Ashiin screamed, and Hweilan couldn’t help but smile.
The pouch held nothing more than the ground yellow tranta leaves that Gleed liked to sprinkle on venison. “Gives it bite,” he’d say, and he was right. It was the strongest spice Hweilan had ever tasted, even a little sprinkle making her eyes water. She could only imagine what it would do in a person’s eyes.
Ashiin struck out blindly with her staff, tears streaming down her cheeks as she rubbed at her eyes with her free hand.
Hweilan seized the moment. She turned the knife in her hand and gripped it, just like Ashiin had taught her—
And charged Nendawen.
He sat no more than ten or fifteen paces away. Too far for surprise, she knew, but she had to try. She had sworn. Ashiin was right. Sworn to strike her enemy without hesitation. But Ashiin was not her enemy. She couldn’t believe that. Her teacher had to have been forced into this. Forced by Nendawen. And in Hweilan’s mind, that qualified him as the enemy of the moment. Her rational mind knew she had no chance against the Master, but where her reason failed, something more primal took over. It was the need to survive that made a trapped wolf gnaw off its own foot rather than die in the trap, the defiance that made a dying man spit in his torturer’s face. It was pure, unbridled fury.
Nendawen stood. At the sudden movement, the birds on his shoulders flew into the mists, the wolves at his feet fled, and the serpent on his leg slithered back into the thorns. He planted the butt of his spear on the ground beside him and held out his bloodied hand to her. Hweilan could hardly believe it. She’d thought surely the wolves would have come for her, eager to tear her apart.
Hweilan put all of her rage and defiance and fear into her scream, holding on to just enough reason to aim, and planted the knife into the Master’s chest. Ashiin had indeed taught her well, and the point of the steel slide between Nendawen’s ribs and pierced his heart.
So stunned was Hweilan that she let go the knife and stepped back, afraid to believe that it had worked.
Nendawen looked down at the knife buried in his chest. The light in his eyes had not dimmed in the slightest.
Well done, he said. You are ready.
Nendawen, still holding the spear in his other hand, grabbed the knife with his other. But he did not remove it. He twisted, tearing open his own chest, slicing away muscle and skin, breaking the ribs.
Hweilan could not move. The presence coming off Nendawen washed over her, paralyzing her. His eyes seemed to gaze down on her from mountain heights. Nendawen raised his bloody hand until it was just over Hweilan’s face. It was dripping. Hweilan’s nose identified the source before her eyes. Blood. Nendawen held some wet, fleshy mass in his hand, black in the dim light, and it was dripping blood. It was a heart, his heart, and it was still beating.
Eat.
The word settled in her mind, and for a moment Hweilan revolted. But after the notion settled, it spread, like a river overflowing its banks to soak the parched earth. Hweilan the castle girl turned away at such savagery, but Hweilan the hunter exulted in it. This was not a new Hweilan. This was something far older, something that had been sleeping within her all her life. She didn’t just accept the idea of eating the living heart. She wanted it.
Hweilan seized the heart and pulled it into her open mouth. She bit down, and her mouth filled with blood. It seared like fire. Her throat convulsed, swallowing it, and she bit down harder, breaking through the tough flesh. The snap of her teeth breaking through the living muscle reverberated through her head and sent a shudder through her body. Flesh tore free, and she swallowed.
The world pulsed around her—sight, sound, scent, taste, thought, all beating the same rhythm. Light and shadow ceased their separation and bled together. Hweilan could feel the flesh and blood inside her, its power radiating outward through her whole body, filling her mind.
She had once watched a snake shed its skin. When she was seven years old, travelers from the far south had come, and besides a bard who shared tales and songs from those lands, they had brought an assortment of strange creatures—long-necked birds, turtles, a family of monkeys, a horse no larger than a spring lamb, and a serpent the color of spring grass. The beast master had apologized profusely, for the snake could do little more than huddle in its crate, scratching against the branch and stones there as it struggled out of its skin. Hweilan had watched it for hours. The feeling in her now, she imagined it was like that, only in reverse—not struggling out of old, dead skin, but every fiber and fluid of her body growing into a new one from the inside out. Her veins seemed too full. Every beat of her heart threatened to burst them.
Hweilan fell forward, catching herself on her forearms. Her braid had come loose in the fight with Ashiin, and her hair spread over Nendawen’s feet. She could feel hot wetness leaking from her eyes, falling in thick drops. They dripped onto the Master’s feet. Through the haze she saw they were not tears. She was weeping blood.
Rise, my Hand.
And suddenly she felt she could—the weakness, the struggle melted away—felt she must.
Hweilan pushed herself to her feet and found herself staring at the dozens of tiny leaves and flowers that hung from the Master’s neck and draped his torso like a priest’s stole. Her senses came alive as never before. She could feel every touch of air upon her skin, wafting through her hair, cooling and slowly drying the blood from her face.
Taste and smell hit with such force that they almost became one. Scent of bone filled her mind—salty, rich tang of marrow. Red. She could actually taste the color red in Nendawen’s bones, in Ashiin’s, and in her own. The perfume of the flowers around Nendawen’s neck filled her head, and Hweilan knew that they still lived and grew, fed by the life-force of the Master.
But around all that, Hweilan could sense the world itself—the forest, the river, the ground beneath her, the misty air. The world, or at least this part of it, was more than just alive. It was aware. Its mind reached into the sky and burrowed deep into the ground itself, its spirit linking earth with heaven, taking nourishment from both. The trees’ topmost branches ran fingers through clouds, and their tiniest, deepest roots tickled the fire at the heart of the world. Every creature in the forest—from the tiniest spiders making their webs in the topmost branches to the great serpent coiled around the roots in the underground lake miles below—warranted a fragment of the awareness, and a tiny part of Hweilan’s mind connected with them as well, like the first droplets of water seeping through the cracks in a dam. Hweilan knew that if she took the time to pry at those cracks, eventually they would burst, but she also knew that doing so might cause them to flood her own mind, and there was the very real danger of drowning in that awareness. Was this the mind of Dedunan? Is this what the Balance actually felt like?
All this passed through Hweilan’s mind in the time it took for a small droplet of blood to fall from her chin and strike the toe of her boot. She felt its impact all the way up her leg, and in the profound silence the sound of liquid on leather seemed as loud as thunder.
Take your weapon, my Hand, said Nendawen, and he held the knife out to her.
It was still the color of heart’s blood, but with her new heightened senses, Hweilan could see the blood swirling and flowing inside the steel, filled with the life of the Master. She took it and could feel the life inside it.
With this in your hand, said Nendawen, part of me will be with you. Always.
Hweilan bowed her head. It had all been a test then. Tempting her to kill her teacher. A test of character? Whatever the case, she had passed. She was ready. She was the Hand at last.
The Hand does not stand alone, said Nendawen, and he forced her to turn.
Ashiin stood there, her staff held crossways behind her shoulders, her hands outstretched to hold it. Tears still ran down both cheeks, but she stood straight and proud. Still … something in her eyes … Hweilan felt a sudden pang of fear in her gut.
“Ashiin …?”
“Quiet,” said Ashiin, th
en smiled, “stupid girl.”
You stand ready? said Nendawen.
“I stand ready,” said Ashiin. “And your Hand stands ready.”
So be it.
Hweilan felt the spear’s passage over her right shoulder, saw the blur of black and green fire, and the spear struck Ashiin, pinning her to the earth.
Hweilan screamed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
THE MASTER WAS GONE. HIS SPEAR, HIS WOLVES, the raven, the owl, and serpent … all gone. Hweilan was alone, kneeling in the wet leaves over the dead body of her friend. She was too stunned to weep.
How long she kneeled there, staring down at the bloody corpse, she could not remember. The river rolled on, the thunder of the falls unending. The mist gathered on Hweilan, and on Ashiin’s corpse, soaking them. Late in the morning, thick clouds gathered overhead, and a heavy rain pelted the forest, washing Hweilan’s tears into the mud.
Hweilan heard footsteps slushing through the muck behind her, but she did not turn to look. They stopped just behind her.
“Stupid girl.”
Gleed’s voice, words spoken with equal parts sympathy and exasperation.
“Go away,” said Hweilan.
“You have no reason to cry.”
“Everyone I’ve ever cared about is dead.”
“Well, thank you,” said Gleed, all sarcasm.
“You know what I meant.”
“I know that, yet again, if you’d stop to think”—he whacked her across the back with his staff—“you’d have no reason to feel sorry for yourself. We are not murderers, Hweilan. You passed that test today, girl. Please tell me you understood what you did.”
Hweilan whirled on Gleed, fury in her eyes. “She’s dead, Gleed! The Master killed her right in front of me!”
Gleed smacked her with the staff again. “Ashiin gave her body. For you. She told you that to awaken the bow, to call your ally, would require sacrifice. Did she not?”
Hweilan’s fury and grief faded, as if washed away by the rain. “You mean …?”
“I mean you need to get off your knees and be the Hand,” said Gleed. “For yourself, for Ashiin, and for your world.”
Gleed led her to the height where she had first seen the Witness Cloud. He summoned one of the creatures of mud and vines that had first carried Hweilan to his tower, and the thing bore Ashiin’s lifeless body behind them.
At the summit, in the midst of a circle of ash, lay Hweilan’s bow. The rain had not slackened, still coming down in a torrent, and there were no trees for shelter, but the ground inside the circle was dry as old bones, and the pale wood of the bow seemed to sparkle under the light of an invisible sun.
Gleed stopped and turned to face Hweilan. “I will instruct you in what to do,” he said, “but you must do it. You are the Hand, and you owe your friend the work of your hands.”
He spoke a string of arcane words and waved his free hand in an intricate gesture. The vaguely human-shaped mass of vines and mud holding Ashiin melted back into the earth, leaving the corpse of Hweilan’s friend lying on the ground.
“Gather wood,” said Gleed. “Enough for a pyre. Pile it in the circle on top of the bow.”
Hweilan’s jaw opened and her eyes went wide. After all she’d lost—
“Don’t worry,” said Gleed. “Inside the sacred circle, not even a dragon’s fire could harm that bow. Now do as I say.”
Hweilan obeyed, returning to the nearby woods to gather dead wood by the armload. She piled them atop the bow, then returned for more. After at least a dozen trips, she had a large pile, filling the circle.
“Now green,” said Gleed. “Cut fresh branches for her bier.”
Hweilan did so, using her knife to cut large pine branches and smaller, softer shoots off the oaks. She didn’t know if this was proper for the rite, but it felt like the right thing to do. Returning to the circle, she made a thick bed of the pines, then lay the softer oak sprigs on top.
“Well done,” said Gleed. “Now, take your steel and cut nine strands from Ashiin’s hair. No more. No less. Nine strands.”
Hweilan kneeled beside Ashiin’s corpse. Her eyes were still open, and the rain had pooled there, overflowing down the sides of her face. There was no illusion of tears. Tears came from the living. Seeing those dead eyes …
Hweilan clenched her jaw, took a deep breath, and gently closed Ashiin’s eyes. The dead flesh under her fingertips …
She withdrew her hand, and found it was shaking.
She took the longest of Ashiin’s braids, cut the bands of leather and thread binding them, and began to gently comb out the hair with her fingers. It was wet and heavy, and the scent of Ashiin that wafted up from it made Hweilan choke back a sob. She chose nine of the longest strands and sliced them off.
“Let me hold them,” said Gleed, “while you place her on the pyre.”
Hweilan did so. She could feel the heavy, dead weight of her friend, but she had no trouble lifting the corpse. Whatever strength Nendawen had given her, it was still there. Hweilan crossed one of Ashiin’s ankles over the other, put both hands over the bloody gaping hole in her middle, then spread her braids over the bier. By the time Hweilan was finished, her shirt and both hands were coated in her friend’s cold blood.
“Step back,” said Gleed.
She did, and he began a long prayer. Much of it was similar to the prayers Lendri had said when they had burned Scith’s body, but Gleed also recounted Ashiin’s deeds, her lineage, and her sacrifice. He spoke many other words besides, in his own language, and although Hweilan could not understand them, she was surprised to hear the affection in their tone. Gleed and Ashiin had never had a kind word to say about each other, although Hweilan had often sensed a grudging respect between them. Perhaps that was what she heard in his tone.
Finished, Gleed raised his staff, green fire already gathered there, and spoke a word of command. Flames roared to life in the wood. Not green, but scarlet red—the color of the Fox. So intense was the heat that Hweilan was forced to step back farther. Rain evaporated before it could strike the pyre, and soon the entire hilltop was enveloped in a cloud of steam.
“Now,” said Gleed, turning back to Hweilan, “weave three braids with the nine strands of Ashiin’s hair. Blessed, these shall be your bowstrings. Weave them with devotion and love. Honor her memory, and these strings will never fail you.”
By the time she’d finished and bound the final hoop in the third bowstring, Hweilan could feel the power in the three strands. Ashiin’s hair, still just a shade above black, now had a crimson cast to it, as if the blood coating Hweilan’s hands had worked its way into the strings as she wove them.
Together, she and Gleed stood, watching the flames consume Ashiin. Hweilan remembered her teacher, and remembered all her other teachers and friends. This was only the second pyre she’d watched burn, but the list of her beloved dead seemed to be growing all the time. The pyre collapsed with a crack and roar, sending thousands of orange sparks dancing into the sky. If she counted all of her ancestors who had been killed by Jagun Ghen, there might not be enough sparks for each to have one. And as the flames burned lower, Hweilan felt her rage growing again.
The rain and flames stopped at almost the same time. A wind came out of the west, setting the trees to dancing and blowing away the cloud cover. The sun was already low in the sky, and it bathed the hilltop in orange dusklight.
They waited, watching the smoldering ashes. When the first stars made their appearance in the east, Gleed motioned at the remains of the pyre with his staff.
“Retrieve your bow—and what is left of your friend.”
Hweilan looked down at him. “Left?”
“You will see.”
Hweilan stepped into the sacred circle. The ashes were still warm, but not hot enough to burn as she pawed through them. She saw something pale, and her first thought was—bone—but that was foolish. Fresh bone was not so pale and would’ve burned in the fire. It was her bow, and as she pulled it
from the ashes, she saw that Gleed had spoken truly. It was completely unharmed. Not a scorch mark. Even the ashes fell away from its surface.
And there, lying in the open area from which she’d taken the bow, lay a skull. Much darker than the wood of her bow, it was equally unscathed by the fire, but it still had the dark tone of fresh bone. It was not human, nor was it a fox, but seemed something in between, as if the sacred flames had blended Ashiin’s two natures into one. It felt warm under her touch, but not from the fire. With her new senses, Hweilan could feel the life in the skull.
“Ashiin?” Hweilan whispered.
“Bring them, Hweilan,” Gleed called.
She walked out of the ashes, carrying her bow in one hand and her friend’s skull in the other. Gleed sat inside another, smaller circle nearby, his staff across his lap. She sat opposite him inside the circle.
“Shesteh you have made,” said Gleed, pointing at the bow. Then he pointed at the skull. “Now, finish them.”
Gleed instructed her as she used the tip of the red knife to carve matching shesteh into the surface of the skull. With every etching, some of the living blood inside the knife seeped into the bone, mingling the life of Nendawen with the life of Ashiin.
When she had finished, Gleed said, “Now stand and string your bow, Hand of the Hunter.”
He took the skull from her and held it reverently in both his hands. She looped one of the strings on the bottom of the bow, then planted it behind one ankle and in front of the other, just as her father had taught her. She grabbed the top of the bow and pulled. It bent in her hand. Not with ease. She had to put effort into it, but the bow bent to her will, and she fitted the other loop over the bow. Releasing it, the bow bent under its own strength, pulling the string taut, and Hweilan felt a tremor pass through it.
She held it in one hand, and in that moment all she could think of was her father and mother.
Gleed held up the skull to her, and she saw that he had fitted a series of woven bands across the back and bottom, so that it formed a mask.
Hand of the Hunter: Chosen of Nendawen, Book II Page 21
