Wat began walking faster.
It wasn't until the cluster of ancient trees that surrounded the pool came into sight that Griswold spoke again.
"Call them in, boy. The birds can't fly here. The branches are too dense."
Wat put his wrists out at his sides and gave a low whistle. First Keegan came to a wrist, then Gaelen. When they entered the canopy of trees, Wat placed the birds on a rocky ledge near the pool, where they settled and turned their attention to the water.
The falcons watched with intense interest as Griswold
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retrieved his cup from the ledge and filled it with water from the pool. He drank deeply and then handed the cup to Wat, who drained it. As if this was some unspoken signal, the birds fluttered down to the edge of the pool and began to bathe.
Wat looked over at Griswold, half afraid the birds might be in trouble.
His grandfather waved his hand in the air in dismissal. "It's fine. It's as much their pool as anyone's."
Wat watched the falcons as they splashed water over their wings and used their beaks to comb it through their fine feathers.
"You may get in, too, if you like."
Wat pulled his tunic over his head and waded into the pool. It was unlike any water he had ever felt before. It was warm and soft and seemed almost heavy, as if he were bathing in oil. He dove under the surface and opened his eye. The deep, golden green was so beautiful it made his throat ache. He heard the thrumming again, and in no time his heartbeat matched that of the forest around him. And it wasn't gentle this time. It was full of power, strength, like the strong, steady footsteps of an unimaginably tall giant, or the slamming of an enormous hammer on a blacksmith's anvil. The water called to him, beckoning him, urging him
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to stay and live in the great golden light forever. With a gasp, he pushed himself to the surface and took a great gulp of air.
Wat climbed out of the pool, shivering slightly even though the air was warm and soft. Lying down on his stomach, he watched the suns sparkling rays play off the waters surface.
As he lay there, an awareness of the land crept into him, as if his very skin were soaking up the earth. His breathing deepened and his heartbeat slowed. He became conscious of the rocks and soil, of deep roots reaching far into the depths of the earth, and throughout it all, a slow, steady rhythm that felt as if it were the heartbeat of the land itself.
He was part of it now. Not just a visitor, but part of its very essence. As it was a part of his.
The light breeze stirring the air filled his body and passed through him, just as it would rustle through the branches of a tree. Then the awareness dropped away from him--as if some tie had been severed.
He glanced up at Griswold, who sat with his chin cupped in his hand, staring hard at the pool's surface. His feet dangled over the edge of the water. Had he felt it, too?
Wat cocked his head. He thought he heard--no, not heard really, but felt something.
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A small ripple disturbed the pool's surface. At first, Wat assumed he had imagined it. But no, there it was again.
"They have entered the forest," Griswold announced in a soft voice that sent fear seeping into Wat's veins like icy water.
Wat sprang to his feet and walked over to where Griswold stared into the pool. For a brief flash, he had an image of thundering hooves, jingling harnesses, the shouts of men. And then it was gone.
Griswold spoke again. "I had hoped we'd have more time. Your powers aren't strong enough, yet." He turned and peered through the trees. "We must run, go deeper into the forest, until your strength grows. Then we can face them."
Wat reached for his tunic and pulled it over his head. He looked around him, at this sacred place. He could still feel the remnants of the forest's heartbeat inside him, guiding his own heart. Had he truly found this place only to be chased from it? After years of painful longing he finally had a place to call home, here in the forest he loved so well. Were the Normans to steal this part of his life as well?
No, he thought. They would not. He turned to Griswold and spoke. "I am ready now. I will not run."
"Nonsense!" The word exploded from Griswold's mouth, and Wat realized his grandfather was afraid. For him.
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"You've barely mastered a few basic sigils and tree names. You have no knowledge of how to call the other powers to your aid."
"But you yourself said you had never seen such raw talent before. Surely that is of some account."
Griswold became so agitated he began pacing. "One taste of magic and you think you can take on all the Normans?"
"It won't just be me. I'll have help," said Wat.
"My powers are great, boy, but I'm not certain even they are up to this," Griswold confessed.
"Not just your power." Wat looked over at the pool. Deep inside he felt as if the forest had already accepted him as the next keeper of the forest. "But that of the forest as well."
He turned back to Griswold. "I will not run anymore. I am sick of running and cringing in the shadows." He clenched his fists. "I want to drive these men away. Keep them from ever returning."
Griswold drew his eyebrows together and studied Wat, almost as if he hadn't ever really seen him clearly before. "I don't know if that is possible."
"But it is possible to try." Wat met Griswold's gaze, and the older man seemed to realize Wat could not be turned from this course.
"Very well," he said with a sigh. "But let us at least get to
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your place of power first so we can make the preparations."
"My place of power? What is that?" asked Wat.
"The oak grove, where you made your vow to the falcons and your own powers first awakened," Griswold said as he began walking away from the pool.
"But wouldn't our powers be stronger here at the pool? In the heart of the forest?" Wat asked as he followed.
"No. We must never risk them getting close enough to foul this place. Besides, in battle you do not use your heart to wield your sword. You use your limbs. Now hurry!"
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***
Chapter 17
Griswold struck out straight through the thick- est part of the trees, in a direction that would lead them directly to the oak grove. From far off, they heard the blare of a hunting horn.
Wat turned around. "The falcons."
"Don't worry. Your birds will meet us there."
"But they don't know where we're going," Wat protested.
"They will be there."
Wat had to trust his grandfather on this. There was no time to go back for Gaelen and Keegan.
The horn blared again. Wat turned to see if he could determine how far away they were, but his grandfather urged him forward. "Don't stop!"
The next time the horn sounded, it was closer and joined by the sound of braying hounds.
"You must go on alone. And hurry," said Griswold. "You are out of time."There was a new urgency in his voice. "You have claimed this as your moment of truth; now go to it."
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Fear, anger, and nerves were lodged in Wat's gut, like huge stones. The weight of them threatened to pull him down, but he did his best to push them aside. He ignored the dull ache in his bad foot and kept going.
One of the hunstmen's hounds broke through the underbrush off to their right, his teeth barred in a vicious snarl. Griswold gave Wat a hard shove that nearly sent him to his knees. "Go!"
Wat hesitated as the dog bounded toward them with his hackles raised.
"I will take care of the hound," shouted Griswold. "Now go!"
Wat could afford to wait no longer. He turned and broke into a run. When he dared to look back over his shoulder, he saw Griswold's staff swing high in the air just before it descended upon the hound's thick head.
Wat ran, cursing at his clumsiness as he tripped and stumbled. He heard a loud screech from above, and then an answering cry. His falcons! He risked a quick glance skyward, where G
aelen and Keegan were circling overhead, keeping him in sight. Griswold had been right; they had followed.
The giant oak came into sight, reaching high above the
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neighboring trees, almost calling to him, beckoning to him with its branches. Hearing the whinny of a huntsman's mount in the near distance, Wat tried to quicken his pace, but found there was no speed left in him. The bitter taste of fear rose in his throat.
Expecting to feel a hand on his shoulder any minute, Wat fixed his gaze on the oak tree. He cleared all sounds and thoughts of pursuit from his mind and let himself see only the oak. He pictured how it would feel when he reached its shade. Imagined how the rough bark would feel under his fingers. His whole mind filled itself with the giant oak tree.
And then he was there.
As he tried to catch his breath, his mind scrambled, trying to remember every bit of magic and power Griswold had told him about in the last fortnight. Sigils, he thought. He would use the sigils and call up the power of this place. He'd had no training yet in searching out the elemental pathways, but perhaps there would still be some trace of the original marks Griswold had made. The positions of those marks were permanently etched in his brain after watching the power spring to life between them.
He went directly to the nearest spot and was relieved to find a faint circle barely visible in the earth. Quickly, he bent
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to retrace the circle and carefully placed a dot in the center, then moved on to the next location, where he traced the symbol for earth. As he stood, he heard horses draw nearer and his heartbeat stumbled. Not yet. He wasn't ready yet.
He quickened to the next mark, where he bent to redraw the four squiggly lines that invoked the power of water. Hope coursed through him as the marks filled up with water, proof of what Griswold had told him. His abilities were strong. As he moved on to make the next mark, his gaze searched the grove, heart sinking when he saw there was still no sign of Griswold. He had hoped he would be here by now. The huntsmen were close. He could hear the labored breathing of their lathered horses.
Wat bent to draw the three interconnecting lines to invoke the element of fire, gasping as the earth beneath his finger turned hot. He snatched his finger back just as Hugh and his men broke through the edge of the clearing and spotted him. Wat, not wanting to look as if he was cowering on the ground, slowly stood up.
"Your mother led us right to you. I suspected she might, if she thought it was safe," Hugh said.
Wat remembered Griswold, poised on the doorstep after his mother had left, his face full of sorrow.
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"Surely, you did not think you could get away with such a theft?" Hugh's voice continued. "Plums are a minor matter, but falcons?"
Wat was surprised at the strength in his own voice. "They don't belong to you or Lord Sherborne. They belong here. In the forest."
Hugh flung himself from his mount and strode toward Wat. "You stupid fool! This whole forest belongs to his lordship. Every beast, every bird, every tree is his. Even those sorry souls like yourself who live here. You all belong to his lordship. And he values you less than the beasts, have no doubt."
The last sigil. Wat had to get in position to invoke the last element. He turned and scrambled over to the great oak.
Behind him, Hugh laughed. "It is useless to run, boy. You will never outrun me."
Wat let Hugh think him a coward and covered the last few steps to the giant oak until he stood on the graves of the dead falcons, the ones he had dug with his own hands and watered with his own tears. He looked back up at Hugh. "This place is not yours. Not Sherborne's. Leave now and swear not to return, and perhaps you will be spared."
"Spared?" Hugh roared, then threw back his head and
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laughed again. "Spared? By the likes of you?" He took another step toward Wat, and a shrill cry sounded high above. Hugh looked up in time to see the two falcons dropping like stones out of the sky. They bore down on him with their talons outstretched. Hugh backed away, throwing up his arms to protect his face. The birds came in at breathtaking speed, flying straight for his head. Their strong wings beat against him, talons slashing at his flesh wherever they made contact.
"Call them off! Call them off or I'll have my men shoot them down!"
Wat raised one hand in the air. "Gaelen, Keegan. Down." The birds pulled back and circled Hugh once before alighting on a nearby limb of the oak tree. Their keen eyes never left the huntsmen.
"You have trained them well," Hugh said, not laughing anymore. "For that, your death will be swift and painless." With one eye on the falcons, Hugh took another step toward Wat.
Wat backed away and found himself up against the tree. He looked down and saw new grass growing where he had buried Gaelen and Keegan's parents. He had to draw the last symbol if he was to have any hope. He leaned over to the
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side and tried to draw the last mark while keeping his eyes on Hugh. But he couldn't reach. His arms weren't long enough, and he didn't dare take his eye off Hugh.
Wat heard a slight rustle behind the oak tree, and a whisper-soft voice drifted in his ear. "Do not look around, boy. But I am here. I am with you." Wat could feel Griswold's presence in his very bones. "Use your power, boy," Griswold urged, his voice still nothing but a whisper. "Remember the sigils. Use them. Use the lay lines. They are yours to command. Call upon everything you know and use it. Now. While there is still time."
A gust of breeze sent Wat's hair fluttering, and as he lifted a hand to push it out of his eyes, they landed on the feathers. The ones he had taken from the two dead falcons. Without thinking, he snatched them from his hair and reached down to the ground, where he used the quills to trace the last sigil, the spiral that represented the living spirit in all things.
Barely had he lifted the feathers from the earth than he felt the lines of power snap into place, surging from one mark to the next, filling the grove with a steady hum. The energy pressed against his skin, like a swell of floodwater after a harsh rain. Wat struggled for a moment, then
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stopped. He had called this power, and it had come. Now he must ride it out and hope for the best.
Wat gave himself over to the forces he had called. They throbbed under his feet, then he was rising up and up, the power washing through him, leaving the sensation of racing through the air, head thrown back, and arms outstretched.
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***
Chapter 18
AS THE POWER SPRANG TO LIFE, GAELEN AND KEEGAN rose up in the tree again, screeching and calling out, circling the clearing. The other falcons, the tame falcons on the wrists of the hunting party, shrieked back in response. They grew agitated and unsettled, straining against the wrists that held them. Keegan and Gaelen continued circling the grove, calling out to the captive falcons, as if trying to work them into a frenzy. One by one, they rose up, fighting and straining at their leashes, trying to join the falcons in the air.
'"Tis the work of the devil.'" cried one of the bowmen. He fell to his knees and raised his fingers in the sign to ward off evil.
Hugh ignored his panicked men and advanced slowly, savoring the moment like a victorious cat with a particularly elusive mouse. His eyes narrowed and he pulled his knife from its sheath. "Enough of this game, boy. Your time has come."
Wat cried out as a sharp pain pierced his sightless eye. At
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first, he thought it was Hugh's knife. But when he opened his good eye, he saw that Hugh still held the knife in his hand.
The pain grew worse before Wat realized what was causing it. Light.
For the first time ever, he could see light with his bad eye. For an eye born into darkness, so much bright light was excruciating. He closed his eye and covered it with his hand, but still the light crept in, a hot, searing pink as it poured through his fingertips. Try as he might, he was unable to keep the light from flooding his eye.
Squinting as hard as he
could, Wat pulled his hands away from his face. The light on his eyelids burned like a fire-red brand. Slowly he opened both his eyes.
He forgot about Hugh and his knife. He forgot everything when he realized ... he could see.
And so well! With his good eye he could see not just the bowmen and Hugh but far back into the trees and beyond. When he looked at the eyes of the mounted horsemen, his vision was so sharp, he could count their eyelashes. And his bad eye! No longer was there just darkness. He could see light and shadows, shapes and movement.
Suddenly Wat cried out and jerked back against the tree.
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His lame foot began to cramp. It felt as if his toes were being ripped from his foot, forced to uncurl and stretch out. His toenails prickled and stretched, as if they were being pulled from his toes. He tottered on one foot, his twisted one no longer able to help support his weight.
A tingling sensation traveled down from his eye through the rest of his body. It was as if tiny flower buds, or leaves, were sprouting and unfurling all over him. He could feel a pop, pop, pop as something burst out all over his skin. Wat saw a look of horror cross Hugh's face. The man took a step backward, his knife dangling forgotten in his hand. Wat turned to look down at his arms, wanting to see what had horrified the seasoned hunter. He gasped. Where his arms had been were two large wings covered in brown-and-white feathers.
Too many things were happening all at once. He couldn't grasp them all. The sensations made his head ache and pound. He was spinning inside his head, faster and faster. He would have screamed if he could. But when he opened his mouth, the scream turned into a screech.
"Keeeek--keeeekl" he cried.