trees whose roots sank deep into the rock where vesicles from the sump fed and watered them, and whose boughs and branches flowed far out from the island like a sort of lacy collar, bending in a rightwise whorl. It was a world of strange birds and weird gardens growing from intentionally rotted places in the wood, of fruits and nuts and warbling monkeylike things.
Next to the sump, he liked this place most, and sometimes better. Part of it was the feeling of freedom the place afforded, but part of it was a familiarity that spoke to him almost below the level of consciousness, a sense of intrinsic belonging he’d lost months ago.
The view, however, was disturbing. If he looked to the horizons,he saw plains and forest, softened and made beautiful by distance. If he looked down, however, that was another story. Any open ground revealed the thousands of corpses walking, animated by Umbriel’s larvae.
The ground was very open now. Umbriel had changed direction, taking them east over vast mountains, and below them was heath and snow, and few trees to hide the undying. They seemed numberless, and—perhaps worst of all—organized, marching in a rough semblance of ranks.
“I haven’t seen you lately,” a pleasant feminine voice quietly said.
He glanced up but already knew who it was.
“Hello, Fhena,” he said.
With her charcoal complexion and red eyes, Fhena might have been a Dunmer woman of about twenty years. But she was no more Dunmer than Wert was human, and since Umbrielians were born adult, he’d reckoned from their earlier conversations she was probably no more than five or six years old. She wore her usual blouse and knee-shorts; today the former was green and the latter yellow.
“Did you bring me more orchid shrimp?” she asked hopefully.
“No,” he said, “but I thought you might like these.”
He handed her a pouch, which she took with an expression of purest delight. But when she saw what was inside, her look wandered toward puzzlement.
“Kraken barnacles,” he explained.
She pulled one out of the bag. It was about the size and shape of a large shark tooth, smooth and dark green, with a wet, tube-like appendage sticking out of the wide end.
She bit the tooth-shaped shell.
“Hard,” she said.
“Here,” he said. “Let me show you.”
He took the barnacle, gave it a squeeze so the shell cracked, then pulled out the soft mass inside by the projecting stalk. He handed it to Fhena, who bit into it, chewed a moment, and then laughed.
“Good, yes?” Glim said. “Those are native to the seas around Lilmoth, where I grew up. The taskers must have collected some and brought them up, because they’ve suddenly started growing in the sump.”
“Delicious,” she agreed. “You always find some way to surprise me.”
“I’m glad to be of service,” Mere-Glim said.
“But I’m not often able to repay the favor,” she replied.
“You might today,” he said. “Tell me about the trees.”
“The trees?”
“Yes.” He tapped on the nearest branch.
“I’m not sure what to say about them,” she replied.
“Well,” he said, trying to think how to go about this, “I’ve noticed that they produce nuts and fruit and even grains, of a sort. But what else?”
“What else?” She clapped her hands. “Salt and sugar, acid and wine, vinegar and sulfur, iron and glass. The trees have a talent for making things—they just have to be told how.”
“Who tells them?”
She looked thoughtful. “Well, I’m not sure,” she said. “They’ve been making most things for so long, I think they may have forgotten. Or at least they don’t talk about it. They just tell us when something needs doing, or collecting, or when something isn’t right and them in the kitchens must help.”
“Wait a minute,” Glim said. “The trees talk to you?”
“Of course. Can’t you hear them?”
“Almost,” Glim said. “Almost. But what does it mean?”
Her eyes had widened, and he realized his
Next to the sump, he liked this place most, and sometimes better. Part of it was the feeling of freedom the place afforded, but part of it was a familiarity that spoke to him almost below the level of consciousness, a sense of intrinsic belonging he’d lost months ago.
The view, however, was disturbing. If he looked to the horizons,he saw plains and forest, softened and made beautiful by distance. If he looked down, however, that was another story. Any open ground revealed the thousands of corpses walking, animated by Umbriel’s larvae.
The ground was very open now. Umbriel had changed direction, taking them east over vast mountains, and below them was heath and snow, and few trees to hide the undying. They seemed numberless, and—perhaps worst of all—organized, marching in a rough semblance of ranks.
“I haven’t seen you lately,” a pleasant feminine voice quietly said.
He glanced up but already knew who it was.
“Hello, Fhena,” he said.
With her charcoal complexion and red eyes, Fhena might have been a Dunmer woman of about twenty years. But she was no more Dunmer than Wert was human, and since Umbrielians were born adult, he’d reckoned from their earlier conversations she was probably no more than five or six years old. She wore her usual blouse and knee-shorts; today the former was green and the latter yellow.
“Did you bring me more orchid shrimp?” she asked hopefully.
“No,” he said, “but I thought you might like these.”
He handed her a pouch, which she took with an expression of purest delight. But when she saw what was inside, her look wandered toward puzzlement.
“Kraken barnacles,” he explained.
She pulled one out of the bag. It was about the size and shape of a large shark tooth, smooth and dark green, with a wet, tube-like appendage sticking out of the wide end.
She bit the tooth-shaped shell.
“Hard,” she said.
“Here,” he said. “Let me show you.”
He took the barnacle, gave it a squeeze so the shell cracked, then pulled out the soft mass inside by the projecting stalk. He handed it to Fhena, who bit into it, chewed a moment, and then laughed.
“Good, yes?” Glim said. “Those are native to the seas around Lilmoth, where I grew up. The taskers must have collected some and brought them up, because they’ve suddenly started growing in the sump.”
“Delicious,” she agreed. “You always find some way to surprise me.”
“I’m glad to be of service,” Mere-Glim said.
“But I’m not often able to repay the favor,” she replied.
“You might today,” he said. “Tell me about the trees.”
“The trees?”
“Yes.” He tapped on the nearest branch.
“I’m not sure what to say about them,” she replied.
“Well,” he said, trying to think how to go about this, “I’ve noticed that they produce nuts and fruit and even grains, of a sort. But what else?”
“What else?” She clapped her hands. “Salt and sugar, acid and wine, vinegar and sulfur, iron and glass. The trees have a talent for making things—they just have to be told how.”
“Who tells them?”
She looked thoughtful. “Well, I’m not sure,” she said. “They’ve been making most things for so long, I think they may have forgotten. Or at least they don’t talk about it. They just tell us when something needs doing, or collecting, or when something isn’t right and them in the kitchens must help.”
“Wait a minute,” Glim said. “The trees talk to you?”
“Of course. Can’t you hear them?”
“Almost,” Glim said. “Almost. But what does it mean?”
Her eyes had widened, and he realized his
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