“A mortal advocating a mortal?” said the horned one. “Is this right? Is this fair?”
“She is of my kin,” said Sun Eagle. “I smell the Crescent Land on her skin. I feel the pulse of Crescent Land in her blood. She is my sister.”
“Give her in tithe, then,” said another voice, deeper than that of the horned one. Daylily dared not raise her head, but she turned an ear its way. If bears spoke in the tongues of men, she would have sworn it was a bear. “Let her pass through the door.”
“She was chosen,” said Sun Eagle. Compared to others speaking, his voice was all warmth and sunlight. Though she did not turn, Daylily’s heart reached out to the sound, clinging desperately as the strangeness of the dark circle washed over her, tugging like the tide with unknown fears. “The Bronze chose her,” said Sun Eagle. “She is one of us. And she has shown us a new host.”
“A new host, you say?” The horned one shifted, and her massive hooves shook the earth so that all the six standing within the circle stumbled and put out their hands to catch their balance. “Where?”
“My own land,” said Sun Eagle. “She showed me the way back to my own world. We walked a Path made by sylphs, and we passed through the gate. It is good, green, thriving country!”
“Mortal country,” said the horned one. “Are you a fool, Sun Eagle?”
“Do you think so, Kasa?” Sun Eagle’s voice remained as calm and warm as ever, but there were knives behind his words. “Then tell our master! For he chose this girl for his own, and he, through her, obligated the people of my country to him. They owe in tithe for the life of one of their own.”
“If this is so . . .” said a new voice, a thin whisper that tickled the ear. Daylily, her head still bowed, permitted her eyes to glance up at the speaking shadow opposite her on the edge of the circle. When this person spoke, green fire shimmered in his mouth. “If this is so, then our foot is in the door. We may take root.”
We may come home.
“We have never carried the Bronze into a mortal land,” said the horned one. “How will it bear us?”
“Better than it bore the coming of wolves and dragons,” said Sun Eagle. “For we will deliver the Land from evil. They will gladly pay the tithe.”
And we will be home.
“And we will be home,” Daylily whispered. She heard the other six with her in the circle whisper the same. A coldness grew from inside her and spilled out over her tongue, washing down the front of her, wrapping about her feet, her waist, her neck—a coldness she could not understand, could not fear, could not resist. So she stood quietly, and she spoke in one voice with the others.
“We will be home.”
“I will be home.”
“He will be home.”
Home. Home.
The horned one stepped then from the edge of the circle. She was a great giantess, thinly proportioned but strong as a sturdy tree. Her legs were those of an elk, and elk’s horns grew from her brow. Where she walked, the ground rumbled. She was naked save for the fur that covered her hide, and for the long hair that fell from her head down her back. The Bronze looked very small upon her chest, and it gleamed there like a melting star.
“Very well,” she said, and her golden animal eyes fixed upon Daylily. “Very well, we will carry the Bronze into the mortal realms. And we will make them—”
Mine.
The twelve spoke the word as one, and they did not know what they said.
Mine!
In the deepness of night, hours before hope of dawn, the village of Greenwell slept fitfully. Men lay with hands upon weapons, and women clutched their little ones close. Guard dogs lay upon the threshold of every door, dozing between alertness and sleep.
One dog, a shaggy brown lurcher, growled in his dreams.
The boy sat up on his pallet and gazed across the dimness of his family hut. He saw the outline of his massive protector lying in a bundle at the door. And yet the boy did not take the usual comfort at the sight.
“Bullbear,” he whispered.
The dog, instantly awake, heaved itself to its feet and hastened to the child’s side, careful even with its lumbering bulk not to step upon the other children lying on near pallets. The boy put his arms around the dog’s neck, feeling the beat of that great, loyal heart. “Bullbear, sit,” he said, and the dog sat.
The boy waited. He did not know for what. But he waited with his hand on Bullbear’s back. Outside, the night was full of sounds, birds and monkeys and insects, a cacophony of noise that the boy and the dog scarcely noticed. Instead, they both listened to the silence of the well; the well in which Mama Greenteeth no longer sang her wicked songs.
Bullbear growled. And as he growled, the boy heard the first call.
Send out your firstborn! Send out your firstborn!