Delrael tried to hide his anger. The Woodcarver spoke against Thilane. “But a miracle has happened—Thessar has given us a new seedling.”
Thilane said nothing and plodded back into the burned forest. She and the lesser Healers tended the five dying trees, though they knew their efforts were in vain. She walked away, and Delrael watched her bare, weathered back with its wealth of corded muscles.
Troubled, Noldir turned back to the hulk of Thessar. He plunged his hands up to the wrists into the charred trunk, sculpting a wooden gravestone for Ledaygen.
Delrael watched the Woodcarver, fascinated with his work but impatient to be doing something else, to be continuing their quest southward. He walked into the dead forest to find Thilane.
The skeletal branches of the trees closed over him. The gray ash muffled all sound like tainted snow. He came upon one of the Treescavengers who was methodically removing every twig and scrap of wood from a large area and piling an immense mound of debris near the path. The Treescavenger gathered branches, uprooted tree trunks, picked up the smallest twig.
Delrael watched her work. “Want some help?” His leg no longer bothered him, and he enjoyed feeling it as he moved.
The Treescavenger took no notice of his question. Delrael helped anyway, carrying loads of fallen branches to the growing mound. He wiped a wristful of sweat off his forehead, leaving a charcoal smudge on his skin. “So, why are we carrying all this wood away?”
The khelebar stopped and looked up at him with eyes as blank and empty as the sky. She blinked and fumbled with her words. “That is my work. The dayid made me a Treescavenger, and I must collect whatever dead wood I find.” She went back to her task again, widening the radius of the cleared circle. She faltered, pondering, then she heaved another branch. “That is my work.”
Delrael waited a moment, uncomfortable, and then slipped off into the deeper forest. He knew where Thilane would be working with the two other Healers.
After passing through the wreckage of trees and brush, he reached a place where the ashes had been trampled and the broken branches moved away. Delrael guessed that this was one of the first places where Bryl had used the Water Stone against the fire. Somehow, two trees had survived here. Two Healers stood beside each other, watching Thilane touch one of the burned trees.
The oak was huge and very old, surviving because of its immense size. Delrael looked upward through the dizzying crosswork of black branches. A few areas near the top of the tree appeared undamaged. The other surviving oak was a mere sapling, blackened and scarred—but Thilane insisted it still lived. Delrael didn’t know how she could tell, but the Healer expended most of her effort there.
Thilane looked up from her work, removing her palms from the thin trunk and pressing the side of her head against it, listening to the tree. Her garland had wilted: Ledaygen had no more flowers to offer her.
She pursed her lips when she saw Delrael but continued her ministrations. He waited, hesitant about interrupting. Finally, he asked why she had not seemed excited about Noldir’s discovery of the pine seedling. “At least you have a start now, a tree from Ledaygen.”
The other two Healers heard Delrael mention the pine seedling and looked to Thilane in surprise, but they did not speak. Thilane kept her attention on him.
“Ledaygen was a forest of pine and oak. Both! Because of Thessar the pines may now return—but what of the oaks?”
Delrael fidgeted. “Can’t you heal one of these?”
Thilane shook her head and pointed at the large oak.
“That tree could have survived its fire damage, but it is old and has already surrendered. This one, though,” she ran her fingers along the surviving sapling, “has an extraordinary will to live. How can it cling to life when it has endured more than any of these others? But it, too, has been mortally wounded. It will be dead—dead, like the rest of the forest.”
Delrael looked at the emerald eyes of the other Healers, but they avoided his gaze. He spoke quietly to Thilane. “Why can’t you bring in other trees? Start over?”
“Stop being so stupid and optimistic! If we brought outside trees, our home would be just another forest. It would not be Ledaygen. Better that Ledaygen be dead and remembered than absorbed as part of more forest terrain.” She clamped her wavering lips together and drew herself straight. “And now we shall have only pine.”
Thilane stepped away from the charred sapling and sank to the forest floor. She tucked her great paws beneath her belly, then reached out to run her fingernail along the peeled bark. The other Healers stopped their own work and watched her.
Delrael felt uneasy. Thilane smiled at something he could not see. Tears made tracks through the settled ash on her cheeks. She reached behind her neck and undid the long braid of gray-streaked hair that ran like a mane down her bare back. She turned and hissed at the two Healers, “Yes! “
They both took a half-step backward in surprise.
“It is decided,” Thilane said.
“What is?” Delrael asked.
The Healer turned. Her eerie eyes stared through him, seeming to see the ghosts of the forest. “Ledaygen has a new Father Pine. I can provide a new Father Oak. I must heal this young tree.”
“But you said you couldn’t—”
“I can. You must remember how we Heal.”
Thilane would say no more, but rose and marched around the blackened oak sapling, contemplating. One of the other Healers took Delrael by the shoulder and pulled him away, silencing his questions with a stern gesture. Her eyes glittered with a mixture of dread, enthusiasm, and hope.
You must remember how we Heal.
Delrael watched Thilane, thinking of how she had treated some of the khelebar burns by laying green leaves on the injury; the leaves had turned black and charred.
Noldir Woodcarver had told him how she had treated Delrael’s bruises and smashed muscles with twigs and branches, which had somehow become crushed and mangled in exchange.
She had brought his kennok wood leg to life by exchanging his flesh leg and burying it in the forest.
He frowned. None of it seemed to be “healing” at all—just an exchange of wholeness and injury.
Then he knew what she meant to do.
Thilane leaned up against the hunched sapling, embracing the thin trunk and holding it between her breasts. Her fingers fluttered up the charred bark, reaching toward the top. She began to hum to herself.
“Don’t, Thilane! Please!” Delrael tried to run to her, but the Healers reached out and grabbed him. “She’ll die—she’ll burn like the trees!” he shouted at them.
“That is her choice,” one of the Healers said.
“That is her right,” said the other.
“It is her duty.” The first Healer turned to watch Thilane. “Only she has the power to do this. For Ledaygen.”
Delrael gritted his teeth in despair. He wanted to call out Thilane’s name again, but he just watched her instead.
She swayed against the tree trunk, smearing soot over her skin. She hummed louder, invoking a rite that only she seemed to know. Her lips sang a song in the language of the wind, the language a dying tree might understand.
Sparks flew from her hair as it drifted upward, alive with static like a wreath of gray flames.
Thilane Healer stretched her arms still farther upward, reaching for the lost dayid, and then she let out a low keening. Her body burst into an incinerating white flame, burning from the inside out. She writhed as a living torch for a long, hideous moment until she crumbled to the ground. A dust of fine ash scattered with the wind of her departure.
Delrael fell to his knees, sickened and sobbing. The kennok limb bent easily. He wormed out of the stunned grip of the other two Healers and crawled to where Thilane’s ashes lay. He took the ash in each fist and let it run back out like sand to the forest floor.
He sat stunned, then looked up. The nearly dead sapling, the new Father Oak, now stood fresh and green and explosively alive.
<
br /> The war party tracked the Cyclops down the gorge, harrying him, firing volleys of arrows. The khelebar remained unfamiliar with their weapons and missed most of the time. At least Noldir Woodcarver had provided them with more arrows than they could possibly use. Vailret rode along, trying to see details in the shadows with his weak eyes.
Tayron Next-Leader went ahead, oblivious to the other khelebar in the party.
Vailret didn’t know how they could kill the monster. The Cyclops had disappeared among the rocky bluffs again. The khelebar could keep pursuing him, and the monster could keep throwing rocks—the chase would go on forever. But he did know that the Outsiders would have set it up properly: They had given the Cyclops countless boulders as weapons, they had provided the incentive to the khelebar, they had provided the battle, and they would also provide the solution. Vailret had to find it.
“We have to drive him back to his lair,” he said to Tayron. The Next-Leader turned to him, but Vailret kept his face firm and confident.
Without questioning, Tayron signaled for four others to locate and flush the Cyclops once more.
Riding Ydaim, Bryl appeared refreshed but still weak. He left the Water Stone in his pocket, not touching it—but he seemed ready. The war party marched on.
The Cyclops roared and leaped over the edge of the gorge, grabbing at the cliff wall to slow himself. His claws scraped on the rock and sparks flew. The monster stumbled but regained his footing.
Tayron launched himself forward with a yell. The Cyclops bounded down the canyon. The other khelebar surged after, recklessly shooting arrows at the monster’s heels.
“He’s leading us there,” Ydaim said.
The gorge branched. The narrow stream continued down the main canyon, but a side ravine went a different direction. The Cyclops splashed across the stream, spraying water onto his brick-red skin, then he lumbered toward a gaping cut in the rock wall of the ravine. A few wisps of steam leaked from inside the cave. In the dim light they could see branchings of the cave as it plunged into the earth, filled with gems and abandoned chests of treasure.
The Cyclops seemed ready to fight at any moment, but every time he turned, a fresh round of arrows pierced his hide and sent him howling in the other direction. The monster ran toward the cave with all the speed his great legs could muster.
“Shoot your arrows!” Tayron shouted. “We will not stop again until he lies dead, to avenge the blood of Ledaygen and the blood of my father!”
The Cyclops reached the dark opening and stood within it, glaring at the attacking khelebar. His horn jutted out, yellowed by the sunlight. His single eye glowed all by itself.
The khelebar shot another volley of arrows, most of which clattered against the stone walls. The Cyclops snarled at them, as if he had thought they would retreat once he had reached his home. Huge boulders lay strewn around the entrance, and he stepped back into the sunlight to pick one up and heave it toward them. “Stay in single file!” Vailret said. The rock fell short. The khelebar shot again. “His eye!” Bryl shouted. “Hit him in the eye!” “They can’t even hit him,” Vailret said.
Then Vailret saw that above the opening to the monster’s cave, the gigantic boulders had fallen together in a jumbled arch. Boulders, just like those the Cyclops threw as weapons, but this time they were stacked against him. A few stray khelebar arrows pinged against the burden of rock, and bits of gravel pattered down to the dry riverbed.
He was about to point this out to the war party when he saw Ydaim Trailwalker taking painful aim with an arrow larger than the rest. Ydaim closed his eyes, exhaled a long breath, and released the arrow.
The Cyclops screamed with an agony that chilled Vailret to the bone. The arrow shaft had sunk deep into the corded skin of his throat. Dark-brown blood gushed down his chest, and the monster ripped open other gashes from clawing at the wound.
The khelebar yelled in triumph and kept shooting arrows. A dozen shafts stuck out of the monster’s rough hide. Bryl slapped Ydaim on the back. “Yes!”
“I was aiming for his heart,” Ydaim muttered.
The Cyclops bashed his fists against the walls of the cave. More stones and dust trickled down from over head. Vailret heard the boulders groan as they settled against each other.
“Bryl, the rocks!” Vailret indicated the jumbled arch. “Use the Water Stone.”
Bryl looked at him with uneasy eyes. “But, I—”
“You’ve still got three spells left.”
The half-Sorcerer took out the sapphire cube and stared at it.
Tayron Next-Leader planted his wide panther feet, scoring the dry ground with his claws. He pulled the arrow from the braid in his hair—the arrow dipped in the ash of Ledaygen and the spilled blood of Fiolin Tribeleader.
“This is poison.” Tayron took three steps closer to the thrashing monster and aimed. “Lifetaker—I will take your life.”
Bryl blew on the Water Stone. “All right, come on!”
Tayron shot his arrow. It struck the Cyclops squarely in the center of his chest.
The Water Stone showed a “3”. Bryl struck down with a massive bolt of lightning onto the precarious archway. Vailret waved a triumphant fist in the air.
The Cyclops touched the arrow protruding from his chest and stiffened as if the life had been ripped from his body. As dead as Ledaygen, he slumped forward. Then tons and tons of collapsing stone tumbled upon him from above.
The rumble and hiss of settling rock drifted toward silence. “We have killed once again,” Ydaim said, standing next to Tayron.
The Next-Leader’s words were amazing in their strength and calmness. “We have always known how to kill. By our inaction for all these centuries, we played a part in the killing of Ledaygen.” He drew a deep breath of the dusty air. “We have failed to see that total peace can be as deadly as total war.”
Some of the khelebar went forward to the rubble, cautious. Tayron undid his long hair and let it fly free. He put one massive paw on a broken boulder and turned to the other khelebar.
“We will plant trees here.”
Tayron rushed the war party back to Ledaygen. His lips were dry and his eyes were glazed and hollow-looking.
Vailret sat astride the Next-Leader’s back again, and he leaned forward to speak to the khelebar. “Thilane helped Delrael, remember?” Tayron did not answer.
They marched toward the remains of the great forest. Some of the khelebar stared with a new pride, some wept as they carried the body of Stynod Treescavenger, some looked stunned and uncertain. But when they passed the black hex-boundary into Ledaygen, Tayron stopped in baffled wonder. The other khelebar looked around, emerald eyes wide and glistening as they talked among themselves. Some of the khelebar ran ahead. Vailret sniffed the air but failed to notice any difference.
“What is it? Why are they so excited?” Bryl asked.
Ydaim Trailwalker beamed at him, amazed. “The dayid! It is a miracle! The presence is faint, but I can feel it.”
Vailret frowned. “I thought you said the dayid died?”
“Nevertheless, it has returned.”
The war party entered the clearing where the other khelebar had gathered. The new Father Oak stood vibrant and green, filled with life. Some of the party saw the tree and stared.
But Delrael sat dejected on a burned log, looking worn and empty. Soot smeared his face, furrowed with the tracks of tears, but he had stopped weeping. Near the reborn oak lay Fiolin, crushed and dying. The two lesser Healers hovered over the Tribeleader, doing what they could.
Tayron Next-Leader saw nothing but his father on the still-warm ash of Ledaygen. He threw his charred arrows to the ground with a clatter, demanding the attention of the Healers. “Where is Thilane Healer? Why is she not tending the Tribeleader?”
The other Healers cringed in surprise, but Delrael stood up, red with anger. The sword from Sardun’s museum hung at his waist beside the silver belt. His leather armor was scuffed and dirty. His bloodied trousers had been washed
and carefully mended by the khelebar.
“They’re doing their best,” Delrael said through tight Jaws.
Tayron whirled to confront him. “Kennoklimb, my father will die without Thilane Healer.”
Delrael continued to stare at him. “Thilane is dead—she burned herself to death just to heal a tree. And nobody tried to stop her!” Furious tears rose in his eyes again as he turned to the Healers and then back to Tayron. He hung his head. “She didn’t even know Fiolin was hurt.”
Tayron opened his mouth in surprise, then in despair. The others in the war party muttered to themselves. One of the Healers grasped the new tree. “She gave herself so that a Father Oak might be reborn. Her spirit has become the seed of a new dayid.”
Tayron looked angered and stunned. Vailret pondered the Healer’s words, trying to make sense of them. But only Sentinels could engage in the half-Transition that transformed them into part of a dayid. Was Delrael suggesting that Thilane, a khelebar, had somehow done what only a Sorcerer should have been able to do? That was patently against the Rules—only Sorcerers could use magic. But the dayid of Ledaygen had stretched and broken the Rules before.
Tayron knelt beside Fiolin and said nothing. His lips trembled.
The other Healer flexed her hands, helpless. “We lack the knowledge. We have used all our abilities. just to keep the Tribeleader alive, but his spirit slips away. The new dayid is too weak, and we have no other living trees to aid us!”
Tayron stopped listening. He removed one of his armbands and laid it on the ground next to Fiolin. “You did your best, Father. You were a good Tribeleader.”
Fiolin’s eyes fluttered, but crusted blood held them shut. He seemed to sense Tayron beside him. His jaws ground together, working up a small amount of saliva, and he croaked one word before he died.
“Tribeleader.”
The two Healers snatched at the air as if trying to catch Fiolin’s spirit. Tayron pushed his knuckles against his mouth, shuddering, before he let out a high-pitched moan. Then he fell silent, blinking his eyes several times in surprise.
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