Sons of the Oak

It was Chancellor Waggit who led the troops. Moments later he reached the riverbank, riding a rangy mountain pony bred for hunting more than war. He had fought a bloody battle and managed to rout most of Asgaroth’s rear guard, but rather than turn and fight, Asgaroth had elected to forge ahead with the best of his scouts and engage Iome.

As Waggit’s men finished the skirmish and hunted among the dead for the spoils of war, Myrrima poled the boat to the far bank, so that the children could get out on the rocks. Fallion smelled the air. The bridge of his nose seemed to burn with the scent of evil.

It’s the curse, he thought, and he leapt out of the boat, knelt on some rounded stones, and tried to scrub the scent off from himself, washing his hands in the bone-chilling water first, then his chest, and finally his face.

Waggit strolled down from the fields bringing a helmeted head as a trophy of war, the head of Fallion’s enemy. The head was grisly, blood dribbling from the neck, so that Waggit held the thing at arm’s length, lest the gore splash upon his boots.

Fallion climbed up the riverbank, finding a path on a muskrat trail, and made his way through cattails to his mother.

Waggit held out the head, turned the face toward Iome, and her mouth went wide with surprise. “Celinor Anders…?”

Fallion looked at the gore-covered face, then back up at his mother. “Who?”

Iome blinked. “I…I had thought that it would be old King Anders, that he was the one we fought. But it was Celinor, his son. He was once a friend to your father, one of the Chosen. I thought that he was a good man.”

The sense of betrayal was palpable. Fallion could think of nothing to say.

Waggit said, “He’s not the first good man to turn to evil.”

Iome closed her eyes, wondering what had led Celinor to this. She threw the head down in anger, hurt by his betrayal. “Leave it here, to be gnawed by the foxes.”

Waggit reached out a hand, and Fallion heard the tinkle of jewelry as he set something in Iome’s palm. She shoved the items in her pocket before Fallion could see.

“Is it over?” Fallion asked. “Is Asgaroth dead for sure?”

Iome looked at her son, perplexed, while a ragged bit of wayward rain spattered across her face. A shadow fell over them, and she realized that the break in the clouds was sealing back up.

“He’s dead,” Iome said. “Celinor is dead. But the evil that drove him is not. It existed long before he was born and will live long after. There was a creature inside him, a being of pure evil, called a locus. It’s gone now, but it will find another host. It can live inside a man like a parasite. The name of the locus is Asgaroth. It will return, in time, when it finds a suitable host, a person of sufficient malice, one with enough power so that it can gather minions to do its bidding. So Asgaroth is not dead. Nor do I think that it can ever die.”

Fallion tried to comprehend this, but it was so far outside his experience that his mind rebelled.

Yet as he wondered, he had a strange notion: Asgaroth was my enemy before I was born. Is he bound up in my purpose? Did I come to destroy him? Can he be destroyed?

He looked up to his mother. “How can you tell if a man has a locus in him?”

Iome shook her head. “Your father could tell. He could look into a man’s heart and see the darkness there. But common folk like you and me, we can only guess.”

Fallion still felt the tiny ants marching across his chest, so he tried to wipe them away. His mother spotted the gesture, reached out, stopped his hand, then gingerly held her fingers near his chest.

“There’s movement there,” she said softly, “a stirring of the wind, invisible runes…” Her voice was thick with worry. She looked over to the river. “Myrrima?”

Myrrima was standing in the water beside the boat. She came out of the river gracefully, as if the water flowed away from her feet, clearing her path. Rhianna and the children stayed behind, sitting on the gunwale.

When Myrrima neared, Iome asked, “What do you make of this?” She placed Myrrima’s hand near Fallion’s chest.

Myrrima felt the tiny runes, frowning just a bit, but after a moment she covered his chest with her wet palm, smashing the runes, and smiled. “Nothing. There is nothing here that can harm you,” she told Fallion. “Asgaroth tried to curse you, but he doesn’t have that kind of power.”

“But he said I would start wars-” Fallion began to argue.

“Don’t let it trouble you,” Myrrima said. “He spoke many things that do not make sense. He said that he bound you by the Power of the One Rune, but the One Rune was destroyed ages ago, and when it burst, the One True World shattered into a thousand thousand shadow worlds. The power to bind was lost. And if Asgaroth were ever to regain it, he would bind the worlds into one once again, bind them to himself, and thus hold us all in thrall.”

She sounded so certain, so right. And with her touch, the runes of air had broken.

“Are you sure?” Fallion begged.

“Asgaroth only wants to frighten you,” Myrrima assured him. “That is how he wields his powers. You saw that.”

Iome cut in. “You showed him that you don’t fear him, so he wants you to fear yourself, fear the evil that you might do.”

“She’s right,” Myrrima said. “Because you are both brave and decent, you do not fear evil in others as much as you fear it in yourself. Asgaroth knows that you will fight him, so he tried to instill within you a fear of battle. There is nothing more to it. Rest easy.”

But Fallion couldn’t rest easy. He imagined himself leading vast armies to war, armies of men drunk on the blood of slaughter, butchers who reveled in murder, and the vision seemed too alarming to lay aside.

Myrrima reached up. With a wet finger, she drew a rune upon Fallion’s forehead, and all of his worries, all of his fears, seemed to lift from him like a heavy mantle. So powerful was the sense of release that he tried to recall what it was that had concerned him, but his mind could not seem to hold the memory for the moment.

Asgaroth. Something about Asgaroth?

Iome reached into her pocket and pulled out a silver cape pin. It was an owl with golden eyes, wings outstretched in flight, as if it were winging toward him. Fallion had never seen anything so marvelous. Inscribed upon the silver wings were tiny feathers so realistic that the owl looked almost alive. To heighten this, its golden eyes had amber pupils that seemed to fix upon Fallion. It was elegant, simple and beautiful, marvelous to behold.

“You should have this,” his mother said, “a trophy of your first battle.”

Fallion recognized the piece. Asgaroth had worn it when he came against the castle gates. Fallion was hesitant to touch anything that Asgaroth had worn. Yet there was something odd about the pin. The workmanship was finer than anything that Fallion had ever seen. Even the ancient duskins, with their cunning hands and love for silver, had never made anything so fine in detail. Instinctively Fallion suspected that this was some charm crafted in the netherworld. It was too beautiful to have been formed by human hands.

“Take it,” Myrrima said. “No harm can come of it. Can’t you feel that? Even Asgaroth’s touch could not sully its power. It was made by bright Ones. And I’m sure that that is why Asgaroth took it. They would have loathed for him to have it.”

Fallion reached out for it. As he clasped it, an image came to his mind, an enormous gray owl with a wingspan much wider than a man is tall, flapping toward him. Fallion stood upon a low hill where the wheat grew nearly over his head, and there was a bright moon shining down, and monolithic oak trees on the distant hills.

The image struck him with such force that Fallion felt as if he had literally been carried away and all of his life had been a dream, for the world that he saw was more substantial, more earthy, than the one that he lived in.

The owl gave a querying call, and Fallion answered, “Ael.”

Then the dream ended, and he was standing with his mother and Myrrima.

“What did you say?” Myrrima asked.

“Ael,” Fallion answered. “I think that it was the name of the bright One who owned this cape pin.”

His mother said, “You’re probably right. The bright Ones often leave such visions on their items to identify the owner, much as we would write our name upon them.”

Fallion smiled sadly. He suspected that Asgaroth had taken this pin as a trophy. He’d killed a bright One of the netherworld, perhaps one who had come to fight him.

Now the pin had fallen into Fallion’s hands. He decided to treasure it, as a thing to be revered.

Yet even as he took it, he was loath to pin it on. Trinkets from the netherworld were not meant as toys; he suspected that this pin might have powers that he didn’t understand. Fallion could see runes engraved into the back of it; the rune lore of the bright Ones was unsurpassed.

It wasn’t a thing to be worn casually. It would attract the attention of the greedy and unscrupulous. Unsure what to do, he just stood holding the pin.

Myrrima turned away, strolling toward the boat. Humfrey had hopped off and was marching on the shore, holding his weapon forlornly as he searched for snails or dead fish, or something else appropriately nasty to eat.

Fallion suddenly realized that his pet ferrin had gone conspicuously absent during the battle. Probably hiding among the packs. Apparently, battling wizards and strengi-saats was not to Humfrey’s taste.

Rhianna was wading in the shallows, and she suddenly called the ferrin, bent into the water, and tossed something up on shore. A huge red crayfish landed at Humfrey’s feet. It immediately raised its claws in the air defensively and began to back away.

Humfrey shrieked in terror and hefted his makeshift spear. After several whistles-calls of “Monster! Monster!” and much leaping about, he managed to impale the crayfish. In moments he was tearing off claws and pulling out white meat with his sharp teeth, grunting from the effort and smacking his lips in delight.

Sir Borenson sat on the boat, wheezing and still in shock, looking at his own hands as if he were amazed to have survived.

Talon and the other children had all gone to the battlefield, and Fallion could see Jaz up there, hunting for treasures among the dead.

Iome followed his gaze, frowned severely, and shouted, “Jaz, get away from there,” then added, “I’ve got a ring for you.” She pulled out the black iron signet ring. It was a great treasure. Anyone who wanted to lay claim to South Crowthen would need it.

But Fallion much preferred his cape pin. He held it, squinted as a ray of stray sunshine struck it.

Rhianna came struggling up out of the boat, leaning heavily on a staff. She stared at the pin in dismay, eyes filling with tears. “Mother’s pin. Where did you get it?”

“From him,” Iome said, nodding toward the head.

“Now I know she’s dead for sure,” Rhianna whispered. “She would never have parted with it.”

“You can have it,” Fallion said, holding out the pin.

Rhianna looked at him uncertainly, as if he were offering a gift that was far more valuable than he knew.

“When you touched it, did it tell you its name?” Rhianna asked.

“Ael,” Fallion said.

She nodded, as if he had confirmed something. “Then it’s yours now.”

She stared at him, shaken for a long moment. The pin hadn’t really been her mother’s for long. And Rhianna felt grateful for Fallion’s help, for his strength and courage. She wanted him to have the thing.

Pain and rage had been building up in Rhianna for days.

“I hate you, Da,” she whispered fiercely.

Rhianna found herself shaking. She cried out in impotent rage, then hobbled back to the boat.

Rhianna felt her stitches pull with every breath. She wept in terror and relief. Her thoughts felt muddled. After days of fear and sleeplessness and numbing cold, Rhianna was out of words.

She found herself peering at the river. The water was swift and cold and as clear as glass, flowing inexorably past field and stone, making its way to the curling waves and the brine of the sea.

Rhianna stopped at the side of the boat, standing in icy water. She didn’t dare climb back in, for fear of injuring herself.

A shadow fell over Rhianna. “Come,” Myrrima said, stroking Rhianna’s back. The wizardess stepped into the icy cold water. Myrrima seemed not to be affected by its numbing touch at all. She walked out to her waist, wading with unnatural ease, then looked back over her shoulder, inviting.

Rhianna thought that Myrrima was the most beautiful woman that she had ever seen. Her eyes were as dark as mountain pools, and her skin as clear as the stream. She seemed at one with the water, and now she reached out a hand to Rhianna, beckoning. “Come.”

Rhianna stepped into the clear, deep flow and caught her breath at its brutal cold.

She waded in, almost blind with tears, and though the rounded stones in the river were slick and she had to search with her numbing feet for toeholds, soon she reached Myrrima, and gazed up in dull pain.

Myrrima cupped a hand, raised it, and let some icy water dribble over Rhianna’s forehead. Rhianna arched her neck, and it felt as if the water was not just pouring down upon her, but flowing into her, filling her mind and washing away the weariness and fear that she had borne for days now, for weeks.

“Be at peace,” Myrrima said. “Let your thoughts be as restful as forest pools. Let clarity fill you like a mountain stream.”

Rhianna stood, neck arched, as Myrrima dipped her hands again and again, letting water dribble on Rhianna’s forehead. It seemed not to run down her so much as through her.

Soon Rhianna was weeping again. At first she wept for the loss of her mother, and some dull corner of her mind still hoped that she might still be alive, but Rhianna’s heart knew that she was gone. She mourned the young girls who had died in the forest, girls she had known only for a few hours, for they had traded names and told one another the stories of their brief lives in those final hours after the strengi-saats took them.

Then after long minutes it seemed that the waters washed away her mourning. Still, Rhianna found little relief. Her muscles were knotted cords, and as the water rushed over her, she felt as if for years she had borne a heavy burden and now at last she could lay it down. Her fear was the burden. Now the water washing over her brought relief, unknotting the muscles in her shoulders, legs, and stomach, letting Rhianna breathe freely for the first time in days, so that she gasped for air.

And when all of her muscles were unbound, and even the dregs of fear had washed away, still Myrrima washed her, and Rhianna found herself wracked with sobs, not sobs of pain, but sobs of relief, of perfect ease.

Myrrima stopped and smiled down at her. “You’re a troubled one, and a strange one. Do me a favor. Cup your hands, as if to drink.”

Rhianna held her hands out before her in a tiny cup, and Myrrima reached down and drew a rune on the water, then took it from the river in her own hands and began pouring water into Rhianna’s palms.

Rhianna was so weary that at first she did not recognize the import of what was happening. But her uncle had taught her some rune lore as a child, and suddenly she saw the danger. Myrrima had drawn the rune of revealing; now she leaned forward to peer into Rhianna’s cupped hands.

A sudden fear took Rhianna, and she hurled the water back into the river. She demanded, “What do you hope to see within the well of my soul?”

What Myrrima had done was an invasion of privacy.

Myrrima smiled, but it wasn’t a kind smile, the smile of an elder adoring a child. It was hard and calculating, the grim smile of a warrior who wonders if she has chanced upon a foe. “Where did you learn to scry runes?” Myrrima demanded.

Rhianna did not know what to say. “From…a merchant, a traveling merchant. I don’t know where he learned it.”

Rhianna should have known better than to try to lie to a wizardess. Myrrima gave her a suspicious look. “A rune caster, with no allegiance to the Powers? Some might call you a witch. And where did your mother get the cape pin?”

She waited for Rhianna to cough up the truth.

“I’m not your enemy,” Rhianna said with finality.

Myrrima held her eye for a long moment. Rhianna had obviously decided not to answer, and the fierceness in this girl’s eyes suggested that she could not be coerced.

At last Myrrima relented. “I would not let you near Fallion if I thought that you were an enemy.” She glanced back downstream a few paces where Fallion looked away guiltily and then gazed up at a small break in the clouds, the miracle of sunlight streaming across the heavens. Then Myrrima seemed to come to a decision.

“I heard what you said to Celinor just a moment ago. He was your father. I knew him once. And I knew your mother, too.”

She said these words softly. Rhianna looked around. No one else seemed to have heard.

Rhianna blushed with fear and indignation. Her mother had been running for years, hiding from Celinor Anders. Rhianna would never have betrayed her.

“Erin Connell was a friend of mine once,” Myrrima said. “She taught me the bow. I had heard that she had fled from South Crowthen, but I never knew why she ran or where she went. She just disappeared. Now, if as you say, she is dead, then I grieve with you.

“You’ve been through a lot, Rhianna. I saw how much pain washed out of you. I’ve seen battle-scarred warriors who have shouldered less. No child should have to bear so much. I didn’t mean to invade your privacy. I only hoped to find the pain’s source, and thus speed your healing.”

“I’ll beg you to keep your nose out of my business,” Rhianna said.