by Terry Brooks
She took his hand. “Come with me.”
She led the way through the trees, navigating the maze of ancient trunks as if her sight had miraculously been restored. There was no hesitation, no deviation. She seemed able to see even better than she had before, her strange gift enhanced perhaps by the magic of the place and its creatures.
She took him to a cluster of berry-laden bushes near a clear, spring-fed pool. The berries were rich and sweet, and he ate them hungrily, then drank the cool, clear water of the pool, which was nothing like the metallic trickle he had sampled earlier.
When they were finished, sitting next to each other on a grassy stretch by the pool, made lazy by the food and drink and the warmth of the sunlight through the trees, Pen asked, “How did you find this place? Did the aeriads show it to you?”
She nodded. “They seem to know what we need, Pen. They knew you were seeking the tanequil, and they led you to it. They knew that I needed to laugh again, and they made me. And they knew I needed to understand them, once they had revealed themselves, and they allowed me to do so. In part, at least.” She paused, staring off into space. “They are so wonderful. I wish I could explain it better. They are free in a way I’ve never been. They can fly wherever they wish, be whatever they want, do whatever they choose. Sisters, of a sort— though I don’t think they really are. They seem to have come from different places, at different times.”
“But they sound the same,” he pointed out.
“They have become one, become a part of a whole. They are different, each of them, but they are the same, too.”
He puzzled over that one for a moment, thinking of the way a family worked, then of something more cohesive, like a flock or a herd. But that didn’t seem right, either. Finally, he settled on a school of fish, all swimming together and then changing direction at once.
“What do they want with you?” he asked finally. “I don’t think they want anything, Pen.”
“Then why are they so interested in you? Why did they bring you here in the first place? Why are they telling you so much about themselves?”
She laughed, as if the answer should be obvious. “I think they just want someone to talk to. I think they know I will listen because I am interested in them.”
She reached over and squeezed his hand. “Tell me about the tanequil. What have you learned?”
Strands of loose hair fell across her face as she leaned toward him, and he reached out to brush them away. “I did miss you, Cinnaminson,” he said. “I don’t like it when you’re gone.”
She smiled. “I missed you, too.” Her face brightened. “Now tell me about the tanequil. Did you speak with it?”
“I spoke with it,” he said. “It took me a while, but I found a way.”
He told her everything that had happened, how it had taken him all night just to make contact, how it had then withdrawn until he had realized that his connection was premised upon its sensing of his need to help his aunt. He couldn’t explain that, didn’t understand it at all. But it was clear that the tree knew why he had come and what he had come for, and if he wanted to see the quest through, he was going to have to keep the needs of his aunt and his concerns for her safety foremost in his thoughts.
“But it was what it said last that bothers me most,” he finished. “It said that if I wanted to take a part of it—a limb from which to fashion the darkwand—then I must give it a part of myself in return. When I asked what part it wanted, it quit talking to me.”
Cinnaminson thought about it. “Perhaps it was just testing you. Or perhaps it was speaking about something else. Maybe it wants a part of you that’s emotional or spiritual.” She paused. “It can’t be talking about an arm or leg.”
Pen wasn’t so sure. The entire business was strange enough that he wasn’t willing to rule out anything.
He looked off in the direction of the tree. “I should go back and try to find out. This is taking longer than I thought it would.”
“It is taking as long as it must,” she corrected him gently. “Don’t be impatient. Don’t let yourself become frustrated.”
He nodded, shifting his gaze to study her. “What will you do? Will you go back to the aeriads?”
“For now. I already know I can’t be with you. You have to be alone to speak with the tanequil. I will come looking for you tonight.”
She leaned over and kissed him lightly on the cheek, then on the mouth. He kissed her back, not wanting to sever the connection, not wanting her to go.
But when she rose and waved good-bye, her face still flushed with excitement and expectation, he didn’t try to stop her.
He returned to the tanequil in the warm hush of midday, the sun spilling in faint, thin streamers through the thick canopy of the old growth. Clouds scudded overhead in billowing white clusters, throwing shadows to the earth, and the skies were so blue they hurt his eyes. A breeze blew through the trees, and the air was scented by leaves and grasses sweet with summer warmth. It was the sort of day when you felt that anything was possible.
He sat down in the space he had occupied the night before, where the tree had first spoken to him, studied it for a time, then lay down beneath it and closed his eyes. He gave himself time to relax, then turned his thoughts to his aunt, to the Ard Rhys and her imprisonment inside the Forbidding, embracing the fear such thoughts automatically generated.
And waited.
–Penderrin–
–Tanequil–
–You must have what you came for. You must take what you need–
–What of giving you a part of myself? What of that?–
–You must do so–
He couldn’t help himself.
–Will I be crippled?–
–You will be enhanced–
–A part of me will be missing?–
–A part of you will be found–
There was no way to make sense of what he was being told. Pen could not decide if he was about to make a good or a bad decision. He could not read the consequences clearly.
–Are you afraid?–
–Yes–
–Fear for yourself has no place in what you would do. Your fear must be for your aunt if you are to save her. A darkwand is born of fear for another’s safety. A darkwand responds to selfless need. Do you wish to save your aunt?–
He swallowed hard.
–I do–
–Then no sacrifice is too great, even that of your own life–
–Is that what is required?–
–What is required should not matter. Do you wish to proceed?–
He took a deep, steadying breath. Did he? How great a risk was he taking? Things weren’t working out the way he had expected. The King of the Silver River had told him he must persuade the tanequil to his cause. But the tanequil didn’t seem interested in being persuaded to anything. It seemed to have already made its decision, and what mattered now was how far Pen was willing to go to allow that decision to be implemented.
It was like being trapped in a cave with no light and having to find his way in darkness. There might be pits into which he could fall, and he had no way of knowing where they were.
–Do you wish me to give you what you came for, Penderrin?–
He closed his eyes.
–I do–
–Then rise and come to me. Walk to me and place your hands on my body–
He opened his eyes and saw that the tiny roots had withdrawn once more, then rose and moved over to stand before the tree. Gingerly, he pressed his palms against its massive, rough trunk.
–Climb up into me–
He found handholds in the bark and began to climb. It was easier than he would have expected. The bark was strong and did not break off. The effort was considerable, but eventually he reached the lower branches and from there was able to continue on up through the sprawl of limbs as if climbing a ladder. He wasn’t sure how high he was supposed to go, and so kept looking for some indication of where he was to stop. But he was deep with
in the canopy of the tree, its leaves forming a thick curtain about him, before it spoke to him again.
–Stop–
He stopped climbing and looked around. He was at a junction of branches where deep fissures had split the tree’s trunk, forming crevices and boles in which birds or small animals might nest. The fissures were old, and in the wounds that had healed the skin had grown back over the soft heartwood, the bark wrapped about the openings anew.
–Look up–
He did so, turning his gaze skyward to the sea of limbs and leaves that spread away overhead.
–Reach up–
He did this, too, and his hand touched a limb that extended some six feet from the trunk, a limb that seemed too small and straight, that lacked twigs or even leaves. Heat radiated from the branch, sudden and unexpected, and Pen jerked away in surprise.
–Take hold–
Pen gripped the branch tentatively, feeling the heat course through his fingers and down his arm. The branch was vibrating, humming deeply as it did so, a strange, mournful sound.
Then the entire tree shook, and its trunk split apart where the branch sprouted, a sharp rending that sent pieces of bark and splinters of wood flying in all directions. Pen ducked his head and closed his eyes, keeping tight hold of the branch, rocking unsteadily with the tanequil’s quaking. There was a deep, audible groan of darkest protest, and abruptly the branch came away in Pen’s hands. The boy caught himself against the trunk and stared in shock. The tree had cracked wide open where the branch had broken off, and sap was leaking out in a steady stream. The sap was red and viscous and looked like blood. It ran down the trunk in thick rivulets. It dripped from the branch onto his arm.
He was studying it, his left hand braced against the tree for support, his fingers gripping one of the older splits, when the tree groaned again, deep and menacing, and the split closed over his fingers. He screamed in agony and jerked away, feeling flesh and bone tear free as he did so. He reacted at once, but was still too slow. When he stared down at his hand, he saw that his middle two fingers had been severed at the first knuckle. Blood dripped from the ragged wounds and ran down his hand. His finger bones shone white and raw.
Still clutching the tanequil’s severed limb, Pen collapsed into a crook in the branches of the tree, pressing his injured hand against his chest, staining his clothing with his blood. For a moment, frozen by pain and shock, he couldn’t move. Then, realizing the danger as his blood continued to well up, he tore free one sleeve of his tunic and wrapped the cloth about the stubs, compressing it into the wounds.
–A part of you for a part of me–
Pen nodded miserably. He didn’t need to be reminded. The pain ratcheting through his hand and arm was reminder enough.
–Take my limb in your hand–
Holding his shirtsleeve-wrapped fingers tightly against his chest, he reached down with his right hand and took the tanequil’s limb from his lap, where he had dropped it moments before. To his surprise, it was still warm and pulsating, as if it retained life, even though it had been severed from the tree.
–The wood of this limb comes from deep inside me, where my life is formed. The limb must be forced to the surface from the soft heartwood and forcibly severed. Such a sacrifice is necessary if a darkwand is to be shaped to the use you require. But you must give back what you are given if the sacrifice is to have value. A piece of your body. A piece of your heart. Remember this–
Pen closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. The loss of his fingers in exchange for the loss of the tanequil’s limb. He wasn’t likely to forget.
–Climb down from me. Carry my limb with you–
Pen cautiously made his way down from the tree, protecting his injured hand as he did so, cradling the limb in the crook of his arm. It was a long, tedious descent, and when he was still ten feet from the ground, he slipped and fell, striking the earth with force and jarring his hand. Fresh pain caused him to cry out. He was sweating heavily as he dragged himself to his feet and leaned back against the ancient trunk. His fingers throbbed, and the fabric wrapping them was soaked with his blood. He felt nauseous and weak.
–Move away from me and sit–
He lurched from the tree and found the patch of ground he had occupied before. He dropped heavily, crossed his legs before him, and bent his head to the earth as he felt everything begin to spin. He glimpsed the tanequil’s root tendrils as they reemerged and began to stroke his clothing and boots. He pulled back his pant legs so that the roots could find his skin, so that the tree could make contact with him. He reached out with his own hand to touch them.
–Unwrap your fingers. Take the sap from the end of my limb and place it on your wounds–
Pen hesitated, then unwound the soiled cloth. The stubs of his fingers were red and inflamed, and blood was still leaking from them. He used his good hand to gather sap still oozing from the end of the tanequil’s limb, and he rubbed it gingerly into his wounds. Almost instantly, they began to close, the bleeding to stop, and the flesh to heal. The pain, so intense only moments earlier, faded to a dull ache. He stared at his fingers in disbelief.
–Take your knife from your belt–
He did so, frightened anew of what would be asked of him.
–Close your eyes–
Again, he did so.
–You must shape the darkwand now, while the life of the wood is still strong–
He waited. He could not begin to carve the wood until he could see how to do so. He must be permitted to open his eyes. But no command to open them came. Instead, the nature of the touching changed, and communication that had come in the form of words now came in the form of images. He saw in his mind what he was meant to do, a clear and unmistakable direction.
Then something odd happened. He felt another hand on his, covering it, guiding it, and his own began to move in response. By feel alone, he began the cutting that would shape the limb into the darkwand. He should have been terrified that he would make a mistake. The cuts were often tiny and intricate. They were impossibly time-consuming. But the images were so clear and his sense of what was needed so strong that he never wavered in his efforts. And time did not seem to matter. It was as if time had stopped and he could use it in whatever manner or measure he deemed necessary to accomplish his task.
He worked through the remainder of the day and into the night. He did not eat or drink. He did not move from where he sat. His concentration was complete as he responded to the tree’s steady, calm commands. Nothing distracted him; not the tiny itch of an insect’s wings or the cool whisper of a breeze against his skin. He was in another world, another time, another life.
It was night when he finished, the moon risen and the stars come out, their light falling through the forest canopy in pale, thin streamers, the darkness about him deep and pervasive. The images stopped, the roots withdrew back into the earth, and he was alone in the silence. He opened his eyes and looked down at his lap.
The darkwand lay cradled in his hands, its six-foot length a rich mottled gray and black, the same colors as the tanequil’s trunk, gleaming and smooth in a way that should have been impossible for newly carved wood. An intricate pattern of runes wrapped its surface, strange markings that Pen did not recognize and could not interpret. When they were turned to the moonlight, they gleamed as if lit by an inner fire. Pen could still feel unmistakable warmth emanating from the wood, the tanequil’s life force firm and strong.
The boy unfolded his legs, which were cramped and sore. His mouth was so dry he could barely open it. He took a few minutes to gather his strength, then got to his feet and began hobbling toward the pool that Cinnaminson had showed him earlier. He carried the darkwand with him; he knew he would carry it everywhere from then on. Slowly, his legs regained their feeling and the cramps disappeared. He listened for signs of life as he walked, but there were none. Even as long as he had been sitting beneath the tree, he was still alone.
He wondered suddenly what had happened to Cinnaminso
n. She had told him she would come back to him at nightfall. She had promised.
He found the pool and dropped down on his hands and knees to drink. The water was cool and sweet, and he got back a little of his strength. When he had drunk his fill, he stood up again and looked around.
Where was Cinnaminson?
He exhaled in frustration. He didn’t like it that she was still gone. He never liked it when she was gone. Losing her was worse than losing his fingers …
He stopped himself, remembering suddenly the sensation of another’s hand guiding his as he shaped the tanequil’s limb into the darkwand, one that allowed him to work blindly, his eyes closed, his reliance on touch alone.
A piece of your body. A piece of your heart.
A terrible certainty swept through him, harsh and implacable, so traumatizing that he could not give voice to it, but only whisper it in the silence of his mind. He thought he had understood. He hadn’t. He assumed that the loss of his fingers was enough to balance the scales. It wasn’t.
Something more was required.
Cinnaminson.
TWENTY-FIVE
Shadea a’Ru stood at the window of her sleeping chambers and looked out from Paranor’s towers over the forested sweep of the land beyond. The sun was rising, a soft golden glow in the east that silhouetted the jagged peaks of the Dragon’s Teeth against its bright backdrop and gave promise to the coming of a warm, languorous summer day.
Her lips compressed into a tight, angry line. It would not be such a good day for her. And less so for some others.
She glanced down at the note she held in her hand, at the words written on it, then looked away again. Idiots! She brushed absently at her short, spiky blond hair and flexed her shoulders. Her muscles were stiff and tight. She missed the training and fighting that had been so central to her life when she had been a soldier in the Federation army. She missed the discipline and the routine. She had never thought she would feel that way, but after weeks of struggling as Ard Rhys of the Third Druid Order, she was ready to abandon it all for a chance to go back to a time when things were less complicated and more direct.