The woman walked the corridor, either forever or a mere moment, and stepped into a large cave where she found three people. One was a man, with a seven-spired crown upon his head. His skin was pale as the city walls, and he wore a robe of holy white. The man's right hand, with its dark fingernails, lay upon a woman's stomach. She was naked and chained to the wall. Her head hung on her chest, and her black, matted hair hung down to hide her face. Bruises covered the woman's body. A second man sat off in a corner, naked and cowering. He picked at the bugs that crawled through his unshorn hair, and ate them.
The man with the crown uttered words of sinister and terrible power. He turned and the dark-skinned woman froze, for he had no eyes, just empty, bloodied sockets that stared at her from an ashen face. A brief look of surprise crossed his face as he beheld her with his eyeless gaze, his teeth bloodied and smiling. His chill grin made her skin crawl. Yet in that brief moment, where she caught him unaware, all was laid bare to her and she knew the truth.
She opened her mouth to rebuke to him, but a black leash appeared in the man’s hands. Its loop was wrapped about her. It was like ice to her skin and she sucked in her breath with the pain of it.
It did not deter the dark-skinned woman. She stepped forward to free the other from her chains. She ran with bare feet across the stone floor. It, too, was cold and her feet burned from it.
She reached the woman, whose hands were warm and comfort. She held them to her, and caressed her own face with them. Then the dark-skinned woman heard a voice calling.
*Brahm.*
She reached for the steel shackles.
*Brahm.*
Is that my name? She struggled to remember.
The leash about her tugged and the dark-skinned woman froze in place. It burned her buttermilk skin. She gritted her teeth.
Then she felt a breeze and another voice calling her. It was warm like summer’s breath and smelled of heather and caribou.
*Orenda. Be free.*
She felt another tug and the other man, the one with the bug-infested mane, removed the leash from her with the utmost care. He wrapped the leash about himself and nodded his mangy head to her. He stepped back and giggled.
She felt another tug. Something was pulling her from this world. She fought and reached for the woman in chains once again.
I must free her.
The woman on the stone altar opened her eyes. The dark-skinned woman knew her and her eyes of sapphire. She embraced the chained woman, pulling her close to her breast. The other woman mouthed silent words that echoed in her mind and the woman's soul bonded with her own.
-My soul to your soul. We are one, Soul Runner.-
The first voice called again.
*Brahm!*
No, I am not Brahm.
-And I am not Sephirah.-
Her voice was matched by that of the woman on the altar.
We are Orenda.
-We are Orenda.-
The white king reached for them, his open mouth screaming words of silent rage.
Then Orenda, the twin-souled woman, was pulled into the blinding light.
***
Paine woke to a throbbing headache and found himself prostrate on a ramshackle cart that shifted forward at jerky intervals. Fang lay beside him. She barked.
Paine grabbed his head and groaned. “Not so loud.”
She then soaked his face with a tongue that smelled faintly of rotten meat.
Great Bear's smiling face appeared next to the cart, riding on his massive Clydesdale.
“Welcome back, Little Badger. How do you feel?” The large man’s eyes flickered with concern. Paine caught something else there as well.
Fear?
“What happened?” he moaned, trying to think of the last thing he remembered. Then it hit him, in a wave of regret. “Oh god, what did I do? Is anyone hurt?”
Great Bear offered him a smile, conciliatory, but reassuring. “Not too badly.”
Truitt appeared beside him. His face was solemn.
“Where did you learn that?” he asked. His voice was like steel.
The cart hit a hard bump and lurched. Paine reached for his head again. “Learn what?”
“To control so many souls; to sever the mind control of the Wormwood. Five years ago, we almost killed Diarmuid doing the same thing.”
Visions of the events flashed in his mind. He thought of the voice that once again guided him. And then of the souls of the dead. They had wanted blood. He immediately groped at his skin. All seemed whole.
Had they not asked their price of him yet again?
Paine shivered. “I thought I was going to die. What happened to the Hunter?”
Great Bear rode in closer. “She remembers almost nothing, except her name — Mira. She has been sleeping when she hasn't been sobbing. The Clan Mother gave her some tea to help her rest.”
“She doesn't remember anything?”
Truitt shook his head. “It was the same with Diarmuid when he was freed. Her memory will return with time.”
Great Bear cleared his throat. “You should get some more rest. We won't be stopping for some time yet. We are trying to keep ahead of the Hunters before they finish crossing the Mississippi. So far there has been no sign of the demons.”
Paine noticed that he was naked under the blanket. He lay upon straw and it, as well as he, was covered in his own filth.
“How long have I been out?”
“Three days. Gregor called it a coma, and said you would wake when you were ready.”
“What is that?”
Truitt shrugged. “We call it Walking the Forgotten Realm. You have to choose to come back to the world of the living, otherwise you waste away and remain there forever.”
Fatigue settled on Paine in thick waves. “Did you see anyone else near me? There was a voice in my head, someone helping me.” Great Bear looked pensive for a moment before answering. “There was no one. The Clan Mother stood beside you for a time, but the moment Alwhin fell, she ran to help her.”
The two then left Paine to his rest.
He drifted off, not caring about how unclean he was. He woke from time to time, passing the day in a dreamless slumber. When he finally rose the sun sat on the edge of the horizon, casting an orange glow on the evening clouds. Fang wagged her tail as he sat up.
“Well, it is good to see you up.” Little Doe stood beside the cart, her weathered face smiling. They were no longer moving. “Come, Little Badger. You'll get stiff if you remain there much longer.”
She offered her hand as he stepped down from the cart. His legs trembled.
“How do you feel?”
His stomach growled. “Hungry.”
“We are about to eat, so you are just in time.”
She led him to a stream so that he could clean himself and offered him the clothing of her people, all made from animal hides. They were comfortable, but did not breathe well. He did not want to offend her, but decided at the first opportunity he would get into some pants and a shirt that were not made of something that once had hoofed feet.
Once clean she took him to a large clearing where the entire congregation gathered. The sounds of music filled the air. It was the first time Paine heard anything musical or happy in what seemed a lifetime. Everyone busied themselves mending broken or worn items, cooking, practicing their aim, or wrestling. Fang wandered into the brush, and Puck took her place at his side.
“Paine … all right?”
Paine put his arm around Puck's shoulder. “I'm fine. You?”
Puck nodded, a faint smile decorating his simple face. Yet his eyes hesitated.
The Clan Mother smiled at the two of them. “Puck has been avoiding Mira.”
Puck blushed. “No trust … Hunter. She bad.”
If Puck was right, then Paine would see to it that she never abducted anyone again. He wondered if he should have killed her.
Would anyone have noticed, or even cared?
However, he wanted to learn of th
e deal she made with the Westwood and who had ordered his parents’ death, so he felt it best he had let her live.
At least for now.
As they approached the gathering, a few members stopped what they were doing to look in Paine’s direction. The rest continued about their business, oblivious to his presence. Those that gawked at him seemed more than worried. Paine clasped the Clan Mother's hand for support. He gripped harder when he saw a crest of blonde hair filing through the crowd, a head taller than most.
The Witch Hunter.
Her gaze was cast to the ground, low and humble, as she sped towards Paine. His feet felt glued to the ground. A mix of emotions coursed through him as the Hunter approached. His throat was dry as a summer's drought. Puck took two steps back, head lowered.
The Hunter stopped suddenly before Paine, but could not look into his eyes. Her gaze darted all over, avoiding his own.
“Thank you,” she muttered. Sobs escaped her lips, and she fell to the ground before him. Paine winced as she stroked his boots. Something inside him tried to surface once more. It yearned to make her suffer.
He beat it down.
She repeatedly thanked him as she wept. She rocked back and forth, cradling herself.
Nissamin ran over to the Hunter and guided her away. Paine stood frozen. Here was the woman who had hunted him, fierce and determined in her quarry, sobbing at his feet. Yet now she was like Diarmuid; free where she was once subdued by the Wormwood. He had seen himself how it had bonded to her soul. Could he still fault her?
His fists clenched in anger and frustration. He knew not how to feel.
The Clan Mother squeezed his hand. “Are you all right, Little Badger?”
Puck had a nervous look set upon his face.
Paine hesitated, then nodded. “Puck?”
Despite his simple mind, Puck knew hatred. Paine sensed it, like a warm fire. The young man remained silent.
The Clan Mother stepped between the two of them, one arm in each. “Come. Let's get some food.”
Heading towards the fire, Paine was greeted and patted on the back by many, but all held a brief flicker of hesitation in their eyes. The three strode towards Great Bear and Truitt, seated together on the ground. He sat with them, and they inquired about his health. He assured them he was fine as the Clan Mother brought him some food. She then left him in their care.
They sat around the fire listening to tales well into the evening before two Nymphs rose and took the attention of the crowd. The crackling of the fire echoed through the silence.
Nodding to each other, the shorter, dark-haired one hummed, a low vibrating pitch. The second joined her, her voice an octave higher, in harmony with the first. It was a haunting song and the hairs on Paine's neck bristled as he listened. He heard the words, and fingered the stone that hung about his neck. It sat still. Octave for octave, their voices rose, the two blending, slow and rhythmic.
Before long, three Haudenosaunee drummed with the song. The two women smiled, and sang with even more fervor. They climbed further, the melody and harmony crawling under Paine's skin. His heart raced, the song becoming a part of him. His eyes watered.
Paine held his breath, his ears afraid to drown out even one note, his heart fearing to beat. He was entranced. The song climaxed, and more drums joined in. Paine closed his eyes and let the music sweep him away. His mind's eye saw a land of great trees and unearthly beauty, filled with beings of light, and crystal waters. But the vision waned as the song slowed, the drums faded, and the voices hummed to silence.
Paine exhaled. “Wow.”
Truitt leaned over. “That was sung in a language that is rarely spoken.”
Paine thought of the tablet in Lindhome. Reaching into the pouch at his side, he pulled out the folded parchment. “Like this?”
Puck leaned over. “What …that?”
Truitt pored over the parchment and held it away from Puck’s curious eyes. “Where did you get this?”
“I think it is from my birth parents. It is in the same writing that was on the tablet in Lindhome.”
Truitt leaned in close. His firmness dissolved into concern. “What tablet?”
Paine lowered his voice. “The one with the statues around it.”
Truitt rose. His face still held a solemn look, but his eyes showed he was agitated. “Come with me.”
Paine followed the man away from the fire as their shadows danced before them. They walked to edge of the camp, Truitt ushering him with a strong hand.
“How did you see the writing on the tablet? Only one woman was able to see it among the Rebellion, and she's dead.”
Paine shrugged.
“And Alwhin said nothing of this?”
“She said that no one could read it.” In the distance, he heard two other women singing, twins.
“You don’t understand. It’s not a matter of reading it. No one can even see the writing. It’s only seen by the souls of those that are descended from its creators. And there are only ever three of them in existence at a time.”
“So how can I?”
“I don’t know, but no one among the Rebellion can. That is why we were never able to decipher the use of the Tablet. It is said it can track the dead and the use of necromancy, anywhere in the world. The Firstborn stole it from the Sidhe and used it for centuries to fight the armies of the Dark One, but then used it against the others to enslave them. Its theft from Valbain started the Rebellion, and it has remained hidden in Lindhome since its founding.” His face raged. “Now the demons have taken it.”
“Why didn't Alwhin say something to me?”
“I don't know.” Truitt cast his glance warily about, studying the patch of box elder that lay east of them for a time. “I can think of only one thing,” he said.
Paine stared at the man and his pointed ears, so much like Lya’s.
“She didn't want anyone to know who you are.”
“What do you mean?”
“Like I said, only Sephirah could see the writing, and the souls that can read it are almost always descended from the previous generation, but there can only ever be three in existence.”
Paine blinked.
Could it be true?
“That means Sephirah was your mother.”
“And what about Lya?”
“Was she able to see the writing?”
And Paine thought back to the events of that day and even to the parchment that Truitt passed back to him. She had only ever focused on the side with the spell.
Could she read it?
“I don’t know.”
Chapter 18
Friar John trekked through the forest, working his way downstream to where the waters stagnated. A sliver of moon hung in the distant sky, close to the horizon. The skies would darken soon and John hurried his pace. It was not a place to be left without light. In this place would lay a fiend that could aid him; something that lived between the worlds of the living and the dead; one that would have the power to work with the souls of the deceased on his behalf. But it was also one that, if hungered enough, would take his life without question.
He walked a lightly treaded path. Others had come before him, beseeching the aid of the ghoul that resided in such a dismal place, but as he looked at the growth along the way, he knew that few had been fool enough to try. It was a risk, he knew, but one worth the taking.
Young maples and beech twisted and curved their way upward; fighting with each other to reach for what little light came through the canopy above. It was a dark place, filled with a stench that lingered and worsened with each step. Dead things lay here, those whose bones hadn’t yet sunk to the bottom of the swamp. The muddy path before him led only in one direction, deeper into the wetness.
His hardened heart thought little of his journey to this point. He concentrated only on the task at hand and how he would find the Beast. And then, once found, commit the act he needed to. The question before him was twofold; how to find the Beast, and how to remain alive
after killing him. The latter was where the ghoul came into play. He would ask its aid for escape. The former was another matter entirely, but with patience he would find a way. He always did.
John stopped.
Before him lay what he looked for — a bog. The dead trees rose from the still waters like crooked fingers. Nothing moved here and there was little to hear aside from his own breathing. He looked into the waters and found leeches near the bottom. This was the place.
John backed up a few steps, ensuring that he stood upon solid earth and grabbed a stick from the ground. He drew a circle about him. Within the circle, he drew the pentagram and then symbols of protection. He wasn’t taking any chances with a creature that was capable of snatching his soul from his body. He double-checked his work. All was set.
Then he cited the incantation that would drag the ghoul from the depths of the bog. He waited and watched as the leeches stirred under him. Their movements were slow, but their widdershins pattern indicated they sensed what was coming. Then the waters before him bubbled as something rose from the bog. Its legs and feet were somehow secured to the bed of the bog, like a trunk made of entwined reeds. Long thin arms twisted out of its bent body and hung down to barely touch the surface of the waters. Its face and hair were obscured by the shawl of peat that cloaked it. Around its neck it wore the shrunken skulls of the others that had come before him. Some were still fresh.
The ghoul towered over John, looking down upon him. It spat bog water when it spoke and its voice was a wailing that made John’s neck muscles tense.
“What price are you willing to pay, heretic?”
Heretic?
John wiped the moisture from his face. “I have this.” He held up the urn within which was trapped the soul of the young woman. He placed it outside the circle, careful to keep his hands within the protective barrier.
The ghoul plucked it from the ground with its misshapen fingers. It opened the urn and inhaled the soul that was within. John could swear he heard the woman screaming.
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