James gazed out of the window to a small babbling brook, winding its way between alien trees. It was late in the afternoon and the sky above the distant wall of the Citadel was burnished with the golden light of the setting sun. The sight of the huge wall of trees, and the vast interior it contained, was a sight more beautiful than he had ever experienced. But it was not enough.

With a disdainful shift of focus, he removed the beauty that surrounded him and replaced it with the uncertain reflection of his own face. In the warped glass of the window, the eyes that stared back at him were those of a stranger. A thick growth of beard now covered his jaw and the first curls were beginning to form in his lengthening hair. It felt like an eternity had passed since he’d first found himself stuck in this world, and yet these bodily extrusions told him that barely a month had passed since he had first awoken in the House of Galendar.

Following Kloven-Perrin’s intervention at his execution, James had sunk into deep apathy. Perhaps it had been the shock of his near death, or the continued uncertainty of his future, but he had left that woeful place beneath the ground deeply changed.

The monk had said very little in those moments following the sparing of his life, but they were words that remained with him still, seared upon his memory like invisible wounds…

‘I was not fully aware of the role I would play in this, yet I had not envisaged the possibility of our saviour’s death at the hands of those he would be saving.

‘Ward this man well, lest you wish to abandon hope altogether.’

Saviour.

Never before had the word implied such dread nor conveyed such falsehood. Once again his life had been spared, only to be confronted by the groundless assertions that he might be some answer to the nameless evil plaguing these people.

After Kloven-Perrin’s address to the lords of the Citadel, he had returned his focus upon James. His sightless eyes had stared right through him, but the expression fixed to his dark face had been one of unnerving reverence. At the last moment, the monk’s head had tilted to the side, before whispering words only he could hear, ‘Not yet’.

The astounding vigour which had momentarily gifted the monk with the power and dexterity to halt the plunging blade had then quickly leeched from his body, leaving behind the dazed old man he had met upon the summit of the Clyst. Then, without another word, he had turned to shuffle past the incredulous lords of the Citadel, back to the distant summit of the white tower.

That had been more than a week ago. Days of uncertainty and foreboding that seemed only to deepen as time drew on. There was nothing left to do, no one to offer direction, no one to answer his many questions. He had not seen Lord Balen or his daughter since that day in the chamber of bones, yet he felt their grudging acquiescence would not last indefinitely.

With a scowl, he finally turned from the window and trudged back into the shadows of his room. The room was small and sparsely furnished, a low wooden stool sat in one corner, a narrow bed in the other. The light from the setting sun fell upon walls covered with the intricate carvings of wildflowers and strange cat-like animals.

When he reached the bed, he dropped into its yielding softness and closed his eyes. He hadn’t slept for days but he knew that tonight would be no different. Still, he tried to quieten the ceaseless prowling of his tired mind and seek the escape only sleep could allow. With a sigh of frustration, he eventually opened his stinging eyes and stared bleakly back into the room. For the hundredth time he gazed at the carved walls, trying in vain to repeat the feat of entering the walls. But it wasn’t long before he gave up, unable to repeat what he had only previously accomplished by mistake.

His eyes narrowed when they alighted upon a dirty bundle of material peeking from beneath the bed. At first he was confused, uncertain how such an object could have escaped his scrutiny for so long, but then he dropped his arm to the floor and hauled it onto his lap. Frowning, he regarded the travel-worn sack that had accompanied him across the many miles from Galendar. Heaped between his legs, it looked more like the discarded skin of a gutted animal, covered in filth and the dark splatter of dried weevil blood. With unsteady fingers, he slowly untied the drawstring and began to remove its contents, staring at each item in turn. The objects seemed alien to him now, like artefacts unearthed from another age. Mostly they were oddments of food; packets of dried fruit, the darkened husks of dry bread, a handful of the curious blue apples filched from the village of Venn. But he also found the dirtied sandals given to him by Bettiny, as well as the slender wooden dagger, somehow recovered from the carnage of the demon’s attack.

For a long time, he merely stared at these objects as though they held some obscure explanation for his being here. They gave proof, of a sort, that he had indeed lived these many days beneath another sun, had indeed witnessed the unspeakable horrors of monsters that ran through the trees and flew through the air…

As James numbly observed the row of objects upon his bed, he reflected upon another thought that had been troubling him. Next to his many other worries, this was something altogether less tangible. Yet, over the course of the past week, it had grown steadily within him to the point where it had robbed him of his ability to sleep.

Something in this place was wrong.

At first, James had merely dismissed it as the palpable groaning of the trees that formed the great walls of the Citadel, but this was just a dull hum of grudging acquiescence compared to that other tension he felt in the air. No, what he felt was something altogether more sinister. It was like a sickness, hiding beneath the veneer of goodness and vitality that surrounded him like a malignant lump beneath the skin. And at night the feeling intensified, penetrating his mind with screams only he could hear.

As the days wore on, an explanation of sorts wormed its way into his mind: somewhere within the walls of the Citadel, someone was dying a horrible and painful death.

With slow, mechanical movements, James continued to empty the sack onto the bed, until his fingers finally closed upon a folded square of material. Frowning, he drew out the unfamiliar object and held it between his hands. Its colour was dazzling in the muted hues of the carved room, like a square of blue cut from the sky.

As realisation dawned, his hands hurriedly unfurled the material until he held the impossibility of his hospital gown between his trembling hands. The fabric seemed to glow with a light of its own, the rent within its shoulder like a black star, gilt by the dried blood of his arrow wound. Amidst the peace and serenity of the small room, the gown looked garish and obscene, a thing out of place and time. Yet its significance fell upon him like a heavy weight: how could he have forgotten this most important physical link with his other life?

Spurred on by this troubling thought, his hands quickly fumbled within the material, only becoming still when they had located what they had been seeking. Between trembling thumbs and fingers he read the words woven into its white label: “65% Polyester, 35% Cotton, Made in Pakistan.”

The words were almost painful to his eyes, words that gave proof beyond his own fragile grasp of reality that he was indeed from another world, a world that still existed beyond the occluding veil his mind had raised before it. With dismay, he realised that he had already begun to forget that other world existed!

Suddenly, the phantom screams that had plagued his nights burst forth from the very air that surrounded him. His skin broke out in a cold sweat, his hands clamping uncontrollably upon the gown. The light within the room became unbearably bright, and he looked down at the crumbled fabric between his fingers to find that it was ablaze with incandescent fire. James screamed as his hands began to burn. The skin blistered and peeled from his fingers, his bunched muscles and tendons raising a foul smoke into the air.

A loud knocking at the door intruded upon his senses and instantly the fire was extinguished. The screaming sickness fled from his senses and he was left panting, staring in disbelief at his hands. The horror of peeled skin and seared muscle had vanished, his hospital gown once more a pool of inert fabric between his fingers.

‘What the hell is happening to me?’ James groaned.

Another round of loud knocking made him glance to the door as it slowly slid aside, revealing the slender figure of his friend, Tavin.

‘Is something the matter, Jame?’ he asked, stepping lightly into the room. ‘I heard you call out. Were you having another nightmare?’

‘I don’t know,’ James replied uncertainly.

Tavin smiled, tilting his head.

‘Jame, this evening you will accompany me on a walk. You have languished here long enough.’

‘Not now, Tavin,’ James groaned, returning his gaze to the crumpled fabric on his lap.

‘What is that?’ Tavin asked, surprise registering in his voice as he walked further into the room. ‘You look scared, is something amiss?’

James sighed and slowly prised his rigid fingers from the blue material.

‘It’s nothing,’ he replied, roughly stuffing the garment back inside the sack, followed swiftly by the other items he had lined up on the bed. ‘I must have nodded off to sleep and not realised. Yes, a nightmare, that’s all it was.’

The young man’s interruption annoyed him, and after throwing his sack back to the floor, he regarded Tavin sternly. Since his stay of execution, now more than a week ago, he had lived alone in quiet isolation. He had been given his own little house upon the interior when he had refused the lodgings provided for his companions; a precarious dwelling that had dangled hundreds of feet above within the branches of the tree-city of Kellandria. But it had been more than a fear of heights that had made him distance himself from his companions from Galendar. What he had witnessed in that cavern of bones had left him with a growing mistrust of the people he had thought so honourable and humane.

‘How can you people have done such a thing?’ James said, at last giving voice to these troubling thoughts.

Tavin was taken aback and for a moment seemed unable to reply.

‘What do you mean?’ he asked tentatively.

‘You know what I bloody mean! That horrible place decorated in human bones,’ James said through clenched teeth.

‘It is not what you think,’ Tavin replied, an amused smile parting his lips. ‘The Hall of the Dead is what your people might call a cemetery or graveyard. Other than its questionable use as the site for your execution, there is nothing sinister or malign about its construction.

‘We know something of the burial traditions of the other races of this world. Those that choose to bury or cremate the bodies of those that have passed. But we of the Gelding consider practices such as these barbaric. These kinds of rituals fixate only upon death, when it is life that should be celebrated.’

‘How the hell is that place a celebration?’ James interrupted. ‘Playing around with people’s bones like that? It’s… it’s just… well, it’s just wrong!’ he said stubbornly.

Tavin’s smile widened, but he shook his head in patient disagreement.

‘We believe that once life has departed the body, there is nothing left, in physical terms, to mourn. Yet, that which remains is celebrated by our people for marking the passage of the life that was lived. We do not hide or destroy the bones of our dead, but revere them as symbols of life’s passing.

‘It is customary in our culture for those who are near to death to climb into the trees to meet their final moments. Death is faced alone and without fear, a ritual we call, “The Last Walk”. In time, all that remains of these people are their bones, which eventually fall to the forest floor, unnamed and unattached to those who once loved them.

‘The Hall of the Dead is admittedly somewhat different, created as it was at the end of the Bitter War. Many hundreds of our people died in the defence of the Citadel, and those that fell in the valley beyond were interred within the cavern as a form of remembrance.

‘The bones that decorate the walls of the hall are akin to the tombstones or cairns built by other races to mark remembrance, yet, again, the distinction is somewhat different, for in this instance we do not ascribe significance to the bones of individuals, but rather to the collective celebration of the lives given in salvation.’

Tavin paused, searching his friend’s face as he attempted to make his meaning more clear.

‘There is matter, then there is life, then there is matter once more. We live our lives in the fragile, transitory space between, and once it has departed the vessel it once inhabited, it is beyond the need to preserve in anything but the minds of those that remain.’

James was not entirely convinced by Tavin’s words, yet what he said contained some strange logic when he considered what he had observed of these curious people already. He thought again of the dead villagers they had worked to free from their nooses, and the solemn reverence with which they had been laid to rest; these had not been the actions of an uncaring or malicious people.

Gradually, something of the foreboding he still carried from the chamber of bones began to lessen, but it was not long before it was replaced by a more troubling thought. The disturbing hallucination he had just suffered reminded him of the inexplicable screams that had plagued his nights these past few days. His tentative speculation, that someone other than himself was being held within this prison, returned with more certainty. Lord Balen’s ruthless quest for vengeance had very nearly taken his life; what other forms of torment might he be capable of behind closed doors?

‘Who else is being held prisoner here?’ James suddenly demanded. ‘And what’s being done to them?’

Tavin frowned, his smile slipping from his lips.

‘The enemies of the Gelding are never taken alive. You, my friend, are something of an anomaly in that respect. There is no one else of your race residing here, other than the monk, of course.’

‘Well, whether you’re aware of it or not, someone’s being tortured here in this place!’ James replied angrily.

Tavin’s frown deepened.

‘How can you know of such a thing?’

‘I feel it!’ James replied with frustration.

‘A feeling?’ Tavin said, his amusement returning. ‘Tell me, do you still have trouble sleeping?’

‘I’m not imagining it!’ James snapped.

‘All you need, my friend, is some distraction,’ Tavin said, ignoring his darkening mood. ‘Come, we shall venture out together.’

‘I’m not going anywhere,’ James said, crossing his arms defiantly across his chest.

Tavin’s jaw set firmly, and suddenly he shouted, causing James’ body to stiffen.

‘Get up!’

James’ body complied before he could remember to protest, and he stood, greeting the smiling eyes of his friend with a resigned sigh.

‘Today is special and deserves to be honoured with your presence,’ Tavin said, helping James into his green robes. ‘You will accompany me now, if only for the shortest of durations, if that is your wish.’

‘What the hell are you going on about?’ James replied, angrily shrugging the garment into place.

‘Then, you do not know what day it is?’ Tavin replied mischievously.

‘Bloody hell, Tavin, I haven’t got the patience for this!’

His friend relented with a grin, placing his hand on his shoulder and leading him out of the room.

‘Whether by chance or divine intervention, it falls upon this night to celebrate the autumn Pentaclave, the Gelder festival of the Forest Moon.’

‘The what?’ James blustered.

Tavin chuckled as he followed James out into the cool evening air.

‘The Forest Moon Festival is celebrated at this time each turn, but only once in every five turns does the Pentaclave coincide, marked by the confluence of the two full moons. The ancient carvings of Tamblin tell of the story of our coming to this world from the forest moon, carried upon the back of the Great Seed. So, it is tonight that we celebrate the miracle of our lives and the bounty of our forests.’

For the first time in weeks, James was aware of the green moon, once more smouldering beside the larger, cratered sphere in the darkening sky. It was understandable that the Gelders would believe the moon harboured an all-consuming forest, but for James, the bright green circle in the sky had more in common with the indistinct smudge of a gas giant; that huge body of swirling gases pressed against the blackness of space.

A distant part of his mind again pondered the curious fact that he had only observed the larger moon undergo its phases during the past month, whilst the green moon had always been full. He didn’t know a great deal about astronomy, but he knew that that should not have been possible.

A gentle breeze stirred the trees, raising the hairs on the back of his neck. Something about the alignment of the two moons made him feel uneasy, and quickly he averted his gaze.

‘It is also a celebration of the fecundity of our people,’ Tavin continued, a mischievous glint dancing in his green eyes.

‘Fertility?’ James asked.

‘Precisely!’ Tavin laughed openly, draping his arm across his shoulder companionably. ‘Traditionally, this is the night when men and women of age are wont to mate freely. And, since we are both strangers to Kellandria, I thought it would make us all the more approachable if we attended together, do you not think?’

‘Tavin, who in their right mind would be interested in…’ James floundered, reluctant to use the word Tavin had spoken, yet unable to find another more suitable, ‘mating with me?’

Tavin laughed merrily, quickening their pace.

‘You may not have learned, since you have been languishing in your hole for the past span or more, but you have become something of a celebrity since the monk spared your life.’

‘I have?’ James asked uncertainly.

He remembered all too well the anger and resentment that had been generated amongst the audience of his sentencing, and could not imagine his reception being anything other than unpleasant.

‘Of course! You are the first barbarian, other than the mysterious and, might I add, joyless, Kloven-Perrin, to venture into the Citadel Kingdom. You are a curiosity, a marvel! Most will never have seen your like before. And a handsome specimen at that! You will surely attract the attention of many a young maiden this night!’ Tavin added with a roguish wink.

‘Tavin, I’m not in the mood for frivolity, nor indeed do I consider myself, or ever have considered myself, handsome! Hell! I was useless around women in my own damned world. It won’t be any different here!’

James stopped walking and regarded his friend sternly.

‘How can any of you celebrate after everything that’s happened? Do you have no shame?’

Tavin turned to face him, a pained expression growing upon his pale face.

‘Jame, we are friends, so I will speak with you plainly,’ the man said, his arm braced upon his shoulder like a father reprimanding an errant son. ‘We celebrate in earnest precisely because of the events of recent weeks. You have suffered much, this cannot be denied. Yet, have we not all suffered? Have you already forgotten my brother? Forgotten those we left behind to die in Galendar?’

James gulped air, averting his gaze from Tavin’s in sudden shame.

‘But what is done, is done,’ Tavin continued. ‘I shall carry my love for my brother and my lost friends until I take my last walk into the forest. There is but one life, and sorrow, doubt and fear will waste it away more surely than the passage of time ever could.’ Tavin tightened his hand upon his shoulder, his earnest eyes gleaming in the moonlight. ‘Your life has been spared, let us celebrate the fact and leave further lamentation to a day far removed from this one!’

Feeling shame beyond his capacity to look his friend in the eye, James raised his own hand and squeezed the young man’s shoulder.

‘I’m sorry,’ he muttered.

‘Sorry be damned!’ Tavin replied with a flourish. ‘Let us waste not a moment longer. The festival awaits!’

They walked on together, the silence between them somehow strained despite his friend’s unremitting capacity to forgive his blundering insensitivities. But it wasn’t long before James realised the other man was staring at him, his eyes narrowed mischievously above his now permanent grin.

‘What now?’ James asked, eyeing him with suspicion.

‘Oh, nothing,’ Tavin replied nonchalantly.

‘Come on!’ James growled. ‘What’s so bloody funny?’

Tavin chuckled, shaking his head with amusement. ‘Well, I was just thinking upon what you said. That you didn’t consider yourself a handsome man…’

‘What of it?’ James scowled, his anger quickly returning. ‘Do you find that so amusing?’

‘Not in the least, Jame! I just happen to know of certain evidence to the contrary, that is all.’

‘What the hell are you going on about now?’ James said, sighing with frustration.

Now Tavin was positively beaming, delighting in the continued torment of his friend.

‘I happen to know of a certain young woman of the Galendar household who holds a candle for you, that is all,’ Tavin said, feigning disinterest.

‘Fen?’ James asked incredulously.

Tavin’s grin widened, but he shook his head.

James turned upon him then, stopping abruptly before the stand of trees into which the brook gurgled and bubbled.

‘Are you mad?’ James spluttered. ‘Leander? Unless you haven’t completely taken leave of your senses you should know as well as any other that she hates my bloody guts!’

Tavin laughed again, a deep and joyful sound that made James smile despite his annoyance.

‘Leander may not communicate such inclinations openly,’ Tavin replied, ‘but her desires are plain for any to see. Indeed, it is writ plainly upon her face. Something within her grows, a liking, a desire…’

‘Rubbish!’ James said, walking on into the trees ahead of the younger man. But as he walked, a warm fluttering filled his stomach.

Despite everything the spiteful woman had said to him over the past weeks, he had secretly harboured an inexplicable yearning for the enigmatic daughter of Lord Galen. He had not forgotten the impassioned defence she had made for him, nor the way she had looked at him in those moments before he had shut his eyes upon the executioner.

Could that have been anything more than mere duty?

Try as he might, it was impossible to imagine Leander could have feelings for anyone, least of all for the very man she presumably blamed for her father’s death. James thought then of Tavin’s brother, Kirrin, the man who had marked James’ return from execution with barely concealed disappointment. Since the beginning, he had noticed that Kirrin and Leander shared some kind of affinity for one another. However tenuously affection might be given by the fierce young woman, it appeared to have been given to him.

‘Your brother,’ James said quietly.

‘My brother surely tries,’ Tavin reflected, his smile lessening somewhat. ‘Yet, how shall I put it? I believe he quests at the wrong tree in this respect.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It is true that they share a closeness derived in no small part from an event shared in their past,’ Tavin replied carefully, his face darkening somewhat. ‘But that is a story not for the telling on such a night as this.’

Tavin clamped his hand companionably upon his shoulder and propelled him on, his smile reigniting in a blaze across his face.

‘For now, you must content yourself enough to know that upon this night, you are almost as desirable to the fairer flesh as the man walking beside you!’

Smiling in spite of his exasperation, James followed his friend on into the woods.