Swords of the Six (29 page)

* * *

Specter stepped into the clearing after the enraged birds had departed. Invisible beneath his hooded robes, he approached Dantress. The energy she was exerting to heal the man must have been enormous. She was hunched over him, her hand glowing such a brilliant blue that it looked ready to burst into a million fragments.

When she'd done all she could—and she
had
done everything possible to save the man's life—she slumped over his body. Her eyes closed.

Specter did not dare intervene. First of all, Patient the shepherd was wise. If he believed that Dantress must do this on her own, then so be it. Secondly, the man's pet Nuvitor still stood guard, and it could apparently rally, if need be, a deadly following of its species at a moment's notice. He did not need his presence revealed. That would only serve to irritate an already ugly situation.

Or had he misjudged the situation? Perhaps things were not all they appeared to be.

Beside him, he sensed the shepherd observing from concealment in the trees. His face showed neither fear nor concern. Perhaps the wise old man knew best.

Suddenly the sky was rent with a thunderous sound, and Specter saw the great white dragon, with wings spread to embrace the air, descend to the pool. As he splashed into the water, Albino waved a clawed hand at the alarmed Nuvitor.

Immediately the bird collapsed to the ground, her chest heaving rhythmically as if in a deep sleep.

Towering over his daughter, yet not touching her or the man, Albino gazed upon them. "Patient," he rumbled, "it is time they see what we know."

Specter approached the dragon and bowed low. "Master."

"You have done well, Specter." The dragon's pink eyes gazed upon him. "The child is now safe and so is my daughter. Tell me . . . did you have any problems with the delivery?"

"No, Master. The boy is safe."

"Very well, then stand back and conceal yourself once again. My daughter will need you for a short while longer and then I will have a new task for you."

Cloaking himself with the garments of invisibility, Specter backed to the tree line.

The shepherd knelt next to Dantress and the man. The staff he laid on the ground while he placed one hand on the side of her head and then placed his other on the man's. His eyes closed and held his position. He was as unwavering as a statue, his head was bared.

Nothing appeared to happen. But Specter knew that inside the minds of the young couple a lesson, a truth, or some prophecy was being played out.

Patient picked up his staff some time afterward. The dragon stooped and the old man straddled his neck. Then, crouching down to the surface of the pool, Albino flung himself into the sky and shot into the northeast.

Specter waited a long while for Dantress and the man to wake. The Nuvitor did so before either of them and, by the way she waddled around, he guessed she was feeling a bit disoriented by Albino's seemingly magical power.

But Dantress and Ilfedo did not rouse for a long while.

* * *

At first Ilfedo thought that the fertile field stretching into the distant orange horizon was Heaven. Wildflowers of bright yellow, deep blue, and smooth ivory grew on all sides up to his knees. Butterflies, with black wings speckled white, danced from blossom to blossom, dipping long proboscises into the nectar-filled hearts of the plants. The multitude of the delicate winged creatures was so great that they might as well have been leaves falling from the sky.

Then it happened—a lone figure walked toward him through the field. Her long dark hair framed her smooth face, and tears dripped from her dark eyes onto her white dress.

Ilfedo shielded his eyes from the dress as light reflected off of it. But he did not keep his eyes guarded for long. Stepping forward, he met her halfway and faced her.

She was so beautiful . . .. Her countenance changed as she saw him. The line of her lips responded with a delicate smile, and she reached toward him. But she stopped herself as her fingers brushed his sleeve and shame clouded her inner joy.

As her eyes looked at the ground, she lowered her head. Sorrow seemed to pour from her soul, dimming the purity of her garment from brilliant white to light gray.

Ilfedo raised her chin so that her eyes returned his gaze. The feel of her skin was real to his touch, and he knew without knowing exactly how that this was not a vision or a dream. Nor was it Heaven. He had died—or nearly so. And her soul had somehow followed him to keep him from passing over the gap into the next world.

The butterflies scattered to his left, and he turned. An old man stood there now, amid the flowers. He held a shepherd's curved staff in his hand, and his blue eyes returned Ilfedo's gaze.

"A greater treasure you will never find in this world, Ilfedo," the shepherd said, pointing at the young woman, "than the treasure of a virgin bride whose eyes look to you for love."

Ilfedo redirected his gaze back to the young woman. Her dark eyes brimmed with tears. How the shepherd knew his name he did not know. At the moment—it didn't matter.

"Then why?" He picked his words with care. "Why did she attack me?"

The shepherd stepped forward. His blue eyes settled their gaze on the young woman, and his hand patted her shoulder. She gazed back, a tear rolling down each cheek. "Have no fear of her, Ilfedo," the shepherd said. "Her actions toward you were instinctual and not malicious. When you reached for your sword, she took action. When you lay dying—
she
treated your wounds.

"Now, behold!" the shepherd stabbed his staff into the ground and reached out with both wrinkled hands, taking the young woman's smooth hand in one and Ilfedo's large one in the other. "Destinies intertwined to the daughter of promise and a son of man. A future of hope mixed with days of evil and despair sprouts from the seed of love here sown."

The shepherd vanished into thin air. Not a trace of him could be seen.

Ilfedo was left alone with the young woman, her beautiful eyes begging his forgiveness even as he held her hand gently in his own. The feeling of attraction that he had toward her made this an uncomfortable situation—them, twain, alone in a field filled with flowers and butterflies—but he made no move to leave and she did not withdraw her hand from his, so he swallowed hard and looked down at her.

Suddenly, just as their gazes locked, a white light sprang from between their hands. In its midst a seed appeared, the shell dried. Spidery cracks formed upon its surface. The roots and stalk of a tree grew forth, separating him from her. He watched her fall back, thrown by the rapidly spreading tree. His own chest ached where the tree's roots struck him.

He stood, raced around the tree, and reached out to her. Her eyes widened as the roots grabbed at her skirt. He offered his arm, she eagerly grabbed it, and he pulled her clear. They stood a little distance away, his arm around her small waist.

Her arms found their way around his chest and held tight.

Warmth surged unbidden through his body. He put his other hand over her arm. He would not let go.

With marvel they watched the tree growing from the seed. It planted itself in the earth. The branches reached the limit of their size. A single apple, small and red, appeared several feet above their heads. It swung from between several large green leaves. Crimson drops, like blood, fell from the apple's skin to the ground.

A shadow covered the field and the tree. The butterflies that had flitted from flower to flower burst apart. Their wings turned into a million small clouds of dust that drifted to the ground. Darkness rolled from the horizon.

Crimson roots spiked out of the ground where the apple's blood fell. Impaled upon them were the miniature forms of men and dragons. The men struggled and the dragons screamed, but in the end their bodies surrendered to death.

During the silence that followed, the temperature dropped a dozen degrees.

The voice of the shepherd spoke, and he appeared before them. "Do not fear." He waved his arm. "There will be light in the darkness; a hope in the time of evil."

Having thus said, the shepherd touched them both lightly on their shoulders. Immediately the field and the tree faded around them.

* * *

Ilfedo had never felt as strange in all his life as he did the moment he opened his eyes to find the weight of the young woman lying across his chest. The smell of her hair draped over him was as fragrant as flowers. For the moment her eyes were closed, the arc of her dark brows sloped above them as twin arches.

With a twist of his finger, Ilfedo tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear. Though he needn't have, he felt almost guilty for marveling at how smooth her skin was. But he couldn't help noticing; it was like touching warm silk, like that sample he'd once examined in the coastal towns.

He felt his own face. Not at all the same. It seemed the wilderness had left him with little more than ruts and ditches where it had left hers without a flaw.

She was coming around now. Her eyelids blinked open, her dark eyes returning his stare. He felt like melting into those eyes, losing himself in their depths. Had she not saved his life? Had she not been there, also, at the threshold of death? By the will of the Creator they'd returned alive.

In the few moments that it took for him to contemplate these things, the young woman suddenly realized their awkward situation. She rose, a bit of color painting her cheeks like twin cherries. Standing, she clasped her hands before her until he propped himself on his elbows.

Surprisingly, he felt no queasiness or dizziness when he sat up. Beside him Hasselpatch stirred as if from sleep. Her beak gaped open in a yawn that allowed him a clear view into her pink throat.

Ilfedo stood and dusted off his pants. He gave the young woman a gentle smile. He still felt uncomfortable about the strange interest that fate seemed to have taken in his life, but he wasn't about to let that stop him from getting to know this forest maiden better.

"What happened?" He cleared his throat in as unobtrusive a manner as possible. Only moments ago he had held her in his arms; only moments before that she had attacked him.

"A prophecy, I think." She hesitated for a few moments, something else on the tip of her tongue. "I really am sorry about your hand, Ilfedo."

"It feels fine now," he said, clenching and unclenching his fist, then spreading his fingers. "Whatever you did—it worked."

"I'm glad." A smile lit her face.

"Wait!" He shook his head, confused. "My name . . . how do you know my name?"

"But surely you know." Her eyes seemed to dance. "When I came to you in the field . . . the prophet called you by name."

That had not occurred to him. He chuckled at the simplicity of it.

"You find that amusing?" she asked.

"No. Just too easy." He scratched his chin. It needed a good shaving. "That explains how
you
know, but it fails to explain how the old man did."

"Have you met a prophet before?"

He smiled again. "No, I suppose not."

"Then there you are!" She poked him suddenly in the ribs and laughed. "A true prophet
would
know your name. And he wouldn't have to ask you because he receives revelation from the Creator."

Prudence kept Ilfedo from poking her back. Instead he made a slight bow and fastened her eyes with his gaze. "Now that you know
my
name . . . may I know yours?"

"Dantress," she said. She looked down at her sword stuck in the ground. Pulling aside the fold in her outer skirt, she revealed the concealed sheath. Grasping the hilt of her weapon she forced its rusted blade into the scabbard.

"
Dantress
." Ilfedo picked up his sword as well and buckled it around his waist. "Walk with me?" His words came out soft, hopeful.

Closing the purple fabric of her outer skirt over the sword, Dantress looked back up at him. "I'd love to."

Ilfedo reached down to the ground, scooped up Hasselpatch. "Master, oh Master!" A silver tear rolled from the bird's eye. "It is good to see you alive and well." Her talons clasped his arm as he raised her level with his shoulder. With short strokes he massaged her feathered chest.

The bird snapped its silver beak at Dantress. "He'll not fall for your charms, Witch!"

"Hasselpatch!" Ilfedo frowned. "This was all a misunderstanding. Don't speak to her that way. This is Dantress—"

"A name?! You asked her for her name?" The bird screeched. Her talons bit into his arm, and he cringed.

But the bird's demeanor changed. Her grip relaxed on his arm, and she cocked her pure white head to look at Dantress. Ilfedo was puzzled. The bird and the young woman seemed to communicate in silence for the better part of five minutes.

Fluffing her feathers, Hasselpatch seemed to end the conversation. Dantress reached out with one hand and smiled up at Ilfedo. Her fingers stroked the bird's chest, and Hasselpatch cooed approval.

"Hasselpatch." Ilfedo stirred the bird from its trance. "I'm going to be staying here for a while. I need you to return to the others and let them know I'm all right." The bird spread its wings to their full span. He threw her into the air and called after her. "Tell no one where I am and tell them nothing of what has transpired here."

Flapping her wings and tucking her silver talons into her feathered underbelly, Hasselpatch circled. "As Yimshi shines upon us all, it will be as you say, Master." She flew east over the trees.

Ilfedo turned to Dantress. "I don't know what you did, but it seems to have worked."

"I have the ability to communicate with creatures, my mind to theirs." She said it with such nonchalance that he marveled. It sounded like an incredible lie, but her eyes were sober and honest.

He shrugged it off, reminding himself that, crazy as it would have sounded to his friends, he had been led to this encounter by a series of visions and dreams. There was something different about Dantress. She looked human enough and the legends of his ancestors included people who were endowed with special powers by the Creator. If it was true that she possessed powers, then the Creator must have given them to her for a reason.