Shiloh

by Helena Sorensen

  Thaw yer fingers and yer frozen toes’

  Sing,

  ‘Hiss, hiss, crackle, crackle

  Wood burns bright

  Through the mist and shadow

  o’ the fallin’ night’”

  Orin had heard the song before. He tapped out a rhythm as she sang. Meanwhile, Amos watched the others: the older man he hardly knew, the beautiful stranger, and Simeon. He sat with his blue eyes fixed on the ground, his calloused hands tenderly holding an iron lantern.

  Amos was reminded of him as a little boy, pale and thin, refusing to leave his friend to face Hadrian’s wrath alone. Simeon had never been the strongest or the fastest, but a current of stubborn determination ran through his veins. Once he’d set his mind to do something, he’d see it through. No matter the cost. Once he’d set his heart on someone, he’d fight for him. He’d fight for her. To the end.

  Amos was reminded, too, of how he and Simeon had made plans to escape the Shadow when they were boys. It had seemed so easy then, as if they could march right up to the Shadow Lord and command him to be gone. There was a sweet sadness to the memory, and with it came a wrenching pain that began in his head and belly and radiated out to his fingertips and toes. The Nogworms. He moaned, gripping his gut and doubling over against Isolde.

  “Water!” she called out to Simeon. “I think ’e needs water!” He tossed her a skin, but Amos refused it, swearing it was poison, that it only intensified his pain.

  “Take these then.” Isolde handed him a wad of nightshade leaves. “Fer yer shoulder.”

  Amos stuffed the wad inside his cheek.

  “I keep it with me always,” Isolde continued, moving her tunic aside to reveal jagged scars on her right shoulder.

  “Wolf?” Amos asked.

  “Dragon,” she said, and saw his surprise. “Don’t tell me that Amos, the boy who slew the Shadow Wolf with fire from ’is mouth, has never seen a dragon!”

  He looked away.

  “I grew up with the tale of Amos, Wielder of Fire. My sister . . .” Isolde dropped off, reaching to touch the braid that wrapped her forehead.

  “You’ve not told us yer story, Isolde,” Orin said.

  “Another time, perhaps.” She tossed a branch onto the fire. “I’ll take first watch,” she offered and said no more.

  The next day, the landscape changed drastically. The light overhead remained thin and weak, the tops of the trees indistinguishable. The water rushed along beside them, often dropping in foamy, white cascades. But now, the land on the other side of the river rose higher and higher, and, instead of forest, they looked over at sheer rock cliffs. To the left of the River Lost, where they traveled, the change in the landscape was even more remarkable. Here and there, among the innumerable black trunks, were trees as white as Brand’s snowy mane. They were startlingly bright. And their color was not the most marvelous thing about them. Their roots seemed to be all above the ground, twisting and interweaving across the forest floor, encircling the trunks of the surrounding trees.

  The company led the horses along the edge of the river, knowing the animals would struggle to find their footing in the maze of roots. But Brand and Willa and Echo grew restless as they traveled. At midday, when the pallid light of the forest had reached its peak, they were attacked again.

  Amos saw them first: five sets of eyes glaring down from the ridge on the opposite side of the river.

  “Sim!” he shouted, pointing up at the wolves.

  This was a much more serious attack than they had yet faced. They had their torches, yes, but there was nowhere to run for safety. The roots of the white trees kept the horses from moving with any speed, and only the river stood between predators and prey. To his right, a bow twanged. Isolde sent a flaming arrow right into the heart of the pack, and with a rushing of wind the first beast was gone. Simeon and Orin joined in, leasing a volley of fiery arrows on their attackers.

  But Amos, surely the most dangerous of the group, hesitated. One of the wolves was watching him, its green-gold eyes fixed on his face. The predator had marked its prey. All of a sudden, Amos was keenly aware of the mark of the Wolf branded into his chest. While the others emptied their quivers, he watched the pack grow. More and more eyes appeared over the edge of the cliff, and then the pack divided, some skidding down the rocky descent to the river and others moving forward along the ridge.

  Brand reared up, pawing at the air. Willa screamed. There was no more time to consider. They had no choice.

  “Go!” Orin shouted. He slapped the animals’ backs and sent them running into the wood. “All o’ ya. Now!” He turned and ran after the horses, dropping his torch as he fled.

  Amos was first to go, then Simeon. Isolde shouted at Echo to go on ahead. But the horse waited for her. When at last she turned and ran, the brown mare followed . . . followed but would not overtake her. Echo was guarding Isolde from the rear.

  Without any plan, without any clear sense of direction, they ran, zigzagging through the trees. They could hear the panting of the wolves and the rumbling growls that filled the forest as the animals closed in. They pushed themselves harder, leaping over stones, nearly tripping on the myriad white roots that snaked across their path.

  A dozen wolves, perhaps more, were gaining on them. These monsters never tired. They moved in like fog, surrounding their prey. And the flashing green of the leader’s eyes sent trickles of cold sweat down Amos’s back.

  A terrible scream cut through the trees behind them. Ahead, to the right, Orin roared in rage and pain. In the instant before the wolves reached Amos, his foot caught on a large white root, raised a few inches off the ground. He lurched forward, knowing his end had come. But his knee, instead of landing on the floor of the forest, bumped into another root that appeared from nowhere. His arms, held in front of him to break his fall, caught hold of yet another root. The tree was helping him. Its white roots had risen to form a sort of ladder. He scrambled into the branches, out of reach of the wolves, and hoisted Simeon up behind him.

  They turned to look for the others and saw Isolde rushing back to defend Echo. One wolf had descended on the horse, and another bore down on Isolde. Simeon took his bow from his shoulder and snatched up the last of his arrows. He locked eyes with Amos, and the arrow burst into flame before it ever left the string. Simeon’s shot was fierce and true. It whistled through both wolves, dissolving them into vapor, and landed on the forest floor half a pace behind Echo.

  “Isolde, the tree!” Amos called to her, but she hovered over the wounded horse. “It’s you they want!” She tore herself away and scurried into the branches of the nearest tree.

  “Boys!” Orin shouted from another of the white trees. Blood dripped from his left leg, staining the bright bark as it fell. At the base of the three trees the wolves circled, snapping.“What now?”

  Amos followed the movements of the green-eyed wolf as it pulled away from the group.

  As if in answer, dozens of white roots rose up and snaked around the paws, the tails, the backs of the wolves, dragging them into the ground.

  There were muffled yelps, as black soil closed over them, and then . . . silence.

  “Take comfort, Children of the Morning,” said a voice. It came from somewhere between the two branches where Simeon and Amos were perched. They searched the tree for the source of the voice. Deep grooves ran up and down the white bark, sometimes curling in perfect circles. And there were smaller grooves that cut across the others. One of these opened when the voice spoke again.

  “The Shadow cannot touch you while you rest in my shade,” it said. The two men realized at once that the horizontal slash in the bark was the tree’s mouth. The grooves above were eyes — beautiful eyes, sparkling with life. And the curling circles resembled hair that wrapped around the creature’s face.

  “I am Sylva.” The slightest movement in the lines of bark drew her fa
ce into a smile, and the bark around her face swirled. “I am older than the Shadow. It holds no terror for me.”

  Recognition dawned on Simeon’s face. “Grosvenor! Are you the tree from the songs and tales? The tree o’ the White Bow?”

  “No. Another of my kin gave the White Bow to Grosvenor. For you, there is help of a different kind.”

  “Can ya lead us ta the Hall o’ Shadows?” Simeon asked. Phebe was never far from his thoughts, and with every hour that passed, he felt a greater urgency to find her.

  “No. But Ezra waits for you at the parting of the rivers. He has much to tell, much to give.”

  “Ezra?”

  “Yes,” Sylva answered. “Ram and the Bright have not forgotten you.” The travelers did not understand her words, but the sight of a White Tree come to life out of legend and song had lifted their hearts.

  “There’s hope, then?” Simeon asked.

  “Always,” she said. “But you must hurry. Time slips away. The days are fleeting.”

  The roots that had dispatched their enemies rose in gentle steps to their feet, and Simeon and Amos stepped down onto the forest floor.

  Isolde hurried to Echo’s side. Orin was slower in coming. When his feet touched the ground, he tore a strip of cloth from his tunic and wrapped it around the wound in his leg.

  “You’ll need your horses.” The roots of the trees spoke to each other in some unknown language, root touching root, one after another, and pulling aside to form a path. As soon as the way was cleared, Brand and Willa trotted up, tossing their manes and stamping. They nosed Echo and whinnied as Isolde helped the brown mare to her feet.

  Simeon greeted Willa and took the lantern that hung from the saddle. He lifted it, opened one side, and blew softly, illuminating a circle of darkening forest. He turned to Sylva as the travelers set out toward the river.

  “Thank you.” Simeon said. “May the light shine upon you.”

  She brightened at the phrase, her bark flowing around her face. “And you,” she replied.

  Thirty-Two

  The images flashed before him: black shapes silhouetted against flames. There was a cottage with fire leaping out of the windows, illuminating the slate tiles on the roof. There was a tiny ember, a pinprick of fire that brought the hay to life and pulled the stable down around the screaming horses. There were the clansmen who had heard of his coming and organized an attack. They were consumed in a great inferno, a wall of fire that Amos cast before him as he came.

  There was a boy who had run to defend his father, who had cried out and slumped to the ground as line upon line of darkness was wrapped around him. And then he was gone. Amos had destroyed the boy as surely as if he’d sent an arrow through his heart or burned the flesh from his bones. In the wake of that encounter, the old fear had returned, and the fire in his veins had cooled. But he had not understood. Mordecai had offered him the path of power. Amos had nothing to fear. Nothing. What, then, was the trembling inside him?

  Echo was badly wounded, with long, bloody gashes across the back of her right thigh. Isolde would not ride her. She led her limping along and spoke quietly into her ear. Orin, too, could do little more than limp, though Brand could bear him easily when the terrain allowed. One of the wolves had bitten deep into his left thigh, and his face was pale and drawn.

  Their food stores were dwindling, their water supply nearly exhausted. While Amos and the horses drank from the river, the others would not touch it, for it sprang from the same source as the River Meander. As night fell again on the mountains, they camped by the River Lost.

  “Think there’s anything worth eatin’ in this forest?” Isolde asked.

  “I’ve seen rabbits, snakes, some small birds, but no deer or elk.” Orin’s voice was soft and strained.

  “I grow weary o’ this venison,” she said, tossing a little piece of the dried meat into the fire and rising to sling her bow over her shoulder. She returned to the camp after a short time, carrying a large gray rabbit by the ears.

  “Well, men o’ Shiloh, great warriors and skilled artisans that ya are, do ya think ya might do the cookin’ tonight?” She laughed and tossed the rabbit to Simeon, who took his dagger from his belt and started to skin it.

  Isolde knelt down to pat Echo’s flank, lifting the awkward bandage to survey her wounds. “Don’t suppose we’ve got any mandrake root?” she said, to no one in particular.

  Simeon tossed her a bundle from the pouch on his belt. “Here,” he said. “We treated Orin’s leg while you were gone.”

  “What’s that?” Isolde asked, noticing how the firelight flashed on a shiny object protruding from Simeon’s pouch.

  “’Twas Phebe’s,” he said, without taking it out.

  All at once, Isolde knew. This was it. It had been here all this time. The realization struck her with the force of a hundred arrows. Valour’s Glass. “May I see it?”

  Simeon took it carefully from the pouch and passed it to Isolde. She examined the inscription. “Until the day breaks, and the Shadows flee away,” she read aloud, and laughed at the absurd turn of events. “This belonged ta Valour! It was a gift from the gods. I’ve dreamed o’ findin’ this glass fer as long as I can remember. I’ve searched the whole o’ Shiloh fer it! How did it come ta Phebe?”

  “A gift from the gods?” Simeon asked. The tale of Valour’s Glass was well known to the remnant of the Lost Clan, but not to the rest of Shiloh. “I know nothin’ of how it came ta Phebe. She didn’t know the value o’ the thing.”

  “I found it,” Amos said.

  “Drawn to it, I suppose,” Isolde said. “Like a true son of Evander.”

  A memory flashed into Amos’s mind: his father, seated before the hearth in their little cottage, taking pride in the insults of the villagers. “Mad as Evander, eh?” he had said. The memory felt like a dagger in his belly.

  “’Twas chance. I saw a light off the Hunter’s Path, and I took it. That’s all.”

  “And yet ya find yourself here, journeyin’ over the Black Mountains, just as Evander did.” Isolde’s eyes held a challenge, but Amos said nothing.

  There was silence for a time. Isolde found it difficult to look away from Valour’s Glass. The logs on the fire cracked and split and the juices from the roasting rabbit fell hissing into the embers.

  Then Orin spoke up. “What gives you claim ta the glass, Isolde?”

  “It belongs ta my people, my clan.”

  “Yer people?” Amos asked. “Evander’s clan?”

  “Not all the Lost Clan was lost.” She hesitated, hating to admit the truth. “Some remained.”

  Only a few days earlier, this revelation would have stunned the men, but not here, after all they had seen.

  “Take up the glass then, daughter o’ Valour, and tell us what ya see,” Amos returned her challenge. When she failed to act, Amos laughed. “You’re afraid.”

  Isolde snatched the glass and stretched it to its fullest length. She took a deep breath, glared at Amos, then lifted the glass to her eye and peered through. Almost as quickly as she’d taken it up, she dropped it to her lap and tucked it into her belt.

  “I see nothin’,” she said. “Only dark forest . . . and trees.” Her heart felt like stone within her, but she would never admit that to the others.

  Amos snorted and reclined on his side, propping himself on his elbow. “What did ya expect ta see? The sun, perhaps? Or stars? A world beyond the Shadow?” He gave a bitter laugh. “I’ve traveled all over this black land, and you can be sure there’s nothin’ beyond the Shadow, nothin’ more than Shadow. Only a madman goes in search o’ what isn’t there!”

  “Yer da believed there was more.” Simeon’s voice came soft and clear from the edge of the firelight, and his eyes searched Amos’s face. When Amos refused to meet his gaze, he stood and left, his pale hair and worn gray tunic disappearing into the dark
ness of the forest.

  Simeon returned to the campfire long after the others had fallen asleep. He fell down onto his blanket, and slept, and dreamed. He stood in a long avenue, lined with towering trees. Their branches stretched high, and on each hung a little glass orb, like a drop of water suspended in air. Mist swirled within them, and eyes stared out of them: the eyes of little children and men and women. Phebe’s voice called to him. “Simeon! Simeon!” But he could not see her. He ran up and down the lane of trees, searching the faces behind the glass. He followed the sound of her voice, searching frantically and crying her name. At last, he saw her, eyes fixed before her, dark hair swirling with the mist. “Phebe!” he cried. He reached out to touch the glass, to touch her, and she vanished. “Phebe!”

  He woke to find Isolde crouching over him, her hand on his shoulder. “I thought ya might be a Dreamer,” she whispered. She offered him what was left in her water skin and sat down beside him. “Chosen o’ the gods, they say. Blessed.”

  “Dreams are no blessing. They show what I cannot change, what I cannot bear ta see!”

  “Ya saw ’er?”

  “Aye.”

  Isolde took a cloth and bathed the sweat from his forehead. “She was lovely. I saw ’er that night in the white gown so richly embroidered. She must’ve been much loved.”

  Simeon’s face was stricken. He placed a hand on the lantern that rested by his blanket. Phebe’s lantern.

  “Sylva said there was hope, Simeon. There must be some purpose fer the dreams.”

  “What about Maeve’s dreams, Isolde?” Simeon turned to her and searched her face. “Was there purpose in those? Or was it some cruel trick o’ the gods ta lure Evander and all yer clan, or nearly all yer clan, ta their deaths? Have we been drawn inta the same trap? Do we go to our deaths even now?”

  “Ezra will know what ta do. It can’t be long now.”

  “No, Isolde, it can’t. She’ll be out o’ reach, beyond hope . . .”

  Isolde could not bring herself to say more. She watched him there, his pale eyes fixed on the lantern as if it were Phebe herself, until sleep took her.