Shiloh

by Helena Sorensen

  Yet another group in Emmerich argued that it was Orin who had brought about Simeon’s transformation, and there was considerable truth in this as well. No master craftsman could have treated his apprentice with more patience and respect. No friend could have invested more time and care or given more freely of his resources. No father could have shown more love to his son.

  But while Simeon had benefited from all these changes in appearance and circumstance and company, it was Amos’s absence that had done him the most good. Truly, he grieved his friend’s loss, felt it to his core. But Amos had always cast too great a shadow. Amos had filled up the room, filled up the village, with power and destiny and confidence. As a boy, Simeon could hardly help seeing himself in contrast to his friend. Their looks, their abilities, their histories had been so different that Simeon had only ever imagined standing beside Amos or following along behind him. Simeon had been like a sapling struggling to soak in the meager light that filtered down through the dense branches of a mighty tree. With Amos’s disappearance, the mighty tree was felled. And Simeon had room to grow.

  Not long after the celebration, Orin took Simeon for a drink at the end of a grueling day’s work. Inside Payne’s shop were two other patrons: Caedmon, in his usual seat near the brewer, and another man drinking quietly at a table in the corner. Orin requested two mugs of beer and sat with Simeon on the opposite side of the room.

  “What’s on yer mind, Sim?” Orin asked. The days following the coming-of-age feast had seen a change in the young man.

  By this time, Simeon felt fully at ease with Orin, but this conversation was difficult to begin. “It’s my ma,” he said at last. “She asked ta talk with me a few days ago.”

  “Thinks I’m workin’ ya too hard, eh?” Orin chuckled as Payne brought two mugs, brimming with foam, and set them on the table.

  Simeon gave a half-hearted smile and took a drink. “It’s just . . . well, I always thought my father had died o’ the ague, or been killed on a hunt. I always thought Jada had borne me. She never said . . . until the other night, that is . . . she never spoke o’ my birth, never told me.”

  Orin gave him time, waiting in silence.

  “Ma said she found me by the river, that I came ta her as a gift from the gods.” He drank again from his mug. “She said I should’ve been half drowned, but I wasn’t. I was laid up on the bank o’ the river, just waitin’. I can’t understand it, Orin. I thought it was a misery havin’ no father, but now I’ve no mother either. No history, no clan.” He looked up. “I’m no one at all.”

  Orin’s dark eyes clouded. That look held grief and confusion and something else Simeon could not identify. There was a scuffling as two men came into the shop to refill their jugs, and the sound drew Orin out of his reverie.

  “I’m sorry, Sim. I didn’t know,” he said. “The ague did strike the village around the time ya were born. I left Emmerich that year, and when I returned, too much had changed fer me ta question anything. Suppose I always imagined you’d been orphaned by the fever, that Jada had taken ya in.”

  “Ya knew, then? That Jada wasn’t my ma?”

  “I knew only that she’d never married, Sim, and I don’t believe any man would lay a hand on ’er, not with her bein’ magistrate.” Orin leaned in and lowered his voice. “But what ya say about bein’ no one, about havin’ no history, no clan . . . it isn’t so. Not knowin’ yer history isn’t the same as not havin’ one. And the dreams,” here he lowered his voice further, “they’re a sign o’ bein’ specially chosen by the gods. It’s likely, Sim, that you’re more than ya thought, not less.”

  “’e’s the one I told ya of, Jeremiah.” Caedmon’s booming voice broke into their quiet conversation. He had had more than his usual seven or eight mugs. He was unsteady on his stool, waving a hand in Simeon’s direction and glaring bleary-eyed at Orin. To Caedmon, Abner’s and Wynn’s deaths, along with Amos’s disappearance, had been no more than perfect justice. For a time, he had settled down, confident that Emmerich was safe, and the ‘clan o’ the madman’ had been forever silenced. But the loss of two daughters had renewed the fires of his rage and bitterness, and he spent more and more time with Payne, neglecting his work, his wife, and his remaining daughters.

  “’e’s the one that followed ’im around, day after day, like ’e was ’ammond ’imself, or one o’ the gods.” Then Caedmon spoke to Simeon directly. “What do ya think of Amos now, Simeon? What do ya make of all ’is fool stories?” He laughed and choked, teetering dangerously on the edge of the stool.

  “You’ve had enough, Caedmon. Why not go on home and lie down, eh?” Payne took the empty mug from the man’s hand and tucked it beneath the counter.

  “You’d ’ave given yer right arm fer ’im, wouldn’t ya?” Caedmon continued. “You’d ’ave died fer a murderin’ servant o’ the Shadow Lord. Friend o’ the shifters and gatekeeper fer the night weavers! Better ’e ’ad died with ’is da in the wood!”

  “Enough!” Orin jumped to his feet, knocking his chair to the floor with a crash. “Ya spout off rumor and gossip as if you’d seen it with yer own eyes!”

  “Ah,” Caedmon replied, rising from the stool and stumbling forward. “I’ve not seen it, maybe, but ’e ’as.” He waved a shaking hand in the direction of the man in the corner.

  Orin knew the man. They were brothers of the same clan. Jeremiah was a stonemason who worked as a journeyman, traveling from village to village as he was needed. He came and went from Emmerich every few years, and Orin had never known him to be dishonest. The extent of Jeremiah’s travels and his association with people of many villages and clans made him, in fact, a very credible source of information about Amos. But it served no one, Simeon least of all, to know more of the doings of his friend.

  “What Caedmon says is true,” Jeremiah said, looking from Orin to Simeon. “But I meant no harm ta you or the boy.”

  “No ’arm?!” Caedmon roared. He was poised for another screaming assault on Simeon when, suddenly, his face flushed red, his eyes rolled back in his head, and he tumbled forward, upsetting a table as he fell. The lantern that had rested on the table fell to the stones and shattered, the oil inside splattering onto the woven rugs that littered the floor. Flames spread across the floor of the shop, the fire licking at the legs of chairs and tables, hungry for anything that could be consumed. While Orin hauled Caedmon over the threshold and out into the street, Payne rushed to the back with Simeon on his heels. Jeremiah joined them as they snatched up casks and jugs and rags. Payne led them to a huge water barrel just behind the shop. They filled everything they had with water and raced back to douse the spreading fire.

  “Orin!” Simeon shouted, tossing him a handful of wet rags. They beat at the burning mats, the chairs and tables that had caught fire, holding the flames at bay while Payne and Jeremiah brought water again and again. Just when the last sparks had been quenched, and the men dropped the rags and casks to catch their breath, there was a cry from the street. It was Caedmon.

  Orin was first out the door. Some small spark of fire must have caught hold of Caedmon as he was dragged from the shop. It had taken time to catch, for the air was thick and damp. But, as Caedmon lay in a drunken stupor and the others fought to rescue Payne’s shop, the spark had worked its way into the fibers of Caedmon’s tunic. The pain of the burning had wakened him.

  Orin wasted no time. Without a thought, he tore the sweat-soaked tunic from his own back and beat out the flame on Caedmon’s sleeve. When the man was out of danger, Orin sat on the street. He wiped the sweat from his forehead, then stiffened, realizing what he had done.

  The others stared out the doorway, fixated on a mark at the base of Orin’s neck. It was a tattoo no larger than the palm of a man’s hand: a small circle surrounded by sixteen pointing rays. None of the men had ever seen it before, but they knew the legends well enough. This was the sign the sons of Burke had taken before they fell into the
hands of the Shadow Lord. This was the sign of the Star Clan.

  Twenty-Five

  ’Twas my young wife who believed, far more than I,” Orin began. He and Simeon had returned to his cottage, escaping the questioning stares of Payne and Jeremiah. Caedmon had seen nothing. “Not every man and woman in the Clan o’ the Builder had taken the sign o’ the star when the watchtowers fell. But there were some, some who believed the word o’ their fathers and brothers and husbands, though they’d never seen the lights with their own eyes. And when the sons o’ Burke returned from the dark halls o’ the Shadow Lord . . . when the stargazers returned, rather, and the clan was dispersed, some came ta settle in Emmerich, livin’ off their skills with stone and iron. My father’s fathers’ve been blacksmiths here fer generations. And I’m the last o’ my clan in the village. Last o’ the Star Clan, at least, now Lila’s gone.”

  “She was yer wife?”

  “Aye.” He smiled. “I met ’er on the first night o’ the Great Hunt many years ago. Around ’er neck, she wore the sign o’ the Clan o’ the Builder, but ’er eyes told me there was more to ’er than that. She saw more, hoped more. We danced that night . . .”

  “Was it the ague that took ’er?”

  “No. ’Twas the river. She drowned some few days before the birth of our first child.”

  Simeon grieved for the man. He had no comfort to offer, nothing that could take away the ache. At the same time, he felt a stirring of anger in his chest.

  “Why did ya never say? Why do ya hide the mark o’ yer true clan? It would’ve been such a comfort ta Abner, ta know that there were others.”

  Orin offered no defense, no excuse. “Like I said, Sim, it was Lila who was the true believer. I always doubted, even as a child, when my father told me the story o’ the stars, even when I took the mark o’ the clan. It seemed too much ta hope. And when I lost my wife and child . . .” He paused and sighed. “I lost the courage ta hope. I’m sorry ta disappoint ya. I’ve been a coward.”

  They looked at one another for a long moment. Orin could see Simeon’s struggle. He felt he had betrayed the boy’s trust. He wished now that he could go back and stand beside Abner. He wished that he had risked exposure, rejection, that he had stood for something, anything in the years since Lila died. But he could find no words to explain these feelings to Simeon, and the boy left without so much as a backward glance.

  Isolde was near death when she escaped from the lair of the dragon. She had gotten it into her head that Valour’s Glass might be there in the Pallid Peaks. All these long years, it might have lain just outside her reach. The dragons were known for hiding things in their caverns. Old things, secret things.

  Two nights she had waited outside the cave, searching the air and the snow-blanketed cliffs for signs of blue fire. She had seen none. She made the ascent on the third evening, cursing her cloak and shift all the way. Her feet slipped on the ice, her fingers burned with cold, but she would not give up. She reached the dragon’s lair and stepped inside.

  The cave bored straight back into the mountain, and it reeked of ash and rot. Inside, the faint glimmer of her own skin was Isolde’s only light. She could see bones strewn about, and here and there claws and teeth, but nothing more. She was wondering how many such caves were tucked away in the Pallid Peaks, wondering how long it would take her to search them all, when the cavern was illuminated by blue flame. The Shadow Dragon had come home. Its ragged black wings filled the mouth of the cave. Its scales clanked; the mountain trembled as it rushed in. It roared, spewing pale fire. Isolde shrank against the wall.

  This was a foe too terrible for her to defeat. Of that she was certain. And yet, the midwife who spoke the prophecy had been no less certain that Isolde’s story would spread far and wide, that it would endure for ages to come. If the dragon devoured her here, no one would ever know what became of her. She had a destiny to fulfill, and even this monster could not stop her.

  The moment the realization struck her, her skin flared with new fire, and the dragon retreated. It screamed in rage and settled its bulk at the mouth of the cave, black wings stretching to block out all light from outside. Smoke and steam curled from its nostrils. It watched with unblinking eyes, and waited.

  She ate the last of her food on the fifth day, sipped the last of her water on the eighth. On the tenth day she risked everything and made a wild rush for the dragon. She ran with an arrow at the string, willing herself forward. When the dragon opened its mouth and the deadly blue fire poured out, Isolde took aim and shot. The arrow passed through the flames and carried a spark deep into the dragon’s eye. The beast reared back, Isolde scrambled beneath it, and its sable claws only grazed her shoulder as she tumbled onto the mountainside.

  The raging and stamping of the dragon brought the snows thundering down. They buried Isolde, and she waited until the sounds of beating wings and rushing wind faded. Under cover of blackest night, she dug her way out of her icy tomb and fled from the Pallid Peaks.

  Echo was waiting for her in the village of Dunn, and tears pricked Isolde’s eyes when she was reunited with her friend. The wizened old stable keeper slipped her mother’s dagger back into her hand and patted her arm as she left.

  There was hardly a corner of Shiloh Isolde did not see during the subsequent years, and Echo proved the steadiest and gentlest companion. She used the Red Map to guide her along the countless branches of the River Meander. In every village, she inquired about Evander and the Lost Clan, about Valour and the glass. But none of the tales told the fate of her people or the whereabouts of Valour’s gift. She grew weary and frustrated. She questioned the prophecy, questioned her choices. But the days of hard riding, the nights of cold rain, the hunting and the hunger and the flaming arrows loosed on the enemy all served to transform a passionate, impetuous girl into a warrior.

  For a time, she lived with a widow and her children in a village called Hanley, filling somewhat of the gap left by a dead husband and father. In exchange for fresh meat, they gave her shelter and a stiff sort of kindness. Better still, the widow outfitted her with clothes more suited to riding and hunting. She tailored her husband’s leather trousers and vest, cutting out large panels to use as arm guards, and shortened the sleeves of his tunic.

  When Isolde left the widow’s home, she was a curiosity. No woman in Shiloh, not even in story or song, wore leather trousers, a long gray tunic, a leather vest bound with cords, a belt with a dagger, and guards on both forearms. Isolde cared nothing for that. She smiled to herself as she rode through the grasslands with her flame-red hair flapping behind her.

  Twenty-Six

  It was market day. The hush that had fallen over the village in the wake of the blue ague was years forgotten, and the streets and shops crawled with activity. Travelers from neighboring villages and families who lived in the hills outside Emmerich had gathered with the locals to buy and sell, to commission work, to have furniture and tools repaired, and to claim their share of the latest gossip. Market Circle was cluttered with carts and stalls, alive with the shouts of buyers and sellers, haggling over prices. Men boasted to one another or stumbled out of Payne’s brewery with ale sloshed on their tunics. Women chattered unceasingly, made offers in the doorways of shops, and scolded the children that scurried through every open space, criss-crossing the alleys between cottages. Horses were tied to posts outside the stables, dogs sniffed and scrounged for scraps and discarded bones. Sheep were herded, by twos and threes, to be sold or traded in the market, and the air was filled with the varied scents of roasting meat, herbs, leather, smoke, sweat, and animal droppings.

  Phebe passed the stone and moved toward the heart of the village, wishing she could avoid the cramped, crowded streets. A basket of golden potatoes, ripe red tomatoes, and sweet peppers hung over her arm. She hoped to sell them for enough to buy a bit of white cloth and some colored yarn. Maybe then she wouldn’t make such a pitiable figure at her com
ing-of-age celebration. She had only a few weeks to prepare, and the thought of the approaching day filled her with dread. There was no one to offer a blessing, and the only family heirloom that remained was a silver glass that had been unharmed, undarkened even, when Amos destroyed the old wooden trunk. Lovely as it was, it held no special meaning for Phebe. It sat on the mantle above the hearth.

  With effort, Phebe shrugged off the melancholy thoughts and wound her way through the crowd. Outside the stables, a group of children chanted familiar words in sing-song voices.

  “Far, far away

  In the crystal teardrops

  Hangin’ from the branches o’ the silent trees

  Gone, gone away

  Ta the Hall o’ Shadows

  Peerin’ through the mist with eyes that cannot see

  Shine, shine away

  Keep the lights a’burnin’

  Never let the embers o’ the flame go out

  Run, run away

  For the Shadow Weavers

  Come ta take a trophy ta their Master’s house”

  Phebe’s legs turned to stone beneath her. She felt cold, dreadfully cold. She remembered her father’s horror as she sang those words in her little girl’s voice. She recalled the words of the forgotten verse, the words Darby had sung years before.

  “Turn, turn away from the gatherin’ darkness

  Erebus will still the cries and bind the hands

  Time slips away, and the days are fleetin’.”

  Someone whistled, drawing her back to the present, and she looked up to see Simeon standing outside Orin’s shop. He wore his leather apron and gloves. His face was drenched with sweat, his cheek smeared with soot. He smiled and winked at her, and she warmed, returning his smile and waving with her free hand. He’d be far too busy to talk with her now, for several men were lined up outside the shop holding tools that needed mending. So she fought through the cramped street, making her slow way toward Market Circle.