for the rider’s axe. I wish we still had it. We lost so much to Mount Thayil.”
That was true, but I thought we had lost still more. To insects. Burn them all.
“Is it time to tell him?” I asked.
Sefir squeezed my hand. “Yes.”
We addressed Jerin directly, in concert: “We love you, Jerin, and your memory will forever burn bright in our hearts. And now we set your spirit free and bid your flesh farewell.”
Together we set him alight and watched in silence as he burned away in the night, a process of hours. I know not what Sefir thought during that time, but all I could think of was the vengeance I would wreak on the Fornish. For Sefir was right: La Mastik could not have done this. I had been seized by madness when I attacked her; perhaps I am still in its grip.
I have not slept this night, and it has occurred to me that perhaps I am being alarmist, that the death of my son has banished my reason. But no: the naval watch reported moments ago that the Nentians are sending a significant army against us, marching through the night, and they’ll be here at dawn as well, coming from the north. I hope they will be able to see the bones of the first army they sent against me. The Nentians would not be coming unless their Fornish allies were waiting for them on the slopes of the Godsteeth. They no doubt see themselves as the hammer to the Fornish anvil.
I want to burn them all. And I will.
That may, in fact, be the smartest move. Before the Fornish can move against us, we should set the mountainside aflame and see if the light illuminates any greensleeves lurking in the brush. Let them choke to death on the smoke of their precious trees. Or let them run out of the forest and into the blade of my thirsty axe.
Volund is back from Tharsif, having successfully delivered timber to Hearthfire Kanek and secured enough food to last us for months. I will send him up the coast to harass the Nentians on the instant. Let them burn before they even get here.
It is time to armor up. Sefir and I will show them what it means to provoke a Hearthfire. If they want to end the Mogen line, we will make sure they all meet their end with us.
—
“If we turn back the clock just a wee bit while that was going on, we’ll find out what the Fornish were up to under the leadership of Nel Kit ben Sah.”
A successful garden blooms again and again, as the saying goes. Having confronted the Hathrim twice and survived, the sway decided that I’m to be Forn’s first Champion in three hundred years or so. Or rather, the First Tree decided. There was some argument at first about who was to lead a party against this city the Hathrim were calling Baghra Khek, with Rig Wel ben Lok of the Yellow Bats and Nef’s uncle, Vin Tai ben Dar, arguing strongly in my favor, among many others, but of course the Black Jaguars and the Blue Moths objected and were ready to die upon the hill of Anybody-But-Nel. After an hour of circular wrangling, another voice, rarely heard, spoke in the sway for the first time in living memory, though we all instantly knew to whom it belonged. Slow, rumbling, and strong, vibrating through my silverbark and in my skull, the First Tree said, “Nel Kit ben Sah. You are my Champion. Serve the Canopy well.”
The naysayers had to be silent after that. If they protested, they’d be contradicting the First Tree. And if I made the high-pitched noise I wanted to make or went up to Pak Sey ben Kor and spat “Ha!” in his face, I would not be remembered as a dignified Champion.
I consulted strategists, asked the western clans to send me one picked greensleeve each and a bunch of grassgliders and thornhands, and requested siege crews from the Invisible Owl Clan.
Pen was very upset that I did not include her on the team.
“Only one greensleeve from each clan is participating,” I explained, “and I’m the one from the White Gossamer Clan.”
“But I need this, Nel! What they did to my brother—”
“I know, Pen. If you want to see action against the Hathrim, I can station you in the south, where the timber pirates make regular raids. But you’re our clan’s only other greensleeve. We