“But of course. So that the endgame could be the sweeter, lady. And now…”
He reached into his gaming box and brought forth a piece, setting it down on the board with a satisfied air. The watching deities gave a collective sigh. Even the Lady was momentarily taken aback. it was certainly ugly. The carving was uncertain, as if the craftsman’s hands were shaking in horror of the thing taking shape under his reluctant fingers. It seemed to be all suckers and tentacles. And mandibles, the lady observed. And one great eye.
“I thought such as He died out at the beginnings of Time,” she said.
“Mayhap our necrotic friend was loathe even to go near this one,” laughed Fate. He was enjoying himself.
“It should never have been spawned.”
“Nevertheless,” said Fate gnomically. He scooped the dice into their unusual box, and then glanced up at her.
“Unless,” he added, “you wish to resign…?”
She shook her head.
“Play,” she said.
“You can match my stake?”
“Play.”
Rincewind knew what was inside trees: wood, sap, possibly squirrels. Not a palace.
Still-the cushions underneath him were definitely softer than wood, the wine in the wooden cup beside him was much tastier than sap, and there could be absolutely no comparison between a squirrel and the girl sitting before him, clasping her knees and watching him thoughtfully, unless mention was made of certain hints of furriness.
The room was high, wide and lit with a soft yellow light which came from no particular source that Rincewind could identify. Through gnarled and knotted archways he could see other rooms, and what looked like a very large winding staircase. And it had looked a perfectly normal tree from the outside, too.
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?”