Gwen and Steffan herded the sheep along the path toward Wirtrumburg, ignoring the deep hoofprints in the ground where they had nearly been eaten. The sun was entirely out of view, but its light still painted the darkening sky with reds and purples.

The trees’ shadows were long and deep. Even though the grove was barely over a mile long, it was thick enough and the sun was low enough that, for their time within, Gwen and Steffan were walking in near darkness. Luckily, the path was straight and they had walked it dozens of times before.

By the time Gwen and Steffan emerged from the grove, the sky was back to a uniform blue, albeit a dark one. Steffan pulled a torch and tinderbox from his pack and struggled for a minute before Gwen rolled her eyes and took them from him. Once they could see more than a foot ahead, they continued down the road.

They passed a few copses, but most of the trees nearby had been chopped down for lumber. Indeed, after another mile or so the siblings started to see the results of that lumber in the form of fences for livestock and farmhouses for its owners. The farms were still fairly sparse so close to the Wirt, but there were a few daring families or landlords who braved the threats in exchange for cheaper land and more sunlight.

“Halfway there,” Steffan said, pointing. Gwen followed his gesture, though she already knew what he was pointing at. A Root rose from the ground about a mile to their left, so huge that it was unmistakable even in the darkness. Where it entered the earth, it was almost half a mile thick, and it only grew more gargantuan as it continued to the base of Ascangen. Visitors from the Branches always gaped at the Roots’ size. It was one of the things that made tourists stand out. Gwen and Steffan noticed the giant tendrils, of course, but more as landmarks than anything else. They had grown up in the Roots’ shadows, so they were used to the size. Besides, the Roots paled in comparison to Ascangen, which towered over existence itself.

Supposedly, the five Roots ran under the Wirt all the way to the edge of the world, though no one even remembered anyone who had journeyed to the edge and come back. Some people thought the Roots stopped sooner, and Old Man Corwin believed they stretched down through the earth and turned into a second tree on the other side. Gwen, for her part, believed the stories passed down by the Elvar, where the Beohur planted Ascangen and then protected it from the murderous Eoten until its roots could grow the breadth of the entire land.

Over the next league, the farms grew smaller and closer together. A few lumber yards popped up as well, and eventually, Gwen and Steffan saw by starlight the cluster of buildings that made up their small village. Their home and paddock were on the far side. Thankfully, it was late enough that everyone was either sleeping in their homes or drinking in the inn, so there was no one out to ask about bruises or torn clothes or bandaged heads.

Once they herded the sheep into the paddock and fed Theodora, Gwen and Steffan walked into their one-room home for some cold dinner. They usually would have gotten back earlier, but they’d walked slowly because of their injuries, and neither had the energy to cook. Still, the bread and cheese and mead they had that night were one of the more satisfying meals Gwen had eaten. Afterward, Steffan poured a cup of something darker while Gwen washed herself off.

“Do you want to pray with me?” Gwen asked, like she did every night. Steffan rarely agreed, but maybe after having been narrowly saved from death today, he would see the importance of it.

“Ha!” The bitter laugh made Gwen’s neck prickle. It was one of the harshest sounds she’d heard her brother make. “No. No thank you.” He took another sip of his liquor.

Gwen kneeled before the low wooden shelf in the corner that she used as an altar. She lit a stick of incense and took a deep breath of the pungent smoke. It wasn’t a pleasant smell, but it still comforted her. Kneeling here, smelling this scent, thinking holy thoughts...it was the closest Gwen got to peace.

She closed her eyes and clasped her hands. Beohur, planters of the Seed, guardians of the Tree, gardeners of all life. I honor you. I worship you. I submit myself to you. And all I ask in return is...is nothing. You have my deepest gratitude for saving me and my brother today. Thank you for sending Lieutenant Harlow and their soldiers.

Later, as Gwen and Steffan lay in bed together, each wrapped in thick furs, Gwen couldn’t get her promise out of her mind. She had no right to ask the Beohur for anything more, but that meant they might not save her if she was in danger again. It made her feel vulnerable without their protection.

“Brother?” she asked the darkness, hoping Steffan was still awake.

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“Hmm?”

“I think I want to learn to fight. No swords, though.”

She could almost feel him smile. “I’ll make it happen.”

#

“The most important thing,” Steffan said, “is that you don’t pick a fight you can’t win. I know you think the Beohur will deliver you from danger, but it isn’t worth testing their patience.” They stood just east of the grove the sheep had hidden in two days ago. The flock grazed nearby under Theodora’s watchful gaze.

“I know,” Gwen said. “I’m done asking the Beohur for things.”

Steffan raised his visible eyebrow, then winced. He’d probably tried to raise his other one, too. “Well, good. I’m glad you aren’t going to rely on them as much. I’m running low on eyes.”

That irked Gwen. It was like her brother was suggesting the Beohur were unreliable. Like he didn’t realize they’d just saved his life. “You picked a fight you couldn’t win yesterday, when you saved me from that thing.” Not that she would rather have been left to die.

“Yes, well, sometimes taking the chance is worth it. When the fight’s important enough, it’s better to try and fail than not try at all.” He blinked a suddenly misty eye. “I couldn’t have lived with myself if...”

“I know,” Gwen said. But if she thought about it too much she would have trouble breathing. She’d spent all of yesterday alternating between crying and eating and sleeping, and Steffan was the one with a permanent injury. “So, don’t pick fights I can’t win unless they’re really important?”

“Unless they’re life or death.” Steffan turned and picked up a staff from the ground. On the way out here, Gwen had assumed it was a walking stick, but Steffan held it out to her. “No swords, right?”

She took the polished length of wood. It was almost as tall as she was, though that didn’t say much. “You got this for me? How?”

“I promised some wool to Seamus.” Seamus was the village carpenter. “I think he gave me a good deal because he felt sorry for me.” Steffan reached up to touch his eye, but he stopped short.

They spent the rest of the day practicing. Steffan wasn’t as trained as a soldier, but he’d asked plenty of them for advice over the years, so he was a treasury of practical tips. He taught her how to stand with her knees bent and one leg back and to the side. He taught her how to move with a shuffle more than a walk. He taught her how to swing from her feet, knees, and hips first instead of just swatting things with her arms.

It turned out Steffan needed the practice just as much as Gwen did. The first time he swung at a tree, he completely missed and almost fell over.

Gwen, in fact, did fall over, laughing until she ran out of air and then taking huge gulps of it only to laugh some more. Part of her knew she was being rude and her brother had missed because of the eye he lost saving her. But the rest of her thought it looked so silly that someone who stood up straighter when he walked past soldiers or guards had so totally missed an unmoving target.

The truth was, though, that emotions were still bubbling inside her, and if they didn’t steam out of her as laughter they would boil over as tears or bad decisions.

“I’m sorry,” she said after she picked herself up. “I shouldn’t have laughed. You got hurt while saving me.” Or while buying time for the Beohur to send saviors, but that was the same thing.

Steffan uncrossed his arms. “No, you shouldn’t have. But it’s okay. I just have to get used to how I am now.”

He was far closer by the end of the day, much to the newly scarred tree’s detriment. He had practically stopped missing, and he hadn’t groaned in frustration at all in the past hour.

Gwen, for her part, had groaned quite a bit. She ached in places she hadn’t known she could ache. She was so sore, in fact, that on the walk home, her feet shuffled without even trying. “Look,” she said, “I’m still practicing.”

Steffan hadn’t gotten the joke.

When they got home, Steffan went to take care of the sheep while Gwen headed inside to start a fire and boil water for tea. She had just gotten the logs to catch when she turned around to see an especially strange stranger standing by the table. If she weren’t so tired, she would have given a start.

The interloper was a short, slim man of about Gwen’s height and build. He wore fine silver robes that sparkled brighter than they should in the dim firelight. He was clean-shaven, and his gray hair ran down his back in a tight braid. He stood so straight Gwen doubted he’d even heard of slouching.

When he spoke, his voice was soft and gentle. “Hello, Gwendoline.”

Gwen lunged for her staff next to the door. The stranger didn’t move, only following her with his eyes.

“Who are you?” she asked, taking up the fighting stance Steffan had shown her, though her muscles chorused their protest. “How do you know my name?”

“I am the Herald of Wisdom,” he said. “I was sent to find you in the event that my master, Ryland, died.”

“Ryland is...” Gwen couldn’t even wrap her mind around what he was saying.

The Herald nodded sadly. “I am afraid so. The king of the Beohur has been killed, and you have been chosen to replace him.”

Gwen staggered to the nearest chair and sat down. “Killed? Ryland was slain?” How was that even possible?

The Herald’s next three words brought Gwen’s whole reality crashing down:

“They all were.”

#