Oath Breaker by Michelle Paver, Geoff Taylor Page B

Midsummer. From the crossbeams, thousands of nettle fibers hung to dry; they brushed his face like long green hair. Men and women sat on opposite sides with Durrain in the middle, cradling a pair of deer-hoof rattles. There was no fire. The only warmth was the dank heat of breath.
Torak made out Renn, who gave him a conspiratorial smile. He felt guilty, because she wasn't coming with him. He couldn't have said why; he just knew that when he confronted Thiazzi, she mustn't be there to see it.
    Making his way to the men's side, he found a place in front of one of the doorways.
The last Red Deer crawled in and set a bowl and a platter before Durrain. She lifted the bowl and drank.
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"Rain from the tracks of the tree-headed guardian," she intoned. "Drink the wisdom of the Forest." She handed the bowl on.
From the platter she took a piece of flatcake. "Bark of the ever-watchful pine. Eat the wisdom of the Forest."
When it was Torak's turn, he hid the flatcake up his sleeve and only pretended to sip from the bowl. Surreptitiously, he put out his hand and felt cool air beneath the hide flap.
    Durrain's gaze raked the throng.
He froze.
Durrain began shaking the rattles in a steady, cantering rhythm. "Forest," she chanted, "you see all. You know all. Not a swallow falls, not a bat breathes, but you know it. Hear us."
    "Hear us," echoed the others.
"End the strife between the clans. Bring the stag-headed Spirit back to your sacred valleys."
On and on went the chanting and the galloping hooves, and still Durrain watched her people. Middle-night came and went. Torak had almost given up hope when, without breaking rhythm, she cast her hood over her face--and the others did the same.
     
As the Red Deer chanted themselves deeper into the trance, Torak backed closer to the flap. The men flanking him were lost in their wovenstem darkness. They didn't see him escape.
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Grabbing his weapons, he headed up the trail.
He hadn't gone far when Rip and Rek swooped and gave him a welcoming caw. Where have you been?
Wolf appeared like a gray shadow and ran at his side. Bitten One. Not far.
The half-eaten moon was setting; dawn was not far off. Torak quickened his pace. The thrill of the chase fizzed in his blood. He felt swift and invincible, a hunter closing on his prey. This was meant to be.
     
The boy escapes. This was meant to be. For three days and nights the Chosen One has watched the unbelievers, as the Master willed. The girl drains the power from a curse stick as easily as pouring water from a pail. The boy summons ravens from the sky and speaks with the great gray wolf--and his spirit walks.
The boy believes he is cunning, tracking the Master to the sacred grove. No one tracks the Master. The Master summons, and others obey. Even the fire obeys the Master.
The will of the Master must be done.
     
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SIXTEEN
Dawn had broken, and neither the Red Deer nor Renn came after him. Torak almost wished they would. Soon, nothing would stand between him and his vengeance. As the day wore on, he followed the trail up the Windriver, although this swift brown torrent bore scant resemblance to the mighty river it would become in the Open Forest.
     
Wolf padded at his side with drooping tail and lowered head. Even the ravens had stopped swooping after butterflies. The thrill of the hunt had given way to apprehension.
     
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The valley narrowed to a gorge, and the river became a rushing stream. A dry south wind had been blowing all day, but now it dropped to a whisper. Torak felt a tingling in his spine. They were entering the foothills of the High Mountains.
    Wolf sniffed a clod of earth that had been kicked up by a horse's hoof. Torak stooped for a long black tail hair. Above him, the new leaves of beech and birch glowed a brilliant green. Blackthorn blossom glittered like snow. The air was fresh with the scent of spruce, and alive with birdsong: chaffinch, warbler, thrush, wren. Even the speedwell on the trail was a preternatural blue, like