The Forest at the Edge of the World (54 page)

“I’d really rather not believe either of you,” she admitted. “I now realize why it’s easier to just imagine the sky is always blue, no matter what you actually see.”

“But Mahrree,” his tone became tender, almost pleading, “how will believing a lie save you from the truth?”

“It can’t,” she sighed in reluctant agreement. “And I don’t even need to look outside to see the color of the sky. It truly is black, and getting darker.”

“Yes, Mahrree. It is.”

“We could use a little blue,” she decided.

-
--

Lieutenant Heth had just returned to his quarters late that night, ending a disappointing evening because he was returning alone. What was the point of one’s roommates being out all night if one can’t take advantage of it? He was just unbuttoning his jacket when his door flew open.

“Where is he?!” Chairman Mal barked.

Heth stared at the unusual sight of the Chairman, his white hair disheveled and his red jacket untidy, yelling at him in the middle of the night. Heth glanced around. “Who, sir?”

Mal slammed the door. “You know who—Dormin!” 

“I’ve told you sir, I don’t know. He said—”

“I’ve investigated every rubbish remover from here to the edges of the world!” Mal seethed. “No one matches his description, and now I need him more than ever.”

“Why? He’s useless.”

“Not as useless as YOU!” Mal spat, turned, and left the room, shutting the door with a resounding thud.

“And
he’s
the greatest leader the world has ever seen?” Heth scoffed. “The world doesn’t expect much of its leadership, does it. See?” he said with a smile of planning, “I could still be king.”

He withdrew his long knife from his waistband and gingerly c
aressed the thin, sharp blade.

“Because I’m fairly certain the same methods to eliminate a Shin will also work on a Mal.”

-
--

Early in the morning of the 64
th
Day of Raining Season, 320, Tuma Hifadhi leaned on his cane to watch the young men as they filed before him. Behind the elderly man stood several middle-aged men, their arms folded, watching critically. Last week’s failed raid in the forests above Edge brought everyone out in the snow sooner than they expected.

Things were different now, and the time had come.

Hifadhi evaluated the young men as they lined up in the field covered with new snow, the light of dawn just reaching them. Some of them were as large and strong as draft horses. Others were as quick and sneaky as coyotes. Still others were as quiet and subtle as deer. And each one of them was sharp, clever, and focused.

These ten had been selected out of several dozen, and now each waited patiently for the next stage. The weeding process had been most thorough. Even one of Hifadhi’s grandsons had been rejected, but it wasn’t because of his size or ability; it was because he was married and a father. Whomever Tuma chose would lead a life very different than he had known, and he couldn’t have any ties that might influence him to neglect his duty.

Hifadhi smiled at the confident faces that tried to conceal their apprehension. Some were more successful than others. He looked up and down the line, his gaze pausing just a moment on one young man a little taller and a little broader than the others.

Draft horse.

Hifadhi tried not to say anything with his eyes, but he suspected the young man could read them anyway.

He
would be the one. 

While he had the largest and strongest body of the men, his face was as smooth as a twelve-year-old boy. Even though he was as powerful as a team of oxen, he looked as sweet as a lamb. Ever
ything about his body was contrary to who he was.

He was perfect, Tuma knew already. He was the sharp
est and cleverest, with eyes that sparkled an innocent—and deceptive—sky blue.

I
n a few weeks, he’d be the newest man in the fort at Edge.

Acknowledgements . . .

First, thank
you
for reading this, and for being charitable with the niggling errors that I fear still remain, hiding like crabgrass despite my continuous weeding. (Mahrree and I both have gardening issues.)

My thanks next
to my daughters: Tess (who’s read the entire series—several versions of it—and realized we needed someone named Sonoforen), Alex, and Madison Pearce, who each gave me responses that ranged from, “I loved this part!” to “I hated this part!” (Can’t beat children for honesty; it’s against the law.)

Thanks also to my friends and neighbors who willingly read drafts
—sometimes more than once—and weren’t afraid to tell me what they really thought (and they’re still counted as friends, mostly): Marci Bingham, Stephanie Carver, David Jensen, Robbie Marquez, Cheryl Passey, Kim Pearce, Liz Reid, Liz Riding, Paula Snyder, Alison Wuthrich, and my sister Barbara Goff, whose constant nagging to “get this finished already!” has been motivating as only an older sister can motivate.

Also thanks to Dr. Daniel Ames, who taught me track changes and that revising the same passage fifty times is perfectly acceptable
, and to our neighborhood cop, Cory Thomas, for reviewing some of the fighting sequences to make sure they sounded  plausible.

I also appreciate the rest of my children for coping with my n
eglect (but I almost always remembered to make dinner). And thanks to my husband David who—after a cursory reading of the first book realized I wasn’t spending hours each day writing something vampy, and that Perrin Shin born a remarkable resemblance to him in both face and spirit—just shrugged when the house looked like nine tornados touched down, because he knew writing this made me oh so happy.

About the author . . .

Trish Strebel Mercer has been teaching writing, or editing graduate papers, or revising web content, or changing diapers since the early 1990’s. She earned a BA in English from Brigham Young University and an MA in Composition Theory and Rhetoric from Utah State University. She and her husband David have nine children and have raised them in Utah, Idaho, Maryland, Virginia, and South Carolina. Currently they live in the rural west and dream of the day they will be old enough to be campground managers in Yellowstone National Park.

(One of my friends suggested I use this photo,

because there’s
“mystery on my face.”

But I think it’s pollen
.)