Sylvara Greenleaf's Arc

Chapter 2 of 2

Sylvara kept her hands on the warm bark until her arms ached. The pulse inside the tree stayed weak. Waking words would not come to her. She knew the old ritual needed one thing above all: water drawn from a spring of pure forest magic. Only clean magic could feed the tree back to life. So she left the clearing to find a spring. She walked the living paths that still held color. Each spring she reached told the same story. Black threads laced the water. The smell of rot rose from the mud. She knelt at one pool and cupped a handful. It ran gray through her fingers. The blight had crept into every source near enough to reach. She dumped the water out and sat back on her heels. Without clean magic, the ritual was dead before she began. Light moved across the water. Sylvara looked up. A fairy hovered above the tainted pool, no taller than her forearm. Her wings threw color over the black water. A faint glow clung to her skin. She watched Sylvara the way a sentry watches a stranger at a gate. "You touched the heart-tree," the fairy said. "Few find it. Fewer are welcome." She drifted closer. "I have guarded that tree since before your grandmother drew breath. Why do you trouble its sleep?" "The forest is dying," Sylvara said. "I came to wake it. But every spring is fouled. I need pure magic and there is none left." The fairy studied her for a long moment. Then her hard look eased. "You speak the truth. The rot is in the water, yes. But not all magic flows." She reached into a fold at her belt and drew out a green stone. It sat dark in her palm, its glow long gone. "This holds the last clean magic of this grove. I kept it against the worst day. That day has come." Sylvara reached, then stopped. "If you give it to me, you have nothing left." "If I keep it, the forest ends." The fairy pressed the stone into Sylvara's hand. It was cold and heavy. "Spill its light at the roots. The tree will drink. But heed me. One stone wakes the tree only partway. You still need the words, and I do not hold them." Sylvara closed her fingers around the gift. The cold of it bit her palm. "Where are the words kept?" "Not with me." The fairy rose, her wings scattering light across the dead pool. "I gave you the fuel. The voice is yours to find." Sylvara stood. She had a source of pure magic now, held in one hand. But the stone sat dark and silent, and she did not know how to make it burn. The spring problem was solved. A harder one had opened in its place.