The trees in the white grove had no leaves and had never been alive.
They rose from a warm mineral flat east of Bracken Weir, pale trunks dividing into thin, crooked branches. Wind moved among them with a sound like someone drawing a wet finger around the rim of a glass. Water dripped from their lower forks into little stone cups at their feet.
Iven stopped at the edge and looked up.
“Mineral growth?”
Nyla nodded.
“Spray, evaporation, years. The active vents move. Some trunks grow while others start dissolving.”
A branch near them ended in a transparent tip. Inside it, tiny bubbles rose through a thread of water. Farther away, an older trunk had broken open, exposing concentric layers of cream, gray and pale green.
The grove looked delicate enough to shatter under a shout.
