Wit'ch Star (v5)

  Nee’lahn glanced at him, tears on her cheek. “The Old Ones come from before even the koa’kona, from before our two peoples walked the world. It is from the Old Ones that all other trees descend.” A sob escaped her. “We thought them gone, dead for countless centuries. During the time of the nyphai, all that remained of these ancients were a few isolated stumps, hollow and dead, lost in various deep forests. A grove such as this cannot exist.” She implored him with his eyes. “The nyphai would have known!”

  Meric stared out at the grove. “Perhaps not if they grew from this loam. As you said yourself, here you are deaf to any treesong. Maybe the Land itself hides this grove.”

  “But why?” she asked, staring again at the forest.

  He shook his head. “The si’lura may know.”

  Nee’lahn pulled herself to her feet. “I must find out. I must commune with these ancients.”

  Meric helped her down the slope, trailing in the footprints of the others. Only now did he notice the shapes moving among the fires below. He had thought the number of shape-shifters that had accompanied them was an army, but below was a gathering a hundredfold larger. As he worked down the trail into the ancient valley, he stared at those around him. Animals of every ilk moved through the woods: lumbering bears, fleet deer, loping wolves, slinking woodland cats. Winged creatures swooped and dove: eagles, rocs, giant golden hawks. But these beasts were but a small fraction of the gathering. Most denizens of this grove wore a blended mix of features.

  A small boy ran past their trail. Instead of hair, he bore a crown of feathers and trailed a long, furred tail. He paused, staring wide-eyed at the strangers, amber eyes aglow.

  “Finch!” a woman called sharply. She stepped from around a noosegill bush. She was slender and tall, her bare skin covered with a sleek pelt of striped black-and-white fur. “Get away from these strangers.”

  The boy cocked his head like a bird, then glanced to his elder. His eyes flared brighter as he silently communicated.

  “Don’t argue with me. Get to our fire!” She pointed an arm.

  The boy dashed off into the woods, his tail a flag behind him. The woman studied them through narrowed lids, then spun faster than an eye could follow, leaping away after her child.

  Meric lost her among the trees and bushes. But around him, a kaleidoscope of shapes and configurations kept them company. Most seemed drawn by curiosity, but other faces lit with enmity and wariness.

  Meric increased his pace, closing the distance with their own group, where Bryanna watched the spectacle with her mouth hanging open. “I never imagined there were so many. These must be the si’lura from this entire region, maybe from all the Western Reaches.”

  Meric studied the spread of fires throughout the valley. The trapper woman could be correct.

  Ahead, Elena and Er’ril carried Joach between them, while Harlequin and Gunther flanked the darkmage Greshym. Thorn called for a stop. “Wait here. I must go forward alone to announce your presence.” She disappeared ahead.

  Elena glanced to Meric and Nee’lahn. “Joach thinks the ground here saps his elemental strength, but he’s so exhausted that he’s not sure.”

  “Your brother is correct,” Nee’lahn said. “We’re cut off from our magick.”

  “We’ve entered a nexus.” Greshym spoke casually, but Meric sensed a thread of surprise in the other’s voice.

  “What’s a nexus?” Elena asked.

  Greshym shrugged.

  Gunther shook him. “Answer the lass.”

  Greshym glanced to his large, bearded companion. “Gunther, being a trapper, I imagine you’ve a lodestone to find your way through these endless woods. May I see it?”

  The man frowned, but his sister nodded to him. With a grumble, he reached into a pocket of his jerkin and pulled out a satchel. He dumped its contents onto his palm: a small bowl and a chunk of cork with an imbedded sliver of lodestone.

  “Lodestone is tuned to the world’s energy,” Greshym explained. “Used with skill, it will point toward true north.”

  “So?” Gunther said, speaking all their thoughts.

  Greshym nodded to the large man’s hand. “Go ahead and try.”

  The big man snarled, but again his sister encouraged him. “Do as he asks, Gunther.”

  The trapper dropped to one knee, settled the bowl, then removed a leather water flask from his hip. He filled the bowl, then floated the cork atop the water’s surface.

  Meric leaned closer. The cork and lodestone spun slightly as if trying to center on true north, but instead of settling into position, it continued to spin, faster and faster. It became a blur in the center of the cup, water sloshing from the sides.

  “A nexus,” Greshym said. “Here the Land’s energies are in flux. As with the lodestone, an elemental will be unable to align himself here.” He nodded to Meric and Nee’lahn. “You haven’t lost your powers. You simply can’t tune yourself to the Land’s energy.”

  Meric watched the lodestone spin.

  From up ahead, music suddenly welled out into the night. Everyone turned to look. Under the spread of branches, flutes and reeds piped hauntingly, accompanied by the beat of stretched leather and hollow wood. Around them, the babble and murmurs of those gathered in the valley grew hushed, and as the silence grew, the music seemed to swell louder.

  Thorn strode toward them, no longer bearing her torch. “The council awaits,” she announced, and waved for them to follow.

  Gunther packed his lodestone away, and they all marched after their guide. Nee’lahn slipped her hand into Meric’s. As they walked, she stared out at the old forest. “A nexus . . . and here stand the Old Ones.”

  “Do you think it means anything?”

  Her eyes squinted, and she shook her head.

  Meric sensed she was holding something back, but he also knew better than to press her. She needed time to ponder something in her own heart. So he continued in silence.

  With each step, the music quickened around them. Horns joined the flutes, deep and mournful, while the drums continued to pound solemnly. Thorn’s pace became more brisk.

  Er’ril helped Joach along. “I don’t like this. We could be walking into a trap.”

  “Trap or not,” Harlequin said, “it seems we’ve no choice but to run headlong into it.”

  Meric glanced behind him. Thousands of amber eyes stared in their direction—not at them, but toward where they marched.

  “The forest opens ahead,” Nee’lahn said.

  Meric swung his attention around. Thorn led the way under an arch of branches. Beyond the threshold, moonlight shone brighter, unimpeded by the usual thick canopy. Bathed in silver, a wide meadow opened, gently sloping down from the ring of forest around them.

  Meric studied the open glade.

  Before them, a gentle slope of grass descended toward a wide central pool. An island in its center humped from the dark waters, and from this small spit of land, one of the largest Old Ones grew. Its trunk was twice as thick as any of the other giants, its branches a crown of ivory and gold.

  The group stared out at the sight, stunned. The hidden musicians had halted their playing at the appearance of their party. A deep silence pressed down upon the valley.

  Below, at the foot of the giant tree, the pool’s waters were not still. They slowly churned, flowing in a continual swirl around the central island as if stirred from below.

  Meric knew what he was seeing.

  “The heart of the nexus,” Nee’lahn whispered beside him.

  Er’ril had less interest in the pool and the giant tree than in the ring of folk around the water’s edge. A group of twenty men and women draped in simple white cloaks stood guard around the tree’s pool. Each wore a garland of coppery leaves in his or her hair.

  “The Council of Wishnu,” Thorn intoned solemnly. She glanced to their party. “Come.”

  Under the heavy silence, the group followed Thorn down the slope. Ahead the elders of the si’lura walked the edge of the pool
to gather before it. Er’ril kept one eye on them and another on the surrounding forest. Though he spotted not a single pair of amber eyes out in the woods, he sensed the attention and focus of an entire people upon this meeting.

  Er’ril passed Joach to Harlequin. Free, he motioned Elena to step ahead with him. It would be up to them to convince this council that the damage to their forest had been done to protect against a greater evil. But as he stared at the hard faces, he found no sympathy there.

  Thorn stepped before a broad-shouldered man who towered over his brethren. She dropped to one knee. “Father.”

  His face warmed ever so slightly. “Rise, Child. This night we will forgo formality.”

  Thorn climbed to her feet. She turned to the others. “Father, these are the folk you’ve instructed my hunters to bring before you.”

  The tall man stared at the assembled group. “I am the elder’root,” he said. “I’ve already been informed of who you are.” His eyes settled upon Elena with clear suspicion. “And I’ve heard about your claims of innocence, of how a greater battle beyond our forest has resulted in the recent bouts of devastation.”

  Er’ril stepped forward. “What we claim is true.”

  The man’s attention never diverted from Elena. “That will be judged this night.”

  Beyond him, the waters of the central pool began to churn more vigorously, as if sensing the leader’s agitation. Er’ril caught a glimpse of something moving through those dark waters, but when he tried to focus on it, it vanished.

  Elena moved to Er’ril’s side. She stood straight before the other’s hard gaze. “Ask us what you will. We will answer with full honesty. We wish to hide nothing. But first let me assure you that the destruction to your homelands was not out of malice to your people or these lands. At each instance, a greater menace was thwarted.”

  The leader’s eyes flicked toward Greshym. “So we have heard.”

  “If he’s heard so much, why are we here?” Harlequin mumbled behind them.

  The small man’s whisper did not pass unnoticed. “You are here to prove what you speak,” the elder’root said. “And to answer other questions.”

  Elena spoke again. “We will do all we can to help you understand our cause and purpose.”

  The leader nodded. “Well spoken, lass. Then tell us what happened to Mogweed and Fardale.”

  Elena glanced to Er’ril, the question catching her by surprise. Er’ril answered for her. “The twin brothers came to us frozen in their forms, one a wolf, the other a man.”

  “This I know. It was I who banished them from our forests.”

  Er’ril nodded. “They told us how they were sent from the forest because they could no longer shape-shift.”

  The leader neither acknowledged nor denied his words. “And now? What has become of the brothers?”

  Er’ril grimaced. “Through the magick of a healing snake’s poison, their two bodies have merged, fused into one form. Fardale rules the body during the day, Mogweed at night. But once again they are able to shift like true si’lura.”

  The leader looked stricken, and the other members of the council began to murmur. Finally, the leader held up an arm, silencing them. “Is what you say the truth?”

  Er’ril nodded once, standing straight-backed. “I swear on my very honor.”

  The elder’root closed his eyes. “Then what we had hoped is lost forever.” The leader of the si’lura sighed, his shoulders slumping. “Your war has done more damage to our forest than mere drowned woods and blasted lakes. It has corrupted the hope of our entire people.” He turned to face the council. The members’ eyes glowed a richer amber as they communicated to one another, conferring, judging.

  Thorn stepped to Er’ril’s side. “My father had placed too much hope upon Mogweed and Fardale.” Her words were bitter. “We’ve wasted over two winters on the words of a long-dead prophet.”

  Er’ril faced the huntress. “Maybe it’s time you shared what you’ve kept hidden. Elena bears enough magick that she could have burned her way through your pack of hunters, but she came here because her heart aches for those innocents harmed in our war. She came to make amends, to explain, to hide nothing from your people.”

  Elena had stepped to his side. Er’ril found his hand in hers. She squeezed his fingers.

  He continued, letting his passion shine. “Fardale . . . even Mogweed . . . have proven themselves brave allies for our cause. If there is more we should know, more that could either help them or help us understand what’s happened to them, then you owe it to both them and us to explain.”

  Thorn’s expression grew more pained with each word. Finally she could hold her tongue no longer. “Don’t you think I want to help them?” she demanded. “Fardale was my mate.” She turned away. “But my father had no choice. Only after they had left the forests, only after I was found to be with child, did my father tell me the true reason for the pair’s banishment.”

  “Tell us,” Er’ril urged. Elena nodded at his side. Slowly the others gathered around, listening in, but keeping a respectful distance.

  Thorn met Elena’s gaze, her eyes glimmering with tears. “The story starts in the distant past, when the forests of the Western Reaches were young. It is said that our people were born out of the Land itself, birthed to minister to this great forest.” She glanced over to the pool and the giant tree. “Our earliest stories say that the first of our people rose from this very pool. Born of water, our flesh flows, allowing us to share the forms of all the forest’s creatures.” The huntress stared out at the ring of woods. “This is a sacred place. These are the first trees to grow from these lands.”

  “The Old Ones,” Nee’lahn whispered behind them.

  Thorn nodded. “From these trees, all others were born. The entire Western Reaches flowed out from this grove, as did our people. Our two lives are linked.”

  “Are you saying you’re bonded to these trees as the nyphai are to their own?” Elena asked.

  Thorn shook her head, glancing to Nee’lahn. “No, our linking is different.” Thorn stared back at the pool and the giant white-barked elder. “Rather than one tree for one individual, our entire people are bonded to that sole tree. We are its children.”

  A stunned silence spread through the group. “How could that be?” Nee’lahn asked. “You yourself gave birth to Fardale’s child.”

  Thorn sighed. “It is only our spirits that are tied to the tree, not our bodies. Each new si’lura born is spiritually linked to the tree. It is our Spiritual Root. Without this connection, we’d fade . . . first our ability to shift, then our very lives.”

  “No wonder the secrecy,” Harlequin whispered at Er’ril’s shoulder.

  Er’ril glanced to the small man, reading the significance behind his narrowed gaze. Would they be allowed to leave with this intimate knowledge?

  Er’ril swung around with a frown. Once started down this path, there was no going back. “What does this have to do with Fardale and Mogweed?” he grumbled to Thorn.

  Thorn nodded. “I’m coming to that, but first I must tell of a threat that arose here five centuries ago.”

  “That was when Alasea was attacked by the Dark Lord,” Er’ril noted.

  “We know little of such matters,” Thorn said. “But during that time, a great shaking rocked our lands. It lasted three days and nights. Trees toppled, rivers were diverted, and the ground split into chasms.”

  Er’ril nodded. “I remember those quakes. They occurred as the southern plains of Standi were sunk by the Dark Lord, forming the swamps and bogs of the Drowned Lands.”

  Thorn narrowed one eye. “You remember the quakes? How could that be?”

  Er’ril waved away her query. “Go on. What happened after the ground shook?”

  Thorn stared suspiciously a moment, then went on. “Even here in our homeland grove, we lost half our ancient trees.”

  Nee’lahn groaned. “So many of the Old Ones lost . . .”

  “But the true damage
was not known for another century.” The huntress stared back at the central tree. “The Spirit Root was also somehow sickened by the shaking. The leaders of that time noticed—”

  “Thorn,” a voice interrupted sternly, cutting through her words.

  They turned to find the eyes of the council upon them again. The elder’root stood before them, his face hard. “Thorn, you speak out of turn.”

  “Father, they have a right to know.”

  “The secrets of the si’lura—”

  “—are going to doom us all,” Thorn snapped. “For too long, we’ve turned our backs to the world beyond our forests. This blindness is as much to blame for the destruction in the Western Reaches as these folks here.”

  Her father’s expression darkened. “That is not for you to decide.”

  Thorn clamped her lips tight, folding her arms.

  The elder’root turned to Er’ril and Elena. “There is a way to judge your words,” he said. “An ancient ritual used by the si’lura to divine the truth of your heart.”

  “And what is this ritual?” Er’ril asked.

  The tall man swung an arm toward the central pool. At his signal, the council retreated to the water’s edge, circling around the banks of the pool. “The Root must weigh your spirit.”

  Thorn gasped. “Father, that’s unfair! The Spirit Root has not responded in ages.”

  Her father’s eyes flashed. “Again, Daughter, I’ll ask you to watch your tongue, or I’ll have you taken from my sight.”

  Thorn’s face reddened, but she obeyed.

  Er’ril stepped forward. “Tell us what we must do to prove ourselves.”

  The elder’root stared another moment at his daughter, then turned again to Er’ril. Beyond him, the council had resumed their positions around the pool, but now they had joined arms. A gap in their ranks remained. The spot awaited their leader to complete the circle.

  The elder’root spoke to their group. “The Root must judge one of your party. If you speak the truth, the Spirit of the Root will rise and acknowledge you. If you speak with a false heart, you will be shunned.”