by P. C. Cast
“To be chosen by one Shepherd is a wondrous thing. To be chosen by two is a miraculous thing. But only you can decide to accept her—only you can decide to open yourself to the miracle.”
The Guardian’s gaze went to the pup, who had not moved since Maeve had turned, but was staring at the woman as if there was nothing else in the world except the two of them. “Even if you do not need her, Maeve, this young one truly needs you.”
Maeve closed her eyes and tears spilled down her cheeks. “I do need her,” she whispered.
“Then do what many of us before you have done, borrow strength from the Companion who believes in you more than you believe in yourself.”
A shudder washed through Maeve’s body. She drew a deep breath, opened her eyes, and finally, finally looked at the pup.
The pup’s eyes were gentle and brown, and reminded Maeve heartbreakingly of Taryn. But that is where the similarity to the other canine ended. This young canine was darker than Taryn had been, with beautiful brindle stripes of unique silver fur around her chest and neck. The pup was larger than Taryn had been—so much larger that Maeve was surprised by her size. She knew the litter wasn’t yet six months old, though she hadn’t known the pups were so large and well formed. She had not once visited the whelping nest, nor had she visited any of the Companions chosen by the other pups in the litter.
I couldn’t stand it, Maeve thought as she studied the pup. Until this moment I have avoided each of the Shepherd litters that have been born since Taryn’s death. The Guardian had been right—since Taryn’s loss I have not truly been living. Maeve steeled herself and met the pup’s gaze again, only this time she released the sadness that had been shadowing her for more than three winters, and opened herself to the possibility of joy.
The pup did not move. She continued to return Maeve’s gaze and suddenly the woman was filled with warmth. The pup’s emotions poured into Maeve, finding that which Taryn’s death had broken within her, and soothing her damaged spirit with unconditional love.
“Oh!” Maeve gasped. “Mourning Taryn for so long I had forgotten the love, remembering only the loss,” Maeve admitted more to the young canine than herself. “Forgive me for making you wait.” Tears spilled down Maeve’s cheeks and her hand trembled as she gently cupped her face and completed the silent oath that all Companions swore to their canines. I accept you and I vow to love and care for you until fate parts us by death.
Neither woman nor pup moved for a long moment, and then every canine in the Tribe began to howl at the exact moment Maeve opened her arms and the young Shepherd hurled herself, wriggling, into her Companion’s embrace.
“What is her name, Companion?” the Guardian asked, shouting over the exultation of the Tribe’s canines.
Still keeping her arms around the pup, Maeve looked up, her face flush with a joy so great that it made her appear decades younger than her fifty winters. “Fortina! Her name is Fortina!” Maeve laughed through her tears as the pup enthusiastically licked her face.
“May the Sun bless your union, Companion,” the Guardian said formally, bowing his head in acknowledgment of their bond.
“May the Sun bless your union, Companion!” the Tribe took up the familiar cheer.
Making his way carefully through the controlled chaos of celebration, a tall man crossed the drawbridge. At his side padded an enormous canine, whose coat gleamed with the same silver highlights as the female pup. The women who had gathered around Maeve and Fortina parted respectfully to allow the Sun Priest passage.
“Welcome, Sol,” the Guardian said, moving aside so that the man and canine could get nearer to Maeve.
“Ah, Laru, your daughter chose wisely.” The man ruffled his canine’s thick scruff. Then he smiled kindly down at the woman, who cradled the pup in her arms. “What is her name, my friend?”
“Fortina,” Maeve said, kissing the pup on her nose.
The Sun Priest’s smile widened. “May the Sun bless your union with Fortina.”
“Thank you, Sol,” Maeve said.
“It is a fortuitous choosing indeed that is completed just before sunset,” Sol said.
Maeve’s gaze found the western horizon through the thick branches of the closest Mother Tree. “I—I hadn’t realized.”
“Come, Maeve. I invite you and your pup to receive the last beams with me.”
Maeve’s eyes widened with surprise, but Fortina had already moved off her lap and was nudging Maeve’s knees in encouragement. Laughing breathlessly, Maeve stood, then she and the young Shepherd fell into step behind Sol and Laru as they strode across the wide platform and hurried up and up the steps that wrapped, helix-like, around the cluster of Mother Plant–laden trees, leading to the exquisite landing that had been smoothed and oiled to an amber sheen. The platform jutted above the canopy of ancient pines, its baluster carved in the shape of howling canines on which a gleaming, waist-high rail rested.
Maeve gazed around her, seeing the beauty of her Tribe anew. On other smaller platforms, both near and far, Companions, each with a mature Shepherd or Terrier at his or her side, turned and bowed briefly but respectfully to acknowledge Sol’s presence before their sharp eyes returned to their task, constantly scanning the land around and beneath them. A thrill went through Maeve, skittering down her spine like a cooling summer rain. When Fortina was old enough, Maeve would once again have the privilege of mounting her own platform and taking up her own watch.
Alive with anticipation, Maeve gazed to the east toward the island the Tribe called the Farm—the fertile isle that kept them alive with its abundant produce. From the distance of the hillside on which the Tribe had fashioned their homes in the sky, the island appeared to be a green jewel surrounded by the Channel on one side and the Lumbia River on the other. Sunlight played on the closer of the two waterways, the Channel, turning the green water golden, and even lighting the rusted bones of the ancient bridge—the one way on and off the island—from the color of dried blood to amber.
“Beautiful,” Maeve whispered to her pup. “I’d forgotten how beautiful it all is.”
Feeling blessed and fulfilled, Maeve looked from the island to the Tribe that spread like a secret promise around her. Large round family nests, and smaller individual pods clustered in the enormous pines, perched among their sturdy branches as if they had been created by a huge and magickal species of bird. Jewel-like, strands of shells and bells, bone and beads and glass fluttered from the latticework walkway system. In the setting rays of the sun, the decorative strands winked a myriad of colors among the variant greens of pine needles, orchids, mosses, and ferns. On the graceful walkways below Maeve, the Tribe gathered, choosing places near the great, glistening surfaces of the precious mirrors that were mounted carefully, with the utmost consideration, fashioned for form and function—as the Tribe fashioned all things. Maeve blinked, marveling at the size and strength of her people—when did there become so many of us? Little wonder the Mother Plants have been hyper-productive. Babies were being born one after another, swelling the Tribe’s numbers, but I hadn’t stopped to realize how great those numbers must be.
Sol flung out his arms to encompass the vast maze of nests, walkways, platforms, and pods that stretched below and around them. “Behold the majesty of the Tribe of the Trees!”
First, the lookouts mimicked the Sun Priest’s actions, spreading their arms wide and facing the setting sun in the west. And then the people below them raised their faces and their arms to the reflection of the last of the sun’s brilliance as light struck the perfectly positioned mirrors, careened from the glossy surfaces, and filled the Tribe with the glowing essence of life.
Joining her Tribe, Maeve opened herself to life. The ancient pines swayed gently, as if joining her in an exultation of joy, causing the sunlight to catch the strands of strands of beads, bone, and crystals that the Tribe’s artists draped all around the cluster of massive trees, making them to appear as if they, too, were celebrating life anew. Maeve thought she had never
seen such an exquisite sight.
“And behold the last beams of our lifeline—our salvation—our Sun! The Tribe of the Trees shall drink them in with me!” Sol’s voice was amplified by the power of sunlight, and as one, the Tribe embraced the light that the mirrors caught and reflected among the people.
Above the Tribe, Maeve watched enraptured while Sol’s gaze locked on the setting sun. His eyes trapped the day’s last beams and they changed color, turning from the mossy, muted green that marked all of the Tribe’s eyes, to blaze a brilliant gold as the priest began to absorb the power of the sun. Laughing joyously, Sol spread his arms even farther apart, and as the sunlight coursed through his body, the filigreed patterns of the fronds of the Mother Plant became visible, glowing beneath his golden-hued skin.
Maeve bent and caressed Fortina before her greedy gaze went to the light, and she, too, opened her arms to embrace the sun. Maeve was well used to gathering within her the life-sustaining energy the sunlight provided for all of the Tribe as each morning and each evening its power was trapped and reflected through mirrors, glass, and beads, and shone onto the Tribe within the protective canopy of their home. But it had been more than three winters since Maeve had risen above the canopy to taste unimpeded light, and she was not used to the brilliance of unfiltered sun. She gasped in pleasure as a rush of heat and energy coursed through her. Thank you, oh thank you for bringing Fortina to me, Maeve sent the heartfelt prayer to the Sun. Her own eyes glowed and the delicate patterns of the Mother Plant lifted through her body to mark her skin with the power of the golden beams. Maeve glanced down at her pup and felt another thrill of pleasure. Fortina’s eyes were glowing with the same golden light that radiated from hers, proving beyond any doubt that she had been chosen—that they were now linked forever through the bond of sunlight and love.
“Movement by the Channel!” a strong voice called out. “South of the bridge. At the edge of the wetlands.”
“I see them!” came anther voice, this one farther away than the first and faint. “Looks like a big male is trying to grab two females.”
Jarred by the interruption, Maeve’s eyes automatically went to Sol. He issued a single command, “Stop them!” He did not take his gaze from the setting sun. And Maeve understood that he didn’t need to. The lookouts would do as they had been trained. The Tribe would have it no other way. All must have a purpose. In fulfilling the needs of the Tribe, the individual’s needs will then be fulfilled. Maeve knew the truth of that saying in more than words. She registered the right of it throughout her blood and her body, her heart and her soul. So she did not turn her gaze from the sun because she questioned the fidelity of the lookouts, but rather because she valued the certainty with which they would perform their duty.
Movement on the platform halfway down the hillside to her right drew Maeve’s gaze. She smiled as the lookout lifted the beautifully carved crossbow, notched it, and aimed. Maeve followed his line of sight in time to see three figures emerging from the golden Channel. With a grace that was fluid and effortless, the lookout fired rapidly three times, Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Each of the escapees crumpled, one after another. The largest of the three and then the two smaller figures disappeared into the tall grasses that grew green and thick near the Channel as if they had come to the end of a beautifully choreographed dance and were bowing to kiss the ground.
“Three Scratchers down!” the lookout reported. “Should I fetch them?”
Without turning his face from the sun Sol answered. “I will not risk a Companion this near to dark. If they are not dead now, they will certainly meet death within the night, may the Sun make their passing as pain-free as possible.”
The lookout saluted Sol and returned to scanning the distance.
Maeve faced the sun as the priest spoke softly, “That they run shows the futility of trying to domesticate them.”
Maeve felt a start of shock. “Domestication? Of the Scratchers? I haven’t heard the Tribe speaking this madness.”
Sol shook his head. Maeve was surprised to realize he sounded sad and weary. “The Tribe does not speak of it, but sometimes I think of the Scratchers and the horror that must fill their lives, and I am troubled.”
“Sol, we care for them. We give them purpose. We protect them, even from themselves. Yet they are so base that over and over again they flee our safety and care and, heedless, rush to their destruction. And at sunset! They know what waits with the coming of the night. What can be done with such creatures?”
Just when Maeve despaired of the priest responding, the cool evening breeze brought the muffled sound of the words he whispered more to himself than to her. “Yes, what can be done with such creatures…”
6
“She made her choice! She made her choice! Another Companion is complete!”
Nik dropped the knife he’d been using to carve the finishing designs across the stock of the crossbow, and narrowly missed slicing his own foot.
“Nikolas—concentrate. No matter what is happening around you. No matter the distraction. You must always retain your focus when handling a blade. You know this well. I should not have to remind you!” The Carver frowned at him and the small, wiry canine that was never far from the old man raised his head and pointed his gray muzzle in Nik’s direction, giving the young man a scornful look.
Nik opened his mouth to protest—the knife had just slipped—it had been a harmless accident! But his gaze had been drawn to the old man’s right leg, the one that was completely swathed in bandages. Nik knew all too well the ruin that lay beneath the poultice wraps, and he silenced his excuses.
Accident or no, the end could be the same for him had Nik’s flesh been sliced—blight and a death sentence, with no chance at being healed and whole again. Nik looked away from the old man’s admonishing gaze, nodding his head. “Yes, sir, you’re right. I’ll be more careful.”
The Carver was grumbling a reply when O’Bryan stuck his head inside the doorway to the Woodworking nest. “Cousin! What are you doing in there, slug sitting?” The excited young man sent the Carver what would have been a respectful nod had it not been belated. “Beg pardon for the interruption, Master Carver, but the last female of the litter has chosen.”
“Yes, so we have already heard,” the Carver said, then in a tone that showed that even the old man was unable to keep his curiosity in check, he added, “We heard she had chosen, but not who the new Companion is.”
“Well, she’s not really new, but she is definitely a Companion once more,” O’Bryan said, smiling sardonically. “The pup chose Maeve.”
“Maeve! She lost her Taryn three winters past.” The Carver sounded as pleased as surprised. “Well and good—well and good. I am glad for her. It is a terrible thing to lose your Companion.” He looked down at the canine who leaned against him and ruffled his ears fondly.
Too distracted to be fazed by the emotions of the old man and his canine, Nik scowled in irritation and blurted, “Maeve? The female Shepherd chose Maeve? But she’s old!”
“And making a comment like that has you sounding like you’re a callow youth and not the fully grown man you so loudly proclaim yourself to be,” the Carver snapped.
“I meant no disrespect, sir,” Nik said. “But I can’t be the only one who’s going to wonder at the waste of having a Leader choose someone whose life is more than half over.”
“Nik doesn’t mean—” O’Bryan began but the Carver cut him off.
“I think you should let Nik explain what he does and does not mean.”
Nik lifted his hands in a noncommittal gesture. “I think it’s obvious. Maeve’s seen, what? Over fifty winters? There is no doubt that she is gifted at tending the Mother Plants, and has a voice that is still crystal and true, but shouldn’t she be passing her gifts on to someone younger? And there are so many younger people who are waiting to be made Companions and Leaders, but now that a Leader pup has chosen Maeve, there’s no chance of that—no chance for anyone else to take her place for
at least a decade or two. Plus, she’ll probably die before her Companion’s life is over, which means the Tribe will have to deal with the mess Maeve leaves behind.”
“By mess do you mean her grieving canine?” The Carver asked the question in a deceptively cordial voice.
“Yes, but I also mean that the Mother Plants and the birthing women of the Tribe will have lost an experienced Caretaker who might not have passed along all of her knowledge because she was still taking the active part of a Leader long after she should have retired to teacher.”
“And yet the pup still chose Maeve.”
“And yet I still think it’s a waste,” Nik insisted. “I’m not being callous. I’m being practical.”
“Practical, you say? Nikolas, do you know how many canines have chosen me?” the old man asked abruptly.
“No, I don’t,” Nik said.
“Two?” O’Bryan answered hesitantly.
“Paladin is my third canine.”
“Three!” O’Bryan grinned at the Terrier, who wagged his tail in response at the young man. “That is impressive.”
“Yeah, but none of them have been Shepherds. None of them have been Leaders,” Nik spoke quickly, as if his response was automatic.
“Do you think that makes a difference to the depth of the Companion bond?” The Carver skewered Nik with his moss-colored gaze. “Do you think the life I share with my canines is something less worthy because they are not Shepherds, are not Leaders?” The hand that had been resting benignly on Paladin’s head slapped against the workbench with such force it made the bits and pieces of half-carved wood tremble. “Without Terriers we would have no Hunters. With no Hunters the Leader canines and their Companions would starve, and then what would happen to your practical notions about class and worth?”
“All must have a purpose. In fulfilling the needs of the Tribe, the individual’s needs will then be fulfilled,” O’Bryan spoke calmly, attempting to diffuse the tension that was building between the old man and his outspoken cousin.