Gambit of the Gods

by Ashley, Angela

  Malyse shares a mind with one of my kind, Mer’at, and I believe Mer’at must be this ‘Dark Lady’ you’ve been hearing of. Malyse is helping Mer’at and the others by creating The Higher Path and turning them against your Chosen. She sees it as a game, a concept it has taken us some time to understand. She tricked you into giving your Chosen unusual abilities, unwittingly making them a target and focus for The Higher Path.

  Our shock gives way to unwilling recognition of the truth. It’s our fault our Chosen are in danger. She tricked us, and we did exactly what she wanted us to do.

  “But they would have been killed if we hadn’t given them those abilities,” I argue, feeling frustrated.

  I agree, he reassures me. But now, events have been set in motion that will cause many more lives to be endangered. Perhaps without your Chosen to scapegoat, The Higher Path would have targeted someone else; perhaps not. But Little Squirrel and the others are in more danger than you realize. The headaches they’ve been having are a direct result of our enemies trying to take over their minds.

  Mother, Jade and I all look at one another in horror, but Mah’ue continues.

  Don’t worry; we’ve devised a plan we hope will free them from their enemies and give them some tools to allow them to fight back. This plan also has an added benefit: they will be able to see and hear you, through us.

  Amazement and hope flood my heart. I’d started to give up hope that Artan and Little Squirrel could be saved; now, we may not only be able to save them, but do what we’ve always dreamed of doing—make ourselves known to them. Except…what will they think of us when they learn how we’ve meddled in their lives and listened in on their private moments and feelings? Will they reject us? Will they demand their privacy and forbid us from living through them? But if we can save them, it will be worth any price, even if we never get to live through them or be near them again.

  “What is this plan, and how can we help?” I ask Mah’ue resolutely. I love them enough to let them go if need be.

  Chapter 26: Little Squirrel

  Last night was easily the worst of my life. I’d gotten a good night’s sleep the night before, but the lack of sleep and nourishment from my Quest still weighed heavy on my mind and body.

  Yet despite my exhaustion, I had trouble sleeping. Once I did, I kept dreaming of the Elders, imagining them stepping out of the forest like the dead animals Whisker commands, their faces and bodies ravaged and bloody but their eyes alive, glaring at me accusingly. Eventually, I sat up and stared into the darkness, talking with my animal friends as they hunted through the night.

  Another reason I couldn’t sleep last night is because I’m furious with myself. It’s my fault that my sister’s life is in danger. I could have sent my new animal allies after Whisker and put an end to him, but instead, I foolishly told myself he would slink away, never to be seen or heard from again. My disastrous choice haunts me.

  It wasn’t that I couldn’t stomach letting the animals hunt down and kill him—since we came to live among the People, I’ve been surrounded by death, and I understand that it’s a normal part of the cycle of living. We believe the spirit never truly dies, but is transformed into a new form: another human life, an animal life, the spirit of a tree, or the spirit of a star in the sky. So death held little fear for me.

  What stopped me was pity and my own too-trusting nature. I felt sorry for Whisker when he told me that he, too, had never had a mother. That night, with silent, angry tears at myself running down my face, I promised myself that I would never be so foolishly trusting again.

  Artan and I were given pallets on the floor of our own hut while Whisker slept soundly in my sleeping furs and his followers took turns keeping watch over us. To make matters worse, a tall and brutish warrior from the Bear Clan named Curving Claw sat in the corner of the hut all night long with his bow in his lap, an arrow strung and pointed at my sister’s face. He seemed immune to the need for sleep, watching us suspiciously as if expecting an attack from us at any moment.

  Shy Mouse has been so brave, enduring the threats to her life without tears or begging, but I can sense her terror from across the hut. It’s as if someone keeps whimpering, only no one can hear it but me. Perhaps her fear beating at my mind has given me this terrible headache. It feels like someone hit me over the head with a rock and is digging at the base of my skull with a knife.

  Now, as morning light crowns the smoke-hole of our hut, I comfort myself as best as I can with the knowledge that Miklos and Prairie Blossom somehow managed to escape into the forest. I’d asked about Prairie Blossom when Whisker returned to the hut last night. His face had turned momentarily red and he’d glanced accusingly at Stone Drum of the Raccoon Clan, the youngest of his group of followers.

  “I was sent to collect the old woman,” Stone Drum explained. I sensed his embarrassment. “When her hut came into view, I saw her standing there looking at me with the river behind her, and then suddenly, she was gone. I ran over to the spot where I saw her, but there was nothing there. I searched her hut and the woods nearby as well, but somehow she just…disappeared.”

  I fought to suppress a fierce smile, not wanting a triumphant expression from me to bring retribution down on Shy Mouse or Artan, but inwardly, I rejoiced. My animal friends hadn’t seen Prairie Blossom or Miklos. I’d sent them a mental image of each with a sense of inquiry, and they had all sent back a mental image of blank forest. Hopefully, they were long gone.

  For the third time in my young life I’m learning a new language, I muse, as Whisker calls out brisk commands to his followers waiting just outside our hut in preparation for our journey to the Queensrealm. It’s a language beyond mere words, for animals also use images, emotions, facial expressions, body language, whines, growls and other sounds, and even scents to communicate. I wish it was as easy to speak with them as it was to speak with my Spirit Animals, but the latter were somehow so much more than animals—they were messengers from the Spirit Over All, infused with his wisdom, love and humor.

  Right now, our communication is limited to images and emotions. I finally figured out how to explain to them the reasons why I didn’t want them to attack my captors. I sent them an image from the one summer Shy Mouse and I had lived under the same roof along with the image of two hunting cat cubs playing under the watchful eye of their mother; then, I sent the image of Whisker holding the knife to her throat and the image of him hitting Artan; and finally, one of various animals hiding in the bushes some distance away from the hut and watching without being seen while men tramped around loudly, beating the bushes with spears in vain search of them. The emotions that came flooding back from them could best be translated as shock, anger and acceptance. They will bide their time. They feel very protective of me, much like they would a newborn cub whose eyes are not yet opened. It’s humbling, yet reassuring.

  Artan, sitting silently beside me, watches the flurry of activity around us as our enemies pack for our journey. He, too, is biding his time. We tried to talk to each other, but our captives put a stop to that early on, threatening to hurt my sister if we continued to ‘conspire’. Their fear of our abilities would be amusing if our situation wasn’t so dire.

  Artan takes my hand in his, squeezing it gently to comfort me. Our eyes meet briefly (we dare not do more) and somehow, the constriction around my heart eases. Together, we’ll find a way out of this. And Father’s note promised that he was going to get help. I send up a prayer that it will be soon.

  “Touching,” says Whisker snidely, indicating our clasped hands. He gestures to his followers. Stone Drum helps me stand and ties my hands (not too tight, I notice gratefully) while Curving Claw drags Artan up and ties his. Two others string their bows and train their arrows on Shy Mouse’s slim back as Whisker leads her to the door. He’s taking no chances with us, and the disappointed look on Artan’s face says he was wise to do so.

  I wonder if there will be a crowd to watch us being led off as we push through the door flap, but the V
illage looks as deserted as it did when we first arrived. Does that indicate disapproval, fear, or indifference? I wonder. Reaching out with my mind, I sample the emotions of the Clansmen and women in the huts we pass. The children are either confused or oblivious, while the young men and women are elated and the older men and women are worried and fearful. Unfortunately, young men and women make up half the number of our Village.

  Moon on Water falls in beside Curving Claw, taking his arm possessively and glaring at me. A beautiful but arrogant girl who never acknowledged my presence when our paths crossed previously, her dark eyes hold mine now with a cold, calculating stare that says she hopes my fate will be unpleasant.

  I return her stare calmly, despite the sharp spear she holds casually in her other hand. Moon on Water is of the Fox Clan, whereas Curving Claw belongs to the Bear Clan. This must be one of the reasons why so many young people were drawn to The Higher Path, I surmise—the rejection of the Old Ways, including the rule against mating between Clans.

  The rest of Whisker’s followers disperse through the Village, poking their heads through the door flaps of various huts to confer briefly with those within. Whatever the occupants were feeling before is magnified after hearing what these messengers have to say. I wonder what this group that Spark is clearly a part of, The Higher Path, has planned for those who refuse to join them and their Lady.

  Approaching the southeastern perimeter of the Village, I see that two more young warriors wait for us at the trailhead, the red and black ribbons at their shoulders dancing in the breeze, their faces marked with the now-familiar red and black paint. With chagrin, I recognize Red Oak and Snow Dove, my childhood bullies, though they have been given new names since completing their Quests. Both of them stare at me with matching expressions of vicious anticipation, teeth bared and eyes bright.

  “I believe you know Red Feather and Darting Mink,” Whisker says slyly. I don’t give them the satisfaction of letting any emotion show on my face.

  “I’ve seen them around,” I say indifferently, looking away as if bored.

  But Mink steps closer, slowly, almost as if stalking prey, until her face is inches away from mine.

  “You’ll be seeing a lot more of us now, Little Squirrel,” she whispers. “And you won’t have anyone to protect you this time.” A bit of spittle flies with her last word and strikes my cheek, reminding me of our last confrontation when she threw the nut, hitting my cheek and drawing blood. I don’t flinch, but instead smile coldly.

  “I didn’t need anyone last time to get you down on the ground and wailing like a fawn in the clutches of a wolf,” I whisper back, my eyes never leaving hers.

  Swiftly, she sweeps my legs out from under and I fall, though I roll to the side awkwardly (since my hands are tied behind my back) before the kick she aims at my ribs can land. Wrenching desperately, I manage to drag one of my hands painfully out of my restraints and grab her foot, catching her off balance. I yank with all my strength, suddenly grateful for all those times Spark and I wrestled. She falls, and I get on top of her, my hands going around her neck to choke her, when something hard connects with my temple. I collapse into the dirt. Fighting to stay conscious, I will myself to move, but nothing happens.

  I hear scrabbling as Mink gets up off the ground, but distantly, because of the ringing in my ears. Her foot connects with my stomach and I reflexively double over, trying to protect myself while searching for the strength to get upright. Shy Mouse pleads with Mink to leave me alone, and I hear Artan cursing and struggling as if someone is holding him back.

  Whisker grates, “Enough fun for now. We need to get going, and the Lady wants her unharmed.”

  Surprisingly gentle hands take hold of me and help me up. Shaking my head to clear it, I focus on Stone Drum, whose thin face looks grim and disapproving when he glances over at Mink and her brother. Once he sees that I can stand on my own, he loosens his grip and uses his sleeve to brush my temple. It comes away bloody.

  Mink brushes off her clothes, leering triumphantly. “I’ve learned a few things since last time,” she brags.

  I spit out dirt and blood—I’d bitten my tongue.

  “You still needed your big brother to get me off you,” I retort, and smile like my belly isn’t knotting up in agony and my head isn’t pulsing painfully in time with the blood flow to the cut on my scalp. Blood drips down into my eye. I wipe it away impatiently, trying not to grimace at the pain this small movement causes and failing.

  Artan is still struggling a little in Curving Claw’s grip like he wants to get to me, rage and panic billowing from his mind like acrid smoke. Shy Mouse’s eyes are wide with concern.

  “I’ll be fine,” I reassure them. I know Artan will let my sister be hurt or even killed if he thinks my life is in danger, even though I begged him to put her safety first before they dragged us apart that first night, so I need him to know I’m all right. I think he would sacrifice anyone for my safety, even our father. The thought terrifies me. Though I suspect the only reason Whisker didn’t kill him when we first arrived back in the Village is because he’s afraid of what I’ll do if he does. He should be; I’m afraid of the same thing.

  “I didn’t need his help,” Mink hisses, looking as spiteful and cruel as her namesake animal. “You’re not long for this world anyway, once the Lady gets her hands on you. She seems to hate you even more than I do.”

  Turning her back on me as if I am of no consequence, she greets Curving Claw and Moon on Water as if they belong to her Clan. Then she and her brother take the place of the other two guards behind my sister, readying their bows. My skin prickles with frustrated rage, realizing that my sister’s life is now in the hands of my childhood enemies.

  Stone Drum takes a long moment to re-tie my hands—in front of me this time, giving me a wink—before urging me forward to follow the rest.

  “I’m sorry about this, truly,” he mumbles so the others ahead of us can’t hear. “When we make camp, I’ll wash and bandage that cut. Your father, Miklos, healed me once when I broke my leg running through a meadow without watching for rabbit holes. He was so kind and gentle.” He turns to regard me, his brown eyes somber. “It’s the least I can do. I wish I could do more.”

  I can feel his sincerity, and something more. He looks at me the same way Artan does. Maybe I can use his feelings for me to save my brother and sister from these fanatics and their Lady. Of course, he belongs to The Higher Path too or he wouldn’t be helping them, but it gives me a small glimmer of hope in the midst of all my fear and pain. Together, we start down the trail after the others.

  Something crashes through the underbrush behind us, and we spin around as one. A dead black bear shambles onto the trail ten paces behind us, followed by two grey wolves and a wolverine. None of them have eyes, but they all unerringly turn their heads as if they can see us, teeth bared in silent snarls, bits of fur and skin clinging in matted patches over their pale bones. When I reach for what’s left of their minds, all I get is a feeling of wrongness and menace. They don’t approach, but instead stand blocking the way back. I catch the sickly stench of death and gag. Stone Drum does the same, looking disgusted.

  “Whisker sent them to be our rear guard,” he explains. Now that I know what to look for, I see that we’re surrounded. Fern fronds move here and there in the undergrowth on both sides of the trail, and I glimpse the shiny dark fur-flash of several mink, the masked, eyeless gaze of raccoons, the slinking skeletons of coyotes, and many more. They want me to see them, I soon realize. It’s a warning—a threat—that if I call on my animal allies, they will be held back long enough for Whisker’s knife to do its work. I bend my head as if defeated and start down the trail once more, but I still have hope. When the right time comes—if it comes—I must be ready.

  I reach out with my mind for my animal friends with an image of their dead counterparts as a warning not to come too near, but the many minds I touch are calmly unsurprised. I suppose if I could smell them from several paces
away, their far superior sense of smell can probably detect them from a much greater distance.

  It comforts me to sense that their concern for my safety. Certain animals in particular—a female wolf and the pack she leads, a male hunting cat with a split ear, several falcons, and a few others—have taken a special interest in me. They send me frequent images to let me know they’re overhead or nearby. I hope I get a chance to fly someday, because the view from the birds soaring aloft is truly awe-inspiring.

  I use the time spent traveling all that day to practice communicating with my animal allies. Slowly, I come to a new understanding of these savagely wild yet honorable and majestic creatures: what matters to them, what personal codes they live by. The female alpha wolf and her pack, for instance—family means everything to them, and the entire pack would sacrifice themselves for their pups, even if they didn’t come from their own bodies. Very often they don’t, because almost always, only the alpha male and female mate and reproduce.

  They have a very sophisticated social structure, some of which Spark had explained to me before as a member of the Wolf Clan, but there’s so much more that humans have never been privy to before. They carry out much of their communication through scent, which is unsurprising considering their strong sense of smell, and another portion through body language (especially tail positions) and vocalizations. But they also communicate through a wide variety of facial expressions. My alpha female sends me images of minute variations in her facial expression and tail positions, expecting me to understand them, but in the end, she and the other animals settle for communicating with me as they would with a newborn pup who has not yet learned their ‘language’, using one or a series of word-images to ‘build’ an idea or concept more complex than ‘tree’ or ‘sun’. It’s fascinating.