by Mindy Klasky
Alana reflexively cast her question into the pool of the Tree’s knowledge, into the shimmering circles of thought that lay just beneath her own consciousness. She could feel the earlier woodsingers, awakened by the tumult of all that had happened on the beach. Alana plunged her question into their midst and almost reeled with the force of the replies.
“Stolen children?” whispered one ancient voice. “Like the stolen bull of Cumru?”
“Children!” remonstrated a younger voice. “Not animals, children!”
“Ah, like the time that madwoman Shinda took her daughter away from the People.”
“She took her daughter from her husband, Shinda did.”
“It wasn’t her husband, it was her father….”
The voices chased each other, circling around their ancient stories like rings on a tree stump. Alana felt the confusion of their histories break over her like a clammy ocean wave, and she staggered toward one of the rough boulders strewn upon the beach. There might be an answer in the People’s past, but she did not have the strength to find it. Not now. Not with the voices spinning out of control in her mind.
And yet Goody Glenna was waiting for some sort of reply, for some confirmation that Alana would sing another bavin. The old woman scowled as Alana blinked up at her. “Th—the voices…” she trailed off, confused by the tumult inside her head. If only she could gather her own thoughts, form her question clearly in her own mind. “I don’t know how to track a bavin over land.”
Glenna grimaced. “We don’t have time to hear what you know and don’t know, girl. If you can’t get the voices to tell you how, you can check the wisdom in the woodsingers’ journals. You should find something useful there.” The old gossip sounded as if she were scolding a wayward child, and Alana’s flush of embarrassment was scorching. She should have thought of the journals. She should have thought of all the woodsingers’ tools at her disposal. Before she could make an excuse, though, Glenna snagged her with stone-sharp eyes. “Will you sing us a bavin so that we have a chance to track the twins?”
Alana stammered, “I can’t! I’ve already sung one woodstar today, the one I gave to Coren.”
There was a gasp among the People, for they did not know that Alana had given away one of their treasures. “All the more reason,” Goody Glenna countered. “You’ll be reaching out to track the first woodstar. Ask the Tree to let you follow two bavins. Ask the Tree to help us save our children.”
Alana wanted to argue. She could not do what Glenna demanded. After all, it was the Guardians of Water who had brought Alana to her station. Water had taken Alana’s da, had cost old Sarira Woodsinger her life as she tried to sing home the bavins of those hapless sailors. Water had left the Tree without a singer, opening the path for Alana’s true calling. She might convince herself that she had grown to understand the ways of Water in her two seasons as Woodsinger. But Earth? Air? What did she know of those elements? What had she learned in the short time since she had embraced the oak?
Nevertheless, she heard the command in Glenna’s voice, the iron strength that she had known and followed since she was a child, younger even than the stolen twins. Alana must try to help her People, even if she was not certain that she had the strength to do as Glenna ordered. Even if she did not yet have the knowledge to plumb the Guardians of Earth, of Air, to follow a bavin across the land…. She must find a way.
Alana turned on her heel and made the long climb up the cliff to the Tree. Along the way, she consciously squelched the rising clamor of the voices inside her mind, the memories of woodsingers who had stretched their powers, who had tried to push the Tree to new tasks, to new directions. She did not want to hear if she was making a mistake. She did not want to know if it would be impossible to track a new-sung bavin over land.
Instead, Alana forced herself to stare at the hoofmarks on the path up the cliff, to make out the claw scrapes from Duke Coren’s dogs.
She had brought this disaster upon the People. She had welcomed Duke Coren and his gifts. If she had refused his fine linen sash weeks before, the duke would have ridden away. If she had ordered him to take his trinkets and leave the People, he would not have stolen the children.
She was the woodsinger! She should have sensed that something was wrong. She should have realized that no inlanders could be so interested in the People, willing to trade so much for so little. She should have listened to her sisters’ voices in her mind, reached out for their wisdom before the duke could steal away the twins.
When Alana gained the top of the bluff, the Tree accused her with its lowered branch, with the clean white scar where she had sung Coren’s bavin. She brushed her hand across the smooth wood, before raising her fingers to her lips and touching her tongue to the sharp sap that had bled into the Tree’s offering. The taste reminded her of the potion she had drunk, moons before, the full cup of the Tree’s blood that had transformed her into a woodsinger. Shaking her head, she tried to clear her mind, to empty her thoughts of everything except her need, her love of the Tree, and her faith that the giant oak could help to save the children.
The harder she tried to concentrate, though, the more she heard the People shuffling behind her, their breath harsh as they recovered from the steep climb. Out of the corner of Alana’s eye, she spied Jobina, glimpsed one seductive arm as the woman raised healer’s hands to tame her wayward blouse. The woodsinger caught Maddock staring at the healer as well, frank speculation on his face. It only took Alana a moment to locate Landon then, to catch the tracker sneering at the two who would be his companions. Would be his companions, that was, if Alana were successful.
She reminded herself to pay attention, to focus on the Tree. She was the one attuned to the oak; she was the only one who could sing the bavin. She must sing the bavin. She must not betray her people again, as she already had by letting Coren stay among them.
Try as she might, though, Alana could not still her thoughts. No words rose to her lips, no chant to please the Tree and draw out its spirit. Embarrassed and angry, Alana finally ducked beneath the recriminating branch that had lowered for Duke Coren’s woodstar. When she was on the Tree’s landward side, she forced herself to take four deep breaths, to calm her heart with the cool spring air.
Then, without conviction, she began to sing. She told the Tree of her shame, of her fear for the children, of the terror on the beach. She told the oak how she remembered holding Maida and Reade as infants. She sang of how she needed to help the children; she needed to bring them back. And by the time the Tree lowered a branch, Alana no longer thought of the People standing on the cliff behind her, waiting, hoping, praying.
The second bavin was as perfect as the first, prickly and black, like the opposite of a star. Alana’s fingers closed tightly around the darkened wood as she fought against a wave of fatigue. When she unclenched her fist, bright beads of blood stood out on her pale, pale flesh.
The People crowed over the treasured woodstar, then wasted no time returning to the village. They laid out provisions for the three travelers, rounding up their fastest horses and gathering together charms to summon the Guardians’ protection. Sartain placed the new-sung bavin on a leather thong and settled the woodstar around Maddock’s neck. The sun was already dipping toward the far horizon as Maddock, Landon, and Jobina headed east.
Alana watched with the rest of the People until the trio of riders was out of sight. Then, parents gathered children against their breasts and headed to their homes, building up fires against the nighttime chill. Husbands and wives stepped a little closer to each other, silently grateful that their own children had been spared.
As Alana turned toward her cottage on the edge of the village, Goody Glenna came out of the darkness. The old woman blinked in the glow of her lantern. “You’d better light a rush lamp tonight. Read those journals from the old woodsingers and learn how to do your job.”
“I’m tired, Goody. I need to sleep.” Alana could not keep her hopelessness from weighting down he
r words. Two bavins in one day…. What difference could it possibly make? She knew something of Coren’s determination and charisma. She knew the power of iron, of swords and armor. She knew the People were outmatched.
“We’re all tired, woodsinger, and we’ll be more tired before this is over. I never thought that you would be the one to give up so easily.”
“Give up!” Alana choked on her angry protest. “Goody Glenna, I’m not giving up! I sang two bavins today!”
“And now you say you’re too tired to learn how to use them. Was your father too tired to watch over you when you were a child? Was he too tired, after he’d spent a long day on his boat, hauling in fish for all the People?”
“My father is gone, Goody Glenna,” Alana said bitterly.
“Aye, and a good thing that he is. That man would die of shame if he saw how quickly you’ve lost faith.”
“I haven’t—” Alana started to protest again, but Goody Glenna had already turned away, shuffling off into the night. “I haven’t lost faith,” Alana whispered to herself in the darkness.
She walked to her home and huddled disconsolately on her doorstep. She should go inside. She should light a rush lamp and pull down the dusty tomes, bury herself in the words of the wise women who had sung to the Tree through the ages.
She was so tired, though. Tired and alone. She missed her father more now than she had since the horror of identifying his bloated and stinking corpse on the beach, since the nightmare of Sarira Woodsinger’s death. Her father would have made this all right; he would have saved the children for her, somehow.
Her father was gone, though. And now, Maddock had left as well—Maddock whom she had watched all through the winter. And Landon, who had watched her. And Jobina, too—all gone to save the children, children who even now might be dead or dying.
Sighing, Alana gathered her patched woodsinger’s cloak close about her shoulders and made her way out of the village. She might be too tired to read, too tired to study ancient journals. But she could still reach to the Tree for comfort, ask it to teach her what she needed to learn. After all, the Tree had balanced earth and air for all its life. It knew the ways of those Guardians. It knew the feeling of those elements. It could touch its own bavin, if only she asked it properly.
When she got to the giant oak, she leaned against its trunk. Breathing deeply of the fragrant loam, of the earth that she had turned to receive the forgotten offering of first harvest fish, she tangled her thoughts in the Tree’s essence. She urged the oak to reach out to its own wood across the leagues, across the expanse of Air and Earth.
The stretch felt different, darker and harder than the reach for a bavin across Water. Alana shifted her mental grasp, struggling for a new, awkward balance.
With each beat of her heart, though, she moved through the Tree’s rings, closer to the core of the oak that she had sworn to attend. Stories clutched at her, snagging her consciousness like branches. She caught her breath, and she could make out her own voice, echoing through the wooden heart, telling the Tree about the People’s lives for two long seasons. Then, she heard Sarira’s voice, chanting older stories to the Tree. Sarira Woodsinger told about the birth of twins, the rare double blessing of Reade and Maida. Alana melted her consciousness over the Tree’s, following round and round the ring that had recorded the children’s arrival.
And when at last Alana exhaled, she was no longer the exhausted daughter of a drowned fisherman. She was no longer the People’s woodsinger. Instead, she was the living essence of the Tree, stretching across earth and air, from ringed wood to a distant bavin. She was a frightened five-year-old boy who was farther from his village than he had ever been in his life.
3
Mum would be angry.
Reade knew that he shouldn’t have been playing by the water’s edge. Mum had told him a thousand times that if he wasn’t careful, the Guardians would take him away.
But it wasn’t his fault this time! It really wasn’t.
Maida had found a stinging eel in the water, and Reade was only trying to help her catch it. Her hands were too small to close behind its neck frill. Hadn’t Mum told him that he needed to watch out for Maida now, that he had to be like Da?
One moment, Reade had been trying to help Maida, reaching toward the eel’s bulging throat. Then, there had been screaming, and snarling dogs. Duke Coren had come to him in the tidepool, wrapping a mailed arm around his belly. “Hold still,” the duke had hissed through set teeth. “Hold still, and you won’t be hurt.”
Reade had struggled, though, and there had been a flash of sun, and a wave of pain that made everything around him go dark as night.
And the first thing Reade thought upon awakening was that Mum would be angry. Over and over, the words pounded through his head, until he forced himself to open his eyes. A forest circled around him, looping about in a swooping, sickening dance. Giant oaks turned upside down and planted themselves upside down in the grey, cloudy sky.
Reade’s belly twisted inside him, and he barely managed to pull free from Duke Coren’s commanding grip, to hold his head over the duke’s armored leg. A thin stream of vomit trickled from his lips.
The duke stopped his horse immediately, leaping off the animal to help Reade down. The nobleman gave him a clean white cloth to wipe his face, and Reade spat out the worst of the taste from his mouth. Then, the duke passed him a canteen of water. Reade looked at the man suspiciously, trying to think past the ache in his head.
“Wh—where’s Mum?”
Duke Coren’s jaw tightened, as if he were angry with Reade, but the man’s voice was calm. “She’s back with the People, Sun-lord. Back at the Headland of Slaughter.”
“And Maida?”
“She’s up ahead. She’s riding with my man, Donal.”
“I want to see her!” Reade’s fear surged upward with the flipping of his belly. He wanted his sister. He wanted his mum.
“You’ll see her soon enough, Sun-lord. We need to get you cleaned up first.”
“I want to see Maida!” Reade made the mistake of whirling around in the direction Duke Coren had pointed, and his head suddenly bubbled up above his shoulders, as if it would float away in the forest. He stumbled forward and found himself retching again, his belly clenching around emptiness as his mouth filled with a sour taste.
“Ach, Sun-lord,” Duke Coren said gravely. “I was afraid you might be ill.” Something about the man’s voice reached through Reade’s tears, made the boy remember when Da had come to sit with him last spring, when Reade had the fever that refused to yield to Healer Jobina’s strongest tisane. “Take a deep breath now, Sun-lord.”
“Maida,” Reade whimpered. “I need to see Maida.”
“Aye, Sun-lord. You shall see her soon enough.”
Reade did not see her then, though. His mind kept doing funny things, like when his fever ran so high that he could see the Guardians of Air flitting above his bed. He knew that only moments before he had been riding in front of the duke, fighting his quavery belly. Now, he was shivering in a wicked breeze, standing before the soldiers in nothing more than his smallclothes. His teeth began to chatter uncontrollably, and he crossed his bare arms over his chest.
Duke Coren stood before him with a bulky, cloth-wrapped bundle. Reade tried to look away from the man, angry with himself for being sick in front of the duke. “Where’s Mum? I want my mum!”
The duke only laughed kindly and knelt before him. “Ah, Sun-lord. Your spirit is unbroken even if your head hurts.” Reade surprised himself by bursting into tears. “Come here, little man. I’ve new robes for you, clothes befitting your status. After you’ve put on your robes, you can see Maida.”
Maida! Of course! Reade was supposed to watch out for her, to protect her. He might as well put on the golden robes. He’d look silly if his lips turned blue, like when he’d eaten the entire basket of berries last summer. Reluctantly, he moved to the duke’s side.
Duke Coren began to shake out the fa
bric bundle, revealing yards of cloth-of-gold. Reade stared in awe. Not so long ago, he had worn nothing but a baby’s shapeless dress. He could still remember the day when Da helped him into his first pair of breeches.
The cloth that the duke offered now was finer than anything Reade had ever seen among the People. He would be dressed better than Alana Woodsinger! Reade let Duke Coren help him with the heavy fabric.
And help he needed. The duke knelt beside him, taking up yard after yard of the shimmering cloth and draping it around Reade’s narrow shoulders, wrapping it around his slight waist. When the boy was covered from head to toe in the rich fabric, Duke Coren nodded with satisfaction. Almost as an afterthought, he reached beneath the cloth and pulled out a woodstar. Reade had not even realized he wore the bavin.
“Here, Sun-lord. I gave this to you while you slept. It was created by your woodsinger and you should wear it, as the leader of your people in exile.” Reade flushed with pride as Duke Coren centered the woodstar on his chest. If the duke were giving such great gifts, this frightening journey could not be all bad.
The bavin gave him courage to demand again, “Where’s Mum?”
“She’s back at the Headland, Sun-lord. Don’t you remember? You don’t need her anymore.”
“Where’s Maida?” Reade asked, feeling funny that he’d forgotten Mum was gone, that he’d forgotten she was back among the People, far away.
“She’s sleeping. Over there.” The duke nodded toward the far side of the clearing, and Reade could make out a pile of saddlebags. Maida was leaning against one, her eyes closed. Her face was dirty, as if she’d been playing in the People’s fields, and her hair had come loose from her tight braids. She was wrapped in cloth-of-gold, though, bound up as thoroughly as Reade was himself.
“Maida!” Reade called.
“Hush, Sun-lord. Let her sleep. She’s tired from our journey, and we’ve a long way to go yet.”