It may have been the Breal’s Moon celebration that tired him out and made him less attentive than usual. He’d played songs on his flute, recited the epic tale of Breal’s heroic quest with Da over the twelve moon candles, lighted the flaming serpent’s bread and shared it with the family after a day of fasting. But he shouldn’t have been any more tired than she. She’d been the one to dip and form the round moon candles, each with a coin and cherry pit at its core—two days’ work, that—and she’d gotten up at dawn with Mother to knead and shape the serpent’s bread.
Turning the doorknob and sliding across the wooden slats, she felt her way along the floor.
“Miles?”
No answer. Hanna reached across his cot to waken him and found only a blanket roll. Her hand went cold.
Gone. Hanna worked to rein in her fear. It was nearly midnight by the moon’s reading through the framed window. Where was he? Close by. He must be. He wouldn’t have gone into Shalem Wood alone on a full-moon night, not after Granda’s warning. Not after seeing the Enoch Tree only yesterday.
Through the thickened glass she watched for Miles’s shadow crossing the garden and saw only her mother’s wild roses waving in the soft spring air. There was hardly a breeze tonight, so why the keening in her dream?
Hanna paced the moonlit floor, the memory of the dreamwalk shadowing her. The thing that had chased her was larger than a bear, yet its howl was like that of a wolf. There was no living creature in all of Noor like that. A cur of monstrous size like …
The word “Shriker” came as a whisper, but it was strong enough to force her down. She bent over, placed both hands on Miles’s cot, and let a series of shivers trail slowly up her spine. She wouldn’t feel this chill fear if it had just been a dream, would she? Sitting on the bed, she pressed her forehead to the glass, closed her eyes, opened them again. “The dreamwalks aren’t real,” she whispered. But then there was the night last winter when she’d walked outside while dreaming and seen wild wolves attacking the fold. The next night a pack had come down the ravine and slaughtered fourteen sheep. Hanna’s throat tightened at the memory. She’d seen the dead sheep lying in the field and smelled the rusting-metal scent of their spilled blood. That one had come true. But not all her dreamwalks had. She had to remember that.
Miles would help her settle her mind on the matter. Her vision might have been a wind dream, a forewarning of foul weather, only that and nothing more. She hoped it was so.
Tomorrow she was due to work in Brother Adolpho’s garden, and she needed a full night’s rest. Still, she slid the window open and felt the breeze whispering in. Miles might be around back by the well or just up the hill at Granda’s grave. Feet over the sill and down to the earth, she closed the window behind her and crept outside.
The full moon glowed bright as a ship’s lantern over Mount Shalem. Hanna tiptoed through Mother’s garden, where the festival candles still burned in their clay pots, their waxen smell filling the night air.
Before Breal’s Moon left the mountain, she had to find Miles, tell him her dreamwalk, rid herself of the strange, haunting fear that was pressing even now against her chest.
An hour later Hanna climbed back in through the window. Miles wasn’t in the garden or by the well. He wasn’t up the hill at Granda’s grave. She’d checked the barn, too, and climbed the ladder to the loft; nothing there but piles of hay and a few startled owls. Back in her room she dried her damp feet, but the chill wouldn’t leave her. Where was he?
THE WAY OPENS
A sharpened weapon will not vanquish the fear hidden in a man’s own soul.
—THE OTHIC ART OF MEDITATION
A MILE FROM THE COTTAGE, WHERE HANNA WAITED UP, Miles crossed the meadow to the thick line of pine trees guarding Shalem Wood. He watched the bracken for any sign of movement, for golden eyes that might peer out or the sudden gleam of teeth. But only branches stirred, waving slow and sighing in the breeze as if swimming in the deep of a dream.
Tucking his flute in its leather pouch, he checked the trees again and adjusted the bow across his shoulder. He must wait a little longer to say the spell. He played the words over in his mind, ancient Othic words that were only sounds to him, and he wondered not for the first time what they meant.
Once the spell was cast, there was to be some kind of magical path leading to the sylth gathering.
Miles skirted a fallen tree and leaped onto the flat gray bolder shaped like a giant’s head. Standing on the moss that covered the stone like thick green hair, he gazed down the rolling foothills to the shore of Enness Isle.
A brisk wind slapped his cheek. Miles pulled up his hood. Midnight by the moon’s reading. Time. Lifting his hands to the stars, he said the incantation, the words flowing smoothly from his tongue.
“Evendera kalieanne. Mosura tan ahanaad.” Taking a deep breath, he turned about. Nothing. No change. His body went cold. He didn’t have the Gift. He dug his nails into his palms, his temples pounding.
Miles closed his eyes. Had there been more on the page? Had he … aye, he’d left out a word. He faced the sea again, lifted his hands, said the spell slowly, and with the new incantation he felt a warmth against his back. By the giant’s-head boulder under Breal’s moonlight look to the way that opens in the night.
Turning on his heels, he saw a gleam coming toward him from the woods. Across the hills and all the way to his boulder beads of light as large as stepping-stones spread in a long line before him, as if a giant’s pearled necklace had fallen to the earth.
He laughed aloud. Here it was. The way to the sylth celebration. He had the Gift, He knew it!
Jumping down, he knelt beside the first glowing patch and touched the ground, half expecting to feel a soft roundness in the gleam, but his hands lit up and that was all. He took his first step onto the magical path. The soft light seemed to fill him as he walked, and set his skin to tingling. He followed the path across the grassy hill to the edge of the woods, then stepped between the tall pines and slender elms, his leather boots whispering against the forest floor.
With a knife hidden in his boot and a bow slung over his shoulder, Miles watched the edge of the path to his left and to his right, A rustle near the juniper bushes could mean sure battle with bear or wolf or mountain lion. But these were the least of his worries. It was the thought of meeting the Shriker that sent a blade of icy fear through his heart.
The farther he went, the more the trees drew close together, shutting out moon and stars. Soon darkness rose up all around him. It gave him a strange feeling, as if he were walking down a monstrous throat. The tall trees were spiked like rows of teeth, A wind’s breath scoured past. He stopped to slow his heart and calm his fears. He had the beads of light to guide him to the sylth celebration, and that should be enough.
Magic awaited at the end of the light path if he had the courage for it. He was close now and couldn’t turn back. The journey would be worth any danger if he found the sylth folk at the Breal’s Moon gathering at its end. And if he should suddenly have to quit the woods? He spun round to check the way out and sucked in a shock of air. The pearling lights had all disappeared, and there was nothing but swallowing dark behind.
He must have cast the stolen spell wrongly somehow. Mispronounced it or left some other word out, else why would the lights be disappearing?
Miles turned and quickened his pace. Eyes watched him as he passed. Eyes he couldn’t see in the pressing dark. And in the midst of the trees came a soft flutter, which could have been wings or branches waving in the wind.
The sense of increasing danger made him hurry along, as even now the lights before him faded. In this dense part of the forest he’d soon be completely lost without their soft glow. The cedars sighed along the path, and the myrtle bushes swayed.
A crackling sound from behind! Feet? Hooves? Paws? Miles raced ahead. The wind rose up, shifting from soft to sharp, knifing through the branches. It whistled like a boiling kettle, then pitched to a high scream. Like a wild
woman with a broom, it beat against his back, driving him on and on until he ran into the deeps.
A granite boulder lay in the midst of the opening like a brooding giant hunched over in thought. Miles stood on the edge of the deeps, walled in on all sides by a circle of ancient trees. The pearl path faded, and night swelled up around him.
He drew his knife.
The blade had no gleam in the sudden dark.
SWALLOWING THE SPELL
Ezryeah took up his walking stick and left his homeland forever.
—THE BOOK OF EOWEY
THE AIR WAS THICK AND COLD AS WELL WATER. MILES heard the sound of heavy breathing, which could have been his own or the close, cold breath of one ready to attack. The thought of coming face-to-face with the Shriker made him want to run, but in this dark to run was to stumble, and to stumble was to become sure prey.
Teeth clenched, knife drawn, he waited. His eyes had nearly adjusted to the dark when he saw sparkling lights darting in and out of the pine trees. He blinked, thinking these were but the lights that flew before the eyes when one was about to faint, but the vision did not change with the blinking. One, two, a dozen, more. They flew closer, until he was surrounded by sprites, each one no bigger than his hand. Their skin shone bright as candle flames new to the wick, their clothes were the leafing, flowering colors of woodland meadows. Some had bows, others polished swords that mirrored silver light.
In the cool air above the deeps, orbs began to bloom and lit the trees as if it were Noorfest Eve. Miles sheathed his knife and drew a breath to ease his shaking limbs.
A thrumming sound pulsed through the high branches. Something was coming. He could feel it, and though he didn’t know what this thing would be, he felt a tingling run across his skin and down the backs of his arms.
Above his head sparks blew apart, then drew together again. Sprites swirled faster and faster, like bright leaves in the wind, and Miles saw a passage open high in the air in the very center of the deeps. Through the shining the sylth folk flew in twos and threes, making way for their queen. The sprites were two inches long, but the sylth folk were human size, as Miles knew they would be. But nothing in the common lore, nor anything he’d read in the spell book, prepared him for the sight of Queen Shaleedyn borne up on her silver throne. Miles held his breath as the bearers, three on one side and three on the other, placed her throne on the high boulder in the center of the deeps. Light orbs drifted downward and hung in midair above her.
A soft wind encircled Miles, and he stood unable to move or speak, the presence of the queen washing over him, like a wave. Her dark hair was crowned in delicate purple blooms with shining webs strung between. A bracelet of pure sylth silver coiled up her left arm from wrist to elbow. Her skin shimmered, like stream water, and the colors of her gown were ever changing in the soft light. But it was the look in her lavender eyes that sent a sudden chill down his back. He’d seen that look once before, in the angry eyes of a mother mountain lion near her cub’s den on Mount Shalem. Her eyes had been golden, and they’d held his death in them should he venture closer. The queen’s eyes were night’s answer to the pair of suns in the mountain lion’s eyes, but they held the same wildness in them and had the same burning power.
Just below her crown a ruby-backed spider gently combed the queen’s black hair. Its small legs worked carefully through her tresses; turning here and there, it wove silver threads prettily into the strands. Miles sighed watching the sprites and sylth folk gather beneath the forest canopy. It was as he’d dreamed it to be all the years of his life.
A deep howl broke the momentary spell, and he looked above the throne. The passage from Oth to Noor was swelling to greater size. The once bright tunnel was now bathed in red, and it seemed to be pulsing like an open wound.
The howl came again and louder. The stark call filled his ears like a lone wolf’s cry; only the sound was deeper and more monstrous. The joining of a hundred wolves into one, the baying of the night itself when day has fled to the farthest end of the world.
A dozen sylths escaped the crimson passage, their faces drawn with terror.
“He’s coming!” shouted one above the din. “Queen Shaleedyn! He’s right behind us!”
The creature’s howl echoed through the passage. It filled the deeps and the woods all round. Sweat spilled over Miles’s brow. Was it the Shriker? Was he coming after them? He squinted against the salty drops, grabbed his bow, and tore an arrow from his quiver. Above him Queen Shaleedyn stood and twirled around, her dress flying out in a sudden, colorful waterfall. She held her hand up, calling, “Kalass elandra!”
Suddenly the passage shut with a thundering clap. The night’s wound vanished, closing like a dungeon door, with the monster held behind.
The air shimmered. The sprites swirled over the queen’s head like shooting stars, and the sylths all cheered, some lifting swords, “Akabree tha Shaleedyn!”
“Akabree tha!”
Miles felt like shouting too, though he did not know the words’ meaning. Queen Shaleedyn adjusted her gown and sat again with a nod, as if she’d done nothing more than sweep a cobweb from the corner.
“Roses,” called a sylth in a rust orange tunic. Seeds were tossed from many a hand. Some twisted scarves till droplets fell upon the darkened earth in a bright rain. Other sylths blew upon the earth about the stone, like bellows working to a fire. Then all drew back as a thick vine wended up the boulder and along the back of the silver throne; here and there wisteria bloomed among the roses.
The flowering brought others to the wood, as all around them tree spirits emerged. One by one the tall, moonlit deyas stepped out of their grandtrees. The tree spirits stood in a broad circle, some male, some female, each deya twelve feet high at least. Arms out and swaying, the deyas shimmered like a crown of fallen stars. The deyas bowed to the Sylth Queen, She, in turn, honored them with a single nod.
Miles tucked his arrow back in its quiver and went down on one knee, partly from respect and partly because he was trembling too much to stand. The queen’s power awed him, and he could barely breathe in the presence of it.
“Human child. Who sent for you?” The queen’s voice was clear as a dove’s call, but there was a sharpness sheathed in the sound.
Miles found himself unable to answer. The queen’s eyes narrowed. “If you have come uninvited from the world of men, show what gift you’ve brought us.” She opened her hand.
Miles felt as if his bones were mash and his skin were no more than a water bag. He cursed his luck for having read only one page in the Falconer’s book regarding the Sylth Queen. She expected a gift! Of course she would! Did she want gold or silver? He was poor, his pockets empty. All he’d brought was his flute. And it was hand carved, at that. He sensed her waiting above, though he could not gather the courage to look her once more in the face.
There’d been little he could steal from the Falconer’s book, but Miles knew the lore surrounding the Sylth Queen. If she was displeased, she could freeze his flesh to winter’s ice or root him forever within a tree, the way she’d imprisoned Enoch. He shook at the thought, his tongue already dry as a snake’s, his skin suddenly wood-tight about his limbs. He licked his lips and said a quick prayer to eOwey before willing his stiff arm to move. Reaching slow with the weight of dread, he pulled the flute from its leather pouch. With trembling hand he lifted it in humble offering. Let it be enough, he prayed. Let her understand. For he still could not fetch any words from his mouth.
The queen gave a nod. “A musician,” she said. “We have a human musician for the Breal’s Moon dance!” She laughed, and all the sylths laughed with her. The sound struck him like the ringing of bells on prayer’s morn. He felt a wave of relief, but still he kept his flute aloft, afraid to make a move just yet.
“Stand,” ordered the queen. “You may yet be spared. Let us see what sort of music you have in you.”
Miles stood, however slowly, on shaking legs.
Sweat broke out across his back. He
found the notes and began to play. Not a single foot lifted, not a single wing fluttered. All stood planted as firmly on the forest floor as a row of wildflowers on a still summer’s night. He took a breath and hesitated. The queen had said he may yet be spared. Spared from what? Miles glanced to his left, wondering if he could flee the dance and how he’d get back home without the pearling light if he managed to escape.
“Listen,” said the queen.
Miles closed his eyes. A soft stirring then as he found, somewhere in the deeps, the faintest sigh of a breeze blowing a strange music through the woods. A dream-sung tune. The breeze blew about him, toyed with his hair, and filled his ears with sound. It was very soft at first, but it grew louder as he listened. Soon a steady beat filled his body. He chose a note and began to play, going he knew not where, but following the wind song the trees were bowing to.
He didn’t open his eyes at first, but played on until he felt a rush of warmth brush past his face. A burst of color appeared when he dared at last to look. All around him sprites, deyas, and sylths were twirling. On the high boulder the queen sat swaying gently to his song. Miles flushed, feeling such a rush of pure joy that he nearly lost the melody. He shut his eyes again and danced his fingers along the wooden flute to find the tune. There it was. Strange. Beautiful. Like the Sylth Queen herself.
An hour passed, and two, and three, the best hours in all his life. He wanted more, but at last the queen held up her hand. The Oth folk and deyas settled in a great circle around her throne.
“I’m well pleased with the human boy.” She reached out to adjust her silken sleeve, as if settling something in her mind.
“Speak your name,” she said. “And tell us what you do.”
The Beast of Noor Page 5