Pathways

by Mercedes Lackey

  The forest was haunted, saturated with magic. Sparrow had lived at the edge of this forest for her entire life, and she had never sensed its menace as she did in this moment.

  It was the forest itself that had sought Brock Cloudbrother. The forest that sent the mist maidens to tempt a little boy deeper into the wild. The forest itself was enchanted, alive, hungry. The forest wanted to claim its sovereignty over the people, the rocks, the creatures both magical and mundane.

  The forest was aware. It had a name, and it demanded its dominion. A sickness in the magic here waxed powerful.

  Sparrow slid off Abilard’s back and crouched under his belly, in the mud. She crabwalked sideways to get clear of his nervously dancing hooves, to a damp, horizontally striped boulder. She leaned against it, Tis snuffling fussily against the nape of her neck.

  She could not send to her baby or to her heartmate. But with Cloudbrother’s help, she could fly. Abilard would hold Tis back from flying with her.

  She closed her eyes, took a deep breath. Snuggled deep into the loamy, leaf-soaked earth.

  And leaped into the ether, desperately searching for her heartmate before she tumbled back into her body.

  It made her think of the kite festival held at Longfall each autumn, the only frivolous thing the sober little village ever undertook. She tossed herself into the wind, then crashed into her body again. She tried it again and again, each time slamming back into her head, her skull screaming in protest.

  One more time . . .

  And Cloudbrother’s fingers grabbed her, squeezed.

  “It’s dangerous!” he half yelled.

  She saw him, her beloved. Clear and white as a bolt of lightning. “How can the forest hurt you here?”

  He grabbed at her fiercely. “It’s like I told you, branches in the wind all reach into the sky. Air and earth, remember? Not so easy to ride clear.”

  She fluttered in his arms like a sparrow in the storm. “It’s the Forest of Sorrows, Brock. It was the forest itself that took you. Once you have the name, you have the power.”

  Cloudbrother scissored his legs, and they shot higher, much higher. The trees swayed under their feet. Sparrow could never recall flying so far in the daylight.

  Cloudbrother was speaking to her. It cost her an effort to focus on his words. “No, love. That is the name the people of the land have given to this place. We need the name in the ancient language. And even then . . .”

  Before he could finish, clouds of steam rose to enclose them. Tendrils reached for them, twined around them, between them. The forest was hungry, would remain hungry.

  Fear lashed at Sparrow like a vicious, unceasing wind. She fought to think through it, to where Tis huddled on the ground with her, far below. Abilard could not ride the ether, could not help them from the ground.

  She had no power, no magic to hurl. Her magic, the humble one of love and hearth, seemed infinitely out of reach. She feared that this time, the forest would finish the job of devouring her heartmate and would take her and Tis for good measure.

  Sparrow and Cloudbrother climbed even higher, desperately leaping away from the forest’s grip. Ever more distant from their lives on the ground.

  The air grew thin, so high. The trees receded so far below that the mist could not reach them. Sparrow clutched at Cloudbrother, terrified.

  The only thing that kept her from unraveling was a deep sense that somehow the key to their salvation traveled with them, was with them at this moment.

  She forced herself to breathe, to slow down the torrent of her thoughts.

  She remembered what Cloudbrother had told her. And what she knew of this place.

  And it all became clear.

  “Water,” she said.

  “Water?”

  “You told me your captor owned the air and the earth.”

  “Water . . .”

  “We have to go to Lake Evendim.”

  “What? You’ve never been to Lake Evendim, my love!”

  And Sparrow’s heart sang then, for Brock Cloudbrother began to laugh, despite the siege. “Really, the lake? It’s pretty far away.”

  “I don’t know the details. But the lake holds great secrets. My mother, of all people, used to tell me so.”

  “Your mother never went to Lake Evendim, either.”

  Now Sparrow was laughing, mixed with her tears and with the rain. “I know! But somehow she knew, and she made sure to tell me. She said it was my inheritance.”

  The memory sobered her a bit, but it softened and steadied her too. “The Bitter Sea would do, my love. It is a mighty water. But the Lake is closer.”

  “How do you know all of this, my darling?”

  Sparrow stopped to consider the logical and obvious question. And the answer floored her. “Because my mother used to sing to me the lullaby:

  Higher than the Peak of Thurlos

  Deeper than the secrets of Lake Evendim

  Stronger than the Forest of Sorrows

  Is the love you have for him . . .

  Is the love you have for him . . .”

  They floated together, and considered the words of the long-ago song.

  “Did your mama ever sing you this lullaby, Brock?”

  “No, ma’am. She used to sing me songs about pirates and dragons. Maybe they were also about Lake Evendim. But never this. Never this.”

  “So what do we do now?”

  They floated above the tops of the trees, like two intertwined kites escaped from a long-ago Longfall Kite Festival. Cloudbrother peeked down, way down, to the forest bed below.

  “We get you and Tis back on Abilard’s back. And Abilard calls to his brother Companions, and we head to the Lake of Evendim as fast as we can. I’m thinking the Change-Circles hacked a hunk out of this forest—it’s missing something that keeps it in balance.

  “This forest is terribly out of balance. I learned from my clan brothers how important it is to keep the balance, to keep the magic from turning to harm. The forest needs healing. It’s sick. And something we are doing is making it sicker. We need to restore the balance.”

  “So can we outrun the forest now?” Sparrow was terrified to go down, and she also was terrified to stay up here, leaving Tis alone with Abilard.

  “We can’t outrun the forest, no,” Cloudbrother said, his voice filled with power and excitement. Sparrow had never seen him so centered in his own power. “Running won’t fix this. We have to face the forest head on. I came here to do this.”

  He paused. “I might not make it, love. But you will. And Abilard will. And that is enough to keep Tis safe.”

  Sparrow surrendered to his lead and refused to think about the risk. Her fear hid deep in her heart, where she could no longer feel it. “Let’s go down to Tis, then,” she said, her voice shaking only a little. “You show me the way.”

  She closed her eyes, and they descended slowly, more like gently falling leaves than crashing kites now. She didn’t want to see the branches reaching for her, didn’t want to see the darkness closing in all around them.

  Instead, she hopped down the last little way to where Tis waited for her.

  :Mama,: he Spoke into her mind.

  “Sweetie,” she said out loud. “Mama and Daddy are here.”

  She opened her eyes. Cloudbrother still clutched at clumps of Abilard’s thick, blue-white mane. He was smiling.

  Abilard whispered into her mind. :Cloudbrother has told me of your mother’s lullaby. The simple wisdom is the best. It is of a piece with the predictions of the Council in Haven. The Council was right . . . only Cloudbrother can reach the forest now. They are linked by pain and blood.:

  Sparrow climbed on the striped boulder to reach the saddle and sit behind Cloudbrother. The leaves overhead rippled and rustled with a hiss like snakes.

  Brock Spoke to the forest,
not to Sparrow, but she could hear him in her mind just the same. :I swear to you that I will ease your pain. The Changes have sheared away your connection to Water. I will seek that energy and return it to you. The answer is hidden to the west, where the great Lake lies. You know me. I am yours. Allow us to go, and we will heal you.:

  Sparrow finally understood. The forest wasn’t their enemy. It hadn’t sought to destroy Brock, but to absorb his energy, to heal. The forest was lashing out in pain.

  She held her breath, straining for an answer.

  When it came, she could not believe it.

  YES

  The forest spoke directly into her mind, so loudly that pain spiked from inside her eyes. Tis began to cry, but she didn’t try to hush him. She just held on to Cloudbrother with all her strength.

  GO. AND RETURN. OR . . .

  Sparrow let her breath out slowly, her lips trembling.

  :I will come, I will heal your pain,: Brock said.

  And all at once, the rustling stopped, and before them lay the track to Longfall.

  “We’d better go to Evendim through Haven,” Brock whispered, so softly that Sparrow could hardly hear him. “We’ll follow the road south. And report to the Council before we go west.”

  Together they flew, racing with Abilard through the Forest of Sorrows.

  The nature of their quest had changed, from a battle to the death to a mission of healing. But that made their mission no less dire. The Forest of Sorrows was out of patience.

  They had no time to lose.

  The lullaby was a fragile thread connecting Sparrow to the past, and pointing their way forward. They would ride into the future together, Sparrow and Cloudbrother and Thistle, and that was everything.

  Clay and Fire

  Angela Penrose

  Warm sun shone down on the knee-high grain fields to either side of the wide road, and a cool breeze ruffled the green shoots, making them rustle and wave. The breeze carried the grassy scent of the wheat to Herald Arvil, along with a pure whiff he recognized as water. A few puffy clouds drifted here and there across the rich, blue sky. The fluff of treetops fuzzed the horizon beyond the fields scratched out of the rock-hard soil native to the area. A gap in the trees marked the place where Elmdale lay.

  It’d been almost four years since Herald Arvil had last been to the village and eight since his first visit. He remembered the place with a smile, despite having humiliated himself horribly that first time, falling flat on his face in the middle of the tavern, his attention caught by a gorgeous man.

  The same man riding next to him, in fact.

  Smooth brown skin, a handsome, angular face, and broad, muscular shoulders had drawn Arvil’s attention on that evening eight years ago. Humor and kindness had led them down the path to love and then marriage.

  Usually a glance at his husband was enough to get Arvil smiling. The circumstances of their trip back to Elmdale were grim, though, and Embry’s expression was tight with pain.

  Arvil wanted to fix everything, to put the world back the way it was supposed to be, but he couldn’t, and that knowledge gnawed at his gut.

  No one, not even a Herald, could bring back the dead.

  • • •

  They rode into Elmdale, Arvil on his Companion, Graya, and Embry on his bay horse, Rusty. The village was barely a ten minute walk from end to end, all timber and plaster houses with neat thatched roofs, most two or three stories high. The shadows stretched clear across the road, and the air was full of supper smells—roasting pork and sizzling peppers and the yeasty scent of the flatbreads folk made in that area.

  The buildings facing the main road all had shops on the ground floor, shuttered for the evening. They rode past them all to the far end, where one building had become a blackened pit with a few broken timbers stretching upward like fire-cracked bones.

  Embry took a sharp breath. When Arvil looked over, his eyes were squeezed closed.

  Arvil reached out to squeeze Embry’s hand and got a squeeze back. Another breath, and then Embry opened his eyes again and stared at the wreckage of what had once been his brother’s home and workshop.

  “I suppose I was hoping it’d all been a mistake,” he said, his voice low and rough. “I knew it wasn’t, but my gut was still hoping.”

  “It often does take longer to convince your gut,” said Arvil. He’d seen grief over death time and again since becoming a Herald. He never knew what to say to the sorrowing survivors, and this time, even with Embry, was no different.

  Before Arvil could think of something comforting to say, a new voice called from up the road. “Embry Smith! That you?”

  They both turned to see a gray-haired woman in a leather apron come striding toward them.

  “Nan Turner, hello,” said Embry. “I hope you’ve been well?”

  “Well enough,” she said. “Would I could say the same of yourself. Terrible thing, terrible loss.”

  “Thank you,” murmured Embry. “This is my husband, Arvil.”

  Arvil bowed from the saddle and said, “Well met, Mistress Turner.”

  Nan nodded to Arvil and said, “And yourself,” then turned back to Embry. “Imagine you’ll want to go to Gilly, then. She’s at the Two Hares. Sarry took her in, bundled the babe right up with her own.”

  “Thank you, yes,” said Embry.

  Nan nodded at him, then turned and headed back up the road.

  “This way,” said Embry, and nudged Rusty into a walk. Arvil would usually have teased him, reminded Embry that he hardly needed directions to the tavern where they’d met, but his husband was clearly running on his last thread, so Arvil kept silence and followed.

  They’d actually passed the Two Hares on their way in. It sat at the western edge of the village, where travelers from Tindale—the largest settlement nearby—would go by it on their way into town. It wasn’t big enough to call an inn, only two stories and the upper floor taken by the host’s family. You could buy a space on the plank floor if you wanted to stay the night, and Arvil imagined they’d be doing that, for however long it took Embry to settle his brother’s business.

  Loud talk and the clunking of tankards spilled out when Embry opened the broad, iron-banded door. It took only the space of a few breaths for their arrival to quiet the room.

  The hostess wound her way across the floor, wiping her hands on a long apron. She walked right up to Embry and pulled him into a hug. Arvil couldn’t hear what she said to him, but whatever it was made him tighten his arms around her and kiss her on the cheek.

  She took a step back and said, “Come, Gilly’s upstairs. She’s that turned around, the poor mite, sad and confused and striking out when it’s too much for her. Seeing family will help some, we can hope.”

  Arvil touched Embry’s shoulder and said, “I’ll see to Graya and Rusty. You go on.”

  Embry gave him a quick nod and a twist of the lips that was doubtless meant as a grateful smile, before following the woman, likely Sarry.

  Back out on the street, Arvil took Rusty’s reins and led him around the back of the building, where he recalled there was a decent enough lean-to stable. Graya followed close behind. Arvil removed packs, saddles, bridles, and blankets, stacking the packs along the back wall where Graya could make sure they didn’t walk away with someone, then gave each of them a good brushing and left them with hay and water.

  The sun finished setting while he worked, and by the time he re-entered the tavern, lamps burned all around. He collected a trencher of pork stew and a beer from a young man who resembled Sarry quite a lot, then settled down at a trestle table with a half-dozen locals.

  “Herald,” said the man across from him. He was lean and wiry, with some gray in his beard. “You escorting Embry?”

  “He’s my husband,” said Arvil, taking a big bite of the stew. It was thick and flavorful, with mushrooms and peppers an
d generous chunks of pork.

  “Ah, aye, I remember you now,” said the man. “You’re the one measured your length on the floor some years agone.”

  He chuckled, and a few of the others, clearly listening, laughed along. It didn’t sound mean-spirited, so Arvil just shrugged and gave them all a smirk.

  “I’m Todd, since you likely don’t remember, traveling around as you Heralds do,” said the wiry man. He swept his own tankard around the table, adding, “Burn, Ulf, Young Hender, Kat, and Meg.”

  “Good to see you,” said Arvil, nodding at each. “I wish it were for a better reason.”

  “Aye, that’s bad business,” said Todd. “After midnight, when folk are sound in their beds, and then a fire with none to see nor hear until the whole place has caught. I live across the way a piece and knew nothing of it till I heard shouting.”

  “I live next to Nilly and Corden,” said Meg. “I heard the cracklin’ an’ then a roar, and I raised the cry. Nilly was hanging outa the window screamin’, and when I ran over, she dropped little Gilly like a laundry bundle. I caught her and ran, thinkin’ Nilly’d be right behind. I handed Gilly to Annabet by the bakery and ran back, thinkin’ Nilly mighta broke something on the fall and need help, but she weren’t there in the road and weren’t in the window no more. All I could see were flames and smoke and timbers falling. I reckon a fallin’ timber got her afore she could jump. Never did see Corden.”

  She nodded gravely before taking a long drink of her ale, then added, “You can wager I take extra care to bank the fire afore bed. Roll up the hearth rug, too. Can’t be too careful.” The others around her nodded back, lifting their tankards before drinking.

  Arvil had heard enough witness tales to recognize one that’d been told many times. It sounded as though the fire had blazed up suddenly if it was already out of control by the time anyone heard or smelled it. He remembered Nilly as a serious woman, a little shy, a quiet shadow to her more boisterous husband. She was a sensible woman, not one given to dithering. If the fire blocked the stairs—and surely it must have, for her to drop her child out the window with what sounded like no hesitation at all—then Meg was right that Nilly herself should have jumped immediately after.