Page 24 of The Exquisite Torment of Loving Your Enemy
The Dreor twisted the blade cruelly before pulling it out. Then came more swings—more impacts against the oak’s ancient bark—more scythes piercing through, left and right, up and down. Osric and Fairhrim squeezed against each other. Bark creaked and cracked.
Something shifted and rumbled beneath their feet. Osric held his tacn out to read the shadows. A long, narrow tunnel had opened.
“Go down,” said the tree.
“Why?” asked Osric.
“Answers,” said the tree.
It shuddered; more scythes were being swung into it. A Dreor found the fissure in the trunk; gauntleted fingers appeared, prying it open. The tree squeezed itself shut and the gauntleted fingers were crushed like old tin.
“You must go down,” said the tree. “I know what happens next.”
“They’re hurting you,” said Fairhrim. “They’re going to kill you.”
“A hundred years hence, none of this will matter,” said the tree.
The tree shook, pierced by scythes from root to crown. The tip of a scythe narrowly avoided Fairhrim’s temple. It was too dangerous to remain here. Osric snatched her by the hand and pulled her down.
The tree’s dreamy voice followed as they tumbled down. “I Saw you coming long ago…”
Down, down went Osric andFairhrim, into the depths of the Tor. The tree’s roots nudged them along left and right until they emerged into a sort of cellar, where they landed in a heap.
Fairhrim lay unmoving and groggy.
Osric tapped her cheeks (the upper ones). “Oi. Stay awake.”
Fairhrim shook her head and held up her lit tacn. They were in a large earth-floored storeroom. She pressed her other hand to the curve of the tree’s largest root and asked, “Are you still there?”
There was no answer.
“They’ve killed it,” said Fairhrim.
“Pity,” said Osric. “I wanted to ask more questions.”
He glanced at Fairhrim and saw that his levity was out of place. Silent tears ran down her face. “That tree was a marvel. It died protecting us.”
Osric did not know what to do with himself. Fairhrim rarely showed emotions, and when she did, it was annoyance. Her sadness was new and unknown.
He looked away to afford her a bit of privacy. She ran her hands gently along the root, and said, “I am so sorry.”
She dried her tears with the heels of her palms. After a bit of sniffing, she said thickly, “We almost d-drowned ourselves. We’re idiots.”
“Those flowers were potent; they made us idiots.”
“Those s-spines that impaled us were full of some paralytic substance,” said Fairhrim. “Slow acting. I didn’t even notice. I thought I was tired. Come here.”
Osric stumbled towards her. She pressed her tacn to the tears in his trousers. Her seith flowed into him with cool authority, chasing away the heaviness in his legs.
Then she lay back down and said, “I’m going to have a nap.”
“No, you aren’t,” said Osric.
He pulled her to her feet. She slumped against him.
“I think we’re somewhere under the Tor,” said Osric. “Somewhere in your persistent mythological tunnels.”
The cellar’s walls were lined with shelves. Some held perfume bottles, others tins of soup—and then, in a corner, he saw rather familiar-looking bottles of Scotch. They looked exactly the same as the ones he had found at Wellesley Keep, which had turned out to be holding the Pox in transport media.
