Chapter 18: Just a Little Blood

Tarek’s heart eased. “Will you tell me how to be free of the blood magic?”

Xochil sat down on the rock where they’d broken fast. He looked a little older, though not in the magical sense of the night before – he just looked sad. “I suppose I will, though I doubt you’ll thank me in the end.”

Tarek knelt in front of him. “I’ll thank you now and later can take care of itself. You’re saving my life, Xochil. Thank you.”

Xochil harrumphed, looking embarrassed, and his hand moved forward as if he wanted to tousle Tarek’s hair before jerking back to his side. “Get up, stupid boy, and listen. What must be done is not easy.”

“Is anything? Ever?”

“The problem with you lies in your blood. It’s old blood. Ancient. You’re an unthinkably rare throwback to the times that brought about the laws your people cling to so fiercely. You need an infusion of the newer stock. Greener stock, as it were.”

“Greener?” The word set Tarek’s mind spinning in a new direction. “Is my magic the reason I can’t hear the Song?”

Xochil nodded. “That was why I first paid you any attention. There’s no room for a weak thing like the Song when your soul thunders for blood.”

“Why? How?”

Xochil leaned on his staff. “Here’s a story you won’t hear told in any of the tribes: when the Lost first came to the Land, it was because they were fleeing those with the blood magic. They were connected to the ones who pursued them, irrevocably linked. What’s more, these ancestors of yours also had the blood magic themselves, and since they were cretins very much like you, wished to be rid of it. And in this new place, right at the center where the four great rivers meet, they found an impossibly large tree.”

“The Heart of the Song,” Tavi whispered. The world-tree featured in many of the old stories, though neither Tarek nor Tavi had seen it in person. Supposedly it towered hundreds of man-heights above the jungle canopy and its roots reached into the fires at the center of the world.

“That’s right. When they found the Heart of the Song, they knew it to be a different kind of magic even then. They opened it up and drank of the green sap at its core. It changed them; the blood magic was crowded into the far corners of their beings and they lost their power. In return they were hidden from their enemies and given an awareness of the plants of this Land that they called the Song. A poor bargain, if anyone had bothered to ask me. In time they forgot where they came from and what they knew – except that blood was to be feared.”

“How do you know all this?” Tavi asked.

“Knowing things is what I do. I’m not good for much else at this point.”

“But Kanga can hear the Song,” Tarek said, thinking it through. “When I took his blood, the Song didn’t lessen my desire to drink more.” He shuddered. “It was strong. So strong.”

“He needs more, doesn’t he?” Tavi asked, clutching his knife. “I knew it.”

“Yes and no,” Xochil said with a sigh. “Drinking more blood will only strengthen your magic, no matter who it comes from. Your blood feeds on theirs. Consumes it. You are nature’s perfect predator. What you need is to have the green of the Song put directly into your veins.”

“Can I drink from the tree like the old ones did?”

Xochil shook his head. “If only it were so simple. The Heart of the Song is alive, you know, and after that first time when the ancestors drank from it, the tree has never allowed anyone else to do the same. It’s quite the pastime when the tribes come together once every generation or so. Young bucks like yourself make a contest of it and try to sneak a sip of the tree’s green magic. In the old days it was because they wanted to strengthen their connection to the Song. These days it’s nothing but a game. Point is that every single one fails. After that first draught of the green your ancestors took, no one has ever succeeded in drinking from the tree again. If ever a knife pierces the bark of the Heart of the Song, a thick mist rises from the roots that puts anyone within a stone’s throw of the tree into a deep sleep. I can see why you’d prefer the idea, but you will not succeed. We’ll need to collect the Song’s strength from elsewhere.”

Tarek frowned and nodded. “How is it done?”

“You’ll need to collect a few specific things and bring them to me,” Xochil said. “My part of the process is quite beyond your understanding. Suffice to say that I can do it – distill the magic of the Song and put it into you.” The old man stroked his beard, looking thoughtful. “As much as I wish you would choose differently, I do understand, you know. I watched you for years, wondering if… well. I know your desires are simple, and that’s not a bad thing. I knew you could be great, could come to power, but I also knew you weren’t that sort of man. You came to me, so I had to ask, had to try – but I’ll help you get rid of the magic. It’s not the smart thing to do, but it’s the good thing, and my heart is not so shriveled as to deny you that.”

“I’m sorry I can’t do what you ask.”

“No, you’re not.”

“No, I’m not,” Tarek admitted. “You may know more than I ever will, but I’m the one who has felt this magic. It needs to be destroyed.”

“Well… we’ll see. What you need to do now is collect enough of the green that resides in the Lost that I can distill it and put it in your blood. As I said, it won’t be easy.”

Tarek imagined himself sneaking into Yaretzi’s home and revealing himself to her, clean and pure. “I’ll do anything.”

“The strength of the Song has waned over the centuries,” Xochil said. “To get enough of the green to overcome your blood magic, I will need all the strains of the Song magic that you can collect. I have to have a sample from each tribe, the strongest that can be found. As such, it must come from the chief.”

Tarek grimaced, not wanting to ask the question, and fairly sure he already knew the answer. “A sample?”

“Of blood. That’s where the Song lives, just like your own magic.”

“So I have to go to each tribe… and steal the chief’s blood?”

“If you can keep yourself from drinking it and then get away without dying, yes.”

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Tarek goggled at him. “That’s impossible.”

“What happened to ‘I’ll do anything’?” Xochil asked dryly.

“They’ll think I’m trying to work some evil magic on them!”

“I appreciate the irony, believe me. But one way or the other, I need the blood of all twelve tribal chiefs if I’m going to cure you. Just a little is all I need, and it can be dried on a cloth or in a gourd or whatever. Leave a knife hidden in the bedclothes or catch them out hunting and hit them over the head, I don’t care.”

Tarek chewed his thumbnail. “Must it be blood? Sometimes I’ve used hair or scat to make a connection.”

“Only blood will have the concentration of magic I need, and only from the chief.”

Tarek shook his head. “I’m not sure I’ll be able to control myself.”

“Then don’t. Tasting a chief’s blood would make your task easier in every way.”

“No, Xochil! I’ll… figure it out.”

“Yes, you do that. Then you can whisk little what’s-her-name off to the middle of nowhere so you can make babies. If she’ll still have you.” Xochil leaned to the side and spit casually into the mud. “A grand plan.”

Tarek chose to ignore the sarcasm. “This is going to take a long time.”

“It had better not,” Xochil said, lifting a warning finger. “The distillation of the Song from the gathered blood needs to happen at the equinox, when things are in balance. Any other time and I will fail.”

Tarek gaped. “That’s only a little more than three moons away!”

“Best get to it, then. I told you I have a canoe you can use. Some fool left it when he died here years ago.”

He rubbed his face with his hands. “How am I supposed to do this?”

“Be cunning. Be careful. Use whatever resources you must.”

“I’ll help you,” Tavi said stoutly.

“I know you will,” Tarek replied, smiling.

“Very sweet,” Xochil said. “But you’ll likely find the blood magic a more useful tool than your little shit of a brother.”

“The point is to be rid of it,” Tarek said. “I won’t use it. And please stop calling him that.”

“Bah. You should have left him behind from the beginning. And let me remind you again that you said you’d do anything. If your soul is already as black as you assume, there is little harm in using what gifts you have to achieve the goal you seek.”

Tarek couldn’t think of an answer to that. As much as he hated to admit it, there was a good deal of sense in the man’s words. “We’ll see.”

“We will indeed.” Xochil rose. “You’ll find the canoe near where the water’s held back to the west. I’ll put a bag of supplies in it for you. Time for you to get gone.”

Tarek looked out at the undiminished rains falling all around their canopy and then back at Xochil’s house, warm, secure, and right there. “Are you sure—”

“No,” Xochil interrupted. “You’re not going back in, absolutely not. Find your courage, Tarek. You’re starting on the journey that will shape the rest of your life. Don’t take your first step looking backwards.”

Tavi took him by the hand. “We can do this.”

Tarek thought it through. It’s an impossible task and a ridiculous deadline. But if I do it, I can come back. Back to her. His hand tightened on Tavi’s. “Yes, we can. It won’t be so bad – we’ll wander the length of the Land and see things no one else has seen.”

Tavi pulled him out into the rain and down the path leading to the west. “You really never did listen to Ryki’s stories, did you? Most of them end up being about how terrible things happen to the Lost if they wander too far from home.”

Tarek slicked the wet hair back from his face. “Well, Ryki stood by and watched us hang, so I don’t have to listen to his stories. Come on – I’ll race you to the water wall.”

Hearts hopeful and heads high, they dashed away through the rain. Neither of them looked back to wish Xochil goodbye, and it wouldn’t have mattered if they had. The canopy stood empty behind them, and no footprints marred the mud where the old man had stood.

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