“Yes,” Ironwood said. “He dipped his roots into Lone Valley for many centuries before coming to join the Erietoph. I believe he used to be called Fizzfaldt.”

  “Fizzfaldt!” she exclaimed. “Oh, this is wonderful. Can you take us to him?”

  “That is the reason we are here,” Ironwood said.

  “Enchantress?” Father Marcus touched her arm gently. “I am sorry, Chentelle, but I do not believe we have the time for this.”

  Ironwood turned to the High Bishop. “You are a healer?”

  “I am a priest,” Marcus said. “I heal when I am able.”

  “Then you will understand. Gnarlroot’s time is near, but the change does not go well with him. The Keeper cannot help him, and he has ordered us not to seek your help.” His branches twitched in agitation. “I cannot explain further. You must go to him. You are his only hope.”

  “Please, Father.” Chentelle gripped the High Bishop’s hand. “He’s a legend in Lone Valley. We have to go see him. There may be something we can do to help.”

  Sadness welled in the priest’s eyes, but he shook his head. “I am sorry, Chentelle. It grieves me to turn away from a creature in need, but we must keep moving. All of Infinitera depends upon us. There’s no time to spare.”

  “Time?” Prickly-Ash wiggled her twigs. “We have all the time in the world!”

  “Perhaps you do,” Father Marcus said, “but we do not. We must be on our way.”

  “Perhaps I can ease your mind,” Ironwood said. “The path you follow will lead you to Gnarlroot. Whether you stop or ignore him is up to you. As to Prickly’s comment, she is essentially correct. Time within the Erietoph flows differently from that beyond the mists. Less than an evening passes in the world outside for each two days in the forest. I do not understand why this is so, but it is. Perhaps Gnarlroot can explain it to you.”

  Father Marcus shook his head. His shoulders slumped as in defeat, but there was a smile on his face. “It seems our path is set, then. Lead on, forest spirit. But I make no promises. We can’t afford to antagonize the Keeper further.”

  The dendrifauns moved ahead of them, gliding down the trail on sinuously writhing roots. The motion looked deceptively slow. Chentelle knew from experience that they could keep pace with the swiftest walk and hold it tirelessly through the day.

  Dacius dropped back to Chentelle’s side. “I heard them mention dwarves. Do you think they might know where Marble Falls is?”

  “Marble Falls?”

  Dacius started at the voice. He wasn’t used to the keen hearing of dendrifauns.

  “I’ve heard some of the dwarves mention it,” Prickly-Ash continued, “but I don’t know where it is. Someplace cold and hard, I imagine. Maybe Gnarlroot can help. He knows more about the world outside than any of us.”

  Chentelle smiled. So they had yet another reason to go see Fizzfaldt. Now Father Marcus would surely let them stop.

  They walked for hours, stopping only once for a brief meal. The dendrifauns entertained them on the journey, sharing stories about ancient oaks and hidden streams. Ironwood did most of the talking, keeping courteously to the tongue of the Realm. Prickly-Ash and Laurel were mostly silent. When they spoke, it was only to keep up a running argument about the wisdom of approaching the company and what the Keeper would do if he found out.

  They marched along steadily until the light began to fade from the sky. Then the dendrifauns started to slow and become halting in their movements.

  “Is something wrong?” Father Marcus asked. “Do we need to stop?”

  No one answered. The dendrifauns were gone, vanished back into the dark forest. Father Marcus muttered a quick prayer and called for orb-light.

  The trail before them opened into a small clearing. A lone figure occupied a knoll in the center of the glade. It had to be Fizzfaldt. A shaft of sunlight poured down through the mist, bathing him in red warmth. But his branches were bare of leaves, and patches of bark had fallen away from his trunk and limbs. Much of what remained was coated with a layer of white fungus, like barnacles on an aged whale. The old dendrifaun remained fully in tree form, not acknowledging their arrival. He looked dead.

  Chentelle ran to Fizzfaldt’s side. She felt the disease within him immediately, but she also felt life. He was not gone yet! She reached into him, singing softly with the Gift. She sang of Lone Valley, of the taste of its soil and the scent of its wind. She sang of Willow and the Heart Tree she had longed to have in Lone Valley, and she heard a soft echo rise within the dendrifaun.

  A face materialized slowly in the bark of the trunk. The knots of his eyes were deeply shadowed, and the crack of his mouth shifted constantly. His lower limbs quivered slightly, but his roots remained embedded deep in the hilltop. It was apparent that Fizzfaldt would wander no more. “Who are you, that sings sweetly of home and calls me by a forgotten name?”

  “I am Chentelle of Lone Valley, daughter of Dalen and Eudora,” she said. “But your name is not forgotten. I have heard tales of your exploits ever since I was a child. Fizzfaldt the Wanderer is a name of legend.”

  “A legend! Is that what they call me?”

  “Of course!” She stroked his face tenderly. “Your story is one of the greatest—no, the greatest mystery of the dendrifauns. Willow sang of you many times, of your driving curiosity, your desire to taste the sea and travel to all the forests in the world. Most people think that you succeeded in your quest, that you found paradise and never wished to return.”

  “Paradise, eh?” Fizzfaldt made a rasping sound that may have been a laugh. “Well, perhaps I have found it now, to hear that I am still remembered. In truth, I had imagined that I was long forgotten in Lone Valley.”

  “Never!” Chentelle said. “No one has forgotten. Everyone will be so happy when I return and give them the end of your story. They will rejoice to learn of your journeys.”

  Again, the rasping laugh. “All they will learn, dear child, is that I have become Gnarlroot the Old. I traveled the world and tasted many strange soils, but such a life was not meant for dendrifauns. We are creatures of the forest, and in forests we should remain. Each land I wandered sapped more of my strength. I have grown weak, and my roots are withered. I can’t even make the change. Death is the end of my story. Carry that back to Lone Valley.”

  “No. You aren’t going to die.” Chentelle was surprised at the vehemence in her voice. She motioned to the High Bishop, pleading with her eyes. “This is Father Marcus, a great healer. He’s going to help you.”

  The priest stepped forward, all doubts banished by the sight of Fizzfaldt’s suffering. “I will do what I can.”

  He closed his eyes and started to chant. The peace of sanctuary surrounded him immediately, and reached out to touch the dendrifaun. His hands roamed over Fizzfaldt’s face for several minutes, then he opened his eyes and let his chant fade. “I’m sorry. I can sense the illness within you, but your body is so different from anything I have known. I do not have the knowledge, the understanding required to correct the damage. I have stopped the disease from spreading, but that is all.”

  “Then I am still going to die,” Fizzfaldt said.

  “No!” Chentelle cried. “There has to be a way. Please, Father Marcus, isn’t there anything you can do?”

  The High Bishop sighed thoughtfully. “Perhaps the knowledge of Wood Lore is what’s needed. Wizard A’stoc, if you would allow me to possess you once more?”

  “No.”

  Chentelle stared. “What do you mean? You have to! He’ll die otherwise. Don’t you see? This is your chance to pay back the forest, to replace the life that you took.”

  Pain showed in A’stoc’s eyes. “You misunderstand. I meant that my knowledge of Wood Lore will not help. I did not even know that dendrifauns existed before yesterday. I know nothing that will help.”

  “Oh.” Chentelle turned away from his eyes. She should have known better. “A’stoc, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—Wait. Father Marcus, I can help. I know rillanmor, the Lore of Living Wood. I can guide you.”

  “Are you certain?” the priest asked. “You would have to open yourself to possession. It is not a pleasurable experience.”

  “Of course,” she said. “If that’s what it takes to heal Fizzfaldt, then that’s what I’ll do.”

  “One moment.” The dendrifaun’s words were becoming slower, more labored. “Before you heal me, I want to know. Will I be able to move again, or will I make the change and become a lifelm?”

  “I—I don’t know,” Chentelle said. “Let me see.”

  She reached into Fizzfaldt with her Gift, searching now with her knowledge of rillanmor. She drifted through fibrovascular bundles and sap-filled arteries. The trauma of disease was everywhere. Some of the tissue was dead, much of the rest had already made the transformation to lifelm. Those parts that were still vital and dendrifaun balanced in uneasy equilibrium: too strong to die, too weak to make the change.

  She pulled herself back to her own body. The tears in her eyes probably gave Fizzfaldt his answer, but she had to say it anyway. “The change has already started. Your roots are set.”

  “I see.” His voice was weak but steady. “Do not cry, child of my home. This is the natural course. I have been preparing myself for death. It feels much better to look forward to experiencing the millennia from this warm roost. But the healing must wait until morning. It grows late, and there are still things which must be said.”

  The dendrifaun’s face vanished back into featureless bark. Father Marcus looked at her, questions obvious on his face.

  She waved vaguely at the twilight. “Dendrifauns go dormant at night. It takes too much energy to stay active without sunlight, especially for the very old.”

  “So we wait until morning,” he said, “and more time passes.” Exasperation was plain in his voice, but it soon vanished, replaced by quiet serenity. “Still, we can take comfort in Ironwood’s words. If time truly passes more quickly here, then we will lose little. The Creator has blessed us with a safe haven and long night. Let us make the most of both.”

  They set up camp quickly. After a simple meal, Father Marcus insisted that everyone go to bed. He allowed no watch to be posted and ordered only that the first person to awake in the morning rouse the others.

  Chentelle needed no special urging to retire, but she found sleep elusive. The fatigue of her body was countered by her racing mind. So much had happened. To stumble across Fizzfaldt here, so far from Lone Valley, who would have believed it? Something nagged at her, though. Why hadn’t the Heart Tree of Sylvandale known where he was? It was connected to all the forests of Infinitera, and the Erietoph was certainly a forest.

  She sighed. It was no use. She threw off the blanket and stood up. Everyone was asleep except A’stoc and Father Marcus. The priest was deep in meditation, but the wizard was simply standing by himself, leaning on his Staff and staring at Fizzfaldt.

  She walked over to him. His eyes were red with fatigue, but they stayed locked on the dendrifaun with manic intensity. “A’stoc? How are you feeling?”

  His gaze shifted, slowly coming to rest on her. “It does not matter.”

  “It does! It matters to me.” She wanted to reach out to him, to hold him in her arms. She ached with the need to make promises she couldn’t keep. “Oh, A’stoc, don’t be afraid. I won’t let them hurt you.”

  “I am not afraid.” The words spoken were devoid of emotion. They hung in the air as his eyes slid away from her face and back toward the hilltop.

  Chentelle spun away in frustration. There was no talking to him when he was like this. She stamped back to her bedroll and jerked the blankets over her shoulders. Her thoughts chased each other late into the night, but sleep came at last.

  She stands next to Fizzfaldt, touching him with Father Marcus’ hands. A voice challenges her. It is A’stoc.

  “You cannot heal what you cannot comprehend.”

  She sees the High Bishop’s pain, and brushes his cheek with a withered branch. “Don’t cry for me. Change is much better than death.”

  “You know better than that,” Father Marcus answers. “The Creation is perfect.”

  His words stab her like a knife. “But how can I love it? I’ll never understand it.”

  A’stoc sweeps her into his arms. His eyes are warm and full of love. “There is no hope, only pain.”

  Chentelle’s eyes snapped open, and she barely stifled a scream. The images of the dream echoed in her mind, and the cold wind whispered pain and despair. She pulled the blankets tightly around her, trying to stop her shivering.

  Soft voices drifted toward her: one calm, the other strained. A’stoc and Father Marcus were talking on the far side of the clearing. The High Bishop was shaking his head vehemently. Finally, he threw up his arms and stalked back to the camp. A’stoc stayed where he was, leaning against a tree, staring thoughtfully into the night.

  Something about his posture reassured Chentelle. She took several deep breaths, letting the trembling subside, then she rolled over and closed her eyes. Sleep came quickly this time, and it brought no painful dreams.

  The morning was bright and full of hope. Father Marcus led them in a hymn of thankfulness, reminding them all of the wisdom and guidance of the Creator. When the song ended, Drup laid out their breakfast. It was the same spare rations they had eaten for several days, but this morning it seemed fresher, more satisfying. They ate heartily and with many satisfied sighs. Then they packed up the camp.

  Chentelle stowed her blankets quickly and hurried to the top of the hill. Fizzfaldt was still asleep, and gave no sign of noticing her approach. She sat down beside him, forcing herself not to disturb his rest. She was anxious to get started, but they couldn’t begin until Father Marcus got here anyway.

  The High Bishop waited until everyone had secured their gear, then led them all up to the dendrifaun. The impatience of the last few days was gone, and his face had recovered the quiet serenity she had noticed when they first met.

  Fizzfaldt stirred as soon as they were all present. His condition had not changed, but his voice was steady and quick, strengthened by the warm morning. “Greetings. It is a glorious day that has come to mark my passage. I could not ask for better. But you have not come to hear me ramble. You have questions to be answered.”

  “We have come for both,” Father Marcus said. “We seek answers, but we also come to mark the last day of one of the Creator’s beloved children.”

  “Ah, you have learned patience in the night.” Fizzfaldt chuckled softly. “We shall make a proper forest-dweller of you yet. Ask your questions, I will answer if I can.”

  “We are on a quest,” the priest said. “We seek the Fallen Star. Can you give us any guidance?”

  “Yes, leave it alone.” Fizzfaldt’s branches fluttered weakly. “It does no good to wander around searching for things. It’s better to stay at home and care for your soil.”

  Father Marcus smiled. “I am afraid we do not have that option. We must destroy this evil before it spreads. It is very important.”

  “Of course,” the dendrifaun said. “I know that, and so does the Erietoph. That is why the forest will allow the Tree of Life to leave, though every trunk quivers with the need to hold it here. But I can’t help you with that. This forest was the end of my travels, I know little of the lands beyond.”

  If Father Marcus was disappointed, he hid it well. “We have heard of a dwarven city, Marble Falls. Do you know where it lies?”

  “Where? No. But I can tell you how to get there.” The dendrifaun waved a leafless limb. “Head north once you leave the forest. You will come to an eight-sided stone marker. A mountain will be carved on one face, a tree on another. Head in the direction of the mountain. If you follow the mountain at every marker, you will find Marble Falls.”

  “Thank you.” Father Marcus glanced at Dacius, making sure the Legion commander had noted the directions. “Then I have just one more question. Ironwood told us that time flowed differently here, but he could not explain how or why. Can you?”

  “Yes.”

  The silence stretched for long minutes.

  “Fizzfaldt?” Father Marcus said. “Are you well?”

  “You said that was your last question,” the dendrifaun growled.

  The priest’s eyes widened in surprise. “But—”

  “Heh heh heh.” Fizzfaldt’s rasping laugh scraped through the clearing. “Forgive me, it was only an old tree’s last joke. What Ironwood told you was true. Time flows swiftly in the Erietoph, but it rests lightly on those who live here. If you stayed for a century, less than a score of years will have passed beyond the mists. But if you returned to your home, you would seem hardly a year older than when you left.”

  “But how is this possible?” A’stoc interjected. “It was proved long ago that the flow of time is impervious to magical alteration, even for the forces of Earthpower.”

  “Ah, now you are asking for a story.” Fizzfaldt’s bark rippled with glee. “Sit, sit, this will take some telling.”

  The dendrifaun paused, trunk furrowed in concentration. When he spoke again, his voice resonated with new depth. “The Children of Erietoph are old beyond your reckoning. Only four generations of ancients have taken root here since time began to flow. You all know the stories of the Perfection, the time when the Sphere of Creation was unblemished and all things were Pure. Let me tell you, now, a story that you have not heard.

  “The forest Erietoph was awake even then. It sang with the music of the Sphere and filled its place in the Perfection of Creation. But one day, one day more terrible than any other, the Creation was shattered. The Erietoph did not know where the Flaw had come from, or how it had been born, but the evil of its nature was clear. Change rippled through the Sphere. Death entered the world. The balance of harmony gave way to the balance of opposition. And the Eternal Time of Perfection yielded to the time of entropy.

  “But the Erietoph had its roots deep in the Foundation. It resisted the waves of decay. The forest gathered the Eternal Time into itself, forging a barrier against the Abyss. At first, the Erietoph was successful. The barrier held; one pocket of the Creation was preserved. But the Foundation continued to erode. The Eternal Time grew thin, strained. Entropy entered the forest.