61
RETRIBUTION
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Ember let out a hoarse scream and kicked the bole of a nearby cedar. When that nearly broke half his toes, he snatched a handful of dirt and flung it high into the air, clods and bunches of weedy roots clinging to the roughened bark.
He stood there for a moment, panting in the darkness.
The sun had set hours ago, and though the moon shone brightly through a latticework of branches, those same branches made it a perilous prospect to run headlong through the night watches. There was no lantern, no stone-light to guide him this time, and he had not heard a single whistle, trill, or hum since the sirena vanished into the murk like a sprite.
Once or twice he caught a drift of her floral musk, but it always faded before he could ascertain which direction it had lofted from. He could hardly track one of the slippery river-folk in the moonlight—especially one which did not wish to be found.
Growling and grumbling and rubbing his eyes with scuffed knuckles, Ember stumbled against the tree he had pummeled and sat down hard in the crook of it, one foot furrowing the ground as he slumped in defeat.
“Maker’s breath,” he panted, tilting his head against the burled wood.
He dug his fingers into the soil, tearing up a patch of weeds and tossing it weakly into the shadows. Small creatures of the night skittered past in the tangle of roots, and an owl hooted nearby, its call echoing mournfully beneath the crags of the Sisters. Their silhouette was now strange and unfamiliar…
Even they had turned their backs to his plight.
Who, who? it seemed to say. Who is the fool? Who loved a siren? Was it you? Was it you?
She had slipped through his fingers like a phantom in broad daylight, and now he was alone, and hungry, and his voice had gone from shouting her name along every footpath and forest hollow. He could scarcely see the mountain through the dense towers of cedar and pine, and had wandered up and down so many rills and hills that it would be nigh impossible to find the road again before morning.
A whistle far-off disturbed his reflections.
Ember squinted into the blackness, his spine stiffening against the bole of the tree. It sounded like a last fading note which had echoed across a great distance and only just managed to brush against his senses. Chills lifted the hair on his arms, and he shivered. It was not a loon, nor the cry of a hunting owl… but it was familiar. Rising, he rubbed his arms to ward away the coolness of the summer’s night and took a steady breath, listening quietly, but there was nothing else.
Something twinkled amidst the brooding trees. He blinked as the little star winked out, and then reappeared, dancing with many other sparks of light.
Ember slowly rose to a crouch, reaching for Fishbiter as a glowing effeminate face materialized out of the nothingness. It was sorrowful and scattered, fragments and pieces of something he had once known as a whole.
For an instant, a graceful woman stood splendidly before him, flickering in and out before the fragments pulled apart again—held together tenuously, as if by an effort of will. His lips parted in a whisper of disbelief.
“Servant of the Oracles."
A familiar voice prickled him, more thought than spoken.
Ember of the Lost…
Flashes of celestial emotion threatened the calm of her untroubled mask.
“Wait—what are you doing here? How are you—?” He gaped, and his heart gave a jolt of alarm. “I thought you said you couldn’t leave—? Is this—”
He choked on the words, his vision blurring.
Is this my doing, too? Have I also brought you to harm somehow? Will you be alright?
"Do you need my help...?" he asked at last, a wondering worry.
The entity dissolved with a sigh, luminous ashes fluttering through the night, but there was scarcely time to acknowledge her sudden departure before an elegant hand took shape in front of his eyes, slender fingers beckoning.
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“Oh—do you know where I have to go?” Ember bolted upright, stricken, confused, and hopeful all at once. “Are you taking me to her—to Ky—?”
He reached out to take her hand, but his fingers passed through a few lingering sparks as they faded from view.
“Wait!” he hissed, scurrying through the rustling pines and down the steep embankment of stone and scrub brush. “I’m coming!”
Each time he felt sure to lose his way in the dark, another spark appeared with a melancholy sighing, though he was never sure if her voice was in his head or if it were only a breath of wind whispering through the ancient sentinels. The presence grew evermore faint, ever dimmer, until one last muttering gasp entreated him.
Beware…
He looked around frantically, hoping to snatch one more glimpse of that hand.
If he caught hold of it somehow, he would never let it go.
Ember had almost despaired when a pale green wisp flitted through the branches overhead. Before he could draw his sword, it vanished.
That was not the Servant of the Oracles.
Another shimmering orb appeared, this one a dreaming shade of blues and lilacs, floating down through the watchful wood. And a resonant summons rang out across the vale—a voice which belonged to no man nor earthly beast, for no mortal tongue could enchant so swiftly without words. Ember’s eyes welled as that single, crisp note floated up the ridge.
The call was soon carried away, but he knew he had only to follow the wisps of light, and he would encounter the source of it. Fumbling through the brambles and thick undergrowth, Ember leapt and slid his way downhill, catching himself against the trunks of trees as he ran. Occasionally he glimpsed a pale orb bobbing leisurely above the forest, but the wonder of wild magic held little enchantment for him here, now.
“Come… come…”
Ruins of the ancient road flashed through the foliage. When his feet hit the stones he scarcely paused to acknowledge it, and he did not slow or turn from his present course—the hill steepened, mist whispering across the lower ground, and he was hard-pressed to keep his footing in the snarl of bushes.
“To the wildwood,” the voice sang softly, “come…”
Huffing, he slowed his descent, a few of the orbs wafting past him and disappearing into darkness. The melody reminded him of something—before the mountain—before the door. Those days seemed as much a dream to him as the sleeping bower which Ky had built in his mind, yet that fleeting memory gave him pause.
A memory he had tried to forget.
A song which returned to him often in those dreams which were not dreams.
“Down, down, to the sea we shall fly…
Down where the salt winds blow…”
Ember lurched to a halt, fingers curled into the bark of a nearby pine and one foot lodged against a knobby root. Alluring breezes whispered up through the thickets. They brought with them a scent reminiscent of his river, cooling the sweat of his brow and rustling his hair, and he shivered again.
It sounded so very like her, and yet…
Ky never sang this song to me, he thought, dazed. Surely, if it were Ky... she would be calling my name.
That was not her voice.
Only a clever affectation of it.
It pulled at his heart regardless, conjuring the same insatiable allure he had felt among the blackwood trees of the Sisters’ Footstool, but it did not pluck the soft strings of his layered emotions the way that Ky’s voice often did, rearranging them into a melody which made sense to his troubled mind. These intonations were richer, deeper, fomenting an inner discordance and petitioning his baser inclinations.
“Mortal soul, come, sup with me,
Where the white waves froth below…”
Ember dragged in a breath of misty air and shouted over the spell: “There is no escaping from a demon in the night, for it lives in shades of shadows and we live in shapes of light!”
The old scrap brought him to his senses, and at once he fell to his knees, shuffling through decaying foliage in search of something he could only half-understand. He had to blot that voice from his mind.
“Down, down, down we shall go,
From the wild green woods to the shore…”
“Fly beyond the hills and fields, fly beyond the moors!” He gave up the hunt and stumbled down the slope, covering his ears. “But it will find you, it will come—”
“Son of man, come closer to me;
Be a part of me evermore.”
“Through fastened bolts and doors!”
Ember staggered to a halt beside two entwined trees near the bottom of the embankment. There, he dropped to his knees again, frantically pressing his fingers against the pitted earth.
Clay.
He gathered a sodden fistful, muttering nonsense under his breath before stumbling desperately onward, aware that he was bound to lose his most valuable asset apart from his eyes in these unfamiliar woods—but he dared not listen to one more word, for he was beginning to have the sense not that he had fallen into a dreaming sleep, but that a living dream was slowly awakening all around him.
“Death shall come to you and yours,” crooned the dread voice, “and death shall take you away—”
Ember packed the mud and clay densely over his ears, smoothing his fingers across his neck and flinging the rest away.
“When the pale moon sets and the stars are gone… before the break of day.”