The Chosen (The Compendium of Raath, Book 1) (24 page)

What's Ghost doing out
here?

Suddenly Wren heard talking and she froze in
place.

She peered around the trunk of a tree and
saw a group of three men near Ghost. Her stomach sank, fear taking
hold, but the men were paying her no attention. They were focused
on a fourth man that they had tied to a tree.

That man was her father.

“W
hat are they doing, mistress?” Tessa asked.

Wren was absolutely terrified. “I don't
know,” she whispered, "but they've got my father.” She covered as
much of her glowing mark as she could so that the men wouldn't see
the odd light. “Nobody move. Let me figure out what's going
on.”

“Where is she?” one of the men boomed in a
familiar voice. It was Jon Hatfeld.

Her father stood silently, strong ropes
binding him to the tree. His face was bruised in a few places and
blood ran from one of his ears.

“You know the punishment for what you have
done, Cole,” Jon continued. “But we could let you off easy if you
tell us where the girl is.”

“How about you eat shit, Hatfeld?”

“I don't understand why you're so
belligerent,” Jon said. “Cole, we've been friends for a very long
time. We've had the same goals, same ideas.”

“Well that's obviously different now,”
Wren's father said. He let out a series of rattling coughs.

Something was very odd
about this situation. Wren's gut told her something very different
than her brain. She was actually sympathizing with her
father
. Something about
Jon seemed different and wrong.

“Give me the knife,” Jon said to one of the
other men. That man handed Jon a long, wicked-looking knife of a
design that Wren had never seen before. “Cole, it didn't have to
happen this way. I want you to think about that at least, before
you die.”

Her father spat with all his might, trying
presumably to hit Jon in the face, and even though he put
everything behind it, it fell short.

I can't let this
happen,
Wren thought.

She turned and whispered into Crasher's
warm, fuzzy ear and the bear nodded his approval.

“This is not the best day, Cole,” Jon was
saying. He brought the knife high into the air and was just about
to bring it whistling down when Crasher tore out from behind the
tree.

The bear roared, and even though he was
facing away from Wren, the sound was terrifyingly loud in the
otherwise silent forest. The men scattered, running as fast as they
could. Even Jon with his long, wicked knife was running away from
Crasher who was charging powerfully, fur pulsing with the pounding
of his massive feet.

Soon only Wren's father remained, tied to
the tree and apparently unafraid.

Then he did something that shocked Wren. He
said, “Hello, bear.”

Crasher stopped in his tracks and used his
massive claws to slash the ropes that held her father in place. Her
father shook off the ropes and swung himself up onto Ghost's back.
“I feel Lia's hand in this. Did you know her, bear?”

Crasher stood silent.

“Well, if she yet lives, tell her thank
you.” Then he cut Ghost's tether and rode the panicked beast away
into the rising light of the morning.

“H
e said my mother's name, Tessa,” said Wren. “And he tried to
talk to you, Crasher.”

The bear licked his own nose. “There was
some kind of residual power in that one, mistress. I do not think
he possessed a Calling himself, but I do think he knew something of
it.”

“Mistress,” Tess said, “if I may ask, why
didn't you want your father to see you?”

“I don't know, Tessa. I just didn't,
alright?”

“Yes," Crasher said. "Sometimes we are
unsure why we do things, mouseling, but we do them just the same.
Mistress may have very powerful intuition about these sorts of
things.”

“What is this?” came a new voice. One of the
raccoons had stumbled upon something lightly buried in a pile of
leaves.

Wren walked over to see
what the little creature had found. It was Jon's knife.
He must have dropped it as he was fleeing
Crasher.
Wren struggled with whether or
not she should pick it up. There was no good way for her to carry
it, but it seemed too useful a tool to just leave lying
around.

She picked it up gingerly and noticed the
details on it for the first time. It had a twisting handle and a
curving blade which was scribed with symbols she didn't understand.
It was about as long as her forearm, and lighter than it
looked.

“Mistress, please be careful,” Tessa
pleaded.

“I'm trying, Tessa, but I don't know what to
do with this thing.”

“You're not going to keep it, are you?”

“It needs a holder like we see on other
humans,” Crasher suggested.

“A sheath,” Wren said. “But where am I
supposed to find such a thing?”

“It might be made,” said the raccoon who had
found the knife. “There are animals that, with your guidance, may
be able to construct a holder for it. I will let you know if I see
any in our travels.”

“I'll have to hold it until then, I guess,”
Wren said, looking over at Crasher to see if he thought that was a
good idea. Wren started laughing then because Crasher suddenly had
all four raccoons riding on his back. They must have scurried up
for some free travel.

“Normally I would not tolerate such a thing,
but they are friends of yours, mistress,” the bear explained.

“Should we maintain our course then?” Tessa
asked. “Or should we search for your father, Wren? Or should we
rest?”

“The way he was riding, I doubt we could
catch him,” Wren said. “Jon once told me that my father used to be
an expert rider. We should get out of here, and quickly. Crasher,
may I ride you?”

“If you can move these abominations from my
back or ride with them,” answered the bear.

Wren grabbed a handful of Crasher's fur and
swung herself up, being careful to hold the knife in as safe a
position as possible. The raccoons adjusted to her presence, riding
more on Crasher's sides. Wren knew they would be quite a sight this
way.

“Run towards the Tree,” she told Crasher.
“We won't rest today. I want to be as far away from here as
possible before we do.” Her adrenaline had overtaken any other
feeling.

“Yes, mistress.”

The bird that she had followed to her father
flitted onto her shoulder then.

“Treetreetreetreetree,” it whistled.
“Daydaydaydayday. Dododododo.”

“See what I mean about birds?” Tessa
whispered.

T
hey passed the outskirts of a few small towns that Wren
didn't recognize. She was much too far away from her home to be
able to know her whereabouts. She had never been this far away from
where she had been born, but somehow she had expected there to be
more variation in the landscape.

Her arm ached from holding the knife while
riding on Crasher's back, but her determination to get as far away
as she could that day kept her going.

“Stop,” said one of the raccoons.

“Shall I, mistress?” the bear asked.

“Is it safe, raccoon?”

“Yes,” the bandit answered. “I smell the
creatures that will help you build a container for that
weapon.”

“Go ahead and stop, Crasher,” Wren said. She
dismounted and set the knife on the ground. It had grown very, very
heavy.

“I smell them, too,” Tessa said. “Raccoons,
you are smarter than I give you credit for.”

The raccoon seemed to bow his head.

“What do you smell?” Wren tried to feel what
they were talking about. She reached out with her power again,
unsure if she could be successful again or not. She felt life
nearby, but it didn't feel like one large life, it felt like
thousands of separate tiny ones.

“Termites,” the raccoon said. “They won't be
able to do it by themselves, but with your power you might be able
to help them.”

“I don't know how to use my powers very
well, raccoon."

“Try."

Wren reached out, trying to feel the
termites as she had the horse.

“They will need to know the design,” the
raccoon said.

Wren felt a thread of
connection with the bugs. There was something sick about it -
possibly because she was trying to touch a nest of insects which
she didn't really like - but it was there.
Learn my knife
, she instructed them,
trying to keep it simple.

The swarm of termites came out of a dead
stump, forming a river that surged towards where the knife lay on
the ground. They began swarming the blade until the whole weapon
was covered in their pale bodies. Wren could feel their minds
working, could almost feel the signals they were sending to each
other.

"
It is done."
The thought came from
no single termite, but from all of them at once.

Wren's skin crawled, but
she persisted. The ability to use her power was so invigorating
that nothing else mattered. She tried to keep her commands
simple.
Carve me a holder for
it
, she sent.

The termites went to a nearby stump and
began to swarm it as they had the blade. Wren could hear the sound
of their chewing. They worked with a singularity of mind that
frightened her. Slowly, slowly, there was a pattern forming in the
wood and slowly, slowly the shape they were working on fell away
onto the ground.

It was a perfectly smooth wooden sheath that
looked as if it would fit the blade perfectly.

"
It is done."

Wren moved over to retrieve the object as
the termites scurried away, her Calling fading.

“My God,” breathed Wren. “What am I capable
of?”

“I'm not sure any of us know the full answer
to that, mistress,” Tessa said.

O
tom's journey had stalled. Pakken had too strong of a pull on
his emotions, and he couldn't seem to move from its proximity. He
wondered if Silence was still alive and had to resist the urge to
try and find him multiple times.

Otom pulled The Book from his back and
flipped through it, trying to find inspiration within. There were
many pieces of loose paper hiding between the pages, many of which
had been written by Otom himself. He had tucked these notes into
his copy of The Book over the years. They contained everything from
poetry to confessions, translations to philosophy.

He turned to the section about the marked
men, a section that had always been much debated within his
Monastery. It was likely the part of The Book that Umden had
referred to before he had died. The original text had been poorly
translated and mangled through the ages.

But he wanted reassurance. He wanted
answers.

Otom read The Book by moonlight:

Being marked is a sign
from God. Never Gustus. Never. There is a place in our world where
such power must gather. In this age we call it Singra, but there is
no telling what it may be named throughout the ages. Reach
it.

Hastily. Draw no attention.

If you are chosen in this manner, do not
fear, but put your faith in God. Never Gustus. Never.

That was all that it said. Very little
information. There had always been trouble with this section of the
Book, as if the words had been written by a much different hand
than the rest of it.

Otom looked down at his glowing symbol and
wondered if all of his suffering had been meant to lead him to
where he was. Even though he was only a few weeks removed from the
Monastery and the companionship of his brothers he found his faith
wavering. Was it simply routine that had kept him penitent? Otom
had always been thoughtful, and though he tried to mull over
everything, his mind kept drifting back to his home town of
Pakken.

Back to Allura.

O
tom told the people who had known them that his parents had
been murdered by a wanderer who Otom then killed in revenge. It
wasn't entirely accurate, but it was a story Otom was comfortable
with.

It had been three months since Otom and
Allura had buried his ma, da, and Ris. Otom was actually a little
shocked at himself that he had nearly recovered from the experience
already. The need to keep on living, and to take care of Allura,
had strongly overcome his grief within a few weeks.

He felt guilty about that, but he couldn't
control his emotions. He had found love. It may have been in a
tragic way, but there it was. Allura and Otom had started their new
life together, thrust into it – as Allura would constantly claim –
by God's will.

They lived in Otom's parent's house and Otom
had become a man in the blink of an eye. He knew how to provide for
Allura, and how to survive in the unforgiving north; both skills he
had gotten from his da. He had also found out many things about
Allura as they talked during her recovery. She'd had a falling out
with her family, so they wouldn't miss her. She was from a place
called Pooling Lake that was far to the southwest, near Marshanti.
She preferred vegetables to meat. She could knit surprisingly well
and had a natural knack for ice fishing.

Otom pitched another log into the fire and
it flared, filling the house with a weak warmth. Allura stood at
the oven, still having to wear warm clothing this deep into the
winter, but Otom knew that her lean figure lurked just beneath
them. He was constantly filled with desire for her, and found that
most of the time he couldn't keep his hands off of her.