The Simbul’s Gift

"There's a place here in the Yuirwood for you, son. Let's go."

It would be so easy to let Rizcarn lead him where he'd wanted to go, to Zandilar, but Bro shrugged free a second time.

"You don't care. You don't care that Momma's dead or how she died. You don't care about anything but the forest."

"Her path led out of the Yuirwood, son."

Rizcarn reached again and was met by tense muscles, bared teeth. He staggered backwards, as if Bro had physically assaulted him. His mouth worked furiously, shaping unspoken words until he finally said:

"As dead as I was to her, son, outside the Yuirwood, Shali was dead to me. You still have your tears; mine have all been shed. I grieved for both of you, but you've come back and I cannot deny my joy at seeing you."

He opened his arms and it seemed, for a heartbeat, that there was radiant light within them. The moment passed, the light faded, but a sense of warmth remained. Bro was cold; he was alone. He knew the risks, and took them anyway: a semblance of a father was better than no father, no mother, no family, no one at all. His father's arms tightened around him. For another heartbeat, everything was wrong, then that moment, too, passed and he let his hands slide into the warmth between Rizcarn's hair and shirt. There was a difference, looking over Rizcarn's shoulder, but it was not as great as he'd imagined it would be, and he was still aware of his father's heartbeat.

"Come with me, son. Walk beside me as I do Relkath's work. If you're not happy, go back to the dirt-eaters'—to the human villages. No one will stop you."

Bro nodded. Where else was he going to go? Back to a burned-out village? To the Simbul's royal city? To MightyTree or GoldenMoss? He could starve before he found his living kin. Rizcarn wasn't starving; his flesh was solid beneath his fancy shirt.

"I missed you, Poppa. I missed you so much that I hated you, too."

"I was a fool, Ebroin. I taunted fate; you and your mother paid the price. I'm sorry; forgive me?"

Bro weighed his choices: Was Rizcarn's apology sufficient? Where else could he go?

"Is there food where we're going, Poppa? I haven't eaten in two days."

"Of course there's food? Are you still taking me for a ghost, son? I've got a cache not far from here. We'll be there by moonset if we start walking now."

"Let's go, then," Bro agreed. He grabbed a handful of Dancer's mane and vaulted onto his back.

Rizcarn's face became a stern mask. "Get down from there!"

"We'll manage. I'm done in, Poppa. There's no way I can walk till moonset. Dancer knows me, I've ridden him before."

"Not in the Yuirwood. Only Zandilar can set a man atop her horse. Only she can choose his rider. You presume too much. She has invited you to dance, but she hasn't chosen you. You shame the gods, Ebroin. Get down."

More than a bit daunted, Bro slid down from Dancer's back. The mere thought of walking till moonset left his feet feeling like rocks each time he lifted them, but lift them he did, following Rizcarn through the shadows.

"Who is Zandilar?" he asked when numbness had set in and his thoughts were free to wander.

"You said you had a dream, a vision. Wasn't that enough? Her name is written on the Sunglade stones."

"Are we going to the Sunglade? Is that where I'll see her and dance with her?"

Rizcarn took several steps before answering: "In time, son, if she chooses you. But first we must visit another place and then we must summon the Cha'Tel'Quessir. When that's done, we'll go to the Sunglade. The Yuirwood will be ours again. No outsiders, just the Cha'Tel'Quessir. The dirt-eaters, their cities, and their queen will fade away."

Without warning, the apprehension Bro had felt when he first heard his father's voice in the trees returned. "I'd better not go with you, Poppa. She's going to be looking for me."

"She'll be in the Sunglade."

"Not Zandilar. The Simbul." He knew he'd said the precise wrong thing as soon as the words flowed out of his mouth, but there was no stopping them. "She gave me this." He held up his arm where the silver hair circled his wrist. "I left Sulalk with nothing. She said she'd bring me what I needed."

"But she didn't, did she? The witch-queen's promises are hollow. She isn't part of the Yuirwood," Rizcarn said in the same tone he'd used to order Bro down from Dancer's back. He snapped a forked twig from a nearby bush and carefully notched the tines. "When Relkath's work is finished, the Yuirwood won't need her sort of magic. Let me see that."

Bro reminded himself that the first blame fell on the Simbul, who came to Sulalk and brought the wizards in behind her. Choosing between her and his father was no good choice at all, except the Simbul would take Dancer with her to Velprintalar. He held out his arm.

Rizcarn fitted the strand into the notches before he cut it. There was just enough slack for Bro to slip his hand free without disturbing the notch-bound hair.

"We'll toss this into the next stream we cross."