The Preveza hummed as refugees from the the outer wealds swarmed around it. For once, the rustling of men drowned out the voices of the forest. A single screech echoed above the treetops, and a shadow soared against the sun, but there were only reminders of the life that had fled from the Wildwood.
So many Zikia gathered in one place should have meant celebration, pranks, and laughter. While there was laughter and joy as families were reunited, it seemed too quick, too loud. Their lips rattled with rumor and warning, praise and excitement, often in the same breath.
A huddled mass of grim, ash-dusted faces trudged past Vata-Mira as they made their way to the strange door. The shimmering leaves appeared to remain still as refugees passed through, but that couldn’t be right. That must have been a trick of weary eyes. Before the entrance, the refugees clumped and pressed against the walls, giant ironwoods growing thick and fused at the trunks. Some waited patiently for their turn to disappear within the emerald leaves, but many pushed their way through, sending ripples through the crowd.
Knocked loose from the edge of the refugees, a man staggered toward Vata-Mira. He may have once been a warrior, but now he sagged under his own weight. The edges of his tunic had frayed. Rips and scorch marks revealed puckered flesh near his elbows and shoulders.
Vata-Mira tightened her grip on her sister’s hand, pulling her closer. She positioned herself between Bija and the displaced man, mustering the sternness she remembered on her mother’s face. She had never approved of their excursions away from the Tangle, but that was the only reason they escaped the Durani.
He took another wobbly step forward.
He collapsed at Vata-Mira’s feet, shuddering and mumbling. “Khudram?” He called for his daughter repeatedly until the syllables fragmented and slipped from his mouth in a mess of unintelligible murmurs.
She’d felt a burning fever when they first set out, but that passed. Only a lingering shiver seized her now. She pulled her cloak tighter and plunged into the crowd with Bija, leaving the stranger twitching in the undergrowth.
An ashen face poked out from beneath a hood pulled low, whispering so only Vata-Mira could hear. The stranger’s eyes flashed. “The fire is alive. It seeks vengeance.” Then the stranger plunged further into the crowd.
She masked a shiver as she patted Bija’s head.
“You did,” she said, gathering the folds of her dress and crossing her arms indignantly.
Another ripple in the crowd interrupted, voices raised in cheer. Hands clapped and waved as the refugees parted for a group of haggard soldiers. They didn’t march so much as mosey purposely forward, appearing quite unorganized, yet showing a swagger that hinted they were no less formidable for their lax appearance. They bore no heraldry, no banners, and their armor seemed assembled piecemeal, scavenged from many battlefields. These soldiers wore a mix of brass scale, fastened with leather scraps, a steel pauldron here, a gauntlet there. They were oddities, orphans, and renegades. They were the Untamed.
A bear of a Zikian with a nettlescamp on his shoulder trailed after a gaunt Urugal with a necklace of bones bouncing against her collar—a strange pair, to say the least. In the center of their group, nobles from each of the wealds had gathered. Some wore garlands of flowers around their necks, while others had woven wildgrass, net-like in appearance, draped over their heads. Though a few looked uneasy as they reached the clasping oaks, they plunged through the leaf-covered entrance all the same. The silver-haired woman and the knight with the black tree sigil joined the procession, sliding in unnoticed by the soldiers.
Perhaps strangest of all was a single knight in golden armor, feathers sticking out from his helm. Two sparrows twittered on his shoulder, seemingly unmindful of the crowd. They chirped and sang, and the odd knight whistled, mimicking their calls.
A boyish figure in a tattered cloak strode near the rear of the procession, locked in conversation with a red-haired warrior. A hammer swung from one of her hips, and the curved head of an axe gleamed on the other. Beneath the slender figure’s rags, hints of deep green plate showed through. Vata-Mira thought she recognized something about this woman, an echo of command or some lost detail of nobility she couldn’t place.
As the procession passed, even the most ashen and empty faces grew animated, their lips trembling joyously as the last figures went by. “Bringer of Thorns,” they chanted, though it was unclear for whom the title was meant.
Bija tugged on Vata-Mira’s hand. The older sister bent down, getting low enough to be face to face with her. “Who are they?” Bija whispered the question as if afraid the members of the motley band might hear her.
“They’re our future,” Vata-Mira replied.
In the hidden clearing, some elders marveled while the most senior remained stone-faced, though still their collective gaze crept through the entrance of the Preveza to the wall of trees that enclosed them. Through the opening, the light of day flooded into the clearing with a blinding brilliance. Filled with refugees, the ancient and overgrown hand in the center of the open space had all but vanished, its rounded fingers disappearing and reappearing between hurried mothers and children chasing one another through the camp.
If Ajin hadn’t been reminded of the failures she’d witnessed here, she might have taken a moment to regard it with more care. No, this place, whatever magic it might hold, had become another breeding ground for the scheming and political maneuvering she despised. She’d hoped she wouldn’t have to return, but here she was, waiting as the elders found their carved stump seats.
“Follow me,” she said, turning to Vanya. His gaze lingered on a unfurled paper in his hand, a note in familiar handwriting.
“There’s no time,” he said.
She grabbed him by the wrist and pulled, following the markings on the ironwoods. They lead to an alcove hidden in the seemingly impenetrable wall. The low-hanging branches pulled back for an instant, allowing the two of them through. Whatever gave this place its power still mystified Ajin. She didn’t dare mention the vision she’d seen when she entered the Preveza. Had it been the past or the future? Who had allowed such a terrible warlord to bring the Zikia to heel? It was not Jahnu. No, the ruler had looked far too familiar. She shook her head, taking a deep breath. She looked up at Vanya. It couldn’t have been him, she tried to reassure herself. Could it?
From within the hidden room, she could hear the proceedings beginning outside. A deep voice sounded out, accompanied by what could be only be chirping. “The birds no longer sing,” the voice began. “The creatures of the forest, both large and small, have fled. My golem’s nests are empty, for my golem shall not rest, nor shall I. No, I am prepared for war. Through me, the Protector’s will shall be channelled. None who threaten the peace of the Wildwood will be spared. I will not set aside this task until the Wildwood has risen from the ashes and forgotten the memory of flame. Who will stand with me?” A number of voices answered with pledges to his cause, but after the initial affirmations, dissidence followed, and grew as argument resumed as loud as before. Nothing had changed.
Reflexively, she raised a hand. He arched a brow.
Though he still looked like a boy playing at being a knight, Ajin couldn’t smack him like she had before when he’d been too clever for his own good. Why did he insist on wearing those rags over his armor? She sighed, then bit down on her lip. The parchment in his hand was dotted with the shadows of watermarks. She lowered her hand, then took his into her own, cupping it between her palms.
He slipped his cloak off and headed back into the clearing without another word.
When Ajin returned to the Circle, the gathering’s attention had fallen to Vanya. Their earlier discussion had been pushed aside, their questions quelled. Had they forgotten he was an exile? The Exile. She crossed her arms. They looked upon Vanya nearly as eagerly as the refugees who smiled as if he were an Ancient One.
“They should be here,” Vanya interrupted.
“It can’t be,” a flower-wreathed elder gasped from the back of the Circle.
Another voiced echoed the sentiment: “Impossible.” Many more exclamations of disbelief joined the first two as surprise inclined the wise minds of the Circle toward the most basic and instinctual reaction: denial. As swiftly as doubt filled the air, the Circle calmed, denial giving way to the silence of deliberation. With the amber from the First Tree, anyone could enter the Mahatavi.
Ajin’s heart pushed against the confines of her chest, urging her to get up right then, forget Vanya, and bring the Zura to the entrance of the Zikia sanctum—but she steadied herself instead. Not yet, she reminded herself. I will temper this anger, and turn it into a spear that will pierce so deeply through the Empire’s armies that they will forever limp.
“They may even be among us,” Vanya said.
“We have no need to cower under the banners of the Untamed,” another voice called out.
“It is by your command that I shall command,” Vanya added.
The oldest warden, shrouded in thick lichen that covered his head, speckled his beard, and even ran down his arms, jumped as if woken from a deep slumber. He exhaled and all eyes fell on him. “If Ajin will accept your terms, then so shall I.” One by one, the other undecided wardens echoed his sentiment.
“You’ll never find a man more in agreement,” Vanya said. “Don’t let this crown rest on my head any longer than it must.” He unfurled the tattered cloak in his hands and pulled it back over his armor, slouching very slightly as it settled upon his shoulders. He stepped forward from the center of the clearing and once again Ajin saw the boy she had known standing before her. No, he wasn’t the same Vanya, she reminded herself. His time in exile had changed him, but she hoped enough of the Vanya she had known still remained that he wouldn’t become whoever she glimpsed as she passed into the Preveza. Had it been a warning, or was it the future?