Chapter 160. Silvandros

The portal spat the boys out onto a platform of white marble that had been polished smooth by thousands of years of arrivals and departures. Adom's boots hit the stone with a solid thunk that echoed off the vaulted ceiling overhead, and for a moment he just stood there, letting his eyes adjust to the light.

Because there was a lot of light.

Adom bent over with his hands on his knees.

"Portal travel," he gasped, "is an abomination against nature and I will never get used to it."

"We know," Sam said, steadying himself against a carved pillar. "You've mentioned it. About a hundred times."

"The way it scrambles your insides," Adom continued, straightening slowly, "like someone took your organs and shook them violently–"

"Adom," Karion interrupted. "We get it. You hate portals. You're like an old man complaining about newfangled magic."

"I am an old man complaining about newfangled magic."

"You're nineteen," Damus pointed out.

"I'm ancient in spirit."

Around them, the portal chamber buzzed with activity.

The platform they'd arrived on was one of at least a dozen, each disgorging travelers with varying degrees of portal-induced nausea. The chamber itself sat at the base of what could only be described as the world's most aggressively beautiful tree.

It rose above them in spiraling curves of silver bark, its trunk easily two hundred feet across, its canopy disappearing into mist somewhere far overhead. Crystalline formations grew from the bark like frozen tears, each one catching and amplifying light until the entire space hummed with gentle radiance.

Silvandros.

"Well," Sam said from somewhere behind him, his voice pitched carefully neutral. "That's a tree."

"It's the Worldheart," said a cheerful voice in accented Common. "Been growing for about twelve thousand years now. Still got a few thousand left in her, the druids reckon."

Adom turned to find an elf in official-looking robes watching them. She carried a clipboard that appeared to be made of carved jade, and her smile had the quality of someone who'd given this speech roughly ten thousand times.

She wasn't alone. Several other officials moved through the crowd, checking documents and directing traffic. Behind them, Adom caught sight of guards in more serious-looking armor.

"First time in Silvandros?" she asked.

"Yes," Adom said.

"Excellent. I'll need to see your identification and documentation, please." She continued. "New security protocols, you understand."

They handed over their Phoenix Guild badges.

The elf examined each one carefully, running her fingers over the engravings and weaving what looked like verification spells with her fingers.

"Phoenix Guild," she said, making notes on her clipboard. "Adventuring party. Purpose of visit?"

"Dungeon work," Adom said. "We're here for jobs."

"Ah." She made another note. "Guild business, then. Any weapons to declare?"

"Just standard adventuring gear," Damus said.

"Magical items?"

"A few minor enchantments," Adom said. "Nothing dangerous."

The elf nodded and handed their badges back. "Everything seems to be in order. Welcome to Silvandros, capital of the Lyserian Kingdom and home of the Worldheart." She gestured toward the massive tree. "Been growing for about twelve thousand years now. Still got a few thousand left in her, the druids reckon."

"Security seems tight," Karion observed.

The elf's expression darkened slightly. "We had an incident a few months ago. Infiltrators using forged documents. The Council decided additional precautions were warranted." She brightened again. "But you gentlemen are clearly legitimate. You'll want to head up the Ascent Spiral, that's the walkway carved into the tree trunk, to reach the main city levels. Mind the guardrails, don't lean out too far to gawk, and whatever you do, don't try to break off pieces of crystal as souvenirs. The tree doesn't like that."

"The tree doesn't like that?" Karion asked.

"It is somewhat opinionated about people damaging it, yes." The elf made a final note on her clipboard. "Standard warning. You'll be fine as long as you show proper respect. Next!"

She moved on to a group of nervous-looking humans who were fumbling with their travel documents.

"So," Damus said, shouldering his pack. "Up we go?"

The Ascent Spiral turned out to be exactly what the elf had described: a walkway that wound around the interior of the massive trunk, climbing gradually toward the surface. What she hadn't mentioned was that the walls were translucent.

They could see the city through the wood.

Sam stopped walking entirely about fifty feet up, pressing his face against the smooth inner bark. "Are those buildings growing out of the tree?"

"Some of them," said a passing elf merchant, not bothering to slow down. "Others are built into the branches. Been that way for millennia."

Through the translucent wood, Adom could make out structures that defied any reasonable definition of architecture. Towers that spiraled like nautilus shells. Bridges that spanned great distances between branches, their supports so delicate they looked like spider silk. Gardens that hung in mid-air, their roots drinking directly from the tree's substance.

And everywhere, movement.

Elves going about their daily business in a city that had been growing and changing for thousands of years.

"How big is this place?" Karion asked, craning his neck to peer upward.

"The Worldheart has about three hundred levels," said another passing traveler, this one a dwarf in merchant's robes. "Most folks live between levels fifty and two hundred. Below that's too humid, above that's too windy."

"Three hundred levels," Sam repeated faintly.

"Give or take," the dwarf said cheerfully. "Depends how you count the sub-branches."

They climbed in silence for a while, passing massive gates at each level. The entrances were easily twenty feet tall, carved from the living wood and flanked by guards in ceremonial armor.

"Level twenty," announced a voice from somewhere in the walls. "Merchant quarter, portal administration, visitor registration. Please mind the gap."

A section of the wall melted away. About half their fellow travelers filed off, including the helpful dwarf merchant.

Around level thirty, Adom placed his palm against the translucent wall and closed his eyes. He reached out with his senses, the way he did with smaller trees and plants, feeling for the vast consciousness he knew lived within the Worldheart.

Hello, he said silently. Thank you for sheltering us.

The response was immediate—a presence so ancient and enormous it made him dizzy. But it said nothing. Just... listened. Acknowledged. Then deliberately turned its attention elsewhere.

Adom opened his eyes and pulled his hand back.

"What did it say?" Sam asked.

"Nothing," Adom said. "It's refusing to talk to me."

"Probably tired of tourists trying to chat it up," said a passing elf carrying a satchel of scrolls. "Gets dozens of attempts every day."

"Do people always insert themselves into other people's conversations without being invited?" Damus asked, raising an eyebrow.

Another dwarf climbing behind them snorted. "Son, you're walking up the inside of a tree with a hundred other people. If you don't want folks hearing your business, maybe try whispering. Or better yet, try shutting up entirely."

Sam burst out laughing. Karion covered his mouth to hide his grin. Even Adom couldn't help smiling.

"Fair point," Damus admitted.

They climbed higher, passing more gates and levels.

"Level thirty," came the announcement as they passed another set of imposing gates. "Artisan district, magical workshops, enchantment services."

"Level forty," the voice continued. "Temple quarter, houses of worship, diplomatic quarter."

The light changed as they rose, becoming softer and more golden. The sounds of the city filtered through the walls: voices, music, the distant ring of metal on metal that suggested workshops. Somewhere around this level, the smell of baking bread made Adom's stomach remind him they hadn't eaten since before dawn.

"Almost there," Adom said, checking the carved markers on the wall.

"Level forty-five," the wall-voice announced. "Adventurer district, guild offices, equipment services. Please mind the gap."

"Here we go," Damus said as a section of wall melted away, revealing their destination.

They joined a steady stream of adventurers heading toward the massive gates ahead. Adom recognized the types immediately—a party of orc fighters arguing loudly about weapon maintenance, a group of humans probably not sundarian, a mixed party that included what looked like a cinder and a half-orc.

Two elven guards flanked the entrance, checking badges and documents with the same thorough efficiency they'd encountered below.

"Phoenix Guild badges," one of the guards said when their turn came, examining each one carefully. "First time in Silvandros?"

"Yes," Adom said.

"Welcome to the Adventurer District. You'll find guild offices, equipment services, and accommodations suited to your profession." She handed their badges back and gestured toward the massive gates. "Proceed through the entrance."

But instead of the great gates swinging open, a much smaller door—maybe eight feet tall—melted out of the wood beside them. Adventurers filed through in an orderly line.

"Seriously?" Sam said, staring up at the enormous gates and then down at the human-sized opening. "They've got doors the size of castles and we're walking through the servants' entrance?"

"I mean, where's all this mana even coming from?" he continued, waving at the magical door. "The show-off magic, the melting walls, the talking announcements. If you've got a massive door, why not just use the massive door?"

"The tree provides the mana," said a dwarf ranger behind them, adjusting her crossbow. "Been doing it for thousands of years. The big doors are for ceremonies and emergencies. Day-to-day traffic uses the sensible entrances."

The boys exchanged glances and burst out laughing. Well, all of them except Damus.

"There it is again," The young man said.

"Thanks for the explanation," Adom said to the dwarf. "We're still getting used to how things work here."

"No problem," she said with a friendly nod. "First time in an elven city is always overwhelming."

They stepped through the smaller opening and into wonder.

The Adventurer District sprawled before them under an actual blue sky. Not a ceiling painted to look like sky—actual sky, complete with drifting clouds and warm sunlight that felt real on their faces.

Sam stopped dead in his tracks, causing a minor traffic jam. "How is there sky inside a tree?"

"It's not inside," Adom said, craning his neck to study the ceiling far above with [Riddler's Bane]. "Well, technically it is, but they've embedded thousands of transportation crystals and runic arrays into the heartwood. It forms one massive portal array that connects directly to the actual sky above the canopy."

Karion stared at him. "I keep forgetting you're as much of a nerd as Sam with all the badass stuff you do."

"Back in the Academy," Sam said with a grin, "we were called the Transcendent Nerds."

"That explains so much," Karion muttered.

The district itself was a marvel of organized chaos. Unlike the refined elegance of the lower levels, this area had a comfortable, lived-in feel to it.

Taverns spilled warm light and laughter onto cobblestone streets that curved to follow the natural grain of the wood. A blacksmith's forge sent sparks flying from an open workshop, and mixed among the elves were representatives of every race Adom could think of—humans, dwarves, halflings, cinders, and several species he didn't immediately recognize.

"This is more like it," Karion said, eyeing a tavern called The Wounded Wyvern where someone was playing what sounded like a very energetic drinking song.

"Guest accommodations first," Adom reminded him, though he had to admit the tavern looked inviting.

They found lodgings at an inn called The Heartwood Haven, run by a cheerful elf woman who clearly specialized in housing adventurers. The rooms were rustic but comfortable, carved from the living wood but furnished with practical amenities.

"Meals downstairs, baths are heated by the tree's own warmth, and try not to track monster guts through the common room," she said, handing them their keys. "We get enough of that from the regular clientele."

Through their windows, they could see the district in all its chaotic glory: training yards where adventurers sparred under the open sky, guild halls with their doors thrown wide, and everywhere the constant bustle of people preparing for their next expedition into whatever dangers lurked in the world's dungeons.

"Now this," Adom said, looking out at the scene, "feels like home."

*****

Adom sat on the edge of his bed, running a towel through his damp hair. The bathrobe the inn provided was surprisingly soft—some kind of elven weave that felt like wearing a cloud, if clouds were practical and came with pockets.

Definitely stealing this.

Eight hours since they'd arrived. Eight hours since he'd walked through a door melted out of a tree and into a district where the sky was real but also wasn't. His body had finally stopped feeling like his organs were trying to reorganize themselves into new and creative configurations.

Portal travel. Still an abomination.

The room itself was helping, though. There was a sweet scent that had been present since the moment he'd stepped inside—something floral but not cloying, probably magical, definitely effective. His shoulders had unknotted themselves somewhere around hour three, and he'd actually managed a decent nap before the bath.

Now came the work.

Adom reached for his travel pack and pulled out a leather portfolio that looked unremarkable from the outside. Inside were papers, letters, reports, and the accumulated detritus of a year spent chasing ghosts across half the known world.

He spread them across the bed in a pattern that would look like chaos to anyone else but made perfect sense to him. Reports from informants. Copies of merchant records. Sketches drawn from secondhand descriptions. A map with red marks indicating confirmed sightings and blue marks indicating probable locations.

And there, in the center of it all, a single letter in handwriting he'd memorized down to the curve of every letter.

I hope this finds you well. The weather here has been lovely, though I suspect that will change soon. Business has been good—better than expected, actually. I've made some new connections that might prove useful in the future. Take care of yourself.

—M

One year old. The last communication he'd received from her.

Adom picked up a more recent report, this one dense with details and expensive information. According to his sources in Silvandros—sources he'd have to track down and see later today—a woman matching Morgana's description had indeed been here.

She'd called herself Lady Aethel.

Light name, carefully chosen, probably pulled from some old poetry collection. She'd presented herself as an independent merchant with goods from the southern kingdoms, and she'd done it well enough that the local trade guild had given her full privileges.

But whoever trained her to hide her accent hadn't been quite good enough. Anyone with a practiced ear could catch the subtle inflections that marked her as Sundarian born, though she'd clearly worked hard to bury them. Most people wouldn't notice. Most people weren't looking for them.

Adom's informant had been looking.

The description clinched it. Blue eyes, dark curly hair, pale skin, and what the report described as a "feline gaze".

Morgana. It had to be.

She'd stayed seventeen days. Long enough to establish herself, make connections, gather information. Then she'd left at dawn with an entire company of soldiers.

The Sìlmaran Mithrellon. In Common, that translated roughly to "The Silver Leaf Company," though like most Elvish military terms, it lost something in translation. They were mercenaries, technically, but that was like calling a hurricane "technically weather." Elite didn't begin to cover it. These were the soldiers other soldiers told stories about around campfires.

Same caliber as Sundar's Iron Wolves.

Never lost a battle. Trained from childhood. The sort of outfit that kingdoms hired when they needed something done quietly and permanently.

Their captain was a man named Lucius Vaelthorne. Half-elven, which explained how he'd managed to establish himself in Lyserian territory. Sundarian mother, Lyserian father. Mixed heritage that let him move freely in both kingdoms while owing complete allegiance to neither.

More importantly, he'd served under General Soren before the man's death. Morgana's father. That connection explained a lot—loyalty to the family, probably guilt over surviving when his commanding officer hadn't, possibly genuine affection for the general's daughter.

It fit the pattern. Three years ago, Adom had tracked down another of Soren's former subordinates—a knight named Sir Bedivere of the Roaring Rock who'd been captured and sold into slavery. The authorities in Vethia had tried to keep it quiet, but money and patience had eventually loosened the right tongues.

During a major gladiator tournament, chaos had erupted in the arena. In the confusion, witnesses reported seeing a woman fleeing the city with the old knight and two companions—a young man and a boy. They'd made for the harbor and disappeared across the sea, never to be seen again.

The woman had spoken with a thick Sundarian accent. She'd also stopped at a merchant stand to buy drinks before the escape—Adom's own stand, as it happened.

It tracked.

Adom set the reports aside and leaned back against the headboard. The sweet scent in the room made thinking easier somehow, like it was designed to promote clear thought and peaceful contemplation.

Morgana was collecting her father's men. The question was why.

Three sharp knocks echoed through the room. Adom looked up from his reports, then over at the bed where Zuni had curled into a blue ball against the pillows.

"Wake up, friend."

The quillick stirred, one amber eye opening to peer at him with what could only be described as dignified annoyance.

I wasn't sleeping, Adom. I was merely resting my eyes in a horizontal position.

"You've been 'resting your eyes' since we arrived eight hours ago. Are you alright?"

Of course I'm alright. I'm simply old in quillick years. We age faster than you humans, you know. What would be middle age for you is practically ancient for my kind.

Adom chuckled despite himself. "Stop behaving like an old man."

I am an old man. Or old quillick, rather. Haven't you noticed how my blue quills have dimmed? They used to be bright as sapphires. Now they're more like... well, like old sapphires that someone left in a dusty drawer.

The observation hit harder than it should have. Adom looked at his companion—really looked—and saw what he'd been trying not to notice. The once-vibrant blue had indeed faded to a softer gray-blue, and there were white patches around Zuni's muzzle that hadn't been there a year ago.

Oh, don't look so melancholy. I've had a good life, better than most quillicks could hope for. I've seen more of the world than any of my cousins, learned three languages, and eaten more sweets than I ever thought possible.

Zuni paused, tail twitching thoughtfully.

Actually, no. One can never have enough sweets.

"Greed," Adom said, forcing lightness into his voice. "That's what your name should have been."

Sir Greed the Terrible. I rather like the sound of that.

They shared a laugh, but the sadness lingered as Adom walked to the door. He scooped Zuni up on the way, settling the quillick on his shoulder. If his old friend was indeed getting on in years, then every adventure mattered. Every memory counted.

Adom opened the door to find Sam, Karion, and Damus standing in the hallway, all dressed and clearly ready for something.

"Ready?" Sam asked.

"Yeah. Let's go look for trouble."