When Bran had healed, and warriors from other clans of the forest folk began to arrive in small bands from elsewhere, I turned south again, my hands empty. I had been unable to secure the ritual knife, and I had decided, for better or worse, not to try to take it with me back to Deinaros’ tower. I had contended with gods before, and on occasion even emerged victorious, but I did not wish to confront the god of the grove. The knife belonged to the people of the forest, whether it was being kept from them within the silver tree or not. It was their choice and their duty to take it by force, if they saw the need, and not mine.
My duty was to confront Deinaros. He had lied to me about the knife—it did not belong to him, and by all evidence, it was not the creation of his teacher Maponos. It was a gift of the god of the grove, to be given and taken away as his divine whim dictated. What other falsehoods had he told me? I had been so eager to follow his orders, to finally have someone to give me a heading on this directionless journey I had undertaken these past years, that I had swallowed his word whole. I had even received a warning from Ashoka, champion of Phyreios, reappeared after all this time. He had said not to trust Deinaros. I had dismissed him. Having been deceived by his gods, I thought, Ashoka was too wary and too willing to believe frightening stories told by superstitious townsfolk. I thought myself wiser, having seen more of the world. I had been wrong.
I caught up to Bran just as the last of the daylight bled from the evening sky. He was a shadow in the darkness of the woods, his movements fearful and erratic, pain driving away his accustomed calm. I tore a length from the hem of my shirt and pressed it against the spot where the arrow protruded from his skin. Without light, I did not trust myself to remove it without injuring him further.
I held his reins and spoke to him in soft words. I told him he was safe, and the pain had to be endured but would soon pass, and he had nothing to fear from the dark. I hoped everything I said was true.
“If you were hoping for another chance at the knife, my friend,” Cullen said at last, “I’m afraid your luck has run out.”
He turned, his shoulder twisting away from my hand, and busied himself with striking a flint. Sparks bloomed from his fingers to die upon the mossy ground. His torch, an oily rag wrapped around a splintery fragment of wood that might have come from the palisade, flared to life and illuminated the standing stones.
My arm dropped to my side. The loss of contact was like ice in my chest, far too cold for the mild evening. I looked away. “That’s not why I’m here.”
He raised the torch, and I could feel his gaze on my face. “No?”
They came before dawn, the men from the ring-fort; their lights were like fireflies in the distance, darting and bobbing, harmless as insects. I was fortunate enough to have taken a watch upon the palisade, and I shouted an alarm as soon as the first distant spear point reflected its bearer’s torch, gleaming sharp and wicked. Fog lay on the ground like a heavy blanket, turning the trees into soft shadows and hiding the undergrowth. The path through the forest was a treacherous one, and more than one torch fell into the mist and went out.
Ansgard led them from the back of a black horse—Bran, wearing a different saddle and flicking his ears in agitation, coming out of the trees like a specter. The rest of the men were on foot.
My hand tightened around my harpoon. How dare this obsequious coward presume to ride my horse. Ansgard had never seen the steppe. He had never fought alongside the daughter of the stargazer to earn her respect, nor had he walked with Bran over the endless miles that had led us here. He had no right to lay a hand upon my horse, much less saddle him up to ride against me.
It hovered on silent wings above Khalim’s head, just out of the reach of his arms, the same wind that stirred the golden grass to either side keeping it aloft. Its shadow fell onto the winding path.
“Not really,” Khalim said. “I was in a forest for a while, and then a great beast tried to eat me. Then I was here.”
The owl gave one shake of its shadowy wings. It might have been laughing at him, low and raspy. “That’s all?”
“I don’t know where I am,” Khalim said, mostly to himself. “I’ve been walking for a long time, and I’m not sure where I’m going. But if something else tries to eat me, I can go somewhere else. It’s easy.”
“It’s not easy for everyone,” said the owl.
Khalim lifted his head, squinting against the low, golden sun. The owl’s face was in shadow, the hollows around its eyes like the shadowed places on the moon—at least, the moon in his memory. He hadn’t seen a moon since before the white city. “It’s easy enough for you. Or did you fly all the way here?”
“What do you think I am, child?” the owl asked.
“Not an owl,” said Khalim. “Just like I’m not a child.”
The tree grew around the blade as though it had been there for ten years or more. Its smooth, silvery bark bulged around the base of the blade like a fist, leaving only a sliver of black glass to shine in the torchlight.
“Forgive me,” I said. “Lord Oeric told me you had taken the knife from his hall only a fortnight ago. I see now that he told me a lie.”
The man in the deer-skull helmet crouched down to look me in the eye. “No, he told you true. We recovered the knife, and the bodies of our brothers and sisters that were hung on his wall, and the god of the grove took them back.”
Now I understood. Despite how deeply the knife was embedded in the tree, without so much as a splinter out of place, the leather wrap upon its hilt had not decayed. It was not time that had caused the wood to grow around the blade, but an act of otherworldly power.
Dry stalks scratched at my arms as I made my way through the field, heading north toward the black shapes of the trees—shadows against a shadowed sky. Lord Oeric’s guards had noticed my absence, and someone upon the wall of the ring-fort was striking an iron bell while the wavering lights of torches gathered like fireflies.
Bran would be safe. A horse was as valuable as the warrior he carried; more so, if horses were in short supply, and I had not seen many in recent days. I was less certain about myself.
I ran, my feet steady underneath me despite the dark, following the hard-packed row, while the fields whispered in the night wind. If I could reach the trees before a regiment of men with torches and spears could be mustered to chase me, I could remain unseen until morning. Then I would have to find the burial ground, and from there seek out the forest folk.
If I survived the night, all would go according to plan.
The oaken door to the fort opened, allowing a trickle of light-bearing men to pour out and around the wall. I shut my eyes against the stinging bright spots and forced myself to face forward. What little I could see in the darkness turned all to shadows as glowing stains lingered in my vision. I took another step, and another, and my right foot went out into empty air—an irrigation ditch, invisible in the impenetrable night.
I fell, tumbling down a brief, dusty slope to a bare inch of mud at the bottom, my hands tearing uselessly at shallow roots and crumbling gravel. The sound of my feet scraping against the dry earth was loud as thunder in my ears. I crouched in the ravine, my knees throbbing with pain, and listened for my pursuers. Surely they had heard me fall.
They fanned out through the field, drawing burning arcs through the air with their torches. They’d done this before, this pursuit of an escaping fugitive from their walls to the forest. My only chance was to outrun them, and remain in the darkness as long as possible.
I pulled my feet underneath me, keeping my head below the trembling sheaves of wheat and my eyes to the ground. The burning afterimages of the guards’ lights faded until I could just make out the edge of the ditch and the carved lines my boots had left in its side.
One of them was coming directly toward me, his light growing brighter with each step through the stalks. I stuck the butt of my harpoon into the dirt and pushed myself up, climbing out of the ditch.
What little sight I had regained was gone. I put my arms in front of my face and ran, praying to whomever might be listening that I wouldn’t find another ditch in the darkness, as my pursuers shouted after me.
Alone, unburdened by anything but my harpoon, I was swifter on my feet than they—or, perhaps, I was just more reckless. Heedless of anything but the shapes of the trees, their wet bark limned in wavering orange light, I charged forward. Pain followed me at a distance greater than Oeric’s men. I’d feel every scratch and every blow of the hard ground against my feet later.
I reached the trees just as a thrown spear thudded into the trunk beside me. My hands met another tree, slick and covered in moss, and I stumbled over its roots to put it between myself and the oncoming assault. Another spear clattered into the wood, lost until morning.
I kept going, moving from tree to tree—I couldn’t see farther than the reach of my arm. One by one, my pursuers slowed and fell back, their lights receding and leaving me in darkness.
They did not need to chase me. I’d be back at their fort before long. I wouldn’t leave Bran to be conscripted to hunt barbarians for them.
The forest closed around me like an enveloping cloak. The signs of human habitation—the smell of smoke, the burning lights, the rows of crops, and the sounds of conversation and industry—all disappeared. I had run for barely half an hour since climbing the wall, and already I was deep in the wilds.
An owl cried in the distance. With no other heading, and impenetrable darkness on all sides, I followed it. To discourage any larger predators, I tapped my harpoon against each passing tree trunk, and sang my rowing song in a low voice. I supposed I’d walk for a while to put distance between myself and the fort, and then find some sort of shelter to wait out the night. It had been a devilish impulse that had driven me from the safety of the guest house in the fort, but I could not have remained there a moment longer. I had been imprisoned under the guise of hospitality too many times already.
The owl called a second time, so close that it might have been perched by my ear. It was an illusion, surely, brought about by my lack of sight. In any event, I was far too large to have anything to fear from an owl.
An answering call came from somewhere behind me. It wasn’t quite right—a little too low in pitch and resonance. I had only a moment to question whether this was an owl or a man imitating one before two pairs of hands grasped me by the arms and a foot kicked my knees in from behind.
A single flash of firelight scorched my eyes before a blindfold was draped across them and tied tightly at the back of my head.
“Who are you?” I asked as my sight was taken from me once again. “I mean you no harm. I’ve escaped from the ring-fort.”
Of course, if these were men from said fort, they already knew this, but I was far enough from the fields by now that it seemed unlikely.
Words were exchanged over my head, and rough hands pried my harpoon from my fingers. The language was familiar, though the cadence of it was odd: a dialect of the deep forest, where the only exchange with the tongues of the outside world was what was shouted across the battlefield.
“I’m only here for a relic,” I said. “An obsidian knife. I need to retrieve it for my employer.”
“Did the lord of the fort send you out here in the dark?” a man’s voice asked. “You need a new employer.”
I shook my head, and the blindfold’s knot shifted against the back of my skull. “I’ve come here from the south. Lord Oeric wanted to keep me prisoner in the fort, and I’ve escaped to find the relic. Are you the forest folk that he speaks of? If you return the knife to me, I will go, and trouble your lands no longer.”
“You’re after the ritual knife?” the same voice said.
“That’s all. I swear it.”
Their single lit torch was a bright spot against the blindfold. The shadow of a man moved between it and me, wavering like the apparition of a spirit.
“If he wants the knife, then we may as well show it to him,” the man said to his companions. To me, he added, “On your feet, then. This will be easier for you if you cooperate.”
Hands gripped my arms again. The rough fibers of a rope scraped at my wrists. By instinct, I pulled away.
“Or we can cut your throat here and leave you for the wolves,” said the man. “It’s your choice.”
I let them tie my hands and lift me roughly to my feet. “Where are you taking me?”
No answer came. I was marched, with one of these men on either side, deeper into the forest. With every turn, I tried to keep the fort in my mind, and remember in which direction it lay, but I lost it before long. If I survived the night—the offer to show me the knife was, I was certain, a threat—I’d have to find my way out of the woods by the position of the sun.
My feet caught on roots and undergrowth, but my captors kept me upright, bearing my weight between them. They were shorter than I, and not as tall as the folk of the ring-fort, but their arms were strong and their shoulders sturdy. By their footsteps, I counted six or seven of them, all told. None of them spoke as we walked.
I lost track of the time, as well. I thought morning might come soon, and save me from the black abyss in which I traveled, interrupted only by the obstacles underfoot and the men holding me captive. Whoever bore the torch had either put it out or moved far enough behind me that I could detect no hint of its light. But darkness persisted, and the night went on, and on we marched, until at last my feet found the edge of a clearing.
The men at my sides dropped me, unceremoniously, to my knees. A thin carpet of moss kept me from gaining any new bruises. Someone lit more torches, and the world around me went from black to a dull orange. Unclear shapes cast looming shadows over me.
Someone else tore the blindfold from my face. I closed my eyes and turned my face away.
“Well,” one of the men, a different voice this time, said. “Here we are.”
I blinked the ache from my eyes and looked up. I knelt at the edge of a circle of standing stones, each twice as tall as a man and as wide as the span of my arms. Others, just as large, lay atop the pillars, forming a ring of towering arches. On each was carved a map of spiraling currents, green with moss against the dull gray stone.
I had seen these spirals before. Similar ones were tattooed down my arms and on the shaved sides of my head.
“Welcome,” a familiar voice said. The first man, the one who had spoken to me in the forest, sauntered into view. He wore a cloak of hide, as did his companions, but on his head of black curls balanced a headdress made from the skull of a deer, its antlers polished and shining. His face was painted a vibrant blue.
He spread his arms to indicate the circle of stones. “I suppose this is what you were looking for?”
I sat back on my heels. I had only one chance to talk these strange folk out of killing me. After that, I could only hope that I could retrieve my harpoon fast enough to cut my bonds and escape. “I’m not sure,” I said. “I’m a stranger to these lands. I’ve only come for the knife. It belongs to a sorcerer of the south, and I’ve been tasked with returning it to him.”
The man grinned, baring his teeth, and his eyes gleamed in the firelight. “That’s quite the story.”
“I have better tales, if it’s a tale you want,” I said.
“Later, maybe, if I decide to let you live that long,” he replied. “I have a story for you. The knife belongs to the god of the grove, not some sorcerer a thousand miles away. It was stolen, and we took it back. It’s where it belongs now.”
He took a step to the side and held out a hand to indicate a young tree growing at the center of the circle. Embedded deep in the smooth, untouched bark was the leather-wrapped handle of an obsidian knife.
I’m not completely satisfied with this arc, but I hope you’re enjoying it while I’m working it out.
I have two more chapters before this draft is done! It will have a total of 68 chapters and 6 interludes. For those keeping track at home, this is chapter 56 and there have been four interludes. Editing will cut this down significantly. I’m planning on fewer, longer chapters and more of a focus on different locations in the divisions between chapters.
I got to my feet. All I had was an eating knife, sheathed at my belt, and my hand came to rest on its hilt. If I could place some distance between myself and the others at this table, I could summon my harpoon. I hoped the man who had taken it from me possessed the good sense to keep his face clear of its sharp edges.
Ansgard reached out a hand and gripped my elbow. “This man has come from the south,” he said. “He is on an errand in search of a particular weapon.”
“I mean you no harm,” I added, and let Ansgard pull me back into my seat.
The old man, Oeric, peered at me through the smoke that filled the room, his eyes pale blue and rimmed in red. These eyes were sharp despite his age, and made all the more so by the mistrust I had evidently sparked in them.
“You’re painted like one of them,” Oeric muttered.
I left Gallia behind, and it receded until it was only a bright spot against a hazy horizon. Then it and the sea beyond were gone, and everything became green, from the canopy overhead to the moss under Bran’s hooves. Only the sky remained a stubborn gray. Rain fell in brief fits from an impenetrable layer of cloud, and the wind blew cold. Autumn was coming to the North, and it would reach me here before long.
For now, though, the forest was emerald green, and the birds sang summer songs in its branches. After the first day out of the city, the stream of caravans in and out of its gates slowed to a trickle. By the time a week had passed, I saw another traveler only once every few days. I sang as well, as I rode, a rowing song of the frost-cold sea, to warn anyone else on the road of my presence and reassure them that I was not a bandit lying in wait for them.
Ashoka fell quiet, gazing up at the kingly statue. It was as though I fell out of his awareness, disappearing along with the city in the fading sunlight. In Phyreios, he and I had barely spoken—until the very end, he believed in the might and benevolence of the Ascended, so we had little to speak about. He’d called Khalim a charlatan and a sorcerer, and me a barbarian. I’d had no kinder terms with which to address him, though I’d had few occasions to do so.
But here stood a man with a familiar face, who had seen the triumphs and the horrors I had seen. Here stood a man whose gods had betrayed him. Though the animosity between us remained, filling the temple’s air with a tension like a taut bowstring, I could not yet bring myself to turn from him.
“You haven’t found a god here?” I asked. “I count seven.”
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