by Jon Wilson
“But the snow brother tells me you should know him best.”
So, Lorre had met Bill on his way out of town too. She did not reply, but scooped a handful of snow. She crushed it slowly in the palm of her hand. No good. Akaol could follow the trail she was leaving.
“Why do you hate the stonediver so?”
It couldn’t be that. It couldn’t. He could not have known her. And my own emotions can not be so blind, so indiscriminate.“I do not hate him,” she said. But did she? What else explained her actions? Why attack him? And she had wanted to hurt him. She would have hurt him had her brother not interceded.
“If you could crush the thing that wounded you, would you not do so?”
She looked up. The tears in her eyes were so utterly unfamiliar, she thought:he must see them. He must know what he is asking me. I am Laesombea, the snow woman. I am not some heartsickfeldyshgirl. “I am a fighter. It is all I know. He is an intellectual.” She recalled her earlier words. Vengeance. Stupidity. They would kill every woman and child to prove a point.
Bill looked away, as if her sorrow was too much for him, or too little. “Where do you head tomorrow? You will head south? Back to the lands of the Yul?”
She nodded, the brief spill of emotion had left her numb. “Eventually. If the demon moves south they must be prepared. But first I shall see the boy safely to ThistleTown.”
“The dead ranger’s ward? Will his mate not take him?”
Absently, she felt her head begin to shake. Bill was clearly confused, and it momentarily intensified her own disorientation. “He is only a villager.”
Bill turned his hand, thejirranequivalent of the human shrug. “He must be mistaken then. I will eat now.” He turned to leave her.
As easy as that, she thought.He reduces me to tears and then abandons me in the wilderness.“Be cautious,” she called after him. He, too, would know her maternal instincts had gotten the best of her.
Checking her smile, an exercise so routine it immediately spun everything else once more into alignment, she rose and began to make her way back to the village. No conscious effort was required now to move silently. Unlike thefeldysh, swiftness itself often served to mute her passing. She was at the door of the house before she knew it. The interior latch had not been dropped and she pushed the door gently open.
Keone was in the far corner, his back to the wall. Beyond the hearth but facing it, his eyes were glowing like a cat’s or akaol’s. As she shut the door he asked, “Have you come to finish me off?”
She secured the latch and took a deep breath before turning once more to face him. “Why did you come here?”
He was watching her with that inscrutable expression again.Is he probing my mind? Trying to find out what Bill told me? Or is he simply trying to decide upon the most advantageous answer? With them it is all plots and deception.Dot had told her about the mazes inside the stone, how navigating the web trained the mind in duplicity.Does he even know truth anymore?
“More wine?”
“No,” she said. She might never drink wine again. To think that girl had cast a spell on Ardee’s own Lyr-Danann vintage! And Keone had known and let her do it. He had claimed he thought his ward wished to get them drunk only so they might be less inclined to bristle, but Ardee wasn’t sure she believed him.All plots.“Why?”
He answered her quickly the second time, “Contempt.” She felt the question twist her features and did not bother to give it voice. He understood. His voice came low at first, but slowly gained in volume and momentum. “Contempt for all of thesefeldysh who fear and loathe us and yet expect us to die to protect them. Contempt for you rangers who think yourselves invincible and noble and proud and yet are only human. Like them. You bleed and die. And you leave pain behind you. And contempt for myself. Contempt for my contempt. For hating all of you. For allowing myself to be hurt by you. For allowing myself to want to hurt in return.” Far from shouting, his voice nevertheless suddenly broke. It was quiet again as he shrugged. “Contempt.”
She moved slowly back toward her chair, not at all sure she wished to sit, it put her too near him.
“Did you think I came for revenge?”
She was lowering herself onto the embroidered cushion. “I thought I would have, had it been me. I would have understood that.”It would have made us in some way similar. But I do not want to be like you.
His face lowered, his chin nearly met his chest, and then suddenly his head snapped back. His eyes seemed to focus on the ceiling. She saw a momentary, wrenching spasm of pain move across his features. “He swore to me he would never die.”
Don’t we all? Didn’t Dot say she would never leave me, and then lose herself in a maze somewhere, never to be found?“But he knew the risk. We all know the risk. You knew the risk.”
“Yes. But I believed him anyway. Because he was never wrong. I believed him. Contempt for myself.” He focused on her, so abruptly she nearly started. “And you believe it. You believe or you wouldn’t be here.”
“Believe what?”
“That you will never die. That they’ll never get you. You won’t be ripped apart in some demon’s claw.”
She felt her throat constrict. Her tongue moved like dry leaves over sand. Did she believe it? She wondered. She certainly had once. “I saw you speak at the lyceum years ago.” Her voice bewildered her. What was she saying? “The topic of the debate was justice in the breeder parliament. You obviously couldn’t have cared less.” She saw the confusion enter into his eyes. “You were unbeatable. I can not answer you.”
He turned back to the fire. She found herself watching him again, studying him. It had almost become a habit—a routine like refusing to smile. Had he known Dot? Could she ask him?
“What will become of this place?”
“This place?” She shook her head. “Darnouth?” When he nodded, she sighed, shrugging. “Nothing. People will not return here, not to live. Nomads may pass through. What they do not take, thieves will eventually grow brave enough to claim. Finally the forest will crush it. One hundred years from now it will be nothing but a mention in history books.”
“And thefeldyshwill say only that the Danann failed to protect it.”
“Unless they are made to say otherwise.”
He did not avert his gaze from the hearth, but he did smile. “Why do you say that? You don’t believe it. Are you making fun of me? Are you punishing me?”
“Who says I don’t believe it? I don’t believe as you do that we can live completely apart from the breeders, but neither do I believe we must live subservient to them.”
“There’s a third option?”
“I don’t know.” Damn him, he would draw her into a debate anyway. “There must be. I admit I can’t name it.”
“Then for us, here and now, it does not exist.”
This is why I do not join the debates, she decided.My instinctive answer is to bash his face with my fist.Wine. Perhaps, after all. It would either free her to strike him, or numb her to the annoyance of his words. But she did not rise. She did nothing but continue to watch him.
“And where do you go from here?” he asked.
“South now. Back to my own watch. Lei widened her patrol but the burden’s unfair. I’ve lingered too long caring for the boy.”
“Thank you for healing him. Our journey will be easier.”
A dozenjirranspearheads might have entered her back. She nearly arched in pain. “What do you mean?”
He said simply, “His condition would have required regular ministrations. Now we can return to the VaSaad unimpeded.”
“You suppose I would allow you to take the boy?” She found herself sitting forward.
He turned his head again to face her. “He was Wika’s…Ward.”
“Kawika had no ward when we left the VaSaad in autumn.”
His finger’s flexed dismissively and he looked away. “I don’t know how you rangers do these things. He seems to have had one when he died.” It was clear Keone c
ared little either way.
Ardee forced herself to sit back; she forced her hands to loosen their grips upon the chair arms. How had Bill known? How did Keone know? But that was simple; he and the girl had dissected the poor child’s mind. She tried desperately to contrive some stratagem by which to circumvent his claiming the boy. It repulsed her to consider—surrendering the helpless child to a stonediver. There must be some means by which to prevent it. But it was true. She could not answer him. He was Keone, a leader among the Danann—a great speaker. She was only an aging ranger.
She heard herself saying, “Kawika saw in him the potential to become a ranger. How will you see to his training?”
He shrugged, beginning to rise. “I don’t know. There are many fosterlings at the VaSaad.”
His lack of concern infuriated her. “You care so much for your lover’s ward that you will immediately hand him over to some stranger?”
“I will do what I think best.” An edge had entered into his voice. “How I feel about the boy doesn’t matter. It is my duty.”
“Leave him with me,” she said quickly. “I trained with Kawika. I will teach his ward as he would have taught him.”
“No!” The word was peppered around the edges with power. Whatever else, Keone felt strongly about this. “You say you can not answer me, and yet you have worn me out with your badgering. Whoever you suppose me to be, I was Wika’s da’an. I did not know this woman who lost herself in the maze, but I…”
His words stopped. Ardee stopped them. Her left arm closed around his throat and her right hand pressed against the back of his head. It happened so instantaneously, he barely had time to reach up and grope helplessly at her forearm before she had him down on the floor. Her legs entwined his torso, binding his own legs. He was unable to resist.So easy to kill him now,she thought. A sudden, powerful twisting of her arms and she could mount his head on a stake. His mouth would never again utter strong arguments for causes he cared nothing about.
What saved him was his refusal to fight her. She watched his hands for any sign of the flames, but he only gripped the appendage blocking his breathing. Even his choking attempts to draw air into his lungs sounded merely instinctive. He was ready to die—only the baser nature of his body refused to accept the end peacefully.
She released him, pushing him up and away. At the last moment she shoved him with her foot against the small of his back. He sprawled facedown before the hearth. She watched him climb slowly to his hands and knees.
In a spiteful voice she told him, “Take him, then. But keep him away from me when spring comes, because I will turn him against you any way I can.” Keone was on his feet, moving toward the kitchen. “I do not know what spell you used to ensnare Kawika, but if I had my way, the stones would be cast out of VaSaad-Ka forever!”
He was gone. Still on the floor, Ardee rolled over onto her belly. She would get no sleep, she knew, but she could dream just as easily awake. And she would enjoy the idea of killing him even more.
Chapter 10 The girl was still asleep. Sitting up in bed, Holt studied her. She was beautiful. Not like Polefe had been pretty in a plain way, or as Orata had been womanly and mature— Sihr was beautiful as a fine lady was drawn in the storybooks—as a princess trapped in a tower and waiting for rescue. Only her delicacy was not weakness. She had led Holt back down into the maze, guiding him to his voice. She was delicate as a work of art, the finery but a fitting manifestation of her inner strength.
He wondered why she had done it—why she had chanced so much for him. Among the myriad strange sensations that had swept him back to himself the night before, he had felt that awful man’s concern, even as the stonediver had tried to convey confidence and succor to the flailing girl. Holt had known something terrible had almost happened, and once again he was the apparent cause. He had cost Kawika his life—worse he had given the ranger’s still warm corpse to that black beast—and almost done the same thing to Sihr.
The door was pulled gently, soundlessly ajar. The other woman, the ranger, beckoned to him. Ardee. She was not beautiful, and her strength was of an entirely different sort—a sort Holt felt he could more properly understand. It did not frighten him as did the secret powers of the dark-haired man, Keone. Ardee was a ranger, just as Kawika had been. As Holt would one day be. He slipped out from under his blanket and went to her.
There was no sign of Keone in the common chamber. The fire was dead, and the room otherwise empty. Ardee had his clothes and his boots ready for him. She must have secured them sometime during the night. She bid him dress without uttering a word and he did so. Then she led him quietly outside.
Moving beside her, he noticed he had once more discovered the secret of silently lowering his foot to the snow. He simply walked as she did. He might have felt Kawika’s hand on his shoulder.
The sun was not up, but the sky was well on its way to the dull gray of winter. They headed for the gate, through it and across the bridge. Holt knew things: he was hungry and cold and needed to relieve his bladder; but nothing mattered. He did not even care where they were going. Enough that he and she were heading away from the awful memories of Darnouth and into his new life. He might not feel compelled to speak all day, just as he sensed she often passed days, weeks, without uttering a word. It made Sihr’s risk to return his voice to him even more ridiculous.
Ardee stopped suddenly. The song of the forest, the wind moving past Holt’s ears, abruptly ceased. He wanted to object. He loved the new song; he wanted it to continue. He wished the wind to sing the wood’s secrets all day. And he would rush along, exploring them as they were exposed to him, making no sound, leaving no trace. Existing with the forest and the mountains as no feldyshboy ever had.
But they had reached the camp, and breakfast was already cooking on a spit. He saw how cleverly the operation was concealed. Unexpected, it might not be noticed, but, once found, it astounded with its intricacies. She sat and he did likewise across the small fire from her. She tore a healthy sliver of flesh from the rabbit and again he duplicated her movements. How succulent the meat tasted fresh from the fire—with the cold air tickling his nose and his cheeks and his chin.
She was watching him, but that was fine. Her hard face wore the faintest trace of a smile. He remembered Kawika’s smile, how it had threatened to overwhelm him. Hers simply made him feel warm and proud— happy to be there. Happy to be starting this day in the wilderness with her.
They shared a bit of a skin, this time containing water. She showed him how to clear the camp, how to remove utterly any trace that a camp might ever have existed on that spot. What a fine, holy magic that seemed. If they desired, no one might ever locate them again. They could run off into the woods, listening to the land’s airy tune. Forever.
Moving again—dancing to the wind-song it seemed—Holt began to discover an ability to recognize even subtle changes in direction. It was not just the location of the sun in the sky. It was the fall of the shadows of trees. It was the tambour of the wind’s voice. It was leaves swaying one way one moment and another way the next. They were making a large circle. Not retracing their steps because they had left no trail to track. But returning, he knew. Going back.
And there was the bridge, and beyond it Darnouth—burnt, decimatedfeldyshvillage— where a young boy had once dreamed of patrolling the woods as a Hyr-Danann ranger. Ardee stopped. And in time with her, Holt stopped. The hand on his shoulder was not imagined. It was her hand—strong, steady. It did not dig into the nerves of his neck, sending shivers down his spine. It was warm; but it was not hot as Sihr’s hands had finally become. This was a strong, steady, silent warmth that would never burn him, but would glow within him for years.
She inclined her head, gesturing toward the village. He knew what message she meant to convey. He must leave her, return to the dark-haired man and go to VaSaad-Ka. She was not returning. She was leaving him there, at the edge of the forest. Still in the wild. He wanted nothing more than to refuse, but arguing would re
quire words and they had none. He simply hesitated a moment, remembering her warmth, and then moved as silently as a shadow out onto the flat hills and the old wooden bridge.
Part 3: The Burn
Chapter 1 “Another glass?” Colonel Colmaire asked.
There’s a stupid question, the old trapper thought. But he kept it to himself. No need to insult the soldier, risking an end to the flow of brandy and the provision of a soft chair. He simply raised his glass—fine crystal from DuLyn-Au, no doubt—and a serving boy stepped forward to refill it. “This is even better than the stock you had last year.”
The colonel smiled, sitting back in his chair and admiring the refracted light shining from the stem of his own goblet. “It’s easy. All you hear talk of these days is how the Danann are getting more and more difficult to deal with. They just take some getting used to’s all.”
The trapper shrugged uncomfortably. His recent dealings with the rangers had left him feeling queer. “I don’t know. They move like trolls. You’ve seen ‘em?”
“One passed through yesterday.”
“So quiet, they could be beside yah before yah’d even know. Stick a knife right in your ribs.”
The soldier’s brow moved down over his eyes. He surrendered his study of the glass and looked at the old man. “There’s a curious notion—Danann attacking people. You wouldn’t want a rumor like that to get around. If I thought the panic over this Darnouth thing was amazing…” He shook his head. “I can’t imagine.”
“Well, I never heard of one attacking no people.”
“I should hope not.” Colmaire lifted his boots to rest his heels lightly on the corner of his desk. “They know their place.”
“Let’s hope they never forget it.”
The colonel laughed. “Oh, my friend. This is all due to talk of the coming war.”
Nodding sagely, the old man frowned. “So it’s the coming war now, is it?”
“It’s inevitable, I’m afraid. But whether it will come next year or twenty years from now I can not say. And I have other problems. Namely the trolls. And holy heaven, imps! Imps all the way up here.”
