Orim felt a painful jolt, as if cold arms had suddenly embraced her. "What will you do?"
"Fight, again. Mercadians are not the children of Ramos.
They would destroy the soul of the Uniter before it could be joined with the mind and body."
"Tell me of the Uniter," Orim said, her eyes searching his. "Tell me."
"Your arrival on this ship, flaming through the nighttime sky, was foretold in the Sixth Prophecy of the Uniter. You saw the tale performed in part by the separi. It is the story of our creation and of our future. We came to this world riding on the back of a great god-Ramos. This great god carried us in an argosy-like this ship here-but the Mercadians flung it from the sky. It fell in three parts-soul, mind, and body-and so created Cho-Arrim, Saprazzan, and Rishadan. The Sixth Prophecy tells that the soul of Ramos will return again, blazing in the sky. Should his soul be reunited with his mind and body, he would live again and unite the people. Now, we Cho-Arrim have the soul of Ramos. The Saprazzans have his mind-called by them the Matrix. And in the ghoul-haunted Deepwood lie the Bones of Ramos. Unite these all, and the folk who possess them, and we shall drive off the evil of the land forever."
Cho-Manno rose abruptly and pulled her to her feet. "Come. I wish to show you something."
He found one of the small canoes the Cho-Arrim kept alongside the lagoon and boarded it. Orim sat in the prow, while Cho-Manno, with swift, sure strokes of his paddle, guided them across the still waters. The lights of the settlement dimmed behind them.
Orim felt sleep pulling at her. The journey became a dream in which she floated endlessly on a glass sea. There was no wind, and from time to time the trunk of a mighty tree thrust up high out of the waters. The trees were silver shafts in absolute blackness.
At last, before them, Orim saw a slender line of light that seemed to grow out of the water itself. As they drew nearer, she saw it was a small island, some fifty yards in breadth, ringed by trees. Unlike the other trees she had seen, these were mere saplings, no more than eight or nine feet in height. Curiously, their trunks shone with a brighter sheen than the larger trees, as if they were more vital, more aliveyounger.
Cho-Manno carefully grounded the canoe, jumped out, and helped Orim come ashore. Between the water of the lagoon and the trees was a wide swath of moss. They paced across it, up the gently rising ground, and to the trees.
The light in the center of the circle was bright after the dim light of the forest. Orim stood still for a few moments rubbing her eyes. When she could see again, she observed that at the very center of the circle was a short stone pillar with a broad top and narrow bottom. As they came closer, she saw the pillar was carved with runes, many of them worn with age. From a broad, shallow bowl at the top bubbled a spring of clear water. It coursed over the edges of the disk and down to the earth in a sparkling mist. From there it ran through the circle of trees to the lagoon.
"This is the Fountain of Cho," Cho-Manno said. His voice, after such a long silence, rang strangely in Orim's ears. "It is the Navel of the World, the place from which we began, the place to which we return. It is the point around which all things revolve. It is here that our souls pass away from this world into the Great River."
"What is the writing on the stone?" the healer asked.
"It tells our story. The story I have just recounted to you." He smiled wryly. "I cannot read it, but its memory has been passed down from Cho to Cho."
"May I look closer?" Without waiting for an answer, Orim released his hand and neared the pillar. The characters on it had been deeply carved and wound around the stone in a spiral, but many of the carvings were faded, worn by the ceaseless action of the water. She reached a hand out to touch them.
"Orim, no! No one may touch the Fountain of Cho." He remained where he was, watching her intently.
Orim stared at the characters. Like the separi's performance around the village bonfire, they stirred a memory within her.
Cho-Manno advanced to stand by her side. He said, "I brought you here because I wish you to understand my people. This stone tells all our history. It tells us that once, long ago, our forest stretched from the base of the mountain of Mercadia all the way to the sea. All that vast forest was filled with the singing and light of the trees, and the waters of the Great River flowed freely.
"Then, gradually, the mountain people pushed back our boundaries, cut down trees, scarred the land. The plains of dust arose around their city, and only dust clouds lived on them." He shook his head sadly. "We live here, clinging to a tiny portion of what was once ours. It may be that a few generations hence, there will be nothing left of the ChoArrim. Do you see now why the Uniter is so important to us?"
Orim looked at him thoughtfully. There were depths to him that she never entirely appreciated. "Yes. All this-" she waved her hands about the sacred grove- "all this is somehow what I've looked for all my life."
Cho-Manno cupped her chin in his hand. "I was about to say the same of you." Their kiss warmed the chill morning.
Chapter 8
The trouble began in camp that night, and among the caterans.
Without fire, with only trail rations and canteens, the exhausted Mercadian Fifth Regiment sat in camp. They sheltered in a clearing with a natural root hollow, where the jhovalls could be corralled. The six-legged tigers slept in warm comfort in a feline pile, their saddles and packs removed and their coats brushed.
The soldiers and caterans were much less comfortable. They had washed during their river crossing, but their clothes had never fully dried. More layers of cloth only deepened the chill. Throughout the day, the forest's murk had been unnerving. Nighttime was worse. Only the cold gleam of the trees illuminated the dark. A fire would have been welcome, but Gerrard would not allow it for fear of "offending the forest." Instead, he offended his fighters. They grumbled angrily as they cleaned their weapons.
Soon around the camp appeared a circle of eyes-small, grim, glowering eyes. Minions of the Rushwood. It was more than the caterans could bear.
Their master, four-armed Xcric, had a crossbow. He cranked it quietly back, fitted a quarrel, and took bets from his comrades. "My orders from Gerrard were to command my troops not to fight unless attacked. I've done so. But Gerrard never forbade me to fight."
With a shuddering twang, the bolt launched free. It tore through undergrowth.
In the forest beyond, a set of eyes slammed shut. There came the agonized thrashing of something massive amid weeds. The beast's shrieks were piteous. Among vast, impassive trees, the cries echoed. They summoned the forest's myriad defenders.
Gerrard and his command crew came running. "What happened? What's going on?"
Xcric spoke proudly in the murk. "I got him right between the eyes."
"I ordered you not to fight unless-"
"He attacked me-looked at me wrong," Xcric replied.
"You bastard," Gerrard spat, raking his sword from its scabbard. "You've just declared war." Turning toward the camp, he shouted, "To arms! To arms! Light perimeter fires!"
In the anxious moments afterward, deadfalls were piled and sprinkled with rye spirits. Fires leaped up in an uneven ring around the camp. Orange light limned warriors as they rushed past abandoned packs. Jhovalls lolled awake and disentangled themselves from their sleeping kin.
Gerrard and his comrades meanwhile stared out into the darkness.