The Chosen (The Compendium of Raath, Book 1) (30 page)

In the blast of light, Wren could see a
gigantic object looming up to the sky in front of them. She took
Tessa out of her shirt and held her in her palm so that the little
mouse could see. The raccoons had climbed onto Crasher's back, and
the bird was nowhere to be seen.

“What is wrong, bear?” Tessa asked.

“Behold it for yourself, mouseling.”

Wren tried to study the giant looming
object. It was definitely a tree of some sort, but of a kind and
scale that Wren had never seen before. Its twisting branches
spiraled up into the air, looking almost like rivers as they snaked
towards the sky. Wren had to crane her neck to an uncomfortable
angle just to see where they ended. The trunk of the tree was
bigger around than even the largest tent at the Marshanti carnival
had been, and the roots drove into the ground like powerful
weapons, the soil buckling and heaving up around them.

“We're there,” breathed Wren. She could
almost feel the tree pulsing in time with her symbol, but as
Crasher had said, something was definitely wrong.

“There should be leaves,” the bear
noted.

He was right. The Dryad Tree looked
dead.

A raccoon approached Wren, dragging
something in its mouth. Wren bent down to see what it was. Somehow
the raccoon had found what looked to be a badly torn coat. It was
made of some thick material and had a few medals pinned to it.
“Whose is that, raccoon?” she asked.

“I am not sure,” said the bandit. “It has
old smells on it. I found it wedged in between a few rocks. It was
near another human blade.”

“Another knife?” Wren asked.

Lightning cracked the sky again, drawing her
attention back to the tree.

“We need to go to it,” she said, and began
walking.

The nearer they got to the
massive tree, the more objects they found. The ground wasn't
necessarily
strewn
with them, but something large had definitely happened here
in the past.
There are so many rusty,
broken weapons.
“Maybe a gigantic battle,”
Wren said.

“A battle?” Tessa asked.

“Where men fight other men,” Wren
explained.

“Why would they do that, mistress?”

“I don't know, Tessa.”

They walked further through the odd
wasteland that they now encountered. Something white and round
peeked out of the ground, but Wren warned everyone harshly again
checking on what it was. Crasher was curious, but Wren knew it was
a skull, half-buried in the sloppy, dark mud.

The ground began to slosh and crunch beneath
Wren's feet and she saw more and more specks of white. Wren's
breathed in and out quickly trying not to gag, knowing full-well
that she was walking on the bones of men and horses long dead.

They were close enough now that the trunk of
the Dryad Tree blocked most of Wren's vision, taking up the sky
with its magnitude. The group approached it slowly and cautiously.
Wren's nerves were frazzled. She shook from excitement, fear,
anticipation, and chill as she reached out to rest her hand on the
shaggy bark. It flaked away like dead skin, gray and
disgusting.

Wren let out a sigh that turned into a
cough. “I think our journey ends here,” she said, tears mixing with
the rain on her cheeks. “Whatever this Tree used to be, it isn't
anymore. There are no answers here.”

Wren considered briefly just sitting down at
the Tree's gigantic base and waiting to die. She had no idea where
she would go now.

The Dryad Tree – whatever it had been and
whatever it had stood for – was dead.

A
tiny pulse awakened her. It was tugging at her consciousness
lightly and erratically, like a timid fish at the pole of a mighty
fisherman. She noticed that the rain had stopped, and for a brief
moment all of her troubles were washed away by that one simple
fact.

“What is it, mistress?” Tessa asked. The
mouse had fallen off Wren's head when the girl had sat up
quickly.

“Something's pulling at my mind.” Wren stood
up and drew the knife. It was an odd reaction, as she didn't really
know how to fight with one, but she did it nonetheless. The blade
gave her an illusion of power, like a heroine from a story.

She began following the pulsing beacon on
unsteady legs, climbing over huge roots to get to the place where
she felt it pulling. The moon shone brightly in the sky, casting
shadows over the macabre battlefield. Wren kept her eyes forward
for fear that she would see the dead of the battle risen, shambling
slowly towards her on this eerie night.

She came to a rent in the
tree.
I might be able to shimmy in between
those two layers of overlapping bark.
That's where the pulse was coming from; somewhere beyond that
makeshift doorway.

“It's coming from in here,” she whispered to
Crasher.

“If you wish to go in there, mistress, I
cannot follow. It will have to be you and the mouseling alone.”

Crasher was right. The raccoons had left or,
at least, weren't currently with them, presumably going off to
their own business. Tessa had warned Wren that animals were subject
primarily to their own whims and not to take it too personally if
their journeys took them on different paths.

“Wait here,” Wren said. She began to squeeze
herself through the crack in the bark. She held Jon's knife
awkwardly in front of her. The moonlight was replaced with the
light of her glowing symbol.

Both sides of the tree pressed in on her as
she snaked her way through, Tessa riding in her somewhat dry
pocket. Slowly, slowly the passageway began to widen. Wren could
take full breaths again and she could hold the knife down at her
side. The tunnel they walked down never branched. It simply drove
into the tree in a straight line. It didn't look like it had been
dug, but rather like the tree had simply grown that way. Wren
suddenly found herself in a small room.

The place seemed to have been crafted by the
will of the tree. Something that could only have been a bed
protruded from the wall, an extension of the tree itself.
Decorations lined the walls, but didn't seem like scars in the
wood, and there were a few low benches and chairs.

In the middle of it all, lit by Wren's
symbol, was a woman.

She was lying prostrate on the ground, her
gray hair fanned out in front of her.

“You have come,” the woman said, her voice
quiet but startling Wren near to death. She rose from her prayerful
pose, her ancient face hard as wood. “You have come, marked of
God.”

“W
hat did you call me?” Wren asked, her voice sounding small
between the dense walls.

“Marked of God,” replied the ancient woman.
“I suspect you've noticed the symbol on your arm.”

“This is from God?” Wren asked, looking down
at it.

“Yes," the woman said. "I am so glad I
stayed here all this time! We have much to do now. Much to do.” The
woman reached towards one of the walls and just as her hand reached
it the wood parted, opening a small portal. The woman drew a few
packs from the portal and set them on the ground. “It is well that
you have a sword,” she said.

“Where are we going?” Wren asked.

“Much debate over that,” the old woman
answered. “Much debate. For my purposes I think we must travel to
the Temple of Sin'ra.”

“I . . . came here for answers,” Wren
said.

“And you may get some from me,” replied the
woman. “But for the true and full answer we must reach your destiny
at the Temple. You wonder of your newling powers I am sure. Do you
have a Familiar yet?”

“Is that me?” Tessa asked, popping her head
up from Wren's pocket for the first time.

“It might be,” nodded the old woman. “Might
be.”

“You can hear her talk!” Wren said. “I'm not
crazy!”

The old woman nodded. “There are many who
can Hear,” she said. “I am both surprised and not surprised that
you are so young. Wisdom comes with age, but strength fleets. You
are an odd pick for an odd time.” The old woman rummaged through
her packs, making sure they were as she wanted them. “My name is
Heather.”

“Mine's Wren.”

“Named after a bird.”

“I suppose I am."

“Any other Protectors in your family?”
Heather asked.

“You mean . . . people with powers like
me?”

“Yes.”

Wren thought back to what her father had
said to Crasher: 'I feel Lia's hand in this.' Wren was suddenly
chilled through, her skin standing in bumps. She hadn't stopped to
think about it at the time, but her mother might have been . . .
“I'm not sure,” she finally answered.

“We will learn more about you as we travel,
then,” Heather said. She opened another section of the trunk and
took out two long cloaks made of some type of fur that Wren didn't
recognize. They looked soft, warm, and light. “It will be cold
where we are going.”

“Can't we have a moment to rest?” Wren
asked, her body shaking from exhaustion.

“Mounts will not be an issue for two such as
us, Wren.”

“I have a bear outside that I ride, but he's
tired too.”

Heather nodded. “You must learn a vast
amount of information in a very limited time, so I would suggest we
start.” Heather walked over to her then and embraced her, a gesture
that the girl took awkwardly. She could not recall the last time
she had been hugged by a woman. It felt sincere and loving, but
Heather pulled away from her with strange quickness.

“Oh,” she said, her eyes traveling over
Wren's body. “Oh.”

“What?” the girl asked. She took a step
backwards and tightened her grip on the knife.

“It's just that you're so young. You can't
know.”

“Know what?”

“The size of our party is bigger than I
thought,” Heather said. “It will consist of me, you, the mouse, the
bear, and the tiniest of lives within you: your child.”

Wren gasped for air.

O
tom was cautious to disturb nothing as he set the trap. His
days of snare-making weren't too far behind him, he had just been a
bit rusty at first. After journeying for this long he felt back in
the swing of things again, able to keep himself fed through
trapping and hunting. Now he was setting a much different trap: one
that could catch a man.

The presence that he felt with his Detection
hadn't faded or grown closer, but always, always stayed more or
less equidistant from himself, waiting, lurking.

Otom's snare was set, waiting to trigger
swiftly and powerfully if stepped upon. He began to enact the
second part of his plan. He walked through the snow now, his
footprints standing out starkly in the windless world. He walked
past the trap by a good fifty spans and then began walking
backwards, putting his boots in precisely the same places they had
been before. It was a simple trick, and known throughout this
region, but he had been surprised at how many times he had heard of
it succeeding.

He had been sure to walk past a tall tree
and now he climbed it, powerful hands and arms hauling him into the
upper branches to wait.

Being up in the branches started to stir his
memory again. Not of the treehouse, for that story had already
played out in his mind, but of the Dryad Tree, a place that had
changed him forever.

O
tom sat by Allura's bed, head in his hands. Silence's advice
weighed heavily on him as he tried to decide what to do.
Should I undertake the journey to the Dryad
Tree?
He would have to leave Allura behind
and travel with as much haste as possible; and that meant going
alone.

Allura's skin, usually beautiful and robust,
had taken on a drab color. Her eyes were always red when she opened
them, and that was becoming a rarity. Her mood swings had taken on
a violence that Otom couldn't comprehend, causing her to have fits
that sometimes required both himself and Silence to quell.

Something was very wrong with Allura Finny,
and Otom knew she would die if he didn't do something about it.

Allura mumbled something and her eyes shot
open.

Otom flinched, getting ready to fight her
off or put her clothes back on or whatever random action she chose
to take this time. “What is it, Lura?” he asked her gently, muscles
tense.

“What I said to you outside the Fool's Heart
Tavern that morning,” she said slowly. Her mouth was dry and her
lips were cracked. “You had your hood up. You were walking away.
Your ear was hurt. You never heard me did you, Otom?”

Otom thought back to that time. Over half a
year had passed since then. “No, I didn't,” he admitted.

“I think you can save me,” she said. “That
is what I yelled to you as you turned away from me. I've always
felt it, Otom, from the first time I peeked over the wall of that
booth and saw you. You might not see it in yourself, but anyone
that lays eyes on you is frightened by your strength. I have always
believed in God, Otom, and I believe he led me to you for many,
many reasons, none of which I am smart enough to comprehend fully.
I know that.” She paused to cough. She continued, whispering, “I
thought you could save me from Ris, I thought you could save me
from that life. And I think you can save me now.” She lay back,
then, and her eyes closed. It was hard to believe she had spoken
only moments before, so dead did she look.

Otom stood up swiftly and with resolve. He
bent over one last time to kiss her forehead. The skin was burning
up, making the gesture almost painful. Otom bundled himself up in
his furs and went to find Silence. The old fighter was sitting
placidly outside in the cold, his back against the outside wall of
the house.