by Sandra Waugh
“The path was meant to be safe!” I yelled, more to the Wood than Gharain. They grew fast, these shoots; some of the vines had already reached the height of my waist. My heart was pounding above the noise of the rain. We would not be able to go much farther before we were trapped. I hugged both arms around Gharain as he drew his sword, ready to slice a way through.
“Do not cut the Dark Wood!”
“Twig!” we shouted together.
The gnome’s voice was sharp, just ahead of us in the dark. “If you think it traps you now, cut it and it will swallow you whole in vengeance! Quickly! This way.”
Twig was there up ahead, hopping out of the way of each new growth. He was fast, though; the vines could not ensnare him. “Quickly!”
And then we reached him, followed him—not his figure but his voice—ducking low and tumbling in what seemed a downward slide only a step from the edge of the path. And then we were stopped, once more on flat ground, able to stand upright. It was completely dark, but it was dry, and the noise of storm and woods suddenly felt like harmless murmurs. A calm, sturdy energy surrounded us. Sanctuary—
But I gasped, breaking the quiet. “The path! It closed on us! I thought we were to be safe on the path!”
“The path will reclaim its place afterward, but it has no strength against a storm,” said Twig. “You must wait here until it subsides. We are safe beneath this footing of oak.”
“Oak! In Dark Wood?” Gharain gripped me tightly still, unsure if anything here could be safe.
“Ah yes! Here and there are oak and willow and mulberry. Chaos cannot claim everything, you know—there are always objects and points of stability in the worst of it.” And then Twig caught himself, as if he remembered the lost amulets, and added, “For now.”
“Good that this is,” Gharain said. “We need light. Is it safe, then, to make a fire?”
Twig was horrified. “A fire! Does wood not burn?” He muttered to himself, his voice moving as if he paced, “Babes they send to do warriors’ work! Ignorant children!”
“My apology,” Gharain said stiffly. “But Lark is cold and soaked, and it is black in here.”
I stepped in, calmer now. “It’s just … Twig, we cannot see anything.”
“Maybe that is a good thing for you,” he retorted. But then I could sense his grin in the blackness; he was proud of himself for something.
“I am aware of the wet and the dark, Rider, but you tall ones remain too attuned to your eyes. So be it, then—here is a treat for you.” There was a pause, and Twig called out very politely, “May we have light?”
Overhead something flickered; Gharain and I both gasped. A starry sky was suddenly lit above us, though we were underground—a thousand pinpricks of golden starlight filled the burrow with a sweet glow.
“Glimmer moths,” announced Twig.
Glimmer moths. Tiny, translucent creatures scattered on the oak roots woven across the earthen ceiling. Their wings sparkled—shimmering with each beat of gossamer. I looked up at Gharain, whose face caught the radiance of the light and reflected it back.
“Our thanks, gnome.” His voice was husky, and my heart skipped at the sound. He sensed my gaze, looked down at me, and smiled.
Twig was not subtle. “You no longer have to clasp one another thus—Lark is safe under the oak.”
So Gharain withdrew his arm, leaving empty space.
“Now for you both.” Twig’s voice broke our stare. He was holding out a bundle of something, dividing it between us, placing it in our hands: something soft and billowy, like a handful of bearded moss. “This works well to dry the skin. Now clothes and boots may go here.” He pointed to some root ends that poked out like hooks from the earthen walls.
I stripped off my leggings and tunic, leaving my undershift, which would likely dry quickly enough. Gharain took off his tunic, which bared his torso, but—I was relieved—refused Twig when he motioned for his pants. We scrubbed with the mossy fluff, which drank the wet like a sponge.
This peace was glorious beyond the storm. I looked around. We were in not a cave, but a rather large, circular burrow. Its width was more than several steps across, high enough to stand straight and look up to its canopy of roots. The industrious gnome had spread armfuls of the moss at one end for bedding, and now our clothing hung at another—spare, but a homelike comfort. I went over to Twig to thank him. He was at the opening to our burrow, laying sprigs of something on the ground.
He looked up at me. “There, all better? Not quite like drowned whelps now.”
I smiled at him, and Gharain called out, “All better. We thank you.”
The gnome gave a little shimmy of pleasure. There was a brief moment where his body seemed to evaporate. I blinked.
“Twig, what are you doing?”
He held up a long-stemmed purplish blossom. “A little wood betony to keep out bad things.” He finished bordering the entrance and stood up. “You can find it in Dark Wood if you look closely. As I said, there are things that can help you in the midst of misfortune, if you pause to look. Though”—he surveyed his work—“I cannot promise it will keep out everything.”
“Banes?” The memory of their death calls sent a chill down my spine.
“Not the banes so much,” said Twig in answer. “They frighten with their noise. At worst, if you see them, then their shrieks become like a siren song and draw you in. No, I worry about the Troths.”
At that Gharain moved to my side—when had it become easy for him to reach for me? He looked at the little goose bumps on my arms.
“Twig, we must have something to warm us. ’Twill be a long wait underground, and Lark is chilled through.”
“I am aware.” The gnome sniffed. He shook his head and said, “If you were not descended from the king, I would not take so kindly to your tone.” Then, deciding not to remain insulted, he said cheerfully enough, “Come, sit, it is high time for gift giving; we’ve not much longer.”
Twig ushered us forward and bade us sit in the middle of the burrow, under an oak root that was crowded with glimmer moths—bathing us with light. Then the gnome sat down so that we faced each other more or less in a circle. He reached to his waistpack and fumbled with the string, mumbling, “Gifts that are requested, and gifts that are freely given—”
I asked, “What is this gift giving?”
Twig paused his movement to stare at me. “Do not say to me that you do not know.”
“I’m sorry, but I have no gift for you.”
“The gift giving is not for me!” Twig smacked his forehead so hard he toppled. Next to me Gharain swallowed his chuckle. “Nothing!” the gnome continued, righting himself. “I’m left to tell it all!” He tsked and muttered, “I have so little time and they leave me all of it!” Then he turned to me and stared hard. “You know nothing of the three gifts?”
“The king was to give me three tokens that would help reclaim the crystal orb. But I do not yet have them; I do not know what they are.…” I frowned, sanctuary forgotten. Twig would rage again at my ignorance, and why should he not? How ineffectual a Guardian I was if I’d learned nothing from this ordeal. Maybe my original fear was true, that I did not merit this task—I didn’t know which way to go, how to get there, and what to do, and I certainly didn’t know what gifts I needed with me on this undirected quest.
All at once, whatever pleasure I’d taken in finding safety under the oak was gone. I was simply a scared girl lost in Dark Wood, cold, tired, hungry … and useless.
But the gnome did not rage. He sighed and gave a little shake of his head at my thoughts. “Do not be upset. You ignore what you’ve accomplished, but I suppose that will change with time.” He turned to his waistpack and pulled out an object bigger than his two small hands. The thing must have long weighed him down by the size of it. And now, as he held it out, he seemed to fade a little—his beard whiter and his arms and legs thinner. I was reminded of the king suddenly, and I thought miserably: I take their energy.
&n
bsp; But Twig looked at me, and leaned toward the center of our circle. “Lady Lark, we are all a part of this quest, we allies and Keepers. We all share in it; we all give what we can give. The final moments will be yours to bear alone, so it is now that we can aid you, support you, so that you may stand ready for the greatest challenge. My desire remains that you trust you will know what to do in that final moment.” He stretched out his arms. “Now, in the king’s stead, here is the first gift—since it has been requested by your Complement. We may use it now for warmth.”
Twig opened his hands and placed the thing between us. It was a stone, oval in shape, translucent with a bluish tinge. Its faint color was familiar.
“This is a moonstone,” the little man said.
I nodded, my throat still thick with discouragement. I’d never heard of a moonstone, but then I’d never heard of the stones Twig had fished from the stream either.
Twig kept his eyes on me. “It’s rather innocuous as such—a pretty stone, ’tis all—but pick it up, Lark. Warm it in your hands.”
Cold fingers to warm a cold gem; I took up the moonstone.
Twig murmured, “No, truly hold it.” And so I cupped my hands around the smoothness, pressing it between my palms.
With a little spark, I felt the energy whir inside the stone, faint at first, and then with a vibrating buzz. And suddenly there was light glowing between my fingers, and I opened my hands. The moonstone shone brighter than a candle in the moth-lit space.
“Oh!” I mouthed. I heard Gharain’s sharp intake of breath.
Twig was beaming. “We know it too as the traveler’s stone. ’Tis a stone for balance, for insight and rejuvenation. But now you understand a moonstone’s power within the hands of a Guardian. It radiates her energy.”
I would have sat there, awed, holding the little source of light forever, I think, but Twig said, “Draw the stone through the length of your hair, my lady. Three times should do. Rider, help her.”
Gharain took the moonstone from my open palm and slid the stone slowly down my hair, threading pale blue through nut brown. The first sweep was cool against my scalp. The second, I felt the stone warm. And then by the third time it slid to my hip, the moonstone blazed hot. Gharain dropped the stone, and it rolled back to the center of our circle. We could feel a steady, surrounding heat rise from its tiny surface. It brought back my smile. Radiate energy, indeed.
Twig made a little snorting laugh. “Now you will be quite toasty.”
Gharain fingered a few strands of my hair. I blushed and looked at the gnome. “Thank you for my gift, Twig.”
He grinned broadly. “Gnomes are deft jewel cutters,” he said proudly. “And a moonstone is one of the most intricate—the axes must align precisely or the stone does not reflect with true clarity. Highly polished it should be as well. This one I made myself, to be certain. Moonstones are great resources for Guardians. Keep it close.”
For a time we all watched the light. The burrow warmed quickly, the heat like a silky caress over skin.
“Now, before the other gifts, some sustenance,” Twig announced. He grinned broadly. “Tonight we feast!”
And the little man dug into his waistpack and drew out three acorns, placing one before each of us. I almost laughed; Gharain sat very still next to me, holding his tongue.
But Twig looked up at me and winked. “Do not always use your eyes to determine the value of something,” he said. “These are from the white oak on the far side of the Myr Mountains. Like the rowan in Bren Clearing, the white oak is special, and a most powerful refuge in the midst of the Waste. Its acorn will sate your hunger. We may roast them over the moonstone.”
We each held our single acorn over the stone’s light, fingers moving so they wouldn’t burn, feeling the shell grow quickly hot, then brittle. We smacked them with open palm to split the skin. The acorns revealed two seeds each—a rare thing. And we ate them, letting their burst of oil play on our tongues and trickle down our throats. Tiny as the meal was, it was utterly delicious and utterly filling.
As we ate, I watched Twig’s form clearly changing. I hadn’t been mistaken: he was whiter, paler, a tinge of glimmer highlighting his skin and clothes.
“Twig, what is happening to you?” I asked sharply.
He calmly finished chewing. “As I said, there is not much time left.” Then he chuckled at my shocked gasp. “I am not dying, my lady. ’Tis that my help lasts but one full sweep of sun from the moment of request.”
My jaw dropped. “Why did you not warn me of this?”
“And have you worry about losing me for the length of time you had me?”
That was true, but it did not make me feel better. “How can you help me if you are gone?” I asked hoarsely. Had I known him for only a day? It seemed that I should not move forward if he was not there to point my way.
But he answered my thought. “ ’Tis what I said before, Lady Lark. You must trust yourself.”
Gharain made a little shift of movement, and the gnome added with a raised eyebrow, “And, you are not alone. So let us not waste more time on saying goodbye. Time is nearly out; we must finish the gift giving.” He turned to Gharain. “You requested of me; now I request of you. Rider, would you hand me your tunic?”
Gharain stood and unhooked his shirt from the root. Twig took it with eager hands.
“Good, good,” he said. He looked up at Gharain. “Do you allow me to take something from this?”
Gharain nodded solemnly. Twig spread the shirt on the floor of the burrow, fingers searching nimbly for what he wanted: the stone toggle at the neck of Gharain’s tunic. He took from his waistpack the little white-handled knife, cut the threads, and returned the tunic. “All good,” the gnome announced. “Now, Lark, I complete your second token.”
Twig withdrew two more things from the waistpack, which he placed side by side on the hard earth: the bit of cloth he’d cut from my sack and Quin’s withered fern. He moved Gharain’s stone button next to them, and then rubbed his hands in satisfaction. “I craft an ally token for you, my lady. Watch. We begin here: three things of Earth, from three planes of love.”
The gnome kept his eyes on me, seeing my cheeks grow hot even before he mentioned Gharain. “Look to these, Lady Lark,” he said, pointing at the three items. “Plant, animal, and rock: three objects of Earth. Friend, family, and heart’s desi—”
“No!” I had to interrupt, to beg, desperate. “Do not say it!” I felt the change of energy in Gharain, though he did not move.
Twig simply watched me. “Three planes of love,” he whispered, insisting. “Your three planes of love. Allies to draw from.”
No one said a word. My throat closed over quickened breath, humiliated that my feelings should be announced thus to Gharain. Heart’s desire! He was so, but he could not be so.
Then Twig said very quietly, “What lies in the heart, Lady Lark, simply is. What you choose to do with it is your own destiny. But truth is crucial in an ally token. And this will be your ally, if it is your truth. Remember that.” He took the three items, rearranging them in a little pile now so that the cloth lay on the bottom, the stone in the middle, and the fern on top. He looked back up at me. “Do you make this token?”
There was silence again. Burning, I understood what he meant; I suppose we all did. And the hush in the little burrow was severe in its intensity. An ally token—it had to be true or it would hold no power. I swallowed; the barest sound, admitting to truth even as I rejected it: “I make.”
Gharain shifted only slightly, but his energy changed once more.
Twig was nodding. “Then we need something from you to bind these.”
I knew. I slowly tugged out two strands of my hair, handed them to the gnome, and he wrapped the little bundle with my hair—winding the length down and up, covering the three gifts until they were tightly bound. Twig knotted the ends.
“There, now, this should be quite strong. Three samples of love, three symbols of Earth—one freely given, on
e taken, one asked for. This is your ally token—a friend to draw strength from in a time of need.” Twig presented it to me, and I took it in my hands and felt each piece within the bundle—the stone warm and solid, the cloth soft and sturdy, the fern still fragrant. My hair secured them together.
“That is good.” Twig reached out again to place his finger on the ally token as if he too wanted a moment to draw strength from it. His fingers shimmered now, sheer and then not. He was fading before my eyes.
“Twig—”
He shook his head at me. “All is good. The moonstone, the ally token … we’ve two tokens left. One a gift of something claimed and freely returned, and the final one to be a sacrifice—”
“But the king said only three. I don’t wish any more sacrifices!” I said it loudly.
“But the king did not know that you would leave Tarnec as you did and change your path. So I will add to the gifts a sacrifice of something,” he insisted. “Of something precious.”
Twig reached up and ripped the tiny red jewel from the neck of his tunic and passed it to me. It fell like a teardrop in my open palm, glittering darkly under the canopy of stars. His voice was husky. “A terrible tragedy reaped this. There is no other.”
Gharain spoke. “The color is very deep. A ruby, is it not?”
“In resemblance.” Twig reached a finger to the jewel—a last stroke upon the minute facets. I felt bad that he’d necessarily part with two such fine-worked gems, but the gnome swallowed and shook himself. “Do not look at me sadly, Lady Lark. I am quite recovered. There are reasons for everything. That I have this means that I am meant to pass it to you. There is no value if one hoards one’s treasures. They must be shared to be truly precious.”
But I said, “Twig, I am sad because you are very nearly gone.” Indeed, the little man had paled to a whitish transparency.
“What?” And the gnome looked down at himself and said, “My, my. How odd! Well, no mind. I am soon to be back at the task that was so abruptly interrupted when I was called to help you.” He sounded pleased, but I sensed a little disappointment.