“Is it true?” he asked. “What your people say? This tale of mercy and of other worlds?”
“I do not know,” Callix admitted. “I know only what I have told you.” Then he cried out, “Wait! Where are you going?”
Draven, already striding back the way he had just come, called over his shoulder, “I’m going to find out!”
“Then I will come with you,” the Prince of Kahorn declared.
They said nothing, these two solemn princes, as they made their way back across the wild territory beyond Kahorn. Each intent upon his purpose, they understood one another well enough without words. Their journey was long, but they faced no foe along the way . . . no foe save for the passage of time.
For the sun, marking his course across the sky, seemed to warn them with each passing hour: She will not last much longer. She cannot last much longer.
So they traveled with all possible speed, sometimes Draven in the lead, sometimes Callix. At last they drew near territory well known to Callix, and he spoke for the first time since their conversation that dawn: “We are near.”
Soon after, Draven heard the voice of the river and saw the peak of the promontory rising above the rest of the landscape, its bare crown open to the heavens. He saw the twisted tree at its summit, and the very sight made his stomach clench in knots. Once more he felt what a coward he was. But his footsteps never faltered.
They approached a place near the foot of the promontory where Callix stopped cold. By the look on his face, Draven knew they had come to the beginning of the strange wood. But though he searched for some sign, Draven could discern no variation in the air or landscape before them. It was merely more forest climbing up the promontory slope, exactly like the forest through which they had traveled.
He felt his heart sinking. If this was the fabled Wood, what hope could there be for the equally fabled mercy?
Nevertheless, they had come this far. Perhaps it would be worth the climb to inspect the evil tree above. Draven took a step.
Callix caught him by the arm. “Are—are you sure you want to do this?”
Draven frowned at his enemy, his sister’s beloved. He saw the truth of frightened belief in that young man’s face. Still he could not make himself believe. He said only, “Itala is waiting.”
This was sufficient. Callix relaxed his hold. Together the two of them stepped into the Wood.
The moment he passed into the shadow of those trees, Draven knew he had been wrong to doubt. For, though no discernible change occurred, a sensation beyond anything he understood—a sensation rooted deep down in his heart—told him he had left his world behind. If he were to turn around and try to retrace his steps, he would never find his way back out again. His own world was gone.
Trees surrounded them, foliage so dense as to become a sort of shield. Not a sound could be heard, no animal’s voice, no bird’s song, nor even the babble of the river. But the trees themselves seemed to watch the two mortals in their midst, and the scrutiny of the trees was neither kind nor welcoming. A silent whisper passed from one to the next, and Draven felt that the trees were plotting against them, planning their demise—though where this thought came from he could not begin to guess.
Then suddenly Callix broke the silence. “Mercy!” he cried.
Draven, remembering what Callix had told him, took up the cry himself. “Mercy!” he said, in echo of his enemy.
The two of them, shoulder to shoulder, progressed further into the shadows, pushing their way through branches that seemed to clutch at them. “Mercy! Mercy! Mercy!” they shouted. The trees responded with menacing growls that could not be heard by the mortals’ ears but reverberated in their guts.
“Mercy!” they cried, knowing their time grew short. On all sides, shadows loomed, deepening with each passing breath. Soon they would be overwhelmed in utter darkness, and then . . .
“Who calls upon the name of my Lord?”
The voice reached their ears like a promise, and both Draven and Callix turned to it with glad cries. “Mercy!” they shouted again and lunged through the last small gap in the shadows. For there a brilliant white light streamed through like a helping hand extended to a drowning man. They emerged from the thick-grown trees into a clearing filled with more of that same otherworldly light and stood blinking like newborn lambs, their hands upraised to shield their faces from the intensity of that glow.
“Again I charge you: Who are you who call upon the name of my Master?” the same voice asked, speaking from somewhere beyond the light.
“I am Draven the Coward,” Draven responded at once, making gestures of supplication after the manner of Rannul. “I come on behalf of my sister who is courageous like no other, but who suffers under an evil sickness. Please, can you help her?”
The light dimmed, not in luminosity but in concentration, so that Draven and Callix both found their eyes able to discern the figure standing behind it. It was a man, and he held the light in a silver lantern. Or rather, the light seemed to rest there momentarily, although one had the sense, when looking at it, that it could not wholly be contained within such a simple frame.
The man himself was almost as wondrous as the light he bore. Tall and beautiful beyond the understanding of mortal man, his face glowing with the same light as he carried, and his eyes full of a deep, deep song.
“I am Akilun Ashiun, servant of the Lumil Eliasul,” he said. “And I will help you and your sister if I can.”
“Akilun?” the girl gasped, so startled at this turn of the story that she drew back from her grandmother’s embrace and stared at the old woman. “Akilun? The Kind One?”
“The same,” her grandmother replied.
“But . . . but . . .” The girl shook her head, struggling to make this new knowledge fit within her sphere of understanding. “But I thought this was an old story!”
“It is,” her grandmother said. “An old, old story indeed. But Akilun is older still.”
This was impossible. The girl was of an age at which anyone significantly taller seemed old, but even so she could not picture Akilun and his beautiful, youthful face as part of this tale. That would make him older than Grandmother, and how could that possibly be?
But it was even less possible to look into her grandmother’s eyes and believe she told anything but the truth. And after all, had not Akilun himself told her that he knew Draven? Indeed, now that she thought about it, she remembered the Kind One speaking to her at their first meeting as she stood and looked upon his carving:
“He was a man I knew. Long ago by the years as counted in your world. But it seems only yesterday to me.”
“Akilun is not of our kind, sweet child,” her grandmother said, reaching out and smoothing the girl’s hair behind her ear. “He is much older, much fairer, much wiser than we. But he comes to us now to bless us for a little while. Then he will move on. Sooner or later he and his brother will go.”
Grandmother’s words sank like stones into the girl’s young heart. Though she was young, she loved with great passion, and she hated the idea of her life without the Kind One hard at work high upon the hill. But she knew, as her grandmother spoke, that the Brothers’ work was almost complete. Sooner. It was sooner that he would leave, not later.
She bowed her head, wishing she could hide the tears that welled up in her eyes. Grandmother was much too quick, however, and spotted them with ease. Her tired hands took hold of the girl’s shoulders and held her firmly. “This is why,” she said, “you must climb the hill again today. You must learn the rest of the story as Akilun tells it. You must hear it to its end and treasure it up in your heart, the joy and the sorrow of it. You must have courage to hear such a tale and know it for what it is. To take hold of the truth of it. For if you don’t, you will always wish you had. All your life you will wish it.”
She caught the girl by the chin and forced her to look up. “My darling,” she said, “will you go?”
“I will go, Grandmother,” the girl replied.
<
br /> The Strong One was in the yard when the girl reached the top of the promontory. He was carrying a massive load of stone on his shoulders. Peering out from the forest shadows, the girl saw that each stone was precisely carved in fluted grooves to fit smoothly one to the other. There were five on his back, and each one must have been heavy enough to crush the girl flat were it to fall upon her.
She shuddered at the sight. Such strength was more than she understood, and she thought the Strong One ferocious and beautiful.
To her horror he turned his head and caught sight of her where she lingered in the shadows of the trees. He paused and shrugged the great weight from his shoulders, taking a moment to stretch his back. “Have you come with the water gift?” he asked, and she could tell that he was trying very hard to make his voice welcoming.
It didn’t matter. She was still afraid. And she realized, to her horror, that she had not even considered the water gift when, after seeing Grandmother settled back in the village, she took to her heels and raced with all speed up the promontory path. What a fool she was to forget the one small thing the Brothers asked of Kallias Village!
The Strong One must have seen and interpreted the consternation in her face. “Never mind, little one,” he said, offering a smile that was all the more terrible for its beauty. “It is of no concern. Are you come to see my brother?”
She nodded, pressing herself against the trunk of a tree as though it were a mother willing to hold her close.
“Well,” said the Strong One, “he is hard at work at the moment. We are close to completion, you see, very close indeed.”
And so he would dismiss her. So he would send her back down the path, never to hear the end of Draven’s tale. But she couldn’t bear it! She couldn’t go back now, the tale untold, the truth unlearned.
The Strong One bent to pick up his load again, saying as he did so, “Run along, child. Akilun will see you tomorrow or the next day perhaps.”
The girl couldn’t find a voice with which to protest. But in her head she heard her spirit shouting No! No, I can’t go away! People are always telling me to run along. But I can’t. Not now. I must know—I must know what happened! It’s . . . it’s . . .
It’s important.
To the falling of the sun.
To the rising of the moon.
To the turning of each day into each year.
To the drawing of breath, to every single beat of her heart from this moment on to her very last.
It was important that she learn the truth of this story. For though it happened long ago, in a deep and vital way it was still happening now and would go on happening forever. And if she did not learn it and grasp hold of it tightly with both hands, it would go on without her . . . still vital, still true. But she herself would be less true.
All these thoughts were confused in her head, like the inexplicable Faerie language in which Akilun spoke. She could never have put into words the tremendous tumult of ideas and fears crashing around within the narrow confines of her skull. She would strive all her life to learn the mortal words needed to express what she felt, and even then only if she heard the story today. Here at the dawning of her awareness, that tender threshold between childhood and adulthood when all is new and all is old simultaneously. That thin slice of time when mortality understands immortality without effort, with unconscious trust.
Still the girl stood frozen, leaning against the tree and staring at the strange, otherworldly man. He met her gaze, and though his expression was at first the patient sort that grown people wear when dealing with young, foolish children, slowly a change came across it. Almost . . . almost he seemed to grasp all those things the girl could not say with mere words but wished so desperately to communicate.
“Etanun, why do you stand there like a dumb kobold? Were you not urging for greater efficiency but an hour ago?”
The girl startled at the sound of Akilun’s approaching voice, but the Strong One continued looking at her for a long moment more and did not turn to his brother until Akilun stood beside him. By then Akilun had seen the cause of his brother’s delay. “Ah!” he said, smiling warmly in welcome. “So you’ve come back after all. I had feared you would not return.”
“I—I—” The girl wanted to explain but still could put no voice to her many fears and many longings.
The Strong One, not perceiving her stutters, spoke in a low rumble perhaps not intended to be overheard: “We don’t have time to delay. We are so close to completion.”
Akilun replied in a voice like his brother’s and yet very different, “We do have time. Remember, this is why we came into this world.”
“I thought we came to build a House,” Etanun said, his voice sharp.
“We did,” said his brother. “And to that end we labor. But the House we build is to hold the light of Asha, and it must outlast all structures of brick and mortar.”
Etanun looked as though he wanted to protest. Indeed, he opened his mouth as though to continue his arguments. But instead he glanced at the girl crouched in the shadows. Perhaps he saw just how deep those shadows were and how much deeper they might become in time.
So he said nothing but “Very well” and sighed deeply, as though he had just conceded a battle. Without another word, he lifted and carried his burden on around to a far wing of the House, out of sight. Soon the air rang with the song of his hammer on stone.
Akilun put out his hand. “Would you like to see Draven?” he asked the girl.
She nodded and, stepping into the stone-paved yard, slipped her small hand into Akilun’s great one. They crossed the distance to the carved doors together. While holding Akilun’s hand, the girl felt that her vision was made stronger. The fantastical carvings on the doors did not change shape, altering into images she recognized, but remained fantastical—hind-footed women, winged horses, eagle-headed lions. All images she could not comprehend, but she no longer felt she needed to. She could look upon them and accept them without comprehension. Just so long as she held onto Akilun’s hand.
“Did your grandmother tell you more of the story?” Akilun asked as he pushed the heavy door, allowing a sliver of space for the two of them to pass into the cool darkness of the great hall.
“Yes,” the girl said. As she followed his lead through the cavernous space, she told him of Draven’s hunt for the Kahorn prince and their subsequent travels into the strange Wood outside their world. “And there they met you!” she finished, her soft voice scarcely more than a whisper but full of enthusiasm.
“Indeed they did,” said Akilun, and guided her the last few paces into the circle of his silver lantern’s light. The girl gazed up at the carving of Draven. She drew in her breath, amazed.
It was almost complete. Only his hand and whatever he held there remained unformed. The rest she saw with total clarity, down to the very fibers of fur lining each of his boots. Now she could see that he was descending some stairway, one foot lowered, not quite reaching the last step. This was why his gaze always seemed to her to be down-turned, his eyes meeting hers. He wasn’t looking at her after all. He was watching his step.
The girl blinked. When her eyes opened again, she felt her breath stop horribly in her throat. For an instant the image of Draven was gone. In its place she saw again the twisted arms of a great dead tree. Or rather, not a dead tree—a tree that went on living though the true life of it was gutted out, leaving only the shell of ongoing existence. It was like the husk of an old man who had never proven his courage; the withered frame of an old woman who had never given her love.
The girl took a backward step, but Akilun’s hand holding hers would not allow her to step beyond the ring of lantern light. With another blink, the tree vanished and she saw again the carving of Draven boldly descending into whatever fate awaited him.
She turned her gaze up to Akilun. Though her face was round and immature, her eyes brimmed with a need for understanding. “What happened to him?” she asked. “Where is he going? What does he h
old in his hand.”
“Sit a while, and I will tell you,” Akilun said. He let go of her then, allowing her to settle down before the statue. He took up his hammer and chisel and set about the final shaping as he spoke.
“I listened long as Draven and Callix poured out their story together, very much the same story I have been telling you. At last their words ran out, and though they asked me no questions, their eyes were full of hope and dread—equal in balance but ready to tilt.”
Standing in the light of that magnificent lantern, Draven and Callix found it easier to speak of the recent events of their lives. It wasn’t as though the darkness was made any less—indeed the shadows outside seemed much darker in contrast. But those same shadows suddenly didn’t seem to matter as much. All evil appeared small and futile while one rested in that brilliant circle of light.
So the two mortals finished their joint tale and stood silent before the beautiful immortal. Draven wondered if perhaps he stood in the presence of one of the airy gods made manifest . . . but he dismissed this thought almost at once. This man, this Akilun Ashiun, was no god; he was much greater than the many invisible beings Draven both venerated and despised. Akilun was not a being to worship. And yet he was wonderful beyond description and carried distant worlds in the depths of his eyes.
But those eyes were solemn now as Akilun considered the tale presented to him along with the pleas for mercy.
“I believe I know this evil of which you tell,” he said at last. “One of the Faerie-folk has broken across the boundaries into your world. His name is Yukka, and he is a devil the likes of which I have long prayed would never touch mortal kind.”
Here Akilun broke off his speech, turning his gaze to the light held within his lantern, as though drinking in some strength he lacked. Only then did he continue: “Yukka and his brother, Guta, are beaters, or so they are called among the fey. They feed upon pain and will inflict a great deal as they feast. They have successfully sustained themselves for generations of your time on a single immortal life. But mortals cannot endure so much for so long. A single beater of Yukka’s greed can destroy whole nations if he is not stopped.”