R. L. LaFevers (10 page)

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Wat heard Olin snort. "What help can I give against someone as powerful as Hugh?"

"It doesn't matter. Do you swear to help us and not turn him in?" Her voice was urgent,

Wat heard no reply but felt a presence in front of him. He opened his eyes, and the blacksmith jumped.

"How do you do that, boy!" Olin cried out. "How can you hide where there is no hiding place?"

Wat stared at the blacksmith, then shrugged. Would he keep their secret?

The blacksmith sighed. "Come out, I'll not turn you in. For Brenna's sake."

Wat and Olin walked around to the other side of the pillory, where Brenna could see them. "What can I do?" the blacksmith asked.

"Nothing for the moment," Brenna answered. "Stand over there, and when I call you, you must see that Wat gets back across the drawbridge before day breaks and people are about. He must get back to his grandfather, even if you have to carry him kicking and screaming."

Olin nodded and retreated a few paces. Wat's mother turned her gaze back to him.

"Will I see you again?" Wat's throat was so tight with emotion that he could hardly form the question.

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"I will try to bring supplies to you and Griswold before winter sets in. If I can. But do not count on it. Now come; give me one last kiss."

Wat leaned up and gave her a kiss on her cheek. He could taste salt from her tears on his lips. He stepped back. "Good-bye," he whispered.

She waved at him as best she could with her hands shackled. "Now go." She smiled. "I can hear fortune's star calling to you, even if you can't."

Wat turned and, with his uneven gait, walked over to Olin. They eyed each other warily. Finally, the blacksmith spoke. "I'll strike up a conversation with Denorf. Ask him how his mail fits, if it pinches, the usual. Since I mended it for him less than a fortnight ago, the questions won't raise his suspicions. While we're talking, use that stealth of yours and get back across the drawbridge as quickly and quietly as you can. Got it?"

Wat continued to stare at Olin in silence, weighing his options.

"Well, must I carry you, boy?"

Wat eyed Olin's huge arms and grimaced. "No. I'll walk on my own."

The blacksmith grinned. "Smart lad," he murmured, before falling into step beside him.

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***

Chapter 11

Wat arrived back at the cottage around midmorn ing to find Griswold sitting on the front doorstep, waiting for him. "About time you got here. Your birds were worried about you." He creaked to a standing position and went inside the cottage. Turning back over his shoulder, he called out, "And they're hungry."

Wat followed the old man inside. He saw that Griswold had placed the bucket near the hearth for warmth, and the falcon chicks were peeping and flapping in a dreadful uproar.

"They tried to talk me into feeding them this morning, but I made them wait. 'Tis your job, not mine." Griswold handed Wat a slab of raw meat. "They, however, were convinced they were near starvation."

Wat went and sat down on the floor by his charges. He fished his knife out of his side pocket and began paring off small pieces of meat for the frantic nestlings. He was glad for something to do. He felt as if he had accomplished

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nothing during the night. In spite of his fatigue, he was restless. As he settled to his task of feeding the birds, a sense of peace came over him. It was the same feeling he'd experienced the first night he had spent in the cottage.

He felt Griswold's eyes on his back, but he didn't mind. They felt kindly and concerned this morning.

The old man's voice spoke quietly from somewhere behind him. "You'll find that having someone, or something, to take care of always eases the pain." When Wat glanced up at him, he was staring out the window, his eyes seeing things far beyond Wat and the cottage. He heaved a sigh that, to Wat, seemed full of heartache.

He turned from the window and smiled. "They missed you, boy. Claimed the meat didn't taste as good from these old hands."

Wat smiled at the unlikelihood of that. "I can see how you've mistreated them."

Griswold reached out and flicked a nearby feather at him. Wat blew it away before it touched him. "Missed me."

"Of course." The old man sniffed. "I meant to miss."

Wat snorted. Then he jumped back as one of the falcons aimed for his finger instead of the meat. "Oh, no you don't!" Still looking at the birds, Wat asked Griswold, "Aren't you going to ask of my mother?"

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Griswold turned his gaze back to the window.

"I learned a long while ago to have patience with regard to your mother," he answered at last. He turned back to Wat and smiled. "And I can tell from the look in your eye that Brenna will be well. Besides, knowing you, you won't be able to keep it to yourself much longer."

The birds had finished off the meat and seemed well satisfied. Wat wiped his hands on his tunic and picked up the larger one. The nestling looked puzzled, but didn't protest or try to get away.

"She was as I saw her in my dream," he said as he stroked the silky feathers. "Lord Sherborne had her put in the pillory to punish her for my thievery. She was glad to see me, but insisted I leave." He used one of his fingers to pet the small falcon and continued speaking flatly. "In the end, it was my moment of truth, and I failed to do what was right."

Griswold turned from the window and clucked his tongue. "Such self-pity in one so young!"

Wat looked up, startled at the censure in the old man's words.

Griswold leaned toward Wat. "That was no moment of truth, boy. That was a ... a challenge, at best. And one you rose to, I might add."

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"Where's the challenge in leaving my mother to pay for my sins?"

"Often letting someone help us is the hardest thing to do," Griswold replied. "Besides, a moment of truth is not a test, something to be failed or won. Nor is it earned. It is a simple moment in one's life when all the elements unite within to release one's true spirit."

Still sullen, Wat turned from his grandfather back to the falcons. "Anyway, she as much as said she would be better off without me. And she will be."

"Hmm." Griswold nodded his head. "Are these birds better off without their mother?"

Wat jerked his head around to look at Griswold again. "No! She died protecting them. Fighting for them."

"Exactly. Just as your mother fights for you. It is a different way from the falcons' mother, but do not doubt that she fights for you. And that it costs her much. No one is ever better off when parted from the ones they love."

A trickle of understanding began inside Wat's head.

"And Olin?"

"Who?" Griswold's eyebrows drew up in puzzlement. "The blacksmith. She said that he had asked her to marry him, now that I've ...run off."

"Oh. Hmm." Griswold came over and put his hand on

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Wat's head. "Well, with you gone, she will need someone, even if only a blacksmith, to look after. As I told you before, it eases the pain."

The full force of this new knowledge washed over Wat, cleansing him of the bitter taste of abandonment. Knowing her sacrifice, he felt more loved, yet more alone, than ever before.

To cover his grief and confusion, he turned his attention back to the falcons. He put the larger one back and picked up the smaller one. "We need to find names for you two."

"Have you named many things in this short life of yours, Wat?"

Wat looked up at where Griswold stood, looming over him. "No."

"Well, have a care! Names are not to be given lightly and must speak to the true nature of a thing." Griswold crossed over to the hearth. "Go outside and gather up a handful of dirt," he instructed. "If you are to name them, we must have a ceremony."

When Wat returned holding a handful of dirt, Griswold was kneeling by the hearth. He spotted Wat and straightened. "Bring the bucket of water closer to the birds."

Wat did as he was instructed, then knelt before the peregrines' makeshift nest. Griswold nodded. "Now pick one up

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and hold the bird in your hands, taking the full weight and measure of its true nature."

Once again, Wat reached out and picked up the larger of the young falcons. He held her in his two hands, feeling, judging, and closed his eyes. A vision of her proud, fiercely intelligent eyes filled his head, as well as a sense of patience and caution, as if this falcon would always weigh all the options and consequences before acting. "You are the more intelligent one. You are patient and wait to find out what is going on before you jump in. I will name you for that intelligence." The bird stilled, almost as if waiting to see what name would be bestowed. "Gaelen."

Griswold started slightly, but nodded his approval. "Good. Now touch your finger to the earth, then touch it again to the bird's head and say these words: 'May the spirit of the earth be like strength to you.'"

Staring into Gaelen's keen eyes, Wat solemnly repeated the words.

"Now dip your finger in the water there and place a drop on her head."

Wat did this and repeated the next set of words that Griswold gave him. "May the purity of this water cleanse your mind."

Griswold nodded again. "Hold out your hand."

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Wat did as he was told and received a pinch of ash from the hearth. "Now sprinkle this along the bird's back and say, 'May the fierce beauty of fire fill your spirit.'"

Wat repeated the chant.

"Now lean close and blow gently in her face, but not too hard."

Wat took in a small breath, then exhaled it softly at Gaelen, who blinked and shook her head.

"May the air be strong beneath your wings and fill you with long life." The bird settled at these last words. "Now say, 'I name thee Gaelen.'"

"I name thee Gaelen."

When Griswold nodded his head toward the bucket, Wat put Gaelen back and picked up the smaller bird. Again, he held it in his hands and let his mind fill with the essence of the bird in front of him. Fierce, angry eyes filled his vision and a sense of impatience, eagerness. "You, however, are smaller and much too quick to stick your beak in before you are sure of the situation. And you are little and fiery, so I shall name you Keegan."

"Now repeat the ceremony," Griswold instructed in a quiet voice. Wat did, surprised at how easily he remembered the words. When he finished, he returned Keegan to the nest and rose to his feet, feeling calm and still inside.

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From his place by the window, Griswold spoke. "How did you know those names?" he asked.

Wat shrugged and tried to remember where he'd heard them. "From stories Mother used to whisper in my ear, late at night, after the last of the fire had died down."

"She remembered, then. And told you of them." Griswold sighed deeply and closed his eyes, as if in relief, or thanks, Wat couldn't be sure. "It is more than I had hoped for."

When he opened them again, the moment had passed. "You have named them well," Griswold told him. "And remember, when you know the true name of a thing, it gives you power over it. Now come. I have something I want to show you."

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***

Chapter 12

Griswold struck out on a winding path that led south, away from the part of the forest Wat was familiar with. Wat fell into step behind him, and they walked along in their customary silence. Wat let the sights and sounds of the forest soothe him, washing away his earlier sense of despair. He became absorbed in his surroundings: the tall regal trees, the filtered rays of sun, the small chipmunks and rabbits who scurried about on the ground. When he returned his attention to the path, he realized that he had no idea how long they had been walking. Nor was he sure he could find his way back without Griswold to guide him.

Griswold paused and opened his mouth to speak, but Wat interrupted.

"Yes, yes. I smell it. It's water again, but different water. A richer, wetter kind."

Wat smiled to himself, well pleased. Two could have at this sport.

Griswold eyed Wat. "Don't get cocky, boy."

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In a short while, the trees grew larger than any Wat had yet seen. They were older, too. Their branches hung low, as if tired, but there was a deep underlying strength to them. Griswold stepped off the faint path they'd been following and headed for an especially dense tangle of trees. The old man wound his way through the trunks and disappeared. Hurrying slightly, Wat followed Griswold into the trees, then stopped, his breath struck from him.

Before him was a small pool, its surface a radiating mirror of gold and green light reflected back from the sun and branches above. The tiny body of water sat at the base of a slight hill, with a trickle of water feeding into it from above. Surrounding the pool were more of the huge trees Wat had noticed earlier. Some of their heavy, thick roots draped over the edge into the pool, as if they had reached down for a drink.

Wat turned to look at Griswold, who, in the strange reflective light thrown off by the water, seemed to have grown taller, straighter, younger. The old man was looking up at the surrounding trees, his face aglow.

"Here, Wat. This is where I come. This is the place from which I draw my strength." His voice dropped to a whisper. "This is the heart of the forest."