During the last nine months Famere had neglected her grandparents, due to her obsession with the war, and now she might never see them again. It tore at her. “Have you talked to Ison?”
“He ignores me.”
“He wanted me to step down as guide.” She looked into her mother’s eyes. “Maybe it would be better for our people.”
Mereeth clasped her hands. “The shadows chose you for a reason, Fam. Ison has to accept that. He’s lost his way. But promise me you’ll always treat him as baethe.”
“I promise. And I’ll return.”
“I believe you, Fam.” Mereeth smiled and hugged her tightly. “I have something for you.”
“What?”
Mereeth pulled back. “A sweet berry, as a memory of the forest, of the goodness you’ve brought here, and of myself.”
Famere opened her leather life-pouch, and Mereeth dropped the smooth red berry into it. “You’ve given me so much, mother, and I’ve given so little.”
“You saved our people, Fam.” Two tears escaped her mother’s eyes. “While you’re gone I’ll embrace the good things we’ve shared, as I do with Darkas.”
“I’ll miss you.”
“Blessings, daughter.” She stroked Famere’s hair, and then left, fading as a graceful whisper into the woods.
Famere sat, waiting for nightfall. At times her plan felt impossible, at others a wild surge of confidence that she would succeed comforted her. For a long time, she stroked the soft fur of her shadows. Later, a large spotted owl landed next to her leg, waiting with her. It eventually hooted and flew off. Except for the faint melody of sahr, the forest grew quiet.
She often peered into the darkness for Goflin, expecting him to step out of a shadow or from behind a tree to say goodbye. She remembered after the last battle, when she expected to die, that it was his face she wanted to see. And it was his songs she had remembered when the raacor had attacked her.
She recalled Bosho’s comment that Ison wasn’t the only one who cared for her. She had always considered Goflin a friend, but now other ideas stirred in her. For most of her life it was his smile that had calmed her and his words that made her smile. She felt desperate to talk to him before she left.
But he never came. It hurt more than she expected. Her friend Yameen didn’t come either, and yet Bosho surely would have mentioned she was leaving tonight. It confused her and left her lonely.
When darkness arrived, she stood and leaned against the tree. She detected shapes moving through the forest toward her. Bosho on Basir. They stopped in front of her, her friend’s muscled body oiled, his hair hanging over the front of his shoulders.
“I’ll ride with you to the edge of mrilwood.” Bosho’s usually serene eyes showed sadness. “One last ride together, baethe-brue, before you leave.”
“Blessings.” Bending over, with two fingers she grasped a few grains of dirt. Opening her life-pouch, she dropped the soil of mrilwood inside. “I’ll never forget this night, or our last ride, baethe.” Her words brought sadness to her heart.
“It’s not our last ride.” Bosho’s voice was firm, his eyes steady.
She leapt on Shir, and Lor rose and stretched. Gazing at the towering norre, she wanted to memorize everything about this moment, even the pattern of the blackened clouds.
“Let’s ride,” she said. And with those words, Shir led them into the night.
22
Allies
Ison studied Sahr Lord Raeleen, mindful of the hate in her bright eyes.
Her golden brown skin with its fine wrinkles, along with the waist-length golden strands growing from her scalp, struck him as beautiful. At least more appealing than slayer bodies.
Raeleen had one thin hand pressed against a norre tree, the other grasping green twigs in a hip sleeve as she glared at him. Cautious and distrustful. It amused him, but he didn’t take her power lightly either.
Truthfully, he was as fascinated by her as he was with Greenbliss. The staven forest showed bountiful energy. Norre trees were abundant, hungry mril sucked their sap, birds flitted among the branches, and flowers and lush grass grew as far as he could see. Still, the brethren didn’t come close to him. It made him curious. What did they fear?
Raeleen stood nearly two feet taller than him. He didn’t like that he had to look up at her as he spoke. “F’ahbay said you were an ally.”
“The wyshea butcher killed four hundred of our kind, and you’re wyshea.” Her voice was melodious, but her face was taut.
“I’ve never fought in the war.” He grasped his robes and stepped closer. “Do you want revenge?”
Her hand dropped from the tree. “What do you want?”
“To rule my people, which F’ahbay has promised.”
Her eyes glinted. “You don’t need him for that. What else has he promised you?”
“What has he promised you?” He guessed she had been promised part of mrilwood. F’ahbay was playing a game with all of them. He had to contain his anger at F’ahbay, and her, and he suddenly realized that he might be all that stood between his people and F’ahbay’s allies.
Raeleen scoffed. “I don’t trust F’ahbay or you.”
“But F’ahbay has given you reasons to cooperate, hasn’t he?”
“Tell me what you want.”
He considered what he was about to do, and for a moment he almost fled. His insides were tied in knots for a few moments, but a surge of anger brought him clarity. Famere had brought this on herself by denying him his rightful position as wyshea guide. And she had no chance of securing peace with the slayers. She was foolish, putting all wyshea and mrilwood in danger. She bore that responsibility. He had to push aside his pain that they would never bond, and focus on what was important now. He was his people’s only salvation. “I want what you want; the wyshea butcher dead. You’ll have help. Basture is sending soldiers.”
“My people don’t want to fight the butcher’s shadow guard.”
“She’s traveling alone to the Northerners. There’s a chance Commander Jennelle might ride out to meet her.” He shrugged. “Then kill her too.”
Raeleen sounded bitter. “The Northerners didn’t help in the last battle, but they’ve been our allies in the past.”
Ison gave her an innocent expression. “What if Jennelle offers the wyshea butcher peace, and then comes to you with the same offer? Do you want a treaty with the butcher, so she can live in peace, while you mourn the deaths of your four hundred?”
Raeleen let go of the twigs in her sleeve and made a fist at her side. “High Sahr Lord Baennel doesn’t agree with Basture’s war against the wyshea.”
“But many of your people do, don’t they?” Ison took a few strides away, looking into the forest. “The butcher’s vulnerable now. It should be easy for you.” Casually, he stepped to her side. “It would be a great victory to kill her. Your people sound ready for a new high sahr lord.”
“Why don’t you do it?” Raeleen smirked when he hesitated. “You can’t, can you? You’re a slave to Harken.”
“I will, if you fail.” His shoulders hunched. He didn’t want to do it. And she was right, he didn’t know if he could. “We don’t have much time.”
“I’ll have to talk to the council. If I act alone, and someone finds out, no one will follow me. It’s the staven way.” She leaned closer. “A mageen brought the death mists. Was it you?”
“No, and Harken hasn’t found who’s responsible.”
“If we learn who it is, we’ll kill them.”
“I’ll help you.” Ison gave a thin smile. “You believe you can kill a mageen?”
She pushed away from the tree. “You’re powerful, but in this forest your sahr won’t help you.”
He became still, sensing the threat. “What do you mean?”
“You’re ignorant, aren’t you? Didn’t Harken tell you anything during your training? Sahr lords are able to bend a mageen’s energy to their will.”
He wanted to hurl sahr at her to test her
, but he controlled himself. Honesty filled her eyes. Seething that Harken hadn’t told him this, he wondered what other secrets the power mageen had withheld. He hadn’t taken Raeleen seriously enough, and he would have to learn more about sahr lords. “Are you going to help?”
“We’re not going to take a risk alone. We’ll fight with Basture’s soldiers, but that’s all.”
He considered her offer. He might have to act quickly against Famere, but then he would have to fight Harken. He wasn’t ready for that. Still, he said, “Accepted.”
“Tell me when and where.”
“North of Hope Citadel. Soon. I’ll return with specifics. Just be ready.”
***
Finance Minister Basture slouched in a heavy chair made of norre wood, his red-jeweled dagger in one hand, a large red apple in the other.
Ison hated everything about this slayer. The casual way he allowed his soldiers to die in battle, his red and black clothing that suggested empty power, the tray of cooked brethren flesh on his desk, and his lack of respect for the power of a mageen. Ison also loathed the smoky tent with its putrid odors and poor light. It all smelled of death, like Basture.
He wanted to flood the tent with sahr and burn the minister alive, but he didn’t sense emotion or a heartbeat in this slayer, making him cautious. It might be some small trick for this slayer to hide them, or possibly the slayer had a secret strength.
While staring at him, Basture pressed a fingertip against the point of his blade. “You’ve contacted Sahr Lord Raeleen?”
“She’s ready. Are you?”
Basture smiled. “How can you help us when Power Mageen Harken can interfere and defeat you anytime he wishes?”
The slayer’s boldness astounded Ison. “Let me worry about Harken.”
Basture chuckled. “A mageen against the wyshea butcher. It doesn’t seem like a fair fight.”
“Like the powerful finance minister against the young Northerner, Jennelle, who always comes out on top.”
Basture’s face clouded.
“There’s a sendar revolt in Prosperus,” added Ison. “It’s understandable if you weren’t aware of it. F’ahbay should choose one of your men in case you fall.”
Basture’s eyes turned a shade darker. “Can you kill the butcher? Otherwise you won’t be much use to us.”
“Famere’s weak.”
“Yes, but will you kill her? Or are you as weak as she is?”
Ison took a step forward, his hands twitching. How did Basture know he was conflicted about killing Famere? A good guess? The minister showed no fear, making him wary. There was more here than he could detect, so he sent his sight out into the small confines of the tent, probing for anything suggesting power. Basture’s one-horn struck him as unusual too. He understood nothing about one-horns and resolved to investigate them.
“You want power,” continued Basture. “But what are you willing to do for it?”
“What are you doing, besides destroying your army?”
“I’m doing exactly what F’ahbay told me to do. Killing sendars and wyshea.” Basture smiled and shifted his feet, which rested atop a metal rectangular chest lying on the dirt floor.
Ison lifted an arm, his palm facing Basture. It was unforgiveable for a slayer to boast about killing wyshea in front of him. “Give me one reason not to kill you, slayer fangor.”
“I don’t have any.” Not taking his eyes off Ison, Basture casually lifted his feet off the box and set them flat on the floor. Sitting up straight, he placed his palms on the desk in front of him, the knife flat, the apple rolling across the desktop.
Energy flowed into Ison’s body and arms, but before he released it something triggered his attention. The metal chest. His perception couldn’t penetrate it. Nothing that spoke of power covered the box, but if it blocked his sight, and it was in Basture’s possession, then possibly Basture wasn’t what he pretended to be either. As he had sensed with F’ahbay, there was power here he didn’t grasp. And risk.
Lowering his hand, he smiled. Basture wanted him to attack. Perhaps the minister assumed he could kill him, and thus have less spoils to share. This slayer was arrogant, like F’ahbay, and it revealed a weakness.
Ison restrained the insults he wanted to unleash. “Another time. It will be my pleasure.” Abruptly he realized the minister might be the mageen that had hidden the slayer army on his bonding night. It fit, and explained why the chest remained hidden to his senses. Fury boiled inside him. “Did you hide the slayer army that attacked the wyshea nine months ago?”
“That mageen is another ally of F’ahbay. I’ve never met him.”
Ison didn’t detect a lie in his features. But the minister was an expert at hiding things.
Basture made a flippant gesture. “Just make sure the wyshea butcher fails in her peace effort. I’ve given Cresh a ring to call you, if necessary. Come quickly if he does.”
“I’m not a slayer servant.”
“Of course not. You’re F’ahbay’s servant, like myself and Sahr Lord Raeleen.” Basture’s eyes glittered. “We all fear F’ahbay, and we all want to kill him.”
Ison was surprised Basture spoke openly against F’ahbay, but it might be a test so he ignored the words. “I’ll do my part; be certain your soldiers do theirs.”
As he left in a flash of light, he saw Basture laughing. Fear, something he had not experienced since Harken had tortured him, filled him. He needed to build more power, and to understand F’ahbay and Basture better. More than anything, he wanted to kill both of them.
23
Red Stone Meadow
After leaving mrilwood and Bosho, Famere rode southwest during the night and the next day until she left the Wild Lands. Shir and Lor ran with relaxed strides. Loneliness filled her and she regretted not asking someone to accompany her. It nagged at her that Goflin hadn’t asked to come.
When she reached the Southern Reaches, which stretched east-west, and south to the Barrens, more brush and grass covered the soil, with fewer norre trees, making the landscape bleak. There were no sharpies or other large grazers, and smaller brethren were less plentiful.
A few times she passed patches of dying trees, as she had while riding into the last battle. She finally stopped to examine one. Slipping off Shir, she walked closer to the tree. Loose bark flaked off when she brushed the trunk with her palm.
When she pushed against the tree, her hand flew forward inside it. Things crawled on her fingers, and she gasped and yanked her arm out. Short black worms squirmed on her skin. When she brushed them off, they shriveled on the ground, dying in the dim light.
When she talked about peace with the slayers, she resolved to talk about the trees and brethren too. Riding on, she realized more was at stake than just peace for the wyshea. She sensed a threat to all of the Wild Lands, not just mrilwood.
As she journeyed farther she saw fewer brethren. Also, birds, furred beasts, insects, and butterflies never came near her or the shadows. Worst of all, the sahr didn’t sing in this injured land. She had never been apart from Beloved’s melody and it caused such sadness in her at first that she wanted to race back to mrilwood.
Steeling herself, she clung to the hope that the loss was temporary and her efforts would guarantee more land didn’t end up like this. Slayers would never cut norre trees if they heard the goddess’ song. How did they ever find peace without it? It put her on edge that Beloved seemed completely absent from this land, unable to watch over her.
Eventually, large tree stumps littered the landscape, their cut surfaces blackened. Famere recalled Darkas’ stories about slayers cutting trees from the southern Great Blue Water to mrilwood’s borders. It saddened her that all the brethren in those forests had either died or fled elsewhere.
By nightfall she came to a small stream and drank her fill. She decided to rest near a few trees and bushes alongside the water. She heard a few fish jump, and glimpsed as many birds in the distance, but no other brethren appeared. Alone in the dark, she w
ished she had someone to talk to. Troubled, she fell asleep late in the night, caught in nightmares filled with Goflin, staven suns, and battle.
She was still dreaming when the shadows gave low growls. Opening her eyes, she felt groggy. The absence of sahr had affected her senses. An early morning dim light showed dew on the ground, but dense fog blanketed the land near the stream.
Footsteps surrounded her in a wide half-circle. Slayer heartbeats. Along with the fog, the trees and bushes hid whoever approached her, but she guessed their positions.
Estimating a score of slayers, she stood with the shadows at her sides. “I’ve come in peace.”
A rush of footfalls made her leap on Shir and unwind her thrip. The fog cleared enough to reveal bits of masked men on foot. Scavengers. Blades, bows, and atlatls were aimed at her from twenty paces away.
She leveled her thrip. “I don’t want to fight.”
Three individuals broke ranks and cautiously approached her from the left, half-visible in the fog. When Shir and Lor wheeled to face them, darts and arrows whizzed at Famere’s back. She ducked low on her shadow.
Splashing came from the stream. Famere twisted around. A small break in the fog revealed two emerald figures with their bonded wolves running through the water. Her pulse quickened as she gaped at them.
“Gof,” she whispered. “Yameen.”
Goflin was nearly across, when a scavenger on the bank swung his blade at him. Jumping backward, Goflin flicked his thrip, cutting the slayer’s arm. With another quick whip strike he sent the enemy reeling. Then he ran out of the water.
Gir jumped at another attacker, but two arrows hit the wolf. Yelping, he dropped to the ground.
Yameen crossed the stream and swung her thrip at one scavenger, and then another. Her wolf-bond rushed a third.
Famere couldn’t watch anymore as the three attackers charged her. Shir bolted at the scavengers, and Famere swung her thrip at one, kicking another in the chest. Lor ran over the third. Both shadows pivoted and raced toward the stream.
Wyshea Shadows Page 20
