The Simbul's Gift Read Free Page B

Bro settled against one of the great trees that still grew here and there in the farmland, sentries of the vanished Yuirwood. He closed his eyes and opened his thoughts to Relkath Many-Branched, as Rizcarn had taught him to do.
    Relkath was Lord of Trees, Godhead of the Yuirwood and buried so deep in time and memory that listening for his voice was like listening for the splash of a single raindrop during a summer storm.
    If no one listens, Rizcarn had said, why should Relkath Many-Limbed ever talk to us again? If enough of the Cha’Tel’Quessir listen—truly listen—he’ll hear our faith.
    Bro remembered his father’s words better than he remembered his voice or his face. He could summon Rizcarn’s particulars: his deep, mottled, copper-green skin, raven hair, even darker eyes, and flashing, ivory teeth. His laughter, always faintly mocking, even at the last, when Rizcarn had balanced on the tree limb, chiding everyone for clumsiness a moment before he slipped and crashed headfirst onto the hard ground.
    Bro could see
that
image—his father, facedown, limp, lifeless and odd-angled—but try as he might, Bro couldn’t fit the living pieces together.
    When Shali first brought him to Sulalk, Bro had come to this tree to grieve. He’d grown too old for tears. Today, as it had been for at least two years, he was simply numb and empty, thinking nothing, until there were voices and laughter coming along the path. Bro recognized one of thevoices: Varnnet, a farmer’s son a few years older than him; the other voice belonged to a stranger, a woman, one of Gudnor’s eligible nieces.
    Bro made himself small in the tree’s shadow. He’d tangled with Varnnet a few times and never come out the victor. It would be worse if Varnnet thought there was a woman at stake. Bro told anyone who asked that the Sulalk women didn’t stir him in the least, but that was another lie. His heart leapt to the sound of a woman’s laughter, the sway of her skirt as she walked past.
    â€œYou’re growing up, Ember,” Shali had said when he first confessed his wayward thoughts. “Soon the girls will notice you and you’ll be breaking hearts until you fall in love yourself. I’ll lose my son to another woman!”
    Her conclusions frightened Bro as few things frightened him: he’d become a stranger in his own body and his mother laughed! It was better now, or he’d grown more accustomed to the way his idle thoughts slewed. Bro drew his knees up to his chin and wrapped his arms around his ankles as the merrymaking voices came closer.
    Walk on by, he thought, squeezing his eyes shut, as if his thoughts were wishes. I’m ignoring you, not looking at you at all, there’s no reason for you to see me. Why did I come to this tree? It’s too close to the path to Gudnor’s farm.
    As Bro’s luck would have it, they stopped on the tree’s other side. The woman’s light, musical voice was enough to drive Bro mad, especially when he felt the fringes of her skirt brush lightly against his arm. Varnnet, surely, was standing nearby, fists cocked, waiting to pound a luckless Cha’Tel’Quessir rival. Bro gritted his teeth till his jaw ached. His pulse was loud enough to drown out the laughter.
    â€œZandilar!”
    That was her voice, her name, her breath on the back of Bro’s neck, teasing him while Varnnet flexed his muscles. Desperate, Bro flailed an arm, expecting disaster, finding only air beside him.
    â€œLeave me alone! Gods curse on you—”
    He opened his eyes. There was no one nearby: no dancing girl, no bully waiting with his fists. The humans had passed. The laughter—Bro still heard laughter—came from elsewhere.
    â€œZandilar!”
    The name reminded him of the Yuirwood and nights with his father, but he couldn’t place it precisely.
    â€œFine, young man, come dance with me!”
    Locks of Bro’s hair