The Chosen (The Compendium of Raath, Book 1) (37 page)

“W
here did we leave off?” Heather asked.

“I don't know,” Wren panted, gripping
another handhold.

“The death of the Dryad Tree. And the
dissolving of our people, Wren.”

“They're not my people. Stop saying
that.”

“They are yours even more than mine.”

“No,” Wren said stubbornly.

“Believe what you will.”

Wren growled a little in her throat. Her
emotions were running rampant again. She felt dizzy, weak, and
nauseous.

“When the Tree died, the world around it
wept,” Heather continued, not giving any indication that she had
heard Wren growl. “There are prophecies. There are always
prophecies. It will be revived. It won't be revived. It is not
truly dead but rather hibernating. Every theory exists. When the
Protectors lost control of it, we lost something of ourselves.
Ultimately, even though the soldiers and the armies had no true
understanding of what had happened to them, magic was blamed. They
knew it was some type of nature magic that had been their undoing
And the Protectors started fighting among themselves.”

“Why?” asked Wren.

“They could not accept that the Tree was
gone. There were many who believed it immortal. All we'd gone
through to protect and hide it, all the beliefs we had about it,
all the ways in which it had helped us understand our powers,
everything was broken in an instant.

“The Protectors broke then, too. The
community became fractured. They lost their focus and could find
nothing to rally around. And you must understand what you have been
hesitant to know this entire time.” Heather took a moment in the
cold air. “You are the thing that we can rally around now,
Wren.”

Wren's hand slipped off the section of rock
she had been gripping. She flailed for a moment.

“I can't do what you're asking of me,” she
moaned.

“I'm not asking anything of you, Wren,”
Heather said. “I'm telling you what will happen. Preparing you. The
sooner you accept the future the easier it will be for you when it
happens.”

Wren said nothing as she finished hauling
herself up the wall of rocks. She looked out over the welcome sight
of a plateau. Stubby grasses and shrubs grew through a light
coating of snow. The animals had rejoined them at the top,
Heather's flock returning to her. Crasher was there, Tessa clinging
carefully to the bear's fur.

“We've got to be close,” Wren panted.

Heather nodded. “Do you feel the place? I
hear it is holy beyond most buildings.”

“I don't feel it,” Wren said.

“There is something up ahead,” Crasher said,
his tiny eyes staring into the distance.

“I don't see anything.”

“Do not see, mistress. Smell. Listen.”

Wren knew that her sense of smell could
never be what Crasher's was. Instead she heard something in the
stillness of the air. There was a strange kind of bleating like
that of a sheep, but somehow she knew it was different. Something
about the noise pulled Wren's heart towards it.

She Called out and felt pain in return.

Without hesitation she began careening over
the flat land, running as fast as her legs could take her. She
heard Heather and the animals running behind her, but Wren's legs
carried her over the ground with a frightening speed she had never
possessed before. She could feel each muscle pumping, her fur cloak
whooshing behind her. Then she came upon what was making the
bleating sound.

A beautiful white horse lay
on its side on the ground, red blood running from some sort of
massive wound on its forehead. Its belly was swollen and Wren knew
immediately that it was pregnant.
Just
like me
. She knelt beside the creature.
Its eyes were frightened and it gasped for breath as it looked at
her. Its fear turned slowly to curiosity as Wren reached deep
within herself for her Well.

“Don't be afraid,” she said. “I won't let
your baby die.” She had only done this once or twice on the
farm.

She thought she felt a
small communication from the horse, but she couldn’t make out what
it said.
She's probably too weak to talk
to me,
Wren thought.

Heather and the rest came up behind Wren,
but she barely noticed them. The girl already had her hands inside
the mother, feeling around for the baby that was trapped within.
“Its shoulder is stuck,” she said to herself. Her hands worked
quickly, feeling the bones, the tissue, the blood.

“This is no natural wound,” Heather
breathed, bending down to inspect the horse's forehead. “We aren't
alone up here, Wren. Be quick.”

Wren could feel the animals around her – the
deer, Crasher, Tessa, the birds, a few squirrels, two goats – go on
high alert.

Wren's hands slipped and
she cursed. The horse whinnied and tried to get up, but Wren
clicked her tongue and Called to her.
Relax.
She dug again, getting her
fingers right where they needed to be and freeing the foal. It came
out in a gush, sliding in so much liquid. As it stumbled confusedly
to its feet, Wren felt power pour into her Well.

She sat back, her whole body sweating.

“You did your best,” Wren said in tears. She
patted the mother horse's shoulder. It left a bloody palm print
there, the red standing out against the stark white fur. The mother
horse lay her head down and Wren shuddered as she felt her die.

The scene became disturbing to her: the foal
suckled milk from a dead mother. She reached out her hand to stop
it, but Heather was there. “Let it take what it can, Wren. We're
going to have to figure out how to take care of it ourselves.”

The foal was as white as its mother and
despite how young it was it looked incredibly strong. There was a
strange shape to its forehead as well. It looked as if a part of
its skull was sticking out in the middle of it.

“What do we have here?” Heather asked,
noticing the same thing. She squinted and reached out her hand to
touch its forehead, but the foal danced away from her touch. It ran
then, leaping the corpse of its mother, its legs pumping with great
speed and power for their age.

“Hey!” Wren yelled. She took off after it
and chased with all her might. “Get back here! You're gonna get
yourself killed!”

The foal entered a forest and Wren did the
same, following right in its steps, pouring the rest of her energy
into the pursuit. Trees whizzed by on her left and right as Wren
jumped over logs and brambles, dodging roots and low branches.

She stopped short in front of a large
building that seemed to come out of nowhere. It was made of stone
and seemed as if it had grown out the earth itself. The large
single door in front was easily forty feet high. The roof was
supported with ornately carved pillars.

The foal had stopped just in front of the
building as well, its head tilted quizzically.

And Wren Hartfield, bloody from fingertips
to elbows, stood in front of what could only be the Temple of
Sin'ra.

The white foal turned and looked back at her
expectantly.

“L
et me out of this thing!” the woman shouted. “My damn foot's
gonna fall off!”

Otom looked with interest at what he had
caught. The woman must have been in her early twenties and was
dressed in tight-fitting, brightly colored clothing that probably
wasn't as functional as it could have been. At least she wore thick
boots, gloves, and a fur-lined vest so she wouldn't completely
freeze. Her thick black hair was cut to her shoulders with straight
bangs that ran just to her eyelashes. Her hair moved when she
blinked. She had an oddly shaped case strapped to her back. It was
about the size of her torso and was made of leather with a golden
clasp.

The Monk knelt on the ground beside her,
offering his hands slowly to help her undo the complicated knot of
his snare. This certainly was nothing like what he had been
expecting. He had been expecting Foglins. Evil things. Men with ill
intentions. Not this woman. That would have been last on his
list.

The woman pulled her foot out of the snare
and stood up, brushing herself off. “Well,” she said. “Not one of
my most competent entrances, but certainly one worth writing
about!”

She had a perkiness to her that made Otom
smile. He suddenly realized how much he had longed for a companion
out here.

Otom spread his
hands.
Who are you
?

The girl nodded, a small smile on her face.
Her teeth were very white and straight. “I'd heard you Monks take
those vows sometimes, but you know, I never truly believed it. I
suppose I'll have to make enough talk for both of us. My name's
Raven Icehall. We can talk as we walk, my good Monk.”

Otom faced his palms towards the ground and
shook his head.

“What do you mean 'no'?” Raven asked. “I
follow you all the way from Kilgaan and now you're telling me 'no'?
Sorry, pal, that's not the way I operate. Now that you've trapped
me I'm your responsibility. I could get hurt or killed or mugged or
raped on the way back and then you'd feel just awful if you heard
about it. So 'no' to you. You caught me, I'm yours.”

Otom sighed and looked down at his forearm.
He hadn't been doing a very good job of keeping it covered since he
had been alone and traveling for so long. It shone out in the open,
right where Raven could see it.

“Yup,” she said. “That's part of what drew
me to ya. As my name suggests, I like shiny objects, Monk. You're
someone important. I can tell.” Raven adjusted her gloves and
boots, her shiny black hair looking quite fetching as it hung about
her face.

Otom shrugged and turned to
walk again. It was either that, tie up the girl, kill her, or try
to outrun her. None of those seemed like incredibly appealing
options to him.
Maybe she'll leave on her
own,
he thought.

“Where are we going? Oh, but that's right.
You can't answer. It's alright. It's the story I'm interested in,
you know? The events that unfold. Sometimes, I'm told, words can
get in the way. Don't believe it much myself, but it might be true.
I'll bet you're wondering about this case on my back.”

Otom nodded, scanning the landscape in front
of him.

“It's a harp, Monk. Do they have music in a
Monastery?”

Otom nodded again.

“Let me just lay it all on the table right
now. I'm looking for someone to write songs about. Oh, I know what
you're thinking. 'Great. Another laze-about bard.' Your cynicism is
well placed. Most bards' songs are made up; they're about things
those stupid assholes have never seen. Mine won't be. I want to
know important people. Go on quests. Doesn't sound too lazy does
it?”

Otom shook his head.

“I've always had a lot of energy,” Raven
said. “I'll tell you what, Monk. If I play something for you and
you don't like it you can send me away. Forget everything I just
said about raping and crotch-pillaging and breast-looting and
whatnot. I can make it back alright. If you can hear me play and
turn me away, I will leave. Honest bargain, right?”

Raven slung her case off her back and set in
gently into the thin layer of snow on the ground. She clicked open
the latch and opened it, revealing a silver harp with gleaming
strings. She took off her gloves and reached for it. Otom noticed
her fingers were incredibly long and slender, the perfect things
for plucking this harp.

He began to get excited about this whole
prospect. He had envisioned his journey going in many directions,
but never in this one.

Raven nestled the harp in the crook of one
arm and readied herself.

The strings sounded pure in the cold,
mountain air when she plucked them, each one sending out its sound
into a space that may have never known those vibrations. The music
was beautiful and minor, and Raven bent her head over the
instrument, bobbing it in time with her song.

Then she lifted her chin and sang. Otom did
not understand the language she sang in, but his jaw dropped just
the same. Her notes were perfectly formed. The two sounds – harp
and voice – danced together in the still air.

Otom was a captive audience, witnessing
beauty he did not truly understand.

The last notes faded then, the air sucking
them up greedily.

“Wow,” Raven said in a deep voice. “That was
really good.” She winked.

Otom smiled. He embraced
himself.
Stay
.

“I knew you would say I could,” Raven said
excitedly. She bounced on her toes, beaming from ear to ear. She
sheathed her harp and slung it over her shoulder again. “What an
auspicious beginning for us, Monk! You won't be disappointed.
What's the point of doing great things if no one knows the tale? I
mean the whole of the tale, of course.”

You'll never know the whole
tale, Raven,
Otom thought.
You're foolish to think that you ever
could.

The days passed less lonely than before.
Otom had Raven's songs to listen to around the Fire at night, and
it eased his tensions and fears. The Foglin attack of a few months
back started to lose its sting.

He started to relax.

O
tom reached his hand down and grabbed Raven's. His grip was
powerful, but he was careful not to damage her beautiful fingers.
She grunted as he pulled her up the face of the
mountain.

“Shit, Monk,” she said as
she sat at the top panting. “Can't get a full breath up here, you
know?” She slapped her thighs and stood up. “I
am
going to need to know your name,
I've decided. Now, I know I said yesterday that I didn't need to
know, but how am I to make apt rhymes if I can't even know who you
are? Should I make up a name for you?”