FIVE      

PANTERRA WOKE AT SUNRISE. THE AIR WAS BITTER cold and he could see his breath cloud the air in front of his face. He rose quickly, walked to the front windows and looked out. The ground was thick with frost, a white coating of icy powder that sparkled in the faint first light. He moved to a different position, where he could see part of the upper stretches of Declan Reach. The snow line was down far enough that it was below the false horizon created by the cover of the trees.

He stared out at the mountains and the snow and the mist that hung like gauze across both and wondered that spring was so slow in coming.

Then he turned and hurried to the big stone hearth to make a fire, thinking back to another time. When he was a boy, his mother rose early to make the fire. It was always burning long before Pan woke, so that the house was warm and welcoming for him. His mother would be in the kitchen cooking, making him cakes or fry bread or some other sweet he favored. He’d smell sausage or a side of ham cooking, and there would be cold milk and hot ale set out on the table in large pitchers.

His mother would leave what she was doing and come to him at once, hugging him close, telling him good morning and letting him know how happy she was to have him.

He shook his head. It all seemed so long ago.

He knelt by the hearth, nursing sparks from the flint and tinder until the fire was going, and then added larger logs so that it would burn hot while he cooked. He brought out bread and meat and cheese and set them out. He boiled water for hot tea and set out two plates, cups, and cutlery. Everything was almost ready by the time Prue knocked on the door and peeked inside, as he knew she would.

“Is that for me?” she asked, indicating the second plate.

She knew it was, of course. It was their morning ritual when they were home after a long tracking. But she liked asking the question and he liked hearing her do so, so they continued to play the game long after it had grown familiar. Besides, he thought, there was no one else who would come to eat with him. Not uninvited, at least.

“Sit,” he invited, pulling over a thick cushion and tossing her a throw his mother had made.

She was still wearing the same clothes from last night, and she looked as if sleep might have been as difficult for her as it had been for him. She closed the door and hurried over, arms wrapped about her slender body.

“It’s freezing out there. Not like yesterday.” She sat, holding her hands out to the fire. “Do you think spring will ever get here? Or is nature just playing games with us?”

He shrugged. “Can’t be sure, but my guess is that winter’s pretty much done. You saw how the leaves were budding on the hardwoods lower down off the high country. Faster than usual and thicker. You saw the sky at sunset. The cold still deepens each morning, but I don’t expect it to be like that much longer.”

He poured hot water from the pot into a cup and held it out for her, then took one for himself. They sipped in silence, taking pleasure in the warming air of the cottage and in the comfort they found in the presence of each other. There was no reason to say much of anything right away. There would be time for talking later.

He served up the food and they ate it in silence, sitting cross-legged in front of the fire. Panterra was fully awake now and alert, thinking about what lay ahead come nightfall. He would go before the council and speak of what had happened yesterday. He would ask Prue not to speak, just to support him by her silent presence so that perhaps she would not be tainted by the remarks he would make. But he knew she would refuse. Keeping silent was the coward’s way, and Prue was never a coward. She would stand up for him and herself and for what she knew was right. That was how she was, how she had always been.

After breakfast was finished, they took the dishes to the kitchen and washed them in the old metal sink, using water that was hand-pumped from the well out back. The water was good in Glensk Wood. Wells were plentiful and tapped into a large aquifer that lay just to the northwest, toward the foothills. Food was easy to come by, too. Most of it grew wild, both fruits and vegetables, and hunting was a skill acquired by most at an early age. The balance of what was needed was grown in gardens and on small farms. Some of the communities struggled a bit more than Glensk Wood in the matter of food, but they had developed the skill to make tools and implements and so exchanged their goods for what they required. Trade among the villages of Men satisfied everyone’s needs, and when it didn’t there were always the Elves and the Lizards to provide what was missing. When the valley was first settled, it had taken a while for the communities to establish an order to things, to find their places in a supportive construct that let everyone live reasonably comfortably. But once they had settled in, trade had flourished.

Pan thought about the history of his valley world, a history that every child was taught nearly from birth. Not the part about the Hawk and his role in the past and future of the Saved, but of the way the relationships among the Races had evolved. The Races had separated shortly after their arrival, moving away from one another to establish their own boundaries within the confines of their new home. Men had settled in the south and west, the Elves had gone northeast, and the Lizards and Spiders, with their numbers much smaller, had made their homes in small corners in between.

The valley allowed for this separation because it was actually more than a single valley. It was a series of smaller valleys separated by natural barriers—woods, hills, lakes, and rivers, some smaller mountain ranges—all of it enclosed by the high peaks around which the mists formed their impassable barriers. The enclosure ran more than fifty miles west to east and almost a hundred north to south. Not an imposing distance, but one that allowed for territorial claims. It was said that there were countless more miles of land beyond the mists, and great bodies of water, as well. But no one living had ever seen them because no one living had ever been outside the mists.

This confinement had troubled no one for most of the time the Races had lived together. But that was changing. Even given the long period of adjustment and the strong network of relationships created through trade, a steady number had begun to wonder what lay beyond and if it could somehow be reached. The Children of the Hawk were a creation of Men, after all, and the other Races did not subscribe to its teachings. That was a reason for some of the tension that had built among the differing peoples. The Elves, for instance, believed it was their duty to go out into the world and restore it to what it had been before they were driven here by the massive destruction of the Great Wars. The Lizards were nomads, and the Spiders deeply reclusive. It was a poor fit, these disparate Races confined as they were, even given their acceptance of their fate. Their network of alliances and interdependencies would fly apart in a moment once they discovered the mists were breaking down.

As they were sure to do, Pan thought, if the Gray Man was right about what was happening.

“I’ve been thinking,” Prue said suddenly. They were putting away the last of the dishes they had washed. “Maybe we ought to reconsider speaking before the council.”

Her suggestion was so out of character that for a moment he just stared at her.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she said, frowning. “I don’t much like the idea, either. But it might be better to do as Trow suggested and to wait and see. Saying the wrong thing now could land us in a lot of trouble, Pan.”

She was right, of course, but they had known this from the first. “You’ve been speaking with Brickey, haven’t you?” he said.

“He came to the door last night, after talking with you.”

“I hope you didn’t let him in.”

She gave him a look. “He’s not dangerous, Pan. But no, I didn’t let him in; it was too late for that and I was tired. I did listen to what he had to say, though, and it makes some sense. Whatever else he is, he’s not stupid. He sees things pretty clearly. And he’s right about Skeal Eile. It’s dangerous to question his teachings.”

Pan had heard the rumors. Those who opposed the Seraphic almost always ended up changing their minds. Some were threatened with banishment from the community. Some suffered unfortunate accidents. Some went missing altogether. He looked down at his hands, still holding one of the plates. He set it down carefully. “I don’t intend to question his teachings or his beliefs. I don’t intend to do anything but repeat what Sider Ament told us. I promised to give his warning, that’s all.”

“I know you. It won’t stop there. You’ll be questioned on your story and you’ll fight back. It won’t help; it will only make things worse.”

He sighed. “So you want me to do nothing, Prue? That doesn’t sound like you.”

“I want you to think about asking Trow for Trackers to go up into the passes. If we had evidence, we could go before the council with a little more assurance that we wouldn’t be dismissed as children.”

“You think that’s how we’ll be seen?”

She nodded slowly. “I do.”

He didn’t say anything for a time, mulling it over. “Maybe you’re right. But I can’t back down just because of the way people might see me afterward. Not when it’s this important. If even a few are persuaded that there might be something to what Sider Ament says, then that’s reason enough.”

She gave him a small smile. “I thought that’s what you’d say. I told Brickey as much. You know what he said? He said it would surprise him if you said anything else.”

Panterra reached out and put his hands on her shoulders. “Guess I’m becoming a little too predictable.”

She moved between his arms and hugged him. “Well, that’s not a bad thing, Pan. Not a bad thing, at all.”

NIGHTFALL CAME SLOWLY, the day dragging in spite of Pan’s anticipation. He thought afterward about what he had done during its long, seemingly endless hours, and could remember barely anything. He spent some of it with Prue, but a lot of it alone, thinking. He stopped by to reassure a dour Trow Ravenlock that he had not changed his mind and intended to make his report as promised. The latter just shook his head and turned away. He thought about visiting his oldest sister, who lived with her husband and two boys in the next village over, but rejected the idea out of hand. Visiting meant explaining and explaining meant a whole new round of arguments about the advisability of what he had decided to do.

So the day passed and dusk descended, and all of a sudden it was time.

He went looking for Prue and found her waiting for him at the end of the walk, just come from her own house. She was wrapped in warm furs and wore beneath them her Tracker’s leathers. She smiled cheerfully and took his arm. “Are you all ready?” she asked.

“Me? I thought you were the one who was going to tell them,” he joked, and gave her a shove.

They walked over to Council House, the village meeting hall and the building in which most community business was conducted. It was another longhouse, similar to the one in which the Trackers gathered, only much larger. This one could easily hold five hundred people, if you filled the balcony seats as well as the floor benches. Panterra had expected a reasonable turnout; meetings such as these were open to the public and always drew some interested parties. But he was surprised to find the hall packed to the rafters. Every seat was taken, and those who had come late were forced to stand in the back or on the sides against the walls, where they crowded in two- and three-deep.

Apparently word had gotten out that he intended to speak. Those attending had at least an inkling of his news. He saw in the looks directed at him and the whispers exchanged that they were not happy about it.

His gaze swept the hall swiftly, taking everything in. The room was hot with bodies crammed together and the fire that blazed out of the massive stone hearth at the far end. Torches threw down pools of flickering yellow light from brackets affixed to the walls around the room. Great ceiling fans carried the smoke away through ceiling vents, their blades turning slowly on pulleys hand-operated by men in the corners. The ceiling itself was high and dark, and the rafters were dim forms in the shadows of the center beam’s vaulted peak.

Panterra glanced at Prue, who suddenly looked scared. She was a loner who preferred life lived outside villages in the wild, where she felt free and unencumbered. This was more people than she had seen in one place in years. Clearly, she didn’t like it.

“Don’t look at them,” he whispered to her, bending close. “Look at me, if you have to look at someone.”

They saw Trow, who beckoned them forward to chairs directly opposite the council table. Several members of the council were already gathered, chatting with one another until they caught sight of him; then conversation ceased momentarily as they stared. Pan didn’t like how that made him feel. He already sensed an undercurrent of discontent from those gathered. He kept reminding himself he was only the messenger, and the message was not his own.

But Panterra Qu was no fool. He knew this was not going to make any difference, that the message was going to become his the moment he voiced it.

Prue gripped his arm and hung on to it as he made his way forward. They sat down next to Trow, who nodded without speaking and looked away. Panterra felt a pang of disappointment in the Tracker leader. He should have been more supportive; he should have tried to do more for the men and women he led. It seemed to Pan that he had decided to do nothing, that he had made a conscious choice to distance himself from this entire business.

He looked around for Aislinne, but there was no sign of her. The only ally he might find at this gathering, and she wasn’t even there. He wanted to ask Trow where she was, but he resisted the impulse.

A little more time passed as other members of the community pushed into the packed hall, their voices raising the volume in the already noisy room. Panterra tried not to listen; he tried to calm himself in the way his mother had taught him—by thinking of other things. He fixed his eyes on the great hearth and its roaring fire, blazing up from behind the huddled council members, and let himself disappear into the flames. He tried thinking of his family when he was young, of the happiness he had enjoyed growing up. When that didn’t work, he tried thinking of the woods and the mountains, of his life as a Tracker.

He was still working at staying calm and centered in his thoughts when Pogue Kray entered the hall from a side door and took his seat at the center of the council table. He was a big, burly man with a blacksmith’s arms and shoulders, his movements slow and ponderous. Once, he had been a formidable figure, all muscle and hard planes. But his belly had taken over as his predominant feature, and now he looked settled and soft. His bluff face was black-bearded and sun-scorched, and he had the look of someone eternally dissatisfied with life’s lot.

He was trailed by the Seraphic, Skeal Eile, wrapped in his white robes, his strong face held high and proud as he kept his eyes on a place just above the faces of all who turned to study him, unaffected by and distanced from their prying looks. He remained standing, placing himself just behind and to the right of Pogue Kray.

The council leader rapped his huge hand on the hard surface of the table and signaled for attention. Slowly but surely, the hall quieted to silence.

“This room will come to order and remain so,” the big man declared, sweeping the chamber with his black gaze. “The business of the council will not be interrupted by voices speaking out of turn or by ill-advised demonstrations. Should any of this come to pass, my keepers of the peace will act swiftly. Is that understood?”

Apparently, it was. No one said anything.

“Very well.” Kray was satisfied. “We are here at the request of one of Trow Ravenlock’s Trackers, who has asked to give us his report personally. Is that Tracker present and ready?”

He looked at Trow, who got to his feet. “He is, Council Leader.”

“Then let him speak.”

All eyes fixed on Panterra as he rose. He glanced about quickly, but there was still no sign of Aislinne. He didn’t hesitate further; he started talking at once—before he had a chance to lose his courage—relating the events of the previous day. He kept his eyes on Pogue Kray as he spoke and did not look at Skeal Eile, aware that the Seraphic was studying him intently from behind the council leader’s chair. He tried not to hurry his report or to make it too sensational, but to keep it straightforward and accurate. He started with how Prue and he had come across the tracks of the creatures—tracks they could not identify—and begun following them. He continued with their discovery of the remains of Bayleen and Rausha, their efforts at further tracking their friends’ killers, the ambush and attack by the creatures, and their rescue at the hands of the Gray Man.

He closed by repeating the latter’s warning, and when he finished the entire assembly broke out in a wild cacophony of voices shouting and crying out in a mix of anger and doubt and fear.

Pogue Kray rose to his feet, his giant frame looming over everyone. He gave it only a moment, and then roared for silence, pounding his fist on the table once again. The quieting took longer this time, but eventually the room was still once more.

“There will be no more of that!” the council leader snapped, looking from face to face, eyes dark and fierce. “I told you what would happen, and if there is another such outburst I will empty the room and the rest will be heard by the council alone!”

“Perhaps that is best in any case?” Skeal Eile suggested in his low, compelling voice from over the other’s shoulder.

Pogue Kray shook his head. “This session will continue as before. Young man. Panterra Qu, isn’t it? You seem certain of your story. But its parts are both clear and yet still vague in my mind. Enlighten me on a few of its points. How is it that Sider Ament came to find you when he hasn’t been seen in the valley in months?”

“He had been tracking the creatures, too—from where he found they had breached the mists,” Panterra answered. “He caught up to us just in time to keep us from being killed.”

“You and this young lady,” the big man said. He turned to Prue. “Is this boy’s story as you remember it? Or are there things you wish to add or subtract?”

Prue rose to stand next to Pan. “Everything happened exactly as he said it did. I would change nothing.”

“Still, it is an incredible tale, with ramifications that I don’t think either of you appreciate,” Pogue Kray pointed out. “Perhaps you need further time to consider the reliability of your memories.”

Skeal Eile stepped forward once more. “Your advice is well given, Council Leader,” he said. “These are young people with little experience in the world. They tell a wild tale, one that suits their age and inexperience but strains belief. What they remember might not be exactly what they saw at the time. Is there any physical proof of what they tell us?”

Pogue Kray nodded at Panterra. “Answer him.”

Panterra shook his head reluctantly. “No, we have no physical proof. The swamp swallowed the creature that was killed. The other escaped. Sider Ament went after him.”

“The wild man who lives as a hermit on the high slopes of our valley, the man who disdains the company of other men and pretends at being our guardian, carrying a relic that may or may not have come from another time.” He shook his head in dismay. “No one has ever seen this staff do the things you say you saw it do, young Panterra. Things of magic from out of the old world, things no one has seen in centuries. Not even the Elves. Isn’t it possible that you are mistaken in what you saw?”

Panterra shook his head. “I know what I saw. I am a Tracker. I am not easily deceived.”

“But you admit that deception is a possibility, even for a Tracker as skilled as you?” Skeal Eile stepped in smoothly, eyes locking on Panterra. “I know your reputation. You have special talent. But all of us can be tricked by our own senses and the deliberate deceptive efforts of others. That could have happened here.”

Without waiting for Pan’s response, Skeal Eile turned to the assembled members of the community, raising his hands to draw their eyes and hold them.

“Listen to me, now. Listen carefully. This story lacks foundation in the teachings of the Hawk. It goes contrary to everything we know to be true. For centuries, we have been kept safe by following those teachings, by studying them as we would the rules of life, by keeping them close to our hearts. To dismiss them now, to toss them aside as if they meant nothing, would be a travesty beyond understanding. And all on the word of a boy and a girl who rely heavily on what they heard and saw while in the company of a man whose origins and purposes are suspect in the extreme?”

His hands swept the air and came down again. “We are the Children of the Hawk, and we know what the Hawk promised us. We know that he led us here to keep us safe and that when it is time to go out into the larger world again, when it is safe for us to do so, he will come for us. He will come as a sign or in the flesh reborn, but he will come. There will be no ending of the mists, no falling down of the protective wall, no intrusion of the world left behind, until the madness shut outside our homeland is dispelled forever. And he will be the one to bring us this message, not some hermit who has no better sense than to spread wild rumors.”

A slow muttering had grown to a low chanting that filled the room and drew together the assemblage. Panterra glanced around uneasily, not able to quite grasp the words, but disliking their tone. Prue took his arm to catch his attention and shook her head, apparently thinking he was about to do something. Was he? He turned back to Pogue Kray.

“What if he’s right?” he asked the council leader, lifting his voice so that everyone could hear it. “What if Sider Ament speaks the truth?”

“Careful, boy,” Skeal Eile said quickly. “Your words verge on blasphemy. You risk your salvation as a Child of the Hawk.”

Again the voices rose to shouts, sprinkled now with epithets that were clearly audible. Pogue Kray rose yet again, and yet again slammed his fist on the table.

The crowd quieted, but the dark looks remained.

“If you would speak, do so one at a time!” Pogue Kray rumbled blackly, his eyes sweeping the assemblage. “And do so with some care.”

“I would speak,” a voice from the very back of the room declared, a voice that caused Panterra to turn at once.

Aislinne Kray stepped out of the crowd at the back of the room and made her way forward. She was a tall, striking woman with long blond hair gone almost white, finely chiseled features that made her appear much younger than she was, and a determined walk that brooked no interference. Those in her way stepped back quickly, and voices went silent once more.

When she reached the front of the room, she turned slightly so that she was addressing everyone. “I am ashamed for you,” she said quietly but firmly. “Ashamed and disappointed. What kind of people would attack a boy and a girl like this? I stand among you and hear you speak words like heretic and demon-spawn. I hear you suggest that they be cast out if they refuse to recant. A boy and a girl you have known all your lives. A boy and a girl who have proven themselves among the best of our Trackers, who have time and again done service to this village and its people by carrying out their duties with skill and dedication. Never once have their actions been questioned. Never once have they done anything to earn your scorn.”

She paused, looking directly at Skeal Eile. “But now, for doing nothing more than bringing before you a message that could have significance for us all—and for keeping a promise made to a man who saved their lives—you would cast all that aside? You would declare them villains and worse?”

“Enough, wife,” Pogue Kray interrupted wearily. “We take your point. But you must consider ours. This message casts doubt on everything we have held as truth for five centuries. We cannot accept that lightly.”

“Nor do I say you should, husband,” Aislinne replied pointedly. “Incidentally, I am a member of this council, too. It would be reasonable for you to give me notice of these meetings.”

“You were fifteen miles hence, in Woodstone Glen.” But Pogue Kray looked uncomfortable.

“Too far for someone to come fetch me, I guess.” She was looking at Skeal Eile again. “But someone did fetch me, so here I am, and now I will be heard. Seraphic, you seem threatened by what this boy has to say. Can that be so? Are his words too dangerous to hear?”

“His words directly contradict the teachings of our sect,” the other man replied, his voice gone smooth and pleasant once more. “We know our teachings to be truth. His words, therefore, must be lies.”

“There is no objective scale by which to measure truth, Skeal Eile, when that truth is not written down. What we have are teachings passed by word of mouth over five centuries. There is room for error.”

The muttering resumed suddenly, a low and sullen murmur, and Aislinne Kray wheeled on the crowd. “Are you thinking that I’m a heretic, too? Is anyone who questions the teachings of Skeal Eile automatically a heretic? Must we hew to the doctrine of the sect without question, or are we allowed to think for ourselves? Those the Hawk brought into this valley were people smart enough and strong enough to think for themselves or they would not have gotten here. Are we, their descendants, expected to do differently?”

The voices died away. The silence was huge. “No one questions others’ right to think for themselves, Aislinne Kray,” Skeal Eile said softly, his smooth, calming voice drawing everyone back. “But we are not given the right or the leeway to blindly accept that for which there is no basis in fact. I do not dismiss the boy’s story. I do not brand him a heretic. I simply point out the obvious. His message flies in the face of our teachings and is delivered by a man who has not been one of us for many years.”

“Then this council session should end here and now, with no further disparagement of young Panterra,” she snapped. “He has kept his promise and delivered the message, and that is the end of it. If something more needs doing, I am sure our council leader will see to it that it is done.”

“You do not decide when this council adjourns or when its work is done!” Pogue Kray thundered.

She gave him a look and then wheeled away, long hair fanning out as she turned. “Come, Panterra. You look as if you could use a glass of ale and a hot meal. Prue Liss, you come with me, too. Whatever else needs doing, it can keep until tomorrow.”

“I have further questions to ask of these Trackers, Aislinne,” Skeal Eile called after her, stepping forward as if he might try to detain them. “There are issues raised by their message that clearly fall within the purview of the Children of the Hawk. Our jurisdiction in such matters is not—”

“Tomorrow will be soon enough for your questions,” Aislinne called back to him over her shoulder. She didn’t slow or look around. “Good night to you. Panterra? Prue?”

Panterra glanced quickly at Pogue Kray, whose black brows were lowered and glowering. He waved them off with one beefy hand, dismissing them. “Go with her,” he ordered, ignoring the fresh protestations of Skeal Eile, who was bent over his shoulder and whispering in his ear. He rose to his feet and slammed his fist on the table. “Council is dismissed.”

Panterra and Prue hurried to catch up with Aislinne, and in seconds they were through the door and into the empty black night.