The Land of Broken Roads

Father leaned down and sniffed his tiny pup, then the others. Satisfied at whatever he was checking, he said, VERY WELL, THEN. THE DEVOURER IS NOT CLOSE, SO WE SHALL REMAIN HERE FOR A FEW DAYS FIRST. He turned his terrible gaze to Dirt and added, EXCEPT FOR YOU. GATHER YOUR THINGS.

Dirt looked down, trying to hide his sudden disappointment, and ran to gather his few belongings. He pulled his clothes on so hastily he put his shirt on backward the first time, to the amusement of the pups who loomed over him to watch. Once he had his shoes on and everything was proper, he slung his backpack over both shoulders and said, “Okay, is there anywhere in particular you want me to go? Or just… away.”

He didn’t conceal his feelings of disappointment and rejection, or make himself feel something else to be diplomatic and inoffensive. That was probably pointless anyway, and better to hurry than be tiresome. Socks noticed and sent him a little puff of sympathy.

Father didn’t reply. He just huffed and looked away, making Dirt wonder for a moment if the great wolf was amused or annoyed. Before Dirt could pick a direction on his own and start walking, however, the world vanished around him.

Dirt hurtled at incomprehensible speed, sharply slamming this way and that, unable to see or hear or smell anything. By the time he realized what had happened, he hit the soft ground in a daze.

Root travel! Hitting the ground that hard knocked all the bad feelings right out of him, since he instantly knew where he was. There was no mistaking this damp, black soil. How silly he’d been, doubting Father. When had the great wolf ever shown him the slightest cruelty? Never. “Thank you!” he muttered, his mouth barely working, just in case Father was watching.

He shot to his feet so fast he almost fell over and braced himself by clasping Home in a tight hug. He found her more by feel than sight, since his eyes refused to focus that quickly. She hugged him back, not too hard, and he inhaled deeply to smell her subtle scent of bark and leaves. He was finally back! It’d seemed like so long, most of the summer and a good portion of autumn as well. It was warmer here, he noticed. The same temperature it always was. The perfect temperature.

“Hello, Home. How did you know to bring me?” asked Dirt.

“The Father of Wolves told us to summon you. The part of me that is your brace, or staff, or armor, will remain there until it is time to send you back,” said Home, smiling warmly. Now that Dirt had more experience with humans, her body language and posture reminded him of the Duchess, even though her dryad was still his size.

Dirt held out his arm and pulled back the sleeve and sure enough, the brace was gone. “Is my arm fine now? Oh, it’s everyone!”

Now that Dirt was regaining his equilibrium enough to actually look around, he found himself surrounded by a huge crowd of dryads, all those he recognized and plenty more he didn’t. They looked different, though, and it took him a moment to realize why. Clothing. Many—though not all—had clothing on now, not just the fuzzy carpet of leaves they used to have. It wasn’t fine cloth like the Duke and his family wore. No vibrant silks bedecked with jewels. Not regular cloth like the others in Ogena had, either, with colorful patterns and layers. No, it was laborer’s clothing, simple and brownish gray in color. Undyed fibers spun into thread and woven.

“Welcome back, friend Dirt,” said Callius, spinning in a circle and then planting his hands on his hips. “What do you think?”

“Did you make those yourselves?”

“We did! Do you want to see?” said Callius, face bright with eagerness.

“Of course I do,” said Dirt.

“Great! I’ll show you how we make it later,” said Callius.

“Oh,” said Dirt. “So, until then, I guess we can—”

“Look around you, silly Dirt,” said Callius. “Look.”

Dirt looked at all the dryads, not sure what else he was supposed to notice. Hundreds of gray-skinned, green-haired girls his age. Those who had clothing on wore it short, never past the knees, whether a skirt or pants, so it wouldn’t get dirty walking through the black soil. Come to think of it, Dirt should probably take his shoes and socks off and roll his pant legs up, at a minimum. Maybe he should take everything off, in fact. There’d be no way he’d be able to play with the dryads without getting nice and filthy. No need to ruin his clothing. Although, maybe if they were all dressed, he should be too? Or did they…

His thoughts trailed off into a stunned stupor when he noticed the buildings. They were everywhere, in perfect rows just like he remembered. Gray stone stained with black soil rose from the ferns to stand silently beneath the trees. Where stones couldn’t be found to patch the building back together, wooden vines filled the gaps. The roofs had almost no tiles and were covered instead with wide, five-pointed leaves bigger than Dirt was. Most of the paint and stucco was gone after so long, but he still recognized them. He knew exactly where he was.

“Turicum,” he said quietly. This was vicus salutaris, a street he knew well. Over there was one of the nicer hostels in the city, busy at all hours. And next to it, Clavii caupona, with the good lamb and vegetables, always hot and ready. Avitus had known Clavius well after eating there so many times. He could almost picture the man. Almost.

The streets weren’t completely paved, leaving gaps for bare soil already growing in with baby ferns, but they were there. The original stones. So much of it was just how he remembered, even if the colors were faded, the stucco lost forever and the paint worn away to nothing. Flowerpots and sculpture remained, and partial facades over doorways. Most of the buildings were missing their shady wooden awnings, but the dryads probably didn’t know about those and there wasn’t much need for shade now anyway.

Dirt—no, Avitus—walked up the street in a daze, his posture straightening and growing dignified. This was his city, once full of his people. It wasn’t like the ruins of Ocriculum, where, for most of the city, nothing but footings and foundations remained. Here, entire buildings had been fully resurrected. The city wasn’t completely rebuilt, but enough to recognize. Some buildings were only partial, one story instead of seven, but the upper floors had all been wooden. And some buildings hadn’t been raised from the ground at all for whatever reason. Perhaps not enough of them remained to bother, or maybe the dryads needed to leave room for the ferns and grubs and all the little bugs that lived in the soil.

Furthermore, Ocriculum had seemed like an old skeleton falling to dust. The remains of a place, not the place itself. But here, dryads occupied the buildings, waving at him from inside the windows and doorways and resting on benches to chat. They smiled as he walked past.

For him. All of this was for him. So much effort and time and care. They were wearing clothing because that’s what humans did, and they were resting or chatting or walking about just like they’d seen humans doing in Ogena, through Home’s staff. All for him.

It was too much. The precious familiarity became mixed with his gratitude for their love and overcame him. He turned with tears in his eyes and embraced Callius, who had been the closest. “Thank you!” he whispered, his chest shaking. He reached an arm out for Dawn, who was close by and pulled her in as well.

“Oh! Wait, I remember… I remember where it is!” he said and pulled away. He spun and ran down the street, turning at the five-way intersection. He passed the small theater and the apartments where Drucus and Ecidia lived. Past the brass-worker’s shop and the two cheap potters. He ran past the temple and several more row houses, past the enchanter’s shop where some of his apprentices had worked, past the justice’s outpost. One more turn, then down the street, and there it was.

His stone fence, mostly reconstructed, walling in his private villa. And inside it, his home. The walls had been fully restored and the roof was the right shape, although it was replaced by the standard vines and leaves. Nearly all the pillars were back as well, although most of them had cracked and were held together with vines. They lined the walkways, holding up nothing since the awnings were missing. Well, he could fix that himself later.

“This was my house,” said Dirt. Dryads were pouring into the villa, standing on the walkways and the empty garden areas, all walking in with eager faces.

It felt alive, even though it was dead. It was a ruin in the shape of his house, but no, those were the original stones. The original concrete patched back together. He stepped to the doorway of the living area and traced his fingers along a crack in the wall, then walked inside, anticipation stealing his breath.

He walked down the short hallway into the large atrium, just as he left it, minus all the wooden furniture. It felt so familiar it left him almost light-headed. The interior fountain was empty, and they didn’t leave an opening in the roof, making the whole room much darker than it was supposed to be. The shadows hid what remained of the wall paintings, but most of the beautiful tiled floor was back, and in the right place. The statues were there, the youth pouring water into the pool and the woman with a bird resting on her finger.

“I used to receive guests here. There were couches and divans once, with cushions. In fact, this corner was my favorite spot to read. Hilaria liked to sit by the fountain and embroider. I remember that,” he said, his voice quiet. He was having difficulty remembering the dryads were still here, despite how they crowded in to watch. His mind was too distracted with enjoying the feeling of familiarity and trying to claw some of his lost memory from the void to pay them much attention.

He remembered the sense of people, but little more than that. A name or two, but no idea who they’d been. A strong man used to stand here, reassuring and friendly. And over there, a gossipy group of women who laughed and sang. Were they his brood? Was one of them his mate? He had no idea. But he felt drawn to this corner and that, to the feeling of the person who had occupied the space and whose faded memory now haunted it.

Avitus sighed and entered a different doorway, following a wider hall to the left. He passed the hot bath, now empty and cracked and unlikely to hold water again, and the cool bath, much the same. A storage room where he’d once put… well, it was empty now, not even shelves remaining. Another storage room, just as small, but with a larger door. Ah, right, clothing and towels and things. That’s what he’d stored there, with no door to ensure easier access.

Then, finally, at the end of the hall, his bedroom. It was built against the exterior wall, sporting windows to the front and side, and was grimy and dark now. Dark soil filled all the lines between the floor tiles, drawing out the patterns. The stove for heating had been restored and looked like it probably still worked, although the metal grate was gone. And there was nothing to burn, and he’d have to fix the chimney, which was sealed.

The first thing he’d have to do was make a new bed, though.

“We didn’t know which house was yours, or we might have taken more care for it,” said Dawn. She was a little taller now, he noticed, a bit rounder and more feminine. She reminded him of Èlia, in fact. She still had that girlish cheer, though. It was unmistakably her.

“It’s fine. I wasn’t expecting any of this. I never thought I’d see this place again. I used to sleep right there, on a bed. Three thousand years ago,” said Dirt. “I can clean it myself, if I can get someone to make water for me.”

“We know you were not expecting it, which is what makes it a surprise,” said Callius.

“It’s a good surprise! It definitely surprised me. Do you have any plans for the city, or did you just do it for me?” asked Dirt.

“You gave us an entire world, friend Dirt. We can give you one little city in return,” said Callius.

“Come, we have something more we wish to show you,” said Dawn, grabbing his hand and giving it a gentle tug. “It is in the schola, where the cursed dead captured you. Or will you be too troubled to see that place again?”

“Oh, did you rebuild that place too? It’s fine, it won’t bother me,” said Dirt. He remembered it being mostly intact, but to be fair, he hadn’t spent much time there.

“Then come,” said Dawn, tugging his hand more urgently, her dry, glassy eyes almost sparkling.

“I know the way,” said Dirt with a half-smile. He inhaled mana and leaped out a window, then ran up the street. He dashed to a main road and followed it out of the city, marveling at just how large it was, and how much had been restored. It was larger than Ogena and Llovella together, easily. He passed well over ten trees before they reached the exterior wall of the city, and they were hundreds of paces apart.

Out the gate and into what had once been the countryside, with large sections of the highway restored, as well as whatever stone or concrete buildings had been found along the road. Mostly farmer villas. It was a good distance from there to the schola, and they traveled through two different villages, Iguvium and Dullu, which were in much worse condition due to having been constructed from a lot more wood.

Then the side road off the main highway, where a signpost had once stood, and a well for travelers to water the horses. Neither were there now. Dirt turned, followed by the crowd of hundreds of happy dryads, and sped along the path until it came into view.

Prisca’s schola, just as he’d left it. Except the ornate gardens were in better order now, fallen stones stood back up and walkways and walls and such all restored. Even the pillars in the front of the building had been pieced back together, and much of the façade. He could read the name now, which had been carved in fascia stone that had been missing before: SCHOLA SAPIENTIAE ANTIQUAE, the school of ancient wisdom.

He smiled at that. Most of what they’d taught there hadn’t been quite so ancient. Some, perhaps, but not most.

Dirt stopped at the little basins of water, pleased to see they were working now, all full of cool, pellucid water instead of just the one. He bent down and plopped his face in to drink his fill, he stood again and wiped the water off his face and hair. Some of it dripped onto his shirt, giving him a little chill, but even with that it wasn’t as cold as where he’d left Socks, so he found it pleasant.

He paused at the entrance to the schola, though. It was dark as night inside, just as before. The memory of terror wafted from the place and sank into his skin, leaving him clammy.

Home took his hand and held it tightly. “Do not be scared, dear Dirt,” she said.

“I’m okay. I like how well you put this place back together. Should we go inside?” he asked, gathering his courage. It’d be fine. Surely.

He snapped with his other hand and made a light, then split it into several more and sent them inside. Then he followed them in.

The warm yellow glow of his lights made the lecture hall feel warm and inviting, as if by warm fires on a cool night. They flickered as he pushed them mentally into the farther reaches of the space. Ancient wooden benches stood in their proper places, and some new ones, paler in color, which the dryads must have made. The frescos and statues brought extra life into the place, and Dirt’s fear faded, replaced by nostalgia.

Such a charming place, the schola, and this was one of the greatest ones. And the most expensive, which showed all these years later. Tiles and decorations everywhere, expensive and exacting architecture that carried sound perfectly from the front into every ear. The ruined furniture had been removed and most of it replaced with passable reproductions, everything from chairs and tables to shelves and candelabra and lamps. Dirt was sure that if he looked close, he’d find the lamps solid and unusable. Things here and there to indicate that the dryads didn’t actually know what most of this stuff was for. But even so, to Dirt’s eyes, it rivalled the Duke’s palace.

“This is incredible,” he said. “You restored so much of it! Is it because this place never sank, so lots of the wooden furniture remained?”

“This is not what we wanted to show you, friend Dirt,” said Dawn, taking his hand from Home and tugging it. “Come. This way.”

“What? There was more?”

“Come!” said Dawn, insisting. She was practically bouncing.

She dragged him toward a side door, out into the hallway that led to other rooms of the schola. He stumbled trying to keep up, but she didn’t relent. Her steps were almost a dance as she tugged him onward, past two empty doorways and stopping in front of a third, on the other side. “Go in,” she said, pointing into the shadows.

Dirt snapped again, summoning another bright spark, and sent it in. Dawn pushed him right behind it, almost knocking him over. Callius laughed. “Be gentle with our little Dirt, my dear,” he scolded. “That is the wrong place to fall and break something.”

He couldn’t believe what he saw. The room had started as a library, with hundreds of nooks for scrolls, and every single one of them was full. Then, covering nearly every inch of floor from wall to wall, were baskets and chests of every conceivable thing, all stacked on top of each other from floor to ceiling, leaving almost no room to walk despite the size of the space—silver and gold and cups carved from precious stone, beautiful works of old, yellow ivory and amber and more. He didn’t even know where to start.

“This is all the stuff we found digging up the city,” said Callius. “We didn’t know where else to put it.”