He turned from kneeling Simon to briefly survey the fallen cotsman.
This is not a good place for crying, the stranger said. A ribbon of all too human-looking blood dribbled down the slender jaw and neck. The cotsman's first blow went awry, grazing the bony cheek and digging a jagged furrow down the arm of the strange, shiny garment. This timber, though, suddenly heaved, became a struggling, kicking, snarling beast fighting for its life. The woodsman contemptuously turned his back on Simon and moved toward the Sitha, axe raised as though to split timber. I know what these creatures are a-gettin' up to. You're in my bit o' garden, as it were, an' you got no call to be. What he's not is no natural creature, that's sure Get away from here, stranger. That stand of trees was silent and motionless.īy the Tree, they got fight in 'em they do. It was a white arrow, shaft and feathers alike bright as a gull's wing. He stared at it dully, wondering when the next one would strike him.
An arrow stood out from a tree trunk beside him, quivering gradually back into visibility less than an arm's length from his head. The spotted sunlight had not finished rippling on the leaves where he had passed when Simon heard a buzz like an angry insect and felt a shadow flit across his face. The Fair One winced as the noose pulled tighter, but made no sound. Simon, too numb for fear, worked the nicked blade-edge against the knot behind the Sitha's back. As haltingly as a sleepwalker, Simon picked up the fallen axe and traced the taut rope up from the prisoner to where it wrapped around a high limb of the tree-a limb too high to reach. The snaky tunic was laced with streamers of blood, and the feral eyes were dimmed, as though some internal curtain had rolled down to block the light within. When he was able, he stood and turned to the Sithi-man, who again dangled quietly in the noose. His face did have something of the childish about it: the narrow eyes and wide mouth both stretched toward the cheekbones in an expression of simple good humor. No, not a child, but a man so small that the top of his black-haired head would probably not reach much higher than Simon's navel. It signifies a debt, and the Sithi are conscientious folk.
It is a Sithi White Arrow, and it is very precious. Please excuse my suggestions, but you should be taking this arrow. For an instant the Sitha, injuries forgotten or ignored, stood poised and tense as a startled deer then he was gone, a flash of brown and green that vanished into the trees, leaving Simon gape-jawed and deserted. His cold eyes glinted, stopping the words in Simon's mouth. Holding them like a clutch of long-stemmed flowers, he picked up his bow in the other hand and paused to stare at Simon. He rolled away from the mute hulk immediately, as though burned, and began gathering up his scattered arrows. The Sitha fell to the ground, legs buckling, and tumbled forward onto the motionless woodsman. After a long moment of scraping and rubbing, the slippery knot parted.
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