‘I couldn’t agree more.’ Tor raised a hand to Aldasair, who had been standing with a tall man with green eyes, and his cousin came over. Of the three of them, Tor noted, he looked the least nervous – Aldasair looked better than he’d ever done. Together, they went to the edge of the roots, where the Jure’lia artefacts had been set, and they each picked up two of the orbs, one under each arm. A hush fell across the Hall, and Tor knew suddenly that this was right. No elaborate speeches, no declarations or promises. They were simply the children of Ebora, doing what they could for the tree-god. There would be witnesses, whatever happened, and that was good.
The three of them stepped up onto the roots together and walked slowly apart. There had been some discussion about this – they would pour the fluid over the widest possible area, and slowly. Tor stumbled slightly and felt a rush of heat to his cheeks. It had been a long time since he had walked the roots. He looked over at Hestillion for support, but she was staring straight ahead, her pale face as expressionless as a plate. Abruptly, he wished that Noon was here; she would have rolled her eyes at the solemnness of it all, and told them to get on with it.
Eventually, he came to the appointed place. With numb fingers he set one of the orbs down, and then removed the other’s seal. Wincing slightly, he knelt directly on the roots.
‘Please work,’ he murmured. ‘Please just . . . fucking work.’
He glanced up to see Hestillion and Aldasair to either side of him, performing the same slow actions. Ahead of him now he could see the crowd of humans and the handful of Eborans, watching closely. Some had their hands clasped over their mouths.
He tipped the orb, and the shimmering golden fluid poured from the opening. It was thick and slow, like syrup, and it pooled at first on top of the gnarled root he was perched on, before slipping to either side and moving down into the dark. Tor felt tension thrumming in all of his muscles – it was like the pent-up feeling you got just before cramp seized your leg.
Nothing was happening.
Glancing up again, he could see Hestillion to one side of him, her head bent gracefully over her work. To the other side, Aldasair was gently shaking the orb up and down to encourage the fluid out. The crowd were still silent, but he could see one or two people moving from one foot to the other, craning their necks to get a better look, and he knew they were thinking the same as he was. Nothing was happening, and this was a waste of time. Worse than that, it was a humiliation. Fumbling for the next orb, he tore the seal from it with more violence than was necessary, and hurriedly shook the contents over the roots. Still, that terrible silence.
As the last of the syrupy fluid dribbled from the orb he stood up, already thinking of how swiftly they could leave. He would grab Noon, several cases of wine, and he wouldn’t even need to look at his sister again. He had just taken his first step when he lost his footing; the roots under his feet had shifted, and he scrambled to stay upright. There was a chorus of cries from all around the room, a mixture of wonder and fear.
The roots were moving – not quickly or violently, but enough to make it difficult to stand on them. Tor looked up at the branches spreading above the glass roof, and they were moving too, as though a strong wind had suddenly blown up on this sunny, peaceful day. Tor ran for the edge, his heart beating sickly in his chest. Of all the things he had expected to feel if this happened, he had not expected to feel so afraid. He half fell, half jumped onto the marble floor and turned back to look. Aldasair and Hest had had the same thought and joined him moments later, Hestillion’s empty orb slipping through her fingers to smash into brittle pieces. Behind them, the murmur of the crowd was growing into a roar.
‘By the roots,’ breathed Aldasair. ‘We did it!’
‘We did something,’ said Tor. Why was he so afraid?
Ygseril’s bark, grey and silver for as long as Tor could remember, was changing colour before their eyes. The roots were darkening, growing plump and dark, steel warming to a deep burnished copper, and then a dark, reddish brown. The warmth flowed up from the roots to the enormous girth of the trunk, rising rapidly like a tide line. The newly ripened bark shone with health. There was a crackling noise, like a blazing fire on a cold night.
By now, the crowd of observers were shouting, some of them even whooping with joy, and reluctantly Tor felt his face split into a grin. Out of the corner of his eye he could see that several of the ill Eborans had climbed out of their chairs and were staggering towards the roots. Next to him, Hestillion was murmuring under her breath, words that he couldn’t catch, but he did not look at her; he couldn’t take his eyes from the glory of Ygseril.
Up and up the new colour spread, making them all lean back, craning their necks to watch as it flooded up and through the branches, and it was moving faster now, racing to the tips and flooding them with health.
Someone was crying. Tor could hear their breathless sobs, and he didn’t blame them. His own throat was tight with unshed tears.
‘We will be healed,’ he said, his voice thick, and Aldasair took his hand and squeezed it. His cousin was grinning.
‘It wasn’t the end after all,’ he said brightly.
There was movement in the branches high overhead. At first Tor thought that it was light in his eyes, perhaps reflecting off his own tears, but new points of brightness were appearing there; silver leaves were unfurling.
‘He lives!’
The cry came from one of the Eborans, an ancient man with broken skin and his crimson eyes sunk deep into his skull. He had reached the edge of the roots and had knelt to lay his hands on them, his ruined face split into a beatific smile. ‘He has come back to us!’
Tor grinned, turning to his sister with the thought that he would embrace her – not something they had ever made a habit of, but if any occasion merited it, surely this was it – when abruptly he was filled with a sense of enormous sorrow. It had come from outside himself, he was certain of it, and it nearly felled him like a blow to the stomach. He gasped, staggering, and saw Aldasair do the same, the pleasure on his face replaced with dismay. There was such sadness everywhere, such regret. It was hard to breathe, under that blanket of despair.
‘Oh no,’ said Hestillion. ‘Oh please, no.’
His sister was so pale now she looked almost translucent, as though he might see the shifting of her blood under her skin, and for a frightening moment Tor thought she would faint dead away, but then she was pointing at the roots. At what was boiling up through the gaps between the roots.
A black, viscous liquid was seeping up, surging everywhere between the healthy roots, like a dark oily sea coming into shore. Tor took a step backwards, confused. Was it the golden fluid? Had it been corrupted somehow? The cheers and chatter behind them stuttered and died.
The black liquid leapt and spread, moving not like a liquid at all, but like a living thing. Wet fingers of fluid danced and came together, weaving a form in the centre of the roots, a figure of sorts, something taller than an Eboran, something formed of sticky strands and seething wetness. Arms and legs appeared, a torso, a sleek head garlanded with tendrils of the shifting black substance. And a face surfaced there – beautiful, terrible. Pleased.
‘You have freed me. Remarkable child.’