Sentinelspire - Mark Sehestedt [89]
"To see the light, child of the Oak Father," she said, her voice low, almost a whisper, "to protect light for us all, you must bring vengeance to the Tower of the Sun."
She knelt in from of him, so close that the breeze tossed her hair round his shoulders and face, tickling his skin.
"I am…" Berun set the pipes aside and looked at Lebeth. Her face was all in shadow, but he could see a radiant starlight glow in her eyes. "I am not an assassin," he said, his voice choked. "Not… not anymore."
"You are a son of the Oak Father." Lebeth leaned in so close that he could feel her breath when she spoke. "Your sworn duty is the Balance of all living things. For too long the Blades of the Old Man have dealt in death. Gold and power are their currency, but blood is their profit. So much blood. Too much. Too much death. Berun, son of the Oak Father, it is time to restore the Balance."
Lebeth leaned in, all warm curves and sweet scent, her lips seeking his. Berun lay back on the grass, pulling her on top of him.
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A riot of birdsong woke Berun, and when he opened his eyes, he saw that the sun was already above the treeline, reflecting white fire off the pool. He had slept late.
Berun rose and brushed grass, leaves, and dirt off his skin, hoping that Lebeth had remembered to return his trousers and boots. He looked around and saw that she had not, but had done him one better. At the base of the great oak's trunk, where the largest of the roots hemmed in the pool, lay a pile of clothes, supplies, and-best of all-weapons.
The trousers and shirt were both green as winter pine needles. At first Berun thought they were of dyed Jinen, but as he picked them up and ran his fingers over them, he was no longer sure. The fabric was soft and thin as linen, but seemed strong as tent cloth. The sleeveless jacket seemed to be made of tanned skin, but he could not tell what kind of animal it had come from-and Berun knew every animal in the Endless Wastes and hundreds of miles beyond. The knee-high boots were of the same material. The belt was thickly woven from some fibrous plant, strong yet supple. The buckle, though cool and smooth, was not metal; it had the feel and sheen of shell or stone.
The cloak and hood were strangest of all. Spreading it out, he saw that it would just touch the ground when donned, but the fabric and color he could not identify. It was heavy as oilcloth, and under the shadow of the oak it seemed the dark green of forest leaves, but here and there, as bits of the sun peeked through the canopy, it reflected bright as the sunlight itself. It seemed to gather shadow and reflect light. Berun thought that in the deep woods-or even in the tall grass of the steppe-he would be almost invisible in the cloak if he kept still.
Under the cloak was a small waterskin, already full. Berun found a cache of food wrapped in large green oak leaves- dried fruits and nuts, mostly. Wrapped round the mouth of the waterskin was a necklace, woven of the same material as the belt, though much finer, the material flexible as dwarf-forged chain. Dangling from the end was a round starstone, though its glow had a greenish tint, like sunlight reflecting off dew-covered moss.
Two weapons leaned against the trunk of the oak. One was a blade, slightly longer than the knife he'd lost, but just shy of being a true short sword. He ran his fingers along the sheath. It felt like aspen bark, soft and smooth, but it was black as river mud and cool. Blade and hilt were all one piece, carved from bone or antler. Berun drew it. Single-edged, it ended in a slight curve. He tested the blade against the thick callus of his first bowfinger. It cut through the tough skin easily as a steel razor.
The other weapon was a hammer, handle and head together as long as Berun's forearm and fist. The handle was a dark, heavy wood, and it bound a heavy stone, smooth and black. Leather had been braided round the handle to form a grip, and the braid ran off the handle so he could tie it round his wrist or use the weapon as a sort of flail. Borh weapons