The Winter Oak

by James A. Hetley

  That's the heart of it. Way down deep, you're not afraid of the trees or the briars or even that damned dragon. You're afraid of Jo.

  No couple ever lived in perfect harmony. Ever. David knew his parents hadn't. Married thirty years now, three kids, got along okay and seemed to love each other, but they had frictions. They had fights. Words were said and left hanging overnight, never taken back.

  Jo's parents. Jo had talked, late at night and sleep in her voice, bits and pieces she usually kept hidden behind her face of strength, proof of how much pain there could be in words, never mind the fists and belt.

  With Jo, words could kill.

  Words and determination. If she ever got really mad at him, he'd be dead. Nothing stood between Jo and what she wanted. No muscles to speak of, but she was the strongest person he'd ever met.

  {If the will exists, a way exists.}

  Tell that to a Black kid in the ghetto. And yet, some of them broke free. Will and luck and the gifts of mind or body they inherited. Jo and Maureen had the gifts of the body, their Blood inherited from the Old Ones. Would his mind make a substitute, be a way?

  He could feel the tree calling to him. His feet found the proper trail, clear against the falling snow.

  {Come.}

  If she ever got really mad at him, he'd be dead.

  Coward. But what if she doesn't want me to follow her?

  David stood on the trail, sweating as if he already walked the Summer Country instead of Maine woods in a spring snowstorm. As if he stood under that dragon's nose with nothing but words as a shield. A shield made of tissue paper. Thinner than tissue paper, thinner than thin air, against teeth and claws that would shred him in an instant.

  Jo needed him. He hoped she needed him. He loved her.

  "In the beginning was the Word." Words held power. "Workers of the world, unite." Words could shatter and kill, even without the Power of the Blood behind them. Words were the only weapon he had. The only way he had.

  {If the will exists, a way exists.}

  He stepped off the trail, sinking into the old snow under the fresh white veil. He followed blurring tracks that led straight, up over drifts and down into hollows and across gurgling water hidden deep underneath the snow, a promise of spring that even the storm couldn't kill. He felt Maureen's tree in front of him, her Father Oak, not warmth and not pressure and not music but some indescribable essence of strength and stability and protection. Even he could sense it. Even a human.

  The tracks led to that strength. He barely noticed the cold snow packing down into his shoes and soaking his pants. Fat Christmas-card flakes hung in the air, gentle and windless, hazing the forest until a mound stood isolated in front of him and he climbed to the crest of it. The tree waited, huge and gnarled, looking as old as the hill on which it stood.

  Jo wasn't there.

  The tracks seemed fresh, barely melted, barely filled by the snow squall, less than a day old to his unpracticed eye, but they were empty. They came and stood and turned and led away again, and then they vanished. He'd missed her.

  The tree didn't offer any words of wisdom. It just stood there, solid as the rock beneath his feet, and endured. Humans, even Old Ones, passed like ghosts through Father Oak's life. A flash of seasons, and they were gone. Dead.

  Even Father Oak would die, somewhere down the centuries.

  David wiped his palms again. He formed Jo's face in his eyes and smiled at her.

  "Hair of fire and temper matching,

  "Passion and clear eyes well wed.

  "Witch blood drawing ever onward,

  "Past obsidian armored head."

  She sat huddled in a corner in a stone room, shivering. A half-empty goblet sat on the flagstone floor by her hand, red wine in exquisite cut crystal. She was crying. She needed him. He had to take the chance that she also wanted him. He drew a deep breath.

  "To the forest, through the shadows,

  "Came the warrior and the bard,

  "Seeking heart-songs, seeking lovers,

  "Drawn by need to face the guard."

  The veil of snow lifted, showing leaves, showing branches green with spring, showing forest duff wet from recent rain.

  Showing a dragon.

  Obsidian scales, yellow slitted eyes, teeth longer than the span of his hand, great charcoal-gray feet with claws even longer and more evil than the teeth. Blood stained one forefoot, a stump of a missing claw. Battle was already joined.

  David stared at the teeth, fascinated. He'd seen them in nightmares, seen them even in broad daylight on the mundane dirty streets of Naskeag Falls, his deepest terror. Sometimes he thought he'd seen them for years before he'd met Jo and followed her into dreams. Now he could stretch his hand out and touch them, smelled the reek of rotting flesh on them, and he didn't fear them. Calm settled over him.

  {Sing, human. Sing your brief song and die.}

  Chapter Twenty

  Magic prickled Khe'sha's tongue with a form of Power he hadn't tasted since a different sun warmed his crest. He couldn't tell if it grew from the Tree or the chanted words or the land itself, but the flavor was nothing like an Old One's guile and hidden aims. This tasted clear and sharp and pure on his tongue, waking memories of the long old songs in deep dragon-voices and the Sages weaving words into sudden truth. Pan'gu might have sung like this.

  The human stood under Khe'sha's nose and sang of cowardice. The dragon would have laughed, if it would not be such an insult to the song.

  Words wove images of love and life-mates and despair, of duty and compulsion, of blood and pain and terror, of fate-forced battle against great odds. Images of Sha'khe's death in courage and beauty and honor. Pale and shaking, reeking of fear-sweat, unarmed, and yet the human sang.

  Cowardice?

  The song ended, and the human stood in silence. He waited within reach, a single nip would end his life's song, and he did not carry the power of the Old Blood. Yet he waited for his fate. If this was a coward, Khe'sha would prefer to never face a brave man.

  The song ripped Khe'sha into pieces. One part mourned for his lost Sha'khe. One part glowed in admiration of the words, and of the courage they related. One part raged to bite and slash the treachery he'd heard. And a fourth part seethed at himself, for falling prey to the dark witch's plot.

  {I have been told lies.}

  The human flinched but held his ground. "Thus it happened. I've told you what I saw and did. Another would have seen another story. I can't tell that one."

  {I have been told lies, but you are not the teller. I can smell truth when it stands trembling under my nose.}

  The song shook his world to the core. The sun had risen in the east, for ages uncounted. Now it rose in the west. This human had slain Sha'khe, but he was not evil. He had done only what his fate forced him to do.

  Khe'sha had forgotten that some humans and Old Ones held honor. It was so scarce in this land that he had not weighed it in the balance. Had not even thought it possible. He had not tasted honor since Liu Chen had knotted a net of lies to trap first Sha'khe and then Khe'sha into slavery to the Master.

  {You had no choice. Sha'khe had no choice. There is no blood debt between us.}

  But new blood debt had been hatched. Khe'sha had lived for revenge and for the nestlings. Now Shen had vanished, stolen from her mound. The others lay frozen in sleep or death, dead by the black witch's treachery and his own errors. He'd distrusted her from the first, grown to hate and fear her, but he'd obeyed her as a means to soothe an even fiercer hate. Now that lay quenched.

  Keening grief built in his belly, as he followed his memories step by step through the twisted plotting of the black witch. Lies that walked the edge of truth, truth that fogged the boundaries of lie, the central truth that this man had slain Sha'khe -- without the second truth that he had followed a mate-bond as strong as any dragon's.

  The greatest songs told of a battle between honorable enemies both driven by fate. Neither hero stepped aside because neither could.


  Khe'sha lifted his nose to the sky, bellowing his grief and rage. The black witch had controlled him as perfectly as the Master ever had. She was evil. She must die.

  His rage froze. She was evil, but she must not die. Not while there was a chance that the hatchlings merely slept. She had said that she tied their lives to hers. He doubted that she would lie in so clear a way.

  As he cooled, the forest returned to him. The human lay huddled on the ground, hands pressed to his ears. A dragon's scream could deafen humans. Khe'sha blinked and lowered his head in shame. To steal hearing from a Singer, that would be a great evil in itself.

  {Are you harmed?}

  {We have protected him.} The voice spoke with the rustle of leaves in the wind, the slow whisper of roots sinking into stone, the murmur of water flowing clear in a forest stream. Khe'sha heard it and knew the voice of the Tree, the voice of the wildwood around him.

  {The forest protects the one you call the red witch, protects all who den with her. The forest guided you to this meeting.} A small animal stepped out beside the Tree, red-furred and ears alert and much like the Master's hunting hounds in shape. {The name is "fox," I'll have you know, far superior to any dog. I'll forgive you, this one time.} Khe'sha thought that the "fox" was laughing at him.

  The landslip and the falling trees, the tangled undergrowth too thick even for a dragon's strength -- he'd been herded to this glade under the ancient oak, not guided. The dark witch fought enemies she did not know or name, enemies of great power.

  {The black-furred witch has passed to her doom. She will not return. Your duty lies elsewhere.}

  Khe'sha sniffed his disbelief. {The dark one is strong and weaves deep plots. She has other allies. I must help to fight her, atoning for my error.}

  Dry laughter rustled through the leaves of the oak. Khe'sha felt scorn beneath his feet and deep in the rocks. This forest did not fear the dark witch. It never had, even when the Master ruled it. What made her think she could attack now, when the forest loved its guardian?

  {Your duty lies elsewhere. The one you call Shen passed through these woods, caged and injured, passed beyond to the lair of the black-furred one. The dark witch brews evil there, looking beyond this day's battle. More evil than she know. You and the Bard must end the cycle.}

  Plots within plots within plots. The dark witch had confused the mercy of great strength for weakness. Mercy, or indifference. The red one knew her strength and the strength of her allies. She had tasted the strength of her enemies, and knew that. The wisdom of the Sages echoed in Khe'sha's head: "If you know yourself and know your enemy, you do not need to fear the outcome of a thousand battles."

  The bard stirred, unwinding from his knot of fear and the knives of pain in his head. He sat up, at Khe'sha's feet. "Where is Jo? Where's Maureen?"

  {Your mate finds safety in the keep. The Stone has need of her power, a task of healing that may bring healing of her own. The Steward fights other battles. The Tree guides her and strengthens her.}

  "Which way is the keep? I have to find Jo. She needs me." The bard scrambled to his feet and looked around, as if seeking landmarks.

  {You are needed elsewhere.}

  "To hell with what you need. I need to help Jo." And the human chose a direction and started walking.

  Khe'sha blinked as the forest flowed around him, the exact tree or bush he watched never moving or changing but somehow becoming part of a thicket that wasn't there a heartbeat earlier. He smelled fresh-turned earth but saw none, heard the rustle of branches and leaves even though the air was still. Now the human faced a wall of thorny green that even Khe'sha couldn't force.

  The fox sat on her haunches, a sparkle of amusement in her eyes. {You will find a path, if you try the other way. It leads where the forest wishes you to go. I'd suggest you take it.}

  The human ignored that advice, proving the truth of his mate-bond. Khe'sha watched as the man poked and prodded at the forest wall, shifting sideways, each time forced to move downhill as well as to the side. Nothing changed, not visibly, not where Khe'sha could see, but the forest still deflected every effort.

  Khe'sha's heart warmed to him. The man did just what he would have done, separated from his mate. Khe'sha would be testing now, pushing, shifting, struggling against the tangles. Even without his mate's need driving him, he longed to find a way to that treacherous witch. But he'd already tasted the power of this forest. He'd been forced to this place against all his strength and will. His toe ached, and he licked blood from the broken claw.

  Now he understood. The red witch wanted him to live, as she wanted this Singer to live. The forest held its strength and turned its thorns aside, knowing what she wished.

  He shifted his bulk downhill, toward the path that led away through the trees. He saw no point in continuing to bite stone or climb a hill of sand or swim against a current stronger than himself.

  Khe'sha had walked this forest many times in many years, sharing duty with Sha'khe. He'd never seen it so powerful and aware. The red witch had given more than freedom to the trees. He pitied anyone who came to attack the keep. A thought chilled him.

  {The dark one has cast a spell on our hatchlings. If she dies, they die. Thus she binds me to her bidding. Can the Red Witch break this doom?}

  {The Steward asks the forest to trap and hold her enemies, if that be possible, rather than to kill. Asks, rather than commands. But the dark one holds much hate and much power, and the forest has never loved her. She may die. You are needed elsewhere.}

  The Singer stopped struggling with the forest and grimaced. "I guess I don't have a choice." He turned to Khe'sha and flourished an elaborate bow. "I'm David Marx. Pleased to meet you."

  {And I am called Khe'sha. I am honored to meet so powerful a Singer. Although, if you will allow, I do think you need to work on that sixth stanza.}

  "That and the five before it and the twenty after. I hadn't planned on a performance." Then the human shook his head and blinked. "Hey, at least half of that was improvised, revising as I went along. Dragons like poetry?"

  {The old songs are our lives. New songs are the sun on our backs and fresh meat in our bellies. Almost you give me the will to live, knowing that Sha'khe still lives in your words.}

  The Singer slumped to the ground, burying his head in his hands. Muffled words leaked past his fingers. "She was beautiful. I've never been so terrified in my life, but there was something else, something that went beyond fear. Beauty. Terror. Awe. Even a sense of mirth. She laughed at us. And you loved her. I weep that I had to kill her. But she wouldn't let me follow Jo."

  {There is no blood debt between us.}

  David looked up, face shiny with tears. "Now this damned forest won't let me go to her."

  The fox edged forward, timid and skittish, and licked the human's hand. {Your mate is safe, protected by the Stone and the keep it guards. The black-furred witch battles the forest, a greater power than she knows. The evil lurking in her den is a greater threat, to your mate and to me and to all that suckle young. Destroy it. There will be great danger. Both you and the dragon are needed.} She looked up at Khe'sha and smiled her fox-smile. {There may be a song in it.}

  Khe'sha bent his head down to the forest floor, beside the man. {Go the way the forest wishes, Singer. Even I could not win against such strength. Trust the forest. It protects your mate.}

  David smiled, with a wry twist. "I suppose you'll tell me that the fastest way to reach Jo is by going where the forest sends me. Typical run-around."

  {And on the way we can taste the phrases of your song and polish them. What is this "opal" of which you sang?}

  The human groaned. He stood and wiped his face on his sleeve, stared at the thicket blocking any route uphill, and shook his head.

  "Maureen's created a monster."

  Khe'sha chuckled, deep in his belly. {The forest has the power to do far worse. Perhaps we should find the dark one's lair.}

  "Shortest distance between two points is never a straight li
ne." He shrugged his shoulders and turned, sighing. The path opened in front of them, downhill toward the east. "If Fiona's tangled up in fighting the forest, what's the danger?"

  Then he paused between one step and the next, foot in midair. "Her hedge. Maureen warned us about the hedge. Probably other traps." He set his foot down and looked up at Khe'sha beside him. "I hope this forest knows what it's doing."

  And they followed the path, wide enough for a dragon's bulk, smooth for human feet, formed by the wildwood for its purpose and closing off behind them. Khe'sha heard the rustling leaves and creaking branches ahead and behind, smelled the fresh earth, but everything he saw looked like an age-old forest that hadn't changed in centuries. As they walked, they spoke of the sixth stanza and the other twenty-five. Did Pan'gu revise his songs after the first singing? This Singer tasted and discarded a dozen words for every one he kept. Khe'sha marveled at his nimble mind and tongue.

  A holly loomed beside the path, dark and glossy and pungent, watching. A stone wall crossed the way, dividing forest from grass, and Khe'sha felt another boundary there. This had been as far as the Master's tether let his beasts roam, the limit beyond which Khe'sha and Sha'khe could not step.

  He crossed the stone and entered a new song. They walked green meadows that reeked of magic and of lies, of binding and of pain. If Khe'sha had set foot on this land even once before, he never would have listened to the black one. The land looked so perfect because each blade of grass, each stone, each rolling hillock or path-side bush, bore her touch. Nothing lived its own life or followed its natural demands. He felt the tendrils of Power that bound everything to the hedge in front of him and to the cottage that lurked behind it.

  That flavor, contrasted with the taste of the forest living its own life free of the keep and its new Steward, told him much about the red witch and the black. Much that he'd learned too late. But he'd been bound by the Master first, and then by his grief, and then by the nest, and never had a chance to smell the truth.