Brealoth Woodheart's Arc

Chapter 4 of 4

Brealoth followed the poacher's trail east. The tracks pressed clear in the mud at first. Then the sun dropped behind the ridge. Shadows swallowed the ground. He knelt and ran his fingers over a bootprint. Already the edges blurred into the dark. He could not read what he could not see. The hollow lay ahead, and the trail was slipping away. He stood and searched the black wall of trees. Nothing. He had failed the stag's test to chase this threat. Now the threat was slipping from his hands too. He closed his eyes and listened for water, for wind, for anything that pointed the way. A light moved through the brush. Not a torch. A soft glow, low to the ground. A boy stepped from the trees. He was small, with white hair and green eyes. Antlers rose from his head and shimmered like scattered starlight. Where his feet should have been, he walked on hooves. He wore plain green robes. He looked young, but his eyes did not. Brealoth's chest tightened before the boy spoke. He knew that feeling. He had felt it in the deep wood, when something ancient turned to watch him. He dropped to one knee. "You're the stag," he said. "I am August," the boy said. "You left my test." "An animal was crying," Brealoth said. "I chose it over you." "Yes." August tilted his head. "That was the test." Brealoth stared at him. The boy walked closer. His hooves made no sound on the leaves. "The wood is going quiet," August said. "The roots have stopped speaking. You cleared the traps. You carried the wounded. You did these things while no one watched." He stopped an arm's length away. "The trail is dark. You cannot follow it alone." "No," Brealoth admitted. August reached up and touched two fingers to Brealoth's brow. The touch was cold, then warm. Brealoth gasped. The dark peeled back like fog burning off water. He saw every branch, every wet stone, every strand of moss. He saw the poacher's tracks glowing faint on the ground, leading east, plain as noon. He rose slowly. Around him, small tulip-shaped blossoms lifted from the brush. Tiny winged bodies stirred inside them. They drifted up and sang, a bright rising chorus, thin and glad. They sang of a protector come at last. "They know you now," August said. "Why give me this?" Brealoth asked. "Because the wood needs its guardian awake in the dark." August's eyes held his. "This is not the crown. Not yet. You have not paid its price. But you will see the way. Follow it." Brealoth looked east. The trail burned clear through the trees, all the way toward the hollow. The singing blossoms circled his shoulders. When he turned back, the boy was gone. Only the light remained, and it lived in Brealoth's own eyes now. He set his hand on his knife and walked east into the night.