Please—
'Do what a friend would do. And free yourself, if I am to be so presumptuous as to offer you a gift in return. We must end this.'
He shook his head, seeking to deny everything. Coward! Strike him down now! Drag him away from here – far away – he
will return to consciousness recalling none of this. I can lead him away, in some other direction, and we can be as we were, as we always have been—
'Rise, please, the others await us.'
The Trell had not realized he was on the ground, curled tight. He tasted blood in his mouth.
'Rise, Mappo. One last task.'
Firm, strong hands helped him climb to his feet. He tottered as if drunk or fevered.
'Mappo, I cannot call you friend otherwise.'
'That,' the Trell gasped, 'was unfair—'
'Aye, it seems I must make you what I seem to be. Let anger be the iron of your resolve. Leave no room for doubt – you were ever too sentimental, Trell.'
Even your attacks with words are kindly said. Ah, gods, how can I do this?
'The others are deeply shaken by what they have seen – what shall we tell them?'
Mappo shook his head. Still a child in so many ways, Icarium. They know.
'Come along now. My home awaits this prodigal return.'
'It had to come,' Fiddler said as they arrived. Mappo studied each of them in turn and saw the knowledge plainly writ, in every hue. Iskaral Pust's wizened face was twisted in a febrile grin – fear, anticipation and a host of other emotions only he could explain, had he been willing. Apsalar seemed to have set aside whatever sympathy she felt, and now eyed Icarium as if gauging a potential opponent; her uncertainty at her own ability showed for the first time. There was resignation in Rellock's eyes, all too aware of the threat to his daughter. Crokus alone seemed immune to the knowledge, and Mappo once again wondered at the certainty the young man seemed to have discovered within himself. As if the lad admires Icarium – but what part of the Jhag does he admire?
They stood on a hill, the roots chaotic underfoot. Some ancient creature lies imprisoned beneath us. All these hills . . . Ahead, the landscape changed, the roots rising in narrow ridges to create thick walls, forming corridors in a sprawling, wild maze. Some of the roots within the walls seemed to be moving. Mappo's gaze narrowed as he studied that ceaseless motion.
'Make no efforts to save me,' Icarium announced, 'should Tremorlor seek to take me. Indeed, assist those efforts in any way you can—'