The Chosen (The Compendium of Raath, Book 1)

by Michael Mood

  Krothair Mallurin would embrace his destiny with open arms.

  Chapter 27 – New Legs

  -1-

  Wren sat by the river, carefully watching her reflection in the water. It danced as snowflakes fell softly into it. Crasher sat next to her, sheltering her against the wind with his huge body. She could smell his oily fur and a musk that was uniquely his own.

  The girl ran her hands slowly over her stomach, still unable to believe that she carried life within it. But it felt like sickening life. My father. Her tears fell into the water then, mixing with the snowflakes, rippling everything and making it impossible for her to distinguish her own face, her brown eyes, her hair which hung over her shoulder in a braid that Heather had made for her, tied with a bit of cord made from a vine.

  Heather's training distracted Wren from thinking about the sick thing that grew within her, but there were always moments like this – here by the rushing water – that drew her thoughts back to it.

  Would it be easy to drown in that water? Is it deep enough? Certainly it's cold enough to freeze to death in . . .

  “Mistress,” Crasher said behind her in his deep, slow way. “You have become distracted. Heather wanted us to be working on Shielding.”

  “I know,” said the girl. She didn't want to sound sulky, but couldn't help it. The woman had been working her incredibly hard, teaching her what she knew of being a Protector as they traveled north into the mountains. It was a terrain that was altogether new to Wren.

  Things got colder the further up they went and it became harder and harder to breathe as the elevation changed. Heather had been prepared for this, though, packing all sorts of warm things made from pelts, which Wren became confused about. How can a Protector – someone who is sworn to protect nature - use the skins of animals for their own purposes?

  Wren stood up and wiped her eyes. “I can feel the power within me now,” she told the bear. “But I still don't really understand how it works. If I do something that benefits nature I gain power. That's probably what happened the first time. With the ape.”

  “This is all very interesting, mistress,” Crasher said, “but if you aren't going to try and Shield me, I'd rather resume my fishing.”

  “Hang on,” Wren said. She reached deep within as Heather had taught her, grasping inside herself for her Well of power. It was a little like trying to find a new part of her body. Her symbol seemed to be an indicator for her power. The more she held, the more brightly it glowed.

  She felt the power contained within her Well, like a single drop in a large bucket. How much power can I hold?

  She reached her hands towards Crasher, trying to force the power out of her body. But nothing happened. She reached again, willing a Shield to form around the bear, trying to make it take the same shape she had seen Heather doing: a pale blue shimmering sphere.

  Nothing happened.

  “Oh, this is stupid!” Wren yelled.

  “Mistress?” Tessa said groggily. The little mouse popped her head out of Wren's pocket. “Is everything alright?”

  “I don't want to be a marked woman, or whatever Heather keeps calling me, Tessa. I don't want any of this to be happening at all.”

  The sword that Jon Hatfeld had dropped still hung from Wren's waist in the termite-made sheath. There she sat next to a bear, had a mouse in her pocket, and was in the mountains. The situation suddenly overwhelmed her.

  “I'm only fifteen,” she sobbed. “I shouldn't have to do any of this.”

  “You don't want to go back to the cellar, do you mistress?” Tessa asked, her tiny whiskers shimmering.

  “No, I don't want to go back to the cellar!”

  “Because you didn't seem very happy down there.”

  “I don't know what I want, Tessa! But I know what I don't want. I don't want my father to touch me like he did, Tessa! I don't want to be cold all the time! I don't want to go to the stupid Temple of Sin'ra!”

  “Things are what they are,” Crasher said. “Do you think I wanted to be a bear? Do you think Tessa wanted to be a mouseling? Relax, child. You are safe here. There are many in the world who are not as lucky as you.”

  “If this is luck, I want no part of it,” Wren said. “Some girls my age have other girls for friends.”

  Neither animal seemed to know how to respond to this, and both fell silent.

  “How is everything going?” Heather asked. She had approached silently, her boots making no noise in the light covering of snow. With her were at least nine deer, a white goat, and a small flock of persistent birds.

  Wren sighed at the entourage and looked away.

  “I see,” Heather said, nodding her head slightly. “It is time to move on from here if you think you're ready.”

  “Well, I don't want to stay here,” Wren said.

  Heather nodded. “As you wish.”

  It annoyed Wren how Heather treated her. Like a queen or something. Always the woman was asking her permission and ordering her around at the same time. She had some kind of knack for it.

  God, Wren thought, if You're up there . . . and if my mother truly believed in You . . . I trust that You know what you're doing.

  She was girded inside again. She didn't like the way her emotions vacillated back and forth from trust and optimism to fear and hopelessness.

  But something inside of her had swung back to hope and so Wren, with her mouse and bear, continued their journey. They walked up, ever up, hiking the mountains to Sin'ra.

  -2-

  “Where did we leave off?” Heather asked.

  “I don't know,” Wren panted, gripping another handhold.

  “The death of the Dryad Tree. And the dissolving of our people, Wren.”

  “They're not my people. Stop saying that.”

  “They are yours even more than mine.”

  “No,” Wren said stubbornly.

  “Believe what you will.”

  Wren growled a little in her throat. Her emotions were running rampant again. She felt dizzy, weak, and nauseous.

  “When the Tree died, the world around it wept,” Heather continued, not giving any indication that she had heard Wren growl. “There are prophecies. There are always prophecies. It will be revived. It won't be revived. It is not truly dead but rather hibernating. Every theory exists. When the Protectors lost control of it, we lost something of ourselves. Ultimately, even though the soldiers and the armies had no true understanding of what had happened to them, magic was blamed. They knew it was some type of nature magic that had been their undoing And the Protectors started fighting among themselves.”

  “Why?” asked Wren.

  “They could not accept that the Tree was gone. There were many who believed it immortal. All we'd gone through to protect and hide it, all the beliefs we had about it, all the ways in which it had helped us understand our powers, everything was broken in an instant.

  “The Protectors broke then, too. The community became fractured. They lost their focus and could find nothing to rally around. And you must understand what you have been hesitant to know this entire time.” Heather took a moment in the cold air. “You are the thing that we can rally around now, Wren.”

  Wren's hand slipped off the section of rock she had been gripping. She flailed for a moment.

  “I can't do what you're asking of me,” she moaned.

  “I'm not asking anything of you, Wren,” Heather said. “I'm telling you what will happen. Preparing you. The sooner you accept the future the easier it will be for you when it happens.”

  Wren said nothing as she finished hauling herself up the wall of rocks. She looked out over the welcome sight of a plateau. Stubby grasses and shrubs grew through a light coating of snow. The animals had rejoined them at the top, Heather's flock returning to her. Crasher was there, Tessa clinging carefully to the bear's fur.

  “We've got to be close,” Wren panted.

  Heather nodded. “Do you feel the place? I hear it is holy beyond most buildings.”


  “I don't feel it,” Wren said.

  “There is something up ahead,” Crasher said, his tiny eyes staring into the distance.

  “I don't see anything.”

  “Do not see, mistress. Smell. Listen.”

  Wren knew that her sense of smell could never be what Crasher's was. Instead she heard something in the stillness of the air. There was a strange kind of bleating like that of a sheep, but somehow she knew it was different. Something about the noise pulled Wren's heart towards it.

  She Called out and felt pain in return.

  Without hesitation she began careening over the flat land, running as fast as her legs could take her. She heard Heather and the animals running behind her, but Wren's legs carried her over the ground with a frightening speed she had never possessed before. She could feel each muscle pumping, her fur cloak whooshing behind her. Then she came upon what was making the bleating sound.

  A beautiful white horse lay on its side on the ground, red blood running from some sort of massive wound on its forehead. Its belly was swollen and Wren knew immediately that it was pregnant. Just like me. She knelt beside the creature. Its eyes were frightened and it gasped for breath as it looked at her. Its fear turned slowly to curiosity as Wren reached deep within herself for her Well.

  “Don't be afraid,” she said. “I won't let your baby die.” She had only done this once or twice on the farm.

  She thought she felt a small communication from the horse, but she couldn’t make out what it said. She's probably too weak to talk to me, Wren thought.

  Heather and the rest came up behind Wren, but she barely noticed them. The girl already had her hands inside the mother, feeling around for the baby that was trapped within. “Its shoulder is stuck,” she said to herself. Her hands worked quickly, feeling the bones, the tissue, the blood.

  “This is no natural wound,” Heather breathed, bending down to inspect the horse's forehead. “We aren't alone up here, Wren. Be quick.”

  Wren could feel the animals around her – the deer, Crasher, Tessa, the birds, a few squirrels, two goats – go on high alert.

  Wren's hands slipped and she cursed. The horse whinnied and tried to get up, but Wren clicked her tongue and Called to her. Relax. She dug again, getting her fingers right where they needed to be and freeing the foal. It came out in a gush, sliding in so much liquid. As it stumbled confusedly to its feet, Wren felt power pour into her Well.

  She sat back, her whole body sweating.

  “You did your best,” Wren said in tears. She patted the mother horse's shoulder. It left a bloody palm print there, the red standing out against the stark white fur. The mother horse lay her head down and Wren shuddered as she felt her die.

  The scene became disturbing to her: the foal suckled milk from a dead mother. She reached out her hand to stop it, but Heather was there. “Let it take what it can, Wren. We're going to have to figure out how to take care of it ourselves.”

  The foal was as white as its mother and despite how young it was it looked incredibly strong. There was a strange shape to its forehead as well. It looked as if a part of its skull was sticking out in the middle of it.

  “What do we have here?” Heather asked, noticing the same thing. She squinted and reached out her hand to touch its forehead, but the foal danced away from her touch. It ran then, leaping the corpse of its mother, its legs pumping with great speed and power for their age.

  “Hey!” Wren yelled. She took off after it and chased with all her might. “Get back here! You're gonna get yourself killed!”

  The foal entered a forest and Wren did the same, following right in its steps, pouring the rest of her energy into the pursuit. Trees whizzed by on her left and right as Wren jumped over logs and brambles, dodging roots and low branches.

  She stopped short in front of a large building that seemed to come out of nowhere. It was made of stone and seemed as if it had grown out the earth itself. The large single door in front was easily forty feet high. The roof was supported with ornately carved pillars.

  The foal had stopped just in front of the building as well, its head tilted quizzically.

  And Wren Hartfield, bloody from fingertips to elbows, stood in front of what could only be the Temple of Sin'ra.

  The white foal turned and looked back at her expectantly.

  Chapter 28 – Of Songs and Legends

  -1-

  “Let me out of this thing!” the woman shouted. “My damn foot's gonna fall off!”

  Otom looked with interest at what he had caught. The woman must have been in her early twenties and was dressed in tight-fitting, brightly colored clothing that probably wasn't as functional as it could have been. At least she wore thick boots, gloves, and a fur-lined vest so she wouldn't completely freeze. Her thick black hair was cut to her shoulders with straight bangs that ran just to her eyelashes. Her hair moved when she blinked. She had an oddly shaped case strapped to her back. It was about the size of her torso and was made of leather with a golden clasp.

  The Monk knelt on the ground beside her, offering his hands slowly to help her undo the complicated knot of his snare. This certainly was nothing like what he had been expecting. He had been expecting Foglins. Evil things. Men with ill intentions. Not this woman. That would have been last on his list.

  The woman pulled her foot out of the snare and stood up, brushing herself off. “Well,” she said. “Not one of my most competent entrances, but certainly one worth writing about!”

  She had a perkiness to her that made Otom smile. He suddenly realized how much he had longed for a companion out here.

  Otom spread his hands. Who are you?

  The girl nodded, a small smile on her face. Her teeth were very white and straight. “I'd heard you Monks take those vows sometimes, but you know, I never truly believed it. I suppose I'll have to make enough talk for both of us. My name's Raven Icehall. We can talk as we walk, my good Monk.”

  Otom faced his palms towards the ground and shook his head.

  “What do you mean 'no'?” Raven asked. “I follow you all the way from Kilgaan and now you're telling me 'no'? Sorry, pal, that's not the way I operate. Now that you've trapped me I'm your responsibility. I could get hurt or killed or mugged or raped on the way back and then you'd feel just awful if you heard about it. So 'no' to you. You caught me, I'm yours.”

  Otom sighed and looked down at his forearm. He hadn't been doing a very good job of keeping it covered since he had been alone and traveling for so long. It shone out in the open, right where Raven could see it.

  “Yup,” she said. “That's part of what drew me to ya. As my name suggests, I like shiny objects, Monk. You're someone important. I can tell.” Raven adjusted her gloves and boots, her shiny black hair looking quite fetching as it hung about her face.

  Otom shrugged and turned to walk again. It was either that, tie up the girl, kill her, or try to outrun her. None of those seemed like incredibly appealing options to him. Maybe she'll leave on her own, he thought.

  “Where are we going? Oh, but that's right. You can't answer. It's alright. It's the story I'm interested in, you know? The events that unfold. Sometimes, I'm told, words can get in the way. Don't believe it much myself, but it might be true. I'll bet you're wondering about this case on my back.”

  Otom nodded, scanning the landscape in front of him.

  “It's a harp, Monk. Do they have music in a Monastery?”

  Otom nodded again.

  “Let me just lay it all on the table right now. I'm looking for someone to write songs about. Oh, I know what you're thinking. 'Great. Another laze-about bard.' Your cynicism is well placed. Most bards' songs are made up; they're about things those stupid assholes have never seen. Mine won't be. I want to know important people. Go on quests. Doesn't sound too lazy does it?”

  Otom shook his head.

  “I've always had a lot of energy,” Raven said. “I'll tell you what, Monk. If I play something for you and you don't like it you can send me awa
y. Forget everything I just said about raping and crotch-pillaging and breast-looting and whatnot. I can make it back alright. If you can hear me play and turn me away, I will leave. Honest bargain, right?”

  Raven slung her case off her back and set in gently into the thin layer of snow on the ground. She clicked open the latch and opened it, revealing a silver harp with gleaming strings. She took off her gloves and reached for it. Otom noticed her fingers were incredibly long and slender, the perfect things for plucking this harp.

  He began to get excited about this whole prospect. He had envisioned his journey going in many directions, but never in this one.

  Raven nestled the harp in the crook of one arm and readied herself.

  The strings sounded pure in the cold, mountain air when she plucked them, each one sending out its sound into a space that may have never known those vibrations. The music was beautiful and minor, and Raven bent her head over the instrument, bobbing it in time with her song.

  Then she lifted her chin and sang. Otom did not understand the language she sang in, but his jaw dropped just the same. Her notes were perfectly formed. The two sounds – harp and voice – danced together in the still air.

  Otom was a captive audience, witnessing beauty he did not truly understand.

  The last notes faded then, the air sucking them up greedily.

  “Wow,” Raven said in a deep voice. “That was really good.” She winked.

  Otom smiled. He embraced himself. Stay.

  “I knew you would say I could,” Raven said excitedly. She bounced on her toes, beaming from ear to ear. She sheathed her harp and slung it over her shoulder again. “What an auspicious beginning for us, Monk! You won't be disappointed. What's the point of doing great things if no one knows the tale? I mean the whole of the tale, of course.”

  You'll never know the whole tale, Raven, Otom thought. You're foolish to think that you ever could.

  The days passed less lonely than before. Otom had Raven's songs to listen to around the Fire at night, and it eased his tensions and fears. The Foglin attack of a few months back started to lose its sting.