by Mindy Klasky
“There,” Coren said, when the priest was once again silent. He cocked his head toward Maddock, but he spoke to Bringham. “Are we agreed then? Shall I dispatch this miserable outlander so that we can return to the Sun-lord and Sun-lady’s Service?”
Bringham looked as if he wanted to refuse, but he clearly had no choice. Even if he doubted Coren’s loyalty, he could hardly argue with the speed with which Coren had handed over the conniving priest. Southglen sighed and stepped down from the dais, gesturing for his lieutenant to drag Zeketh from the fray.
“Very well, then,” Coren said, and he bowed stiffly to Maddock. “I accept your challenge, outland dog.”
Coren drew his sword for the first time since the confusion had begun, and he handed his rich, brocade cloak to Donal. He made a few passes with his weapon, as if he were getting the feel of its weight. The remaining priests cleared a circle for the two men, encouraged to step lively by Coren’s wary soldiers. Maddock moved away from Landon’s wrecked body, away from the Mothersnake’s glass cage and the charred carpet and all the horror that had already been wrought in this corrupted house of the Seven Gods.
Alana tucked Maida against her side, making sure that the girl could not see the bloody combat to come. She tried to shield Reade as well, but the boy would have none of her comfort. Instead, he twisted like a trout caught on a line, writhing away as if her touch burned him. She barely managed to keep him standing before her.
Reade leaned toward the two men, his eyes dark and distant. His small body tensed, and his throat began to vibrate with a single syllable. The sound was scarcely more than a whisper, but when Alana strained, she could make out one word, repeated over and over again. “Da. Da. Da…”
Meanwhile, the men circled each other like nervous cats, and the congregation caught its collective breath. Alana thought of all the times that she had watched Maddock practice his fighting forms, all the times that she had thought he was a foolish boy, a foolish man. Back on the Headland, back on the village green, she had not been able to imagine a time or a place where Maddock would need his sword skills. Snared by her memories, Alana was not prepared for the brutal clash as Maddock finally rushed at Coren.
Both men used their swords like deadly extensions of their arms, attacking each other with the flats of their blades. They scarcely rotated the weapons to take advantage of their sharpened edges as they crashed and parried, lunging and leaping back.
Coren drew first blood.
Maddock tried to block a blow, but he calculated the angle poorly. In an instant, Coren’s sword had slid down the tempered iron cross, rasping toward the outlander’s arm. Only by twisting away at the last instant did Maddock avoid losing a limb. As it was, Coren’s sharp edge caught him across his bicep, splitting the bright crimson fabric to bare flesh that soon glinted with its own bloody sheen.
Reade cried out at the blow. Sliced free by the sword’s brutal path, the boy’s emotions were as transparent as if he still wore his woodstar. Alana read terror and hatred, all stirred together with a confused love for Coren. The woodsinger wished again that she could reach Reade through his missing bavin, that she could make him stop rocking back and forth, stop crooning his single syllable over and over.
Even as she longed for Reade’s lost woodstar, though, Alana remembered that there was more at stake than a single child’s sanity. An entire kingdom hung in the balance. And Maddock wore a bavin, too. Maddock, who even now was bleeding from a cut above his eye, whose sword arm burned as if he’d been attacked by a devilfish. The woodsinger could sense those hurts and more, bruises and darts of pain.
Taking a deep breath, Alana dove back into her own bavin.
“Why haven’t you reached for us?” one of the distant woodsingers demanded.
“We’ve been waiting for you!”
“We wanted to help you!”
Alana thrust her thoughts at them. “What? What can you do?”
The woodsingers hovered, muttering wordless concern. That was the problem, Alana wanted to scream. That was why she hadn’t reached for her sisters before. They might miss her, they might fear for her, they might even love her, but they had no support to offer. Not now. Not across a desolate land. Not leagues and leagues from the Tree. Not while Maddock fought for his life.
Thrusting aside her hopeless disappointment, Alana threw her thoughts forward, along the shining thread of Maddock’s woodstar. She blazed her consciousness through to where the bavin pricked his chest, to where it nestled beneath his stolen uniform. The lacy wooden points were sharp against his skin, and they leaped with his heart as he failed to deflect a glancing blow from Coren’s heavy sword.
Not letting herself think, Alana absorbed the sudden pain, soaking up the agony before Maddock’s leg could register the blow. The warrior wasted a precious breath bracing himself for the jagged hurt, and he was so startled by his reprieve that he nearly stumbled.
Alana collected the pain in her own body, in her own mind, and then she thrust it back toward her sisters. For one timeless instant, she thought that they would fail her. She thought that they would not understand what she intended to do, what she needed to do, how she would save Maddock. Then, just as her throat wrapped itself around a bruising sob, she felt one woman reach out.
Sarira Woodsinger. The woman who had sung Alana’s father’s bavin, who had given her own life trying to bring him back to port…. Alana felt Sarira catch Maddock’s pain through the bavin, gather up the agony and store it away inside the Tree.
Then, before Alana could clear her mind, before she could settle herself to receive the next blow, she felt her sister woodsingers throw wordless thoughts across the bavin thread. Devotion. Faith. Support.
They knew what she was doing, they knew what she was asking, and they gave unstintingly of themselves. They took all the hurt and pain and fear from Maddock, all the agony that passed through Alana, and they fed it to the Tree, transforming it into strength and pride and sturdy, oaken love.
All of their efforts, though, were not enough. Even with the collective might and wisdom of the woodsingers, Alana could not harvest every one of Coren’s blows. Pain leaked through her grasp, weakening Maddock, distracting the People’s only hope. Alana choked back a sob as the flat of Coren’s blade landed across Maddock’s back—her back—and she almost lost her bond with the Tree.
Almost, but not quite. A voice sang to her across the land, quivering across the white bavin thread. “Fairsister!”
“Parina Woodsinger,” Alana gasped. She felt her ancient sister speak from the Tree’s very core.
“Prithee, fairsister, fade not your heartstrength now. Listen to the lostboy. Follow his guidesong.”
“Lostboy?” Alana barely had the strength to send the question as she gasped against the blinding pain.
“The huerboy. The hevvasinger.”
“Reade.”
“Aye. Listen to him. Let the hevvasinger guide ye. Let him hue ye in.”
Alana wanted to argue. She wanted to explain that Reade was only a child, a boy who had been lied to and fooled and used as a pawn. She wanted to explain that she was exhausted, that she was beaten, that she had no energy left for battle.
Instead, she remembered the time that she had first discovered the bavin’s white thread. She recalled giving herself over to Parina’s wisdom, descending into the Tree’s sap-heavy, liquid heart. She remembered that weight in her body; she recalled the drag on her thoughts. She felt herself pulled into the Tree’s core, into the People’s past, into the wisdom of Parina Woodsinger.
She heard Reade’s guttural cry, felt him call, beneath her fingers, through her flesh. His throat rasped across his one word, over and over, “Da, Da, Da.” Each heartbeat drove her deeper into the Tree, each breath pulled her mind closer to its core. She sensed Parina beside her, felt the weight of all the Tree’s rings, knew the wisdom of every word that every woodsinger had ever poured into the oak.
Da, Da, Da. Alana watched Reade presented to the
Tree as an infant, cradled in his now-drowned father’s hands. She saw herself as well, nestled in her own father’s arms. She saw Maddock being offered up. She saw Jobina and Landon, and Teresa and Goody Glenna, generations more, all the People through the centuries.
Da, Da, Da. Storms and harvests, gales and feasts—Alana Woodsinger flowed through the history of her People into the roots of the giant oak.
Da, Da, Da. She drilled down to the woven mass that spread beneath the surface of the Headland, more complex than any fishnet, holding the Tree stable and steady and strong, nourishing it, anchoring it.
Almost lost in her dream, Alana clutched Reade against her side, pressing his head against her stolen uniform, feeling him shudder, feeling his entire body gather to cry one last time: “Da!” She held on to that final syllable, clung to his frantic plea, and she passed through the final barrier, flowing past Parina Woodsinger into the Tree’s deepest root.
Silence.
Silver.
Timelessness.
She could not breathe. She could not see. She could not hear.
Da.
Her body was trembling.
Da.
Her lungs were burning.
Da.
Her heart was pounding, bursting to be free.
Da.
She saw her father, smiling in the silver.
She saw him, and she knew that he was not alone. She knew that he was surrounded by the Guardians, by the Guardians of Water who had stolen him away, and the Guardians of Air who had made him welcome in the land beyond the sea. She saw that he had met the Guardians of Fire and the Guardians of Earth, greeted all of them in the fullness of time.
She saw her father, and she knew that he was with her mother, with his mother, with his own fisherman father. She saw him put his arm around the shoulders of another fisherman, and she recognized Reade’s lost da. Alana saw all the figures, all the ghosts, all the People gathered in the shimmering embrace of a woman. One woman. The Great Mother.
They were all with the Great Mother.
Alana started to walk into the circle of that embrace, started to take her last step into the promise of the endless, silver light.
But then her father turned his back on her.
He was not ready for her to join him. He was not ready to bring her into the silver circle. It was not yet time. She still had work to do, in the living world. Now. Before it was too late.
Alana grasped at the crystal mantle around her, seizing it in her mind, gathering it in her heart and lungs, pulling it into her bones. She filled herself with the essence of the Tree, of the Guardians, of the Great Mother. And then she cast herself up through the root, back to the surface, to the rings and the bark, across the land, to a warrior who needed her power.
She cried out as she poured her strength into Maddock, cried out in rage and sorrow and disappointment and relief. All of the Tree’s white-hot energy seared from her woodstar into his. She surged into Maddock’s mind and his body; she felt the warrior melt into her.
For one moment, she was swallowed by the pain of their melding, by the hot, white fire of his separate soul. Then, his thoughts moved with hers; her body moved with his. His breath became her own, and she gave him her arms, her thighs, her lungs, her heart. She pulsed with his being, and the Tree made them one—one blinding, shimmering whole.
She lived Maddock. She breathed Maddock. She was Maddock.
At last, she smelled smoke.
Bavins could not burn. The woodsinger knew that in her soul. But the smoke was not in her imagination; it came from the Tree. Alana forced herself to pull back from her warrior being, from Maddock. Separating from his body, from his mind, was like a physical pain, but she felt herself drawn away by her bavin.
With a suddenness that stole her breath, Alana Woodsinger plunged back into the stone and smoke of the cathedral.
She took only a moment to see that Maddock had taken a beating in the furious swordfight. He was bloodied, heaving for breath as he raised his massively heavy sword. She struggled to gather back the strands of his pain, but she had lost her grip on the Tree’s power, lost her way to the heartwood. Maddock staggered and cried out against the sudden onset of an entire battle’s agony.
Coren, though, was also winded, and he stopped to shake perspiration from his eyes. Even as Alana strove to recapture the bavin’s power, she watched Maddock exploit the break in Coren’s fighting form. He stumbled forward like a boat grounding on a shallow shore.
Coren saw the threat, and he raised his sword to defend himself. The motion brought him around halfway, and he adjusted his stance so that he could attack the outlander. That shift, though, brought him to the very edge of the marble dais. He flailed his arms for a single, graceless moment, fighting to recover his balance.
And he succeeded. He regained his feet, taking a quick double step to keep from slipping down the stairs. Two small steps. Which brought him up hard against the Mothersnake’s glass cage.
The iron-black branch shuddered under the impact, sliding even deeper into the silver sand. The motion was enough to upset the cage’s precarious balance, and it finally toppled off its stand. One metal-bound corner crashed to the marble dais, and the stone cracked, as if a massive spider had spun an instant web across its surface.
For one breath, it seemed as if the stone had absorbed all the impact. Then, a deep fissure opened in the glass. Silver sand poured out, like a river into the sea. The black branch lodged against the crack, forcing it wider. As Alana watched in horror, sand cascaded onto the dais, and with it, a deadly iron-black shadow. The Mothersnake writhed onto the platform, thick as a man’s thigh, roiling like clouds above a storm-tossed sea.
The massive beast curled upon herself, raising her head above her coiled body. Ripples ran down her flesh like night-shivers in a cemetery, and Alana could just make out the sound of the serpent’s scales rasping on the spilled silver sand. As if responding to the woodsinger’s horror, the Mothersnake opened her maw and revealed two perfect fangs, each the length of a man’s hand. Poison glinted from their needle-tips, iridescent globes that swelled as the snake reared.
Coren flung up his arm to protect his face, but the motion only drew the snake. With a silence more chilling than any roar, the Mothersnake launched herself from the burned and bloodied carpet and buried her fangs in the duke’s arm.
Coren’s scream echoed off the vaulted ceiling. He thrashed about on the carpet, trying unsuccessfully to dislodge the beast. His legs became tangled in the giant snake’s tail, and he arched his back to shift the unholy weight. Through it all, the snake’s fangs remained lodged firmly in his arm.
Then, the struggle was over. Maddock stood panting above Duke Coren’s twitching body. The sword in the outlander’s hand steamed as if the iron had just been forged. As the smell of hot metal grew, Maddock dropped his stolen weapon onto the singed carpet and broken marble, letting it clang beside the Mothersnake’s body.
Only then did Alana realize what had happened. Maddock had killed the Mothersnake. He had cut through her swollen body, severing her neck. Her fangs remained sunk in Coren’s arm, though, and even from this distance, Alana could see that the duke’s flesh was corrupting.
As if to confirm her vision, Coren struggled to a sitting position. He gritted his teeth and pulled with his good arm, forcing the severed head free of his flesh. Blood immediately began to flow from the wounds, dark and clotted.
“By all the Seven Gods!” Bringham managed to choke out the words, his face pale from across the dais.
Before the Duke of Southglen could recover, Reade pulled free from Alana’s grasp. The child collapsed on his knees beside Coren. “‘There are bad people who do bad things!’” Reade cried, as if he were seeking reassurance, as if he needed love and support and confirmation of the order he’d thought he understood.
Alana recognized the line from the unholy catechism that Reade had learned from Coren. She saw the boy hang on the quotation, waiting breathlessl
y for his mentor to respond, for the nobleman to make all right. Coren, though, only shook his head, swallowing noisily as he tried to still the flow of black blood from his arm.
“‘There are bad people who do bad things!’” Reade repeated. He looked frantically at Bringham, silent accusation flashing across his face. Alana reached for the boy, tried to pull him back, but he thrashed free. “Your Grace!” The boy cried to Coren, and he started to sob. “There are bad people!”
“Aye,” Coren managed at last.
“Say it,” Reade demanded. “Say that the Sun-lady and I can make Smithcourt safe again! We can bring order! We can lead the people!”
“You can’t—”
“I can! If you say it, I can!”
Coren reached out a hand toward the raging boy, but his fingers were covered in muck, blood and bile streaking his flesh. “I’m hurt, Reade.”
As Reade wailed in fury, Coren looked at Bringham, an odd desperation crossing his face. Alana thought for a moment that Coren was asking Southglen for mercy, that he was begging compassion for the child, pleading that the farce of the Sun-lord might continue. Whatever was asked, though, Bringham gave no answer.
Coren drew a shuddering breath and pointed a gory finger toward Alana. His voice shook, almost as if he doubted his own words. “Go with your people now, Reade. You’ll be safe.” Reade started to protest, but Coren interrupted him. “Leave me!”
The command deflated the child, who gasped and scrabbled for Coren’s good hand. “Please…” Reade moaned.
Coren pulled his hand back, setting his jaw and turning away. He whispered, barely loud enough for Alana to hear, “You don’t belong in Smithcourt, son.”
“Don’t call me that!” Reade recoiled. “I’m not your son! You’re not my da! You never were my da!”
“I—”
“You made me believe you! I thought you were strong, like Culain!” Reade’s anger exploded into tears, hot and fluid. “I thought you were my friend! I thought you would stay with me, that you wouldn’t go to the Guardians! I thought you were my da….”