by Jocelyn Fox
The slight wind whispered through the trees. For a moment I thought I heard words in the sibilant hiss of the fluttering leaves, but I kept moving. I had to get to the river-tree.
After a while I realized that the reason I was stumbling over so many obstacles on the ground was not only the darkness, but my now-useless left eye. I cursed in frustration as I tripped again, my depth perception robbed from me. Then I caught a hint of movement on my left side, my blind side. My heart jumping as my mind sketched hideous creatures from the shadows, I drew my sword and slowly backed myself against a tree-trunk, turning my head to survey my blind left side as best I could. The slinking movement resolved into a creature with black-fur—I thought it looked like a wolf but it moved too quickly for me to tell, flowing through the shadows like a ribbon of black silk. My sword-hand started to shake, try as I might to steady it.
The creature came at me and I swung with my sword, the blade biting uselessly into the loam of the forest floor as it dodged aside with uncanny grace. I heard a familiar yip, and I paused in my desperate efforts to free my sword from the dirt. Slowly turning my head to the side, I saw that the shadow-creature was in fact a very large, very familiar black wolf. My knees went weak with relief.
“Beryk, you shouldn’t sneak up on me like that,” I said breathlessly.
The wolf gave a snort. I couldn’t tell whether he meant to say that he wasn’t sorry, or that I wasn’t that hard to frighten, or both. In either case, I pulled my blade free and wiped it clean on my trousers before sliding it back into its sheath.
“I have to say, though,” I continued to the wolf, “I’m glad to see you.”
Beryk wagged his tail a few times and grinned, his tongue lolling out over his teeth. Then he whined deep in his throat, pawing the ground.
“Not really in the mood for charades right now.” I winced as a fresh trickle of blood dripped onto my shirt from my cheek. I turned my head, showing Beryk the left side of my face. I heard him whine again, and then he licked my hand. “It’s really that bad, huh,” I murmured. “Well, let’s go, then.”
I started walking again. Beryk trotted beside me, on my left side. After a few minutes, he drew closer and pressed his warm head beneath my hand. I was too tired to feel surprised, and it was good to have his solid bulk beneath my hand when I stumbled. He patiently waited for me to regain my balance each time.
After what seemed like an eternity, we had not reached the path. I wanted to weep in frustration, but I was sure that any sort of tears would be a very painful experience considering my left eye, so I pressed down the emotions. I tripped again and fell heavily to one knee, gripping Beryk’s fur reflexively.
“Sorry,” I gasped, releasing my tight hold on his ruff. He nudged at me with his nose, and delicately took the edge of my sleeve in his teeth, tugging me toward him. I looked at him and he knelt, looking at his own back and then at me, expectantly. I frowned. He gave a little bark of impatience, tugging at my sleeve again. “Okay, okay,” I said, extracting the cloth from his teeth. “I just…are you sure that I’m not too heavy?”
He grinned at me, laughter in his honey-gold eyes.
“I swear to God I’m hallucinating,” I muttered to myself. “I think a wolf is laughing at me.”
A few small barks erupted from the wolf, sounding for all the world like a chuckle. I looked sharply at him and he yawned innocently, still kneeling, waiting for me. He was a very large wolf—his head came up almost to my waist, even when he was kneeling on his forelegs. I wondered disjointedly if he had grown since the last time I’d seen him.
I slid onto Beryk’s back, laying more than sitting, gripping the fur at the looser skin of his neck. He stood, bearing my weight as if I weighed nothing at all; he glanced back at me, as if to make sure I was ready. Then he surged forward through the forest. His galloping gait was not smooth, like Kaleth’s; and I could feel every muscle, every bone along his spine beneath me as he shot through the forest like a fleeting shadow. I held on tightly, gripping with my hands and my knees, pressing my unmarred cheek into the fur of his neck and breathing in his musky wolf-scent. Riding wolf-back was nothing at all like riding horse-back—it was wilder, and more frightening: the racing ground was so close I could touch it if I wanted. Occasionally I felt Beryk gather himself, muscles coiling tightly, and I held on for dear life as he leapt over a fallen log or a small stream. Riding a wolf was like riding the wind, untamed and unapologetically rough.
Just as I thought I wouldn’t be able to hold on any longer, Beryk slowed, and a fresh breeze brushed my hair. I lifted my face from his neck, a wave of pure gratitude washing over me as I took in the flat land, the long grasses silvery in the moonlight. The path cut its way through the moon-brushed expanse just to our left. Mists obscured the horizon, layering misty tendrils over the hills, weaving through the grasses, but I felt in my bones the closeness of the Sword. Beryk loped through the long grasses, disdaining the path but keeping it within sight. We cut into the mist, moving like ghosts; and I wondered what a watcher would see—a wolf-girl, like a centaur but more fearsome? I smiled slightly at the absurd thought. Keeping the arch of my foot hooked over Beryk’s back for balance, I sat up a little as he covered the ground in his tireless wolf-lope.
Two bright little lights appeared through the darkness, wrapped in the mist. I blinked, thinking them a hallucination or a half-dream fostered by my exhaustion. But Beryk barked, making me jump, and the lights zipped toward me.
“Tess!” exclaimed Flora, her aura bursting with violet and blue and pink hues of joy. Wisp flew right behind her.
“The Northerner is waiting for you,” he said. “By the river-tree. By the great secret-place.”
“Gwyneth sealed me to the Sword,” I said, too tired to muster further explanations.
Wisp and Flora flew delighted patterns, filling the air with gleaming trails of sparks, a curtain of color above my head as Beryk trotted onward. The black wolf sneezed and shook his head in annoyance when Wisp flew too low. Flora scolded Wisp.
“Are we close?” I asked.
“Not too far,” Wisp said.
“Oh,” Flora said as she caught a glimpse of my left side. “Your face is….bleeding,” she finished lamely.
“That’s an understatement,” I told her, smiling with the right side of my mouth.
“It looks rather ugly,” she said truthfully, flying closer for a better inspection. “What was it?”
“A branch. Or part of one,” I clarified. “I climbed a tree after escaping, and there was this…winged monster…that tore the tree apart, trying to get at me.”
“A cadengriff,” said Wisp. He flew a corkscrew. “We don’t like them. Nasty creatures.”
“They are powerful, and not very smart,” explained Flora. “An easy target for Malravenar to twist to his own uses.”
I shivered, thinking of the hideous gleaming claws gauging the tree-trunk just above my head. “I can believe that.”
“Vell will stitch that,” Flora said to me. “And if she does not, I will. Wisp will help me.”
“Hopefully Vell will do it,” I said, feeling sick. I cleared my throat, focusing on the feel of the cool mist brushing against my skin.
“I will tell her you are coming!” Wisp said jubilantly, rocketing away, leaving a small neon trail in the darkness.
“He’s too bubbly for me right now,” I said to Flora ruefully.
Flora landed delicately on Beryk’s head, right between his ears. The wolf continued loping along, unfazed in the least by the addition of another small burden, even in so unusual a spot.
“Flora,” I said quietly, “how is Forsythe?”
Flora’s wings beat a cadence of anger as her aura darkened. “He will live,” she said darkly, “but that knight will not, the next time we encounter him.”
“Amen to that,”
I said.
Finally the mists parted like a curtain, revealing the river-tree. My heart leapt as I saw its familiar branches and blue-green leaves, barely visible in the darkness. Beryk stopped, and I slid from his back, leaning on him for balance until my legs decided they would bear my weight. For a long moment, I stood and gazed at the tree silently. Then Beryk barked and trotted forward. A shadow detached itself from the river-tree’s gnarled roots. Vell knelt and pressed her forehead against Beryk’s, both wolf and woman closing their golden eyes. She murmured something to him in a wild foreign tongue, the words dancing through the air like a spray of water pluming up from river-rocks. Then she stood and walked quickly to me. For a crazy second I thought she was about to embrace me, but she stopped short, her dark hair melding with the shadows.
“I knew he would find you,” she said to me, frowning as she saw the side of my face. “Well, you’ve gone and gotten yourself clawed up. Sit down and I’ll stitch it up.” And without letting me reply, she turned away, skipping lightly over the tree’s roots to a hollow close to the trunk, picking up her satchel and beginning to gather her tools.
“It’s good to see you too,” I said with a lopsided smile. I found a root that arched up smoothly out of the ground and sat down in front of it, leaning back against it. Wisp came and settled on my shoulder, his small hands pressing against my skin.
“Do not worry, Tess-mortal,” he said reassuringly. “North-witches are very skilled at healing.”
“If you call me a North-witch one more time, Wisp, I’m going to swat you,” Vell said without looking up from threading a long shining needle.
“It’s true,” protested Wisp cheerfully.
“It’s rude,” countered Vell.
“Be nice, Wisp,” I said, leaning my head back against the root and closing my eyes. My entire body ached with exhaustion, and I thought blearily that the effects of Gwyneth’s spell had finally worn off, leaving me longing for sleep. But a heartbeat after I closed my eyes, images flashed like lightning against the back of my eyelids: Ramel, his coppery hair mussed, fighting back to back with Emery as hideous trolls attacked them; Allene, crouched in a tree, shooting arrows down into the chaos with grim precision; Kavoryk, roaring his ferocious battle-cry and wielding a fearsome blood-stained axe. The snapshots flashed in my mind one after another. I heard the clash of metal on metal, the terrible cries of the attacking horde, and the shouts of the besieged defenders. The acrid smell of blood burned in my nose and I opened my eyes with a jolt.
Vell looked over at me questioningly, shielding the spark she had just struck with her flint. The little spark glowed on the tinder, then birthed a tiny flame. She carefully transferred the flame to the wick of a crude lantern—really no more than a candle set into a holder, with a rough frame and handle.
“We have to hurry,” I rasped, my throat suddenly dry.
Vell nodded. “I know. Here.” She handed me a small wooden cup, filled to the brim with a clear liquid. To my surprise, it was only water. I swallowed it gratefully.
“Hold this, here at this height,” Vell said to Flora and Wisp. Flora looked at the lantern and gave a shrill little whistle. Forin and Farin appeared out of the branches of the river-tree, the glimmer of their auras reflecting off the blue-green leaves. The four Glasidhe hoisted the lantern into the air and held it steady. I reached up to tuck my hair behind my ears and my hand shook.
“You’ll have to lay back, Tess. Beryk,” Vell said.
The black wolf padded over to me and after I had shifted my body to a comfortable position, he carefully settled himself over me, his heavy bulk ensuring that I wouldn’t be able to wriggle away from Vell’s ministrations. He laid his huge head along my right arm, so that when I turned my head I gazed into his golden eyes. His tail swept across my legs in a slow, steady rhythm.
“This is going to hurt,” Vell warned me. “I have to clean the wound first, and it will feel terrible.”
“You have a horrible bedside manner,” I told her. For the first few moments, the numbness in my cheek persisted, but then it gave way to pure agony, and my fingers tightened in Beryk’s fur. I heard Vell curse softly as blood began trickling down my face again. She poured something onto my face that stung like a whole hive of hornets, and Beryk had to press me down with his body as I jerked. I bit down on a cry of pain.
After what seemed an eternity, Vell finished cleaning the wound to her satisfaction. The bite of a needle was no less pleasant than the sting of the antiseptic, but it was a smaller pain that I could handle more easily. I lost count of the stitches, sweat sliding down my back from the heavy warmth of the wolf on top of me. Finally Vell delicately applied a cool ointment and wiped the blood from the rest of my face.
“There,” she said, her voice shaking a little. She cleared her throat. “That should do for now.”
“How many stitches did it take?” I croaked as I turned my head back, looking at her with my good eye.
“Too many,” she said, slipping her tools back into her satchel, “but if you must know, and I’m assuming you’ll badger me until I tell you…fifty-two.”
“Damn,” I chuckled. The laugh turned into a cough. I pushed at Beryk. “You’re too big to be a lap-dog.” He gave me a dry look that said he was clearly not amused by my attempt at humor, and leisurely stretched before standing. I gingerly stretched my legs, then held up a hand. Vell pulled me up. “All right.” I took a deep breath and began picking my way over the roots of the tree, breathing in its sweet scent.
“This is the place, isn’t it?” Vell asked, trailing behind me.
I nodded. “The Sword is in the tree.”
Vell murmured something that sounded like a prayer and kissed one of her rings. When I glanced at her, she grinned and shrugged.
“I am Northern,” she said, her accent growing stronger. “Superstition is bred into our blood.”
I stepped up onto a huge root and walked soft-footed along its length until I reached the trunk of the tree. Placing a hand against the trunk, I wondered what to do next. The trunk’s girth was so great that I doubted Vell and I would be able to touch hands if we stood on either side and pressed ourselves against the smooth bark. With my other hand, I pulled out the pendant. The small glowing Sword flared fiercely within the iron replica of the river-tree. The spreading branches of the great tree created a cathedral-ceiling over me, a latticework of wood and leaves and stars, night sky the cement holding it all together. I loathed the idea of destroying such beauty. I thought of Gwyneth, and I knew that there had to be a way to retrieve the Sword without killing the river-tree.
I reached within myself, to pull up a thread of taebramh—and to my surprise a gleaming blue-silver glow greeted me, burning brighter than my white fire ever had. I drew out a small spark, and it turned into a stream as I let it flow down my arm and into the trunk of the river-tree.
“Sword of Greatest Power,” I said, “heed your rightful Bearer.” And I willed the Sword to come to me, to break free of its secret sleeping-place where it had slumbered for centuries. For a moment the night held its breath. Everything was suspended. Then the world exploded into shards of silver light. Faintly, as if from a distance, I heard Vell gasp and Beryk bark. I felt the tree drawing me in, the Sword pulling me toward its dark chamber. My hand disappeared into the trunk of the tree, sliding incorporeally through the wood. The invisible current swirled around me, pushing me farther into the tree until my entire arm had been swallowed. I realized the Sword was not going to stop—it was going to use its siren-call to draw me down to its resting-place deep within the heartwood of the river-tree, where it had lain for four centuries and which it was loathe to leave for the bright open world.
“No,” I said, digging my heels into the hardness of the root beneath my feet. “You will heed me. I command you by my blood, and by the blessing of Gwyneth, your last Bearer!”
I felt the earth shift slightly beneath me, and the ground gave up the battered leather sheath. Still holding the Sword in one hand, I picked up the sheath, dusted it off as best I could, and slid the blade into it, silently apologizing for cutting it off from the fresh air so soon after its rebirth. The Sword itself didn’t seem to care, its power thrumming through the sheath. I discovered that if I pushed at the Sword’s power a bit with my own, I could mold and shape the Sword’s aura. The river-tree groaned heavily.
“I’m sorry if I hurt you,” I said to it, but I had a feeling it was mourning the loss of its secret charge. Then I took a moment to consider the Sword. I contemplated simply moving my own sword to the other side, and adding the Sword to my belt; but then I remembered Gwyneth’s words: Just the idea of the Sword is often enough. So though I’d never worn a sword on my back before, I fastened the blade as Gwyneth had worn it, fumbling for a moment with the unfamiliar straps. The sheath fit perfectly along my spine, although I was sure the Sword had been longer than my torso when I’d held it bare in the moonlight. Its power thrummed into my ribs, vibrating through the base of my skull and down into my hips. It wasn’t an unpleasant feeling, and the blue-silver fire beneath my breastbone pulsed with every thrum.
