Alexia was next, and she kissed his cheek too, saying, “So the forest gods know you’re loved.”
Erron was already on his feet. “Can’t wait to hear about your adventures when you get back home.”
Alexia stood more slowly, carefully. “You are still coming home, right? I mean, this is still home?”
Dagan shrugged. “For now. But even if I do make my home in some other conservancy, I’ll be traveling too much for it to matter. And you’re welcome wherever I am—both of you.”
Apparently satisfied with his reply, the twins shared a look and a nod, then started back toward the path. Erron reached out to take Lex’s arm where she’d tripped on the way in, and she swatted him away impatiently. Erron shook his head and put his hands into his pockets, laughing at her.
Dagan ran the soft blanket between his fingers, then rubbed it against his cheek. Though it was exquisitely soft, it still smelled faintly of goat armpits, or whatever this particularly rare thread was made from. That’d wear off in time, though. It was almost too nice to take with him tomorrow; it’d look impressive draped over a lovely bed strewn with cushions.
But then, he wouldn’t see his bed for a while, after tonight, and there certainly wouldn’t be anyone to impress with it while he was scouting.
He folded it up in his lap, then leaned back against the tree again, tangling his fingers in the cool grass. A deep breath in, then a little hold, and then a deep breath out, with which he imagined sending his awareness down into the earth through the palms of his hands. For some reason, he always pictured himself as a kind of sparkly, bright green energy as he moved beneath the soil, feeling out the delicate, buzzing networks of fungi, insects, and roots.
The tree at his back would mast beautifully this year. The last two years, the grove had been relatively low-yield, but it was time, the whole grove was in agreement. After a childhood spent among the trees, it still amazed Dagan every time he could feel that energy within each and every one of them. How the trees spoke, no one was sure, but that they spoke was a certainty.
This was about the extent of Dagan’s lifecasting, this surface-level examination of and ability to listen to the earth and all the life it provided within a wide or small radius. Alonza was obviously the most skilled with lifecasting, but Alexia, Erron, and possibly Nika might end up giving him a run for it. Whether this was really a matter of talent or just a matter of working harder to develop their abilities, Dagan wouldn’t venture to guess. Alonza, at least, had been obsessive about it since birth, if their mother could be believed.
Dagan had more than enough to be successful as a scout, though, and that was really all that mattered. He could glean information about a localized area if he was in it, and, if anything seemed questionable, he could call in a Verder to deal with it. He’d practiced enough, especially for the last few years, to tap into his lifecasting quickly and without much effort, like flexing a well-toned muscle.
At first, he’d worked on it so he could become a scout. But once it’d become second nature to him, Dagan found himself connecting to the earth just to be with it more than anything else. It was impossible to feel alone when surrounded by a million teeming things happily going about their business. To tap into the earth was to tap into a string of connections, like a spider’s web, that made life both possible and delightful.
If someone had just told him that when he was a kid, Dagan might’ve practiced more back then, too. But for now, he just sat in the moonlight and enjoyed the noise of life in his home grove. Every place he’d ever visit as a scout, he felt sure, he would compare to this one. He didn’t know how anything could stack up, but he was looking forward to finding out.
Chapter 3: Apricot Grove Conservancy, Heart Wood
Even before Alonza had told him about the trouble at the Blue Bird River, Dagan had planned to head east. He’d never seen the walls of the Stone City, which lurked on the other side of the river like a thundercloud, and now seemed like as good a time as any. He headed directly northeast to cut through several conservancies in one swoop and come to the Blue Bird estuary eventually. No one knew if the damage to the river had reached the ocean yet, as far as Alonza and Demetrius had heard.
It was the most stunningly uneventful hike through the wood imaginable. Dagan was on the one hand grateful for this, as it meant he was starting out on his scouting career with a smooth run. On the other hand, after about a week of living at the uninhabited edges of various conservancies, Dagan wouldn’t have minded a minor bump in the road. Every day, he listened to the Heart Wood in place after new place, like a healer putting their ear to a patient’s chest to listen for working organs. Every day, it seemed perfectly fine.
The desire for something to happen wasn’t loneliness, though, he was pleased to note. Even when it would’ve been reasonable to wander through a conservancy’s settlement to hear the local gossip and resupply, Dagan skirted them more often than not.
The Buck Moon had come full and almost waned away by the time Dagan reached the estuary. The salt scent and breeze reached him well inland, and apricot and other coastal fruit groves had grown thicker on the ground over the last few days. He hadn’t sensed anything strange, though he ran parallel to the Blue Bird for at least three of them. The most remarkable thing was that the eponymous blue birds, who usually flocked when anyone neared the river, were silent and missing. When Dagan emerged from the treeline, however, he immediately saw—and smelled—what Alonza had warned him about.
The estuary was wide here, a low, flat, swampy plain that was meant to be brackish but healthy, full of nutrients that made sure it teemed with life. But what should’ve been a lively system was just a muddy mess, crusted with salt and a few scrubby, brown plants. Dagan approached, but the moment his boot sank into mud, a smell like sulfur pits released from its depths and proceeded to punch him in the nose. He had wanted to cross the estuary if he could find cover, but no. Absolutely not.
He glanced up to take in the distant walls of the City, their white limewash ragged and gray with years of weather. The City itself snaked up the mountain, endless buildings clinging to its sides, no doubt with invisible people swarming around them like ants on a hill. It was cold-looking, colorless, and stark. Ominous.
Once he’d gotten his eyeful, Dagan backtracked until he reached the treeline, then followed it west, keeping the dunes to his right. He’d thought Demetrius had been exaggerating, when he warned Dagan not to try using lifecasting near the river. Apparently, he had not been. The very thought made Dagan feel sick to his stomach.
Mind spinning, he kept walking until he couldn’t smell or see the estuary any more. Then he climbed up a sand dune, hoping to wash his boots in the ocean and consider his next move. Should he head back to the nearest settlement and fill in his map with his findings? Should he continue up the river north to see if he could find where Demetrius and Alonza had seen the river? Should he head directly for the Head Verder’s house and find them first?
No. He needed more information. He was deep in thought, the sun going down before him, when he heard a snapping of twigs that could only be a very large animal. On instinct, Dagan ducked into the trees, not wanting to spook the wildlife. Humans were uncommon out here on the fringes of the wood; the animals weren’t accustomed to their presence like they were in the interior.
The last thing he expected to see emerge from the tall pines and onto the sand was a pale-skinned man, broad-shouldered and tall, wearing little more than a piece of fabric wrapped around his waist. Dagan considered signaling the man, but there was something off about him, in the way he walked, held his head, something. He had shaggy, light brown hair, almost wild and far too careless to be from a settlement, and the cloth he was wearing didn’t look like any clothing Dagan had ever seen.
Which meant this could be a lone hermit who’d want his peace and quiet, a denizen of the Heart Wood who’d been exiled from his conservancy for something criminal, or a castaway islander looking for a way back home. Or, of course, a refugee.
If he was a hermit or an exile, it was none of Dagan’s business, so long as he was doing nothing against the Law of the Wood. (In which case, Dagan would have to haul him in or fill him with arrows, depending.) But if he was a castaway or a refugee, it was very much Dagan’s business to find out if he could help the man. He made to step out of the trees just as the man pulled off his cloth, leaving him perfectly naked on the beach.
Nice ass, anyhow. Dagan sighed and retreated to the forest again, certain he’d hear the man barreling through it if and when he returned to the woods after he finished his swim. No point surprising him with his pants down.
*
“Hello?”
The man, now wearing a pair of battered leathers and a stained, sleeveless shirt, spun, holding a paring knife. “Who’s there?”
Dagan stepped into the clearing. Quickly, it became clear this was some sort of camp; a deflated sack hung on a nearby branch and a small shelter—a roof, really—had been constructed out of a ragged blanket and branches. A dirt pit with charred wood was clearly the cooking fire, and a kind of rack made of sticks perched over it, hung with some sort of limp weed Dagan didn’t even recognize. Must’ve been from the sea, then.
He held up both hands and examined the pale man carefully.
The man waved the knife but with an efficiency that suggested he knew what to do with it. “Who sent you?” he asked in a flat-voweled accent.
“You’re from the Stone City.” Dagan had heard the accent before. “It’s alright. If I wanted to sneak up on you, I would’ve done it ages ago.”
“Is that meant to be reassuring?” The man’s brow crinkled. He had the most arresting blue eyes, bluer than Dagan had ever seen before. Like the reflection of a clear summer sky in the Heart Spring.
“Far more reassuring than the knife you’re waving at me.” Dagan said with a small smile. The man was, on closer inspection, young and fit. That said, there was enough space between them that Dagan could be long gone before the man ever reached him, if he took it into his head to attack.
The man said, “You’ve got a bow. And a much bigger knife.”
“Yes, but I’m not waving them at you. It’s not so much the existence of your knife that troubles me, more the waving of it.”
The man looked at him for a long moment as if confused. Then at the knife. He lowered the hand that held it. “Fair enough.”
“I’m a scout of the Heart Wood. Name’s Dagan, of the Black Walnut Grove.” He put a hand on his heart in formal greeting.
