became thousands, they just couldn’t keep up. Forests of tents had sprung up in the outskirts, and they were growing by the day. Discontent was spreading, and it seemed only a matter of time until things got nasty.

Several times, Saskia had considered the possibility of taking some of the former stoneshapers as her vassals, thereby restoring their magic, so they could be of more help with the building effort. Each time, she’d pulled back. When it came down to it, she just didn’t trust them. The stoneshapers were directly responsible for the slow apocalypse overtaking Ciendil and the Underneath. She was in no hurry to share something as intimate and mysterious as the vassal bond with the likes of them.

Stepping out the door, Saskia was greeted by the sound of angry shouts down by the lakeshore, on the western approach into town. She let out a soft groan. What was it this time? Exchanging a worried glance with Ruhildi, she hurried across town to find out what the fuss was about.

They arrived at the scene to find a gaggle of angry dwarves hurling insults at a procession of weary elven women—some carrying young children—wading through the shallows toward the town. They were led by none other than Garrain, the walking, talking tree, Nuille, his lifemate, and Morchi, their oversized pet moggie. The pair had taken it upon themselves to bring more of their people into the fold, and this entourage was the result of their latest recruitment effort. These elves had a different look about them than the ones who had arrived earlier from Fellspur.

As yet, little blood had been spilled between the former enemies, but today’s reception showed that despite their efforts to make it clear to residents that this was a multiracial colony, not just a dwarven one, there were still dwarves present who refused to let go of their old hatred. They had a long way to go before they’d achieve the ideal of unification Saskia strove for; where dwarves and elves lived together in perfect harmony, and puppies and kittens and rainbows were had by all.

“Go back, you shite-eating tree-humpers!” jeered one of the dwarves.

“This is our home, leaf-ears!” shouted another. “You’re not welcome here!”

“If you take one step further, I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” said Ruhildi, stepping forward, her face dark with anger.

The dwarves spun to face her. A look of dismay crossed the face of the one who had spoken. “Honoured Vindica, I…”

“Leave. Now.” Ruhildi raised her arm. A breeze stirred about her as magic gathered at her fingertips. Torches flickered and went out. The stones at the dwarves’ feet began to rise into the air.

Muttering an array of apologies and curses, they turned and hurried back into town.

“Now,” said Ruhildi, letting the magic subside, and turning to face the approaching elves. “Who do we have here?”

“They hail from Wengarlen,” said Garrain. “Some greenhands and assorted mundanes; all alvessi and their nestlings.”

“Wengarlen.” Ruhildi’s expression darkened further. “’Tis one thing to allow the alvari of Fellspur to live with us. They took no part in the invasion. They keep no dwarrow slaves. But these bastards…”

“The alvessi took no part in the invasion either,” said Garrain. “They’re alvessi.”

Saskia didn’t fail to notice the flicker of annoyance that appeared momentarily on Nuille’s face.

“But they chose to support those who did,” said Ruhildi.

“They’re alvessi,” repeated Garrain. “They had no choice.”

Saskia raised her eyebrows. “So what you’re saying is that you treat your females no better than slaves.”

“No!” said Garrain. “That’s not what I—”

“Yes,” interrupted Nuille. When he shot her a startled look, her expression turned fierce. “I’m sorry, ardonis, but it’s true. You may not see it that way, but the only difference between an alvesse of Wengarlen and a dwarrow slave is that we got to wear nicer clothes, and the beatings came less often.”

“I would never raise a hand against you, my light!” he objected.

“You wouldn’t,” she said. “But many other alvessi are not so fortunate as I. As a tender, I saw things that would turn your stomach.”

“It does seem like these alvessi and their children are victims in this,” said Saskia. “I think we should let them join us—but only those can answer me truthfully that they mean us no harm, and did not personally abuse any slaves.” She looked down at Ruhildi. “Would that satisfy you?”

Ruhildi eyed the gathering elves speculatively, then offered Saskia a slow nod. “Aye, I suppose so.”

One by one, Saskia took each of the adults aside for questioning—all except the poor woman who had lost her young daughter on the way here, and hadn’t spoken since. One of the new arrivals, she learned, was Nuille’s grandmother, a surprisingly young-looking druid named Dieste. From their expressions, it was clear most of these elves were terrified of her, but they answered her questions honestly. Her oracle truth sense ability confirmed Nuille’s accounting of their treatment. Less than half of the elf women had been beaten or physically abused, but many had felt trapped and powerless in their old lives. While some admitted to feelings of resentment and distrust toward the dwarves, they wouldn’t act on those feelings unless they had to defend themselves or their children.

It seemed Garrain and Nuille had done a good job in their selection. These elves would flourish here—just as long as she could keep the dwarves in check.

Saskia could feel all eyes on the procession as she and Ruhildi escorted them into town. New Inglomar’s elven population had taken up residence in a neighbourhood known as Redgrove (although many of the dwarves called it Leaftown). Redgrove was…weird. There were boardwalks, causeways and ramshackle treetop houses—the kind of stuff you’d expect from elves who hadn’t yet had time to build (or grow) anything too fancy. But there were also wire fences and striped deck chairs, a hot dog stand and a…well, a brothel, complete with a tacky neon sign made from phosphorescent cave fungus. And there, flapping in the breeze, was a slightly misshapen, upside-down Canadian flag.

The new arrivals glanced about with wide eyes, clearly unsure what to make of all of these Earth influences.

“Hey-ho aloha!” said an exuberant, sandy-haired elf in a Hawaiian shirt (or a close approximation of one), reclining in one of the deck chairs. He rose to his feet and gave a sweeping bow. “Who do these lovely alvessi be?”

“Tired, Amur,” said Nuille. “At least let them settle in before you pounce.”

“I be not doing the pouncing,” said Amur with a mock frown. “I be boldly declaring my willingness to be pounced.”

“Either way, there will be no pouncing today,” said Nuille. “It would be good if we could get them somewhere warm, and get some hot food into their bellies. It’s been a long journey, fraught with perils.”

“Food we can do,” said Saskia, looking at the hot dog stand. “As for shelter, we might have to settle for tents. The housing shortage has gotten worse over the past few weeks. For them to have roofs over their heads, others would have to give up their own homes, and sleep out in the cold.”

“You forget to whom you’re speaking,” said Garrain. He stroked his chin, which had begun to sprout a thin tuft of moss. “Three of our new guests are greenhands, as are Nuille and myself. Five should be enough for what I have in mind. It’s about time we brought a touch of Wengarlen to Redgrove.”

“This is going to involve trees, isn’t it?” said Saskia.

“Yes,” said Nuille. Her lips curled into a smirk. “My ardonis does so love his wood.”

Saskia cackled. “Good one!”

“If you’re quite finished jesting at my expense, we should get started, my light,” said Garrain.

He led them to a thicket of tall red-leafed trees and coiled fungal spires. Each druid held a wand or staff to a different tree—except Garrain, who carried no focus. He stood at the centre of the group, with his palms resting against the largest of the trees. Magic gathered around them, and Saskia felt that familiar tingle of warmth from within as her vassal drew essence from the arlium that infused her body.

And then the trees began to bulge and flex. She’d seen a druid do something like this back in the Underneath—shaping a tree into a watchtower. But this was on a whole different scale. The massive trees bent into wide arches. Their branches stretched, forming struts between them. Bark and leaves seemed to flow into the gaps, growing and thickening and hardening into a waterproof shell.

Fifteen minutes later, the druids stood admiring their handiwork: an irregular dome-shaped structure, large enough to house three families, with room to spare. They set to work on the interior, shaping walls and doors and windows. Saskia could tell the house remained, in some sense, alive. They’d reshaped the trees, not killed them.

In a different part of the grove, they shaped another house. And then another, until there were enough for all the new arrivals. Like the trees from which they were formed, each building had a unique shape.

When they were done, Saskia asked, “Do you think you could make similar houses for the dwarrows?”

“We could,” said Garrain, leaving unsaid the question: Why would we want to?

“It would go a long way toward easing tension between your peoples,” said Saskia. “Right now, there’s an awful lot of resentment on both sides. If we don’t do something to defuse the situation, I think it’s going to blow up in our faces.”

“I don’t understand half of what you just said,” said Garrain. “But I suppose I can see the merit in earning the dwarrows’ gratitude.”

“’Tis you should be grateful we let you to live as our neighbours, Garri,” said Ruhildi.

Saskia shot her a disapproving frown. “See that’s the kind of attitude we need to work on.”

“Perhaps tomorrow, after the alvessi are rested, we could meet with some of the dwarrows and see how we might be able to help,” said Garrain.

“That’s the spirit!” said Saskia.

At that moment she caught sight of a pair of wide, familiar eyes watching her from atop a causeway. They were attached to a bearded face, and a stout body, far taller than the average dwarf.

“Kveld?” she called out. “What are you doing here?”

The dwarf looked decidedly guilty as he came down the ramp to meet them. A lanky teenage elf followed at his heels, still wearing his favourite cowboy hat.

“I’ve been helping Dallim with some of his inventions,” said Kveld.

Dallim spoke in English. “A spring of truth shall flow from it: like a new star it shall scatter the darkness of ignorance, and cause a light heretofore unknown to shine amongst men.”

“What?” said Saskia.

Kveld frowned. “I don’t ken what Dallim just… We’re building a machine to press words onto paper.”

Saskia’s eyes went wide as she stared at the pair. “A printing press? Holy crapoodle, you’re already building a printing press!”

“Just a simple prototype,” said Kveld. “Stone tongue only. Forest tongue glyphs are more fiddly, and there are too many of them. I don’t ken what we’ll do about those.”

Looking at Dallim, it was hard to reconcile the clever, inventive young elf standing before her with the sad, confused oracle she’d first met through Garrain’s eyes in Fellspur, not long after she arrived on Arbor Mundi. At that time, every oracle in this world had been either certifiably insane or bereft of their magic, thanks to her ‘corruption’ of their worldseed. It turned out the seed of knowledge hadn’t been so much corrupted as pollinated with a whole other world of knowledge.

In the months that followed, the elves had begun to realise that there was more to the oracles’ ravings than simple madness. At the same time, some of the oracles learned how to separate the visions of Earth from the world around them, and became somewhat functional members of elven society once more. One of the first to emerge from his fugue had been Dallim. Though he remained deeply weird, the young elf had not only brought with him marvellous inventions and strange ideas, but also information on Saskia herself: namely that she wasn’t the slavering demon they’d all feared but an innocent traveller from another world. When Garrain had invited them to join her budding colony, Dallim and the other semi-coherent oracles, and those who listened to them, had jumped at the chance.

So here they were: a bunch of weirdo elves obsessed with Earth. Dallim was the only one among the oracles who seemed technologically inclined—in fact, he probably knew more about Earth’s technology than Saskia herself did. Others came loaded with knowledge of Earth history or fashion or cuisine. One guy knew all there was to know about elves—not Arbor Mundi’s elves but Earth’s depictions of elves. Once, he’d painted his face and straightened his hair and dressed up as Legolas from the Lord of the Rings movies.

And then there was Wuishe, the meme girl. From grumpy cats to uncaring honey badgers and sceptical owls, Wuishe knew all the memes and decorated everything in sight with them. Her contagion had been spreading. The other oracles and their non-magical brethren had become carriers, and…well, suffice it to say that Saskia had been rickrolled on more than one occasion as she walked the meme streets of Redgrove.

It shouldn’t have come as a surprise that Kveld would get on well with these elves. He was a huge nerd, and he’d already proved receptive to ideas from Saskia’s home planet. Seeing Kveld and Dallim here today gave her a surge of hope that maybe their two races might one day live together in peace and friendship.

That hope had a bucket of cold water thrown in its face when she and Ruhildi stepped out of the grove, and found themselves waylaid by a certain troublesome dwarf, and several of his followers.

“Who next are we going to have as our neighbours?” said Grindlecraw. “Fish-ears? Templars? Hraithian raiders? You’re being far too permissive!”

Saskia gave an inner eye-roll. The former stoneshaper had been among the earliest arrivals in New Inglomar, and despite the loss of his magic, he remained a powerful voice among his people. Grindlecraw wasn’t normally as open about his agenda as those other donkholes haranguing the elves, but at his core he was just as intolerant.

“You’re free to leave any time,” said Ruhildi. “But our decision is final. The alvessi and their nestlings will stay, unless they give us cause to turn them away.”

He gave a disgusted grunt. “What a disappointment the vaunted Vindica turned out to be. Your pap must be crying out his shame from the Halls Beyond. He’d rather have seen you dead than siding with the leaf-ears!”

Ruhildi’s stiffened at his words. There was some truth to them—Mangorn had almost killed his own daughter to rid her of what he saw as the elves’ corruption—but that didn’t make them any less hurtful. Saskia had had enough. With a low growl, she slammed her fist into the ground, sending a shower of dirt into the air. Grindlecraw stumbled backward, as did the dwarves standing behind him.

“Come on, Ruhildi,” she said. “This guy isn’t worth our time.”

As they made their way back across town, Ruhildi drew to a halt, breathing heavily and clutching at her chest. Her face was grey, her eyes dark.

“What’s wrong?” asked Saskia.

“’Tis naught you need concern yourself with, Sashki,” she said through clenched teeth. “Just a wee bit of pain, is all.”

Saskia eyed her worriedly. That looked like more than a bit of pain. But she said nothing. Soon, the colour returned to her friend’s cheeks, and they continued on their way.

Saskia spent the rest of her day with the construction crew, while Ruhildi returned to the forge. They finished several more houses that day—a pretty good effort, but when she thought of the ease with which the druids had built theirs, she couldn’t help but think they’d been doing it wrong all this time.

The next day, they returned to Redgrove, hoping to find the druids well-rested and ready to prove their worth to the stubborn dwarves.

Instead, they found ashes and weeping and bitter curses.

One of the newly-formed houses had been reduced to a smouldering ruin. Miraculously, most of the elves sleeping within that night had survived. The one who didn’t had dashed back inside after her child, and never emerged. Unbeknownst to her, the child she sought to rescue had already crawled out a window.

There was no question this fire had been an act of malice. These houses didn’t burn easily. Someone had doused the living structure in oil before setting it ablaze.

This was murder. An act calculated to incite hatred.

Saskia sat clutching her head between shaking hands. This was her fault. It was her naive hope that had brought these people here, to this.

“’Tisn’t your fault, Sashki,” said Ruhildi, as if reading her thoughts. “The shitebag who lit the fire were to blame and no-one else. We’ll catch him and make an example of him.”

“Yeah,” said Saskia. “We will. And we already know some likely culprits: Grindlecraw and his goons, or the frockers you scared off down by the lake.”

“This doesn’t seem like something Grindlecraw would do,” said Ruhildi, frowning. “He’s an arse, but not a simpleton. Between you and the Fellspur oracles, whoever did this will be found out. He kens that better than most.”

“Maybe,” said Saskia. “Still, I’d like to question him all the same. Even if he didn’t do it, he might know who did.”

Grindlecraw all but laughed in her face when she confronted him. “I won’t pretend I’m grieving over another dead leaf-ears, but do you really think I’d be so stupid as to tempt your wrath after our last encounter? I had nothing to do with this, and I ken not who did.”

A bright green aura surrounded him as he spoke. According to her oracle interface, he was being honest, and for once not even trying to hide anything from her. “I believe you,” she said, allowing her expression to soften. “If you hear anything, let me know.”

The only reply she got was a derisive grunt.

Ruhildi knew the names of the other dwarves who had been causing trouble. It was time to pay them a visit. Funny how meek a dwarf would become when faced with an angry troll and the always-formidable Vindica. They too professed no knowledge of the incident, other than the rumours everyone was hearing. And her oracle interface confirmed they were telling the truth, though some were being less than forthcoming when it came to volunteering information.

Saskia spent some time lurking in their heads afterward, just to make sure. She learned some dirty little secrets she’d rather not know about, but nothing related to arson and murder. So who was it then?

The hours that followed, she spent spying on the people of New Inglomar through her remote sight—dwarves and elves both—eavesdropping on conversations and tracking movements. She came away feeling like she needed to bathe for a week, but none the wiser on the one thing that mattered.

Whoever had done the deed apparently hadn’t spoken to anyone else about it. Maybe they’d left the town and were laying low in a cavern somewhere until it blew over. Or maybe—just maybe—they didn’t live here at all.

That night, she forced herself to stay awake, keeping her oracle sight peeled for red or orange dots on her minimap. The map extended all the way across the lake to the tunnel on the other side, and a fair distance around this arm of Dwallondorn. If anyone infiltrated the town from without, she’d see them coming.

She didn’t.

The next morning, they found one of the elf women lying in a bathing pool with her throat slit.

“We must identify the one responsible and make them pay,” said Garrain, eyeing Ruhildi coldly. “I think we both know what will happen if this continues.”

“Aye, Garri, I ken,” said Ruhildi. “We’re as frustrated as you are, but whoever is doing this is fair sneaky. Not even Sashki saw him strike, and she were up all night watching with her…” She waggled her fingers. “…other sight.”

“Our oracles did be seeing nothing neither,” said Wellard, leader of the Fellspur rangers. “And the murderer did slip right past the guards we had posted nearby.”

“I’ll be there day and night,” said Garrain. “Perhaps my eyes and ears will perceive something the oracles cannot, and I can hide more effectively than any ranger.”

“Aye,” said Ruhildi. “You can pass as a tree.”

Saskia chuckled tiredly, and rubbed her eyes. “Okay, I need to get a few hours sleep now. I’ve been up for far too long already. Wake me if you see anything.”

The two-way oracle link she shared with Ruhildi worked just as well with her other vassal. They could speak to each other across vast distances, and she could share her map and other oracle abilities, as well as see out of their eyes with the press of a metaphorical button. Presumably—though they’d never tried it—he could wake her through the link as well.

Sure enough, she blinked awake to the sound of Garrain’s urgent voice in her head. Through his eyes she looked through the trees at the body of an elf woman, lying in the dirt outside her front door. There was a dagger buried up to its hilt in her back.

“What happened?” she cried, already leaping to her feet and charging out her front door. “Where’s the killer?” Startled dwarves stepped aside as she bounded full-tilt across town.

Simultaneously watching from Garrain’s perspective as she ran, she saw tangles of sinuous roots or vines sliding across the ground. In the corner of his eye, some of those roots were jerking violently, as being tugged. Frustratingly, he refused to look at them.

“Is that a spell?” she asked.

“Binding roots,” he whispered. “I cast it the moment I saw her fall. But it seems the assassin got away regardless.”

“Are you sure?” she said. “Look to your left.”

His gaze began to turn in that direction, then suddenly tilted down toward the ground before she could get a look at whoever the roots had ensnared.

“Stop!” she said. “Look up and a bit to the right.”

“I already did,” he hissed.

“Just do it!”

Again his gaze seemed to slip around the spot she wanted to see. Okay, that’s it, she thought. Something’s definitely messing with his head.

Still running toward him, she turned her attention to her minimap.

Nothing.

Wait, no…there!

Her eyes were shying away from a certain area. It only became apparent when she moved her gaze slowly and concentrated on the features next to that spot.

“Garrain, listen to me carefully,” she said. “Your spell has caught someone, but he has some kind of freaky magic that stops us from looking at him. Keep your attention on the door of the house, and try to sweep your gaze to the left. See how the door is moving the wrong way?”

Garrain’s gaze halted, then shifted around experimentally. Finally he whispered, “I think you’re right. I—”

In that moment, a coloured line appeared in the air, intersecting with his chest. Without needing to be prompted, he sprang sideways.

A dagger thunked into the tree behind him.

His gaze swept back in the direction from which the dagger had come. This time, his eyes didn’t stray from the target. On the forest floor in that very spot lay a clump of severed roots.

The assassin had gotten away.

Arriving at the scene a few minutes later, Saskia looked down at the woman’s body, now lying face up with her eyes closed and her arms folded across her chest. She looked peaceful, but that was probably Garrain’s doing.

“That invisibility trick he pulled,” she said, looking at the druid. “Any idea what that could be?”

“No,” said Garrain. “I know a spell of concealment, but it doesn’t work the same way, and it wouldn’t hide me from an oracle’s sight.”

“Well I have come across something like this before,” she said. “The repelling magic around those roads you alvari use. Greenways, I think they’re called. It turned my eyes away exactly as the assassin did today.”

“I wouldn’t know about that,” said Garrain. “They don’t have that effect on my kind.”

“Could the killer be one of your kind? Someone who’s familiar with the magic of the greenways?”

“It is said that the greenways were gifted to us by Abellion himself. Whether or not that is true, there are surely none alive today who had a hand in their creation. No, I think we’re dealing with the spawn of a distant heretofore unknown worldseed, or…”

“Or?” she prompted.

“Or the assassin could be another Chosen.”