It took her more than half an hour to reach the first plateau. Sweaty even in the morning chill, she stopped to take a breath. No sign of the dragon since she’d left the house. She quickened her pace, still dizzy with wonder at what she’d seen. What was a terrow doing here, so far from its homeland in the east? The thought of pairing up with a dragon to find the village children thrilled her, but it was a thrill mixed with fear. Dragons were dangerous.
Mist crept in on cat paws through the underbrush and stirred about her feet in rings. At last she reached the trail that wound up the ridge high above the lake. She stopped by a mossy boulder, hands on her knees to catch her breath. The woods seemed too silent.
Her skin began to prick. She hadn’t been able to come when she’d first heard the deyas’ calls. Had she missed her chance to ask their help? Still out of breath, she started off again.
Children fly when worlds are shaken,
Now the children are Wind-taken.
Seek them there, seek them here,
before the children disappear.
The first lines of the Blind Seer game haunted her as she circled the ridge. They seemed to foretell what had happened down in town. Blind Seer was a game she’d played when she was younger, skipping off to hide from the seer, who stumbled about wearing his blindfold. Back then they’d thought nothing of the rhyme.
Snap. Hanna spun around. Who was following her? She slipped into the foliage.
Another snap. “Tymm? What are you doing here?”
“I finished up the platter and sneaked away from Mother. You can’t make me stay inside for always.” His short blond curls bobbed as he ripped the leaves off a slender twig.
Hanna pricked her ears, listening for a breeze. “Come on. I’ll take you home.” She thrust out her hand.
Tymm brushed her away. “I want to stay with you. You’re going to see Taunier, aren’t you? I know you like him.”
“I’m not going to see Taunier.” Impossible that her little brother could make her blush, but there it was.
“Then why’d you come up here?”
“Why should I tell you? And anyway, there’s no time to argue. I’ve got to get you home before the wind blows in.” She tugged him more forcefully.
He thrust out his chin. “I won’t go. I’m not afraid of no wind.”
Tymm was used to playing outdoors, roving with Da and Taunier tending sheep or mending pasture fences. He was too young to understand the horror of what had happened in town: everyone shouting, running after the wind-blown children; mothers and fathers crying out. One of the children was Tymm’s friend Cilla, a beautiful girl with red curls and a singing laugh. Hanna and Taunier had fought the gusts, climbed a tree, tried to grab Cilla’s flailing skirt as she blew higher and higher. In the end she and the other two were no more than three black dots sweeping east over the sea.
“Listen to me. The wind came after children and no one else, Tymm. It scoured through the crowd, knocking everyone but those three young ones flat, and it swept them away. You have to stay inside!”
Tymm resisted a little longer, but when she tried to pick him up and carry him back, he said, “I’m no baby!” His footfall was heavy as they made their way back along the rim of the gorge. If Tymm hadn’t come along, she could have found the deyas in another ten minutes. He was always getting in the way, always …
A little breeze stirred her hair. Hanna trembled. No one knew where the Wind-taken children had gone. Not the grieving parents nor the rest of the terrified villagers who’d sworn to keep their young children indoors or tethered to their sides if they had to step out of the house.
“Why didn’t you know that bad wind was going to come ahead of time?” Tymm asked sulkily. “Great-Uncle Enoch told me you can see the future in your dreamwalks.”
“He told you that?” Hanna gripped his hand tighter. “I can, sometimes, but not always.” She crushed a mushroom underfoot. It had upset her, too. She’d not felt any sense of danger when she’d gone to Brim with Da and Taunier that day. All she’d cared about was whether she could sit next to Taunier in the cart, close enough for her arm to touch his shoulder.
Taunier was sixteen and strong. He smiled little and talked even less. Still he never called her witch-girl like the other boys in town, never teased her for her strange miscolored eyes. That in itself would have warmed her to him, even without his tall muscled form, his smooth brown skin, dark eyes, and the slightly crooked nose that made his handsome face all the more real. Miles had boasted that he’d been the one who had given him that crooked nose in a fight, but she wasn’t sure it was true. Boys down in Brim liked a good fight, too, especially with the outsiders like Miles and Taunier.
That day in the market, she’d been so preoccupied with delicious thoughts of riding home next to Taunier that she’d had no inkling of the storm. What good were dreamwalks if they didn’t warn her of danger?
“Wait a moment, Tymm.” She stooped to uproot a few handfuls of long grass. She’d weave a sturdy tether, tie Tymm to her arm, and keep him close to her side.
“What are you doing?”
“Making a rope.”
“I can do that better than you.” Tymm swiped the grass. He would not have been so greedy if he knew what it was for. Still, what good would grass be in such a strong wind? She sighed.
They were nearly to the fork in the path that led back down to their cottage when the midday mist thinned enough for them to see the water below. Hanna paused and pointed down to the valley floor, at the little island poking out of the water in the center of Garth Lake.
“Can you see those giant trees?” she asked.
Tymm glanced up from his braid. “They’re all ugly and burnt up,” he observed, his fingers moving nimbly as he spoke.
Hanna didn’t blame Tymm for dismissing them. She’d felt the same way the first time the Falconer had brought her here. She smiled at her ignorance now. The Waytrees were likely more than a thousand years old. There were few trees like them in all of Noor, wise enough to bridge the way to the magical world of Oth. More Waytrees grew on the mountain, but none so old as these.
Only the ancient Waytrees housed deya spirits, who held the wisdom of the two worlds and helped the trees bind Noor and Oth together. The deyas’ magic was strong. She needed their help to find the Wind-taken children. But she couldn’t take Tymm down there. A rook flew past, its wings beating the air. She followed its flight and caught sight of a long golden spear shooting through the sky—the terrow dragon. Hanna’s neck tingled as the slender tail slipped into the clouds again.
“Tymm?” she breathed, her voice thick with wonder.
“Aye?” Tymm’s eyes were still on the grass rope. She would have told him about the dragon sighting if she hadn’t heard a wind rustling through the bushes.
What was she thinking, standing here on the trail with Tymm fully exposed?
“Let’s go.” Hanna tugged him down the path. This time she would tell Mother to lock the door, no matter how much Tymm complained.
A haunting sound drifted up the hill behind her. Soft at first, it slowly grew from one voice to two and three. The voices mingled with the dove cooing in the evergreens, the croaking frogs in the water below, but the deya song was deeper and richer than these.
Come, Dreamwalker,
Come, Hannalyn,
Before our roots are broken.
The deyas in the Waytrees were calling again, and she wanted to go, had to go.
I’ll come back, she silently promised.
“Hear that?” asked Tymm.
“Hurry,” she answered, though she was surprised Tymm could hear the deyas’ call. He had never been attuned to magic the way she and Miles were.
“Frogs in the lake,” Tymm shouted happily. “Dozens of them. I’ll catch some.” He suddenly broke free. Spinning round, he dropped the grass rope and started running down the steep hill toward Garth Lake below.
“Stop, Tymm! You can’t go down there!”
Hanna
retrieved the rope and ran after him. A cold gust slapped her face as she raced downhill.
“Come back now! It’s too dangerous! The wind is rising!”
He’d nearly reached the bushes.
“I’ll just get me a frog!” he called back. “I won’t be long.” He raced straight into the sill thornbushes, their thick red branches hiding him from her view.
“Get out of there, now! The wind is picking up!” She threw herself into the swaying thicket.
“Tymm? I’m just up the hill. Walk toward my voice.”
“I can’t. I’m stuck!”
She heard the panic in his call. “Hang on. I’ll get you out!” Hanna tied the grass rope about her middle. She’d need it once she reached him. Breaking off a branch, she swung it left and right, thrashing the tangled bushes. A sharp wind gusted through, rattling the sill thorns.
“Anteebwey!” she swore. Miles should be here to help her! He was learning magic on Othlore, but what good were books and study when a fierce magic had come here to Enness Isle to steal the younger children?
She had to reach Tymm, get him safely down to the Waytrees. Once there, the deyas might be able to use their magic to protect him against the rising wind.
“Help us,” Hanna screamed.
Help us, the deyas echoed back from across the lake, desperation in their voices. Something must be happening to them, but she couldn’t see their island through the thick bushes.
From the sky above the terrow suddenly spewed a line of bright orange flame. The bushes along the shore caught fire. Wind whistled through the thorns. The whistle rose to a scream, whipping the branches.
“Tymm! Drop to the ground if you can! Hurry!”
The sudden gale uprooted burning thornbushes and sucked them swirling into the sky.
Tymm called, “Tesha yoven!”
“What? What are you saying? Tymm?”
No answer.
“Help me!” shouted Hanna.
Another heavy gust swept down the hill. It blew Hanna into the air and slammed her down again. Sill thorns slashed her as she fell and hit the hard ground. She groped her way to her knees and shook herself. A loud cracking filled the air, followed by thunderous sounds. Was the wind blowing down the Waytrees?
“Tymm! Get down. Hold on to the ground! Don’t let go!”
Hanna managed to pull herself upright, but the next gust tore her farther away from Tymm. This time she landed full force on her back. She tried to breathe, to scream, but she couldn’t.
Swooping down again, the howling gale swept Tymm over her head.
Hanna jumped up, clawing at the sky. “No! Don’t take him! Let him go!”
Arms out, legs flailing, Tymm screamed as he blew over the pines. The wind drew him east above the foothills and sped him toward the sea.
She hadn’t reached him in time. Rage flooded through her.
“Why take Tymm?” she screamed. “What do you want with him?” She wept until her throat was raw.
A long while later, when she’d cried herself out, she stumbled through the ravaged bushes to the shore. The dragon’s fire had died down. Smoke rose to meet the swirling fog, brother to sister. There were no flashes of gold. The terrow had disappeared again. Hanna gripped Tymm’s grass rope, still strung about her waist. It hadn’t done any good. She hadn’t been able to save him.
The storm had blown the Waytrees down, and the little island in the lake was strewn with wood. Even in the mist she could see the broken trees split down the middle. The trunks and branches were bone white. The deyas were gone.
TWO
OTHLORE WOOD
When the Waytree bridges fall,
Roots die binding all to all.
—DRAGONS’ SONG
Bone-white marble walls surrounded the meers’ school at the base of Mount Kalmeer, whose great forest grew in all directions from its snowcapped peak. The first High Meer had chosen to build his school on Othlore, for the lone isle in the western sea of Noor was a place deeply rooted in magic.
A ray of sunlight broke through the clouds as Miles left the western gate with his bearhound, Breal, and crossed the creaking footbridge leading to the forest. It was risky to sneak outside when he should be in Restoration Magic class, but he’d heard a call coming from the Othlore Wood. A magic beckoning, he was sure. The sound had haunted him all day, though no one else seemed to notice, and so at last he’d come.
In the green canopy, pale light fell through the boughs, painting yellow circles on the forest floor. Already he and his dog were too far in to see the school. Apprentices from every land yearned to study magic here. Few students were accepted, and fewer still earned the right to be initiated as meers, with Othic symbols emblazoned on their palms. Miles was still proud to have been chosen. He would study hard, become a meer, and someday even become the High Meer. That was his secret desire. He’d never told another soul, though he’d almost let it slip once with Hanna.
Boughs swayed overhead, washing him in cold shadows as he crossed the spongy turf. He wished Hanna were with him. She’d understand the risk he might be taking by following the call into the woods this afternoon. But Mother and Da hadn’t let her come. They still believed in backward island ways: girls were to be at home, not gone away to school, and no amount of argument on his or Hanna’s part had persuaded them otherwise. Even knowing she was a Dreamwalker, that she’d been the only one able to rescue him last year, hadn’t made them change their minds.
Beside him, Breal’s ears pricked.
“So you hear it, too.” Breal looked up, brown-eyed, panting, before trotting ahead, drawn by the summons. It was a sound past human hearing, but not past Breal’s, who knew the call of magic, having lived under a curse for many a long year, and not beyond Miles’s own hearing.
Miles hadn’t shape-shifted since leaving Enness Isle a year ago, but each animal shift had left him with a mark or gift. He bore an ugly scar on his neck from his first wolf change, and sharpened vision from his falcon shift, but the heightened hearing from his shift into the Shriker was the strongest of them all. He clenched his teeth, thinking of the Shriker: his giant bearlike body, his claws, his bloody fangs. The demon beast had killed many innocent folk on Enness Isle before he and Hanna had broken the curse.
When Miles first arrived on Othlore, he’d been relieved to learn that shape-shifting was forbidden at the meers’ school. The word meer meant “one who wields magic,” but the school taught discipline and was firmly against any misuse of power. Miles hadn’t been ready to handle the shape-shifting gift the Sylth Queen had bestowed on him so he could do her dirty work. He knew the Old Magic forbade those who lived in Oth to kill, and she’d had to choose a human boy to slay the Shriker for her.
Miles shivered, remembering how he’d become the beast to do the deed. In his Shriker’s form, he’d killed, relished in the killing, and nearly lost himself in a dark shape-shift. He was keenly aware that he’d come out of the beast form only with Hanna’s help, and with the faith his teacher, the Falconer, had shown in him.
Pine needles crunched beneath his boots. His skin itched with anticipation as he followed Breal through the bracken. No matter what or who was calling him into the woods now, he would not use his shape-shifting gift again until he learned how to handle such powerful magic.
Miles stopped for a moment to finger the tender green needles. The pines in this part of the forest were too young to be Waytrees. But Othlore Wood had groves with Waytrees of many kinds. It was not so much the type of tree, but the tree’s age that mattered. A Waytree must be ancient, a deep-rooted tree large enough to house a deya spirit.
Miles felt himself expanding as he walked beneath the boughs. When he was not in class, or serving his Music Master, he would come to the forest often and in all weathers to play his silver ervay flute. The Falconer had given him his prized ervay before he died, and Miles kept it safely strapped to his side in a beaded leather pouch Hanna had sewn. The decorative beads were blue and green, the colors of
his sister’s eyes.
Zabith, the Forest Meer, dwelled in this part of the forest, but she’d sailed away last winter. The meer had often seen him come and go, and she hadn’t seemed to mind his walks, for he always came alone.
Shadows darkened. Miles began to sense the deya spirits hidden in the massive trunks. He could almost feel their wakefulness as they nourished the Waytree roots that bound the broken worlds. As he followed Breal from pine to oak, birch to redwood, the haunting call deepened to a wind song, soft and slowly changing. He wanted to let down his guard, to tell himself the sound was only the breeze troubling the leaves. In Othlore Wood he could very nearly believe that. Still, he stopped in the birch grove where Breal circled round an elder tree, and sat thumping his tail against the soft earth.
Miles ran his hand along the white bark, paper smooth and cool against his palm, and heard the windblown notes like a mourner’s cry. “What’s troubling you?” he whispered. The tree stirred beneath his fingers. Miles stepped back.
He’d not meant to waken anyone by the question, but with a shudder, the deya stepped out from the heart of her tree. The tree spirit was twelve feet tall at least. Her body and gown were the white and black of a birch, the silver and green of living leaves, and she shimmered before Miles as leaves do when touched by wind and sun.
Miles bowed his dark head. He’d met deyas last year on Enness Isle when he’d been given his shape-shifting power. But he still felt awed in her presence.
“You honor us, Mileseryl,” the deya said, her voice a welcome breeze.
Miles touched his forehead. “And you me.”
She’d used his deya name, Mileseryl, and he waited to hear hers, but she gave him none.