Book 1 - Page 13 (1/2)

The girl was green -flesh green. Rincewind could be absolutely certain about that, because all she was wearing was a medallion around her neck. Her long hair had a faintly mossy look about it. Her eyes had no pupils and were a luminous green.

Rincewind wished he had paid more attention to anthropology lectures at University.

She had said nothing. Apart from indicating the couch and offering him the wine she had done no more than sit watching him, occasionally rubbing a deep scratch on her arm.

Rincewind hurriedly recalled that a dryad was so linked to her tree that she suffered wounds in sympathy.

“Sorry about that,” he said quickly. “it was just an accident. I mean, there were these wolves, and-“

“You had to climb my tree, and I rescued you,” said the dryad smoothly. “How lucky for you. And for your friend, perhaps?”

“Friend?”

“The little man with the magic box,” said the dryad.

“Oh, sure, him,” said Rincewind vaguely. “Yeah, I hope he’s okay.”

“He needs your help.”

“He usually does. Did he make it to a tree too?”

“He made it to the Temple of Bel-Shamharoth.”

Rincewind choked on his wine. His ears tried to crawl into his head in terror of the syllables they had just heard. The Soul Eater-before he could stop them the memories came galloping back. Once, while a student of practical magic at Unseen University, and for a bet, he’d slipped into the little room off the main library - the room with walls covered in protective lead pentagrams, the room no-one was allowed to occupy for more than four minutes and thirty-two seconds, which was a figure arrived at after two hundred years of cautious experimentation.

He had gingerly opened the Book, which was chained to the octiron pedestal in the middle of the rune-strewn floor not lest someone steal it, but lest it escape for it was the Octavo, so full of magic that it had its own vague sentience. One spell had indeed leapt from the crackling pages and lodged itself in the dark recesses of his brain. And, apart from knowing that it was one of the Eight Great Spells, no-one would know which one until he said it. Even Rincewind did not. But he could feel it sometimes, sidling out of sight behind his Ego, biding its time…

On the front of the Octavo had been a representation of Bel-Shamharoth. He was not Evil, for even EVIL has a certain vitality Bel-Shamharoth was the flip side of the coin of which Good and Evil are but one side.

“The Soul Eater. His number lyeth between seven and nine; it is twice four,” Rincewind quoted, his mind frozen with fear. “Oh no. Where’s the Temple?”

“Hubwards, towards the centre of the forest,” said the dryad. “it is very old.”

“But who would be so stupid as to wors.h.i.+p Bel-him? I mean, devils yes, but he’s the Soul Eater-“

“There were - certain advantages. And the race that used to live in these parts had strange notions.”

“What happened to them, then?”

“I did say they used to live in these parts.” The dryad stood up and stretched out her hand. “Come. I am Druellae. Come with me and watch your friend’s fate. It should be interesting.”

“I’m not sure that-” began Rincewind.

The dryad turned her green eyes on him.

“Do you believe you have a choice?” she asked.

A staircase broad as a major highway wound up through the tree, with vast rooms leading off at every landing. The sourceless yellow light was everywhere. There was also a sound like -Rincewind concentrated, trying to identify it-like far off thunder, or a distant waterfall.

“It’s the tree,” said the dryad shortly.

“What’s it doing?” said Rincewind.

“Living.”

“I wondered about that. I mean, are we really in a tree? Have I been reduced in size? From outside it looked narrow enough for me to put my arms around.”

“It is.”

“Um, but here I am inside it?”

“You are.”

“Um,” said Rincewind.

Druellae laughed.

“I can see into your mind, false wizard! Am I not a dryad? Do you not know that, what you belittle by the name tree is but the mere four-dimensional a.n.a.logue of a whole multidimensional universe which - no, I can see you do not. I should have realised that you weren’t a real wizard when I saw you didn’t have a staff.”

“Lost it in a fire,” lied Rincewind automatically.

“No hat with magic sigils embroidered on it.”