XIV. The Tree of Knowledge

Holland sat cross-legged in the grass, sipping at the tea Khagra had made as she talked with Dunak and Asthore. It was a greenish, herb-filled concoction, but it seemed safe enough. Once she'd finished her story, albeit leaving out the most personal parts of it and her struggle with Deus's voice, the two had relaxed considerably. Khagra was listening attentively as well now that she'd fetched tea. Asthore was nodding. "We may be able to help," the priestess said. "Not with the army, at least not directly, but Khagra's brother Murdak is a warleader in the north."

"Haven't talked to him for years," Khagra said. "But blood is blood."

"What were you thinking, then?" Holland said, sensing that something had gone unsaid.

"If your Princes of Iron have truly shrugged off the yoke of the Deceiver's power—or even if they have not—they will require the Desolate Throne to make their true conquest of the world," Dunak rumbled out, the delicate teacup looking tiny in his large, rough hands. "It is more than just a symbol of power. It is a weapon in its own right, or so the few scraps of history left from the Revealing suggest."

"It was lost to the ages," Asthore said, taking up the thread. "Even in the west, from what we can tell. But that does not mean it was completely lost. Our order once sought to find it and destroy it, but without the sorcery of the Deceiver and his princes, we were unable to read the fragments of maps we recovered. We have managed to preserve what we believe to be hints to its location throughout the centuries all the same. It would be very dangerous to pursue it, and perhaps it would bring about the very end we seek to avoid, but there is also a chance that it would offer us a way to combat the immortal princes themselves."

Holland felt a twist in her stomach at the idea of possibly slaying Saraqael. Her audience with the Divine Prince had reminded her that despite all her anger, the old devotion and adoration hadn't died. Still, she knew it would have to be done if there were to be a true end to this. "I see," she said quietly. "If we could assemble an army, we could entrust its leadership to the various agreeing parties. That would leave myself, Vladan, Ardashir, and perhaps Khagra here free to pursue the Throne."

"They would be likely to fall into chaos," Dunak muttered. "The races are not known for their cooperation."

"All they have to do is slow the Imperium's advance and buy us time," Khagra pointed out. "If we can find the Throne, if it is as powerful as the myths say, then we could win the war regardless of how the army fares."

"Be careful not to put all your faith in myths," Asthore said with a gently chiding tone. "Without the maps, we know nothing about it, and even if we could read them, they would be no guarantee."

"I may be able to read them," Holland said quietly. "But you would have to trust me to let me see them, I imagine."

Asthore stood up and motioned for Holland to do the same. "We will walk and talk. Dunak, Khagra, please fetch the Lady Penitent's companions. They should not camp at the bottom of Kel Badur. It isn't safe." It was an obvious attempt to get Holland alone, but neither Dunak nor Khagra protested. They had spoken to Holland long enough to know she was serious in her promise to do no one harm.

They parted ways, and Holland followed Asthore deeper into the temple. The priestess's bare feet sank into the grass and moss as they moved towards another spring. "I want to trust your intentions, Holland," Asthore said quietly. "I have had my own encounters with the servants of the Princes of Iron and you are not like any of them. You have emotion, passion, pain, regret. I am not certain what makes you different, but I have a suspicion."

"Oh?" Holland said.

Asthore turned to her, expression soft. "Your eastern reputation precedes you, most particularly your devotion to the Queen of Yssa. Answer me truthfully: on whose behalf did you come to this place?"

"Hers," Holland said, keeping eye contact with the priestess even though she wanted to look away from the searching gaze. It left her feeling unpleasantly exposed, but discomfort was a price she was willing to pay in exchange for assistance. "She didn't ask it of me, but she will die if Saraqael and the others have their way. I couldn't allow that."

"You care for her," Asthore observed with a small smile.

The sudden urge to tell someone, even or perhaps especially a stranger like Asthore who did not know Seva and never would, overwhelmed Holland. She found herself giving voice to the truth in the quietest of ways. "I love her," she murmured. "It will never be anything, but it is there in every moment, in every breath. That is what makes me a living, feeling thing rather than the soulless vessel I was made to be."

The priestess seemed to sense the pain that accompanied that statement and offered a sad, sympathetic smile. "Perhaps," she said. "But perhaps the love you feel is not as unrequited as it seems. One can never predict where the Fates will lead you. All the same, the heartbreak in your eyes is proof enough to me that you are no longer a servant of the darkness. Come, let us consult the maps and see what your sorcerous nature can ascertain."

Holland nodded, feeling a strange weight lift on her shoulders just a little bit. It was still a crushing secret that bound her, but someone else knew. Maybe not the depth or the full magnitude of it, but they knew it existed and that was enough to make Holland feel slightly less alone in its grip. They passed through another archway and into a perfectly heptagonal garden. At its center was a great, spreading, silver tree with leaves of gold that made whispering sounds as a breeze caught the branches. The bark was carved in swirling patterns of script that Holland recognized: the First Speech. It was the same language that was visible the doors of the Tuama, on the shard of Deus, and on the many artefacts that were held by the Princes of Iron. She didn't know what the words meant, but she knew the associations.

"This is the Tree of Knowledge," the priestess said. "Our order teaches that it stores the memories of the ancient ones, those who first learned the secrets of the Denah and magic. But we have never been able to unlock its secrets, likely because they are not meant to be known. It has stood in this place since before the Revealing and so we have protected it. But I believe it will take one with echoes of the First World in their body to learn even a fraction of the truths it offers—the sorcery that burns in your veins. As every sorcerous creature we have ever known served the Deceiver, it was not possible for us to ask for their help. If He knew it existed, He would surely wish it destroyed utterly."

Holland nodded. She could understand the danger it posed. This tree was the work of the gods who had fallen at Deus's hands. "What do I need to do?" she asked.

"I am not certain," Asthore admitted. "Touch your hand to its bark, and we will see what comes of it."

The penitent stepped forward cautiously and placed her palm flat on the smooth, warm bark. The graven letters lit up with a golden glow and she felt a rush of heat through her body. She heard no words, but there was a distinct emotion that she was fairly certain came from the tree itself. It was like walking through the doorway to her home after a long time away, or at least what she imagined that would be like. She'd never really had a home to call her own. Flickering images appeared around her, indistinct and faded like they'd been left too long in the sun. She heard a soft gasp from Asthore behind her in answer to the sudden apparitions.

The feeling in her thoughts reminded her of all the times Saraqael simply looked directly into her mind. This tree was measuring her even as it touched her heart with warmth. She could feel a pulse of energy in the bark under her hand, perfectly syncing with her own heartbeat. Holland closed her eyes, visualizing the drawings of the Desolate Throne that she'd seen. Where? she asked it in the speech of the First World that she had learned from Saraqael.

Visions of a dark city surrounded by great mountain peaks flashed behind her eyes. She saw spires of impossible height and swirling patterns of silver script inlaid into ebon, mirror-like glass leading up to a massive, empty throne. She still wasn't convinced that what she was seeing really existed, but she looked for any sign of a landmark other than the mountains around. Then she saw it: the fissure that lead into the mountains was marked by a twisted black arch that had to be at least a thousand feet high. It was mammoth. Abruptly, the vision changed. She was suddenly looking at it from above, so high she could see the curvature of the horizon in every direction. She could see rivers, lakes, mountains, and forests. This was her map, so she tried to burn it into her memory.

A discordant note jarred through her body and she felt a sudden, horrible, sickening dread as she returned to earth and neared the gates of the city. It was a warning. Every fiber of her being screamed that she should go nowhere near this place. Words formed in her mind: memento mori.

The apparitions vanished as suddenly as they had appeared and took the visions with them. The tree's silver branches swayed slightly in the wind as Holland took a step back, the warmth fading. "Remember that you will die," she said, repeating the warning quietly, a little shaken despite herself.

"What's wrong?" Asthore asked.

Holland stared at the tree, no longer lit up or sharing its feelings with her. "Nothing," she said softly. "I think I know the way now, though."

The priestess gave her a pensive look. "I hope you use this knowledge well, Lady Penitent," she said. "I do not think your heart will be well served by abusing it."

"Agreed," Holland said, well aware that Asthore was making veiled reference to Seva. There was no doubt in her mind that her friend wouldn't be alright if she led the wrong people to the Black City. The penitent heard her name being called in a deep, growling voice and she turned. There were her companions on the approach with Khagra. Both looked a little shaken from their ride up to the top. "Not fans of flying?"

"Dunak's dragon is...larger," Vladan said with a chuckle, smoothing the fur on the back of his neck down. His hackles were still standing up a little bit. "The horses did not appreciate the flight."

"Nor did I," Ardashir murmured. His dark eyes were worried. "Are you well, Lady Penitent? You look pale."

"Fine," Holland said, flashing him a quick smile as she centered herself quickly. "I appreciate the concern. Are the horses alright?"

"I calmed them down, but they'll be nervous for a while," Ardashir said. "Khagra just offered us lunch. We were hoping you would come join us."

Asthore smiled at the group. "I think that would be an excellent idea," she said pleasantly, brown eyes friendly and just a touch relieved that Holland hadn't suddenly revealed herself to be a malicious actor. "We should get to know each other if we're going to be allies. Khagra, do you intend to accompany them further north?"

Khagra shrugged and grinned. "Murdak won't listen to them on their own," she said. "Besides, a war like this...can't sit that kind of thing out."

"Do all orcs have dragons?" Vladan asked as they moved back to a more sheltered area where a table with food was waiting.

Khagra shook her head. "Only the crazy ones," she said with a laugh. "Most orcs like their feet on the ground. It's an old, old tradition. Most people aren't brave or patient enough to walk that road anymore. Besides, they don't really need to. A running orc can keep up with a horse at a canter, and they can hold it just as long."

"Well, before we make it to orcish territory, we'll have to deal with dwarves," Holland said. "I was planning on approaching them at Dhir Daral."

Their orc companion grimaced. "That'll be ugly. Suspicious little bastards," Khagra said. "Don't like orcs, humans, elves, and probably whatever you are too, Vladan. In fact, I'd say they don't like anything that isn't dwarf. They trade with surface dwellers, but grudgingly at best and only because they can't grow wheat for beer beneath the ground. At least, not yet. Give them a few more centuries and they'll have figured something out."

"They sound charming," Ardashir commented. He seemed to have relaxed slightly around the orc, though he still looked wary.

Vladan shrugged. "My magus commented only on their crafts," he said. "He never set foot in a dwarven city, nor conversed with any dwarf. Leus is unappealing to them, he claimed. Too much magic."

Holland was quiet through lunch, offering up monosyllabic answers and smiles to reassure everyone that she was fine and listening. The whispers of Deus seemed successfully dampened by her precautions. After lunch, the group parted ways a little bit. Vladan and Khagra were on track to becoming fast friends, vanishing to go feed the dragons. The clerics with them withdrew to discuss what had occurred earlier in the garden. Ardashir cared for his horse and kit while Holland did the same. Once the hooded knight was finished with his gear, however, he approached the penitent. "May I speak to you, Lady Penitent?" he requested.

"Is it about Khagra?" Holland asked, checking the last six inches of her sword for nicks. That was the only part of the sword she kept sharp, so she could half-sword even out of armor if she needed to.

"No," Ardashir said, sitting down next to Holland on the low stone. "I am certain that Khagra is a capable warrior and we will not regret journeying with her. I was actually more concerned about you. Things seem to weigh on you."

"It's a fight I don't know if we can win," she said with a little shrug. Being unable to go to Yssa to protect Seva was doing nothing for Holland's mood as well. Laenus was there. Naris was there. Both could do irreparable harm to the queen if they thought she was a threat. "What we are doing is an answer, but it is not a good one. There is no good one."

The hooded knight hesitated for a moment before saying, "You are demon-kith? That is what Dunak called you."

Holland sighed, not looking up from her sword. The blade was a uniform, flat grey that did not reflect. It wasn't a beautiful weapon; it was just a tool. Like me, she thought. "I am what I was made," she said. "Just like you."

"So you don't want to talk about it?" Ardashir said.

"Not particularly, but I will if I must," Holland said quietly. "Dunak's words have their root in truth, even if he doesn't really understand what they mean. There are some who seek out demons in the hopes of learning their secrets and gaining power. That is what is usually meant in the west by demon-kith. Here in the east, it has lost some of the meaning. I assure you, that is not what I was." She still felt some old disdain for demon-kith. Saraqael had little patience for sycophants. Some of the other Princes of Iron supposedly allowed or even encouraged it, but never her master and that was reflected in the attitudes of his servants.

"But you served demons, once."

Her hazel eyes glanced up at him. There was more concern there than true suspicion. "Yes. I try not to lie about it," she said. "That is how I know what is coming—it was once my life. But no longer."

"Is it hard for you to fight them?" Ardashir asked.

"Very hard and very easy at the same time," Holland said. "I hate them and I know how to fight them, which makes it easy, but their sorcery is in me. I can feel it in every beat of my heart, every breath I take. The more powerful ones can still call to me. Fortunately, I'm frustratingly stubborn."

Ardashir nodded. "Fortunate for us indeed," he murmured. He gave her a small smile, still worried, but also a little bit relieved. "Thank you for being honest with me, Lady Penitent."

"Holland," the penitent corrected. "We're in this together now. Besides, it's not like Vladan or Khagra use my title."

"Nor do they use manners," Ardashir said. "But as you wish, Holland."

"Thank you," Holland said.

He left her alone with her thoughts then, which suited Holland just fine. The afternoon swiftly became night and she found herself laying in her bedroll underneath the great dome with its gaps that revealed the sky, looking upward and allowing herself to finally wonder what the hell she was doing and how she could possibly expect for it to somehow work out. Deus's shard was tucked in the bag she was using as a pillow, His whispering muted but still present in her thoughts. She did her best to tune Him out and drifted off to sleep eventually, well after Vladan's snoring reached a cringe-inducing volume. Still, it was oddly comforting, perhaps because it was a reminder that she wasn't completely alone.

The last thought on her mind before she slipped into dreamland was the bright blue of Seva's eyes.

In the morning, they would set out for Dhir Daral, and she would need every ounce of resilience she possessed.