The black cloud swirled in indecision.
Nee’lahn continued to weave her song around the wraith, gently drawing out the motherly instincts of this tainted creature, holding tight to that seed of sanity buried deep inside.
“I can’t . . . I can’t part with him,” the wraith moaned.
Mycelle persisted. “Would you rather the boy was raised on the wails of the Grim or the pure woodsong of Nee’lahn’s lute? Which is more likely to leave the child hale? You’ve produced something new, something wondrous, something pure. Let us help you protect it.”
Nee’lahn complemented Mycelle’s words with her music. She wove the image of autumn leaves falling, crumbling back to soil and loam, feeding the next generation, preparing the forest floor for new sprouts. The cycle of life’s sacrifice. The dead giving back to the living. The selfless act of love and birth.
Something finally broke inside the wraith. The dark cloud blew into the air, coursing over the lake. “Take the child,” the wraith wailed. “Take my boy from here.”
Her cry spread across the sky, shattering the wall of wraiths. As the ill’guard demoness flew through the forest, her sisters followed, only too glad to flee.
Nee’lahn crossed and knelt by Rodricko’s body. She touched his cheek gently, wishing him a safe journey to the next world, and silently thanked him for all he had done. His sacrifice, as much as any, had brought this new life out of a dead forest.
Mycelle stepped near Nee’lahn, watching the darkness shred apart around them. “Cecelia is mad and not to be trusted. It took your music to sway her to her own nobler instincts.”
Nee’lahn raised her eyebrows as she stood, surprised Mycelle had heard her lute.
“I have the ears of a shape-shifter,” she explained. “I heard your song plying Cecelia’s will. But we can’t trust your enchantment holding for long, especially when she realizes where we’re headed. She could turn back on us in a heartbeat.”
“Then let us be gone far from here before that happens,” Nee’lahn said, and slipped the lute over her shoulder. Her arms free, she took the child from Mycelle. Nee’lahn stared down into the tiny face, then back up at her tree, dead but still stately. Tears welled.
“Do you wish a moment to say good-bye to your home?”
Nee’lahn turned her back and stepped away, holding the child close. “This wood is no longer my home. Lok’ai’hera is dead. All that I love, I carry with me now.”
16
MOGWEED’S LEGS ACHED, and his lungs burned both from the cold and the air’s thinness. He stared ahead at the narrow mountain trail. It wound up and up, higher and higher. For the six days since leaving the Dire Fell, the group had been continually climbing upward. There were only brief respites when the trail wound down into a short valley. Otherwise, for league after league, they climbed the granite peaks of Alasea’s northernmost mountains.
But at least they had left the Grim behind in their twisted homeland. Here a forest of pine and redwood towered around them, boles as straight as arrows, limbs hanging heavy with snow.
It had been such a cheerful sight once they had climbed from the woods, but within a day’s travel, they had come upon their first mountain hamlet. It had been torched. Singed chimneys stood amid burned and cracked timber, and heads had been staked in the town’s central square—clear work of marauding d’warf raiders. Any hope of replenishing their supplies died as they tromped through the sacked hamlet. The only boon gleaned from the township was a scraggly, bone-thin pony found in the near woods.
After discovering the ruined hamlet, Kral had guided the group from the wide Ice Trail, deeming it unsafe. “After bringing down the Wall,” Kral had said, “I’d wager the d’warves have cleared all the townships along the road here, fortifying the main approach to the Citadel. There’ll be lookouts and guard posts all along the main pass. We’ll be less likely to be spotted on the smaller, steeper back trails.”
So the group had left the gentler, wider trails for the winding, cliff-hugging tracks. Near the head of the group, Nee’lahn rode the thin pony, nestled over the small child. She was the only one light enough for the small horse to carry. Mogweed scowled at the nyphai. He was not that much heavier than she was. Besides, the pony would have served them all better if it had been slaughtered and sun-cured. With the hamlets sacked, their supplies had dwindled rapidly.
At last, as the sun fell behind a ridge of snow-tipped peaks, Mycelle lifted an arm, signaling the end of the day’s trek. “We’ll set up camp near the stream,” she called out, and pointed to where a creek chattered along a series of short falls off to the right.
“Thank the Sweet Mother,” Mogweed mumbled. His thighs and calves were cramped knots. He stumbled away from the thin deer trail and followed the others to the flat shelf.
The camp was quickly assembled. After so long on the road, everyone knew their duties. Kral dug out a fire pit and cleared the dead pine needles from around the night’s hearth. Bedrolls were laid out around it. Meric and Tyrus gathered wood and kindling, while Nee’lahn fetched water. Mogweed fished through the packs for their cooking gear and their dwindling fodder. He snatched a bit of hard cheese and popped it into his mouth, then pulled out some strips of dried mutton.
Mycelle stepped to Mogweed’s side. He had to swallow his stolen tidbit quickly, but the woman’s eyes were on the forest. “Have you seen any sign of your brother?”
Mogweed frowned. “No, not since last night.”
“Fardale must be hunting wide off our trail. But I’d be happier knowing he was safe.”
Mogweed straightened with a pan in hand. “He’s safer in the wood than with us. Out there, he is just another lone forest creature.”
“It’s not the dangers of the forest that worry me.” Mycelle glanced back to him. “It’s his own will. The wolf inside draws close to claiming him completely.”
“We’ve another moon at least before we settle.”
Mycelle craned her neck toward the twilight skies. The moon hung full above. “I hope you’re right.” She stalked away.
A chill crept through Mogweed as he searched the surrounding forest. Where was Fardale? His brother had never disappeared for a full day before. And last night, before slinking off to hunt the dark forest, Fardale had turned to him, sending fuzzy images. They had made no sense. Even his eyes had not glowed as bright. Mycelle was right. The wolf was near to claiming him completely.
Mogweed, at least, wore a human form and was less prone to such urges. It was known that the wilder the beast, the quicker someone settled. Still, Mogweed could not dismiss that he had grown more and more comfortable in his current body. He recalled how at first his sallow and thin-limbed form had grated, how even wearing boots had chafed him with each step. But now, after so long, Mogweed wore his body with ease. In fact, he had grown to be possessive of it, and the fervency of his longings to melt from this flesh into another shape had dimmed. And even when he did crave to shape stronger legs or sprout a warmer pelt, it was always with the knowledge that he’d return to this same body.
Mogweed shivered. As much as he wanted to ignore these changes in perspective, he knew in his heart what it meant. He, too, was close to settling. The human in him threatened his true heritage. Even Mycelle understood Fardale better than he did. Not only were Fardale’s sendings coarser, Mogweed’s ability to receive was fading.
Mogweed stared up at the moon, full and bright in the darkening sky. One more moon . . . then all is lost.
“Quit stargazing,” Kral grumbled, off to the side. “Get the cooking gear over here.”
Mogweed turned and saw the mountain man had already managed to raise a small fire. With pots and pans in hand, Mogweed moved to Kral’s side. The large man fed sticks into the flames, his black beard dripping as the ice melted from its dark curls.
“Where’s that elv’in with some real wood?” Kral said. “I can’t hold this flame without something more substantial to feed its hunger.” The mountain man’s eyes shone
with a matching smolder.
Mogweed set his pots and pans down and stepped away, not turning his back. He had lived all his life in the deep forest, and even though he was close to settling, his woodland instincts were deeply instilled. He sensed something wild and savage in the tall man. And like Fardale, each day the beastly nature seemed to grow stronger, less hidden. Mogweed had assumed it was because they neared Tor Amon, the mountain folk’s ancient homelands; perhaps that had Kral’s old animosities burning brighter. But when near the man, as now, Mogweed was less sure of this explanation.
“I . . . I’ll go look for Meric and Tyrus. Help them gather more wood.”
“Make sure they each bring an armload,” Kral growled, his eyes on the skies now. “We’ll see snow tonight, and the cold will grow savage.”
Mogweed nodded and moved away. He had no intention of looking for the others. That was not his chore. Besides, the woods had grown dark, and there was no way he was going to search for the others in those deep shadows. Instead, once out of direct sight of Kral, Mogweed slinked toward the river. He heard the voices of Nee’lahn and Mycelle. Moving on his toes, he crept close enough to overhear.
“How’s little Rodricko doing?” Mycelle asked, referring to the nyphai male child. Nee’lahn had named the child after the old dead woodwright. Mycelle scooped a pail into the stream and hauled it out.
Nee’lahn took the pail from her with a shy smile. “The babe fares well and draws strength from my tree’s spirit.” With her free hand, Nee’lahn hitched the babe’s sling higher, then touched her chest. “But he’s not the only one. My own breasts have begun their swelling. They’ll be ready to suckle by the time he drops his birth seed.”
“And how much longer will that be?” Mycelle asked, picking up a second pail slopping with fresh water.
“It’s hard to say. But no longer than a couple moons.”
“So soon?”
Nee’lahn nodded. The two women moved in the direction of Mogweed’s hiding spot. He scrambled behind a granite outcropping so as not to be seen, then followed them back to camp.
From his new vantage under the boughs of a redwood, Mogweed spied upon the entire campsite. Meric and Tyrus had returned with ample wood, and Kral fed his fires. Nee’lahn placed her pail of water down nearby, then settled to a stone seat and gently rocked the babe in her arms.
Mycelle moved away from the flames and brought her pail to the tethered pony. It ignored the water and continued to tug on the scraggly patches of green grasses. Mycelle wiped her hands and stared up at the full moon. Even from his roost, Mogweed saw her sigh heavily, eye the camp, then slip off to the side.
Mogweed’s lips thinned. He knew what she was about to do. He moved silently around, keeping Mycelle in sight. When he wanted, Mogweed could slip as silently through the woods as his wolfish brother.
Mycelle crossed back to the stream’s edge, then tossed her cloak across a slab of flat granite. Next she worked off her swords’ belts and unbuttoned her leathers. Shortly she stood only in her linen underclothes—then, oblivious to the cold, she shed even these, adding them to the pile of her garments. Once naked, she settled cross-legged atop her cloak.
Mogweed squirmed at the sight of her. He felt stirrings in his loins, a rush of heat, and licked his dry lips. His eyes wandered over her curves and her long, muscled legs. He hunkered down for a better look.
As she sat, it was easy to see that Mycelle was not completely naked. Twisted around her upper arm, she still wore the rainbow-banded snake, the paka’golo.
Mycelle glanced to the moon again, staring at it for a long moment.
As Mogweed had hoped, it was time—time once more for Mycelle to renew herself with the snake’s poison. Carefully, Mycelle teased the tiny paka’golo from its perch and onto her hand. It squirmed with clear agitation. It, too, sensed the moment had drawn near once again.
Mogweed swallowed in anticipation, his eyes fixed on what was to come.
Mycelle lifted the snake and brought it to her throat, craning her neck to bare the tender flesh at its crook. The paka’golo writhed in her fingers, its tiny tongue flickering. It drew back to strike, jaws opening, fangs unhinging to expose their lengths.
Mogweed did not see the serpent lash out. One moment it stood poised; then the next its jaws were fastened to Mycelle’s throat. Mogweed watched the snake spasm as it pumped its poison into her.
Slowly the woman toppled backward limply, arms falling loosely to the side. Where the snake had struck, Mycelle’s flesh melted as the poison spread. First her neck and shoulder dissolved into an amorphous shape, an amber-hued gel that flowed and churned. Then, as the poison spread outward, so did the transformation. Her naked form melted like a wax doll placed too near the flames.
Mogweed’s fists clenched with both frustration and desire. Here was the true form of the si’lura. How he longed to melt himself and share with Mycelle. The man in him had responded to her naked form; now his si’luran half rang out with desire. Mogweed could barely contain himself. Sweat pebbled over his skin. His blood rushed, his heartbeat thudding heavy in his chest. But he was not the one to share this moment.
The paka’golo, floating atop the gelatinous amber mass of Mycelle, now sank into her depths, swimming through her, inside her. Through the translucency, Mogweed watched the snake sweep and contort in S-shaped waves. Mycelle’s flesh seemed to ripple in response. Where the snake passed, the amber hues brightened. Soon her entire form glowed.
Once this was accomplished, the snake surfaced again, rising like a diver and floating atop Mycelle’s body. Slowly the rippling and churning calmed, and a form began to reshape itself out of chaos. In a matter of moments, limbs were sculpted again, and a body of smooth curves re-formed.
Mycelle was reborn again. Her lips parted, and she gasped her first breath. With her chest heaving, she remained upon her cloak, eyes still closed as the transformation wound to completion. The paka’golo again perched upon her upper arm, coiling into place.
Mogweed trembled at the sight of her. Then something cold touched the flushed skin of his cheek. Mogweed yelled and tumbled backward, his arm raised in protection.
A large dark shape loomed over him. It took him a shuddering heartbeat to recognize his brother. Fardale settled to his haunches, tongue hanging loosely in wolfish amusement.
Mogweed sat up and cuffed his brother, but his blow was shaky.
“Who’s out there?” a rasped voice called. It was Mycelle.
Mogweed cringed a moment, then scrambled to his feet. “It . . . it’s just me! I’ve found Fardale.” He moved forward as if he had just arrived. “I thought you’d like to know.”
Pushing aside a branch, he found Mycelle already dressed in her linen underclothes. She nodded to him, eyes exhausted, then turned to her piled garments. “It’s good to see you again, Fardale.”
The treewolf growled in acknowledgment, then crossed to the stream and drank heartily.
Mycelle and Mogweed shared a glance. Both had noted Fardale’s lack of mental greetings. He did not even try to communicate in the si’luran way any longer.
Muzzle still dripping, Fardale crossed to a bush and raised his leg. His hot stream steamed in the evening’s cold.
Again Mycelle glanced to Mogweed, an eyebrow raised.
Mogweed stared in shock at his brother’s casual action. Once done, Fardale lifted his nose, sniffed the air, then loped toward camp, clearly drawn by the scent of the night’s stew pot.
Mycelle tugged on her leggings. “Fardale is close to full wolf. Are you sure you still have another moon’s time before you both settle?”
Mogweed remembered his own response to Mycelle’s naked form. He had wanted so desperately to take her like a man. Even now, he was glad his own cloak hid how much he still felt that way. “I . . . I don’t know. No one’s been cursed like us before.”
Mycelle touched his shoulder, and Mogweed had to fight down a shudder of desire. “If there is a way to stop this, we’ll find it.
”
Mogweed nodded and stepped away. He glanced at her snake as she retrieved her jerkin. His eyes narrowed as a sudden flare of frustrated anger burned through his desires. It was not fair that Mycelle had been given back her shape-shifting gifts by the serpent. She had voluntarily settled into her human form but was still given this second chance.
The snake seemed to sense his gaze and lifted its tiny head. Their eyes met. A tongue flickered out at him, tasting the air between them.
Mogweed’s eyes narrowed, remembering the flow of Mycelle’s flesh. For the thousandth time, he wondered if some clue to his own problem was not hidden under his own nose. The old healer, Mama Freda, had claimed that the snake was tied to Mycelle since her resurrection, and its magick was linked solely to her spirit. But what if that link were somehow broken? What if a new link could be forged?
Mycelle straightened and pulled into her jerkin. “We should get back to camp.”
Mogweed nodded. He waited until she was fully dressed, then followed her down, watching her back.
As he strode, a new desire took hold of his heart: not the lusts of a man, but something darker. What if the link could be broken?
PERCHED IN THE limbs of a massive redwood, Meric counted the d’warves passing below. Ten. It was the second patrol the party had come upon as they neared Tor Amon. And like the other, this group had its guard down. The patrol’s guttural laughter and loud voices had carried down the mountain pass, giving plenty of warning to Meric’s group. Up here, the d’warves had grown lax. Then again, why shouldn’t they? Between the Grim of the Fell and their own entrenched armies at Castle Mryl, what did they need to fear out here? Who could threaten them?
Meric lifted a hand and cupped his lips. He let out a piercing cry of an ice eagle. In response, Fardale burst from behind a holly bush and rushed the last d’warf in the party. He slashed the warrior’s hamstring and was gone in a blur of shadowed fur. The wounded d’warf yelled and tumbled to his face. His fellow soldiers swung around.