Spiritwood

Part 1: Zharo

The trees on Dryahhd were called Sequoy. Their massive trunks stretched across the entire world, rising taller than the mountains that flanked the outskirts of the forest at both north and south ends.

Atop the crowns of the tallest Sequoy, the Evharr nested, their lithe green bodies an extension of wood and leaf. Their elaborate nests formed the heart of Canopy, a vast city within an even vaster forest that could only be reached from the sky. The Evharr lived and died here.

All of them, that is, except for Zharo, the Broken One.

Zharo lived alone below Canopy. He rested his massive head, sometimes for years, upon the unyielding rock within the Sotid Mountains, where he breathed contempt instead of fire.

Zharo had no fire except what was trapped behind his eyes. They glowed fiercely red, a reflection of the heat and anger trapped within his mind. Zharo's hide was not the rich green of his fellow Evharr, but a dull rust color—an autumn leaf past its prime. This was all that indicated his great age, for Zharo was as lithe and strong as the day he'd been hatched.

He watched Canopy, trying to reconcile the feelings of longing and contempt that battled within him. The city looked small from his vantage point—insignificant.

I am the insignificant one, he thought, and was immediately filled with loathing for his own self-pity.

Zharo the broken.

Zharo the lost.

He threw back his head and bellowed a flameless roar, then listened to the sounds of his misery as they echoed back upon him again and again.

Within the cacophony of echoed roars, he heard something else.

The Naming is beginning. An ancient voice touched his mind

I am coming, he responded.

He rose to his feet and stretched out his massive wings, arching his ridged back the way a mountain cat after a long nap. Twisting around, he took note of his lair. Firestones glowed faintly, creating warmth he did not need except to ensure his solitude. The heat kept the cave creatures at bay. Bones lay strewn about the stone floor. He swept them over the lip of the cavern with a flex of his tail.

The sound came again, a faint humming that he felt more with his body than heard with his ears. They were calling him.

In one sinuous movement, Zharo launched himself from the mouth of his lair and into the sky. His wings caught a gust of air and he propelled himself forward. He straightened his body into a sleek line, tucking his head down to avoid the bite of wind against his fiery eyes. With each powerful pump of his wings, he narrowed the distance between his lair and Canopy.

He had no desire to make this journey. But Grandmother and Grandfather were naming their last saphling, birthed exactly twelve moon cycles ago. As First Son, it was his duty to preside over the ceremony. He sighed as his wings carried him closer to Canopy. The sound that escaped his throat was like the rumbling of thunder before a storm.

The Evharr knew he was coming. Even so, he saw their sentinels before they saw him. Two young ones, their hides the deep, rich green of Evharr in their prime, flew in protective circles about a hundred feet above the highest treetops.

The sentinels were protecting the trees. He flinched at a long-suppressed memory and beat his wings with newfound ferocity. He was here because Grandmother and Grandfather demanded it. That was all.

The sentinels joined him as he approached, their wings beating in time with his.

Hail, Zharo! the larger one said, his mind-voice filled with false cheer. You are well met in flight on this sacred day.