Even Zenith seemed to revive slightly, and Drago found he did not have to support so much of her weight.
They began to walk slowly down the forest track, Drago lost amid the beauty of the forest, Zenith lost in (losing) the battle in her mind.
This forest is so beautiful. I loved it when Azhure brought us here as a child.
No, no, no, no…
Look! There is a diamond-eyed bird! Remember how we loved to watch them flutter from branch to branch?
No, no, no, no…
You know where he is taking us, don’t you, Zenith? My grove. Poor girl, soon it will be your burial ground, not mine.
No, no, no, no…
But Zenith was now very, very tired of saying “no”. She thought it would be good to lie down. Rest a while. Perhaps just to let Niah have her way for a few days, a week at the most. Then, once she had rested…
You go to sleep now, dear. You have been good. Go to sleep…
And Zenith tottered along by Drago’s side, losing the strength to maintain her grip on life.
They walked for an hour or more, deep into the forest, Drago unaware of, and Zenith ignoring, the thousand fey eyes that watched their passing from the shadows.
It was only when they approached a large grove that Zenith’s head whipped up and she stopped, aware at last, her eyes wide. “No!”
Drago turned wearily to her. “Zenith, we need to rest, and this grove has sunlit spaces we can warm ourselves in. Come on now, we’re almost there.”
He pulled her forward.
The instant they stepped into the grove, Zenith felt Niah lunge within her. She screamed in terror – Niah was too strong here! Ah! Stars! Niah was penetrating and invading her soul, tearing it apart, a rape more painful, more humiliating than WolfStar’s invasion of her body.
And she could do nothing to stop Niah – she was so powerful, so vigorous, so certain!
“Zenith!” Drago tried to hold her, but she wrenched away from him, falling against a tree.
“Zenith!” Again Drago reached for her, but recoiled in horror as his sister convulsed.
Her hands beat frantically at her bare breasts where the cloak had fallen away, and she whimpered. “Help me! Oh, Stars, help me!” Her voice ended on a thin wail of terror.
Drago tried to grab his sister to him, but she kept rolling out of his arms. What was going on?
“Oh Gods, it hurts, it hurts!” Zenith’s hands were now patting at her head, now her abdomen, now clasped about her shoulders. “Put it”out, please… put it out! It hurts!”
Drago stared wildly about, desperate for help, taking in the large grove ringed by nine trees and covered in Moonwildflowers, Azhure’s mark.
A coldness overwhelmed him as he realised where they were. What had he done? He’d led Zenith right into Niah’s Grove, the place where Azhure’s mother had burned to death – when this site had once been the village of Smyrton – and the place where her body lay buried.
“Oh Stars!” he cried. “What have I done?”
Zenith no longer spoke or cried out, but her eyes and mouth were circles of horror reflecting the agony that the Niah within was visiting upon her.
Suddenly Drago was very, very angry. Damn their parents into every eternity of unhappiness for visiting such pain on their children!
He finally managed to grab Zenith to him, trying as best he could to give her some reassurance, trying to touch her mind, to break the horror that had consumed -was consuming – her.
The sack fell to one side, but Drago ignored it. “Zenith,” he murmured. “Zenith!”
Zenith was no longer aware of him. She writhed and struggled, and was now gasping and choking so much that Drago thought she would, in truth, die.
,’ wish Niah’s soul would stay in its damned AfterLife! Drago thought, and then cursed aloud, panicked that he could do nothing to help Zenith.
“‘Tis no use getting so angry, my boy,” said a voice firmly to one side. “It will not help your sister.”
Startled, Drago looked up, and Zenith almost rolled out of his grip. He managed to hold on to her, then continued to watch the other side of the grove warily. A peasant woman had stepped forth, rubbing her hands anxiously above her large belly. She was in her mid-thirties, with roughened skin and thick limbs. She was clean and well-kept, but she was dressed simply in a worsted dress and enveloping black apron, and her expression was that of a simpleton.
“Who are you?” he snapped. “Stay away!” His arms tightened about Zenith.
The woman ignored him and advanced a little more. Drago wondered if she was indeed dim-witted, or if she used that expression to mask more dangerous thoughts. Stars knew what mad creatures these woods contained! “Stay away! I -”
“You need help, m’lad.” And ignoring his angry expression she sank down on the other side of the still-writhing Zenith. “Tell me what’s wrong with her.”
Drago had no intention of telling her. What? This peasant woman who at best knew how to curdle milk? No! He wasn’t going to –
The woman raised her eyes from Zenith and stared at Drago.
Drago may have had no residual Icarü power himself, but he had lived his life among Enchanters and Gods, and he recognised power when he saw it.
This woman’s eyes blazed with it, although it was such power that Drago had never seen before.
“It is the power of the Mother,” the woman said, and now her voice had dropped its simple brogue and throbbed with power as well. “Come to help your sister, if it can. Now, be still.”
She dropped her eyes back to Zenith, and patted at her arm with one work-roughened hand.
Suddenly Drago knew who this woman was; not only had his mother talked of her, but she was a legend among the Icarü and Avar. She was Goodwife Renkin, the peasant woman who had helped Faraday plant Minstrelsea, and the woman who also acted as a conduit for the voice and power of the Mother, the being who personified the power of the earth and nature. When Faraday had completed her planting, the Goodwife had wandered off into the forest, never to be seen again.
Not by human eyes, anyway.
Now here she was. Sitting before him, patting Zenith’s arm and singing a trifling lullaby to her.
Much good that was doing, Drago thought. He trusted no-one, and certainly not this odd woman before him now.
“She is in great pain,” the Goodwife said, her voice still carrying its power. “Why is that, older brother?” She raised her eyes back to Drago.
He considered again if he should tell her or not, then found to his amazement that the words were flooding out of him. “She battles the reborn soul of Niah within her,” he said. “It is a trouble she should not have to bear, for she is innocent of any wrongdoing.”
“Unlike you,” the Goodwife observed.
Drago’s mouth twisted. “Have the tales of my misdeeds penetrated even this green haven?”
“All know your story, Drago. You betrayed your brother for your own gain.”
“So I have been told,” Drago said, angry beyond measure. “And to be perfectly frank with you, Goodwife, I wish I had been more successful at it! Maybe then I could have saved Zenith this pain!”
Her head jerked up. “Do you still covet your brother’s place?” she asked softly. “Would you like to sit the Throne of the Stars?”
He stared at her, frightened, because suddenly that was what he wanted – very much. What would it have been like to have been born first? To have been born heir?
“It is not good to covet your brother’s place,” the woman said, babbling again in peasantish brogue rather than the power of the Mother, and with her eyes focused on something other than Drago. “Is it, m’Lady?”
Drago looked over his shoulder where the woman was gazing and froze.
A doe stepped from the far side of the grove, her russet skin trembling with apprehension, her great, dark eyes flickering from the tableau before her to the forest. Drago was unsure whether she’d stay or flee.
“Come, come, m’Lady,” the woman said. “This child here needs your help. I find I can do little for her.”
Drago glanced at the woman. Not even with your power? he thought. But just then the doe took a hesitant step forward, and Drago’s eyes flew back to her.
Again he knew who this was. Faraday. Once Queen of Achar, now trapped in animal form.
All of us betrayed in one way or another, Drago thought suddenly. All of us trapped in flesh we don’t want.
“Nay,” the Goodwife said quietly before him, her brogue again gone. “This girlie before me is betrayed, surely, and Faraday has betrayal branded into her very bones, but you are a betrayer. It is what you were born to. You have sin branded into your bones.”