The two squirrels, by the root, started bounding away, into the thorny wall. Just before they were out of earshot, one of them turned, and said, “Try going both ways, at the same time, and looking through all of your eyes at once.”
It took several attempts, and as much concentration as it did for him to climb the nesting cliff of the hawklings, for him to be able to see through Talon’s eyes with his own eyes open, but he finally managed it. It was even harder, to keep Talon moving through the left-hand tunnel in a restrained hover that matched the speed of his jog through the right-hand side. When it finally happened, when four eyes looked together down both corridors at once, it all became clearer. When he turned left, just as Talon turned right at the T-junction, they met in the middle, and the forested passages shimmered away. The trees were replaced by a long torch-lit hallway. At the end of the featureless passage, was a single door.
Beyond the door there was an empty room. As before, when Hyden closed the door behind him, the room shifted. The door vanished, and he found himself somewhere, that was as beautiful, as it was terrifying. Talon, who was holding a steady hover, over and just behind his head, cooed out a sigh of relief at seeing the open sky overhead.
They were standing on a slow, rolling plain of fertile green, an emerald sea of turf, which stretched as far as the eye, or eyes, in this case, could see. Right behind where he stood, was a single, monstrous old oak. Ten men might not have been able to put their outstretched arms together to form a ring around it. Littered among the leaves and deadfall at its base, were the bones of a score or more men. Some were scattered about, some were in neat little piles. Others were still connected at the joints, and sitting there, in half rotted clothes, with packs and pouches strapped to their bodies. A few empty water skins, a handful of books, and even a sword or two, lay among them in various degrees of weathered decay.
Suddenly, movement caught his eye. A huge, dark knothole in the tree trunk had shifted, he was sure of it. Cautiously, he took a few steps back. Talon landed on a shoulder, and sunk his claws firmly, and reassuringly, into Hyden’s muscle. A breeze cooled his skin, and the leaves rustled about him.
It was warm, probably hot, beyond the shade the tree provided. He was about to send Talon off to explore the lay of the land, when the knothole moved again. There was no mistaking it this time. The knot closed, and puckered, like a mouth, and then in a voice as deep as the ancient tree’s roots, it spoke. The rhyming riddle came out slowly and rhythmically.
“A guide will come, if your heart’s been true, and lead you to a door of mine.
Ponder this, while you wait, if you want to go inside;
A pyramid, a patterned knock, made up of only ten.
You must start from the bottom; if you do I’ll let you in.”
After the voice stopped, Hyden spoke the words to himself, over and over again. It was hard to do, considering the shock, and bewilderment he was feeling after being spoken to by a tree. He didn’t dare forget the words though. They made little sense to him now, but he would think about the meaning later. At the moment, all he wanted to do was commit the riddle to memory. By the look of the others waiting, he figured he might have plenty of time to sort it out.
He grimaced at his morbid sense of humor. His faith that the White Goddess of his clan would send him a guide hadn’t wavered, at least not yet. He was certain that she wouldn’t let him whither and rot, like these others had.
Only after he was sure that he had gotten the rhyme memorized, he tried to communicate with the tree. It didn’t respond to anything he asked, or commanded. Nor did the tree do more than rustle its leaves at him, when he pleaded. After a while, he gave up, and sat back against the tree trunk among the remains of the others, and began going over the riddle in his mind.
“A pyramid, a patterned knock, made up of only ten.
You must start from the bottom; if you do I’ll let you in.”
He had no idea what the answer was, and after saying the thing a few times out loud, he found he had grown sleepy. It was only a matter of moments before slumber took him to a deep, dark place, where not even dreams dared to go.
Vaegon, having no other weapon at hand, and cursing his lack of foresight for not bringing one, drew Ironspike from its sheath. Dugak raised his walking stick as if it were a club. For a moment, the undead soldiers hesitated. The sword had scared them. Vaegon knew this only because of what the ghost had told him earlier. He also knew that they were slowly starting to realize that he wasn’t Mikahl, and that Ironspike’s power wasn’t unleashed.
“Run for it, Dugak,” Vaegon yelled.