The Simbul’s Gift

By night the Yuirwood shimmered with pale colors. Paths were dark ribbons weaving across the forest floor. Bro walked to the latrine pits and past them. He was resigned to an all-night, almost aimless search when he spotted a tree trunk where one of Relkath's runes sparkled. Rizcarn wasn't by that tree, but it gave Bro an idea. He climbed high into its branches. From the crown he saw other, similarly marked trees and one that was bright as a torch.

Rizcarn was there, eyes closed, arms folded and oblivious to the world. Bro had tried to be quiet as he walked through the Yuirwood, but he was no ranger, no forester. Crackling leaves had heralded his every step. Rizcarn should have heard him. Or maybe not. The light that had guided Bro wasn't coming from a tree-trunk carving. It formed a sphere that centered around Rizcarn's head as bright as sunshine, soft as moonlight, and with no source other than the seated Cha'Tel'Quessir.

The sight was utterly peaceful and unnerving. Bro wanted to run away, but his body wasn't listening. He did what he'd come to do, instead.

"Rizcarn? Rizcarn, I'd like to talk to you." No response. Indignation eroded Bro's fear. He strode forward. "Rizcarn! Talk to me!"

Rizcarn shuddered. His eyes opened and Bro stopped short. Rizcarn's eyes were truly luminous: pure, pupiless white, and the source of the light. Bro clutched the Simbul's knife, still in its sheath. He tried to pray, but no god's name came to his mind; he took refuge in old habits.

"Poppa. Poppa, please. I was—I am your son. You say you were roaming other forests, but I know better—at least, I know something different. I want to believe you, Poppa; I truly do. If there's a future for the Cha'Tel'Quessir, I want to be a part of it. I'd like to help you make the trees remember again, and the rocks, but you've told lies and I don't know what to believe anymore. Poppa, why are we going to the Sunglade. What's truly going to happen there?

"Ebroin? Ebroin, you're troubled. Come; sit beside me and tell me what troubles you. It's your mother, isn't it?"

Bro nodded before he could stop himself.

"You didn't know your mother, Ebroin. She lived free when I met her: no cottages, no hearth." Rizcarn grinned and shook his head. "Hardly any clothes, except her own hair and wolf skin. I thought Shali was the Yuir come to life and she thought... I don't know what she thought; I never did. MightyTree blessed us; they thought they'd never see either of us again. Funny thing: I thought so too. Thought we'd live free together. She said no, there had to be a child first: you. A child, a hearth, a home. I tried, Ebroin. I tried, but I can't live in one place. She said, all right, a child's not forever; we'll live free after he's grown.

"Every time I came back, Ebroin, she was more beautiful than before, but her roots had gone deeper. I wanted you to grow quickly, before I lost her. I took you with me, hoping she'd follow us. You know she didn't. When we came back, she said she wanted another child."

Bro couldn't—wouldn't—imagine his mother dressed in her own hair and a wolf skin. For him Shali was the one-room cottage, the hearth with its ever-simmering pots, the little garden weaving between sunlight and shadow beneath the trees. She loved the forest, but for her the forest began on her doorstep and ended a hundred paces farther on.

"I told her no, Ebroin. We argued. I wanted the woman I loved, the woman who lived free in the Yuirwood. She wanted something else, and that was the end. She knew I wasn't coming back."

Bro's strength failed; habit kept him standing. A thousand memories clamored for his attention. Yes, Shali was the cottage, the hearth, and the garden, but didn't he remember her standing in the sun, the moon, or the rain, staring up at the trees as if she knew their names? And of all those times when Rizcarn came home and he got sent to stay with his cousins, wasn't that last time—when they'd come home together—different? A twelve-year-old didn't know the subtle language of adults in love and anger. A nineteen-year-old still didn't know it well, but he remembered the important parts.

These were bits of understanding Bro would rather not have had, but unlike everything else Rizcarn had said lately, these words had the ring of truth to them. They weren't the answers he'd come looking for, but they were answers.

"You died, Poppa."

"She didn't want me to leave."

"I saw you buried." "A body. I hadn't finished Relkath's work."

"She loved you, Poppa, and you loved her."

"Did I say otherwise?"

"I was born! I kept the two of you apart! You'd be living free, if I hadn't happened."

"A tree," Rizcarn said patiently, "doesn't grow until a seed's been planted."