A/N: Chap 3 review responses are in my forums. And with this chapter, some of the truth of Taylor's being is revealed. After all, when has Telos ever chosen not to help those in need?
Chapter Four: The Stars Knew Not
Sleep did not come, not with the Godtree so close.
Taylor whispered to the spirits of all those around her, ensuring they slept deeply enough that she would not disturb them. She slipped under the heavy elk hide that served as the door and only opening in the hovel and stepped into the commons area that had been buckled and made uneven by the thick roots of the weirwood tree.
The smooth bark felt warm against the brisk cold of the night; but within she felt that familiar stream of divinity that seemed to span the world. It wasn't that the god in the tree spoke to her, but rather she heard the whispers of all the beings of the world that had ever existed, just like she spoke to every iteration of the Raven, from his present to his dying day.
She sat down underneath the vast carved face, ignoring the bones within the gaping mouth where the villagers burned their dead, and lost herself in a soothing, beautiful chorus of the trees.
It did not surprise her when the Raven appeared, flickering through the various ages of his life as he did so.
"You are bothered," he noted.
"I questioned the soul of one of the men I killed," Taylor said. "Night's Watch. Crows, Morag calls them. Why do they keep the people here in such poverty?"
"Most everyone in this world is in poverty," the Greenseer said. He waved a flickering hand about him. "As most in this forest would measure it, White Tree is doing well. They have animals and crops. They usually survive the winters together. Many villages fare much worse."
"Why, though? Those men had valuable supplies. There's obviously material wealth somewhere. South of the wall, maybe?"
"I cannot speak of where you come from, Telos of the Trees. But here in the Seven Kingdoms, the lords and ladies own all, and the small folk live as they can. These wildlings…the Free Folk…they will never kneel to the lords and ladies of the South. And so they shall never enjoy the wealth gained from the favor of such."
"We lived like kings," Taylor said, echoing something her father told her a lifetime ago. Few people in Brockton Bay risked true starvation like the people around her. Relatively few people in her America knew hunger or cold, or aged and shriveled after only a few years of living of how hard life was. It was far from perfect, but compared to this place…
Her attention must have wandered, because the Greenseer was no longer there.
When dawn finally came, she watched within the shadow of the tree as the spirits of the dawn raced ever westward, fighting a never-ending battle to vanquish the night. They burst into creation, riding the photons from the distant star like mounts, and threw themselves joyously against the shadows until finally the night receded.
This sun held the names of gods previously worshiped. In the thousands of years since humans came to this world and lost all that their ancestors gained, the sun had been worshiped many times, by many names.
She lifted her chin, barely feeling her blindfold, and smiled. "Greetings, brother," she whispered.
She did not expect the alien star to reply, but it did. It greeted her joyfully, as a long-lost kin. As if, somehow, it knew her. It bathed her in sunlight and warmth as it crested the distant horizon, sending out its vanguard of spiritual and physical light until the shadows were vanquished.
"Thank you, brother," Taylor whispered.
The joyous sunlight bathed the small fields of rye and winter gourds. On a whim Taylor whispered to the fields as her ancestors might have. The seedlings writhed in response; even those seeds that would not sprout ordinarily did so now, ensuring a good crop.
"What are you doing?"
Morag's uncle Nob had left his hut. Like everyone else, he was short and wiry. His was the strength of a hard life, wearing on his stooped shoulders and instilling the aches and pains that a man in Brockton Bay may not feel until 50, but which Nob felt in his late twenties.
"The tree was comfortable," Taylor told the man.
"Not good," he said with a duck of his head. He thought she was blind, so it was an unconscious gesture. "Wolves, bears 'n such wander in to take our sheep."
"Thank you, I'll be more careful."
Others began to stir with the rising of the sun. No one else commented on her position by the tree.
The day did not begin with food, but with work-the emptying of night pales down the hill beyond the tree into a curving branch of the stream; collecting more water from the higher branch of the same stream on the other side. The animals were fed and a few of the village's wild fowl laid eggs that were cracked into the morning porridge with whatever other food they had.
Usha came with more wool for Taylor to card and spin.
On that second day, the novelty of Taylor's presence wore off. She watched how the village lived their lives. Old Shaen worked to watch the wounded uncle, Othor, while the women spent their days processing what food or clothing items they had.
Near noon, Nob, Kern and Shaen took the older boys into the woods to hunt elk. The women remained behind to watch the children and prepare the evening meal. Taylor fought off her boredom with the carding of the wool by humming to herself while she sent her bifrost eyes across the distant wall.
The wall held a powerful magic, just like the chamber in the strange place where she first woke. Her vision could not penetrate it. Even when she turned her eyes straight down through the planet, or directly east or west, something about the wall seemed to obscure the rest of the world to her vision.
It puzzled her more than anything.
"What is that song?"
Taylor blinked behind her blindfold as Sattie tiredly sank down onto a bulging root of the tree near where Taylor had spent the entire day so far. The woman's skin was jaundiced and sweat stood at her brow despite the mild temperature. There was a distinctly unpleasant odor about her beyond just unwashed sweat.
"A song my mother taught me," Taylor said. When she was very young, she thought it was a song her mother wrote. It was only later that she realized it was Greensleeves.
Which she might still have composed, for all Taylor knew. It was possible her mother was in England during the Tudor reign, though she suspected she'd fled to the Americas by then. With that memory, of sitting in her mother's lap in her rocker while she snapped peas from her garden, Taylor found herself singing. Perhaps because they thought her blind, the children were unusually quiet when they gathered over and just plopped down, staring enraptured as if she were a Disney movie princess and they the forest creatures.
"You're a bard." Usha made her way over like the others when Taylor finished, just as enthralled by the singing as anyone. "I've never heard the like!"
"The gods have touched her," Norna whispered loudly. The middle wife was normally the loudest of the three, and had the most living children, with five so far. "'Tis why she woke with the tree."
Morag bit back a snort, grinning wildly. Taylor chose not to comment. Morag seemed to fear the idea of Taylor's true nature being known, and Taylor herself was unfamiliar enough with the world to risk being asked to leave.
At dinner that night, though nothing else changed, they gave Taylor the first serving of the community pot. It had more food than normal as well. While Shaen and his kin failed to down an elk, they did find a wild boar.
All they expected of her was a song.
~~Voluspa~~
~~Voluspa~~
During her third night in the village, Taylor once more snuck out of the hut and found her way to the roots of the tree. As she settled in, she saw that the carved face had wept some blood-red sap from one of its carved eyes. The sap sparkled within her bifrost vision with potential magic. Curious, she touched it and put a little to her tongue.
The magic within felt raw, powerful and undirected; as if all the potential of the world was within.
"I told you. It's dangerous out here." Nob stood a few feet away, staring at her intently. For a brief moment, she wondered if he meant her ill; that moment lasted until she saw the truth of him.
His wife was dying. For all the hardness his life forced into him; for all the callouses pain and loss had forced his heart to build, watching his wife fade was destroying him. He would continue when she died, because that's all the people of this land could do. But what tiny joy he could seek was slipping through his fingers, and there was nothing he could do.
And her putting herself in danger just irritated him.
She found herself remembering a boat fleeing Leviathan in Morocco–of a boy hurt by ash in his lung, and the potential pain she was going to feel healing him. And yet she didn't hesitate. Staring now at this heartbroken man evoked the same feeling.
"The god in the tree loves its children," she told him. She spoke softly to not wake the rest of the village. "It sings to me, through its leaves and the wind. It's weeping for Sattie, not in grief, but in blessing. Bring me a cup of water from the stream, Nob."
She knew she didn't speak to him like she'd spoken before; all the hesitancy she'd adopted to fit the lie Morag told them fell away.
He looked from her, to the tree. His soul boiled in anguish, but as he stood staring at the tree, a kernel of hope bloomed within him as well. "You can help her?"
"I believe I can."
He walked stiffly back into the house and returned moments later with a hand-carved wooden cup. He crossed the village in silence as the moon sank toward the horizon; he returned with the cup full of stream water moments later.
Using her fingers, Taylor broke off bits and pieces of the sap into the water. She glanced up at him through her blindfold. "Don't be afraid," she said.
He didn't understand until the fire blossomed from her hand. It did not burn the wood of the cup; instead the heat coalesced within the water itself. It quickly came to a boil; over that boiling tea she placed her other hand. The sap was pure, raw magic. With the spells of her mother's people, she easily shaped it into a powerful healing potion. Perhaps not to the level of Idunn's apple, but very close.
Sweat blossomed from Nob's forehead, but he didn't move or speak as Taylor enchanted and blessed the potion. When the sap's magic had been shaped, she let her right hand fall and the fire end. Only a steaming wooden cup remained.
"Sattie is very ill," she warned. "This will purge her body of the illness. She has to get more sick before she can get better. Do you understand?"
He nodded as he took the cup, staring at it with fascination. He nodded to her; the Free Folk did not say thanks. That implied a debt. They took or they gave as they willed; and they received in the same way. He left her by the tree and walked carefully back to his hut.
Taylor, meanwhile, settled down into the shelter of the roots as her sister the moon sank below the distant trees.
~~Voluspa~~
~~Voluspa~~
Despite everything, Taylor slept. The gentle, myriad kisses of the dawn's spirits woke her just in time to see Sattie's girl Nori come running from her hut with a large, sloshing clay pot that smelled awful. She dumped the pot off the edge of the little plateau the tree's roots held together, then ran back into Nob and Sattie's home.
"What's happening?"
Taylor glanced up as Morag settled beside her.
"The god in your tree gave me a blessing to cure Sattie," Taylor answered. "The potion won't just restore her; it'll drive out the spirits that helped make her so sick."
"Drive out the spirits? You mean give her the shits?"
Taylor couldn't help but laugh. "Yes. She'll be hungry after, so tell your mother to make sure Sattie has a larger portion of food than normal for the next few days."
Nori came running back out minutes later with another full pot. Taylor tried not to think of the worms and other parasites that Sattie was expelling. Unfortunately, they would return in time. The village's hygiene, culture and subsistence living made it inevitable. But the woman would at least have the time to raise her surviving children.
"Nob stole Sattie when he was a boy, Pa told me," Morag said. "She been in the village longer than Ma. She's not gonna die?"
Another pot came out. Nori looked frightened but also hopeful.
"No," Taylor said. "Not today."
"I thought we was gonna keep you secret," Morag said. She sounded put-out, as if something she cherished was taken from her. "Now everyone will know."
"All Nob knows is that the tree gave Sattie a blessing."
Morag snorted. "Mama and Norna already talking 'bout you. Said you made fire from your hand 'n spoke words that hurt Nob's head."
"Then maybe the secret was that you're my friend."
"No," Morag said, completely missing the point. "The secret was that you was my god! Then when Birs starts gettin' uppity I can say, 'I have a god and you just got shit on your toes!"
Taylor opened her mouth, and then closed it. "I'm not sure that's how faith is supposed to work, Morag."
"Maybe. But it'd be fun to see Bir's face."
For the rest of the day, no one mentioned the potion. Taylor felt their gazes; she felt a stirring in the back of her mind she'd not felt since before she fought Scion. The village accepted that she was something more than a normal human. Whether a witch, spirit or god, they simply accepted that she was. With that acceptance came a small bit of faith.
They would not worship her, because that wasn't the way of the Free Folk. But they quietly acknowledged to themselves that she was somehow more than they understood.
Sattie joined the village for dinner. Though she looked horribly wrung out and exhausted, her color was already better. Taylor took her own bowl, since like before they let her eat first, and took a larger portion than normal. She carried the bowl to Hattie.
"You need more," she told the woman in front of the others. The mother of five was not even thirty yet, and blinks wide-eyed at Taylor. "For the next two days, eat my portion as well."
"What of you?"
Taylor smiled as she sat back down next to Morag. "Morag will take me into the forest tomorrow to find food. We'll be fine."
"I will?"
Usha slapped the back of the young girl's head. "Telos says it."
And that was that.
The next morning, Taylor felt hungry despite herself. Officially Morag led her into the forest, but once they were away from the village, Taylor did away with her blindfold.
"Can I check my traps?"
"Of course."
Taylor just walked beside her friend, cognizant of the fact that Morag was only a few months younger than she was, and enjoyed the summer day. She didn't mind the light rain that fell on them as they walked.
While Morag checked her hare traps, Taylor began gathering. The spirits of the forest felt ancient and wise, and with their whispers she knew where to go to find berries, mushrooms or wild onions. She stumbled onto a vine of small, wild beans and gathered up the pods, while also blessing the vine to grow more without withering.
Morag ended up capturing one more hare for her pen-the fast-breeding animals would help get the village through winter. Taylor, meanwhile, carried a large bushel of berries, raw walnuts, mushrooms, wild onions and beans.
That night, with all the extra food, Taylor was able to take a share and still ensure Sattie had enough to help her recovery. She sang for them over the fire, but when she finished she asked Usha about their own songs. They spent the brief night before bed singing different songs of the Wild Folk, all of which involved hunting, sex, dying or killing Crows.
~~Voluspa~~
~~Voluspa~~
Taylor sat curled up against the tree as the morning sun sent its armies across the land to chase out the shadows. Nob gifted her a furred elk hide he'd worked until it was almost as supple as a blanket, and she sat under it as the sun washed the chill away. The tree whispered to her that it would rain later, but for now the morning dawned clear and beautiful.
As had become habit, she sent her Bifrost eyes to the wall. Normally she couldn't see anything beyond it. But this time she saw a line of men on horseback walking through the ice-blighted land between the wall and the forest. She counted twenty in all, each dressed just like Mez and Chet were, with heavy black cloaks and saddle packs filled with supplies.
"Crows are coming," Taylor said to Nob as he walked by in greeting. "Less than two days away."
He didn't ask how she knew; none of the villagers asked her how or why she did anything.
"Maybe just a ranging," Nob said, though he sounded doubtful.
"Maybe," Taylor said.
Morag had insisted they not mention the two crows that tried to take her.
The day went on. The village couldn't stop their daily chores in fear of what might happen. Instead, they watered what was promising to be a bumper crop of barley and winter gourds. The fowl were laying more eggs than ever, and Morag's hares were proving to be so bountiful they had to slaughter a pair to keep them from overbreeding their pen.
It was in the middle of the next day when Taylor warned them all that the Crows would reach them within the hour. With that warning, the whole village-including Taylor-retreated into their homes. All save Old Shaen. As the patriarch of the village, the old man would be the sacrifice if the Crows meant them harm.
Taylor watched from within Morag's poorly made, darkened stone and thatch house as the column arrived at White Tree. A young, severe-looking man with heavy pockmarks on his cheeks that his scarce beard could not hide rode at the front. His black cloak appeared to be of a much finer cut than the others behind him. In fact, all his clothing was well cut and made to suit his well-fed frame.
As he rode his horse over the commons field of radishes, trampling them into the ground, he removed a kerchief from his tunic and held it over his face. "By the Seven, it stinks here! Two-Toes, you didn't tell me the wildlings lived in a fucking midden heap!"
The man addressed, Two-Toes, looked twice the well-dressed leader's age, with a scarred face, heavy beard, and worn but sturdy weapons and equipment. "You didn't ask, Ser Dalerd."
Ser Dalerd did not appear impressed with his subordinates' bone-dry response. Rather than lash out, he glared at where Old Shaen stood patiently by the sheep fold. "You, Wilding! Where are the rest of you?"
"Sleeping, Crow," Old Shaen said in his reedy voice. "It's hard work making the village smell bad enough to keep you kneelers away."
Ser Dalerd flushed angrily, but behind him Two-Toes laughed. "Ser Dalerd here is new, Old Man. But our mission is serious enough. Bring your boys and their kin out so we don't have to. Mayhap we can get through the day without blood spilt."
Shaen the Younger cursed under his breath, then walked quickly out. "What're you lookin' for, Two-Toes." It was obvious the older crow knew the people in White Tree.
Dalerd continued to look put out that he was ignored; Two-Toes didn't seem to care. "Couple o' deserters ran off with tools and supplies meant for the Shadow Tower. We're looking for them."
"We ain't see no crows, Two-Toes. Best be on your way."
Delard started to snarl, but Two-Toes rode up beside the man. "We ain't friends, Shaen, but I never gave you cause to doubt me. Don't doubt me now. The young Ser is under orders from the Lord Commander. We're to search the village. If you fight us, your people will be hurt. That's the truth of it."
The two Shaens shared a glance. They didn't say a word otherwise, but behind Taylor Usha understood. "Come, quick," she whispered. She gathered her children and started out. Taylor followed, still in her blindfold.
The others followed Usha's lead, and all the people of White Tree gathered near the common firepit. Taylor felt eyes on her in particular; after all, she was the tallest person in the village by several inches, and her blindfold marked her out.
As other crows in black cloaks dismounted and began a disruptive search of the village, Ser Dalard dismounted his horse with the practiced efficiency of a life-long equestrian. "Two-Toes, who is that freakish blind girl? You didn't tell me the Wildlings grew so tall."
Two-Toes dismounted as well and walked into the commons after his nominal leader. "She wasn't there last time I rode by. Did Birs get himself a woman, Shaen?"
"Aye," Shaen the younger lied. "A Thenn girl, strong as an ox."
"But blind? What's the use of a blind girl?"
Before Shaen could come up with a convincing story, one of the searching crows emerged from Shaen the Younger's house. "Ser Dalerd!"
He held a pair of finely crafted leather boots in his hands. Taylor noticed how Two-Toes frowned intensely, as if seeing something that disappointed him more than upset him. But Ser Dalerd took the sight with near gleeful rage. He whipped a beautifully crafted blade from its scabbard, with a grip lined in rubies worth more than the village produced in a decade, and pointed the blade right in old Shaen's face.
"So you are the villains who stole the tools! Did you kill those men? Where are the supplies, you filthy dog?"
All around them, twenty other men drew their weapons. The people of White Tree had almost no steel at all, much less weapons to defend against swords. The children hid with terrified cries in their mother's arms, and for good reason.
Looking into the angry Ser Dalerd's soul, the truth of him spoke of a contemptuous disregard not just of those before him, but anyone not born of the right caste. Not only could the man order the whole village slaughtered, he would do so gladly. The Wildlings were not even human, as far as he was concerned.
Realizing that her new friends were about to die, Taylor took a step forward toward the young, angry Crow. "I brought those boots to the village," Taylor said. "The people here know nothing about where they came from."
Ser Dalerd stiffened. "You don't speak like a wildling."
"And you don't act like a knight. We each have our burdens to bear."
Two-toes snorted. "What's your name, girl? How'd you come on those boots?"
"I am Telos of the Trees," Taylor told them. "And I came on them when the owner of the boots attempted to assault my friend and attacked me with his sword."
"Where are they?" Two-Toes demanded.
"They're dead. I'm sure the forest has consumed their bodies by now."
"Then its murder," Delard said with a sneer.
Two-Toes spat at his feet. "They were deserters, Ser. They forfeited their lives when they fled; killing them is no crime. I'd think the greater issue the Lord Commander wished addressed was the ten gold dragon's worth of supplies they stole."
Again the young knight spared an irritated glance at his companion, then glared once more at Taylor. "Very well. Show me where those supplies are, and I might even consider sparing this rabble."
Taylor went very still, because in that moment she saw the dark truth of the man. He had no intention of letting the people of White Tree live. He was already envisioning how old Shaen would scream, and intended to let the other men take their pleasure with the women before burning it all down. Worse, she could see his belief that he would face no consequence.
And though Two-Toes would hate it, the other man also believed Dalerd would face no consequence. The Wildlings, to them and their Order, had neither rights nor value.
"The tools are a day's walk from here," Taylor said. "I'll need a staff to guide you."
"You're fucking blind," Dalerd spat. "You expect us to…"
"I see very well, Ser Dalard," Taylor said. "The blindfold is not for me."
She turned her back on the man and walked back to the tree. She paused long enough to put her hand on Morag's shoulder. "Stay," she whispered.
When she reached the White Tree, the god within greeted her touch warmly. She shared her need-not with words or thoughts, but with feelings and emotions. The divine spirit within groaned and whispered with a bending of wood and a shivering of leaves, until two separate branches fell from above. The first she caught in her right hand as it fell, the second in her left.
The left branch she bundled with the right, though she sensed they carried different purposes. The left branch bore a single acorn, and its spirit whispered of pliable strength for a longbow. The staff in her right, though, spoke of unyielding strength.
When she turned, all of the crows had backed away, forming a line across the commons fields as they stared in awe at the tree. They'd never seen the god of weirwood speak so clearly.
"Bring your crows, Ser Dalard," she said. "I will show you your lost tools."
"And lead us into a trap?" Dalard declared. "I don't think so. Two-Toes, gather the Wildlings. They're…"
With a surge of anger, Taylor slammed the butts of her two staffs against the ground. The ground and sky alike shook with a deafening peal of thunder as clouds began billowing across the sky.
Every Crow went perfectly still. Into that stillness, Taylor made sure her voice carried to everyone there. "The people of this village have done you no harm, Ser Dalard of Bitterbridge. They have even given shelter and food to Crows in the past. Raise your weapon against them, and the gods will strike you down where you stand. If you wish to recover your tools, you will come with me. If not, return to your castle."
The knight's hand rested on the hilt of his sword, but he didn't pull it. She could see a deep, elemental fear in his soul that the other Crows shared. Into that tense stillness, Two-toes stepped forward. "I'll have your word on it, then. Swear to us that you'll lead us true to the lost tools."
"So long as no harm befalls me or mine, I swear it thrice," she said.
Two-Toes walked quickly to the young knight's side. Though he whispered, Taylor heard him easily enough. "Best not to tempt the witch, Ser. I've seen skin changers and greenseers enough not to piss in their faces. If she gets us the tools, then the Lord Commander will give you your due."
It was only then that she realized Dalard was a teenager himself, not even eighteen if a day. Only a few years older than she was.
"Fine," the young knight spat. "Know this, witch. If you break your word, I'll have your head."
The words were driven by fragile pride. He was a boy commanding a column of men. Taylor didn't bother responding. Instead, with a glance at the kind people who took her into their homes, Taylor led the column away from White Tree.
She whispered to the sky, and rain began to fall.