by Alon Shalev
“Your future lies with Ahad and my son, not in their death. Join with them, and win them over. Either become the future Emperor’s right-hand man or take the throne from him when the time is right.”
“You don’t care if Shayth kills your own son?” Rhoddan asked.
“A strong throne in Odessiya is of paramount importance, elf. It could be that my son kills Shayth instead and proves himself worthy of succeeding me. Who knows?”
“Are you a Wycaan?” Maugwen interrupted abruptly.
The boy turned to her. “Why do you ask, little healer?”
“Because you don’t fear Seanchai. He has considerable power and yet you don’t seem too fazed.”
Miko snorted. “You’re sharp for a peasant woman whose father is a tax evader and deserted you.” He paused, but Rhoddan saw how Maugwen kept her expression impassive. “I am far more powerful than your precious elf can imagine. I’ll deal with him in time.”
Maugwen frowned. “Aren’t you afraid he’ll return with the Elves of the West?”
Miko laughed. “He’s a weak, young fool and they won’t risk their diluted power against me. Once they leave their precious woods, they are no longer protected by their magic and just become fodder for my armies.”
Maugwen smiled smugly. “Thank you,” she said.
“For what?”
Rhoddan understood. “For confirming the legends,” he said and smiled. “The Elves of the West exist.”
The boy glared, but did not say anything.
“I still don’t understand,” Shayth said. “Why would you allow me to take the throne instead of your direct heir?”
“Why do you think? What qualities might you possess that he does not? What order would take precedence over my family line? Why have I indulged you all these years? Think, boy.”
Shayth frowned and shook his head.
“Because, my dear nephew, the power I possess often runs in a family. Phineus has been tested. I even checked Ahad, illogical as that was. But you, nephew, have yet to take the tests. And that is why you still live. Until we meet again.”
Miko began choking. His body shook, and then he slumped forward. Rhoddan caught him and knew he now cradled the little peasant boy.
Chapter Sixty-Three
Seanchai stood outside the elders’ door for three days, sending energy into the tree trunk where they lived. He pulled power from the earth and from the trees around him. It coursed through his body, nourishing and sustaining him. He did not move to eat or drink.
Pyre brought him water, but he refused it. The young elfe brought him a blanket on the first night, but when he ignored her, she curled up in it herself. “If you won’t sleep, neither will I,” she had said, then yawned and promptly fell asleep.
The Weapons Master, Shathea, Cheriuk, and many other Wycaans hovered nearby, waiting in tense anticipation.
It was Denalion who bid them leave Seanchai to face the elders by himself. The red-haired elf stood guard over him, sending away those who approached, his back to Seanchai and the tree of the elders.
Seanchai was ready. He knew every day away from the rebellion in Odessiya was costing lives. He had learned more than how to fish, wield his Win Dao swords, and shoot an arrow. He had delved into the deeper levels of each art and absorbed all he could for now. The dreamwalker’s words haunted him.
“I hear you wear a scar–a claw mark from a bear pack leader. Is that true? . . . Was this the only time a bear confronted you outside the dream world? . . . The pack was expecting you to do something. Ask the Wycaans. Demand it, if you must. You need to know. Here might be your only chance to find out.”
Seanchai approached the Tree of Elders and requested entry.
“Not now,” a voice called out from inside. “Return when you are ready.”
“When will that be?” he asked.
“Even the shortest tree in the forest took centuries to grow.”
“I don’t have centuries, or even years.”
“And that is why you are not ready.”
Seanchai remained where he was. After a couple of hours, Dyfellian came outside.
“Why are you still standing here?”
“To demonstrate patience,” Seanchai replied.
“It is not enough,” she said.
“It’s all I have.” She stared at him, and Seanchai returned her gaze. “People in the east are dying,” he pleaded, “the elves are dying. You don’t have to send an army with me, but at least give me what I need.”
“We owe you nothing, yet we have already given you much,” she said, her tone sharp. “Who are you to come and demand more?”
Seanchai was genuinely surprised. “Do you think this is for my own gratification? I crave the life of a healer. I apprenticed with a mother who is dead and lived in a village that was razed to the ground for shielding me. I’ve lost my soul mate and my teacher, and have the deaths of thousands on my conscience. You have a lot of audacity if you’re accusing me of self-gratification.”
She held his gaze, and then nodded. “You are right, Seanchai, son of Seantai. I apologize. But you haven’t provided us with enough evidence of your readiness. The elders will not grant your request. Those who walk with you have not yet revealed themselves. Until such time, you cannot become a Wycaan Master.”
Seanchai blinked and glanced back at Denalion. Then he took off his shirt, revealing the claw of the brown bear. “This,” he said, “should not have happened. It must not happen next time. I need to take the next step. Odessiya cries out and I must answer.”
Dyfellian stared at the wound and at last spoke quietly. “The last Wycaan who came from the east attacked us when we refused him entrance. He breathed fire on us from the sky and nearly broke our defenses. He was too powerful for the elves. The strength of the forest alone blocked his path.”
“I am not him,” Seanchai replied. “The forest has embraced me.”
“When you have such power, it can corrupt.”
“He who attacked you has grown stronger still,” Seanchai replied. “He will return if he is not stopped permanently. I am the one destined to confront him. When he transforms into the firebreather, how will I respond?”
When she didn’t answer, Seanchai spoke again. “Wise Dyfellian, member of the high council. Go ask the elders this: when the firebreather comes, will he be met with claw or the ashes of our race?”
Dyfellian turned away shaking her head, but Seanchai hadn’t finished. “When he came for you, the forest protected you. What if I have the will of the forest? What if the trees side with me?”
Dyfellian stopped and her old body seemed even more bent with the weight of responsibility as she turned to him. “You don’t,” she said, but her wrinkled face revealed fear. “They wouldn’t.” She went inside and closed the door.
And so it began. Seanchai took up the first position, breathing in the air of the forest, and spread his consciousness out, embracing the deep roots and tall trunks. His energy spread through the tree trunks, slowly encompassing the entire forest.
And gradually, tentatively, the trees responded. The energy Seanchai sent out was transformed, enriched, and returned inside of him. For the next three days, as light became darkness and then light again, he called up the ancient energy of the trees and channeled it. A brown shimmer began around his feet and moved up his body. By the second day, it was a foot thick, and green, crackling sparks left his arms, legs, and hands. On the third day, the crown of his head ignited with a beam of bright green light as the energy flowed out from him.
And then the shimmering of the leaves began. It was high-pitched and weak at first, but it grew and spread throughout the forest.
Thousands came to the borders of the elders’ home, drawn by the vibrations that shook the leaves and then the branches, and finally the very trunks of even the mightiest trees.
As the forest vibrated, the elders came out of their tree. Several stood staring, and Dyfellian stepped forward. She leaned on her staff as she app
roached Seanchai. She reached out with her staff into the vortex of energy that swirled around him.
The light brightened, and many were forced to look away. The energy caught to the ancient elfe’s staff as though burning it, eating its way up the length of the carved wood. Soon, Dyfellian was lost in the light with Seanchai. From its epicenter came a deep growl, and a cat’s yowl answered it.
The trees gradually stopped shaking as the energy grounded and was sucked back into the tree roots. From the fading light, a young, sleek grizzly bear emerged, its fur rich and shining. It panted heavily, its flanks shimmering. The black panther nearby, its coat ruffled and patchy, shook its head and began to walk away. It stopped, turned, and hissed at the grizzly, which lumbered awkwardly after it.
When the two animals had disappeared into the trees, Pyre stood and walked over to Denalion.
“What did Seanchai do?” she asked, her voice quivering with emotion, “Did he just defeat the entire forest?”
The red-haired dreamwalker looked down and ruffled her hair. “No,” he smiled. “He called upon the forest to choose, and the ancient trees gave him their support.”
“Has that ever happened before?”
“No, Pyre, it has not.”
“Will Seanchai be our leader, then? Is this what the trees have declared?”
“No, little one. Seanchai builds alliances. But your friend must leave us soon. He’ll probably never return to the ancient forests of Markwin. But surely, he will never be forgotten.”
Chapter Sixty-Four
Seanchai was panting. He could feel the cold rock beneath his naked chest, and yet the claw wound burned. He was cold and sweating. His muscles screamed at him in protest, each either contorted or torn.
He opened his eyes and took a few moments to adjust to the bright sunlight. Summoning his strength, he pressed his palms into the ground and pushed himself up. His arms shook from the effort as he sat up and he immediately fell back against the rock behind him. His head was pounding.
A familiar smell filled his nostrils. It was dangseng root, the herb that Mhari had taught him to cultivate and drink, to strengthen and recover his energy. He sighed deeply and allowed himself to sink into the rock.
“Here,” the shrill voice of Dyfellian interrupted his dozing. She hovered over him with a mug of the root tea. “You should be serving me, by all rights, but you do look terrible.” She chuckled to herself as she shuffled back to her seat. “Not bad,” she said when he had consumed a few sips.
“Did I actually transform into a bear?”
“Of sorts,” she said. “You were a touch melodramatic, if you ask me.” She chuckled again. “And the trees, well, that was simply playing out, but it was quite effective.”
“You aren’t angry with me?”
“Angry?”
“For confronting the elders like that.”
“Ah. Maybe we need a little. . . confronting. . . every couple of centuries.” She poured herself a cup of tea and, though her movement was slow and strained, her hand did not shake. “Seanchai. I am almost six hundred years old. I could transform at an early age, and I was somewhat rebellious. I have been to Odessiya. I have seen the trials of our people in the east.”
“But you did nothing?” Seanchai was shocked.
“At first, I tried to gather a force to go help. But I was afraid, as the other elders are. We have much to lose here, you know. But we should talk about you.”
Seanchai suddenly realized he was naked, but that Dyfellian was not. “How were you able to keep your clothes?”
“There is a way.”
“You could have taught me that first.” He moved a hand to cover his groin.
Dyfellian laughed. “Now, why would I do that? I may be old, but I’m still an elfe!”
Seanchai smiled. “Okay. Have your fun, but tell me: what does all this mean?”
“In most cases, when a Wycaan reaches a certain level of expertise in the craft, when he approaches the level of master, it is possible to make a connection with his or her animal spirit. Usually, we’re connected to animals that suit our character. I used to be quick and agile, smart and spoiled. A panther makes sense for me.”
“But why am I a bear?”
“It seems to me that bears are strong, skilled, and deft, though they have much to learn as cubs. Most importantly, the bears of Odessiya are often family-oriented pack animals. As long as there are ample resources, they’ll remain in large families. They’re very loyal to each other and will fight to the death to defend their close ones, especially their cubs. Do you get the picture?”
Seanchai nodded and rubbed his head. The tea was easing his headache.
“No animal has complete dominion over the land,” Dyfellian continued. “Some are strong, others smart, and others fast. It is important that when a Wycaan fights another Wycaan, whether in his natural state or animal form, that he employs all the techniques and knowledge that he has acquired in training. You may well have to confront him in your animal form to have any chance of succeeding.”
Seanchai looked up at her. “Can a bear defeat a firebreather? What hope do I have, if not?”
“There is always hope, young one. You must seek whatever talents you have that he does not. You must discover what the core strength of the bear truly is. Come, change for me.”
“Um,” Seanchai said as he stood up. “I’m not sure exactly what I did before.”
Dyfellian’s cackle echoed off the rocks. “Well, I can’t help you with that, I’m afraid. Perhaps you should go fishing with the dreamwalker.”
Seanchai closed his eyes and began to draw up energy from the surrounding rock. This was considerably more difficult than in the forest, as everything around him now was inanimate. He felt the energy slowly grow inside of him, and he imagined becoming a bear. Though the energy moved through him and Seanchai felt vibrant, nothing happened.
He tried to imagine himself as the bear–his claws, fur, and massive haunches. He searched with his mind for the spirit bears, but something pulled him back. He heard Dyfellian softly snoring and looked around. The shadows had grown significantly. He gave up, stretched, and sat down, nurturing the fire and making more tea.
When Dyfellian awoke, it was her turn to look puzzled. “What happened?” she asked.
“Nothing,” Seanchai replied. “It was like a regular standing exercise. What do I need to do?”
Dyfellian shook her head, then in a moment transformed into the panther and back again. When the elfe looked at him, Seanchai saw doubt in her eyes.
“What is it?” he asked.
“I thought you had it,” she said. “Now I’m not so sure.”
She rose stiffly and kicked out the fire. She emptied the small pot of tea into Seanchai’s cup and packed up. Slowly, she led him down the mountain, her staff clicking on the rock.
Near the bottom, Sellia waited. Seanchai prepared himself for a comment on his nudity, but Sellia was staring at Dyfellian, and there was no humor on her face. When they reached her, Sellia took off her traveling cloak and wrapped it around Seanchai’s shoulders.
Dyfellian waited, and then turned to him. “I told them that you should take the final test, even before we saw you change into your animal spirit. Some disagreed, but now that you have changed, I am sure they will demand it.”
They resumed walking back to the forest, and the ancient elfe continued. “You want to go, and many will be glad to see you gone because of the fear you make them feel. The test will take place before the entire people. You must use what you are strongest at.”
“The swords,” Sellia said. “You’re good at the bow, now, too.”
“No,” Seanchai said. “There are always better swordelfs and archers.”
“You cannot risk the transformation if you aren’t able to do it easily,” Dyfellian said. “That would have been enough, but not now. Do you have other talents that I’m unaware of?”
Seanchai stopped abruptly. “I must use what I am strongest
at?” He turned slowly and stared into Dyfellian’s ancient eyes. A smile stretched slowly across his face. “You brought me out here to teach me what I need to know to pass the test, and you have done that. Thank you, Master Dyfellian.” He bowed low.
“What is it?” Sellia asked.
Seanchai smiled at her and then turned back to Dyfellian. “It will take place before the whole nation, correct?”
Dyfellian nodded.
“As you said, the bear spirit chose me because we share attributes,” Seanchai said. “When they came to me the second time, there was not one family, not just one kind of bear, but many. The great whites came from the north, and the little reds from the tropics. The black bears came from the plains and the brown bears from the forests. And the great grizzly came down from the high mountain peaks. They came, one and all, to claim their places in the Wycaan Alliance.
“This is what I’m best at: unity. I’ll leave here at the head of a mighty host of elves, or I will leave alone. I am a builder of alliances, Dyfellian, and that will be my test.
“The Elves of the West will hear my call and decide.”
Chapter Sixty-Five
Sensing Pyre’s presence, Seanchai concluded his standing exercises; grounded the energy; and took deep, cleansing breaths as he stretched and opened his eyes. He sighed. He would miss the vibrant energy that this most ancient forest shared with him.
Pyre had brought him the nutty gruel they shared each morning, but her eyes were locked on his packed bag and bedroll folded into the bearskin. His cloak was folded on top of the pack, and his bow and swords leaned against the tree.
“You’re really going?” she asked as he settled down with his breakfast.
“I must,” Seanchai replied. “People are dying every day in Odessiya. I began something, and elves, dwarves, humans, and pictorians fight under my call. I have to finish this, one way or another.” He paused to eat a spoonful of the smooth gruel. “I appreciate you taking care of me, and regret that leaving means our friendship cannot continue to grow. You’ve looked out for me, but I’ve given you nothing in return.”
