The Simbul’s Gift

"Wait," one of the women said. "Rizcarn's our guide. I've been to the 'Glade a hundred times, and nothing's come of it. If there's to be change in the Yuirwood, Rizcarn must lead us to the Sunglade, no one else."

Another woman spoke up. "Rizcarn called us together. He told us where to go and when to be there. Now he's gone to do other things. If we fail him, we fail the Yuirwood, we fail the Cha'Tel'Quessir. It's time to start walking."

"You see our problem," Yongour advised Bro. "We were evenly divided until we agreed to listen to you. You're his son. The gods' arrow struck you. Another man would have died, but we see you walking. You have their favor, Rizcarn's son. You could lead us."

Bro assumed that Yongour was one of those in favor of marching toward the Sunglade. "There are other things to consider," he began. "Whoever—whatever—killed Lanig is still out there."

"Lanig lost faith after Rizcarn left," the first woman said.

"He was ready to leave. He abandoned Rizcarn; Rizcarn abandoned him." That from the second woman.

Yongour added his opinion: "Lanig's death is another reason to move on. Rizcarn won't come back to a place where he was betrayed."

Bro started to say My father's not a god, but the words stuck in his throat. To the men and women waiting for him to speak, he was no more than a coin tossed to break a tie in a game of odds or evens. Yongour expected him to break it in his favor. And Bro would have, if he'd thought there was something to be gained for the Yuirwood and the Cha'Tel'Quessir in the Sunglade at full moon. After Lanig's death, Bro didn't believe anything.

All eyes were on Bro, waiting for his decision. Half of them were certain to be disappointed. All of them seemed to feel Lanig had gotten what he deserved. Bro wrapped his hand around the Simbul's knife, but there wasn't any magic involved here.

"What do you think, Rizcarn's son?" Yongour prodded. "Decide for us."

"Wait—" Faces darkened immediately. "Wait for another day, then start walking as fast as we can."

They were satisfied. They were as foolish as he had been with Chayan outside of the camp yesterday, but they were satisfied. Bro walked away by himself.

Chayan was gone. The place where she'd slept, where he'd left the folded blanket, was empty. Bro should have been relieved that he wouldn't have to face her again; he wasn't. He spun around, looking for her distinctive wine-colored shirt and found it striding out of the camp. She had her pack and weapons.

Bro started after her.

The camp, scattered beneath a score of trees, wasn't more than two hundred paces across. Near Sulalk, Bro wouldn't have lost sight of Chayan, but in the Yuirwood she'd vanished well before he'd walked past the last hearth. Chayan was armed to the teeth and gave the impression that she could fight anyone who challenged her. If they came to trouble, Bro knew he'd rely on her, the same as he'd relied on the Simbul. Maybe that was why, despite his shame, he kept looking for footprints, broken twigs, or any other sign that he'd found her trail.

It wasn't long before Bro was as far from the camp as he was from Chayan, and equally lost. He climbed a tree and spotted smoke rising from the camp fires. Climbing down, an errant breeze carried the sounds of what might be conversation.

The forest skills his MightyTree uncles had taught him were coming back. Bro spotted the faint trail in a few dislodged pebbles and fallen leaves, followed it, and was rewarded when he heard the voices again, clear enough to make out the words.

"There are two main groups, both shadowing the Cha'Tel'Quessir camp. They use magic to conceal themselves. It's not working well, but the camp doesn't suspect they're out there, so it hasn't been a problem for them. The one group thinks it's the only group; the other shadows them and the camp. And there's a third, a solitaire, I think, maybe a companion of some sort. Very hard to track, but I think she went east with Rizcarn. I sent two foresters after her."

A man's voice, speaking the Cha'Tel'Quessir dialect with its proper accent. Not someone from the camp. Bro crept closer, listening for a second voice.

"She? What exactly makes you think the solitaire is a woman? And do you mean with Rizcarn, or pursuing him?"

Bro's heart beat in his throat: the second voice belonged to the woman who'd taken care of him, slept beside him, and assured him she could prove she'd had nothing to do with the arrow. He drew his knife and waited for more, but the voices were silent. A moment passed, ten, then a hundred. Bro hunched closer, aware of the sound dead leaves made beneath his feet no matter how careful he was, and of his pulse pounding in his ears, which was surely the loudest sound in the forest.