What swept you up on our shores?”
Stunned by the strange turn of the inquiry, Brant stumbled for words. “I don’t see how-?”
“You’d best answer the question,” Rogger said from the other side, balancing the tip of a dagger on a finger. Brant had failed to note the man slip it from any sheath.
“And what do you know about a skull?” the ominous stranger asked by the hearth. “The skull of a rogue god.”
Brant fell back a step as the world shifted under his heels. “What…?” The back of his legs struck a chair. He sank down into it. A hand rose to the scar on his neck, a warding gesture.
Three pairs of eyes bore down upon him.
A keening wail filled his head, threatening to drown him away.
“Tell us,” Tylar demanded.
Brant shook his head-not refusing, but attempting to stop his slide into the past. He failed.
It had been a wet spring in Saysh Mal, when the jungle wept and moss grew thick on anything that risked stopping in one place for too long. Such did not describe the three boys that day as they lit out down the soggy forest path, enjoying the warming day that held the promise of a long summer to come in the streaks of bright sunlight cutting through the canopy.
Flitters buzzed the ear and nattered the skin, requiring the occasional slap to neck or arm. A pair of squabbling long-tailed tickmonks caterwauled from the trees, stopping only long enough to pass on a scolding howl at the boys running below before continuing their argument.
“Brant, wait for me!” shouted Harp. He limped after the faster boys, encumbered by a weak leg, a birthing kink that could not be cured with any manner of Grace.
Brant slowed their pace, though Marron ran another few paces before stopping, swinging around with a wide smile. “If we’re any later, we’ll miss seeing the match!”
They had been released early from Master Hoarin’s class on mushrooms and molds to attend a marksman contest to be held at the midday bell. But to make it in time, they still had to hurry.
Marron’s uncle had won the third match yesterday and this was the last spar. Half the villages had emptied out for the yearly culmination of hunting skills, to be held at the Grove. Wreathed crowns had already been handed out for skill with spear, dagger, and snare, for the most fleet of foot, for the most silent of step. This day ended with the crowning Hunter of the Way, the man or woman who had shown the most skill over the course of the four-day challenge. The Huntress herself usually granted this crown, but she had missed many such appearances over the past several moons, falling more and more into solitude and gloomy silences.
All hoped to see her again in her usual shining manner.
If only for the one day.
Perhaps this reason more than any had drawn a larger crowd than usual. If the boys wanted a good view of the final event-a display of marksmanship of bow and arrow-they’d need to hurry.
Harp huffed up to them, limping heavier.
“Take my shoulder,” Brant said.
The boy, younger by two years than the others, nodded his thanks, leaning his weight on Brant.
Ahead, Marron all but danced with his excitement. The family of the winner would be on the dais for the crowning. Marron had been chattering about meeting the Huntress over the past two days as his uncle rose in the rankings.
They took off again for the Grove.
Harp moved faster now. “You’ll be on the dais one of these years, Brant. ’Course, after you cross fourteen.” Brant knew the younger boy held his hunting skills in esteem, mostly because Brant let him come along on a few forays.
Few extended such invitations to the hobbled boy. His manner was odd, and whatever ailment had left him with a shrunken leg at birth had also sapped his strength. He was thin-boned and hawkish of features. And in a realm where swiftness of foot and skill with spear and arrow were valued, few found him a desired companion.
But Brant also knew that behind that weakened body hid a keen mind and a generous heart. There was a reason the boy had advanced two years in schooling. Sometimes Brant noted how his eyes seemed lost in some other place, gone off to somewhere deep in his mind. And a part of Brant envied his escape.
“You’ll definitely be Hunter of the Way one day. Surely- girly,” Harp said. It was one of his strange habits: rhyming when he was excited. Several of the boys taunted him about it, but Brant knew his friend couldn’t help it.
“Your father was crowned, wasn’t he?” Harp continued, rushing and gasping. “Twice, right?”
Brant felt a sharp pain, puncturing his joy and draining it away. It had only been a little over a year, and the loss of his father still tore like a fresh wound. He fought back the melancholy that filled so many of his days and even more of his nights. He wouldn’t let it ruin this day. It was too bright for dark thoughts. Still, a shadow followed him. It felt like dread.
Ahead, Marron ran faster when the murmur of the crowd flowed to them, sounding like the great rustling of dry leaves. “I’ll save a spot!”
Fleeing his dark thoughts, Brant hurried after his friend, almost tripping Harp. “Sorry,” he mumbled.
They rounded a bend in the path, and the Grove opened ahead. It was a great natural hollow in the forest, ringed by ancient pompbonga-kee trees. They were the great sentinels of the cloud forest and grew no place else in all the Nine Lands. Their wood was iron strong but light as the mists that crept through the cloud forest. It was from such wood that all the keels and ribbing for Myrillia’s flippercraft were hewn, enriching the realm.
The nine mighty trees that circled the hollow were known as the Graces. It was said they were planted by the Huntress herself when she chose to build her castillion here at the edge of the hollow, in the bower of the most ancient of all the forest’s trees, a great behemoth that was already ancient when she settled this realm.
Brant led Harp out into the edge of the Grove. The giant pompbonga-kee trees circled the hollow, their branches forming a wreath of green over the natural amphitheater. In the center, it was open to the sky. The midday sun blazed down upon the center of the hollow, turning the green meadow below into an emerald sea.
Spreading up the slopes were crowds of onlookers, many with blankets spread, enjoying the spring warmth as much as the games. Down farther, ringing the center field, the crowd was packed shoulder to shoulder. Out here at the fringes, many had climbed into the branches of the Graces, where balconies and stands had been built long ago. Drapes of spring flowers decorated the levels and twined up the stair railings.
Brant craned upward. It seemed not a seat was open.
“The whole world must be here,” Harp whispered, breathless with the excitement.
A low roar swelled around them. Down below, flags fluttered, marking clans and families.
“Over here!” Marron called to them off to the left, waving an arm. “Hurry! My brother has a free bench held up here!” He pointed to the stairs that led up to into one of the Graces.
Brant ran toward him.
Farther ahead, his eye caught upon the castillion of the Huntress, perched and tiered in the tenth and greatest of the pompbonga-kees. It rose at the easternmost edge, where the rising sun would first touch its green crown. What once had been crafted and constructed within the branches had long been swallowed as the ancient tree continued to grow. The castillion was no longer built in the tree but was part of the tree. It was a sight that humbled any eye that fell upon it, proof of the power of root and leaf, of the force of loam.
There was no more fitting home for the god of their realm.
Brant searched the high balcony of the castillion. The Huntress usually watched the games from such a vantage. But presently it appeared empty. Maybe she would appear when the competition began.
Brant reached Marron with Harp in hobbled tow.
“How…how high must we climb?” the younger boy asked, plainly winded.
Marron pointed his arm straight up, earning a groan from Harp. “Don’t fret. Brant and I’ll carry your bony arse to the top if we have to. Let’s go!”
Marron was in exceptionally good cheer. He often had little patience for Harp, but this day, nothing could squelch his fine spirit. He led them toward the stairs at the base of the towering pompbonga-kee.
As Brant followed, he noted a cloaked shadowknight by the foot of the steps. She was inked in darkness, half-melded into the shadows beneath the giant tree. She must be one of the Huntress’s own knights, come to view the games.
