by Joy Nash
The girl offered her partner a tight smile, then tensed and humped her back. Her groaning started anew.
The outside world ceased to exist within the womb of the birthing hut, yielding to the rhythm of tightening and release, sharp moans and soft sighs. When the daylight filtering through the grass roof faded, Sleeping Kana lit a torch. Shadows flickered over the laboring woman’s face and licked at her belly. A dipper of water splashed on the rocks. Steam rose with a hiss.
Pasha tensed, then screamed. A spasm racked her body, wringing her dry. When it passed, she collapsed, sobbing and whimpering. Sleeping Kana moved from the steam and gathered her in his arms.
“Our babe is eager to lie at your breast, Pasha.” Gina’s heart ached at the tenderness in the young man’s voice.
Pasha stared, wild-eyed, into his face. Gina knelt beside her. The girl’s shoulders were slicked with sweat and shaking. Gina massaged the tight muscles.
The next contraction came nearly before the last had subsided. Pasha screamed and clawed at Gina’s arm.
A sense of utter helplessness washed over Gina. The swell of a wave bore her with relentless energy to a rocky shoreline. There would be no hope of stopping it.
Lana appeared at the doorway. She knelt by her daughter and stroked Pasha’s forehead.
“Good, my precious girl. Good. You are a fine mother already.”
Pasha’s gaze clung to Lana’s. “Am I?”
“Yes, of course. The babe will soon pass the door.”
“My babe…” Another powerful contraction gripped Pasha, squeezed a keening moan from her throat.
“Stand, Pasha.”
Pasha gulped for air. “No… I have not…the strength.”
“You have my strength, Pasha,” murmured Sleeping Kana. He caught Pasha under the arms and lifted her to her feet.
“You have all you need, daughter.”
A drum sounded outside the hut, the steady rhythm of a beating heart. With it came the voices of the women.
“Do you hear, Pasha? Your sisters sing your babe into the world.”
Lana draped one of Pasha’s arms across Gina’s shoulders. The girl sagged. Gina braced for the next contraction.
Pasha twisted and screamed, bucking against the ground, grasping Gina’s neck so tight she nearly choked. A river of bloody water coursed down Pasha’s thighs into the bed of dried grasses. It came again, trickling in rivulets.
“The babe comes.” Lana’s fingers massaged between Pasha’s legs, easing the opening wider. “Push, Pasha.”
Pasha drew a shuddering breath and pushed, her face contorting with the effort. It took all Gina’s strength to support her kinswoman’s weight. “Almost there, Pasha,” she murmured. “You can do it.”
The minutes stretched out, measured by the slow rhythm of the baby’s descent and the beat of the drum outside the hut. Gina supported her cousin’s weight, echoing Lana’s words of encouragement. Her shoulders and arms burned. She could only wonder at the unflagging strength and determination of the birthing woman.
“I see your babe’s head,” said Lana. The older woman knelt before her daughter, her fingers smoothing the opening, urging the taut skin to stretch.
Pasha howled and pushed again.
A small head emerged, caught grotesquely between Pasha’s thighs. Wrinkles distorted its face. Gina watched in riveted fascination as the infant twisted. Beside her, Pasha gathered her strength for her final effort. She grunted and pushed.
The baby slid into Lana’s waiting hands. She lifted the child into the torchlight.
“A girl,” she said.
* * * * *
Gina emerged from the birthing hut and blinked against the glare of the morning sun. She hadn’t slept and she barely remembered the meal she’d eaten the day before, yet a fierce elation gripped her.
Everything was sharper, clearer. The dark earth under her feet and the brilliant sky above circled a world of wonder. Several women called to her, asking after Pasha and the baby. She answered with a broad smile, remembering.
Lana had placed the little girl in her mother’s arms even before Gina and Sleeping Kana lowered Pasha to the ground. The baby opened her mouth for the breast. Pasha reclined in her partner’s arms and nursed her child while Lana bathed the blood from her thighs. When the infant finished, Lana lifted her granddaughter and Sleeping Kana cut the umbilical cord with his knife. He helped Pasha settle on a bed of furs while Lana washed the baby and swaddled her in a doeskin blanket.
Gina hung the cord from the roof of the birthing hut. The kinked rope dangled over the fire, swaying. Later, Lana would braid it with vines and Pasha would keep it for her daughter.
Gina recounted the details of the birthing to several women of the Seventh Clan, who nodded and exclaimed at her words. The men, they told her, had gone on a hunt in honor of their new clanswoman. A feast and naming ceremony would take place when they returned. The women drew Gina into their circle, telling of their partners and children, offering her food and drink.
One woman asked Gina to look at a cut on her small son’s arm. The skin around the wound was puffy and red.
Gina frowned. “You should let Dahra look at it.”
“But why? You have come.” She swept her arm in a circle, then brought her palm to her heart. “At last, we will return to our home.”
It took several moments for the meaning of the woman’s words to sink in. When it did, Gina took a step back, stunned. She’d brought the talisman to her mother’s people, but somehow she hadn’t anticipated they would expect her to wear the stone. She’d seen a fraction of the duties of the Na’lara. She was quite certain she wouldn’t be able to fill the role.
“Dahra will know what to do for your son,” she told the woman. She backed away, then fled into the shelter of the forest. She ran up a narrow footpath, her thoughts spinning.
She’d been caught up in the discovery of her mother’s family, but try as she might, she couldn’t imagine a permanent future living with the clan in the wilderness.
Not, at least, without Derrin.
She caught her breath and sagged against a boulder. Derrin had to be alive—she wouldn’t allow herself to think otherwise. He wouldn’t know of her return, though. He’d have no reason to come seeking her.
She had to go to him.
The screech of an orna sounded. She looked up, through the limbs of a dead hemlock. The blackened branches spun a pattern of brittle lace against the sky. She continued the climb to the crest of the ridge. When she looked out over the valley, her stomach twisted.
Blight had claimed the forest. Wide swaths of yellow and brown streaked what should have been a lush carpet of green. Entire stands of trees were stripped bare. The remains of a lake, shriveled within a cracked shoreline, showed a lifeless reflection on its gray surface.
It won’t stop. Blight would consume the wilderness and the People. Already, an unnatural silence cloaked the land. A faint odor of death hung heavy in the air.
A skyeagle swept into view below her, golden wings spread wide. It circled the desolate landscape in a slow, sweeping spiral. Catching an updraft, it rose, coming level with Gina’s position on the mountaintop. With each pass it drew closer. Gina discerned markings of white on its tail and wings. Sunlight gleamed on it talons.
It dropped, hovering, then dove, plummeting earthward with dizzying speed. A moment later it reappeared, prey struggling in its claws. Its talons flexed rhythmically until the unfortunate creature hung limp. The skyeagle flew toward Gina and alighted on the branch of a nearby tree.
One black eye turned toward her, unblinking. The skyeagle’s head dropped. The tip of its hooked beak tore into the flesh of its victim. It devoured the meal leisurely, spewing drops of blood and bits of fur and bone on the ground. When the carcass was gone, the creature spread its wings and rose into the air.
“Terrible, is it not?”
Gina started. Turning, she saw Dahra on the trail behind her. “Yes.”
The ol
der woman drew closer and watched the raptor disappear over the crest of the ridge. “Also beautiful. The skyeagle allows the wilderness to renew itself.”
“The forest is dying.”
“The Goddess has given us the gift of death. Without it, life would have little meaning.”
“But the Blight isn’t a natural part of the wilderness, Dahra. It was created by a man—a wizard. If it worsens, the Baha’Na will die.”
“Everything dies, Gina.”
Gina’s fist clenched. “You must fight, Dahra, don’t you understand that? The Baha’Na must fight for the life of the forest. We must go to Galena and confront Balek.”
Dahra shook her head. “It is not our way.”
“You would rather die? Think of your children—do you want them living in a ruined world? Or dying before they have a chance to grow up?”
“The future is not for us to see. We must live in the present, in the body of the Goddess. Life and death are but different expressions of her being.” Dahra’s gaze searched Gina’s face. “You and I are Na’lara. We seek the will of the Goddess in the present. We do not ask for her reasons.”
“I’m not Na’lara—how can I be? I didn’t grow up in the wilderness.”
“It matters not.”
“It does! There’s so much I don’t know, even more I don’t understand. I’ve never even seen the Seventh Sign. I don’t know what it is.”
“Then you know as much as your grandmother before you. The Seventh Sign is never seen, or understood. The Na’lara of the Seventh Clan stands within the Circle of her six sisters. In bonding with them she connects the Baha’Na to the Goddess. This is your task, Gina. This is the way in which you will aid your people. Not by killing a wizard, or any other man.”
“But—”
“Think on it, Gina. Ask the Goddess to speak, and listen well.”
* * * * *
Little Tania slept through her naming ceremony.
How she could have done so was a mystery to Gina, since the noise of the revelry echoed into the forest without pause as the gibbous moon rode the night sky. The celebration continued until dawn, in spite of the fact there was little to eat.
The hunting party had not seen a single mountain deer. The smaller game they brought to the village showed signs of stress and disease. Women foraging on the mountainside met with a similar lack of success. Frost had killed many of the food plants. Roots formed the largest portion of the food collected for the feast.
Two men built up the fire at sunset, and a circle of elders gathered around a wide drum. As the sky darkened, the rhythm of the drum quickened. A chant rose. Lana brought her granddaughter into the firelight and raised the infant above her head. The voices of the villagers hushed.
“Tania, a daughter of the Goddess.”
The singing started anew. Lana lowered the child into the arms of an old man. He spoke in low whispers to the baby, then handed her to a woman at his side. The infant traveled the circle of her relations.
“What are they saying to her?” Gina asked Dahra, who stood at her side.
“A greeting.”
A man approached and placed Tania in Gina’s arms. Gina gazed at the red, wrinkled face of the newborn. The infant’s eyes were dark, like the night sky. They held an expression of worldliness, of a soul who had seen many lifetimes. Gina touched the soft velvet of the baby’s cheek and stroked her tiny fist. The infant grimaced.
“Hello, little one,” Gina murmured. Tania responded with a yawn. Smiling, Gina handed the baby to a woman standing nearby.
Dahra drew her aside. “Will you take your place among your people, Gina? You are Na’lara to the Seventh Clan. As such, you are the Center of the Circle.” She extended one hand, draped with the headdress of a Na’lara. “Without you, the power of the Goddess cannot reach the wilderness.”
Gina stared at the talisman. “I can’t.”
“Walk with me, then.”
They moved away from the crowd, into the forest, not speaking. Dahra led the way through the Blighted trees, circling the village. The sounds of the revelry followed.
Their trust is complete. Gina touched the talisman with her mind. She saw a smoky image of herself, alone in a clearing, sitting near the remains of a stone wall. Somehow, Gina recognized the setting as the ruined dwelling of her grandmother. The image sharpened and she looked closer. She wore the headdress of a Na’lara.
Gina came to an abrupt halt. Dahra paused beside her and sent a questioning look.
She sighed. There was really no choice for her to make. “All right, I’ll do it. I’ll wear the talisman.” It was the only means she had with which to fight Balek.
Dahra nodded and led Gina back to the firelight and lifted the headdress. A hush settled over the villagers. The stone glowed with an inner light.
Gina took the headdress and placed it on her head. A tingle touched her scalp, moved down her spine and raced to her fingers and toes. Dahra’s mind touched hers and Gina returned the embrace. She shut her eyes. Together, they entered the darkness beyond consciousness.
Zahta’s touch came first, calm and reassuring. Zera embraced her next, threading her spirit through Gina’s as easily as she’d linked arms with her in the village of the Fire Clan. Celia and Patah, then finally Malia joined them. The Circle was complete.
Gina stood in its center, surrounded by her sisters. A shimmering strand of light appeared. It wrapped itself around her, then exploded outward, touching the six who stood at the edge. Gina’s body tingled and for one brief moment, time dissolved. She saw her life in its entirety, one pure pulsing spark connected to all others, bound by the web.
She opened her eyes. The web illuminated the village, covered the people, spread into the valley, disappeared into the darkness of the Blight. The dark shadow extinguished the shining threads one by one. Gloom settled on Gina, deadening her senses.
The shadow crept closer, moving with unerring purpose, and suddenly, she understood that she was its goal. The darkness would not stop until it anchored itself to the Center. Once there, it would draw on the endless power that had no name. Balek must have known this, must have sought Gina because of her connection to the Circle—not for her knowledge of crystals.
The high wizard’s blighted spirit moved in the wilderness. Death trailed in his wake. Only she held the power to stop him.
Her fingers touched Derrin’s shadow crystal, nestled at her breast. If she destroyed it, Balek would find her.
She tugged the silver chain over her head and flung the stone into the fire.
Chapter Twenty-Six
“He’s dead.” Derrin rolled the body onto its back. Maator’s features had frozen in a ghastly grimace. “A day, at least.”
“The Madness,” said Ariek.
Derrin nodded. He’d seen enough victims of the malady to recognize its ultimate price. The tracks of Maator’s fingernails furrowed the blue-tinged skin of his face. Derrin muttered a curse and let the body drop.
“And Balek’s gone.” Ariek paced one end of the high wizard’s workroom. “His horse was saddled yesterday at dawn. Now we’ll have to wait until he returns.”
“We can’t afford to wait. We’ll follow.”
The next morning, Derrin knelt in the dust of the road, examining the print of a horse’s hoof. The stable boy had pointed out the stall of Balek’s favorite mare. Once Derrin had seen the marks on the dirt floor, it had been a simple, though time-consuming matter to track the animal’s progress.
He raised his head and stared into the distance. “He’s heading north.”
“He must be at least a day ahead of us,” Ariek said.
Derrin noted the depth of the fine dust that had fallen from the edge of the track to pool in the shallow depression. “Almost two. He’s riding hard.”
They followed on their own mounts. Derrin kept his vision unfocused. The pattern of the horse’s hooves spread out before him as if it had been painted in red. They traveled through most of the night by the
illumination of Ariek’s crystal. They slept for a few hours after midnight, and after a hasty breakfast, were back on the road before dawn.
“Tarol’s blood, Derrin, are you sure we’re going in the right direction?” Ariek asked at midday. They’d left the road and traversed miles of barren cropland. Now, sharp cliffs loomed above them.
“I’m sure.”
“But there’s nothing out this way. We’ve already passed the turnoff to Sirth and the river trail to the Plains. We’re headed straight into the Northern Waste.”
Derrin shrugged, frowning. Ariek was right—Balek had set a direct trail into the wilderness. Why? Derrin dismounted and examined the patterns in a wide patch of the broken grasses. “He spent the night here, then abandoned his mount. His tracks lead into the mountains.”
Ariek squinted at the dirt and shook his head. “If you say so.” He dismounted and began to unbuckle his pack.
“Leave it. It will only slow us down.”
* * * * *
The woman from beyond the web stood in a soft hollow circled by boulders. Balek exhaled on a note of triumph. His gaze traveled the spill of her braids and the swell of her breasts. He approached her as a lover would his bride.
“Do not be afraid.”
She looked into his eyes. “I’m not.”
“Good.”
He drew forth the webstone. Already it crackled, sending shocks of heat across his palm. The power he had created would bind all of creation to his command. Light arced from its shining facets and spun a pulsing snare around the woman.
Triumph coursed through Balek’s veins. He flung his head back and laughed, lifting the stone to the sky. At last, he would claim the power of the web. Exultant, he sank his mind into the woman who would provide the link.
A shudder raced through him. She was not alone.
