No True Way

by Mercedes Lackey

  Besides, she needed the healing herb trefoil, needed it badly and the villagers had picked the beds closest to the village clean. Sparrow’s mother had died for lack of trefoil during the long winter just past, and she’d be hanged before she lost her father, too.

  This morning, his face had looked gray and drawn. Her mother had looked exactly like that before the symptoms of snow fever had closed in, shutting down her lungs and killing her. It was spring, but only just . . . the danger of winter sickness still lurked. Sparrow’s father didn’t realize the snow fever had returned to claim him, but Sparrow saw the shadows over his face.

  She just knew.

  So trefoil she must have, no matter how far into the forest she must venture to claim it. After her morning chores were done, she’d dressed for a long forage, wore her oldest homespun skirt, her winter shoes. Carried the family herb basket, its wicker handle rubbed smooth by her dear mother’s fingertips. And, recklessly, she wore the berry-red sash Sparrow herself had woven and embroidered through the endless, gray winter.

  Her villagers, virtuous, sober, and hardworking, preferred the dove-gray of homespun, with light blue veils for ladies for festivals, faires, and hearth celebrations. So the red was bold. But Sparrow so craved a splash of color in that endless Northern gray that her father had given her the berry dye himself, kind man. The sash had distracted her through long, closed-in days when the weather was too bitter and violent for her and her family to emerge from their cottage. And during the nightmarish nights, when Sparrow tended her mother in her last illness, she’d desperately contemplated the stitching, the leaf border, how she would finish the tassels at the end. Anything to distract her from the cruel, indisputable fact that her mother was slowly dying under Sparrow’s patient fingers.

  So she wore her red sash today in defiance of the gray, in defiance of sickness and of death. And it was the red sash that ended up changing the world that morning.

  Still and all, defiance alone wouldn’t find Sparrow her trefoil. Only a deep foray could do that, a long hike deep into the heart of the forest, her thick shoes slipping in mud and her hands untangling her skirts from thorny brambles.

  By midmorning, Sparrow’s tenacity was rewarded. She found a clearing hidden deep within a circle of broken boulders, ringed inside a dense clump of bluefurr trees. A bluebird shot over the circle and safely past, and its progress reassured her that no spell, not even a benevolent one, hovered over the silent, watching stones.

  She gingerly touched the nearest greenish stone, and no hum of magic warmed her palms. But as she slipped between the stones and entered the circle to harvest the trefoil, Sparrow wondered.

  The trefoil swept in a gaudy carpet between the stones, sparkling with droplets of morning dew. The bluebird, hidden within swaying branches over her head, broke into a virtuoso song so beautiful that it thrilled Sparrow to the marrow. Spring had come, new life had returned to the North. The moment contained pure magic, crystallized out of time, and Sparrow uptilted her face to the sun, greedily soaking up sunlight and gratitude both.

  But the sublime moment passed, as such moments always do, leaving Sparrow alone in the hidden glade. Her fears returned, and the gray shadows in her father’s face evoked memories, too fresh, of the darkness that had already stolen her mother. She had a job to do.

  With a sigh, Sparrow bent to the purplish-silver trefoil, the bottoms of her skirts soaking up the cool dew as she began harvesting. But a sudden rustle in the underbrush past the clearing brought her upright again, trembling. She scanned the encroaching forest for the dangers her dad had warned her against. Downwind, no scent of bear. No muffled roar of a Mountain Cat or screech of a Great Eagle or other magical, malevolent winged beast.

  Sparrow strained her eyes staring into the undulating shadows underneath the swaying evergreen branches, searching for pair or two of hunters’ eyes. But no.

  She feared the hidden tribes even more than the beasts of prey that hunted in the untamed forest. When Sparrow was a tiny mite, her best friend, a sturdy five-year-old named Brock, had been carried away by a tribe—or so her parents had told her, in an effort to scare her from wandering away from the village and into the woods the way Brock had loved to do.

  Fear held Sparrow now in its grip. She could see nothing, sense nothing, but an inner knowing insisted that something was coming out of the cool darkness.

  Coming for her.

  Sparrow glanced at her walking stick, propped against the side of one of the stones, and then forced herself to harvest the trefoil once more. Standing tall, flashing her red sash, wasn’t going to protect her from that creeping fear edging along her spine. Or from bears, either.

  And secretly, in her heart of hearts, she was so sick of waiting. Waiting for her mother to die no matter how hard Sparrow fought to keep her in this life. Waiting for spring to finally arrive. Waiting, waiting. Afraid, afraid . . .

  She refused to wait for that unknown magic to leap out of the forest and grab her. Refused to fear it, even. Sparrow had trefoil to pick.

  She bent again to her task, gratefully inhaling the flowerlike fragrance of the herb carpet as she worked. Gently, she stripped the mature leaves from the stem, leaving the tender, growing buds intact. The repetitive motion and the peaceful stillness of the glade soon soothed Sparrow’s jangled nerves and she sighed in relief. Like the surface of a cool lake, the ripples of her fear edged out to shore and away, and the natural tranquility of her spirit surfaced once more.

  Another rustle, unmistakable this time, and Sparrow rose again, ready to run. But where? If she chose wrong, she might well leap into the jaws of a hidden hunter.

  The bluebird shot out from the tree branches, trilling its magnificent song. The bird was clearly not frightened—it swooped overhead, singing, as if announcing an important visitor.

  The bird alighted on the boulder nearest to Sparrow, scarcely a hands-breadth away. She held her breath, half in fear, half in wonder, and watched the antics of the bright little creature with growing amazement.

  The bluebird cocked its head, focused one bright eye upon her. And then it burst into an intricate little chorale of joy, as if trying desperately to convey some compelling news.

  He sang the same series of notes again, a wind rose in the clearing, and then he cocked his head the other direction, shot into the sky and away. Sparrow watched him go, even as he disappeared and the rustling grew louder.

  She had not understood the specifics of his song, but the bluebird had brought her glad tidings.

  Sparrow took a deep breath, ready now to face whatever emerged from the forest, the bird’s song still echoing in her ears. She no longer feared predators, but she did not know quite what to expect.

  What emerged from the deep shadows under the trees struck Sparrow with absolute, starkest amazement.

  A scent of spices wafted along the breeze, and in the next moment an enormous white stallion, richly caparisoned, leaped out of the darkness and into the golden sunlight of the clearing.

  Sparrow’s knees went soft, and she almost fell into the herbs, so great was her shock. She had seen horses before—traders’ hacks, donkeys. But never such a noble steed, with such velvet-smooth haunches and beautifully expressive sapphire eyes.

  The steed strode forward impatiently, scuffing at the moss outside the ring of boulders. Answering his call, Sparrow stepped hesitantly out of the circle, her mother’s herb basket overflowing with fragrant trefoil.

  As she drew near, for the first time she noticed the young man on horseback, bent over the stallion’s glorious snow-white mane. His fingers interlocked deeply within the long, glossy strands. His face was turned away from her, seemingly oblivious to her approach.

  He wore the tunics and the leggings of the tribes who hid within the forest, and who of late had been engaging more and more in trade with the villagers of the North. Brilliant embroidery bordered his sleeves a
nd cuffs, and the feathers and plumage embroidered on his sleeves and across his back dazzled her eye with color, as if a fantastic tropical bird had emerged from the green darkness in search of the bluebird.

  His appearance thrilled her, and yet, despite the finery of both horse and rider, the hairs on Sparrow’s nape prickled in warning. Her fingertips tingled with a sudden rush of fear. She looked him up and down again, from the shock of his white-blond hair, down the length of his slim, wiry body, to the clenched fists buried in mane, and then ending at his feet.

  Bare feet.

  Sparrow took a step back. It was too soon in the season, the mud and the bare underbrush too unforgiving, to go about without shoes at all. Aside from that, this prosperous-looking young man had no provisions rolled up behind him, no saddlebags, no water, nothing. And he had clearly ridden far, in such outlandish foreign dress.

  These were no hunters. But something was terribly wrong here.

  Gingerly, Sparrow forced herself forward, and she dared to look the stallion in the eye. He whickered gently and waved his nose at her, as if beckoning her to approach. Her mouth went dry, but step by step she grew closer to this spectacular creature.

  He must be a Companion. No mere horse would carry a slumping rider for so long without becoming spooked and attempting to drop him.

  She reached out a trembling hand, and the Companion tapped her fingers with his velvety nose. At his touch, her fear completely melted away, and new confidence rose inside of her like a secret spring.

  She gently moved to the Companion’s right side in order to peer into the young man’s face. His eyes were shrunken and looked sealed shut, and pockmarks marred his cheeks and chin. His thin lips moved soundlessly, as if he were whispering a secret spell under his breath, but he seemed to take no notice of Sparrow, his surroundings, or even of his Companion.

  From what little Sparrow knew of Companions, only their Chosen may ride. But this bent over creature was surely no Herald . . .

  Without thinking, Sparrow reached into her mother’s herb basket and pulled out a trefoil leaf. Gently, she rubbed the silver foil from the purplish leaf’s underside over the boy’s pitted, scarred face, knowing that the silvery pollen held the greatest concentration of the herb’s healing qualities. If only she could steep a tea and get it into him!

  :Thank you,: a voice whispered inside Sparrow’s mind. :We finally found you . . . your beautiful red sash was like a flare in the forest.:

  Her fear whipped up again, so sharp it sliced her like a knife. Her heart beat hard enough to pound in her throat. She knew instantly that it was the beautiful white beast who spoke.

  :Do not be afraid,: the voice whispered, so lovingly that her heart pulled back from a full gallop into a canter. :We have been seeking you, Sparrow.:

  “Me?” she squeaked aloud. “But why? This boy needs a Master Healer, one trained by Keisha herself, if possible. And how did you know my name? I am just the goat farmer’s daughter.”

  :You are Sparrow. And Brock needs you . . . only you. This boy is Brock.:

  With a cry, Sparrow sprang to the boy’s side, reached up to give him an awkward hug from far below. Brock! Her beloved childhood friend, somehow returned.

  But she hadn’t recognized him, he was so grievously changed.

  “I don’t understand, sir. He needs more healing than I could ever do.”

  :He does not need healing. He needs you. Besides, do you not realize your calling?:

  And in an inner whisper, the Companion shared his name, Abilard, a precious gift. Sparrow knew enough to understand that such direct communication with a Companion only occurred with their Chosen.

  But she knew just as certainly, in her heart of hearts, that she was not the Chosen one here. It was Brock, somehow, even maimed and silent as he was . . .

  :He is Brock, but his Clan calls him Cloudbrother. He needs you to call him out from the clouds, back here to me.:

  Chills rippled up and down her spine. “Call him out of the clouds? I don’t know how to do that . . .” she whispered.

  :I know. But I believe you will.:

  * * *

  Abilard quickly made it clear that he wanted them all to return to Longfall without delay. After tying her mother’s herb basket to the Companion’s tack, Sparrow used one of the smaller rocks to climb up behind Cloudbrother. And after only a moment’s hesitation, she left her walking staff behind. She was safe with Abilard.

  Sparrow had ridden a horse astride before, but in her skirts she was forced to ride sidesaddle. Once the Companion made sure she was ready, he leaped forward down the pathway back to the village. Abilard’s stride was so huge and smooth that Sparrow relaxed after a few moments, resting her head against Cloudbrother’s back. And tried her best to be sensible and to think.

  Cloudbrother. She was glad to call Brock that new name, because she saw hardly a trace of her old friend in this new, strange form. She remembered a busy, funny, always moving little boy with a restless, wandering spirit. This silent, distant, closed-off person held no resemblance to that boy who had been lost to the forest so long ago.

  It was no matter; Sparrow would still do her best to reach him. But her healing skills were rudimentary at best, and her belief in her ability had been deeply shaken by her mother’s fatal illness. If she could not heal her own mother, Sparrow doubted she would be of much use to this young man.

  And yet . . . Abilard, the most wondrous being Sparrow had ever met, clearly had unshakable belief in her. She was used to being the invisible one, the helper, the sweet one. Her older brother, a big, brawny fellow and the secret object of admiration of all the other girls in the village, had gone all the way to Haven to serve in the army there. Her brother was the star of the family, not her. Sparrow’s role was to make sure that everybody around her was safe, well fed and happy. Her father’s nickname for her, “Little Mother,” suited her well, and Sparrow had been more than happy to assume that role . . . until today.

  But the appearance of this strange boy and his magnificent Companion had thrown her completely out of her old life.

  Sparrow sighed, held on tightly to Cloudbrother’s waist, and tried her best to relax and enjoy the extraordinary sensation of flying through the air on Abilard’s strong back. Somehow, all would come out right. She hoped.

  * * *

  Their arrival in the village of Longfall caused a great sensation. The little children who watched the flocks of sheep on the meadows outside the village took up the cry first, and by the time Abilard galloped to the tiny central square (more of a lawn, really) in front of the mayor’s handsome house, almost all the village had gathered to see what all the fuss was about.

  Sparrow’s father, Hari, stood at the front of the crowd, an anxious expression wrinkling his face. When he saw her, his face softened in relief. But the shadows of sickness haunting him had only deepened since she had left to find the herbs, and the sight sent a chill deep into the pit of Sparrow’s stomach.

  She hid her trepidation, though, and slid off Abilard’s back as gracefully as she could without a mounting block. “It’s Brock!” she called to her father. “He’s been Chosen! And returned.”

  A low murmur rippled through the small crowd. Brock’s parents, heartbroken at his loss, had left years ago to live with relatives in Errold’s Grove, a bigger village not too far away. Terreen, the washerwoman, muttered under her breath just loud enough for Sparrow to hear, “Good thing his parents aren’t here to see this.”

  Sparrow looked over her shoulder at the boy on his steed, blind, white-haired, and bent. About to protest Terreen’s harsh judgment, she held back from a harsh reply. Instead, Sparrow said, “His tribe calls him Cloudbrother. I guess you can see why . . .”

  The mayor pushed through the crowd, and Sparrow relaxed a trifle. Mayor Undor was a good man, kind and shrewd both, and she expected he would take her part and welcome Brock ho
me.

  But his expression was grave. “Sparrow, dear. This boy looks sick. Really sick.”

  His fear was well-founded. In years past, the tribes who traded with the villagers sometimes inadvertently brought disease with them, plagues the villagers had no defense against. This past winter had been brutal and hard, and while no clan members had visited in the heavy snows, many people had sickened like her mother.

  Mayor Undor was charged with protecting the village. But Sparrow wasn’t about to stand by and let the mayor send her old friend away.

  “He isn’t contagious,” she blurted, her cheeks flushing. “Look, he was sick a while ago. His Companion tells me he needs no healing, and plenty of traders visit us here with no harm. He is no danger to us.”

  Terreen crossed her meaty arms across her chest. “He sure looks sick to me. And how does a horse talk?”

  “No, this ain’t no horse,” Mayor Undor quickly said. “This is a true Companion, no doubt.” He bowed to Abilard. “Welcome, sir, to our village of Longfall. You’ve met Sparrow, of course, and I am Mayor Undor.”

  Abilard snorted and whinnied his approval.

  Mayor Undor shot her a quick glance. “The Companion told you? He spoke within your mind? Don’t that mean he just Chose you?”

  A shocked silence passed over the crowd. And it bothered Sparrow. She knew she wasn’t Chosen, but did all of these people think the prospect was so shocking? Was she that invisible? She took a deep breath, reminded herself not to jump to conclusions.

  “No, Mayor,” she said slowly. “He spoke to me in my mind, yes, though not to Choose me. But to ask for my help.”

  Hari stepped forward and bowed deeply to the Companion. “Thank you for watching out for my girl Sparrow. I’m her dad, and you are both welcome in my home.” He looked around, daring anybody from the village to protest.