Return by Peter S. Beagle; Maurizio Manzieri Page A

there, twenty feet behind me, grinning his splintery brown grin and holding my bow by the end, like a spear. I had heard nothing of the old gatekeeper’s approach; as my nerves were astretch to their greatest possible extent, this implied more skill on his part than I knew. Nevertheless he did nothing when I took the bow away from him, but only muttered, “I have the arrows. Come for them two hours after sunset, when the Masters have gone.” He turned away, standing straighter and walking more firmly than I ever remembered seeing him. Over his shoulder, he added, “Then I will take you to the Tree.”
    And so I hid once more, and waited. Brother Laska did not lie: after sunset the Masters did leave, one by one, through the great doors, apparently in order of rank, for Master Caldrea was the last.
    When it was true moonless dark, dark enough for me to hope I might be taken for a guard if I were seen—though none of those carried bows—I stole toward the great door, meeting no one on the way, and slipped inside for what I knew would be the last time. Brother Laska was waiting for me at the closet under the stair, my dagger, my pack, my arrows and the quiver in his trembling hands. I took them with gratitude—he even had my flint and steel as well—asking, “Have they been here all the time? Since Master Caldrea took them?”
    Brother Laska shook his yellow-white head, grinning again. “He hid them, but I found them. I find everything.” He watched as I tested and adjusted the new string and sighted along several arrows, to make sure that no dampness had warped them. He said, “I knew you would come for them.”
    “My weapons?”
    “The Hunters.” I heard footsteps and ducked into the closet, shielding my face, as a pair of apprentices passed, teasing Brother Laska and chattering about the shapeshifter who could be a man or a woman, and make himself disappear altogether, when he chose. Brother Laska growled them along, and I asked him bluntly, “Why are you helping me? What game are you playing?”
    “Don’t like Hunters. Never did, never did. Shouldn’t be here!” Brother Laska had suddenly gotten violently aroused, the way very old people sometimes do. “Master Krelim’s fault—Master Krelim, before you, you wouldn’t know. Woke up the Tree. Shouldn’t have.”
    I turned and stared at him. Some grow transparent with age, but Brother Laska had become perfectly opaque since my childhood—you could see nothing of him beyond the liver-spotted skin and scalp and the sunken, faded yellow eyes. Brother Laska said, “The Hunters’ Tree. I will take you.”
    He calmed down as quickly as he had caught fire, and would have turned from me, but I put my hands on his shoulders and held him there, as gently as I could. I said “Tell me about the Tree, Brother Laska. Please.”
    Brother Laska fussed and fidgeted under my hands at first, but then he grew quiet and curiously thoughtful: here and not-here; present, but not entirely accounted for. He studied me for some moments before he spoke again. “Power. Power. Who says no to having power, great power? Invincible assassins when you need? Master Caldrea wants somebody dead, the Tree drops three Hunters right into his lap—finished, they go right back in—”
    “They go back? ”
    Another nod, so fierce that I actually heard his neck creak. “Tree draws them in. With target dead, Tree draws the Hunters back inside itself, gets nourished both ways. Everybody feeds —Tree, Masters, everybody, right?” He gave me one of his terrifying grins. “Well, so, maybe not target, not exactly, but target has his part to play too. Because each death, each killing, something goes into the Tree, something the Tree needs— I don’t know what to call it.” He peered elaborately sideways at me, like a boy serving as lookout while his companions raid a fruit stand. “You understand me? You can hear?”
    “I think so,” I answered him. “The Tree draws power from every