His feet scraped the pale sand, drawing great streaks out of the earth. He didn’t care; there was no man left alive in the temple with the courage to follow him. He shuddered violently, almost falling to his knees with the force of the revulsion that coursed through him. He’d seen to that.

The walls of the cave he’d found jutted at all angles about him. It was more a ravine, a jagged tear in the earth, granite walls looming until all but the most filtered morning light was lost. It was darkness that he sought, an escape from the light that burned with the knowledge of what he had done. Fleeing had never been so hard. He wanted to stay, to offer himself up for the crimes the cursed weapon had inspired, but Ulan had known that he only would have killed more. The spear would never have stood for his surrender, and it still thirsted for blood when he staggered out into the dawn.

He had thought to use the spear, to force it to serve him. He’d made it play at being a weapon of defense, of the light. And he had been strong enough, for a while. He had commanded the spear. But it had always been strongest at night; and as he killed the evil things that plagued the land, his nightmares grew… until he woke that night, grabbed the spear, and drove it into the chest of the man standing guard at his door. The sentries had followed, and then he made his way through the temple barracks… and then, out into the places where the innocents slept. No one could stand against him.

Ulen was not a religious man. The church had always been simply a way to fight the things that prowled. But he had greatly respected those of the cloth. He had loved his temple and those who devoted service to it. Now it was a tomb. With the light had come a tiny bit of strength, and using that strength, he had fled.

He reached the end of the ravine. The crack in the earth cut sharply down, becoming a crevasse that he couldn’t see the bottom of. Fist clenched around the spear, he took a rock and pitched it in. Sharp echoes traveled up to him where it hit the sides, but he didn’t hear it strike bottom. He tore his attention from the dark, cool mouth and looked up at the faint light. Perhaps some God still guided him, in a twisted way; saving others from his fate. Lips tight, tensed against the will of the spear, he flung it in.

It fought him, of course. From the moment it knew his intent, it had fought; but in the day, at least, he was still its master. He forced his fingers open, allowing the weapon tumble into the dark that folded welcomingly around it. Briefly, he wavered at the edge. He wanted to die, wanted to erase what he could of his crimes. But could he? If he died, what would keep the spear from calling some poor soul to its aid? The weapon and he had a connection, weak though it may be. While he lived, it could not forge another. Surely that was worth living for? He resolved that he would pay a dearer penance than death for his weakness. He would stand guard, keep any other from reaching the spear and its craving for blood. Until the end of his days.

And in that moment, with that resolution, the spear had its revenge. Before thought could become word or action, the spear had already wreaked its terrible magic. Three days later, when Ulen tried to take his own life, he could not die. Rocks cut, blood ran, bones broke with shattering pain—but he did not die. Four days later, when he tried to leave the ravine, he was struck with pain so terrible he could not go further. He was a prisoner, bound by an internal oath made in grief and weakness. And, as years passed and he did not age, he began to realize that the end of his days may never come.

Basil sighed, leaning back into the tree until the rough bark left impressions on her skin. She’d never been in a forest like this before. There were clusters or dry oak trees in her home, dotting the gold plains she had loved, but they were nothing like this. Thick leaves made a carpet, swaying leaves a canopy; it was the grandest hall in the world, cast in shades of dark green. She spun around, wrapping her arms around the tree. It was not the ward she would have chosen, but she would love and protect this adopted mother of hers with all her strength.

She sniffed the bark, learning about the tree she embraced. It was old, perhaps three hundred years; trees reckoned years much the same way people do, they just didn’t keep track of them the same way. It had seen fire only once. It had felt the bite of pests very little. There had been floods, and fungus, and even now mistletoe or some other parasitic plant itched in its branches. But overall it was a healthy tree.

So little fire. It was strange, having come from the plains. But she supposed that this forest had other ways of cleansing itself, and there were so few of the cone trees for whom fire could be a boon. And it was wet here. Very wet, she thought, wrinkling her nose. How on earth did the farmers get anything done with it raining all the time? Pushing the thought away, she went back to examining the trees. This was her first walk through the forest she was to guard, and it was important that she get to know it. As she walked, she began to sing. It was a simple song, one of the first a Walker learned, a song of life and change.

There were only so many ways that a commonly born sensitive might learn control. There was no end of companies willing to take on the expense of training in return for the things that a sensitive could do: finding the best veins of ore, determining the best places to build, even finding the best place for an ambush. The value of a sensitive was in knowing the land, but most of the available jobs involved exploiting that talent.

But it was not a talent that could go untrained. Many who tried to simply ignore it went mad from the wash of information that could catch you in an unguarded moment. And even a trained sensitive couldn’t live in the cities, where the earth was in such pain; for a city girl like Basil, it would have been nearly impossible to acquire the skills that would have allowed her to live on her own in the country.

So she had joined the temples. It wasn’t a calling so much as it was the best available option. And so far, she’d had no cause to regret her choice. She wrinkled her nose again as she scented something foul. There was something bad in this forest, she’d been warned, something nasty that couldn’t be pinned. Perhaps one of the more reclusive evils lurked here, like a cockatrice or some other nasty beast. But it was more likely that it was the aura of an evil weapon she sensed, the weapon that had possessed a warrior of the faith and slaughtered half the temple she now occupied so many years ago. There were quite a few left who still remembered. The sensitive had been killed, but his notes made no mention of a presence in the woods. The one to come after him had made note of it, but never ventured far enough in to tell; the woods around it were certain to be woefully tended. She snorted to herself. It was poor faith to scoff her fellow devotees, but the last sensitive had been awful; lazy and cowardly, he had eventually choked alone on his stew, too superior to eat with the priests and warriors who peopled the outpost temple.

She sighed. The deeper she got into the woods, the more she could see that she had her work cut out for her. A strong life aura was all that stood between civilized lands and the monster-riddled outbeoynd; without the untouched forests and plains that ringed civilization, they would be free to invade. She spared a thought and a prayer for the priests in the southeast, who had only desert between them and outbeyond. Occasionally monsters would brave the frail life force of that stretch, hungry for the souls it could sense beyond the fragile barrier. There were always many deaths in the southeast. She continued deeper, still singing the simple round, lost in her thoughts.

He started the forty foot climb again, bracing himself for the pain he knew would come. There was a carved line about halfway up, followed by a series of fainter lines. That was the edge of his imprisonment, the exact point where the pain that kept him chained here began. Staring up at it, he had the nagging urge to just go sleep, but he shook it off. He wouldn’t sleep until he could dream of green things instead of this dry, lifeless canyon. Strong muscles bared to the sun, he started up. The path was old, well-worn. And the moment he reached the mark, as with every time before, agony lanced through his body.

As a warrior, he had grown accustomed to pain. But this was no simple wound to be numbed with time or desperation. This was a soul-deep ache that he could never grow accustomed to. And as he moved further from the source of his pain, unbelievably, indescribably, the pain grew.

But he kept climbing. Even if he lay in the grass above, keening in agony, he would taste fresh air again. He dug his fingers into the rock a bare ten feet from the top. So little space between him and wild spring grass… perhaps flowers… trees. The thought drove him another few feet, and he groped for inspiration. Clean air got him another foot. Fodder for dreams a few more precious feet. And soon he was a bare measure from the lip, and he could see long grasses waving over the edge. He could hear the wind. No, not the wind. Singing.

The words were in some ancient language, but he didn’t need to know what they meant for them to cut deeply. It was a temple song, one he had often heard while he practiced in the morning, serving God in his own way. He lowered his head, listening, the quivering of his muscles momentarily forgotten. And then the pain was gone.

The pain that had plagued him for untold years, the agony that had chained him here in this cursed, lifeless canyon, prisoner of his own guilt, simply… vanished. The song wove in and around him, loosing the chains around his heart. He gasped, nerveless fingers sliding from the stone. The sudden absence was more of a shock than its constant, searing presence. Too late, he realized he was falling; all he could manage was a hoarse cry before he landed on one of the outcroppings that stole the canyon’s light.

While clambering over a tumble of boulders-and what strange creature had discarded them here, in the middle of the forest?-Basil realized that she was singing for someone. She frowned, even as she put more force behind her voice. This was, of course, why she’d started singing in the first place, so any of the trees she passed needed healing. But someone? She paused on top of a boulder, staring down into a jagged ravine. The placement of this whole formation seemed odd to her, snaking through the forest and ending abruptly on either side. Some ancient creature, perhaps?

She was distracted from the problem of the song until a startled cry followed closely by a thud drove both problems clear out of her mind. She rushed forward, feet gripping the granite as she peered over the edge. There was a young man, lying on another of the outcroppings that overhung what appeared to be some kind of canyon. He lay motionless, sprawled on his back, bare chest rising and falling steadily. She wrinkled her nose. How on earth had he gotten so far wearing nothing but a pair of loose pants? Overlooking his indecent dress, she clambered down the wall and hopped over to his side. City girl she may well be, but she could still climb.

She approached him cautiously, as was wise for a woman alone in the woods. He appeared unconscious and unarmed, but he could still be dangerous. She sighed at her own lack of caution even as she edged closer. Blood spotted the stone behind his head, oozing in a trail to pool against his shoulder. She knelt down next to him, wishing the talent that could reveal the health of rocks and trees could do the same for flesh. At a loss for anything better to do, she patted his cheek gently, thinking to wake him and help him back to the temple.

His eyes snapped open at the contact, shockingly blue and so full of emotion she jerked her hand back. He scrambled back from where she knelt, almost throwing them both off balance. "Hey!" she exclaimed, grabbing at the stone to steady herself. "Hey, calm down. You fell." She held a hand out once she felt steady again, trying to calm him with the gesture, but he flinched away as though he thought she might burn him. Shaven and clean, wearing faded pants that had to be sleeping clothes for the middle of summer… who was he? "Calm down," she asserted, even though he hadn’t moved. "You hit your head. You shouldn’t move around like that. I just want to help you," she said softly, edging away from the edge a little more. He just stared. Thoughts she couldn’t read chased across his open face. "Can you answer me?" she asked, getting worried. Was he hurt so badly it had shattered his sense?

But he nodded sharply, eyes wide. His mouth worked, and a look of utter frustration crossed his features. "Fine," he managed. His voice was rusty, and he cleared his throat. "I’ll be fine. Had worse. I’ve had worse." He coughed, doubling over. Basil scooted a bit closer, offering the water pouch slung over her shoulder. Up close, she could see that the wound on the back of his head wasn’t as bad as the blood had implied.

He looked from the water to her and back again, taking it reverently before drinking long and deep. She was convinced by now that he was indeed mad; it was simply a matter of whether or not she could get him back to the temple safely. He was certainly no stranger to fighting, that was clear. Yet he didn’t seem relatively harmless, intimidated by her instead of the other way ‘round. And she couldn’t just leave him here.

He broke from the skin, a little water dribbling before he got it stopped up again. He handed it back, smiling almost sheepishly. It was mostly empty. "Thank you." He paused. "Can we-" He stared up at the sky, gathering words. For a few seconds he seemed lost in the blue. "Can we walk a little? Can you sing for me?" He looked back down and his eyes were begging, as if this would be a favor far greater than it seemed.

Ulen wiped the water from his chin, resisting the urge to lick his fingers. He supposed he already seemed strange enough, without acting like he hadn’t seen water in weeks. He certainly didn’t want to scare the girl away.

He was certain that this was nothing more than a temporary release; the spear would seek him out again the moment her magic ended. All he hoped was that he could see a little of the forest, the sun, and maybe, maybe convince her to come see him again.

But it had been so long since he’d tried to use words. It had never occurred to him that he might actually forget how. What else have I forgotten? he wondered, even as he tried to shape his assurance. "I feel fine. It’s just a cut," he said, fingering the back of his head. Actually, it wasn’t anything now, but he wasn’t going to tell her that. Actually, he felt more than fine. For a few precious moments, he was free.

The woman nodded, watching him warily. Well that she should. She probably took him for a madman, half-naked and alone in the woods. And acting more than a little mad, he admitted ruefully. He was almost surprised at the clarity of his thoughts. He felt fully awake for the first time in years.

Slowly, so as not to alarm her, Ulen pushed himself to his feet and offered her his hand. "Please?" he prompted when she didn’t answer. She nodded, reaching up to take his hand. There was suspicion in her eyes, wariness, as though she expected him to want more than he’d asked for.

Basil was indeed suspicious.

She was a suspicious woman by nature, but this was enough to make anyone wonder. She could still feel the power spiraling out of her, trying to heal some wound that wasn’t physical. She could stop it, of course, but she wasn’t willing to do that quite yet. There was more here than was obvious.

"Why are you out here?" she asked, letting him lead her eagerly away from the rocks.

He paused, thinking. Getting ready to lie, she was certain.

"I don’t remember." Lie. She pursed her lips.

"How about a name?" she pressed, putting a little edge in her voice.

"Can you give me that?"

He frowned, obviously worried by her tone. Well, that was fine. She simply stared at him, waiting for an answer. Let him think she was thinking of staking off and taking her magic with her. It might make him more forthcoming.

He opened his mouth. "And don’t bother to lie to me. If you want my help, you’ll have to tell me eventually," she said, guessing.

"Ulen," he offered after what seemed an unnecessary wait. Basil rolled her eyes. "There, that wasn’t so hard, now was it?" He was clearly relieved at her reaction, straightening up. She hadn’t even noticing him cringing away. Was she supposed to recognize the name?