The Simbul’s Gift

His confidence rose with a big stick in his hand. He moved faster, breaking into a run at the end when he saw a familiar shape among the trees. The colt raised his head before Bro called his name and met him halfway, nudging hands and sleeves in search of carrots. Bro ran his hands along the colt's neck and back, then down each leg. Except for mud and clinging leaves, the colt seemed unharmed by the seelie spells. Even the braided halter and its lead rope were intact. With the rope firmly in hand, Bro wrapped his arms around the colt's filthy neck. He'd succumbed to another round of tears when he heard a familiar, yet terrifying, sound.

"Never fight with the seelie, son."

Bro backed slowly away from Dancer. He'd dropped his sapling staff, but he had the Simbul's knife and withdrew it from its sheath while he scanned the trees for the voice's source.

"Do what they ask, son, and they'll leave you the way they found you. Do it well enough and they'll give you a taste of their honey and show you the crystal palaces where they live."

"Rizcarn?"

Bro had spotted a too-dark patch in one of the trees.

The voice came from within it, but whether it came from his father—? Strange things lived in the Yuirwood—or didn't live. MightyTree storytellers preached about finding one's ancestors among the trees. Rizcarn himself had preached about waking the old gods. His mother had claimed to have seen the Yuir elves—the full-blooded Sy-Tel'Quessir—dancing by moonlight when she was a little girl. But most of the stories involving the living and the dead ended badly for the living.

"Rizcarn?" the shadow laughed. "Is that any greeting for your father?"

"Poppa," Bro said instead, checking his grip on the Simbul's knife. "Come down where I can see you, Poppa."

Branches rustled. There was a light whump as something landed on the ground. Bro strained his eyes. His father wasn't like other Cha'Tel'Quessir. His hair was glossy black, his skin, the mottled color of moss-covered bark. While he'd lived, he could disappear in midday shadows; at night he was invisible, except for his eyes. As a boy, Bro had laughed when he saw milk-white crescents glistening where his father's face should be. Tonight he remained silent.

"Don't trust me, son? I know I've been gone a long time."

"You've been dead!" Bro blurted.

The crescents vanished. Bro heard last year's leaves crunching beneath Rizcarn's feet. The sound reassured him a little: of dangerous creatures, maybe a quarter of them, had no substance and made no noise with their feet. He retreated a step, into Dancer's shoulder. The colt was calm; whatever that meant.

Rizcarn reappeared in moonlight. Everything that could be seen matched Bro's lost memories. Almost everything. He'd never seen that shirt with silvery studs along the seams and there was a knife long enough to be called a sword slung at his father's waist.

"You've changed," Rizcarn said before Bro could get his tongue around the same words. "I suppose they're calling you Ebroin now?"

He shook his head. "Bro. They call me Bro. Except for Mother—" His tongue froze again. Rizcarn—if the man-shape were Rizcarn—didn't seem to know where he'd been these past seven years. Wouldn't know what had happened to his wife two days ago. Between two heartbeats, Bro gulped down his grief, deciding to say nothing about Shali .... yet. "Mother still calls me Ember."

"Mothers don't let go."

Rizcarn came closer. He stroked the length of Dancer's nose, then reached for Bro's hand, the hand that held the Simbul's knife. Without thinking, Bro brought the knife up between them.

"You can trust me, son. I am your father."

"You died, Poppa. I saw you. Your neck was broken. We dug a grave and buried you ... seven years ago."

Bro watched something like shock harden his father's face for a moment, then the moment passed. He realized Rizcarn's hand was touching his.

"Sheathe it, son. Relkath wasn't finished with me. I've come back to finish what I started. I've been waiting for you."

"Here? I've never been here before. I don't even know where I am. One of us is very lucky, Poppa."

Rizcarn turned his attention to the colt, releasing his son's hand. "You've done well, son. He's strong and healthy. Zandilar will be pleased; she's been waiting for you, too."

Bro sheathed the knife, dropped Dancer's lead rope, and ran his hands though his hair, as if his fingers could massage understanding through his scalp. Rizcarn studying Dancer gave Bro an opportunity to study Rizcarn. He guessed the opportunity was no accident, but took it gratefully.

The father he remembered was a tall man. When they'd last embraced Bro's ear had pressed against his father's heart. Now, Bro was a bit taller and broader, as if his life among humans during his growing years had made him more like them, less like the Cha'Tel'Quessir.